WandWpart1

Always, except for this time, was I born as Warrior. Meant to protect thee. Sworn to battle. Not quick of wit, always, but mighty of heart and arm.

And you, Wizard. There were things you knew, that I did not; understandings you had that eluded me. And I was content, after a period of stupidity I can only admit with pain, to protect and serve you.

You knew what I only dreamed of as fantasy. You rode the winds, called down lightning with a touch of your mind - and yet, how fragile you were. Proud I was, to protect you in your times of weakness; to lend you my strength of body, to keep you safe from the bastards that might strike at you then. And never did you treat me as less than thee; always as companion, friend. No, it was I who scorned you first, thinking magic and mages beneath me, weaklings who rely on trickery instead of honest steel to conquer.

Yours is the true courage, to face hell and death armed only with the fire of your spirit. And I, I would die for you gladly a thousand times.//

"Carson," I choked. My hands and his were locked in a grip of steel, the only thing holding me to reality. My brain spun with memories not my own. I was -- (so tired, the conjuring for hours and perhaps still not enough to hold back the dragon hordes. To my blankets, then. To find him there before me, fire-blond young king, half-drunk, embarrassed yet burning for me. Ah, why not, one last night before death and horror, and the boy is loving and eager, strong in his manhood--)

"Arthur." I tasted the name of the once and future king like rich mead on my tongue, eyes closed and faintly smiling. He had been strong in manhood indeed, and long before Guinivuere was a dream I had known him, and the sweet fiery innocent kisses of him had helped me forge that kingdom forever.

Not only can I talk to Carson without either of us opening our mouths, but now I'm having memories of other lives? Out of Arthurian legends, no less. It's definitely time to stop smoking pot!

Oh. Wait. Haven't smoked any since he's been with me. All we've done is talk, and kiss, and fuck like bunnies. And although that's been definitely blowing my mind, it's not in a spaced-out way. I've never been more clear, focused, or happy in my life. And in general screwing, even if you're a guy screwing a guy, doesn't usually lead to science fucking fiction.

And nothing has ever felt more real in my LIFE. Which probably means my therapist was full of shit and I wasn't crazy five years ago, either.*

*--From the Journals of Keith McIntyre/confused high school history teacher, Berkeley, California, Earth 1999. Explanation of Wizard/Warrior status (?) provided by Carson Ravenstreet, student and lover, same year, same location.

Scholars are aware that in every cycle of the worlds, a Wizard and a Warrior arise to battle the evil that wishes to end all worlds forever. It is also generally understood that in some strange way, these Heroes are eternal, i.e., always the same persons.

However, scholars generally focus on the battles themselves and ignore all the personal ramifications between the Heroes. Even though it must be obvious that the two must be close indeed, to achieve the final goal. To battle the Ultimate Evil, and win.

Heart and soul, body and mind, they must be as one. In fact, as Professor McIntyre points out more than once in his sporadic but intense writings, it is more than likely that in order to successfully fight the Ultimate Darkness, the Heroes should be prepared to "fuck like bunnies." At every opportunity.

Three years. Three fucking years since we'd gone through the portal and been blasted apart. Physically apart of course. Should I be so lucky that I would have company when I was tossed into an alternate reality? But just to add insult to injury, our mindlink was also severed. And there I was, lost and alone in a freaking world straight out of a D&D manual. After going through a gate that of all places came through in my goddamn Berkeley California tacky-ass flat *bathroom.*

And of all the cruel injustices, it happened while we were showering together. While I was, uh, well never mind what I was doing. Suffice to say I entered this alternate universe naked as a noodle, and on my fucking *knees*.

Good thing I was a halfway decent wizard by then. Illusion wasn't my strongest skill, but I could at least fake a pair of pants until the real thing came along.

Of course, in the storm of grief that choked me, I actually couldn't give a rat's ass whether I was nude or clothed. But running the spell gave me something to do with my screaming brain. Until the hurt and loneliness faded to a dull, ever present ache that I could kind of think around.

My only comfort had been that I knew Carson lived, somewhere. Not just my own foolery of hope and need; he'd said it once, that Wizard and Warrior were different sides of the same coin. One could not exist without the other. Light and dark. Fire and water. Sun and moon. All his romantic bullshit, so applicable in this new and frightening place.

And by the damned sadistic gods of both these bloody worlds, this at least I believed. I had to believe he was here. Had to, or lose my sanity.

So I'd managed to survive in this crazy place without him. I'd learned more wizardry, natch. A *bunch* more, unlike Earth this world was drowning in mana. My liking for fantasy reading and computer gaming had also helped; got to try out a few things, breathing apologies to a slew of authors for using their ideas. Found out what did and didn't work. There was lots of stuff that worked.

Found a teacher. Actually, he found me; he later said my potential screamed so loud he could've heard it in the next kingdom. Luckily, he lived near the first village I bumbled into. After knocking me out and taking me home, he stitched a tonguestone into the skin under my ear. A little sliver of a non-descript rock that happened to translate language like a two-way radio. Good thing I was unconscious or he would've had an argument; I don't like pain, and in a generation of tongue-piercers I was still waffling on getting one ear done.

After I woke up and he'd explained himself, he was kind enough to get drunk with me on the local version of, well, it must have been Everclear. Of course I told him everything. I think I must have bawled all over him as I did so, but he never teased me on it.

Instead, my training began. He filled in the gaps that I hadn't been able to intuit or ad lib. An old, funny, wise coot who reminded me of a cross between Gandalf the Grey and Walter Mattheau. Sometimes he made me forget, made me laugh. When one of his many enemies took him out, I got to learn some more about myself. Stuff I didn't want to know.

Revenge is sweet. And I was better at killing than I ever would have believed. I stalked and murdered that bastard and it was almost as good as sex.

I'd learned all Jarone had to teach me, before he died. Surpassed him, he insisted, and he was one of the best. Afterwards, I'd even made a rep for myself, of sorts. Taking on quests, offing pesky monsters; your usual D&D stuff. Sometimes with a crowd, sometimes alone.

But always, really, alone. I wasn't ready to make new friends and have them snatched away too. Shit, I was just sour on life and didn't want friends even if they lasted.

If he'd only been there, I might have enjoyed playing out my computer games for real. Without him, I might as well of had a nine to five job for the joy I took in it. I was a pitiful, sorry bastard, but there it was.

Yeah, I'd survived, even prospered. Kind of like the way you survive a bad dream, desperately hanging in there because you know at some point please - you just gotta wake up.

I was trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey in a fetal position, lying in the barbaric splendor of the High King's tent. Tent, hell! When I think "tent" it's of those things you take on camping trips, where your feet always stick out and halfway through the night it falls down on you because you put it up wrong to begin with. This "tent" was the size of a honeymoon suite at the Waldorf. Decorated accordingly, too, if they'd had a "Barbarian Decadence" theme room. Furs and wrought iron braziers and a teakwood/velvet chair big enough for Darth Vader to lose his ass in. Jesus.

My glasses had been gradually sliding down my nose for fifteen minutes now since I was pointed slightly facedown. When they finally made their break was when I started swearing.

It'd been just as long for me, dammit, and I remembered him with every atom of my body. Even before he'd swept off the wolf-head battle helmet and locked me with those same intense blue eyes that haunted my every daydream, I'd known who he was. Even with all the other changes, the grim lines by the corners of that expressive mouth, the braided hair. The silver-black tattooing, now not confined to his eyelids alone but flowing down like butterfly wings to define his cheekbones.

Well, I might have known he'd just blow the socks off any piddly little wizard/bard type fame I could scratch up. It made me smile for a second, before I remembered why I was pissed and started cursing again.

Suddenly, I was shaking. And not with fear, even of that seven-foot, cold-eyed mutation of the passionate being who'd stalked and seduced me so long ago in a different world. Fear, hell! I was mad clear through.

Oh, I had no doubt that he was one of the most dangerous things I had ever encountered here. But I *couldn't* be afraid of him. How could I be scared of a scrawny stubborn kid I'd tutored in history? I'd kicked ass on the bullies who hounded him as a fifteen-year-old computer geek. Shit, I'd faced down that sadistic bastard of his father, though that fight had led to us being separated by concerned relatives. Myself, escaping jail for various reasons but not even knowing where he'd been taken. And then he'd come looking for me at the age of twenty, with all that rage and passion locked in the body of a sword-dancer. Been working out, I thought wrongly, as it happened.

At the time, I didn't quite believe him. But was I impressed? You betcha. Did I fight him off? Not so as you'd notice. My guilt factor had run dry. The difference between the sixteen year old, scrawny geek and the dark gothic wet dream five years later was a chasm too wide for any feelings of shame to leap over. I wasn't sure why he still would want me, but I wasn't daft enough to argue about it.

And now he'd changed again. Went to the next level, just as I had. But whatever I still felt for him, fear wasn't part of it. And I sure as hell wasn't scared of his gang of brain-dead, muscle-bound barbarian goons.

In fact, it's always been a character defect of mine that when I get pissed enough, I'm not afraid of anything. And even before all this might and magic crap, I knew how to back my play.

I bit out a short, almost contemptuous spell. The leather bindings they'd taken such care to pull tight enough to cut off circulation loosened and spun away from me. Why had I bothered to play Mr. Nice Guy and let them tie me up anyway?

I snatched up my specs and replaced them defiantly, then climbed to my feet and started for where I remembered the opening to be. You can't hang doors on a tent, alas, and once the flap was down everything looked the bloody same, at least to me.

No matter. I would either find Door Number One, or I would create Door Number Two by blowing the crap out of the whole works if I had to. I would proceed to the outside world and find that bastard and make him believe in me, and if any of his huge muscleheaded bodyguards got between the two of us I would take immense satisfaction in French-frying their asses.

I hit the wall and began floundering around, feeling for an opening. Shit, my guess was off. Well, then, goodbye, you over-decorated piece of--

I spun around, angry all over again to be caught flapping around in the wall like a bat without radar. Shit, he was only five feet away, head tilted, eyeing me expressionlessly. All that ebony hair was mostly unbraided now, down to his waist. The black chain mail shirt chimed softly around him, unbelted, loose midnight metal shot with fires of blue.

Mr. Potato Head let out a blatant squawk. "My Lord! He's loose!" Oh, a genius as well as a spud. "Be wary!" He grabbed for the axe on his belt; a second later he was screeching and hopping around in place, shaking his badly burned fingers. The carved iron haft of his axe was glowing cherry-red.

"Beat it, dumbass," I told this moron coldly. I'd had more than enough of every member of this pack of fools. Except maybe one person, and even he was trying my patience. "I have something to say in private to your boss here and I don't feel like doing it over your dead body."

His storm-colored eyes hadn't left me all through this little display. He hadn't moved an inch, either. "Go, N'garth," he said calmly. "What I told the guards is for you as well."

Carson flicked a look at him like an ice pick. The red drained his face instantly, leaving it pasty. He backed out of the opening, from the sound of things tripping and falling on his ass somewhere outside.

I watched him pull the tent flaps closed without haste, then tie them loosely shut with some leather bindings that looked remarkably like what they'd tied *me* with. Didn't mind him being occupied, despite my confident words. I was still rehearsing and discarding a dozen impassioned speeches in my head, arguments and shared memories, anything to make him admit that he knew me.

Immaterial. Because he closed the distance between us in one step, extended a finger and pushed my Lennon specs back up my nose, with an impatient look. "Why do you still wear these foolish things? You don't need them."

His English was funny after three years of speaking something else. Odd sentence structure, everything a bit stilted. A liquid, musical accent, more than sexy.

"Magic-users are not loved here, but *I* know something of their ways," he said coolly, deliberately misunderstanding my stammerings. "Imperfections in vision can be corrected with the smallest of spells, yes?"

"Well-yeah. I did that. They're glass. I mean, regular glass. I like wearing glasses!" Christ, why was I babbling like this? Alice had gone through the looking *glass.* "I mean-"

"You like to wear fake spectacles. Of course. No doubt this disgusting item is false as well?" He reached for my upper lip and I flinched, sure he was going to pull on my moustache and then I would have to hurt him.

Oh, shit, Keith, I gabbled to myself. Or maybe I was talking to my dick, since the damn thing was suddenly trying to drill right through my pants to get to him. You wacko. Stop right now. *Nobody* gets aroused by someone touching his stupid facial hair!

"You knew I was me all the fucking time, you bastard!" I more or less howled at him, to distract myself from that touch until I was a bit clearer on where this was going.

The harsh lines by his mouth seemed to disappear when he smiled, even though this particular expression was bitingly sardonic. Made him look even more like a beautiful, ruthless vampire. "You wear glasses that don't work, which you don't need anyway, and have enough hair on your lip to line a cloak collar. No one else in my memory would be likely to compare to you."

"I. Er. Well, since that spell backfired and I turned myself half into a elf, shit, I gotta keep the mustache and specs, or every horny bastard in this whacked up world would be after my ass!" Damn, that hadn't come out exactly right, although his smile was growing as he listened to my rant. I wished he'd kept his fingers on my lips. I wished he hadn't stepped back a pace. "I was never this pretty in my life, and dammit, I don't like it!"

I had long since lost track of what I was chundering on about, but he cocked his head in a sensuous (dammit!) rustle of all that midnight hair, eyes fixed on my face as if I actually was making sense. "You think these accoutrements make you less pretty?"

"Well," I hedged, "I know I don't look like any thirty-something history teacher anymore." I was fishing here and we both knew it. C'mon, Carson, do ya still like green-eyed redheads with pointy ears or not?

"You never did, Sensei," he reminded me smoothly, eyes almost dancing now. "The clothes and hair perhaps ruined your attempts at an image of scholarly, er, dignity."

I stared at him. This bastard. He not only *remembered* me, he remembered all the way back to the Eighties, when I'd tutored him and we'd made a joke of it. Kung-Fuing it up with the nicknames, since I was teaching him as much martial arts as I could behind dear old dad's back.

The laughter left his eyes as if a switch had been thrown. Oops, Keith, diplomacy never was your long suit, chuckle grin. I stood there and waited for him to hit me, or kill me, or whatever the hell it was High Kings did to insubordinates. His pupils were suddenly so dilated that only a thin rim of electric blue ringed the black.

"Carson-----" I began, really getting nervous now. Why the hell had I thought I shouldn't be afraid of him? "I, er-----" Shit. No, I'd be damned if I'd say sorry.

I opened my mouth to ask what the hell he was on about just as an arm like a snake of steel circled my ribs and pulled me into him. The fingers that had touched my lips slid under my chin, lifting it irresistibly.

And finally his mouth came down on mine. Hard, even brutal at first, but quickly melting into a lush, clinging magic that shocked every nerve I had into a spike of fire.

His other hand slid down to grip my ass, pulling me closer in, and I felt the press of a raging erection hard against my stomach. Christ, this seven foot tall thing felt flat-out weird in practice. At least that monster cock was more in proportion, even though I wasn't sure I cared for him being a foot taller than me.

But his hand on my butt felt fucking great, and I was getting a wrap on this. Hell, I could do this. I could do this with my eyes closed, all damn day. Stupid leather leggings, all these idiots wore 'em, certainly didn't leave much to the imagination.

He gasped as I squeezed. I can't think of a word for the sound he made as I began to stroke him, steadily but not quite gently. It had been too damn long for "gentle". I had to reclaim his lips with mine, he'd lost it with the gasp for air, and I wasn't quite ready to surrender that magic.

After some moments of hot groping and sheer bliss I pulled away from his ardent, seeking mouth. "Carson. Hey. Listen." He didn't want to hear anything, tried to pull me back into the kiss. I wasn't having it.

"No, no - Carse. Gotta request. I wish to perform a very disrespectful act toward a king." Then, as he stared at me, eyes glazed and yet somehow blazing, I continued softly, "I wanna fuck his everlovin' brains out. D'ya think that'll be alright?"

He drew a ragged, uneven breath that caught in a moan as I released my grip only to slip my hand down inside the leathers and reclaim the clasp with no barriers. "I've never fucked a king before," I whispered, amazed at myself, at the total lust that filled me as I pushed up against him, so engorged by now I felt nearly his equal. "I really think I need-----permission."

With an oath that even my tonguestone was incapable of translating, he seized me and flung me to the pile of furs that covered his bed. Like a whirling dervish of blue-black lightning, he was out of the rippling chain mail, clad only in a thin white shirt and those leggings that did nothing to hide his state of arousal.

He jumped me, growling, and with one move plucked my specs from my face and sailed them to the floor. Growling back, I performed some practical magic that owed nothing to wizardry and made the leggings follow the same route.

Lubrication? Nah. He didn't deserve it, and I felt no inclination to stop ongoing events by searching the whole bloody tent for something like that. Condom? Screw it. Us wizards had our own little way of combating evil diseases. It was called "instantaneous healing spell" and it covered damn near everything if you were good at it. I'd learned I was very good at it, although in the past it had been for healing broken, burnt and crippled body parts. Hard old world out there, especially for us questing fools. Hadn't had a chance or inclination to use it in pursuit of pleasure, but there's a first time for everything.

Shoot, I could probably make it cover the lube as well, with a bit of mind twist. Didn't want to hurt him, even if he had been a right prick to me.

He pulled back from me, and we stared at each other, both kneeling on the furs now and breathing hard. He didn't break eye contact as he grabbed the neck of the long silky shirt he was wearing and ripped it wide open and off his body, writhing a bit to release his arms from the sleeves.

He was so fucking--beautiful? No, that wasn't a fierce enough word for him, for the shape and texture he made in the world. It couldn't contain the blazing sapphire of his eyes, mascaraed by the tribal tattoos scrolling his eyelids, curling down his cheekbones like a delicate mask. Eyes that were suddenly every bit as hot as I'd wanted them. That sinful mouth, lips parted now, tongue flicking out to moisten the full lower lip as he watched me watching him. Long, lean muscles, maybe a bit thicker in the chest and arms than I remembered, but still a dancer's body, all grace and controlled power. All in exquisite proportion to the added height.

There were scars, of course, but nothing major, which perhaps was a clue to exactly how good a fighter he'd become. But no WWF wrestlers in this bed; I'd half feared the whole changing-to-Warrior thing would turn him into an overmuscled tank.

I don't go for tanks. But I could definitely go for this. Christ, I could go for it so much I was damn near to orgasm just looking at him.

Oh, yeah--those other attributes. Enough to cause envy, depression and suicides in every man in every locker room in the known universe.

"You're drooling all over my bed," he said in a husky, absolutely filthy voice. Dark laughter danced somewhere in the blue flames of his eyes.

Right now I was thinking I'd never be able to get these damned Levis off without serious injury to a precious body part. The concept of "tight jeans" had taken on a new and interesting slant, given the fact I was filling them as never before. I pulled off my Kawasaki tee-shirt in the interim, and then he was suddenly down on all fours, his mouth practically touching the bulge in my pants. Kee-rist, his mouth was touching it. Breathing on it. Biting it, in soft little nips that even through cloth were sending fireworks off in my brain. What was left of my brain. "Carson--Christ!--making it worse--"

"God-fucking-dammit!" I pushed his head away, went for the zipper, and somehow managed to wriggle my way out of prison. My cock burst free, nearly smacking him in the nose as he'd just insisted on moving his head back to its previous position. He didn't seem to mind; in fact he was staring at what was in front of him with rapidly glazing eyes. His question, however, was a little too coherent for my liking. "Where the hell did you get these pants? There's nothing like that here."

"Same place--I got the guitar. Stole it from Earth. Wizard thing. Talk about it--later. You gonna finish what you started or keep eyeballing it all fucking day?!"

Boots. Tug 'em off, much writhing and swearing involved. Finally kicking free of the jeans for good, everything off, only skin remaining and I pounced--

There was a timeless time when I couldn't tell who was doing what to whom. We were one creature, all mouth and hands, fire and madness. Biting, clutching, licking, needing. I'd have bruises in the morning, marked to within an inch of my life.

Someone was moaning. Couldn't be me; I was the strong, silent type during sex, Carse was the howler--oh, shit. It was me. Our mouths were locked together, tongues gone insane, and even though I was groaning straight down his throat, I was still making so much noise it seemed to fill the whole damn tent. I wondered fleetingly if the guards were out there whacking off. I knew I sure as hell would be, hearing sounds like that.

We were kneeling in the furs again, but this time wound around each other so tightly I couldn't tell where I left off and he began. Dripping with sweat, erections trapped between us, moving together in a weirdly graceful way as if we'd been practicing forever. Maybe we had. Christ, how could just rubbing up against him feel so damned good?

Satin slickness. Silk and steel. Blood thunder madness, pounding in my ears. I'd missed rock music? Well, this was every concert I'd ever been to and some I hadn't, Ozzy and Sabbath, Steppenwolf and the Doors. Trent Raznor and Rainbow fucking Rising. Heavy metal thunder. Headbanging to the max, baby--

Christ, I was going nuts. Needed air to the brain. I ripped my mouth away from his, gasping. My eyes focused on his face and damn, this wasn't helping at all.

His eyes were closed, the long black lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks to twine with the tattooing. Lips parted, slack, still moving slightly as if our kiss hadn't been broken. He looked totally drugged out, mindless batshit crazy. Well, crazy was good. In my arms, I wanted him absolutely mental.

Then those magical eyes swept open, darkened to nearly violet, so close it seemed our lashes would tangle. They looked no less insane than the rest of his expression. "Hawk," he whispered, with a strange, decadent smile. I jerked at the name, not knowing why his use of it sent electric jolts through my skin. "Fly with me, wizard, Keith, fly--"

One arm still around me, even tightening a bit. The other released, but only to slip his hand down between us, grabbing and stroking and caressing us both wantonly, as if it hardly mattered whom he touched at this point.

It was enough. Oh, man, it was more than enough, too damn much. I sipped in a gasp of breath and then let it back out in a silent scream as his nails brushed my balls. The coiled heat at the center of me snapped, unwound like a whip, black flowers exploding in front of my eyes and the music, drums and bass and screaming demon guitar following me down. Didn't know if I was flying or falling.

I hadn't been out for too long, though; my body was still twitching slightly in the after-shock of the most mind-melting orgasm I'd ever experienced in a not-so-innocent life. Shit, if I'd screwed him as I'd planned to it probably would've killed me.

My head was pillowed in his lap. He'd grabbed the remains of his torn shirt and was wiping me down with it in a businesslike manner. I pretty much needed it; I was a sticky, sweaty mess.

He smiled like a cat that had eaten the canary and then strolled over to help himself to a few chickens on the side. Never in my life had I seen so smug a look. "*I* didn't miss a thing." Oh, yeah, that was a definite gloat. And then his eyes widened and he whispered, "I did this to you."

Sometimes he was such a kid. "Betcher ass," I whispered back to him. "Tore me up, you pervert." I saw the awe and hero-worship flowering in his face and grabbed the shirt from him quickly, trying as usual to distance myself from his more unsettling emotions. "Here, let me get that--you're a bit of a mess yourself--"

I was pretty proud of the little clean-up spell I'd devised. Oh, I know most people think of wizards as destructive agents, fireballing people's asses left and right. And I can do that with the best of them. But I'm basically a practical sort. When you go around killing monsters for a living, there are many times you end up covered in mud, blood and monster crap. Usually miles from the nearest water source. This was nowhere near as unpleasant, but we were pretty damn messy with sweat, and semen, and sperm, and--well, come.

He jumped a bit at the swirl of sparkly light that surrounded us both for a heartbeat; in a burst of humor, I'd added some special effects. Industrial Light and Magic would've been paid big bucks for that transporter beam thingy. Since he'd been expecting me just to swipe at him with the shirt, he was definitely startled.

Raising his arms, he looked himself over, shaking his head slightly in amazement. Then lifted his head and stared at me inscrutably. Well, okay, a bath would've been nicer, but I had my doubts of getting one, stuck here in a barbarian war camp.

I snorted. "The man has hair down to his butt braided with silver doodads, more eye makeup than Alice Cooper and Madonna combined, a dick long enough to rope sheep with--and he's calling *me* strange? Babe, next to you I'm Ward Cleaver."

He smiled dreamily at me, ignoring my attempts to lighten things up. "That too. Of course. But--nobody else ever talks to me the way you do. I used to hate it, when you laughed at me--but now I understand."

He understood, did he? Oh, Lord. I was in trouble now, because half the time *I* didn't understand my attitude toward him. Lust and affection and what the hell else that scared crap out of me, that always pushed me to lighten things up between us?

I didn't have any time to muse on it; he fell back onto the thick furs of his barbarian's bed, pulling me with him by the simple expedient of tangling his fingers in my hair. "You very demon of a sorcerer," he whispered, eyes dreamy with the aftermath of emotion and satisfied desire. His long black hair, totally unbraided now from the exertion of our lovemaking, lay scattered around us like a blanket of ebony silk.

He continued bitching, though somewhat losing the tone of it by stroking my hair and face gently as he grumbled. "I meant to have this whole night, wild and abandoned, doing everything I could think to you, proving my prowess. And in an hour's space you've totally spent me, with your wizard's tricks! Me!"

The arrogance in this statement couldn't go unchallenged. I leaned on his chest and tickled his nose with a strand of my hair. "Whatsa matter, Carse, did I mess up your reputation for wearing out a dozen camp followers a night?" He swore and started to sit up; I laughed and pushed him back, and he let me, but he looked away, muttering something obscene about gossiping imbeciles.

I could tell he was embarrassed, though, so I bent to kiss his cheek, to let him know it was all right. I had never been a jealous sort, and-- "Carson, you dumb shit! You're crying--why?" I finished in a softened tone, making him look at me. Yeah, this was him, all right, playing it all hard and icy one minute, an emotional mess the next. It was so him I couldn't even be uncomfortable with it.

"It was--horrible. They were all so--stupid. Or pretending to be, because I was king and they were afraid. I couldn't even make believe they were you," he said softly, eyes distant. "And another man I would not take." His focus came back to me, and he smiled slightly, wistfully. "Not even to fill--the loneliness."

I touched his wet face gently, but I didn't intend to let him get all maudlin here. The next stage would be romance and mush, which I definitely had no talent for. "Well, I'm not surprised; I've seen your entourage; not a good-looking bloke in the lot."

He grabbed my hair again and pulled me down for a laughing kiss, which I gladly returned. Then, some devil made me ask, "So how many of those plug-uglies have been flirting with you?"

He smiled grimly. "Most of them are afraid to, if they have such inclination." I sighed in relief, to my own surprise, and then he added serenely, "Save for Swordmaster Goulding, of course."

"Swordmaster Goulding?" I glared at him, not as amused as I thought I would be. "Christ, isn't he the big bald one with a face like a scrubbed beet? He looks about as smart as a bag of hammers. I would of thought you had more taste!"

His eyes danced, and I realized I'd been totally, unexpectedly snookered. "I do not recall saying that I flirted with him. But some swordwork I did with him, to better my skills--I had to cut the lessons short." He sighed with mock regret. "Every time I could best him; the fool could *not* take his eyes off my crotch."

I fell on top of him, roaring with laughter. "Well, it does kind of--catch the eye!" I was finally able to choke. I recovered myself and tried to give him a stern look, then cracked up again at the marvelous, all-too-rare grin on his face. "If you get funnier than me," I warned him, "I'll have to trade you in for someone I can get the better of."

"In that case I shall return to--to Herbert mode, difficult though it is in your presence," he said in English, straightening his face severely.

I started giggling helplessly at the Star Trek reference - I was a Trekkie, he definitely wasn't--and at the totally cool accent in his English now. And at the the wonderful, unbelievable fact of Carson making jokes. Making *me* laugh. "Maybe I'll keep you anyway," I reassured him. "That's a dam' sexy accent."

I felt his arms tighten on me, and my mirth trickled off as I stared into eyes that had darkened to midnight blue, fastened upon my face as if scribing every feature into memory. Was it that late? A couple of hours only had passed--please, only two hours deep into the night that we had--

"Hear that name?" he interrupted calmly, and I swore, realizing I had probably busted myself with my reaction. "Why, even to our backward province the tales of Firehawk Stormsinger have reached."

"Oh, well, I've heard of him, too," I blustered, trying to recover. "But please don't apply the name of that windbag to me; just because I'm, er, ah, brought a guitar from Earth doesn't mean I, er--"

Panic-stricken, I realized that his apparently aimless caress of my chest was following the trail of the thick, twisting scar that like a total ass I had forgotten to hide with a simple spell.

"'His flame-touched hair all soaked in gore/He was yet the demon's bane,'" he finished mercilessly, eyeing my hair and quirking a brow as if inviting me to deny the many shades of red in the infernal mop, from fire-gold to blatant orange to dark blood-crimson.

"Shit," I growled, giving up. "I want you to know *I* didn't write that dribble. And it wasn't nearly as dramatic, either, or as dangerous as that lackwit minstrel implied with that revolting so-called song--"

His eyebrow raised a bit more as he dropped his gaze to the path of the admittedly ugly scar, disappearing only where the furs swathed my hips. "Truly I can see that this was but a scratch and not dangerous at all. How far does it go down, pray tell?"

I cursed again. "All the way to my dick, you nosy bastard. If you must know, Fluffy the cat here came within an inch of being neutered!"

"Oh, Christ--" I choked, laughing, giving up totally. "All right, I'm him, are you happy? What, you think you're entitled to all the fun and reputation, oh Conan the reluctant King?"

"For my friend, or for the King?" My question sounded a bit sulky; I couldn't help annoyance at being unmasked so easily. "I don't intend to entertain your whole dam' court, ya'know. For that I charge the big bucks."

"Donovan," I breathed in amazement. Being more of a hard-rock fan myself, I had forgotten Carson's totally out-of-character liking for those romantic, flower power steeped ballads of a different place and time. Oh, well, at least he wasn't asking for John Denver or any of that crap.

Leaning from the low bed, I scooped my Moonstone from the rug where his buddies had thoughtfully tossed it along with all my other stuff, running through my repertoire of Donovan songs. "'Atlantis'?" I inquired, remembering that as his favorite.

He mused, kicking free of the furs to sprawl in glorious nakedness atop them. I eyed him, muttering something about distracting the performer; he smiled at me as if to say, that's the idea.

I knew the song, and I sang it for him. "Sunny Goodge Street". The bastard. He knew I preferred hard rock. He knew that sweet talk made me uncomfortable. Talk about a sneaky way to get some in.

'The magician he sparkles/In satin and velvet/You gaze at his splendor with eyes you've not used yet/I tell you his name is Love, Love, Love'

He was laughing again at my expression as I finished the song on a sour note, intentionally. "You sing well, Battlemage," he murmured. "Although you seem to lack belief in the lyrics." Then, as I opened my mouth for a comeback, his eyes blazed into me with such power that I was for once totally speechless.

"But *I* believe them--magician. Splendid one." He reached for me, barely whispering. "My first and only love." And then, even more softly, "How proud I am of you, my hawk of flame--"

I dropped the guitar onto the thick rug, and fell into his arms, his kiss, with a sense of wonder I hadn't known for a long time. I usually didn't really care for a lot of mush--although I could *feel* romantic, the words, the poetic phrases had never come easily to me, and what I couldn't express I felt guilty receiving. Carson lavishing worship on me usually led to me nervously cracking jokes to lighten the mood, more often than not pissing him off severely.

But everybody has an ego, and mine was being seriously stoked here. And it had been such a long time--I could tolerate some syrup, I guessed. Hell, I felt close to even giving some out. I could no more resist this unusual feeling than I could resist his mouth, hungry and searching on mine. Or the sudden renewed fire of passion, after both of us had sworn we were totally destroyed for the rest of the night.

A thought nagged me that maybe a little true spellsinging had leaked into Donovan's rich tapestry of verse, and that this was responsible for him emoting, and for me not being as uncomfortable with it as usual. And maybe even for the recharge of desire? But to hell with it--what was the harm, in any case? We had one fucking night together, before he led his troops to battle, before we rode to war. One night.

With a quick startled gasp he pulled back, stared at me. "C'mon, Warchief," I growled softly, leaning in for another bite, this time to that lower lip that just begged to have teeth sunk in it. "Show me what you got--"

His eyes narrowed even as they turned to azure lightening. And as we locked together in flame I knew, with a kind of hungry ecstasy, that I'd let him lead this one. Fuck me into the ground if he wanted. I loved the thought suddenly, of surrendering, opening, shuddering beneath him. Be his slave and drive him mad with it.

Like, all of a sudden the thought of being used, maybe even a tad abused, by something this wild and strong and beautiful was way appealing. Not my usual style at all, but hey, didn't I pride myself on my flexibility? Plus I had a nifty little protection spell that could be put on autopilot, no pain no damage. So I could feel free to go insane with pleasure as he hammered into me with that immense beautiful cock. Oh, yes, the same damn spell that earned me my ears in Berkeley when it backfired, but I'd learned a few things too, I wouldn't need to monitor the spell this time to keep my ass safe, I could--