He put both palms out, low, and spread his fingers.
The ice on the surface did not thicken.
It went *down*.
James felt it before he understood it — the pressure at the back of his skull, the small steady weight that told him where Fossor was, swerved hard and kept swerving. Under the platform, through every crack Fossor had made and every seam the freeze had opened, ice was going into the ground.
Not at Fossor. Cormac could not see Fossor and did not know where it was.
He was freezing the *spaces*.
James sent it round to the left. Something closed off. He felt it double back and go right, and forty feet away a section of the floor went dead white as Cormac put his weight into it, and the route shut.
The third time, Fossor had to come up.
It broke surface eleven metres from where James wanted it, and Cormac drove a ridge of ice at it before it had fully cleared the ground — a two-metre spike out of the floor at a flat angle, straight into its flank.
Fossor took part of it.
