"Hey there," yelled a man near the door. "Come in or go out, but shut the cursed door--" His voice trailed off as he turned to see the newcomer.

The figure came solid out of the night's shadow, cloak snapping against the winds. He ducked to pass through the tavern door and stood there, tall and wide, blocking the door and making no move to close it.

At his side hung a sword nearly as tall as some of the villagers. His hands clenched and unclenched, fists as thick around as the mugs of beer popular at harvest time. His face, twisted and lined as it was, with sharp fangs and pale red eyes, was unmistakably not human.

Except for the crackling and hissing of the logs in the fire pit the room was utterly silent. From somewhere, someone spoke aloud. Quietly, once, and with respect, the voice said what everyone was thinking:

_Ogre._

Just coming out of the kitchen was Big Frenna, who would routinely remove large, rowdy men from her tavern by simply picking them up in her arms and dropping them into the mud outside. Now she paused at the door of the kitchen, took in the scene, and vanished back inside.

The ogre did not look friendly, but who knew what a friendly ogre should look like? While the wind's icy fingers cooled the room, the ogre's gaze swept across the villagers' faces, his fists still clenching and unclenching.

When he spoke his voice came slow and deep, like a growl out of a large cave.

"I'm looking for someone. The name is Asmor-ano-mar--" He exhaled frustration. "--something." Into the long silence that followed he repeated, "Asmor."

A young boy made a small, whimpering sound. His older sister touched him, warning him into silence.

On the fire a log shattered and fell in. The sound would never have been noticed in the usual din, with songs and yells and howls of outrage at particularly lurid jokes. But now when the log fell, villagers jumped. And then there followed a sound that froze the blood of many. Those old enough to be veterans of the wars groped automatically for weapons long gone, sold off, or left at home to rust as relics in this small, peaceful village.

It was the sound of metal being drawn, and taking a very long time to be done.

The ogre's blade's point seemed to float in the air. Every eye watched. Were those blood stains along the edge? One sweep of the long blade and the ogre could take the five people nearest him. Another sweep and it would be five more.

No one moved.

Then, from the back of the room came the sound of chair legs scraping against wooden floor. A small, slender woman stood, head up, eyes challenging. Beside her a brown and grey haired man whispered fearfully at her, "Sit down, sit down."

"You," the woman said to the ogre, "have found me."

The ogre made a hiss, a sound of surprise.

"You are Asmor?"

"I am."

He nodded slowly, returned his sword to its sheath. As the sword sighed into the scabbard, an echoing sigh came from all the villagers.

"You," the ogre said to the woman, "are dead." He pulled a small, loaded crossbow from under his cloak, held it up, aiming high.

"Is that so?" she asked.

"Very dead. But first I want to talk to you about one of your recipes."

A humorless smile came to the woman's lips. "Oh? Which one?"

"Gray ogre toes in a sweet black sauce."

The woman's smile widened. "No one uses enough clove. The meat can be so gamey. The sauce makes all the difference."

The ogre howled his outrage, aimed the crossbow bolt at the slender woman. All those near her dropped to the floor, flattening themselves like rugs.

The woman began to laugh.