WandWpart30

It was too damned cold, by Do'nar's figuring, for the bare beginning of Fire-Leaf season. Usually the summer heat lingered a bit even as the leaves changed. And the weather of the Land was generally reliable, except for dragon storms and the peril of the unpredictable seas.

The crazy wizard insisted the oceans were so turbulent because of the number of moons on Khesh---as if the Lords and Ladies of Night Sky had aught to do with the sea-folk realm! But even the wizard couldn't find an explanation for the occasional storms of magic that drove the small, sting-tailed dragon lizards mad. And Do'nar didn't really care to know why the long grasses of Rider land were silver instead of golden now, tipped with crystal frost instead of morning dew. He supposed it had something to do with war and prophecy, this early chill on the rolling plains of home.

The rising of the Wolf Moon might also have caused the strangeness in the seasons. Do'nar had never seen such a moon in his lifetime. The black-veined, curved crimson fang rising alone in the sky made his flesh creep and he didn't mind admitting it. Even the stars seemed to be gradually disappearing in fear, as the moon of Dark Magic rode higher over the world each night, swelling slowly toward the full. Turning from blade to shield, a bitterly cold fire with a glow at its edges that was darker than the sky around it. Even without all the Witchwoman's grim warnings, no one could mistake the new night sky as anything less than an omen of bad things coming.

And truth to tell, Do'nar felt almost betrayed at the changes in the night sky. Since he'd learned the secrets of the Starmetal, began to create from it, he'd taken a keen interests in the doings of the stars. At first just watching for the dying ones, but then the damn wizard had managed to stir his imagination again in a quick, snickering conversation.

"What the hell---you want to boink Irenea? Well, shit, dude! Feed her and give her a scrap of jewelry, then take her out under the stars! We call it a 'date' in my world. But you guys got the edge; got the most romantic sky ever invented. A thousand stars, multi-moons, everything a blaze of color. It's Van Gogh on speed; you can't fucking lose!'

The wizard had been right, to notice that the sky was beautiful, in this world. Do'nar had stopped taking it for granted because of him, even though still too shy to bespeak Irenea.

Even before the Witchlady had---welljumped him he supposed was the only way to put it---he had been confused, about things doing with relationships. He was a grown man. He had dozens of ladies on his string. But it was getting time to settle down, by the Gods!

It didn't help, that out of all the women he admittedly shared pleasure with, there still wasn't a one he could talk to, man to man.

And he supposed a sensible man would be more concerned about the changes of the moon, but the turns of the sky were for shamen to interpret; bad or ill, he refused to dwell upon such meanings.

Now it was two hours past dawn, so to hell with the moon and all its relatives! He was just grateful to be back on stable plainsland, after nearly two weeks feeling like a spider hanging on its own thread in the cliff-dwellings of the crazy Black Moon boys. The Loony Moonies, Firehawk called them, and rightly so. How could anyone not part bat sleep in those little baskets suspended above yawning valleys?

Even getting as drunk as humanly possible hadn't helped Do'nar's nerves, although the Moon tribe brewed something they correctly called Skullcracker ale. Ale! The stuff would make Blue Death run for cover. Ale be damned! He'd had fun, had earned some out-tribe friends who would follow him into battle with unholy glee now, but he'd been the opposite of comfortable in his sleeping arrangements.

And to hell with the supernatural too; he was back in civilized country and glad to be here, the unexpected hospitality of his former hosts notwithstanding. If he hadn't figured his riding companion would snicker at him, Do'nar would've hopped off his horse and kissed the first patch of recognizable Rider ground he spotted.

Grinning at the impulse, Do'nar tugged on the braided reins, pulling his patient grey to a halt. He shrugged deeper into his furs and plucked a bottle from a loop on his traveling saddle, took a celebratory swig, then glanced around impatiently at the sound of labored hoofbeats. "Asher!" he bellowed. "By the gods, can't that piece of decorative horseflesh keep up with a man? Worthless as a lap-dog, just like its rider! Between the pair of you I'm surprised you took down a single Southman; they could outrun you on foot, by Thor!"

The other man didn't bother to reply until he'd urged his winded golden horse close beside the impatient warrior. Then he threw back the hood of his grey-green traveling cape, revealing a coolly handsome, lightly bearded face that was only mildly irritated.

"Between your bellowing and drinking, I'm amazed that a whole nation of Southerners hasn't ambushed us and shot you out of the saddle just to earn some peace and quiet." Asher's pleasant voice was dryly amused. "Never have I fought beside such a war-trumpet. And you're no less noisy while sleeping. Those of the South must be stone deaf as well as brainless. As for our recent hosts, I'm surprised they didn't roll you into a ravine in the night to maintain their sanity----what little they possess, that it."

Do'nar threw back his head and roared with laughter. He was in a fine mood, and he enjoyed sparring with this snippy Ranger. The space of time they'd spent fighting together and partying with the triumphant Black Moon tribe had even forged a kind of friendship between two men who on surface had little in common.

Asher had some strange ways, true, many of which Do'nar frankly disliked. Nor had he been meek about saying so. If he had to ride with this Ranger, the fellow would hear his opinion, by Thor!

It wasn't so much his aloof manner and air of sophistication that irked the big, rough warrior. A snooty attitude alone was something Do'nar had run into before and generally found to be, as the wizard would say, a "defense mechanism." So he ignored all the la-di-da arrogance as he usually did, treating the lad as he would any other companion at arms. And sure enough, Asher soon forgot his affectations and started behaving normally. Drinking and swearing and joking as easily as any other fighting man, though perhaps with a larger vocabulary.

No, he didn't mind Asher's mincing ways so much; especially now that he relaxed in Do'nar's company and dropped most of his artifice. But the boy's habit of slipping off unexpectedly for hours and returning with no explanation---or an obviously invented one--hadn't charmed the big man in the slightest. Do'nar suspected the lad had some Ranger lover he met in the forest. If he needed privacy occasionally it was understandable, but why lie about it? Do'nar kept his mouth shut on this one, though it nettled him and he was also mightily curious; but a man's private business was his own, by thunder!

Despite the Rider's rude candor---or maybe because of the honesty of it---after the first few evil glares Asher had actually listened to him. Grudgingly, seeming a little amazed at the warrior's gall---but he'd listened. And against all likelihood a strange rapport had grown between them.

Also, the boy wasn't as impossibly stuck-up or unreachable as he sometimes appeared. For one thing, when Do'nar had given him hell about the state of his mount and his brutal use of spurs, instead of arguing Asher stared at the roweled sides of his gasping horse as if he really hadn't been aware of his own cruelty. By the gods, he'd looked ready to bawl over it!

He'd thrown the spurs away on the instant, tended the animal's wounds silently. Of course the poor beast was ruined already, but at least the fellow was trying now. It seemed a little odd for a Ranger to be so brutal to an animal under his care, but Do'nar had always suspected that the crazy nature-boys were mostly talk, with all their yammering about spirits in the trees and their aversion to hunting for food. As if a grown man could live on roots and berries, and keep wild beasts meant for dinner as pets! But the animal who lugged your carcass about deserved some consideration, and he'd been appalled at Asher's callousness.

He hadn't liked the Asher of a year before. Oh, he put no blame on the boy for lusting after the warchief. It was natural, to feel a little honest desire for your comrades-in-arms. You went through things with them that forged a terrible bond, and sometimes that bond changed to physical want as a matter of course. And Nightwolf had stirred interest in more warriors than Asher!

But Asher was an outsider; hell, half the gossipy tribe wasn't sure he was even a warrior, strictly speaking. Oh, he was quick and clever with his moves; had to be, since he was somewhat weedy of build compared to the muscular and leather-tough Riders. And his bladework, especially with knives, bordered on nasty in its cruel efficiency. One thing even Do'nar had to admit back then, Asher Kaine showed no squeamishness when it came to taking out Southern bastards! He hated them as fiercely as the most fanatical of tribesmen, and that alone won him grudging respect.

Still, he wasn't well liked; only tolerated by all but the Nightwolf, who showed an amused liking for the young fop that no one else could understand. Shit, Asher came out of nowhere, proud as a peacock because he was a ranger! Do'nar was better-read and more knowledgeable than his dumb-fighter routine led one to believe. He knew what Rangers were, or anyway what they were said to be. If Asher was an example, he just hadn't been impressed at the time.

Asher had been full of himself, to put it bluntly. He paid no attention to any of his allies except Nightwolf, not even to offer them the time of day. In fact Do'nar thought he had never met anyone so arrogant till the wizard came to the Tribe, but unlike Firehawk who had a variety of admirable qualities to balance his conceit, Do'nar found in Asher no likable traits to make him tolerant of the man as a whole.

And Asher treated Nightwolf in such a slick, honey-oozing, wanting-to-suck-up way that Do'nar became instantly suspicious. He never trusted people who were too damn charismatic, not before the silly, loud-mouth wretch of a wizard had come to them. But Firehawk's charm was totally unconscious, amazingly honest; he was not trying to impress anyone and probably would have been amazed at the concept.

Asher used his tongue and his eyes purposefully. Hell, he flirted with the Wolf like a sixteen year old girl, a sight enough to make a grown man puke. And Do'nar could have told Asher that the Wolf, although far from celibate, avoided other men with a obsessive fury that hinted at some black and terrible pain.

Do'nar hadn't really been surprised at all when the fool redhead from the Nightwolf's past had finally appeared and claimed him. It was all over the warchief, if you knew how to look for it. Too full of passion to never have loved, that one. And losing what he loved had turned him half-crazy, cruel, hateful. Everyone tiptoed around the Nightwolf in that not-so-distant past, though many mistakenly thought it was his closeness with the High Gods that made him the dark and brooding, solitary and snarling creature he had been in those days.

Asher hadn't noticed what was obvious to the supposedly dumb warrior; namely, that a male trying to pinch the Wolf's bottom would be in for a violent rejection, even if he was tempted. Maybe especially if he was tempted. And Do'nar hadn't been too amazed when the ranger just disappeared one day, a day he recollected as one of the blackest points of Nightwolf's frequent killing rages.

He preferred not to remember that time. Instead, he thought back to an event mere days ago and had to laugh at it yet again. That stupid Southerner! Heading over the hill on his horse, rump in the air. And Asher feathering the bawling man's butt with arrows, as the ranger calmly instructed Do'nar on the merits of archery.

"By the gods! Do'nar had roared, delighted. "You've made him into a true chicken, tail feathers and all!" Asher had burst out laughing at that remark, missing his last shot by a mile. Honest, gut-shaking laughter, something the boy didn't express very freely; and damned if he hadn't seemed a bit confused and even a little scared once he'd recovered, as if he expected punishment for it. What the hell kind of hard-nosed, vicious training did the Rangers dish out anyway, to make a grown man afraid of having a good laugh?

Well, Donar had never believed that shooting a man from a distance was honorable, but Asher had taught him better. If it wasn't a killing shot, well, it was more, um, instructive for the enemy. Damn near charitable in fact! Teach them some manners.

Might as well admit it, now that they were safely on home turf. He liked this Asher, this new and somehow more approachable Asher, a great deal. Do'nar indulged in a belly-laugh again at the memory of their wailing enemy. Asher grinned back, knowing what the warrior was remembering and sharing his delight silently.

And then a huge and amazing sound boiled in the morning air, as if demons belching fire were riding up from hell to devour the living world.

Do'nar's guffaw changed into a squawk of alarm, his axe leaped into his hand, and seasoned warrior that he was, he still nearly shit his saddle. Never in his life had he dreamed of such a horrible racket. And---what the hell? By Odin's sacred buttocks, he couldn't believe it!!!

What the----? Shit! Do'nar got control of his nervous horse and kneed the animal forward to the lip of the small hill so he could see more clearly what was going on in the Long Plains below them. He should have known that Firehawk would be involved with this----whatever the hell such a racket could be!

We'd done the honeymoon, the romance, the being together alone thing for the three allotted days. Can you believe that most of that time together really hadn't been devoted to banging each other brainless?

No, we weren't celibate by a long stretch. But what loving we did came more gradually than usual, built up during the day from a thousand teasing looks and touches rather than the immediate roaring hornies of constant frustration. You couldn't even call it "boinking", I guess. You could only call it "sharing". The romance was so thick in that fucking tent it shoulda sent me running for the hills. Or at the very least, put my teeth on edge more than it did.

But, dammitall! It felt cool as hell, to be so casual about it. Very pleasant, to fall asleep twined together without fear of interruption. So close, that I barely had to move my head to find his mouth and steal my morning kiss. We shared a liking of snuggling up at nap-time rather than clearing our own bed space, it seemed. Seemed odd, that we'd never truly slept together for a long enough time to figure that one out.

We cuddled, and stole brief wicked gropes in passing, and fucking flirted with each other like a pair of teenagers. Yeh, I was soaking in sap, and breathing it in like fresh mountain air rather than drowning in all the goo and yelling for help. And when I bitched about my strange attitude to Carson---in the middle of a long, fervent kissing session which I admit I'd instigated---the bastard had the gall to snicker at me.

I responded by going for the tickle; his ribs were damned sensitive, a strong erotic zone under some circumstances. I'd actually made him come once, just by licking and nibbling his lower ribs obsessively. And damn if that didn't embarrass my boy to death, not to mention making yours truly smug as all get-out! But poky fingers drove him crazy in a less pleasant way.

It ended up in a wrestling contest, and I guess you can easily deduce who won that little game. I was pinned in minutes, stripped in seconds. "Tortured" for hours. Hey, I said we weren't completely celibate, right? It was just there was more icing on and around the cake of "boink" now.

We'd finally played the dumb game, the one with jewels as pieces. It was more like chess that checkers and I got frustrated almost instantly. I don't consider myself a dummy, but games that take so much planning out your move always end up boring the crap outta me. The only chess I'd ever enjoyed was the computer game, where the pieces had done funny things, coming to life and killing the other pieces in various interesting ways.

Call me shallow. When Carson---as fervently intent as if the future of the whole North depended on this stupid game---was within one instant of beating me, I remembered I was a wizard. And I took an impish shot at bringing the pieces to life just to shock him.

It wasn't my usual area of magic, so I didn't expect too much success. What Jarone had called me was a "Rainbow Wizard", kind of a rare deal as I understood it. Most magic guys can only use one type of mana with any degree of competence. I'm very proficient at two, the red and green, destruction and restoration; always seemed to have a gift there. Jarone had lifted an amazed eyebrow at me just for that. More than one area of magical expertise was unusual enough, but the blend of fire and earth magic was a jarring one; two incompatible elements shouldn't work so well together in one person's arsenal, I think he said.

But since sharing elven sex with Carson, I'd been able to see ALL colors of mana. And in this world, seeing was not only believing. Seeing was being able to use it.

That didn't guarantee being real good at it, of course. Most Rainbow Wizards could use everything eventually, but not at a very high level. Well, I was totally excellent at healing magic and fireballs, call me arrogant. But I did figure I'd be mediocre at everything else, so I rarely took a pop at other schools of magic except in grim necessity.

In fact, what I was trying for now was illusion magic, always my worst area. It was a silly idea, to make Carson think the game pieces were coming to life so as to scare his butt. I wasn't even sure it would work, he was so Tribal, but being a little high on his company and full of myself I decided to go for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I smirked and did what I thought was the right spell to make the pieces appear to be dancing around on the board.

All his damned game pieces had come alive and jumped right into his lap. And they weren't doing what I'd intended at all. They were biting the shit out of him!

And it wasn't Illusion magic. Since Carson truly was immune to it----and because I sucked at it anyway---something in myself had gone up a level to compensate for the inability to perform the spell on him.

I'd done the impossible again. I'd changed reality; admittedly just the reality of a bunch of colored rocks, but still it was something no one should be able to accomplish.

I jumped up to try and help my cussing, dancing warchief. No shit, I was scared to death even though the sight could only be called hysterically funny on some level. And guess what? My face was suddenly full of carpet, as the biggest mana backlash I'd ever experienced slammed into me and literally knocked the consciousness right outta my skull.

I came to quite a bit later, I think. Because I was tucked in bed rather than eating floor, and Carson was leaning over me, face set and white. "Wha' hell?" I managed to mumble, struggling for the memory of why I'd blacked out.

"Are you all right?" my boy demanded, a mix of anger and concern in his voice. "I was close to going for the Witchwoman and breaking our time alone for this!"

"I'll live," I said, a little uncertainly. Fuck, did my head hurt! "We got anything left to eat around here? And-oh!" I remarked, a bit late in the game as he scowled at me irritably. But that's mana-burn for you; first things first, food then sex. "Are you all right? Did I really do what I think I did?"

Uh-oh. I watched as he leapt up and began slamming around, looking for the remains of the dinner that Fox had slipped into the tent for us.

The boy didn't get the important part of this; he wasn't seeing the big picture at all, being focused on his wounded, um, dignity. I studied the ragged front of the cloth pants he still wore, and really couldn't blame him. "They didn't hurt you bad, did they?" I looked around nervously. "Where'd they go?" My imagination had the little buggers bouncing out the tent door, ravenously seeking out other Riders to chomp in the privates.

"When you collapsed, they also fell to the ground, lifeless," Carson admitted in a growl, as he returned to my side and abruptly handed me some meat and bread.

He eyed me evilly as I slapped the stuff into a sandwich and began to gobble with as much frantic hunger as my animated game pieces had displayed when attacking him. But he did perch on the edge of the bed to wait for me to finish eating and produce an explanation. From his expression, I had the feeling it better be a damn good one.

It turned into lovemaking, believe it or not. Because I explained what I'd meant to do, and did I feel foolish, admitting to such a childish impulse as trying to make game pieces dance! I didn't have a clue as to why my intended prank had backfired. Did he actually think I was self-destructive enough to intentionally throw malicious magic at his dick, for Christ's sake?

That last indignant comment pulled a small laugh out of him, and suddenly everything was all right again. He negligently discarded the tattered britches and climbed under the furs with me, pulling me close. "Stop staring at it, fool; no more than a few small bruises, they had great enthusiasm but no real strength in their---jaws?"

"Indeed." He kissed me lightly somewhere around my left temple., and actually broke into a chuckle. "Though never, I admit it, have I been so unpleasantly surprised!"

"Hah-hah, me neither! The problem is," I fretted shifting into worry mode, "actually changing something like that---changing it's essence, I mean, not just making it 'look' like something else---is supposed

"Even in something so small and foolish?" It was big of him, admitting that an attack on his manhood by a cluster of sparkling discs that resembled gaudy M&M's wasn't such a deal.

"You saw how hard the mana burn hit me from that foolishness," I reminded him. "That's big-time magic, dumb or not in this instance."

We studied each other gravely for a moment. "Let's, um, not tell Smitty about it, hmmm? Our secret? Feeling kinda like a freak show here."

"I agree," he nodded quietly, brushing my hair out of my face and leaving his hand cupped on my cheek afterwards. "The Witchwoman would drive you mad, trying to analyze ways that this new talent could help us in the war effort. It is not a stress either one of us deserves."

"Got that right!" I agreed fervently. I rubbed my face against his fingers, playing cat, marking him. "And we're down to our last day here; not really wanting to think about Smitty at all----"

"What would you like to think about, then?" he asked very softly. I closed my eyes as his long, powerful fingers slipped into my hair and tugged very gently, urging me closer.

Perversely, I headed downtown rather than towards his waiting lips. "I'm thinking I should check your injuries, dude!" I said, deliberately sounding bright and cheeky. "Maybe, uh, kiss and make better?"

The sound of his laughter damn near enthralled me. Funny, he'd laughed more with me in these three days than in all the time I'd known him. It was beyond groovy.

"It will take a damn lot of kissing to make up for such indignities inflicted on your warchief's person," he stated as loftily as he could while still chuckling.

The results were most encouraging. Like he'd said, mere flesh wounds, nothing serious enough at all to inhibit proper functioning of the body part in question. Hell, no.

So slow. So easy, that leisurely swallowing of him. Nothing frantic about it; touching in affection even more than desire. I tasted him with all the lazy pleasure of savoring a rich chocolate truffle. Well, a really LARGE chocolate truffle, granted. Cream filled, warm and sweet.

He gave it all back to me and then some, his touch on my flesh a blend of silk and steel, gentle and merciless. I could feel the world---the Land---unwinding beneath my hands in silken glory, filling me with autumn-colored flame as our pleasure in each other surprised us anew, startled/shocked us to almost innocence.

Does that sound weird, incredibly sappy? Because it does to me. Sorry; like for a really good joke, I guess you just have to be there.

But it was that way every time, y'know. Yeh, I admit it. Not necessarily shaking the world, this thing between me and Carson. But always shaking US. And then soothing us, in the aftermath.

I've stopped fighting it, Tyr. Hear me? I'm part of him. Part of the Land. A newborn thing, ripe for your using. C'mon, you bastard. Use me. Just don't hurt him too damn much, get it done quickly. I won't fight. Who with a brain in their head struggles against a force of nature? No, you relax, and trust that the sea will hold you.

Didn't really wanna waste our remaining time sleeping. But accepted its happening; accepted the compliment, my big black panther all blissed out and almost purring in my ear. We dozed, once again twined around each other.

Maybe half an hour, and I felt the Land nudge me like a restless cat, still purring deeply but more inclined to play than slumber. Trying to brush it aside only threw me into a spin, a wide spiral of knowledge and vision that cartwheeled far above and beyond the bed, the tent where my body lay pliant in my lover's arms.

Jalin. Head pillowed on his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Smitty touching his shoulder, mouthing words that almost made sense. "It's not over yet, Jalin! What did the dragons tell you, goddammit?"

His face jerked up, blurred and laden with tears. Voice tight and controlled as a steel wire. "Tell me? That there's nothing I can do. That's what the bastards told me! If I try to change anything, try to save them---it'll be even worse! It'll be like they never came here in the first place!"

Whoa. Too heavy for this boy. Made no sense, anyway; a fever dream. Spiraling outwards, graceful flight above the tree-splattered plains I've grown to love. Looking far to the South, there was a restless jumble of tangled armies marching, stumbling into pockets of tribal ambushes every now and then. Invariably, the dumb Southerners got their butts kicked. Jovial Viking-type barbarians, gathering heads and plunder. Why had we been so stressed about this war anyway?

Do'nar and Asher---the silly prick Asher, that I'd been foolish enough to feel jealousy over---they were riding gleefully up from the South, bogged down with their loot.

And then I saw the East. A vile pocket of black death, things milling, indescribable. Even worse, they were muddy and fogged, no matter how hard I tried I couldn't see the menace clearly---

'Lie back, and the sea will hold you.' It was a gentle breath from somewhere beyond my world, urging acceptance. Nothing happens without a reason. Trust the gods who chose you. Be a good fucking avatar and stop your worrying, just ride the winds of destiny like a kite.

//"Look at the idjits, they bring everything into battle with them! Faradiddles to furniture; they might as well open a store! How can a grown man find anything valuable in all this muck?"

"Ha, you're right, what's this?Hell, boy, what're you doing? It's an ugly metal, but one I haven't seen before, and the bladework is better than Southerners usually manage---"

"It's---what? It's just a knife, Asher. I want to study the--- Damn you, striking a blade from my hand! Are you looking for an ass-beating? What's got into you? Are you saying the blade is magic? How would you know that, anyway?"

Hot ragged breathing. Then, softly--- "Not magic. The opposite. And you're right; I know nothing of magic, except what we Rangers use. But I've heard of such things, it's in a way it's cursed, Do'nar. If you must take it, at least I have a pouch here, lined with lead put it in that. Good. Now could you please concentrate on coins and jewels? Gods know the bastards carry all their wealth along with them on a campaign, and you Northmen are familiar with the concept of 'money', I trust?"//

Seemed like Do'nar and Asher were still solid. Asher even trying to protect the big galoot from naga-metal? The term was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't pin it. Well, let it go. Ask Smitty or the elf in my head later.

"Do'nar's coming home, almost here," I informed Carson sleepily. "He helped kick ass on the Southern guys. And the Loony Moonies think the Riders rock, now. Asher and Do'nar; what a team."

He stirred beneath my body, murmured something. Before he could get too coherent, I whispered, "I'm sorry I was jealous of your buddy. If you like him, he must be okay, skinny beard and all. So I'll try and be friends. Okay?"

"Thank you," my dark lover said gently. Not even trying to pretend he didn't understand what I was giving him. "Asher is my friend. But you are my heart; I am glad you know the difference." He hesitated, then added almost as a side note, "Anyway. Though I did not tell you because you were angry---Asher wanted you more than myself, this time. He told me, how beautiful he found you."

I refused to let Carson know how much this crap surprised me. I wasn't even sure WHY it surprised me. Why I was instantly suspicious, all over again. Asher, wanting me? What the fuck!

"And if Do'nar likes him too," I added snippingly, unable to resist, "Well, that pretty much proves he's harmless. Maybe they'll start playing house together and solve everybody's problems!"

"That's what you think. They're ahead of the pack; should be comin' in about an hour, two at the most. Wanta give 'em a little show?"

He sat up, pushing the ebony waterfall of his hair to the side. Eyeballing my wicked expression, he automatically began the monumental task of braiding it. "What do you propose, oh most fiendish of wizards?"

"A race, warchief. It's about damn time that we practice, on this keeping up with the warhorses thing." I saw the brief flicker of his smile, the pride in his eyes quickly masked with cool disdain, and had to grin slightly. "I bet a hundred bucks gold coins, I mean on me. Right the hell now."

"A hundred bucks, pencilhead. Plus the winner gets a blow job, right the hell at the winner's circle." I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. "So you better pick a secluded place for the finish line, because you might not want these tribal boys to see their fearless leader down on his knees like that."

Oh my God. He was so fucking beautiful, in black leather. He was fucking beautiful in anything, naked, clothed, dead, alive. Why had I pushed this thing? We could stay in our tent, spin out the honeymoon till the very end.

As if I'd had any doubt, once dressed he moved to the tent door, eyes smouldering. And bespoke the guard there; not Le'gahn, another youngster though.