Thor Frost, Brother of Jack?

Chill coursed through Thor's veins, propelled by a pulsating heart-shaped block of ice wedged uncomfortably in his chest cavity. Thor would've welcomed the pain of an ordinary run-of-the-mill heart attack. Anything would be preferable to the excruciating cold. Worse than the bitter frigidity, though, was the sheer terror at this sudden affliction.

Thor winced as he rubbed his frostbitten hands together, trying to return them to a recognizable color and texture...but to no avail. He discovered soon after that his legs had become little more than fleshy popsicles, of no more use to him than a banjo, given the state of his hands.

Thor had always been a loving, caring individual, warm-hearted as they come. So many times his honesty and loyalty led to his getting a pretty raw deal, but Thor learned early on to just roll with the punches, and he somehow maintained his sunny demeanor through the years, in spite of receiving arguably more than his fair share of the hardships traditionally suffered by the more humane segment of humanity.

One day, though, Thor decided he'd had enough. He rolled up his welcome mat and begged for apathy. He got his wish, essentially, but with a catch. There's always a catch. With Thor's new detachment from emotion came detachment from life. Thor's body was icing over, slowly hardening into a glaciated corpse. He realized too late what was going on. This sick experiment of the gods had claimed his soul, and all he could do was watch himself die, choking on the frost that was rapidly consuming him.