Water was not like her. Water always found a way, dripping through the tiniest hole, wearing away boulders and mountains and continents, flowing wherever it wished.
Water was not like her.
Water could not be stopped, only delayed. It would lie behind dam walls for decades upon decades, but eventually the dam would burst and it would be free again, just the same as it ever was. When trapped in a boiling pot, water took to the air, wafting back to cooler climes like a summer bird. Even the cold could only force it to stand still for a short while, and water made the cold pay dearly for its interference, digging deep into the surface of things and cracking them wide with steady, unpitying pressure.
Water had power. Water could drown ships of men and beasts, claim hoards of treasure for its own, destroy buildings, and grant new life. Water could bless and heal and soothe. Water was holy and rare and familiar all at once, an ever flowing, ever-changing river that mankind both cursed and adored, a goddess all of its own.
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This is really well written. I love the way you can describe someone by using all the opposite details.