Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [41]
A faint purple haze lingered on the door latch-a warning to those who might be tempted to enter uninvited. Dag quickly disabled the spells that guarded his door and stepped into his chamber. Immediately the lamp beside the door turned on of its own accord, even as he was reaching for flint and stone. The room was suddenly warmed by golden light, the rich, spicy aroma of scented oil-and the soft, heady, and menacing sound of seductive female laughter.
Before the startled priest could unleash a defensive spell, the shadows at the far side of the room stirred. A slim figure, an elf woman of supassing beauty, rose from the bed and stepped into the circle of light. She was clad only in a sleeping gown of fine, deep red silk. Her long flaxen hair had been left unbound to ripple over the pale gold skin of her shoulders.
Dag’s heart missed a beat, then thudded painfully. It had been many years since she had come to his chamber, and never had they met so in Darkhold.
A small, knowing smile lifted the elf’s exquisite lips as she regarded the dumbfounded priest. Surely she knew that apprehension, not desire, glazed his eyes and stole the scant color from his face. But as if to taunt him, she gathered up a handful of her clinging skirts. “You recognize this gown, perhaps? I wore it the night our child was conceived.”
“Ashemmi.” He spoke her name in an admirably controlled, well-modulated tone. “Forgive me if I seemed somewhat surprised. I had thought you wished to forget the brief time we shared.”
“I forget nothing. Nothing.” She floated closer, skimmed the tips of her fingers down the line of Dag’s jaw, then touched the point on his forehead where his dark hair dipped into a pronounced widow’s peak. She tipped her head to one side, regarding him. “You have grown more handsome. Power does that to most men.”
“By that measure, our lord Sememmon is second only to Corellon Larethian himself,” he said dryly, naming the elven god who epitomized male beauty.
Ashemmi laughed-a beautiful, uniquely elven sound that reminded Dag of fairy bells and delighted babies. But she eased away from him, which was exactly the response that Dag had intended to evoke with a mention of the wizard who was her lord and lover.
Her face clouded slightly as she recognized his ploy. “Sememmon is secure in his position,” she said firmly. “All the more so now that you plan to establish your own hold. He was growing wary of you, you know.” Her voice rose in a coquettish lilt, and one eyebrow lifted in subtle challenge.
Dag understood, and fell at once into the almost-forgotten rhythm of subtle predation. At this art, Ashemmi was a master. With a few words, the minx intertwined the deadly competition of Darkhold’s hierarchy with a tantalizing reminder of her considerable personal charms. A volatile balance indeed. Anything he said, whatever note he struck, could be dangerously wrong. This knowledge quickened his pulse, and rekindled the dark pleasure he had last tasted nine years before. Dag was not a man for simple carnality, but this was a game he appreciated, and this was a woman who played it well.
His equilibrium restored, the priest strode over to a small table and pulled the stopper from a bottle of fine elven spirits. He poured two goblets and handed one to the elven sorceress. She raised it to her lips, savoring the scent and the taste with tauntingly slow and disturbingly thorough enjoyment-all the while eyeing him over the edge of the goblet. Dag merely sipped his drink and waited for her to have