“Maighdean Uaine, herself,” Culann remarked.
“And just as likely to slit your throat.” Finnán looked either way along the stream, then at the stream itself. “That's odd.”
The water rippling in the brook gave no hint as to which way it flowed, seeming to flow both ways at once. There wasn't a hint of inclination to the landscape. “No upstream, nor down,” Culann said, exchanging a glance with Finnán.
“Looks to be Tír na nÓg itself.”
“Then why's it so blasted cold?” He pulled his tunic tight, a light jacket meant for warmer climes.
“Never heard it promised that the supernatural realm of everlasting youth would be warm as well,” Finnán said with a chuckle.
“Think a spell for warmth would be all right, old man?”
“Just don't summon a giant salamander, eh?”
He muttered a quick incantation
