She is his playtoy, his whore.
He keeps pushing and she keeps pulling far, far away. With death they became so much like their respective elements; he burns, flaming and angry, screaming – not words, just sounds, animalistic and guttural. His voice (deep, soft, purring) freezes her (cackling, smoldering, cracking like wood) and she drowns, deeper and deeper as he blazes higher and higher. The soft hazy colors of the snow – rose and lavender at dawn – abandon her. The ice she becomes is rigid, harsh, unfamiliar.
He laughs as he thrusts into her. As always, she is silent.