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sharp curve of her hip and waist.
Burying his face into her lap he sighed and snuggled into salvation.
    The tips of sharpened fingernails grazed his scalp as his mistress
raked a hand through his long hair. "Such a good puppy you are."
    He snuggled his face deeper into the warm thickness of
bone-colored damask and lemon and the cloying aroma of woman. Always
she allowed him this small moment. A reward for a task begun.
    But not completed.

THREE

    The horse seemed more a mule for it did not span half so high as
the eighteen-hand destriers Shinn's troops had once ridden into
battle. Gossamyr loved to ride the stallions across a flower-dappled
meadow, her arms stretched wide to catch the wind—it was as
close as she ever came to flying. But never too close to the Edge.
    The careless tune suddenly ceased and a dark-hooded head looked up
at the block in the road.
    "Well met?" called Gossamyr, waving to appear
unthreatening. She had no intention of attacking until she determined
a menace. "Be you friend or foe?"
    The male snorted. "You shall have to divine that for
yourself."
    Taken aback, Gossamyr straightened and unhooked an arret. It
wasn't so much the rude reply but the tone of it. Harsh and deep, and
not at all friendly.
    The man heeled the mule toward Gossamyr until they stood but two
leaps from her. Truly a mutant, the beast. For what purpose did so
small a horse serve when its master's feet toed the grass tops?
    The rider remained astride, unconcerned that the proper greeting
should see him bowing before her. Green-and-black horizontal-striped
hosen, tight as spriggan-skin, emphasized his long legs; a shock of
pattern weeping from the blur of black wool cloak and hood. His pale
face was severely scored by a thin beard and mustache the color of
burnt chestnuts. Following the length of his blade nose, Gossamyr
focused on his blue eyes filled with more white than color. Eerie.
She had not before looked into eyes of such color.
    "I...offer you no bane," she tried. How to address a
mortal? "Er...kind mortal."
    "Oh?" He leaned forward, balancing his palms on the
saddle pommel. "And do all ladies fair welcome a weary traveler
with such a big stick? And wielded in a manner as to appear
threatening?"
    Gossamyr stabbed the staff into the moss at foot and shrugged.
"You offered no answer to my query, so I cannot be sure if I
face friend or foe."
    "I am neither,"he said and stroked a hand over his
bearded chin.
    Those eerie eyes assessed her from head to bare toes, a gaze that
boldly brushed her being. The sensory assault unnerved her for she
was still startled by the tone of the man's voice. So rough. Not at
all melodious. The urge to step forward and scent him was strong, but
she remained. Caution, her instincts whispered.
    "What is that dangling from your hand?"
    She gave the arret a twirl; the sharpened obsidian tip cut
the air with a hiss. A simple weapon she fashioned herself. Not
fire-forged, but deadly in its swift and accurate flight.
    "Looks like that device would hurt," the man bellowed in
notes that knocked at the insides of Gossamyr's skull. "At the
least, leave a mark, should a man find it lodged in any portion of
his anatomy."
    Amused by his jesting tone, Gossamyr agreed with a smirk. She had
never placed an arret to any part of a man's anatomy—mortal
or fée—but there was always a first time. She lowered
the weapon but kept it in hand.
    She hadn't expected to encounter a mortal so quickly. She had just
been getting her bearings! Nor was she prepared in any way to
converse with him. Did all mortals emit such raw and echoing sounds
when they spoke? Gossamyr was accustomed to the musical lilt of fée
speak; she had never guessed that mortals would not sound the same.
    Well! Her first mortal. (If she did not tally Veridienne—whom
she did not—for she, too, had worn a blazon of glamour). The
fascination with standing so close to one did stir her blood. She had
only ever dreamed to meet another mortal besides her