Jasna used Amosta's wand to conjure a stove, pots, pans, and every other utensil they might need. Then she returned the wand to Amosta.
A strange scene appeared.
Upon the vast frozen lake swept by biting winds, there was a patch of "windless ground."
An old man on the verge of death, his expression tinged with sorrow, used a wooden spatula to turn the fish that had been fried to mush in the pot.
Beside the stove, Jasna squatted on the ground, waiting eagerly, as though she had not noticed Old Enma's clumsy cooking.
The smell of burnt food filled his nostrils, but Amosta showed no trace of mockery.
He sat on the frame of the overturned sled, keeping quiet and unobtrusive.
Under the fierce heat of the stove, the icy water poured into the iron pot soon boiled. Then Old Enma cut the cooked frozen potatoes into chunks and tossed them into the pale, creamy fish soup.
The fish soup soon came to a rolling boil again.
"It's ready—"
Old Enma raised his head and said hoarsely.
For a final meal before execution, it was truly pitifully simple.
But Jasna did not mind. She eagerly ladled herself a bowl of unseasoned fish soup. After thinking for a moment, she made her way toward Amosta with difficulty.
"Oh, I get some too?"
Amosta smiled faintly.
"Of course. You saved Old Enma and me from ending up in the wolves' jaws, Mr. Breen—"
Amosta merely smiled. He accepted the wooden bowl, took a sip of the fish soup, and then nodded.
"Not bad—"
"You truly are a wizard worthy of respect, Mr. Breen—"
Jasna nodded to him in salute.
Then she returned to the stove and ladled the remaining fish soup into two large wooden bowls.
One old, one young, the