High above Miami, Emile Ceccion dropped his silver spoon with a clatter and started to choke on his clear soup. Managing somehow to swallow the boullion, he gasped for air like a fish out of water. Merde! Breathe, he couldn’t breathe! The air before him swam and filled with the image of other elves dying for lack of air. They lay sprawled like winter leaves on the ruined streets of the sprawl. Many held wands or fetishes, and all had a strip of red cloth tied about their left arm. A symbol? A badge? Then even as he watched they crumbled into dust.