She feels a little over-dressed in the presence of her Guide. She can feel the heat from the fire percolating her coat, warming her through to her core, as the flames and smoke swirl and weave with the First Slayer's words.

Buffy has come for answers but so far she's had none. None that she can understand at any rate.

"Death?"

"Is your gift."

The fire is gone and the image of her mother's coffin disappearing into the freshly dug grave fills her vision. A chill that has nothing to do with the cold night air cascades down her spine.