He had forgotten just how the cold could bite.

Ice rimned his hair, long streaks of white scored his face where the cold had bitten.

The cold had bitten his ears and nose-they flared red against his pale skin and dark hair.

The cold was biting, and his breath clouded in front of him as he walked.

The cold of the ice had bitten through their layers of wool and leather.

The cold was biting at the small cavity that had appeared in one of his back molars.

He shifted restlessly and I knew the cold was biting his skinny old bones.

The cold was biting, through their soaking wet uniforms.

The cold was biting Brock's innards, and the bananas seemed to have turned into billiard balls in his stomach.

The cold was biting at him a little, biting at his hands.