Three Sentence Ficathon

"If Trees eat earth, what do they drink?" Lucy wondered as she sat beside Mr. Tumnus on the outskirts of the spring planting festival -- closer to the fires, the dancing had grown quite wild (Susan's hair whirled around her like a banner, and she caught a glimpse of Peter throwing an oread into the air), while under the boughs of the trees that had not chosen to edge toward human form and partake in the celebrations, assorted groups of revelers were laughing as they dashed away for more private merry-making.

"Water and light," Mr. Tumnus answered, "though sometimes during the revels they sample Lord Bacchus's wine -- I'm told he can conjure a special vintage for them, fermented from moonbeams alone with no need of vines or grapes to convert that light to substance."

Lucy tipped her head back to gaze at the moon, its waxing circle edging near to full, and imagined how the silver of its light would taste between her teeth, sweet and crisp and sharp, and how its juice might roll cool and brilliant down her throat.