Morozko nodded.

“So you are paying the First Throne a visit, eh?”  Baba Yaga clucked.  She took a jar of poison dart frog legs swirling in preservative and plopped them into her stew.  The hag sampled the concoction and smiled in approval.

“That is the idea, yes.”  Morozko helped himself to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of vodka.  He popped the cork off with his fangs and poured himself a glass.

“Can we go to Sparrow Hills?” Anya referenced the steep hill above the Moskava River immortalized by so many Russian poets.

“Of course, mooncalf.”  Morozko tossed back a shot.  The vodka warmed his belly as the liquid found...