Jaenelle grumbled and snarled a few comments in a language he thankfully didn't understand. Then, "I wanted to impress you, and I didn't want you to laugh."

"Laughing isn't what comes to mind at the moment," Daemon said dryly. He raked his fingers through his hair. "Sweetheart, if it's any comfort, I want to impress you, too."

"You do?" She sounded astonished.

He started to wonder what had happened in the past thirteen years that would make her so stunned by that idea—but he already knew. She had told him the first time he'd ended up in the misty place, when he'd tried to bring Witch back to heal her wounded body. When it came to physical pleasure, the males wanted to indulge themselves in the body without having to deal with the one who lived inside it. And Jaenelle, with the horrors of Briarwood in her past, would never yield that way.

"Yes, I do," he said.

She pondered this. "Kaelas is annoyed with you."

It seemed like an abrupt shift in topic—and not a welcome one. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"Because I haven't been sleeping well lately and I keep kicking him. He's decided it's your fault."

Oh, wonderful. "I haven't been sleeping well either."

She turned away, looking distressed.

Enough,Daemon thought. It was more his fault than hers that they had struggled through the past month. Saetan had told him she'd never had a lover, and yet he'd expected an open-armed welcome to her bed. He had acted as if she were an experienced woman who would take advantage of his availability.

That had been his biggest mistake. Jaenelle didn't have it in her to take advantage of anyone who served in her court. Well, she had made the first stumbling move. Now it was his turn.

He loosened the choke-hold control on his sexuality just enough to produce a subtle feel in the air, without it being strong enough for her to recognize it.

"Come here," he said quietly.

Looking baffled, she obeyed.

Setting his hands lightly on her waist, he drew her close to him. "Kiss me again. Like this." He brushed his lips against hers, softly, delicately. "And this." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "And this." He kissed her throat.

She imitated each move—until she kissed his throat. When the tip of her tongue licked his skin, he tilted her head up, lightly fastened his mouth on hers, and kissed her in earnest. Kissed her with all the hunger that had been building inside him during the past month, during a lifetime. Kissed her while his hands roamed over her back and hips and delicately explored her breasts. Kissed her until she moaned. Kissed her until she opened for him and let his tongue dance with hers. Kissed her until her hands slid up his back and clamped on his shoulders. Kissed her until the moan turned into a hungry snarl and he felt her nails prick his skin through the shirt and jacket.

And then realized he had taken them farther than he had meant to right now. Returning his hands to her waist, he eased back to the light, easy kisses.

Sensing his withdrawal, she snarled again—and there was anger as well as hunger in the sound. "You don't want me?" she asked in her midnight voice.

He nudged her hips toward him just enough to prove his answer. "Yes, I want you." He gave in for one more moment, fastened his mouth on her neck and sucked hard enough to leave a love bite. Tearing his mouth away, he gave her little butterfly kisses from jaw to temple. "But this is just playtime, just an appetizer."

"Playtime?" Witch said suspiciously.

"Mmm," he replied, licking the spot on her forehead where the tiny spiral horn would be if they were in the abyss. "This isn't the right place for more than playtime."

"Why?"

"Because I'd like my first time to be in a bed."

Her anger vanished instantly. "Oh. Yes, that would be more comfortable," Jaenelle said.

Will you invite me to your bed tonight?He knew better than to ask so bluntly, but he also knew hehad to ask. "May I come to you tonight?" Feeling her tense, he quickly pressed a finger against her lips. "No words. Just a kiss will be answer enough."

Her answer was everything he had hoped it would be.

3 / Kaeleer

Daemon braced his hands on the dresser and closed his eyes.

Breathe, damn you,he thought fiercely.Just breathe.

How in the name of Hell did mendo this the first time? Maybe, for a youth, the thrill was enough to push him past the doubts. Maybe it was easier the first time when the woman wasn't quite so special—or when the next hour wouldn't determine whether the woman you desperately wanted would have you.

He knew dozens upon dozens of ways to kiss, to caress, to arouse a woman and make her crave having him in her bed.

He couldn't remember a single one.

Daemon straightened up, retied the belt on the robe he wore over silk pajama bottoms... and swore with heartfelt intensity.

He should have just followed where those kisses had been leading them this afternoon, should have given in to the hunger he had awakened in Jaenelle, should have acted instead of stepping back and giving himself the past several hours to think himself into a panic.

But, wanting more than sex for his own sake as well as hers, hehad stepped back—and now sincerely hoped that when he walked into her bedroom...

He smiled at the bitter irony of it, that the one thing he had never done with a woman, the one thing he had never wanted to do and now wanted more than anything, was the one thing he might not beable to do.

What got him moving was the concern that if he delayed much longer, Jaenelle might perceive it as a kind of rejection.

When he tapped on the door between their bedrooms, he took the muffled sound for an invitation and went in.

The only light in the room came from the fire burning in the hearth and scented candles grouped here and there throughout the room. The covers of the huge bed were turned down. Covered dishes, two glasses, and a bottle of sparkling wine filled a table near the hearth.

Jaenelle stood in the middle of the room, twisting her laced fingers. The edge of what looked like a sheer nightgown made of black spidersilk peeked beneath the hem of a thick, shabby robe—one he imagined she wore on rainy evenings when she snuggled up in her room to read. She looked like a lost waif rather than a sex-hungry woman.

She studied him a moment. "You look like I feel."

"Sick and terrified?" He winced, wished he hadn't said that.

She nodded. "I thought... some food..." She glanced at the covered dishes and turned pale. Then she glanced at the bed and turned paler. "What are we going to do?" she whispered.

He hadn't done either of them any favors by giving them time to think. "Basics," he said. "We'll start with something extremely simple." He took a step forward and opened his arms. "A hug."

She considered this a moment. "That sounds easy enough," she said, and stepped into his embrace.

He closed his eyes and held her lightly. Just held her. Breathed in the scent of her.

After a while, his fingers flexed. There was a comforting appeal to the texture of her shabby robe, to the way her hair brushed against his hand.

His arms tightened, drew her closer as his hand stroked up and down her back, just for the simple pleasure of it.

She sighed. The tension in her muscles eased a bit, and she rested against him more fully.

He wasn't thinking of seduction when his hands began to wander over her—or when her hands hesitantly stroked him.

He wasn't thinking of seduction when his body delighted in how different the silky skin of her neck felt under his mouth compared to the robe beneath his hands.

He wasn't thinking of sex when he opened his robe and then hers so that only that film of spidersilk separated skin from skin. Or when even the spidersilk no longer separated them.

He wasn't thinking of sex when his mouth settled over hers and he sent them both sliding into dark, hot desire.

And by the time he found himself in bed, listening to her purr with pleasure while he moved inside her, he wasn't able to think at all.

4 / Terreille

Dorothea held up a letter. "It seems Kartane has become acquainted with Lord Jorval and Lord Hobart."

Hekatah's lips curved in an awful grin. "Such useful males. One gathers Kartane got no satisfaction from the High Lord."

"It appears not," Dorothea replied, striving to sound indifferent while the fury of Kartane's betrayal singed her blood. "He suggests that Lord Hobart would welcome any assistance Hayll can provide to wrest Glacia away from the bitch-Queen niece. He will remain in Little Terreille to act as a liaison."

"It sounds as if your son finally understands to whom he owes his loyalty."

Dorothea crushed the letter. "He's not my son. Not anymore. He's just a tool like any other."

5 / Kaeleer

Lucivar walked to the far end of the low-walled garden that bordered one side of his home. Marian was reading a bedtime story to Daemonar, and the wolves had gathered in the room to listen, too, so he knew whatever Prothvar wanted to tell him wouldn't be overheard.

Two weeks ago, Saetan had sent Surreal back to Ebon Rih with a terse—and oddly harried—note, bluntly telling him to stay away from the Hall. The only reason he had obeyed was because Saetan had signed it as the Steward of the Court. After two weeks of silence, Andulvar, as Master of the Guard, had sent Prothvar to the Hall to request more information from the Steward. Now Prothvar was here, wanting to see him away from anyone. "Problem?" Lucivar asked quietly.

Prothvar's teeth gleamed as his mouth curved in a feral smile. "Not as long as you stay away from the Hall. I gathered it's rather uncomfortable living there right now if you wear Jewels darker than the Red."

"Mother Night," Lucivar muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. What in the name of Hell had happened? "Maybe the High Lord should send Daemon here for a while."

"Oh, I don't think it would be wise to try to shift Daemon away from the Hall."

Lucivar just stared at Prothvar for a moment. Then he grinned. "Well, it's about time."