I fear the horn, yet not the hoof.
My babe has three names and I have one.
Sometimes I am made of fire, sometimes of ash, sometimes of sand, and sometimes of snow.
My eyes are of gems; of amber or emerald.
At the end of fire there is white, yet this is no sign of hopelessness.
I am the thief but there is no jailer.
I emit the howls but I am not a wolf.
By the Dale I am coal and fire.
By the Drift I am thick ice.
What Am I?