(FORTUNE Magazine) – You're here!" says the Swedish voice. "Brilliant!" It's 2:10 at the Ice Hotel, a bit past check-in, and our guide at the world's largest igloo is pleased to see that I haven't fled--yet--for the warmth of my rented Volvo. It's a tempting idea, though not really an option at this point. I have, after all, traveled 125 miles above the Arctic Circle to put myself on ice for the night. Literally. And if the other guests, swathed in fur and designer technofabrics, can hack the Ice Hotel's subfreezing temperatures, how would it look for me to run off to the nearest Hilton?

Of course, there is no Hilton here in the unpronounceable town of Jukkasjarvi (pop. 400), a place where the street signs say things like AVENTYR TILLVANSTER! (ADVENTURE TO THE LEFT!) and where reindeer outnumber humans. What there is, is plenty of "snice," or snow and ice. Each winter some 22,000 tons of it are harvested from the banks of the frozen Torne River, then coaxed by 30 artisans into the hotel's walls, beds, chairs. In mid-December guests from all over the world begin arriving at this all-ice palace, which will melt by spring.

Despite the yelping sled dogs, this is no typical Lapland retreat. Manager Yngve Bergqvist founded the place in 1991 as a gallery for local artists, and judging from our group's vantage point--we're gathered under an intricate ice chandelier and between massive frozen columns--that creative sensibility remains. But in recent years the Ice Hotel has become as much a commercial spectacle as a cultural one. Absolut Vodka signed as a sponsor in 1994, cueing a parade of admen and supermodels. This winter the hotel appears in a sexy new Volvo commercial, where it, frankly, upstages the station wagon.

As our tour begins (every guest gets one), there's little question about which label we'll be paying homage to tonight. "Can you tell me what brand it was that you just walked through?" asks our guide coyly, as we pass under an enormous bottle-shaped cutout. Indeed, we've arrived at the hotel's main draw: the Absolut Ice Bar, where ice tables, ice booths, and, yes, ice glasses really do make it the planet's coolest place to imbibe. Our guide demonstrates how to sip a drink served in the rocks (a firm lip-print melts a crevice in the chunky vessel). It's a useful tip, but right about now, as my limbs start to creak, I've got a few other concerns, like how will I keep my head from freezing to the ice bed? And, has anybody died here?

My companion, who's Swedish, helps keep me calm as we explore impossibly white, silent halls. Laid out over 13,000 square feet, the ice oeuvre includes a chapel, an art gallery, and even a cinema whose ice screen shows Naomi and Kate slinking about during an ad shoot. The 45 bedrooms feature fireplaces, headboards, and night tables all crafted from ice. Sculptures of flowers and dogs shimmer in the dim candlelight. Ice beds, each topped with a thin mattress, are lavishly strewn with reindeer pelts.

Catching up with Bergqvist, I learn what's required to pull off this intense, if temporary, architectural beauty. "Until Christmas we are working every day, all day," says Bergqvist, a quiet man whose Davy Crockett getup belies his business savvy. Once the metal-enforced snice frame is up, he says, it takes an average of 40 hours to sculpt the details of each room. Bergqvist reports that his finished product draws some 5,000 individual and corporate guests each year.

While the Absolut name lends cachet, another affiliation, with hotel giant Best Western, is less apparent. In fact, the only evidence that this is technically a Best Western are the microscopic BW pins worn by the reception staff. When I ask if this plebe partner offends haughty Absolut, Bergqvist just shrugs and flashes his deep dimples. (He does manage a firm "No" when I inquire whether he's ever lost a guest.)

Not wishing to be the first casualties, we immediately don puffy suits that make us look like NASA recruits. Properly insulated, we mount a snowmobile and watch as our headlights reveal a brilliant tapestry of frozen lakes and pine forests. Later, a private sauna thaws us out before we head to the non-ice lodge across the street for a dinner of reindeer and grouse. A cadre from Delta and American Airlines offers tips for surviving the night ("Drink plenty of vodka, " says one. "Pop a Tylenol P.M.," offers another). Hopeful, we hop on pink kicksleds and glide to the hotel.

Back in the Absolut Ice Bar for a nightcap, it's 25[degrees]F and the music--Greek--is blaring. One group kicks their legs a la Rockettes ("This is life!") while puffing on Cartier cigarettes. A Japanese duo regards the spectacle silently. An ungloved bartender serves thimble-sized drinks for $11. Only the Americans, who've returned from a sliding contest down the hotel's slick corridors, complain about the price.

Claiming an ice booth, I contemplate this surreal scene and wonder how much meaningful work gets done at the hotel's non-ice conference facilities, which seat 120. And whether the group from Astra Corp., which left today, signed up for reindeer herding--an odd but apparently popular diversion. Not all visitors, I know, are intrepid enough to actually sleep here. Some execs and celebs have been known to go soft by staying in the cop-out cottages--heated two-bedroom chalets that dot the property.

Such will not be our fate. Our mummy-shaped Fjallraven sleeping bags can sustain body heat down to -35[degrees]C, we've been told. At the moment of truth, we shuck our space suits and dive in. My friend reminds me that less is more, so we strip and zip up so only our noses are exposed. Our clothes stay with us in the sleeping bags to prevent freezing. Incredibly, we manage eight hours of frigid slumber before a staffer serving warm ligonberry juice wakes us up.

Perhaps it's Nordic bravado that prompts me to join the morning dogsled ride. Seated at the helm of the bumpy craft (my lucky lot as the lightest), I tell myself that the reindeer sightings--Rudolph!--are worth the cold's sting. But after 20 minutes as a human windshield, I've had my fill. It's bad enough that I can't feel my toes and that my hair has frozen to my fur-lined hat. But who knew that Alaskan huskies can poop while they run? I escape their kicktrail--aimed smack at my head--by refusing to sit first on the way back.

By the time we pack up the Volvo, the air has a silver tint, and I'm ready to romanticize this place all over again. The sled dogs --all is forgiven--are curled up in sleepy pairs by the door. It's a postcard image, one that reminds me of the kitschy commerce that could yet be mined from this place in the middle of snowhere. And then it hits me: There's not a single Ice Hotel trinket to be had--no posters, no T-shirts, no plastic ice-cube keychains. Reaching down to pat the huskies one last time, I have but one thought: Please, Mr. Eisner, stay away.

The Ice Hotel (011-46-980-668-00) is open December through April. Doubles are $165 to $250; Scandinavian Airlines flies to Kiruna, a 15-minute drive from the hotel.