The blue vapor did not rise from the floor; it poured downward from the roof ledges like cold syrup.
It was heavier than mortal air, pooling in the fluting of the square hard black rock pilasters and spilling over the edges of the raised stone walkway in sluggish, glowing waterfalls. Where it struck the lower flat stone slabs of Entry hall 753, it didn’t fade into mist. It rolled into dark, sapphire-colored puddles that hissed softly against the frost. It boiled at heat levels that would have turned river water to granite in three seconds.
Qiao Ming walked along the central spine of the raised stone road, his bare feet leaving clear, dry prints upon the stone. Each time his heel touched the frosted dolerite, a faint wreath of pale vapor curled from his skin where his mortal body heat met the sub-zero chill of the stonework. The pain in his soles had transformed from an acute sting into a dull, wooden numbness that traveled upward into his shins, yet his balance remained precise. A water mapper did not rely on the nerve endings of his skin to find true level. He relied on the weight of his skeleton and the straight-line hanging from his waist.
