The fire was magic — a spell Rohk knows from the army — so the wind and the rain couldn’t put it out. A good thing, too: without a good fire we would have frozen.
Sometimes, when I stare long enough into it, I imagine I see things moving around. Tiny figures, shapes, shadows in the flame. Rohk says the fire is actually a window onto some alternate plane, where all that exists burns continuously. I ask whether anything lives there, and he says certainly. I ask whether those things can come through the window, and he laughs, but does not answer.