The wind was biting through my coat and jeans.

Up on the sentry walk the wind was biting and whipped Macro's cloak behind him, tugging at the clasp on his left shoulder.

As the sun sank lower, this was the side on which the wind did not bite quite as fiercely.

Tonight's wind was biting.

The wind was biting through the wet clothes.

The wind is biting today.

The wind was biting from the north, and the glacier was groaning behind them.

I swallowed, feeling the wind bite cold beneath my cloak, memory killing the sudden exhilaration of freedom.

The wind was biting.

I push off, the wind biting my cheeks, snowflakes melting on my lips.