FREYJA WAITED UNTIL her father was tucked in bed and snoring before she began ruthlessly stripping off her mud-encrusted clothes. Cold was a constant enemy out here.

Slipping into a pair of her father’s old trousers, she belted them tight and dragged her boots on. An oiled sealskin coat went over her shirt to keep the rain off, and she dragged her father’s bow out of the chest by his bed.

The storm was blowing itself out by the time she ventured forth. Loki scrabbled at the door behind her, yipping to be let out, but Freyja ignored him.

She strode with cold purpose across the plains behind her house, feet sure on the mud-slicked sides of the hill. Her anger boiled beneath her skin like a storm of her own, frequently sending belated strikes of lightning down nearby. A crater still smoked as she passed by it.

The terrain grew rocky, and soon she was striding past the enormous standing tors no farmer dared remove. Goodwives whispered that trolls lived there, lurking beneath their rocky bases. Freyja had never seen one, but the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as if something was watching her. Glancing around, she loosened her grip on the bow.

Come on, she thought. If you dare. For anger was her ally tonight, and though the storm was abating, she could summon its fierceness to life again if she wished.

But nothing confronted her. She was almost disappointed as she set her body against the long climb ahead of her.

Stubby grass soon gave way to rock, and then ice. No matter how much she wanted to hold on to it, her anger waned as exhaustion began to tax her heavy limbs. Her father wasn’t the only one dining on broth these days.

Lightning flickered in the distance, highlighting the smoking caldera of the volcano. Steam billowed from fumaroles as though hell itself rested beneath the mountain. Though she ached to rest, the sight urged her on. She had to hurry, or it would be too late; perhaps it already was, but somehow her mind was set on saving her ram. It couldn’t be too late. It simply couldn’t. She wouldn’t believe it.

The Great Wyrm had haunted the depths of Krafla for over three decades, plundering what it wanted until the villagers agreed to pay it the tithe. Nobody knew where it had come from, though rumor whispered there were more throughout the center of Iceland and the southern coast, following the volcano trail, for that was where they lived.

Cold-blooded creatures they were, difficult to kill, and incredibly dangerous. She could remember the tales her mother used to tell of them. The fabled dreki. Constantly hungering for heat and slumbering close to the volcano’s depths.

Freyja’s favorite tale had been that of Marya, the virgin shepherdess who had been staked out for the tithe of the mighty Beirammon, back when wyrms still thirsted for human flesh. Instead, a young soldier named Alvar hunted the wyrm and his prey back to the volcano, and killed it in a dangerous duel.

Her mother had rolled her eyes as Freyja tried to enact the sword blow that lopped the mighty wyrm’s head off. Helga much preferred the story of Anika, who had enticed the local dreki into mortal flesh and become his lover until the village had turned against them, and she’d flown off on his back, never to be seen again.

“He probably ate her,” Freyja had said, practically ruthless even at the age of twelve.

“No. No, I don’t think he ate her, my little one.” And then her mother had laughed, as if she knew something Freyja didn’t.

Thunder rumbled around the peak of the mountain as she climbed, her thigh muscles aching. Slipping on moss, Freyja scrambled up over the last rocky hill and stared for a moment at the gaping caldera. Sulfurous fumes leaked from crevices, and bubbling mud pools threatened to drag in the unwary traveler. Freyja avoided them as easily as if she had been this way before, listening to the earth’s trembling beneath her feet, the aching groan of its bowels and the blistering hiss of its exhale.

Any local knew where the opening to the dreki’s lair was. As lightning flickered, Freyja stubbornly dragged herself up over the ice-crusted rocks. There was no trail, for the wyrm had no need of it. As she climbed, the smoldering coal of anger burned to life in her chest again. She almost fancied she could hear something bleating, but then thunder rumbled, low and ominous.

Her very own battle cry.

Finally, she dragged herself onto the ledge that opened into a fissure into the volcano. It was warmer here, though not unbearably so. Krafla had not erupted for many years, and no doubt the wyrm would not have returned if it were going to do so in the near future. Dreki had ways of listening to the earth’s rumblings; the same sense Freyja herself had.

Right now the earth beneath her creaked, but it was not angry. No, that was all her.

Leaning under the overhang of the cave mouth, Freyja knelt and untied the small lantern from her belt. She dragged her gloves off and cupped her hands around the wick. Come. Dance for me. Her breath stirred the small wick and then a tiny flame sputtered to life, flaring up and almost singeing her hands.

Something shifted in the darkness; a sense of the mountain listening, as if it felt her small magic. Freyja placed a hand on the barren ground. Easy. She soothed it, stroking it with the awareness within her, feeling it tremble beneath her touch.

An alien presence brushed against her mind and Freyja froze, sucking in a sharp breath. The pressure was almost overwhelming, a mountain leaning down upon her. Then suddenly it was gone.

Freyja closed the small glass door on the lantern, and stared into the darkness of the lava tube. “That is right,” she whispered in Norse. “You know I am here.”

The lantern guided her into the heart of the mountain. The air reeked of sulfur and burned cinnamon, smoky spices. A scent that was incredibly appealing. She breathed it in, feeling it sweep through her, warming her from within. Somehow she knew it, though she had never breathed its like before.

The scent drugged her, luring her ever deeper. Ice gleamed in a thin sheen over the entrance floor, melting with each passing step as the air warmed. The walls were smooth, with rough bands at interval heights where lava had flowed, like the tidemark on the caves by the sea.

As she turned a corner, taking careful, stalking steps, something gleamed white and stark at the corner of her vision.

Freyja spun, holding the lantern high. A leering skull stared back at her, the owner slumped forever against the wall, his pitted armor tarnished and rusted. A sword hung clasped in bony fingers. Swallowing hard, Freyja crouched beside it, and tugged the skeletal fingers away from the hilt as she exchanged it for the bow.

She could feel that other awareness watching her, listening as if it could hear her.

You won’t frighten me. You won’t.

The tunnel opened into a larger cavern, enormous stalactites stabbing sharp fingers down from the roof, some touching the floors in dripping columns much like melted candlewax. Piles of gold coins glittered in the darkness, heaped at the sides of the cavern as if the press of the enormous wyrm’s body forced them there. Winking gemstones. A dozen rubies at least. For a moment Freyja couldn’t think. She could only stare at the veritable hoard in front of her. Wyrms were said to be voracious for treasure, guarding it with their fierce tempers, but here was coin enough to see her father fed forever. The entire village. Perhaps even all of Iceland.

Her fingers itched to take just enough to buy a dozen ewes and several rams to replace what had been stolen. The gold meant little to her, but the concept of what she could buy with it was incredibly tempting.

She could buy a future for her and her father.

As if sensing her thoughts, a warning rumble smoked its way through the tunnel. Freyja tore her gaze from the glittering piles. The dreki were possessive of their treasures, it was said. To even think of taking but one coin was to bring her own death down upon her.

It was warmer here; sweat trickled down the back of her neck and between her bound breasts. Freyja held the sword in front of her, sweeping the darkness with the lantern. He was here. Somewhere. She could feel the dark energy of his power, dwelling in the shadows like some enormous smoldering volcano.

“So now they send my tithe to me?”

The thought-whisper almost crushed her, and her fingers clenched around the sword hilt as she ground her teeth together. Pressure built behind Freyja’s left eye; a stabbing ache that promised to make her head throb for days. She drew her focus in on herself, creating a shield against the immense presence. The pressure eased.

“I’m not your tithe,” she called back. “The village pays you its tithe! And you have stolen my ram!”

A husky chuckle rumbled in the darkness, like a cat purring. Movement shifted, diamond-hard scales rasping over the polished stone floors. Freyja took a step back, her breath catching as she raked the darkness for signs of the wyrm.

Don’t be afraid. He can’t kill you. We pay the tithe, she told herself. Still the sensation of the dreki watching her made her nerves thrum with anticipation. She held the sword low, sweeping it in front of her.

“Tithe?” the dragon whispered. “Your village has not paid its tithe in three moons. So, I will take what is owed. Your ram was… delicious.”

Freyja’s lips pressed tightly together. Too late to save Henrik. Something hot and impotent burned at the back of her eyes.

Then she realized what he had said.

The tithe hadn’t been paid.

The dragon was no longer bound by his word not to harm her.

Freyja placed the lantern on the ground and crept behind a stalactite, sword held at the ready, her heart thumping in her ears, drowning out all other sound. What had she done? Trapped herself in here with a creature that might just eat her? A creature that was near invincible with its plated scales and impenetrable skin.

The only place that showed any vulnerability was the smooth skin under its jaw or behind its forearm, where a sword just might pierce it, if she believed the eddas.

“You tremble?” His voice echoed with his delight.

Shadows of a long sinuous neck and the devilishly shaped head shifted on the wall. Freyja spun back around her stalactite, breathing hard. She darted a look to the left, and then ran, her boots silent on the stone floor. The shadowy head whipped around and Freyja threw herself onto her knees in a slide, spinning behind a larger stalactite, and pressing her back to it.

“Do you know how many have ever dared enter here?” A whisper slid hot along her nerves. He was hunting for her, his mind darting over hers.

Freyja pulled her senses in small, trying to hide, limning herself in shadows, and wrapping them around her. Pressure washed over her, as thunderous as the storm outside, but her small shadow-shield protected her from the worst of it and the storm rolled over her, searching elsewhere.

“Do you think you can hide?” Another rustle in the darkness. “I can scent your skin, your hair… the soap in your clothes. Did you think to come here to steal from me?”

“To steal—? The only thief here is you! I came to take back that which was mine!” The thought flew from her before she could stop it. Freyja’s grip tightened on the sword hilt. What a fool she was. Always her temper got the better of her.

She’d expected the wyrm to lunge for her, but only silence greeted her. Silence in which she sat with breath held, desperate to track him through the cave.

“To take back your tithe?”

She wouldn’t be drawn. Not this time. Freyja glanced toward the opening, and froze as she saw the liquid shadow of a tail lash against the cave wall.

Curse him. He was waiting by the entrance for her. She looked to the right, deeper into his lair. But perhaps there would be more tunnels there? A way to escape that he would not expect? Levering to her feet, she glanced around the rock, and slowly stepped toward the next one.

“Come out, little mouse. I will not hurt you.”

The same tone she cajoled her ewes with when she led them for slaughter. She had to get out of here.

“Even if you do escape, do you think I will not know where to find you?”

Freyja froze.

Scales rasped against the walls. That alluring scent of cinnamon-spice flushed through her as he came closer. Freyja’s head swam, her body shifting toward it. That scent. Calling her. Filling her with a liquid heat that pooled low in her abdomen. She shook her head to clear it, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth until she could think again.

“You smell… delicious. Like something I used to know of.” A pregnant pause. “What are you?”

“The woman whose ram you stole—” She stopped the thought there, but he caught some of it because that purring rasp sounded again, as if he were laughing at her.

“Come out.” Shadows danced on the wall. His head, darting suddenly around one of the enormous rocks near her.

Freyja looked up. Sharp, dagger-shaped rocks clung to the roof far above. Did she dare?

Shadows rippled over the wall. Stalking her. Coming closer. Swallowing hard, she pressed her hand to the rock and closed her eyes, reaching out.

The cavern trembled, just enough for a few tiny pebbles to rain down. Freyja stretched her senses out, reaching further, trying to meld the earth to her touch. One of the enormous jutting stalactites shuddered above the dreki, and then she felt the tiny crack snake through it, breaking off the end.

Gasping at the sudden exertion, she snatched a breath as rock rained down from the ceiling, directly where she thought the wyrm to be. A rumble of surprise greeted her, and Freyja took her chances. Sword in hand, she darted back toward the entrance she’d come through.

Something lashed toward her feet.

She saw the whip of his tail too late, and screamed as her feet went out from under her. The sword skittered across the floor as she fell, staggering into a pile of golden krone and silver rigsdaler coins that cut her hands. They scattered everywhere, one of them rolling with mocking slowness toward the feet of the great beast behind her.

Freyja scrambled onto her bottom and hands, shoving backward with her feet toward the sword. Her breath caught as the dragon loomed over her, faint light playing over the iridescence of his scales.

Freyja froze.

She didn’t dare take her gaze off him. He’d tricked her with his shadow, making her believe he’d been far closer to her than he was, and now he loomed over her, golden wings stretching out as if to intimidate, the enormous head stretched forward with eyes narrowed and dagger-teeth bared.

Beautiful and horrific and terrifying. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, could barely breathe at the sight of such lithe magnificence, dancing around the cave on surprisingly quick feet. Savage death dwelled in his amber eyes. What a beautiful fury he was, like the storm outside. If she had to die, then she could almost think of no better beast to fell her.

But dying had never been her plan.

Freyja’s hand closed over the sword and she wrenched it forward, pointing it at him pathetically. One last defiant act as she lay tumbled on her sealskin on one of his piles of gold.

“You think me beautiful?” His head lowered, resting on his forelegs, those razor-sharp claws flexing. “You are fierce.”

Freyja’s arm grew heavy as a low rumbling purr filled the cavern. Her eyes narrowed and she slowly let the sword fall to her lap, suspicion creeping through her. She was right! He was laughing at her.

Without taking her eyes off him, she climbed to her feet, dragging the sword with her. The futility of it struck her. She could see from the polished gleam of those scales she would never have been able to pierce it. Still, it gave her something to lean on as she stared at the mighty wyrm.

“What do you intend to do with me?” Freyja asked defiantly, her nerves itching. Why was he just waiting?

The pupils of his eyes were slit like a cat’s. The eyelids lowered a fraction, an almost smug gesture that wasn’t lost on her. “What do you think the penalty should be for stealing into my lair?”

He wasn’t going to kill her? Freyja’s shoulders slumped. Suddenly she wanted to cry. As if the thought spurred them on, hot tears flooded her eyes. “I don’t care,” she said. Her voice lost its edge. “Do what you will and be done with it. I’m too exhausted to waste words with you.”

The wyrm rumbled deep in his chest. ‘Words are all you have.”

“I have cold steel too,” she muttered.

“And it provided such wondrous protection for its previous owner.”

Freyja stared at the wyrm mulishly. Not only did he laugh at her, but that was definitely sarcasm. She tossed the sword aside and crossed her arms, blinking away her tears.

“Better.” He settled again, entire body relaxing into a lazy sprawl on the floor. “I do not like it when humans try to stick sharp things in me.”

“I don’t like it when wyrms steal my sheep.”

The wyrm yawned, exhibiting an array of wicked-sharp white teeth. “Make more of them.”

Freyja actually took a step of startled anger toward it. “I would, but that was my last ram. I don’t have another, hence I cannot breed more. I hope your belly’s full, for you shall be getting no more lambs from me!” Again the tears threatened. “And neither shall I. My father and I shall starve for your greed!”

Those eyes narrowed. “It was you humans who broke the tithe first. I only took what was promised.”

“From one who had not promised it,” she retorted. “Each family knows the roster, and who must make the sacrifice. I paid mine months back!”

The dragon suddenly launched itself to its feet, and Freyja stumbled back in fright, tripping on a pile of kroner.

“It would not do,” he said at last, “to see such a fierce little mouse starve.”

Freyja’s fists clenched. “I am not a mouse.”

“No?” Again the satisfied rumble. “No, you are not. What are you? You smell so familiar.”

What are you? Words she had been taunted with all of her life, for the oddness of her eyes and the strange intuition she had always suffered. “Don’t let anyone ever know what you can do,” her mother had whispered. “Not even your father. You are special, Freyja. Like me….”

“Am I a changeling?” she’d asked.

Her mother had smiled and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Ignorance is your best weapon, my love. You are special, that is all you need know.”

Freyja stared up at the mighty wyrm. “I am a woman,” she said carefully, for he would taste on her breath any lie she spoke. “I am human.”

“You are a mystery,” the dreki murmured. “And there is nothing I like more than mystery.”

“What do you mean?”

A claw lashed out and swiped through one of the glittering piles. Gold coins scattered toward her, tumbling over her boots and brushing against her trousers. “Take as much as your cupped hands can hold as payment for the ram. It would not do to see you starve now I have found you.”

Now I have found you…. Freyja didn’t move.

“Each new moon, you shall come and visit. I find myself curious about you. That is the punishment for daring to enter my lair, and price for your continued existence.”

She was right; he did have some plan for her, some perverse desire to… to…. She didn’t know. Couldn’t even comprehend why he would ask this of her.

“Next time I would suggest you do not bring the sword.” The wyrm glanced at her, its lips curling in an odd way one would almost think a smile.

Freyja knelt down and dug her hands into the gold. The price was more than she wished to pay, but she was pragmatic. Refusing his gifts would see both her father and herself starve, and some part of her doubted she would be allowed to refuse. She had been granted a reprieve. For whatever reason he granted it—wyrms were not human after all, and bound by their own whims—the truth was the same.

She had survived.

She had actually challenged the mighty wyrm, and won.

Still, Freyja did not feel as though she had won as she stood and pocketed the veritable fortune. Staring into those amber, cat-slit eyes felt as though she stared into the burning furnace of the sun. He was not finished with her, not yet.

“Now go.” A whisper across her senses, one that sounded eminently satisfied with itself. “You look weary and should sleep.”

Freyja took a step back toward the entrance, not daring to turn her back on him at all.

“I shall see you soon, little mouse.”

* * *

After she left, Rurik exploded into the storm-lashed sky with heavy thrusts from his magnificent wings, barely feeling the faint sting of rain.

Exhilaration danced through him, sending lightning crashing down again and again, dancing in tune to his desire. He pinwheeled through the sky above a ridge, gliding in and out of the flickering stabs of lightning, whipping it to a greater frenzy.

Fierce joy rode him, and a hunger he had not felt in many years. He felt as if the cobwebs had swept from his drowsing mind, as if a dash of icy water had splashed over him whilst he lazed on the heat-baked stones of his tunnels. A shock of life, returning.

Who is she?

Rurik circled high, his eagle gaze lighting on the tiny, bedraggled figure far below, fighting her way across the bleak landscape. She would not see him, but he watched over her. The dreki loved puzzles, and she was a curiosity wrapped up in a mystery.

Fierce.

His female. Appearing in the heart of the storm to challenge him in his own lair. Of course he could not resist her.

And then there was the mystery of her power. He could remember the taste of it in the air between them, crackling like lightning. It reminded him of something, though he could not bring the thought to mind.

What is she?

For the first time in decades his interest, long dormant, stirred. The male in him had looked and seen a creature of flame and shadow, of mighty power, utterly bedazzling. A treasure beyond any he owned. He wanted her. Therefore he would have her, and together they would burn the world until he tired of her.

Rurik dipped his wings, feeling the lash of the winds. It turned him into a free fall, wind whipping past him with dizzying intensity until he banked at the last moment, sweeping over the moors and alighting on a crag. A shudder swept through him, an electric tingle lighting across his skin.

It had been a long time since he walked as a man. A long time since he had desired it, indeed desired anything. Lightning flickered in the distance and in front of him his shadow quivered, then shrunk, wings disappearing, and his serpentine neck folding in on itself. Rurik fell to his hands and knees, feeling the power of the land roil beneath his touch. Rain stung his skin, a whiplash of sensuous pleasure as he bowed his head and waited for the shock of his transition to fade.

Nude. Glorious. Full of immense power that boiled beneath the heavy muscle of his skin. Rurik lifted his head as water sluiced down over his naked skin and smiled fiercely, his teeth bared.

Time to go hunting.