The man moved doggedly onward, pushing ever toward the faintest of lights on the horizon, a light more sensed than seen, and which illuminated nothing. From behind came the sounds of laughter and conviviality, a bright chatter of conversation carrying with it the occasional lover’s murmur and the promise warmth and friendship and more. In the cold dark emptiness, he paid no heed, only pushing forward toward the faint suggestion of light ahead. Around it swirled the tantalizing odors of mushrooms and sage, lying fragrant on a bed of soft spring greens. And always the smell of sweet wine — sharp cool white to whet the appetite, rich blood red to make the head spin. He pressed on. In his own faint, windy voice, he gasped from time to time, “A little further. Don’t look back. A little further.”
…
“Punctilio”
About the story: Why living with elves is so addictive.
An homage to Jack Vance.