Sif liked to use the tame magic when no one else was looking. Her family had a gray, L shaped device that was light enough to hold in one hand. The handle was about the length of her hand, and the barrel was a little longer and had more girth. When switched on, it blew hot air. She used it on her hair sometimes. Other times she used it simply to get warm. She had no idea what it’s intended purpose was. Not even Skogul knew for sure. She shut herself into the room she shared with Ulfrun, latched the door so she would not be disturbed. Sif put the end with the prongs into the white power source on the wall. She held the device in one hand and used her thumb to press the switch. The machine whirred to life, the inner workings of it glowing a dull orange. She put the end where the air come out up to her face. The wind it generated was gloriously hot.

               She moved the machine all along her limbs, until she felt less frozen. Then she flipped the switch and pulled the pronged end from the wall, carefully coiled the black cord and placed the device on the bedside table. Then she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and hovered over the fire. Ulfrun had built it high and hot for her, before leaving her to her private use of the tame magic. Sif crouched near the flames, savoring the heat. Her face began to cook, but she reveled in it. She closed her eyes, listening to the spirits.

               The fire speaks…She’s a liar!…Danger! Back away!…Watch for me in the fires…I see you…You’ll burn! Among the confusing litany of encouragement, babble and warnings was a chorus of laughter—merry, eerie, menacing. She had counted at least four spirits who laughed at her, another three who wailed, and a dozen who warned her not to look into the fires. There was only one who encouraged her to seek her in the flames.

               Sif opened her eyes and peered into the hearth, where the soft flicker of orange light licked the stones and cinders. She watched for something, anything, in the fire. She saw only the flames.

               I see you, Sif…

               She rose from the fireplace, shutting out the sound of the spirit’s voice. It was familiar. Sif sighed uneasily, wondering if Ulfrun also had the same suspicion.

               A soft knock at the door drew her attention. “Come,” she said weakly, feeling drained.

               Ulfrun slowly pressed the door open, stepping into the room silently. Her hair was no longer floating around her face, and her eyes were deep green again. “Did you see her?” she asked, smiling slyly. She looked like a fox.

               There was no use pretending she didn’t understand. “No,” she answered. “I only heard her voice.”

               Ulfrun’s eyes went blank for a moment, and Sif felt the wild magic dance around her. She itched to cast the stones. Her fingers went to her belt pouch, where her rune stones rested. They felt hot, as if the wild magic has already burned the runes onto their surfaces. Sif drew the stones from the pouch one by one, cradling them in her hand. They were blank, but they were as hot as if they had sat in the hearth. She looked at her sister, who was still entranced, then cast the stones to the floor.

               The runes appeared in a flash of red, like a pen of flame writing them against the stone. The circle. The spear. The raven. The tree.

               Sif shuddered as the wild magic flowed through her. The electric energy of it coursed through her limbs, lighting her like an oiled rag. The wild magic blazed across her vision. She laughed at her diminutive stature in the grandness of the universe. She felt reduced to dust by the flow of magic and she welcomed it.

               “I will climb the great tree,” Ulfrun said.

               The words grounded her. It was her casting. She should have been the one to read them first.

Her anger flared, replaced by dread as she realized these were the same words that Mjoll had used. Sif looked to her rune stones, frowning. “The tree will be your death, Ulfrun,” she said.

               “I am not afraid of death, Sif,” her sister said, smiling like a cat.

               “Just afraid of little girls,” Sif taunted.

               The wild magic swirled, a cloud of power surrounding the two of them. Sif felt her breath steal away from her lungs, as if the wild magic was pulling it from her body. She gasped, feeling heavy, weary, as the wild magic pressed on her. She called to it, gathering it into herself. She felt her body run with it, fluid and light, like water. Ulfrun’s eyes were white as ice, her hair a mass of palest spider silk, free floating around her shoulders. Her skin was like milk.

               “You hold too much,” Sif scolded.

               Ulfrun laughed, drawing more of the wild magic to her. She sparked, and Sif stepped backwards in horror. “Ulfrun!” she screamed.

               Her sister released the wild magic, letting it rush from her like a river. Sif calmed her heartbeat, steadied her breath. Ulfrun looked spent. She collapsed at Sif’s feet. Sif only stared at her, amazed, saddened, disgusted, afraid. After a long moment, Sif bent to pick up her rune stones, placing each white stone tenderly back into her belt pouch. Ulfrun did not stir as she worked. When she had finished, Sif pressed her palm to Ulfrun’s forehead. She was clammy, chilled, but sweating. Sif lifted her from the floor, and gently walked her to the bed. Ulfrun lay still, stiff as a bone, her breathing slow and deep.

               Her eyes shifted towards Sif’s. “I am not afraid of little girls,” Ulfrun said, as if the accusation was more important than her nearly being carried off by the wild magic.

               “Do you hear yourself, Ulfun?” Sif asked. She leaned closer. “You are like a drunkard when it comes to the wild magic. You will be carried off if you do not temper yourself.”

               “I won’t,” Ulfrun said. “I know how to control it. She showed me.”

               “The spirit in the fire?” Sif asked, crossing her arms.

               “Yes. She showed me how to become empty, so I can be filled with the wild magic.”

               Sif shook her head. “This is not safe Ulfrun…”

               Her sister interrupted her. “Because of how much power I can control?”

               “No,” Sif said firmly. “It’s not safe because it’s not a spirit that’s speaking to you from the fire.” Ulfrun raised an eyebrow, curious, confused, perhaps concerned. Sif sighed at the expression. “It’s not a spirit, Ulfrun,” she repeated. “It’s Mjoll.”

               Ulfrun’s glare said more than her words could. “It’s not Mjoll!” Ulfrun snapped.

               “Look for yourself,” Sif said, pointing at the hearth, remembering the voice. The fire popped, sending a shower up sparks up the chimney—an ominous warning.

               Ulfrun slid heavily from the bed, slunk past her, eyes locked on her own until she was in front of the hearth. She bent down, peering into the flames. She called the wild magic. Sif drifted to her side, drawn to the power.

               Sif looked too, though she was sure what she would see. Mjoll was standing in the flames, reaching her arms upwards. She was calling. Ulfrun! Can you see it?

               Ulfrun smiled at the fire, though it looked like she didn’t fully understand what was happening. “See? It’s not Mjoll,” she said.

               Sif frowned at her sister then looked back at the figure she saw, the fiery face a perfect image of their most terrifying sister. Mjoll as a skull. Mjoll as a snake. Mjoll as a blossoming flower, as a rushing wind, as a falcon. Mjoll with her hair spread out like roots. Mjoll bursting to flame as she climbed higher into the branches of the great tree. “Who do you see?” she asked Ulfrun, unwilling to push the issue anymore.

               “It’s the first spirit, the one who learned how to speak to us from the next life,” Ulfrun said softly. Her voice was hushed with reverence. “The great tree herself.”

               The first spirit. What could this mean?

               Ulfrun felt her confusion through the threads of power that tied them together. Running back towards her along the strands of it, she felt Ulfrun’s pleasure. Sif sniffed in annoyance. “The Skuld told me that one of us was close to being carried off. You dance too close to the fire, Ulfrun.”

               Ulfrun closed her eyes, calling more wild magic. It filled her, whitening her hair to the tips. Sif pulled back from her, resisting the urge to do the same. The spirits chattered. She is deceived…Ulfrun belongs with us…She is too…She seeks what cannot be…She will destroy herself…Sif brushed her hand over Uflrun’s hair. She crackled with wild magic.

               Ulfrun opened her eyes, but looked straight into the fire instead of at her sister. “Read the fires, Sif,” she whispered.

               Sif looked, but now she saw nothing. She did not know the patterns of the fire. She recalled the Skuld’s words. The fire was constant movement that could not be made into meaning. Not like the stones. Not like the bones or stars. “The fire can’t be read, Ulfrun. It is untamable.”

               Ulfrun laughed. “Yes, and that is why you must become untamable too.”

               Sif took her sister’s chin between her fingers and slowly turned her head so they were looking at one another. “Do not do this, Ulfrun.” She filled her voice with pleading, hoping that it would keep her sister near her. “I do not want to lose you to the spirits.”

               “Do you see, Sif?” Ulfrun asked. “The spirits have more power than we do. We should want to be carried away. They will help us climb the tree.”

               Sif shook her head. The spirits wailed. She fought her tears. “No,” she said. “Ulfrun, no.”

               “It’s in the runes, sister,” she said, taking Sif’s hand in her own. “You read the runes.” She stroked her lovingly. “If it’s in the runes, then it must be true.”

               Sif bit her lip, forcing aside the desire to cast her rune stones again. “I must see the Skuld,” she said breathlessly. She rose from the floor, dropped Ulfrun’s hand, and ran from the house. Waiting for her in the street outside were Helga and Ama. Ama seemed grave, and Helga was cross.

               Sif gulped guiltily. “I drew you to us with my terror,” she said, guessing at why they were outside her home.

               Helga shook her head. “Ulfrun is not safe, Sif,” she said.

               She nodded. “Ulfrun has lost her mind,” agreeing fiercely. “She will be carried off if we do not stop her.”

               Ama’s eyes sparkled with tears. “Even if we intervene, we may still lose her later, Sif,” she said.

               Helga nodded, her frown heavy. “The wild magic is corrupting. This is why we tell you not to cast every time you have the urge. Too much and you become wild like the magic itself.”

               “Like Mjoll,” Sif said.

               “Like Ulfrun,” Helga said. She stepped forward, pushing open the door of the house, not waiting to be invited or explaining what she intended to do. Ama followed on her heels, leaving Sif standing in the road for just a moment before she too entered the house.

               “What is going on here?” Sif’s madir asked, getting up from the chair where she was sewing and putting her hands on her hips.

               Helga and Ama ignored her, and moved towards the bedroom where Sif had left Ulfrun staring at the fire. Sif caught her madir’s eye, hastily looking away, before running after the other Bairns.

               “Sif!” her madir called, but Sif shut the door of the bedroom without an answer.

               In the room, Helga and Ama had taken up position on either side of Ulfrun, who was white, flowing with the wild magic, looking as if she stood outside in a gale. Her white hair streamed around her, the hem of her dress and cloak swirling and billowing about her legs. She had her head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open. She was alternately smiling and grimacing.

               Helga took hold of her hair and jerked hard. Ulfrun exclaimed, dropping some of the wild magic that she held. Ama took hold of her arms, and Sif watched in amazement as Ama drew more of the wild magic from her—like poison from a wound. Ulfrun jerked against the slippery feel of the power flowing out of her. The wild magic danced around the three Bairns, dissipating after a few seconds of swirling.

               Helga squeezed Ulfrun’s face between her thumb and her fingers. “You are damaging yourself, Ulfrun. You must stop this.”

               Ulfrun laughed, a deep, terrible laugh that started as a rumble in her belly and grew until it drowned out the chattering of the spirits. “You don’t see as I do, Helga. This body makes you weak. To be strong, you must abandon it.”

Sif clenched her teeth, feeling utterly helpless to save her sister from a fate she seemed determined to choose. “Ulfrun, please,” she begged.

Ulfrun went still, letting go of the wild magic slowly, until her red blonde hair was calm and her garments hung limp. Helga and Ama released her, waiting anxiously for what she would do. Ulfrun pace the room towards her and Sif opened her arms. Ulfrun drew her to herself, squeezing her tight. “Ulfrun, you are untamable,” Sif whispered. “Like the fire. Let that be enough.”

She knew as soon as she felt the wild magic stirring that these had been the wrong words to persuade Ulfrun. “I am the like the fire,” she said, releasing Sif as she called the wild magic. Her eyes went white, and then her hair, and her skin, until she looked as white at the fallen snow. She closed her eyes crackling, the wild magic too much for her. The spirits chattered. She will ascend…she has chosen death…Ulfrun!…climb the tree..

Sif backed away, until her back was against the door of the bedroom. Her eyes widened in horror as she watched Ulfrun flash like lightning, sputter like a candle, and in a breath was blown away like ash.

“Ulfrun!” she screamed, dropping to the floor. Sobbing overpowered her as she stared at the spot where her sister had been.

Helga lowered her head. The spirits chattered, laughing and wailing. Ama began keening a lament for the dead. Her voice was clear and calm. It held all of Sif’s grieve.

There was a banging on the door. “Sif!” her madir called. “Sif! Let me in! What has happened?”

Sif did not move. Her body would not respond. The pounding on the door went on, but the words from her madir did not reach her. She was numb, as if asleep. A set of arms hoisted her from the floor and she heard the door open. Ama was still singing, and Helga held her aloft. Her madir had her face in her hands, was saying her name. Sif stared at her madir, feeling ashamed, feeling powerless, feeling like death was waiting for her too.

“Sif,” her madir whispered. “What happened to Ulfrun?” There were tears in her eyes. She did not need to ask, for she already knew.

Sif drew her breath raggedly, nearly gasping from how dry her throat and mouth had become. “She’s been carried off.”