"I think so. He's actually very quiet, for a change. Per- haps I should get him drunk more often."

"Oh, dear."

"I can't understand what's gotten into him."

Years ago, it had been Deymorin's greatest fault. He was friendly, enthusiastic, and could be induced to overindulge.

When that happened, his companions had had an exceed- ingly easy, exceedingly wealthy, mark.

And here in Shatum, it was all those behaviors back again, but in a grown man.

"I'd convinced myself he'd grown past it all; evidently, I was wrong."

A long silence filled with even strokes of the brush, then Raulind said, "As I hear it, Deymorin wasn't the only man acting out of character today."

Mikhyel frowned. Then leaned forward to look at Raulind, whose calm demeanor gave him no more clue than his words.

But he didn't need more clues. Raulind was right. Dey- morin had feared Mikhyel would crack, and Mikhyel had obligingly cracked. He had feared Deymorin would regress to old behaviors, and Deymorin had regressed.

"I think," he said, settling back into the couch, "that Deymorin and I had best part company."

"That sounds wise, sir," Raulind said, setting the brush aside. "Would you like the window open or closed tonight?"

Pale eyes, green-rimmed and black-lashed, flickered close, expanding, shapeshifting to an all-consuming haze of mist and spring-green.

There was warmth, a presence at his back: welcome ease for muscles aching from long hours twisting and turning through crowded rooms, from laden trays held high, above harm's way.

Thyerri sighed and stretched, curling slightly about his pillow, exposing his lower back more fully to that friendly warmth.

Silken strands slithered over his shoulder and across his chest to tangle under his arm and downward, like a spider- web. The tendrils gained bone and muscle, became long fingers that stroked his chin and down his neck, where they intercepted moist warmth nuzzling his shoulder, then tread delicate patterns down his breast and across his ribs.

Thyerri sighed again, and buried his face in the pillow, too tired to object, even when the fingertips flattened into heated palms that pressed upward, crossing over his stom- ach and chest, drawing him closer to the unknown presence at his back.

Though helpless in sleep's lassitude, he wasn't frightened.

A response occurred, deep, deep within. Recognition.

Yearning. A sense of . . . need, of . . . desire. Those palms stroked downward in a clean thrust that veered at the last moment, around his groin to tickle his inner thighs with a light, fingertip brush.

He groaned and shifted. But those fingers shifted with him, teasing, tempting, then drawing back, building the ten- sion within until his pulse pounded.

The presence at his back began to move, lifting him with it, leading, falling away and leading again, until their two bodies danced as one, danced to a rhythm as primal as the rings whirling in the Tower uphill.

A subtle shift, a pause, an unexpected thrust, and the presence was within him as well as without. The tension eased slightly, only to leap to greater heights as the rhythm resumed, an ever-increasing tempo. He was sobbing, mind- lessly reaching, seeking. . . .

Release. Exquisite and complete. An ecstasy matched only by the dance itself.

9 9 8.

Mikhyel awoke with a start, wondered for a moment where he was, remembered in the next and as chill air touched his sweat-dampened back, that he was in the Hill- top Inn, courtesy of the Shatumin Guilds.

And in the room next door, his hypersexed older brother was dreaming about his equally sensual woman; dreams that, had Deymorin a shred of common consideration, he'd keep in his own damned head.

Or wherever such dreams lurked.

Mikhyel drew himself wearily upright, seeking the sleep- ing shirt he'd somehow cast aside. Deymorin again, he imagined, as he drew the fine linen around his shoulders.

At least Deymorin was quiet now, sated . . . he hoped.

Mikhyel shifted to another area of the large and comfort- able bed, beat the pillows into a more welcoming configu- ration, and drew the covers high, beginning the night over, wishing, in passing, that he had his own lascivious dreams to penetrate and disrupt Deymorin's sleep as Deymorin had disrupted his.

Except that Deymorin would thank him, then tease him mercilessly about the source.

Out of his admittedly limited experience, he sought a mental picture of the woman he would deliberately inject into Deymorin's dreams. Something the antithesis of Kiyr- stin. Reed-slender. And quiet. Fragile.

Shy. Mikhyel grinned into the pillow warming his nose.

Better yet, inhibited. That would do it. Frustrate his brother to awareness. Keep him awakeuntil he departed Shatum in utter desperation.

Then maybe, just maybe, someone else might get some sleep. Mikhyel groaned, slammed a fist into his pillow, and threw himself to the other side.

If only Demorin would leave tomorrow, go about his own, equally important business. Both of them here only confused the issue, made people wonder who to address, whose the authority. If he thought it would do any good, he'd send a message via that silent communication, shift Deymorin's thinking toward leaving.

But he'd tried that last night; Deymorin had not been amused.

Arms encircling his ribs. A scent that said {Kiyrstin . . .} Mikhyel cursedand buried his head in the pillow.