
“Good morrow, small one.”
Loki, three of whose own blood children often assume an animal form, accepts Sigewif across his path with grace.
He kneels before her, and transforms quietly, craftily, into a black fox with red ticking, majestic, female, nipping up a corner of her kit-friend’s bag, aiding her in carrying the biscuits to the fireplace mantle. There she pauses, and yields the box, for Loki has no desire to eat fox food, after all, and Sigewif has won this treasure fair and square, with her most admirable cunning.











