“Something is going to happen,” Labiskwee whispered. “Don't you feel it?—here, there, everywhere? Everything is strange.”
“I feel a chill that is not of cold,” Smoke answered. “Nor is it of hunger.”
“It is in your head, your heart,” she agreed excitedly. “That is the way I feel it.”
“It is not of my senses,” Smoke diagnosed. “I sense something, from without, that is tingling me with ice; it is a chill of my nerves.”
A quarter of an hour later they paused for breath.
“I can no longer see the far peaks,” Smoke said.
“The air is getting thick and heavy,” said Labiskwee. “It is hard to breathe.”
“There be three suns,” McCan muttered hoarsely, reeling as he clung to his staff for support.
There was a mock sun on either side of the real sun.
“There are five,” said Labiskwee; and as they looked, new suns formed and flashed before their eyes.