The Searing Breath

Heat rose from the floor grates like the breath of a buried furnace. Night had fallen, cloaking the territory in shadow, but this iron vent hissed with persistent malice. I planted my boots squarely upon the metal slats. The hot draft surged across my legs, baking my joints until the stiff plastic threatened to yield. Pain crept upward, sharp and dry. I welcomed it. I drove the tip of my crimson staff between the narrow iron bars, anchoring myself against the scorching gale. Let the house burn or freeze. I remain unmoved.