I'm a cold area, a frozen wasteland with six letters to keep it cool. Nothing grows, under this heavy weight, often compared to a feather, if you swap the second for an o.

I ain’t no coward, tho some may doubt. My first four is what you do when you scream or shout. My last three is where you duck your head when someone says, lookout.

Without me, no plans can be made. With me, love is a matter of fate. I can be sweet and served on a plate. Or on the calendar quietly wait.

Tiny teeth that meet and greet, I can bite your skin or be discreet. Up I go, down I glide, I’m the line where fabric worlds collide!

Of the four ancient bodily fluids, I possess much, Me and my brother are often marginalised by man, But previously, we were adored by monarchs, What am I?