Needfire

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.


notice the convulsed orange inch of moon
perching on this silver minute of evening

We'll choose the way to the forest -- no offense
to you, white town whose spires softly dare.
Will take the houseless wisping runs
of road lazily carved on sharpening air.

Fields lying miraculous in violent silence

fill with microscopic whithering
. . . (that's the Black People, chèrie,
who live under stones.) Don't be afraid

and we will pass the simple ugliness
of exact tombs, where a large road crosses
and all the people are minutely dead.

Then you will slowly kiss me


-- e.e.cummings


Chapter 12 - Samhain


"Miss Granger. You will remain after class."

Her lashes flicked up from the cauldron, where she was stirring the potion for the lesson. "Yes, Professor Snape." Snape could the the glances from her guardian boys, but turned his back and returned to his desk.

When the class was empty, he turned to her. He could feel excitement thrilling through his veins, and wondered how he looked to her, if he was adequately controlling his reactions or if she could tell how much he was looking forward to this night's celebration.

It was the end of the school day, Halloween, Samhain, and together twoulwould waken the stones and call down the Needfire. And, he thought, nearly trembling, they would be together.

She was carefully packing her schoolbag. "Happy Halloween, Professor," she said. Her lifted glance caught him speechless a moment, when she continued in a murmur, "And blessed Samhain to you."

"Miss Granger."

"Yes?"

"A small reminder. You are aware that at any point you may return my book, and this apprenticeship will end. If for any reason you --"

She cut across his words. "What is the schedule for the evening? I'm assuming we want to be in the Circle at sunset, sir?"

Snape fought the strong urge to clear his throat. "You realize we will not be attending the Halloween Feast in the Great Hall. Our absence will likely be noticed, but I doubt there will be visitors to our Circle this night. Go now to your rooms and bathe thoroughly. I shall do the same. Then, meet me here. There are certain cleansing rituals we will undergo before we go to the Stones." A quirk of her mouth drew his attention. "Something amuses you."

"Yes."

"You'd better share it, then. I don't care to be the butt of your jokes, Miss Granger."

The smile deepened for the briefest moment. "I was wondering if I'll finally see you in your loincloth, sir."

Snape felt his eyebrow wanting to climb into his hair. "Frankly, yes," he said now, slowly, moving to stand close. "Will there be a problem, Miss Granger? We'll be naked, or nearly so, before each other, here in this classroom, as I believe I have mentioned before." Oh, Hermione.

"And the other thing I was thinking," she said quietly, looking down at his hands, "was that I'm...glad...you agreed to teach me these Druid ways."

He fought for breath for a moment. "Very well then. I shall be waiting for you here. Don't delay."

She turned to leave. He stopped her once more as she was almost to the door. "Miss Granger." He moved to stand close again, and touched her red right hand with just one finger. "Soap and water will be enough. No scraping, no clawing, just soap and water."

A blush darkened her face, but she nodded, tensely.

She was prompt, returning with damply curling hair and smelling of soap. Snape, his own hair damp, was setting out the appurtenances of the ritual when the door wards clicked open: oak water, the bowl, his sickle, this night's offering of fragrant autumn fruit and vegetables, two small white stones of different shapes, his clothing, the feathered cloak, and the clean, white woolen robe, rope belt and hooded cloak he'd had made for her in Hogsmeade several days prior. She set her schoolbag down at her usual place in the classroom and came forward, looking at the clothing.

"For me?"

"For you."

Hermione Granger stred a d a finger towards the robe, biting her lower lip. Snape could see the longing in her to touch the cloth, and knew she was thinking about her red hands; thinking they were unclean. This past week they were not so raw as they had been, but they were still red and rough. Her finger twitched back, into her fist. He sought to break the tension.

"I have not yet told you about the stones," he said. "It is an old Scottish legend. At Samhain, many villages built their own bonfire for the celebration. Those villagers who participated would choose a stone, one they would recognize later, and give it to the fire. And afterwards, legend tells us that when the fire was burned out, the villager whose stone was different, or misplaced, or cracked, for example, would be the next one taken in the Spring rite, to shed blood, to make the land fertile."

"A gruesome lottery."

"Yes. Nonetheless, I thought we might each place a stone into the Needfire, by way of honoring tradition, though neither of us will be slaughtered come Spring."

Her brow arched, and she chose a stone, the smooth rounded one, leaving the pointed, jagged one for him. "There. I prefer this stone. What next?"

"I have no loincloth for you, yet," he said. "The right sort of wool was not immediately available for so intimate a garment. You'll have to make do with your own underthings." He felt a smile wanting to tug the corner of his mouth upward. Stupid, to smile about seeing you in your underthings, he thought, but he continued to picture her in his mind.

She huffed out a short, sharp laugh. "Fine. I'll make do."

"Shall we begin?" There was a long moment of absolute clarity in which he held her gaze with his. Say yes. You should say no, but say yes.

She nodded.

"Please ward the door, then." He waited while she waved her wand, then he turned his back on her and stepped aside, undressing slowly. He folded each article of clothing carefully and stacked it on a nearby table. Behind him, he could hear rustling that told him she was doing the same. He closed his eyes a moment, naked, breathing deeply, waiting to master himself. He could not feel this way, not like a randy teenager, and celebrate the rites properly. It isn't about the sex, Snape. Try to remember that.

Under control at last, he moved to the lab table and opened the oak water flask, pouring water into the bowl. Hermione moved to stand next to him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her silky scraps of underwear, palest petal pink bra and matching knickers. He wanted to turn and simply gaze at her.

"Do as I do, and speak as I speak, Miss Granger." He dipped his hands, one at a time, into the bowl. "Normally I do not speak these ritual words, since it is just myself to hear them, but it is also appropriate for them to be spoken aloud, especially since we will celebrate together. Let the droplets all run from your hands back into the bowl; this oak water is not to be wasted or spilled on fallow ground."

Snape waited while Hermione dipped her hands into the bowl. Her poor, sore hands, with the red, raw skin trailing raggedly up to her elbows. Merlin. If nothing else, let this ritual help those hands. This self-abuse must stop. On impulse, he reached a second time into towl owl and gently and carefully used the oak water on her arms. Her eyes closed briefly as he touched her. Will she weep again? And while he bathed her arms, he looked her body up and down. Small breasts, in their silky pink, nipples erect in the chill of the dungeon, and probably also because she was excited. I want you to be excited. Her flat belly, little muscles smooth there, inviting a touch or two or twelve -- a very fit young woman. Deceptively narrow hips; in actuality, very womanly in their curve and the jut of hipbones above her knickers. A navel, deep and cupping, that he would want to explore wits mos mouth. He felt himself beginning to be aroused, but a sudden, ugly thought quenched almost all desire instantly.

The weasel has had her, he's slept with her. He's seen her nakedness. While something in him was relieved she was not a virgin and therefore he would not have to take painstaking care of her, physically, at the Circle soon, another part of him was ferociously jealous that she was not his alone, to deflower in his onalonal church.

Stop it, Snape. To the ritual. Prepare yourself, and her, for what is to come. You owe her that much. Once again he felt he had mastered himself. He spoke.

"Say this with me: Hands, my works."

"Hands, my works."

"Cleansed."

"Cleansed." Her voice trembled and he saw her bite her lip to gain control.

He was moved, despite himself. "Make me believe it, Hermione," he said huskily. "Say it again. I don't believe you, not yet."

She swallowed. "Cleansed." Her voice was steadier this time.

He lifted the bowl and poured the barest handful over the crown of her curly head, then gave her the bowl and bent his head for her to do the same for him.

"Head, my thoughts. Cleansed."

"Head, my thoughts. Cleansed."

Snape cupped some of the water and dribbled it over her chest, fighting down his reaction, the miserable urge to take hold of her, as he watched the water trickle between her breasts in their pink brassiere and down her flat belly. She repeated his action, slowly. He wondered if she was looking only at his chest, or if her gaze was drifting further down. He wanted her to be pleased by what she saw. It was important that she not find him repulsive.

"Heart, my will. Cleansed."

"Heart, my will. Cleansed."

He drank half the water in the bowl and handed it to her. "Finish the water. It is never to be wasted, remember." She turned the bowl and drank from the place his lips had touched. Snape had to turn away to stifle his sharply indrawn breath, and used the excuse of setting the bowl on the lab table.

"Mouth, my words. Cleansed."

"Mouth, my words. Cleansed."

Snape had never been quite so grateful for his loincloth as he was now. He wrapped it tightly around himself, knowing she was watching, and knotted it.

"Sandals, now, Miss Granger," he said. "Remember the knots, and use them." When they had finished, he had her repeat: "Clothed."

"And the robe, and belt. Clothed."

Her hands trembled just a bit as she touched the soft white wool and lifted it over her head, but her fingers were sure as they tied the belt properly. "Clothed." She looked up at him, both of them, in their whiteness. He stepped close and lifted the heavy curling mass of her hair out of the neck of the robe, pulling it forward. The vulnerable curve of her neck, pale, downy, cried out to him for the biting touch of his mouth, hot kisses, devouring kisses. His gaze moved to her mouth, longing to feed on it, smother it with his own mouth. Soon. Ah, soon. You are an impure priest, Snape.

Snape shook his head. He lifted the hood of her cloak and settled it, just so, on her head. He had to back away a step. If he was not careful, they would never make it to the Circle, he would take her here, now, on the cold stone floor in their white robes, Samhain be damned. It took deep breaths to calm him, and she stared at him all the while, her eyes filling with knowledge of what he wanted, what she was able to do to him physically with merely her proximity, her eyes, her expressions.

Angharad's cloak, swung over his shoulders. "Clothed."

He threaded the sickle's thong through Hermione's belt. "And now you are prepared."

"Prepared," she said quietly, lifting the sickle, running her finger along its blade.

"Best put on your school robe," Snape said. "We don't want to risk g seg seen dressed like this if we can avoid it. We'll take them off again once we're out of sight of the Castle." He gathered up the white cloth filled with autumn's harvest, handed her the flask of oak water, and together they left the dungeon, with Hermione again warding the dungeon door behind them, and slipped out that little-used side door, escaping into the last of the ruddy light of day.

At the Stones, pausing at the foot of the stone avenue leading to the Circle, Snape slid Hermione a sardonic, yet amused glance. "Let me see you take down my wards," he said. "You must have been the one tampering with them all this time."

She quirked her mouth to the side. "You aren't nice about sharing," she told him. "I wanted in, so I got in. That's all. Mean-spirited of you to lock everyone out."

"One point from--"

She cut across him swiftly. "Are you going to be taking points for performance, tonight, Mentor? I'd really rather you didn't."

He clamped his mouth shut, startled. She was correct; it was inappropriate, at this time, to behave as her Potions Master. "No. No points deducted tonight. Quite correct of you to stop me, Hermione." You should call her Miss Granger. "I put the wards up to keep those untidy Hogsmeaders out. They leave...garbage in my Circle." His lip curled in revulsion.

She walked up the stone avenue ahead of him, wand out to feel for the wards, the white hem of her robe brushing the earth, the beds of her sandals peeping beneath. The cuckoo called, softly, like a bell. The sparrows, cheeping sleepily, hopped from stone to stone along with her, until the owl banked sharply to the north immediately in front of her. She, startled, flinched back and looked over her shoulder at Snape. "What are you waiting for?"

"I am simply watching you, Apprentice," he said. Yes. A better name. Create a little distance. Not my Hermione, my Apprentice instead. He walked slowly up the avenue behind her, pulling Angharad's cloak closer to him. The twilight was chill. He thought briefly of casting a warming spell, and decided against it. The magic of the Circle should be inviolate, untainted. He recalled Hermione's words, the pool of magic, dipped into harshly by witches and wizards with their forceful wands, and perhaps more naturally by the Druid rituals, where it was summoned instead of coerced. She had an instinctual comprehension of such things, it seemed.

Snape's wards tumbled swiftly before her wand and her murmured spells; it was obvious she'd had some practice at removing them. She turned, waiting for him to catch up, and they entered the Circle together.

They reached the altar stone, and Snape stood on the eastern side, while Hermione took her place to the west. "Do you remember the invocation I taught you?" he asked, placing the white cloth on the altar and arranging the offering carefully.

She nodded.

"Can I trust you with that blade?" he asked now, almost harshly, gesturing to the sickle still slung at her hip. "Four drops of blood, only."

Hermione's head came up sharply. "How dare you!" Her fists clenched at her sides.

"I dare, because I am your mentor, and I want to know that you will not harm yourself while you're in my care."

"I am done with blades," she said. "That was a long time ago. Never bring it up again, Professor."

"Very well. A small nick, not too deep. We need only a little for the ritual."

Her lips compressed into a thin line as she unstrung the sickle from her belt. They both turned to face the west, and the sun, slipping out of sight now. That last rim of crimson blossomed, tinting the Stones with bloody light. Hermione bowed her head and spoke clearly to the setting sun.

"Lugh, rest."

They turned back to the east then, to usher in the Halloween moon, waxing full.

"Arianrhod," she said, her voice like a bell in the silence, "Welcome."

Snape turned back to her, watching as she set the sickle's inner curve to the pad of her thumb, and pulled it across her skin lightly, drawing blood. My first time, it took three tries to get it right. She knows how to handle a blade.

"East, into the first of the Night." A single drop of her red blood fell into the offering, the cornucopia.

"West, into the last of the Light." Another drop.

"South, into the warm Spark." Another.

"North, into the chill Dark." And the last.

"Samhain," they said in unison. "Celebrate."

Snape handed her one of the white stones. "We will place these together in the fire once it's lit."

Hermione sucked away the rest of her blood as Snape had taught her. Then she looked up at him, feathery, fly-away brows arched. His turn.

Snape took a wide stance, lifted his head to the darkening sky, and called for the Needfire with everything inside him. It must work, it had to work. And, as last time, he felt a cold tidal surge, swirling around his ankles, rising up his body, lifting the cloak and its dense pelt of feathers. Yes. He looked back at Hermione, saw the thin tendrils of Needfire smoke rising between them, silver in the dusk, and smiled. The cuckoo called, once anarplarply. The Needfire had come at their bidding. He looked down at the food on the altar, watching the bluish Needfire slowly brighten, something like wandlight, making her ideas of the common pool of magic and their rough wands even more clear in his mind. The Needfire began slowly consuming the offering. Snape bent and placed his stone in the fire with the fruit, and Hermione did likewise.

And now there was only one thing left in the rite, aside from waiting for the swirling vortex of power to calm enough for them to leave the Circle.

Oh, but now -- now -- I cannot complete this, he thought, suddenly panicked. I cannot ask this of her. We will stop. I have celebrated alone for years, there is no real need to --

Hermione walked around the altar towards him. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Thank you," he said, quietly, needing to clear his throat. "Well done." He released her and took a few steps backwards, swallowing hard. What he wanted and what he should do were at war with one another, and he would not put her in the middle. They would simply wait for the force to die back.

Her brows drew together in confusion. "Professor Snape?"

"We've -- completed enough of the ritual," he said, trying not to stumble over his words.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "We have not completed the ritual, sir," she said firmly. She continued to advance upon him, but slowly. He stood his ground, placing his hands on his hips, glaring intimidaly aly as she neared. Predator sparrow this time, prey owl.

"We have done enough. You are my student, and this --"

"I am your apprentice, Druid Snape. " Her dark eyes challenged him, and of course, unbidden, came that memory of her in Weasley's hold, passionate and eager in that dark corridor with the satyr and the velvet.

Snape turned away, walking to the edge of the Circle, where he could feel the buzzing of the vortex. His heart thudded against the cage of his ribs. "We will simply wait until the force dies back."

"It looks like that's going to take a while," she said. "That's quite a pile of food on the altar." Was that humor he heard in her voice? He felt the warmth of her small hand on his arm, through his robe. She was pushing past the frenzied lashing of his feathered cloak, coming to stand in front of him, between him and the large flat stone he stood before. Her two hands moved to his chest as she pressed close, drawing his gaze down to meet her eyes. "Is something wrong? Do you not want me, now?"

Snape groaned. His hands, unasked but sure, moved to the curve of her hips, invisible in the woolen robe, long fingers digging into her back. "Not want you? How could I not want y It It simply isn't possible not to want you. But --" he trailed off, staring into her eyes.

Hermione let his tight fingers urge her closer, and he knew she could feel his desire for her, pressing against her pelvis. "Then complete the rite with me, my mentor," she breathed. Her hands slid upwards, linking behind his neck, pulling his head down, and he was lost, lost, lost, in the warmth and softness of her mouth. His arms went hard around her, cinching tight around her slightness, lifting her onto her toes against him. Time passed, long moments of deep kissing, learning the edges of her teeth, tasting her freshness, drawing her tongue into his own mouth with strong suction. I want to devour you. Nothing less. Her small gasp against his lips sent a surge of heat through him, jolting electrically from their joined mouths down his spine and straight into his cock. The harshness of his desire, the urge to throw her to the ground and... pound himself...into her, made him lift his head away with a cry, and push her to arm's length.

And there they were in front of him, the heavy lids that lifted, languorous with desire, those dreaming dark eyes that met and held Snape's own, drew him in, swallowed his soul, or what there was of it. Not across a corridor, not playing endlessly behind his lids, not in another woman's soft bed and twining arms, but here. His mind reeled, confused.
?" s?" she said now, wiping the back of her hand slowly across her mouth, before she ran her tongue over her lips, seeking the small soreness there from the ferocity of his kisses.

"No." He was shaken, weak. Her swollen lips called urgently to him.

Her hands went to her belt, removed the sickle and put it into his hands, then unknotted the belt precisely, as he had taught her. "Why not? Can you tell me?"

"I simply cannot do this. Must not do this. I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to begin with."

"Must not -- why not?"

"You are my student." His hand clenched around the handle of the sickle, reminding himself to gain control. He could sense Conscience Minerva as she clawed at the inside of his brain, demanding that he simply wait until the fire died down, and then escort this young woman back to the castle, and end this nonsense.

"But you brought me here -- trained me, showed me your ancient book, bought me these robes -- so that I could play the goddess to your god, didn't you?" As she spoke, she was pulling her white robe over her head, dropping it to the ground, reaching behind her to unclip her bra, and stepping out of the whispering softness of her knickers.

"Yes -- yes, goddess to my god." In his fascination with her slow undressing, he missed the sarcasm that was plain in her voice. The irony.

"It's bullshit," she said to him now. "Utter bullshit. No use for it in this day and age."

"What did you say?" He gaped, appalled.

"I said it's meaningless. The Druids...what use are they? Where have they all gone? I think you must be the last of your kind. Unable to reproduce, or make more Druids, or even teach others this way, because there is nothing left. It's not like the earth needs my goddess blood to make it fertile --"

Snape's anger flared, cold against the heat of his physical longing for the wild-haired witch before him. "You are questioning my...religion," he said at last, searching for the right word.

"Someone must," she said bluntly. "You're not."

"But you stand there naked before me, waiting to celebrate this thinnest of nights with me in the oldest of rites. And still you say you don't believe in this, the god, the goddess, the celebration." He had a sudden vision of himself, riding her, a fist in her hair stretching back her head, exposing her throat to his golden sickle, a fountain of red blood enriching the earth. He let the sickle fall from his suddenly stupid hands, his hands, always so clever before now. I have brought her to this, he thought desperately, but when her fingers went to his own belt and began to unknot it as well, he did not stop her. Conscience Minerva went screeching down his spine, but hard on her heels was the demon of desire, desire, and a need to make this young woman understand that there was power here. Something beyond what the two of them knew to be true; something more than archetypes or literature or philosophy; something even beyond magic.

"I don't. They don't exist, your god and goddess. And I don't think you really believe in them, either." ThenThen why are you here? Why have we spent this time together?" He knew a moment of helpless rage before it sputtered into hopelessness. The Circle lives already -- how can she doubt? Her fingers reached to unfasten the feathered cloak and let it fly, rising slowly moonward above them; he did not stop her. And when she helped him lift his robe over his head, leaving him in only the loincloth, he did not stop her. She stepped close to him again, pressing her breasts to his chest, warm, soft, and electrifying.

"Because I find there must be something to it, just not this god and goddess nonsense. Something in the way you reach for the magic, pull it from its pool, create this... force. That's what I think we should celebrate." Her fingers touched his chest and then slid up into his hair, to twine there and tilt his face to her liking. But now Snape took the initiative away from her. His hands grew hasty and snatched her against him; he would show her the power and aliveness of his circle. There was proof here, and to spare. It only took one hand to loosen his loincloth and let it fall in a limp heap on the brown and slowly frosting grass. He knew he should have folded it with the same precision as it was put on, but there was suddenly no time for that -- no time, only urgency, and the need to prove to her, force her to acknowledge the truth of all he had shown her.

He lifted her, his hands cupping her buttocks. She was small, and light, but her legs were strong as they wound around his waist. Snape bore her backwards against the stone, into that stinging vortex, leaving one of his arms behind her to protect her skin from the rough surface, while his free hand settled the hot, wet secrecy of her goddess body carefully on his shaft and then moved to dwell between them , stroking her into a frenzied clenching. He would takr her here: in its rushing current. She could not help but sense it.

He could feel that they were dancing dizzily, caught in the whirlpool, both of their bodies becoming part of that spin, that centripetal force. Snape thought it must be like being caught in a sandstorm; particles of energy stung every centimetre of their skins, heightening each sensation, every movement, every touch. Hermione was gasping as he thrust into her strenuously. But as he looked at her, seeing her through the shimmer of a mirage born of the Stones' force, her face changed. Her brows drew together with the hint of a frown, and her eyes met and held his. He was afraid he was hurting her, and tried to slow the frantic pace, but she shook her head at him strongly.

"Don't -- don't stop -- can't you feel it?" she stammered. Her arms wound tightly around his neck, her head fell forward, her curls sheltered his face, curls that moved and breathed in that storm.

And then her mouth -- oh, her mouth -- hard on his, a deep and drawing sweetness, and then a small pain as her teeth bore down on his lower lip when the two of them came crashing together, nearly falling, crying out, electric and brilliant. Snape staggered, separating his feet wider to keep upright. He pressed her back hard against the stone and groaned in the curve of her neck and shoulder.

Goddess, and god, yes, no matter how she denies it, and the living ring of Stones, and that deep and silvered pool of magic, all one, all filled with the rushing power, all awake and alive and astounded.

And in that limning place, where it was thinnest between this world and the next on this one night of the year, he hoped that Angharad was watching, Angharad was approving, and Angharad was celebrating with them. But according to the ritual, it would not be right to call her, though Snape wanted more than anything to ask her this one question and hear her answer: Have I done right to bring Hermione into this world of mine? Please tell me yes.

Snape panted harshly, aftershocks rocking him, holding Hermione wrapped tightly to him, so tight that when she whispered in awe, "Look up," and he tried to obey, the top of his head struck her chin painfully. He heard her teeth click together, and her short breathless laugh.

"What?"

"Your cloak, it's flying."

"It does that when it can," he groaned.

"It's so high...yet...it can't escape the Circle, it's not quite free," she said.

Neither am I, he thought now, gradually letting her down from his grip, letting her body slide against his, leaning his forehead against hers. Not anymore. So high, but not free.

"Did you feel it?" he panted. "That power."

Her laugh was sarcastic. "You ought to know an orgasm when you feel it," she told him. "It was good, yes, but --"

Her head rocked back as Snape took hold of her shoulders and pushed her away from him, staring. "What did you say to me? How can you still deny --" and with a sound that was as much growl as it was groan, through gritted teeth he said, "It is the power of the goddess, Hermione."

"It is the power of magic," she corrected him, tossing her head. "No human agency creates this. No idol you could imagine can do this, Snape."

"You little -- you experienced -- this --" he released her to gesture broadly to the Circle around them, "and still you debate me, you disagree, you demand proof." He could feel a helpless fury bubbling within him. He was certain, he was sure, and he had shown her.

"Proof that your goddess exists," she corrected him. "Not proof that we have dipped into that pool of magic -- look around you, it's here!" There was rapture on her face as she sought to convince him. "This is what the druid way is about, surely, Snape, and not the goddess --" and then she had to stop talking, because Snape had discovered there was the thinnest of lines between desire and anger, and he had crossed it. He devoured her mouth with his, consuming her lips, dragging her against him.

Snape meant to punish her in some strange way; teach her yet again; perhaps repetition would cement the knowledge in her mind. And instead, in his arms was a willing and eager woman, twining closer, pressing against him, opening her mouth to his angry assault. "Hermione," he muttered, dragging his mouth from hers. He sought her eyes, which slid from his toward the altar stone.

The Needfire still burned there, much more left to consume. She looked him hard in the eye. "The ritual is complete," she told him. "Yet we have more time left." Her palms slid over his chest, to his shoulders, and down his arms to take his hands. Snape felt his anger dissipating in the face of her certainty, and when she took his hand and led him back to the altar stone, it was all he could do not to stagger in her small wake.

"So we do," he replied, sinking to the ground near the stone, lying back in the frosty, spiky grass, remembering her reaction to the black earth close to her skin, bringing her down with him and arranging her on his chest. "So we do. Celebrate with me, my apprentice." His hands twined in her hair and brought her mouth to his. "Celebrate, slowly this time."