I thought of you with your hair silver as snow all through that cold, slow journey from Sirle. I felt you troubled deep within me, and there was no other place in the world I would rather have been than in the cold night riding to you. When you opened your gates to me, I was home.

I would be mute, beautiful, changless as the earth for you. I would be your memory, without age, always innocent, always waiting in the King's white house. I would do that for you and no other man inthe relm. But it would be a lie and I will do anything but lie to you - I swear that.

Content, it dreams awake, and spins the fabric of tales. There is really nothing to be done with such imagery except to use it: in writing, in art.

What?" It was a good word. Like a rock in a river, sticking up to let you land on it, so you could make your way across the flow.

Epics are never written about libraries. They exist on whim; it depends on if the conquering army likes to read.

Love is an obsolete emotion, ranking in usefulness somewhere between earwigs and toe mold.

The man was hit in one eye by a stone, and that eye turned inward so that it looked into his mind, and he died of what he saw there