Free Climate of Change by Piers Anthony

songs, and Haven and Craftencouraged them all. Soon they were joining in, learning some of the tunes and words. It made their confinement much less burdensome.
    The storm continued through the day. They kept the fire going, and remained under the blankets, alternating between shallow sleep, pleasant music, and languid sex. Three days ago, Haven would never have imagined herself doing anything like this. But if she had known it was coming, would she have avoided it? She realized that her life had already become somewhat dull, and this was a significant change. So maybe she would have accepted it anyway.
    In the evening Harbinger and Craft got the fire blazing high and dropped more hot rocks in the pot, so they could eat again. Then they settled for the night.
    Haven thought of something else. “We must learn to speak better to each other,” she said. “We can learn words.” She took Harbinger’s hand and put it on her breast. “Breast,” she said. “What’s your word?”
    â€œOh, this will be fun,” Crenelle said, laughing. She took Haven’s hand and put it on her own breast, which had filled out since the prior year, repeating the word. Haven had to laugh at that. The funny thing was, she found Crenelle’s breast interesting, and could almost imagine the stimulation it would give a man.
    So they continued, and made rapid progress, because it was their only diversion between sleeps. And by morning they had a fair basic mutual vocabulary, so that they would have far less trouble communicating essential thoughts.
    The storm carried through the day, but was easing as the snow piled high. The cold was intense, but the snow mounded around the house protected them from the wind, so they were more comfortable. They were riding it out.
    But Craft wasn’t satisfied. He was a maker of tools and a builder. He got to work chinking the cracks with mud he made from dirt and hot water. He buttressed the mud with twigs, giving it stability. This house was going to be much tighter than before.
    Harbinger and Crenelle watched. It was evident that they had never thought of this, but as the leaking drafts cut down, they were appreciative.
    The supplies Crenelle had brought were diminishing. She had not anticipated four people. They would have to get more—and how could they do that? The snow covered everything; there was nothing to forage. There was also no sign of game.
    She stood by the fire and gazed across the landscape. And spied smoke. They had neighbors!
    But Harbinger shook his head. “Other,” he grunted.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe Others,” Crenelle clarified. “The beast men. We stay away from them.”
    â€œSurely if they make fires, they are our kind,” Haven said. “Maybe we can trade with them, for food.”
    Harbinger shook his head. “Beast men dangerous.”
    But Haven would not let go of it. “We’re in a desperate situation. We’ll starve without help. Can these strangers be worse than that?”
    Crenelle tried to explain. “They are ugly and brutish and very strong. We can’t fight them. Their women are as strong as our men, and their children are like our women. They speak a different language, not like any of our dialects. They mostly leave us alone if we don’t get in their way, and we try to stay out of their way. They are good hunters and deadly fighters. If we bothered them, they would kill us.”
    Haven looked south. “Can we trek south, until we reach one of our own settlements?” It was what she had thought of doing, once the storm abated, but now she was doubtful. The landscape was so frighteningly bleak.
    â€œIt’s a long way. The ones I traded with don’t have any more food, and I don’t think any others do. No one is doing well here, except the Others. They like this kind of weather.”
    Haven looked at Craft. “What do you think?”
    â€œI think we