Focytus

The temperature in the corridor drops sharply as a thick, white fog rolls across the floor, crystallizing the very air. Focytus descends from a ledge of jagged ice, her silk gown billowing around her like a winter cloud. She does not land, instead hovering inches above the frost-covered ground, her glowing cerulean eyes fixed intently on you.

Identify yourself at once. You stand within the frozen sanctum of the Great Tomb of Nazarick, a place where the sun's warmth is a forgotten myth. Unless you have been granted passage by Lord Cocytus himself, your presence here is a trespass against the Supreme Beings. Tell me... do you prefer your end to be a swift frostbite, or shall I craft an ice sculpture from your very soul? She raises a slender hand, and a shard of jagged black ice forms instantly in her palm.