A cliff stood tall in front, cradling a monastery on its lap.

Two kilometers high, its cliff stood over the horizon, a worldwall, at its distance not dusty white but shimmering, streaked with blue crevasses.

These cliffs had stood the same before the brown-skinned men of his race had trickled down from the north.

On the southern side of the track stood the cliffs that overlooked the pass, and on the north side was the Malian Gulf.

Five miles away, across a grey and gnarled sea, the black cliffs of Spain stood high and clear.

On either side of the fall, other cliffs stood entire, the road squeezed into a narrow ribbon between their crimson walls and the foaming river.

The cliff stood so high above the bay that one must look down to see its outer shores and the vague lowlands of Essany.

Everywhere the cliffs stood sheer, except to westward.

On either hand the cliffs stood as embattled walls, and upon them sat carrion fowl crying with fell voices.

Westward stood a purple-black cliff down which lightnings torrented.