And the cold bit into his lungs at every breath.

Moving seemed completely out of the question, but as the shuddering cold bit deep he realized it was either that or die here.

The cold bit into his bones and it was not cold.

And ever more savagely the cold bit into our bones.

Otherwise the doubt would go, and the cold bits of certainty remained.

He moved to the nearest sphincter as the cold bit at him.

The cold bit through her coat as she hurried across the lot.

Now that he had stopped fighting the current and crouched still, the cold bit into him.

Burning like the touch of dry ice, cold bit into her wet skin.

Was there untapped life in them, or were they only cold bits of nothing?