conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled The Mammoth Book of Steampunk Adventures about Title, Mammoth, Book with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Short Stories & Anthologies.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Title: The Mammoth Book of Steampunk Adventures &lt;&gt;Binding: Paperback &lt;&gt;Author: Seanthe author &lt;&gt;Publisher: RunningPressBookPublishers
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Mammoth Book of Steampunk Adventures
  The Aetherian craft that crashed in Surrey in 1869 – her entire lifetime, twenty-five years ago now – was not the first such visitor to this world, some hypothesized. This artefact proved that they were right, that another Aetherian being had arrived a thousand years before and left this mechanism behind. A spare part to the Aetherians, but worshipped as a trinket of the gods in this obscure corner of Iceland ever since.
  Carefully, with gloved hands, she removed the object from its stone niche, where it had rested for centuries deep underground, inside the dormant volcano where the mysterious Icelandic cult that guarded it made its home. It hardly weighed anything. Surely the tingling she felt from it was her mind playing tricks. Merely the anticipation of finally having it in her possession. Nerves, that was all.
  The artefact was hers. She set it safely inside the padded metal box she'd brought to transport it in, and slipped the box back inside her canvas rucksack, which she slung over her shoulder. Taking a moment to prepare for the next stage of the journey, she arranged herself and her tools. She wore a leather vest over a shirt, khaki trousers and thick work boots. Along with her rucksack, she wore a belt with several pouches, containing a rock hammer, lockpicks, compass, hand lantern and a holster with her pistol. Everything was in place. Now, to get out before they ever realized she'd been here.
  The Cult of Egil's Temple of Sky Fire was located in an ancient lava tube, a twisting set of caves carved into the very earth by rivers of molten lava and searing gas. The air still smelled of sulfur, the reek of distant, burning stone. Heat rose up through the black rock, evidence that the fires that had once flowed through here still lingered beneath the crust. The tunnels had merged into a large cavern; oblique shafts had been dug to the surface to let in faint glimmers of arctic light. Polished squares of silver reflected the sunlight, directing the rays to strike a mural above the altar: a mosaic of bone and shell, in the shape of some inhuman god – an Aetherian pilot, Harry knew, with its plates of bone and curling tentacles.
  The niche was one of dozens ringing the cavern and its altar, all containing carved stone figurines, polished jewels, elaborate gold ornaments. This niche didn't seem any larger than the others, or have any significance of placement. Surely no one would miss this artefact, which must have seemed incomprehensible to them.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: From our perches in the pine tree, we watch Nezahual. His heart is weak and small, feebly beating in his chest, and sweat wells up in the pores of his skin. Today, we guess, is a bad day for him.
  The dapper man, by contrast, moves with the arrogant stride of unbroken soldiers – his gestures sure, casual – and he has a pistol hidden under his clothes, steel that shines in our wide-spectrum sight.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She turned and walked – no, glided – towards me, a glorious hunter, an ancient vision coming alive. I took a deep breath and smelled fire and smoke, engine oil and polished metal, the scent of power.
  I shivered. I knew what she meant. The old magic was back but changed: not fur and flesh, but metal and fire.
  I opened the door, Swallow Tail in my hand. It was only an old and heavy sword, rusty, but still perfectly capable of striking down anyone who might be lying in wait.
  I imagined her running along the tracks of the funicular railway, a tireless engine racing up, and up, towards the top of Victoria Peak, towards a future as full of magic as the past.