I make light, but I am not made of fire. You might see me in Your hands.

What loses its head in the morning but gets it back at night?

Light as a feather, yet shields the cold; a fortress for the fragile, in white armor bold. Often found in takeaways, but never on a plate.

I set things ablaze or bring lovers to bed, I pit foes in rings and pair socks in red. What am I?

Face marred by pocks With the eye of a snake Prisoner to chance Cold decider of fate