Tomb of Odin

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Nina tried to steady her breathing, but truthfully she could not recall ever being this cold in her entire life. Not even on the Wolfenstein excursion in Antarctica did she feel such uncontrollable frigidity, which challenged the temperature during her time in Mönkh Saridag on the border of Russia and Mongolia a while back. Her lips and nails had turned a nasty shade of purple and no matter how she rubbed her hands together, they remained void of any sensation under the insulation of her leather gloves. Under her balaclava her jaw jittered madly, so Nina pulled up the stuffed collar of her parka and tucked her Angora fleece scarf snugly inside. With a little luck the wild gust would not nudge it out again, prying bit by bit until it came undone and wrapped its icy fingers around her neck.

“How long, Neville?” she asked the archaeologist she was assisting on this excavation in the Himalayas.

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