Punching his way out of the drift was no mean feat. A crust of ice had formed atop the snow, ice harder than anything he had experienced, yet Silas escaped the frozen tomb and began his slow walk to the east.

The demon must have passed so close to his hiding place that had he not buried himself, the beast would have caught Silas; he thanked God for the small token of understanding that had saved his life.

Now he contended with a killer storm and to his mind, the odds seemed better than even despite his lost hat.

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He struggled through deep drifts of snow in the near blind darkness, hoping he was not traveling in an enormous circle.

In time, the cold claimed Silas, his shivering stopped and warmth stole over his tired muscles. To stop and rest was a temptation that seemed irresistible, but he pushed on, knowing each footstep was salvation.

Only the storm howled now, a deep roar of nature claiming dominance over all the plains.

As he thought he reached his last step, Silas saw a light, pale in the storm but welcoming refuge. Without taking his eyes from the light, he pushed onward, reaching out in hope.