Then turning once more to Ourph, the Mouser spoke low: ‘Talking of wizards, do you know of Khahkht?’
The ancient let five heartbeats go by, then croaked, ‘Khahkht is Khahkht. It is no tribal sorcerer, ’tis sure. It dwells in furthest north within a dome — some say a floating globe — of blackest ice, from whence It watches the least deeds of men, devising evil every chance It gets, as when the stars are right — better say wrong — and all the Gods asleep…Ice is Its favored quarter, ice Its tool, and icy breath Its surest sign save blink.’
‘Blink?’the Mouser asked uneasily.
‘Sunlight or moonlight shining back from ice,’ the Mingol replied. ‘Ice blink.’
— Fritz Leiber, ‘The Frost Monstreme’