And he did not know how much longer he could hold the mist without her.
The spring days were growing long; though the evening meal was done, the sky was still very bright. Gwen walked slowly toward the smithy, where Marcus awaited her. Marcus, with his teasing laughter. Marcus, with his beautiful dark eyes and his shameless coaxing.
The forge was already hot; smoke rose from the vent in the furnace. She’d almost reached the door when she felt a whisper in her mind, and realized she had let her defenses down.
“Gwen.”
She stopped dead and stiffened, trying to push Rhys away. But it was too late.
“Gwen. I know ye can hear me.”
There was a weary edge to her brother’s silent communication. Guilt warred with anger; her first instinct was to comfort her twin, but close upon the heels of that impulse came a deep sense of betrayal. Rhys had kept his own secret from her. She was entitled to hers.
“Gwen, please. Ye must stop this folly and come home.”
Folly? She bristled. What she was doing was not
folly.
“Gwen, please. I need ye here. Strabo’s Deep Magic has strengthened. I do not know if I can guard Avalon without your help. Strabo … he’s a dreamcaster, Gwen. He’s assaulting Avalon with nightmares. Cyric is much affected. He no longer holds the mist.
Her chest contracted so tightly she had to remind herself to breathe. She answered before she could silence her thought.
“The mist is gone?”
“Nay. Not gone. I am holding it. But Gwen, Strabo’s magic affects me, too. I need ye here beside me.”
“I am coming, Rhys.”
“When?”
She bit her lip.
“Soon. When I can. Trust me, Rhys.”
“Gwen—”
She threw up the blocking spell. She could not bear to listen. He needed her, and her instinct was to go to him. But not yet. Not without the Lady’s sword.
“Gwen?” She started at Marcus’s greeting. He stood in the doorway of the smithy, wearing a soot-stained apron. “Are you coming in, or do you intend to stand on the path all night?”
She pushed Rhys and Avalon from her mind. “I’m coming in, of course. But I’d best not stay past midnight. I need to be with Breena in case—”
“Of course.”
The coals in the main furnace glowed red. The newer chamber, in which the bright iron was to be smelted, was no longer empty.
Marcus’s tone turned businesslike. “I’ve laid the layers of ore and charcoal. Heat causes the ore to melt and change. Afterward, the molten iron—the bloom—is found under the ashes. If we can produce enough heat, and sustain it long enough, the bloom will yield
chalybs.”
He took a second apron, similar to his own, from a hook on the wall. “Put this on. Sparks are a danger.”
Gwen accepted the apron, fastening the ties around her neck and waist.
“I’ve designed the bellows to keep a steady flow of air over the coals.” He demonstrated the two-handed apparatus. When one bellows rose, the other lowered, so that the flow of air was never interrupted. They were positioned so one person could sit between them and operate both at once. “Once the fire is lit, the temperature will rise quickly.” He glanced at her. “But I don’t know if it will rise high enough.”
“It will,” Gwen said quietly. “I will see to it.”
“With magic.”
“Aye.”
“What will you do?”
“I … I will need to touch ye.”
He sent her a slow smile. “I’ve no objection to that.” The heat in his eyes matched that in the furnace. His voice was pitched low. “Where?”
She ignored the fluttering in her stomach. Harder to ignore was the memory of Marcus standing half naked in the woods, of touching him intimately. She placed her hand on his shoulder and felt the muscle leap.
He was remembering, too.
She drew a breath and considered her next step. She had thought long and hard about the spells and methods she would employ to enchant the sword Marcus created. “I … I will send my magic through ye, as ye work the bellows.”
“That will make the heat rise?”
“Aye, I think so.”
For a moment he looked as though he would ask another question, but then he seemed to think better of it. He offered her a crooked smile. “Are you ready, then?”
His voice was low and intimate and sent swirls of sensation through her body. Ready? Most likely not.
She took a steadying breath. “Aye. Let us begin.”
Using a coal from the main furnace, Marcus lit the charcoal in the new chamber in several places. Folding his large body onto a low stool in front of the forge, he placed one hand on each bellows and began a steady up-and-down motion, sending air into the fire.
The coals flared. A red glow spread slowly through the layers of ore. Heat rose in waves, bathing her face. Soon sweat was trickling down her temples.
“The heat takes some getting used to,” Marcus said.
“I do not mind it.”
She fell silent as he worked the bellows. The rush of air over the coals was like the breath of the earth. Like the breath in her own body. Like the call of Deep Magic.
Suddenly, doubt assailed her. Doubt and guilt. Marcus thought she called only the Light, when in truth, she was prepared to call both Light and Deep Magic. She was well aware that there was not a single Druid on Avalon who would approve of her plan. Cyric, especially, would be devastated by her disobedience.
And if she held back? If she sent only Light to meet the Deep Magic threatening Avalon? Rhys’s communication had disturbed her. Strabo’s Deep Magic had cowed Cyric, and Rhys was wavering as well. Her own Light had been no match for the powers the Roman had commanded.
She’d always run with her instincts—the wolf had taught her that. Her heart told her that despite the danger, Deep Magic was Avalon’s best hope. But she dared not call only Deep Magic—she was not so reckless as that. She meant to bind Deep Magic with Light.
Would such a binding work?
She did not know. She could only try, and pray—and hope that her pride did not destroy her.
Deliberately, she moved behind Marcus and laid both hands on his shoulders. He flinched at her touch, but his rhythm on the bellows didn’t falter. She sucked in a breath. She could feel his desire for her beneath her fingertips, flaring as hot as the coals in the furnace. Her eyes were drawn to the gap between his short hair and the neckline of his dampened shirt. His skin glistened with sweat; the musky scent caused her nostrils to flare. Her tongue swiped her lower lip; it was only with great effort that she resisted the urge to dip her head and taste him.
She closed her eyes. Better that she did not see—feeling him was bad enough. Each flex of his muscles sent a ripple of lust to her loins. His desire seared her, opened her, softened her. Tightened the tips of her breasts until she longed to lean forward and rub them against the hard planes of his back.
Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh though the fabric of his shirt. If she caused him pain, he gave no indication of it.
A long hiss and a shifting of the fuel in the furnace brought her attention back to the fire. There was a popping noise and a shower of sparks. The fire snapped.
It was time.
She let her focus on the fire soften, seeking the lightening of her mind in which magic grew. Gathering her power, her Light, she sent it flowing down her arms and into Marcus’s body. He stiffened as it touched him, surprising her. She hadn’t expected him to feel it.
“Do not fight it,” she whispered.
She felt his spirit hesitate, then relax. She rode his acceptance, chanting Words of Light. Magic flowed into the furnace, into the coals, into the iron. The rise and fall of the bellows echoed inside her mind. She let her mind grow soft, wrapping it loosely around Marcus’s. It felt so natural, to hold him this way. She swayed forward, giving in to her yearning to press herself against him. The contact felt so good. She couldn’t pull back.
How long she stood, with her body and mind touching him, she did not know. Light flowed between them, around them, binding them. His rhythm on the bellows quickened. Heat hissed from the furnace. Sweat ran from her pores. The fire rose, consuming the ore, melting it, changing it. The magic swirled and danced around it.
Light infused her spirit. Her knees felt weak; her hands slid from Marcus’s shoulders to wrap around his torso. The rocking motion of his body as he worked the bellows intensified the tingling in her nipples. She rubbed them against Marcus’s shirt, seeking relief. Her leather apron muted the sensation. Goddess! She needed him closer. Clumsily, she tore at the apron’s ties, groaning in thanks when the heavy garment slumped to the ground.
“Gwen …” He made a noise in his throat, half pleasure, half pain. His lungs worked in tandem with the bellows, the rhythm quickening yet again. Her arms tightened convulsively about him. He was slick with sweat, his shirt plastered to his skin, his hair dripping. She pressed her cheek on the top of his head and clung to him.
She’d released the Light. Now it remained to call Deep Magic. Anxiety seeped through her veins. Once Deep Magic was called, there would be no turning it back. No way to undo what she started.
There was still time for retreat. If she drew back now, the sword would still be powerful, infused with Light. The Elders would accept that, perhaps even applaud it.
And yet … what if it were not enough? What if Avalon were destroyed, because she had given in to her fear? Light danced behind her closed eyelids. It had to be now. The power—the Words—were there, within her, waiting to be set free.
She summoned the Words to her lips. Cast them into the world.
Deep Magic, set free.
Power exploded inside her, poured through her contact with Marcus and into the furnace. A rushing noise sounded in her ears. Her head spun. Her body felt as though it would whirl into a thousand pieces, as if her human flesh could no longer contain her.
It could not.
The wolf leaped to its feet and howled.
Marcus wasn’t quite sure what was happening.
The heat in the furnace was tremendous. Sweat poured off his skin, running in rivulets down the side of his face and neck, and into his shirt. He was acutely aware of Gwen’s soft breasts squashed against his back. The peaks were hard little nubs pressed into his skin, tantalizing and unreachable. The combination of her body pressed against him, and yet out of view, inflamed him to a peak of lust beyond anything he’d ever experienced.
He had a death grip on the handles of the bellows. He couldn’t stop pumping, couldn’t risk the furnace cooling. He’d felt a tingle when Gwen had first laid her hands on him, a slight spark as her magic passed through him. His first instinct had been to resist, but once he’d relaxed, the sensation had disappeared. If Gwen’s Light were still flowing—and he expected it was—his dull, mundane senses couldn’t feel it.
But he could feel her arousal. The scent of it surrounded him, musky and dark and enticing. Her body moved on his, rubbing up and down along his spine. Her open mouth pressed on the back of his neck, her tongue rasped his skin. Her questing hands ran under his apron, down his chest, over his stomach, tore at the laces on his
braccas …
Jupiter and Pollux.
Her fingers closed on his erection. He jerked his hands from the bellows just as her teeth sank—
hard
—into his neck.
Pain—and something far more primitive—exploded inside him. A deep, primal part of him forced its way to the surface of his psyche. Instinctive, feral power gripped him. The next heartbeat found him on his feet, yanking at the ties of his own apron. He spun about, grabbing Gwen as she stumbled against him, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She fought his control, thrashing and biting. He felt her knee connect with the inside of his thigh. There was a wildness about her that stirred his lust. His mind spun; his vision turned bright red. He wanted her; he needed her. He pinioned her wrists between their bodies. She kicked at him; he covered her mouth with his. She bit his lip, then sucked the wound into her mouth. The next thing he knew, she was on her back on the ground, surrounded by heat and ash and the odor of burning charcoal. He straddled her, stretching her arms over her head, and holding them there with one hand. His lower body imprisoned her legs.
“Gods, Gwen. What—”
“Marcus. Please …” Her voice sounded strange. He did not know what she was asking. Her back arched, thrusting her breasts toward him. Reflexively, he covered one with his free hand.
Her breath was pulsing in sharp, shallow puffs. Her eyes were not focused. She jerked her arms, but he didn’t let go. He was rock hard and throbbing painfully, his stones heavy and tight.
“Marcus … please. I need … something, or I won’t be able to stop it—”
His hand covered her breast.
She gasped, writhing under him. And then he saw it. A shimmer passing over her body. He felt it like a tingling on his skin. Her eyes changed, the pupils narrowing. They were human eyes no longer.
Gwen was shifting.
“Marcus.” Her voice was a thready gasp. “Help me. I don’t want—”
Horror warred with a bolt of pure, raw lust. He felt something inside him shift, some part of his own humanity falling away. The wolf had been the guardian of his own ancestors; perhaps the spirit of that ancient beast had risen in him now, to accept the challenge of Gwen’s Deep Magic.
With a shudder, he gave himself over to the primitive madness. He heard fabric rending, and barely understood that he’d torn Gwen’s tunic from neckline to hem. He shoved his
braccas
down over his hips. He sprung free, hard and pounding and relentless.
With one hand, he rolled Gwen over, holding her by the neck as he ripped the shredded tunic from her body. She was trembling now. Struggling but not. Her legs parted. Rising on all fours, her hands braced on the ground, she thrust her buttocks backward in unmistakable invitation. The soft round globes ground into his groin. He slipped between them and encountered slick heat.
His brain spun beyond thought, beyond caution, beyond any notion of restraint. He hardly knew who he was—hardly knew
what
he was. He only knew he needed this woman’s complete submission. Now.