THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

Her ankle betrayed her and she again found herself face down on the frozen pond. Two strong arms picked her up, and carried her toward the woods. Oddly, she wasn’t afraid. In a clearing ahead stood a stone house with smoke puffing from the chimney. He pushed open the door, and carried her inside, where she was shocked to see three…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

Daisy wakes to the sound of the fire in the hearth, the popping, crackling, snoring—Snoring? Her eyes pop open, darting around the modest cottage. Her heartbeat staccatos at the three sets of yellow eyes staring at her. Her eyes move to the small bodies of…

“Dragons,” she whispers and shivers, not from the cold.

“Dragons they are, indeed,” says a deep voice with a drawl. “Micro.”

Daisy turns her head and sees her rescuer, who elaborates as he cleans his nails with a knife. He sits on a threadbare sofa.

“They keep the fire goin’, but what with the deep freeze comin’, they’s ’bout run out’a energy. That’s why you’re here.” He nods at Daisy, who wraps the itchy woolen blanket tighter around her shoulders while attempting to get comfortable in the little armchair.

“Me? Why, I—”

“You gots the ember-blood.” He points at Daisy with the knife. “Sure as my name’s Cyrus Clintock tha’ fifth, you’s one’o them there fire-sprites. I’ve known many a fire-sprite, so I can tells you’re one, too.”

Daisy laughs, raising a hand to ensure her ears are still rounded, not pointy. She runs her hand over her form, making sure her stomach pillow is still there, that she hasn’t shrunk. She laughs again. “I’m no sprite!”

“Contrary to what ya’ think, not all sprites is small-like. You’re not. But you’s still a sprite. You gots the fever, don’t you?”

Daisy nods, astonished. She’d always thought her fevers were a curse, but maybe they aren’t.

Cyrus waves the knife around again. “Then ya’ gots to save the dragons. Save the country, here.”

Daisy bites— “And how do I do that?”

“You gotta give them there dragons some o’yer ember-blood.” The knife stills.

“You’re not gonna cut me with that thing!” Daisy attempts to stand, but her ankle cries out. She slumps back down and looks around for a close weapon.

“‘Course not. This here knife is fo’ other things.” He goes back to cleaning his nails, then looks at Daisy. “They’s got to bite ya’ to get at yer blood.” He nods as if it’s decided, then focuses on his thumbnail.

Daisy looks at the dragons again. Unlike in the stories, they’re neither completely green, nor brown, nor any other color. They’re more iridescent, their colors changing as they adjust their positions. The middle dragon’s tail flicks slowly. The three blow onto the wood in the hearth, the fire from their throats sputtering out after a few seconds.

The wind outside increases, as if the cold itself is alive and waiting for its chance to kill.

Daisy looks at the dragon closest to her. Removing a portion of the blanket, she offers the creature her arm.

The dragon looks at the arm, but shies away.

“C’mon, dragon, take a li’l nibble. I won’t bite back.” Daisy chuckles.

The dragon steps closer, looks into Daisy’s eyes, and takes a bite.

Fire races through Daisy’s arm, her internal furnace having been lit. Her forehead pours sweat as the fever overtakes her more than ever before.

The middle dragon latches on, its tail still flicking.

Then the third dragon joins in.

Daisy’s head swims as the world turns red, then orange, then yellow then back red. The room blurs as the trio sucks on her life-juice. She panics, afraid they’ll drain her.

The heat surges in answer to Daisy’s panic and fear.

Fire in the hearth roars up, nearly escaping its bounds. The cottage shakes, the sound like a banshee. The frost outside shrieks.

“Ya’ gots to calm down fo’ you kill us all!” Cyrus cries out from somewhere.

Daisy trembles, rocking the armchair. A spark forms on the armrest. She bats at it with her hand but, hungry, the spark grows.

The trio of dragons loosen their grip. The middle one looks Daisy in her eyes. Its tail stills.

It’s okay, a voice says in her head. Breathe…just…breathe.

Daisy gulps air like she’s drinking water after a stay in the desert.

Slower.

Daisy slows her breathing, focusing on the piercing yellow of the dragon’s eyes. Inside them, she sees herself as a stereotypical sprite, traveling the world, saving others; perhaps it’s her in another lifetime.

Finally, everything stills.

The cottage settles at a comfortable temperature.

Recharged, the dragons settle in by the hearth, grateful for a moment’s rest.

Cyrus sighs, his quivering hand dropping the knife. “Well, I’ll be damned. Yer a whole furnace, girl.”

Daisy swallows, the saliva cooling her baked throat. “Yeah. Feel like one.”

“Just glad ya’ managed to stop.”

“Me, too.”

The middle dragon nudges Daisy’s arm with its snout. Thanks.

Thanks.

Thanks.

Outside, the whistle moves off, the storm thwarted for the moment.

Daisy nods, content. The fever is gone. She looks at her throbbing arm and freezes, watching the bite-marks slowly heal, the hole being stitched with flesh before her eyes. Soon, her arm is good as new. She flexes her leg; the ankle is healed as well.

Exhausted and achy, Daisy closes her eyes, basking in her internal heater. It’s dangerous, yes, but steady. Waiting. She drifts to sleep, the popping, crackling, and snoring a comfortable lullaby, for she suspects this won’t be the last time the fire is needed.