Her desperate cry rose as she broke over the edge, shuddering against her lover. Below her, Rinaldo's eyes were screwed shut. They moved against each other for a few more delicious moments, then she collapsed upon his chest.
She rolled over beside him, and they lay there, in the darkness, tangled in white sheets, savoring each other's warmth, breathing hard. Then she reached over him to the small table on the bedside and took out a pack of slim cigarettes.
Her eyes reflected the bright crimson ember at the end of the long stick of tobacco. She stared at the ceiling, absently blowing circular puffs of smoke in the room's still air. Watching them coalesce and then fade into wisps. Like Doors, she thought.
"Do you think we got the right Door?" Rinaldo broke into the silence.
"Highly unlikely," she sighed, then continued irritably, "damn fool wizards keep insisting we run through the list when the device could pinpoint Laeveteinn's Door faster."
The bard turned to her, nestled her head on an arm, and nuzzled her neck. "Well, if Diradem Tarkis hadn't taken the device--"
"You don't have to remind me!" She pulled away from his embrace, fixed him with a burning gaze. "That damn thief will burn when I see him."
"He's in Morroc now."
"What?"
"He is in Morroc. Entered the city via the south gate, just before noon." Rinaldo took his lute in his hands. He began tuning it, head cocked, adjusting the tension on the strings as he tested the tones.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
The bard shrugged, still tuning his stringed instrument.
"Capture him," she commanded in a firm tone.
Rinaldo stopped in mid-strum. His moutache-framed mouth broke into a confused smile. "Huh?"
"Capture him, Rinaldo." She was standing now, hands on her waist, the cigarette held forgotten in one hand.
"What? You mean right now?" The bard chuckled.
"Yes. Now."
Rinaldo stared at the naked wizardess before him. He knows her enough to know she meant the command. He shrugged and stood up, looking for his leathers. There was nothing to do but obey. Fiorenne was fire personified and he doesn't fancy getting his hide burned.
They both dressed in silence, left the bedroom in silence. At the stairway outside, he pulled her in for a kiss, but she averted her lips from his, and he let her go.
She really must be in a foul mood. The bard knew better than to push her when she's like this.
He watched her climb the stairs to the roof, the twisted symbol of the Black Circle looking back at him from where it was emblazoned on her long cloak.
And then Rinaldo the Bard--Rinaldo of the Albertan Shadows--climbed down the stairs, his quiver of arrows slapping against his thigh, his lute slung across his back. He could still taste her on his mouth, smell her scent in his nostrils. Of all the women he had had, she was the best, and he'll do anything to taste her again. Oh yes, he thought, anything. But, she sure is a brat.
The bard made his way down the street, whistling, making for the center of the city where screams can be heard.
He didn't see the man cloaked in the shadows, didn't see the man's smirk as he waited for the bard to pass, didn't see the white rabbit ears bob as the man left the shadows to follow behind.
As the bard hunted for Diradem the Thief, so did Skeptic hunt Rinaldo, like the endless cycle of nature's predators and prey in the Sograt sands.
