The Jotun's voice rumbled hideously as he talked into his goblet. "Have you
the accomplishment to wield a battle-axe or throw a spear? Can you shoot
straight?"

"No," she faltered.

He rolled his eyes around at her as he threw back his head to catch the last
drop that clung to the golden rim. "Can you handle a sword?"

Randalin hesitated, uncertain how far her idle play at fencing with her
brother would bear her out; she provided as many loop-holes as she could
devise. "I think you will find my skill slight. I have--I have grown so fast
that I lack strength in my arms. And I have not exercised myself as much as I
should have done."

"It is in my mind that you have been a lazy cub," the warrior pronounced
deliberate sentence, as he set down his goblet. "It is easily seen that Frode
has been over-gentle with you. But you will pay now for your laziness, by
receiving a cut each time I pass your guard. Stand forth, and show what your
skill is worth. This sword will not be too heavy." Selecting the smallest of
the jewelled blades upon the floor, he thrust it into her hands.

It is good to have in one's veins the liquid fire of the North, blood to which
the presence of peril is like the touch of the Ice King to water. At the first
clash of the blades, strange tingling fires began to flash through Randalin,
--and then a hardness, that burnt while it froze. The first pass, her hands
had parried seemingly by their own instinct; now she flung back her tumbling
curls and proceeded to give those hands the aid of her eyes. They were
marvellously quick eyes; for Fridtjof's thrusts, consulting no rule but his
own will, had required lightning to follow them and something like