"Habit?"

"Picked up from Anheliaa, no doubt."

Which made no sense if nothing was wrong. He reached for her right hand, examined the knuckles, looking for swelling, heat, as he would in a horse's overstressed joint.

She chuckled, but made no attempt to pull away. If any- thing, she slid her whole body closer.

"So," she said, and her warm breath caressed his neck.

"You first heard them on your birthday. And then? Did you hear Deymorin when he was . . . in transit?"

"N-no . . ." His vision flickered, his senses fluttering from her proximity. The rings' gentle thrum echoed his heartbeat.

"When, Nikki? When did you hear him next? How often, dearest Nikaenor?"

He closed his eyes and tipped his head slightly away, anticipating the touch of her lips. "Off and on. Ever since . . ." But he didn't want to think of that, not with those lips so close to his neck.

"Since what?"

He shrugged, the mood vanishing.

"Was it our wedding night, Nikki?"

"How did you know?" He leaned to the side to see her.

She met his eyes, close-up as they were, and her hand brushed his hair back from his face.

"It makes sense, my darling. There was so much ley in the air that night. And at one point . . . you seemed . . .

different."

"* was different!" He grabbed her hand, bending it to display the long, enameled nails, polished and sharpened, as Anhehaa's had been. "My back still carries the scars!"

"I'm so sorry, Nikki," she said in a pained whisper, and tears touched her eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hardly remember that night, except for fleeting nightmare images.

And that . . . afterward . . . you were so angry."

She was shaking, inside and out. The delicate fingers turning red within his too-tight and twisted clasp. Appalled and ashamed, he released her, then gathered her into his arms, murmuring apologies.

Her return hold, hesitant at first, tightened when he failed to reject it, and with a sigh, she fit her head to his shoulder. Beyond her pale hair, the rings seemed to beat just a bit faster. Imagination, perhaps. Or perhaps a reflec- tion of their delicate master's own increased heartbeat.

The most wonderful feeling he'd ever felt surged through him, washing away any residual doubt he'd had regarding his beautiful wife.

"What did happen that night, Nikki?" she asked.

He tightened his arms, willing those thoughts away. "I don't remember either."

She leaned back to see his face. "You're only saying that to make me feel better."

"I'm saying that because it doesn't matter."

"But it does. You were so . . . very . . . angry."

"I don't think I can explain."

"So show me."

"What?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. But Lidye smiled, stood and held out her hand.

"Let me teach you one of the great mysteries of the rings."

Beneath him, the comfort of a cushioned chair. Behind him, his wife, her hands on his shoulders, massaging; before him, the rings of Rhomatum. Eighteen concentric, spinning rings, hanging suspended in the air, the nineteenth, the Per- situm Ring, lying inert on the patterned-tile floor. The out- ermost ring, the Cardinal Ring and taller than Nikki himself, spun on an axis perpendicular to the floor, pointing straight into the heart of Rhomatum Node. The others spun on axes only a master could align, a master who could feel the flow of ley energy between Rhomatum and its satellite nodes, and react to its infinitesimal shifts.

Flowing ribbonlike among the spinning rings was the final outer element: the radical, a streamer of pure ley- thium, that chose its path at random until the master de- clared otherwise. It was the ultimate tool for manipulation, and the aspect of the ringchamber least often invoked, due to its intrinsically capricious nature.

Legend held that when the rings began spinning above a node, the radical rose of its own accord from the depths of the leythium chambers and began its dance. Nikki had never seen a node capped, never watched rings spun for the first time, so he couldn't say for certain. But without the radical flitting among them, the rings could spin forever and the power umbrella would never manifest.

Or so legend had it. The theory, to Nikki's knowledge, had never been tested.

At the heart of the mechanism, a solid leythium-coated ball spun (or vibrated, he'd never been certain which, only that it lacked hard edges when viewed squarely).

It was on that ball Lidye told him to gaze, and as her fingers massaged their way up his neck and to his temples, the hazy ball disappeared, became his room, as it had been the night of his wedding. And his voice and Jerrik's whis- pered in the shadows, discussing the upcoming event.

Jerrik's shot: Tie her up and have someone hold a twitch on her to keep her from kicking . . .

And his own laughter, which caused him now to blush and turn away, but Lidye's fingers reassured him, and urged his attention back to the sphere, where the image had wavered.

Jerrik again: This had better go . . .

As he fingered the chain Nikki wore around his neck.

And Lidye's whispered question took him back, making that chain the totality of the image, revealing the Rhomandi Family crest in silver webbing over gold: Deymorin's ring, left behind with his clothes when Anheliaa sent him spin- ning through time and space.

"So that's what happened to it," Lidye chuckled, and he relaxed. "Anheliaa always wondered. She never thought to suspect you."

He'd taken it from this very room, planning to return it to Deymorin when he finally found him. Instead . . .

On the sphere, a man's face replaced the ring. A Mauri- tumin priest who had stolen that ring from him . . . and then vanished in the heat of the Boreton Firestorm, taking the ring with him.

"Our wedding, Nikki?"

And obediently, he turned his thoughts to that night, and her room, her body, beautiful and willing beneath her sheer nightdress. And his own utter indifference. Somehow, those feelings came through as surely as the image, as Lidye's feelings also permeated the air. He knew, for instance, that she'd been dreadfully embarrassed, fearful.

And then, she'd changed, grown aggressive and insistent, Ah, darling, it was not I . . . and the hum of the rings had filled the room. Despite his indifference, his body had responded, his autonomy had vanished, and he recalled . . .

Fear. And somehow, from somewhere, Mikhyel had been there, and Mirym, and then only Mirym, and Mikhyel's room.

And always the rings, relentlessly pushing them on.

He closed his eyes, then, not wanting to show her the joy he'd experienced with Mirym, wanting less for her to see the hellcat she'd become in their bed. Besides, for that, there was no image. His body had borne the scratches, but Mikhyel carried the memories.

"Oh, Nikki . . ." Lidye's whisper trembled, and she sank down at his feet, clasping his hand, pressing his fingers to her lips. "I'm so sorry . . . so very . . ."

He brushed her hair, and cupped her chin, urging her to look up. "Not your fault, dearest. You think I don't know that now? And it wasn't so terrible. Just not what I'd dreamed my wedding night would be."

"And how did you see it, Nikki? In your secret dreams?"

He smiled down at her, then looked to the sphere.

Interlude

There was a presence in Mother's web. A shimmering inter- ference of substance where none had been. Substance and a foul stench.

Mother hissed her disapproval to her crystalline drapes and sank beneath the ley's surface, but the stench followed her even there.

Sucks-pond-water the scent taste suggested. The prede- cessor himself. But he wouldn't dare. Sucks-pond-water never left his source. Couldn't.

Or so she'd always beheved.

Mother sent a searching tendril, touchedand re- coiled, disgusted. Then a fleeting, intensely focused thought flung the dropping out, back toward its true owner, the one responsible for its tasteless existence.

There was resistance to its return, of course, but she was aware now, and the dropping would not, could not, re- turn to her web.

Surprise, and yet another attempt to force the human excrement upon her. Curiosity and rousing awareness when she laughed and flung it back again.

The predecessor had been complaisantly respinning the same web, over and over, as if that were all he'd been budded for, munching contentedly on the detritus of his humans.

Fat and lazy, that was Sucks-pond-water.

And now he discovered an unpalatable bit and tried to fob it off onto her, thinking, perhaps, in her current depleted state, she hadn't the strength to oppose him.

Depleted, but not for long. The ley flowed steadily again, now Anheliaa's interference was at an end. Moth- er's strength grew with each passing moment. Soon, very soon now, her time would come, despite the rings spin- ning overhead, misdirecting her energies into foolish, wasteful tasks.

A third time the progenitor cast.

This time, Mother was waiting.

Chapter Three.

(Fingers in his hair, pulling at the braid, ripping the strands free.) {Tell me, Mikhyel. Tell me you love me . . .} (Fingernails tracing the line of his cheek, sharpened, enameled fingernails pressing into his flesh, drawing blood.) {Tell me, Mikhyel. Say it. Tell me you'll miss me when I'm gone.} "Say it!"

Deymorin's eyes flew open. Kiyrstin, her head heavy on his chest, stirred, murmured a protest and shoved a fist into his bare ribs.

There was no sound, no one in his moonlit suite but Kiyrstin and himself.

Dreamnightmare, more likeand coming from his middle brother, though Mikhyel seemed quiet enough now.

Which only meant Mikhyel was awake.

Deymorin frowned into the dark and closed his eyes, forcing his startled body to relax. And behind his eyelids, in the corner of his bedroom, glowing with an internal light...

"Anheliaa . . ." His voice was a tight whisper.

Or Mikhyel's voice.

Not his room: Mikhyel's. And Mikhyel's hoarse voice repeated the name, and Mikhyel struggled to escape the bed's grip, fell out the far side, legs completely entangled in sheets and blankets.

"JD?" Kiyrstin whispered, or perhaps shouted; he could no longer swear to what was in his head and what in his room. "Deymorin!"

He was thrashing, fighting the covers. Or Mikhyel was, in that suite down the hall.

"Dammit, JD, wake up'."

And then he was clinging to Kiyrstin, and her hands were clamped on his arms, shaking him back to sanity.

Laughter filled his air, shrill and familiar. HeMikhyel cowered, there in the shadow of his bed, covering his ears against sounds that penetrated his pores.

Listening with hisMikhyel'sfingertips.

"Rings," he whispered aloud, and pushing free of Kiyr- stin, flung the sheets back, and bolted into the hall, headed for Mikhyel's room, prepared to break the door down if the fool had locked it.

Raulind was already there. With a key. The valet threw open the door, shouting for Mikhyel. A purple glow ema- nated from within the room, bathing the hall in eerie light that faded even as Deymorin cleared the doorway.

On the far side of the room, half on, half off the bed, his black hair a spiderweb tangle about his head and shoul- ders, was Mikhyel.

"Damn you, Anheliaa," he hissed, seemingly oblivious to Deymorin's presence, and he slipped down to his knees, dragging his hands across sheets that pulled loose, following his descent. His head fell forward into his crossed arms and the cushioning mattress. "Couldn't you at least die like a normal human being?"

9 8 "gt The mountain air tingled with unleashed energy.

{Mother!) Thyerri cried out, caught in half-asleep stupid- ity, and his arms tangled in his blankets as he reached for that which was no longer his.

He started awake, in time to keep from shouting aloud.

{Mother?} he called again, knowing there would be no answer, for all the air around him said life had returned to Khoratum.

Thyerri buried his head in his arm, shivering. Around him, his fellow employees slept quietly, oblivious to the fact that the world was changing.

The air had been quiet for three days. Three storm-free days in a row. And the lights had held steady in the Tower and beyond. And tonight . . .