When the fire had died down into white ashes Dean got up.

The bowl, filled with white, powdery ashes, was made of fired red clay.

Nothing, that is, save a handful of ashes soft and white as snowflakes.

The end of the staff vanished in flame, and then white ashes drifted across the stones.

Within instants, only white ashes drifted in the cold air.

A quick look toward the white wizard showed me but a heap of white ashes.

In the bottom was no more than a few crumpled white ashes and a blister of paint where the flame had caught the side.

All the manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes.

By now she had finished packing the first eye in clean white ashes.

Only a few white ashes and a dark splotch on the sandy ground remained.