Read Demon's Fire for Free Online

the thousandth time, she wished she could have worn native dress. A muslin tunic and trousers would have been delightfully comfortable—if only her parents would have understood. She swept her hand around her hair, confirming that it was not in as frightful a state as it might have been. She was lucky it grew so straight. She could tie it back again as they walked.
    “I’m ready,” she said, pulling the draggled ribbon off her ponytail.
    In answer, Lord Herrington offered her a bow that had her fighting awkwardness. Beth was not a woman anyone had to do honors for.
    Leaving the confines of her tent to face the golden sweep of the desert was an actual physical shock. The Vharzovhin was an ocean made of sand. Dune after dune rippled to the seeming edge of the world, where the setting sun melted like crimson treacle into the horizon.
    The other tents and structures of the excavation lay behind them, clattering with the hastened bustle that invariably met the loss of their working light. Diggers called to one another in at least three different dialects. Sand trucks rumbled, camels groaned in protest at being urged up or down, and behind it all—as if the absence of noise had more power than sound—the endless silence of the desert stretched.
    “It’s something, isn’t it?” Herrington said, pausing for a moment to gaze over the great expanse with her.
    “Yes,” Beth agreed. “I can believe God is real when I look at this.”
    She flushed a little, recognizing what she’d said. Demons were…well, she wasn’t certain, but atheists, she thought. Nor was the confession appropriate for an Ohramese. She was supposed to believe in God all the time, not just when she was here.
    Herrington cleared his throat to break the brief silence. “If we’re going to visit the queen’s chamber, we had better grab a torch or two while we can.”
    “Electric torches?” Beth asked hopefully. “Oh, I love them!”
    They were walking then, back through the busy anthill of the site, which she registered as being more animated than usual. The cook tent was halfway across the canvas village. Beth’s shoulders tensed as she wondered if Charles would be there. Had his mood improved since morning? Would he ask her to ride home with him?
    She was so intent on not betraying the direction of her thoughts that it took a moment for her to realize what she was seeing. Charles was outside the cook tent, where Herrington’s demon water spigot was installed. Charles had stripped off his shirt and was dumping a bucket of water over his head. He didn’t see her approaching, but she certainly saw him.
    She had never seen him with his shirt off, had never been given a chance to admire the rippling muscles of his chest and belly, or the shading of darker hair on both. She stopped in her tracks, speechless with surprise. Charles wore native dress to cook in: a finely woven cotton tunic and loose trousers. The shirt was gone, as she’d already noted, and the trousers…Transparent from their soaking, the fabric clung to the strong round thrust of his bum, hanging from his narrow hipbones as if to tease her with the prospect of it falling off. He was a full tent-length away, but the curving weight of his sex was visible beneath the wet cotton.
    It was long , she thought, and not a little thick—especially around the head.
    She swallowed in reaction, her hands curling into fists as a heat worse than that caused by any daydream coiled between her legs.
    “Ahem,” said Herrington, the sound startling her. “I’m certain your mother would advise me to encourage you not to stare.”
    “Oh, Lord,” said Beth and covered her face.
    When Herrington turned to lead her forward, she was pretty sure he was grinning. Her only consolation was that Charles had not seen her ogling him.
    “You won’t tell him, will you?” she begged, and Herrington chuckled audibly.
    To her relief, he had regained control of himself by the time they reached the active part