The Mahaha was a slender, blue-skinned demon from the Arctic, naked and shivering with delight. It giggled constantly, a sound like ice cracking on a lake. Icy Cackle.
It danced onto the dock where Charon waited. It didn't want a ride; it wanted a victim.
"Cold," the Mahaha whispered, its eyes wide and manic. "Let me warm you up."
Charon did not move. He was a pillar of stillness in the gray fog.
The Tickler
The Mahaha lunged. Its fingers were long, sharp, and brutally cold. Frost-Tickling Fingers. It sought to find soft flesh, to tickle the boatman until he froze to death in a rictus of laughter.
It grabbed Charon’s ribs.
Clack.
The Mahaha stopped giggling. Through the ragged robes, there was no flesh. No nerves. Only old, dry bone.
"You are skinny," the Mahaha pouted.
The Payment
Charon looked down at the demon clinging to his ribcage. "You touch the Ferryman," he whispered. "That is a service. Services have a price."
Obol Claim.
Charon placed a skeletal hand on the Mahaha’s head. He didn't push; he drained.
The Mahaha shrieked as its essence—the cold, manic energy that sustained it—was siphoned away. It flowed into Charon like water into sand. The blue skin turned gray. The giggle turned into a dry wheeze.
"I accept your payment," Charon said.
The Mahaha crumbled into a mound of frost, which Charon casually kicked into the river before untying his boat.