"I'm fine," he insists, though truth be told he's been so wrapped up in his book that he had neglected to notice when the sun rose higher in the sky and the shadow of a nearby building had ceased to shade him.

Still, a streak of pride and self-reliance won't let him admit that. If this were home, he might conjure a small wind current to cool himself off - without a tome, it wouldn't be particularly strong, but it would be enough for his purposes. Here, he supposes ice will have to do the trick. It's... bizarre the way magic works here. Similar to home and yet different enough to be disconcerting.

He shifts in his seat and pushes a stray lock of hair from his face, where it has stuck to his forehead. He's fine (thirsty, now that he thinks of it, and a little too warm, but he's not dying or in danger of passing out yet), but being reminded of the heat, he considers if he has enough control over blizzard or water to make them useful.