Cold. Cold. The freeze he felt was that of starving winters, ice on the pond at home, snow that covered the farmer's orchard. Cold like Christmas, like stone in shadow, like the sweet chill of tropical waters at dawn. Warm? Warmer.
A voice spoke to him and the words came as if through water; his ears were filled with the rush of his blood and the sound of his breath. Beneath him there was a soft bed and the air around was cinnamon-rich.
His sight cleared; above him he saw a face, a woman's face, a beautiful face. You hear me now? Dat's good, dat's good, the voice said in the tones of sultry Jamaican nights, and he was flooded with the long-awaited heat.