And an overwhelming passion for life and . . . Deymorin and Kiyrstin . . . the day they'd entered the City.

Temorii's mouth tried to follow where her hand had led, and while his dreams reeled in images and possibilities, his mind thought of where and under what conditions this in- nocent must have witnessed such tactics. Or perhaps, she simply picked the images of Kiyrstin and Deymorin out of his mind.

Either way, it wasn't what he wanted. Not now. If they were to have only one time together, there would be noth- ing one-sided about the experience. He'd be an active par- ticipant and those actions would be his alone. Not Deymorin's, not Nikk's.

He grasped her shoulders to raise her to her feet, cupped her chin and kissed her, long and deeply, as he had in his most cherished dreams, and deciding, just perhaps, his instincts might be sound, he allowed his hands to seek her slender body beneath her simple gown's heavy folds.

He paused. Perplexed. Her mouth reached for his.

"Wait." He held up his hands, palms out, between them.

"Just . . . wait."

Blinking his eyes clear of lust-induced fog, he examined the dress more closely. She giggled and gasped and swayed into his curiously searching hands, making his task that much more difficult.

Finally, laughter welled and spilled out.

{Mother!) he shouted in helpless frustration.

Temorii jumped. "What's wrong?"

"The damned thing has no fastening!" he got out, past the laughter. "Oh, my darling, we've a choice: ripping this beauty to shreds, which considering it's probably pure ley- thium, I doubt we could do anyway, or"

"Doesn't bother me," she said, and swayed toward him.

"But I"

Her breath shuddered into his mouth, she pressed hard against him, the full length of her body until he was pressed full against the wall. Her hands lost the wonder, and pressed deep into muscle. A bit rough. A bit desperate.

He gasped a complaint; she wrapped her arms around him and clung there, shuddering.

"Sweet, sweet, sweet Mother," she sobbed into his neck, "I'm sorry, Khy, I1 didn't know . . . I want . . . you."

Her arms tightened spasmodically, relaxed in a flare of de- liberate denial. "Please?"

There was no sense denying his own desire, but . . .

"Tern," his voice was a hoarse whisper. "Rings, are you surer'

"Oh, Khy." Her voice caught on a laugh. "How can you wonder?"

And like fingers in his head, she began to separate her own sensations from his, eliminating a duality of thought and desire and feelings he'd had no idea was there.

And without it, he felt . . . naked. Exposed and lonely in a way he'd never imagined.

"Please, Tern . . ." His voice, what little there was, shook uncontrollably. And a sob tightened his throat.

"Please, Tern, what?" She mocked him, but gently.

"Come back to me?"

"Oh, yes" And when she returned to his mind, it was with a depth of passion and need that left him dizzy. She drew him to the bed, or he drew her, and they lay down together. And together, they pulled the heavy leythium folds up between them.

But she alone guided him to a softness that had nothing to do with clothing.

All the while, he kept his eyes on her beloved face, wait- ing for her to change her mind, hoping desperately to be able to give her that option.

Fortunately, the request never came, and there was no denying that internal verification of her wishes and her needs. Releasing all hope of rational control, he pressed into the softnessand very nearly lost all inclination to touch anyone, ever again.

Any remaining doubts he harbored regarding her experi- ence vanished in that instant. No question now, even for his limited experience, that it was her first time, less that his entry hurt her; it wasn't painless for him. And the sense of surprise*fear*pain*curiosity that accompanied her scent could not be fabricated.

But when he would have drawn backsome vague, years-gone warning of Deymio'sshe muttered an objec- tion, and withdrew her mind from his, with an abruptness that left him gasping, even as the pain disappeared. Then she twined her legs over his back, and thrust up and around him, while smothering a wordless cry in his shoulder.

For several breathless moments, she clung there, quiv- ering against him and around him, while those old warnings ,of Deymorin's ran through his head, along with the mem- ory of her pain, and he knew, no matter how much his body wanted it, that it would not be at all kind to (Oh, Khy. You think too much . . .} And again she infiltrated his mind and body. The pain, that was still there, but minor, and other sensations that approached pain, in areas of his body that he . . . didn't have. Like, and yet unlike his own.

And within those areas he didn't have, the presence that pressed and thrilled and pained those nerve endings began to change in character. He no longer felt quite so . . . full.

{You're thinking again.} And she began to move and sway, like the rings them- selves, and never had he been more aware of her lithe power as she drew him into the dance with her. And the sense of being filled returned, the pressure increased as Temorii drove them both to a mind-shattering climax.

They collapsed, shuddering, still locked together. When he would have withdrawn, she curled her top leg tighter, holding him steady, and whispered, "Not yet, Khy. Please, just a moment more."

And as that moment stretched into a lifetime, she neither moved nor spoke, she seemed not even to breathe, and he found himself imprinting the feel*sight*taste*smell of her on his memory, knowing he'd never forget how he felt at that instant, never again smell raspberries or cinnamon the same way.

Raspberries, cinnamon, and the slightest hint of clove. A mystical blend that would forever be part of him.

Perhaps, that was her intention.

Then, with a tiny sigh, she slid free.

And all he could think of was . . . never again.

Chapter Fourteen.

Mikhyel drifted slowly toward consciousness on the dawn tide. To escape the gentle, but persistent, glow from the window, he buried his nose into Temorii's soft hair.

Except . . . Temorii should be with Mother by now, possi- bly already deep within the heart of the maze. And upon a startled opening of his eyes, he discovered a Tern-shaped pillow within his arms: Mother's doing, indeed.

Morning. The competition. This evening, he'd leave Khoratum. Forever. Mikhyel groaned and buried his face deep in the Tem-pillow, cursing fate in one breath, praising it in the following.

He had found what poets called the perfect love.

Found it, attained it, and in true poetic style, must leave it forever. The one perfect moment. The sweet agony of self-sacrifice.

The poets must all be eunuches.

Tugging the bellpull to notify Raulind his master had come to whatever sense remained his to achieve, Mikhyel hauled himself up and out of bed. As he saw to morning needs, he discovered blood.

Cursing them both for fools, he hurried back to the bed- room, and a sheet that, while not covered in blood, cer- tainly betrayed evidence to make a man horrified at what he'd done on the eve of so important an event.

"Oh, Tern," he murmured, and wished her well. And a stream of satisfied sentience wove through his mind, reas- surance that Temorii had awakened without pain, without concern . . . and an annoying case of self-doubt nothing could change.

(Because of what happened?} he sent back up that stream, and as his question reached the source, he had an image of Mother, bored, soaking her feet in a leythium pool.

{Of course. And no.} Mikhyel laughed. Mother: at her frustratingly ambigu- ous best.

{Then at what? Dearest Mother, can I help her?} {At her own ability. Couldn't do the simplest handstand when she awoke.} (Nerves, Mother. Normal, eminently human nerves.

They'll make her dance even better.} {Is that a promise?) {Is anything a certainty?) {Yes, but not those things we choose. Perhaps I should watch.} {I think Tern would like that. Mother.} {I'll see if I find the energy. Go hop in the bath, child: your friend called the maids and they're just outside his door.} The angle on the rings was different, here in the ring- master's box, where the intent was to be seen as much as to see the dance. But it also afforded one of the best sta- dium views of the maze that comprised the other half of the stadium crescent. The stadium seating had been cut out of the hillside, the stone-walled maze built up out of the downhill side, angled and leveled for optimum viewing from the stands.

The coaching box was closer to the rings, lower, almost to ground leveland contained better company.

Rhyys had insisted Mikhyel join him in his box. He'd wanted to show the increasingly anti-Rhomatum citizens of Khoratum that their beloved ringmaster and the ruling fam- ily of Rhomatum were the best of friends, and that Khora- tum could sleep soundly, knowing their interests were covered.

In other words, Rhyys wanted to lie.

The only other individual to join them in the booth for breakfast was a man Rhyys introduced as dunGarshin, an importer from beyond the storm-rim. But unless Khoratum Tower housed two hideously scarred men, this dunGarshin was young Thyerri's ocarshi-smoking Mauritumin.

He said little, ate and drank sparingly, but his eyes never left Mikhyel. His hands, scarred and twisted, bore many rings, but none of them remotely resembling the Rhomandi ring Mikhyel wore.

He'd dismiss the notion out of hand, but if this dunGar- shin knew what that ring was, he'd be unlikely to flaunt it in Mikhyel's presence today.

During the mostly silent breakfast, the stands filled stead- ily, seemingly everyone from the city and the surrounding hills intent on viewing the spectacle. For some, Nikki's notes had explained, it was a religious event: Rakshi's selec- tion of a worldly representative; for others, it was blood sport, eager anticipation of the inevitable wounds, regular maimings and occasional deaths; and for some, it was sheer love of beauty.

For Mikhyel dunMheric, it was nerve-wracking.

He didn't know, couldn't, unless Mother or Temorii chose to inform him, whether the plan was proceeding: whether Temorii was waiting in that simple building at the center of the stone maze, whether Ganfrion had man- aged to prepare his men to move out during the cere- mony, whether his staff would successfully exit the Tower through those passages Temorii had shown them, or whether they would all find themselves arrested by the end of the day.

It was tempting to grow impatient, when regular check- ins were possible. But Temorii was justifiably silent, prepar- ing for the greatest moment of her life. Mother . . . Mother was probably enjoying his incipient panic.

Music filled the air constantly. Down on the white sand, color festivities were already in progress. Student dancers of all ages performed complex choreographed routines, trained animal acts, a magician or two . . . Deymorin and Nikki would have loved it.

As if choreographed, their breakfast's conclusion and the opening ceremony coincided. By the time the announcer introduced Rhyys, the table had been cleared and removed, an ocarshi brazier erected between Rhyys and dunGarshin, and tea arrived for the others who were ushered into the box.

Dignitaries of the Northern Crescent, all. Some of whom Mikhyel had known were here and visited in the past week, others whom he recognized by name only.

Including Nethaalye's father.

Rhyys rose and delivered a disjointed and self-aggrandiz- ing statement to the audience. It was a terrifying ordeal.

This could not be the same man Anheliaa selected fifteen years ago. Anheliaa, though mad, had never intended to sacrifice Khoratum. Ocarshi and a surfeit of power had de- stroyed whatever Anehiiaa had known.

And opened the way for the scar-faced man's ilk. If it hadn't been Mauritum, it would have been some other lurk- ing hawk. Khoratum and Rhyys had been their weak link for years.

He only hoped they didn't pay dearly for that oversight today.

Rhyys' monologue seemed destined to absorb the entire morning, but he ended abruptly, and with utter incoher- ence, when a tiny buzzer sounded within the box. He turned, then, to the booth's interior, and introduced, one at a time those seated there.

As if he were pointing to trophies in a case. Polite to outrageous applause greeted each man as he stood, until Rhyys came, finally and at last, to Mikhyel.

He stood to utter silence.

Stunned, he sank back down. Nikki's rumors, his own sheets this morning, and the maids. He cursed again his own stupidity within a web that needed no more division, a situation that required no more volatility. And yet, hypo- crite that he was, he found it impossible to regret the events of the previous night.

The organized performances began. More of the student dancers. More music. More . . . everything. All around him, the leaders of the Northern Crescent talked and laughed and shared rumors.

Many of those rumors centered openly around the Rho- mandi sitting within easy earshot. They knew. They all knew. They believed he was doomed and used this opportu- nity to taunt him.

Stupid, petty, and so human. But his mind took him into the future. A future that assumed he and his brothers won everything they hoped, when he would have to face these same individuals across a courtroom and determine their guilt or innocence in a game so much larger than individual pride, and he wondered just how much objectivity he would be able to maintain.

He wondered if any of the men and women sitting here had ever considered the possibility of failure.

If he failed, if he was wrong to trust Mother, or if any of a number of variables went against him, he could die.

But he wouldn't have run. He wouldn't have deserted Tem- orii and he wouldn't have run from a petty tyrant.

Strange, to have so important a decision boil down to something as simple as personal pride.

And suddenly, it was time. The sand was cleared and dragged a final time. A hush fell over the stadium. On his platform on the stand beside the rings, the arbiter pulled a red-and-gold banner from the container and raised it on the staff.

The number thirty-three billowed out and a roar went up from the crowd.

Chosen for luck by the contestants, plucked at random, these numbers meant no more than identification. Within the central courtyard, that number would be announced, and a contestant's perilous journey to the rings would begin.

Each guest in Rhyys' box had been presented elegant, engraved, gold-and-silver viewing glasses. As the music began, Mikhyel trained his on that distant building, to which the contestants had supposedly been led that morning.

The plain doorway sprang into sharper view, and a slim, lithe figure in sparkling red and gold emerged. Five steps forward, to a stone turning. A wooden gate to either side: only one opened. On its far side, a blade swept in an arc at waist level. The audience could see, the contestant could not. The audience had been given a key to the maze, the contestant had not.

The gate swung open, the blade swept toward the contes- tant. He dropped, flat to the ground, sprang up the moment the blade passed overhead, and dashed for the far end Where only solid stone awaited.

Retreat, then, another clash with the blade, and a second attempt at the locked gate, which this time opened smoothly.

But time had been lost on the clock that spun atop the arbiter's tower, ticking off the minutes. Energy had been wasted. The contestant's confidence had been shaken. All of these things, Temorii had told him, could affect the final outcome.

The rest of the maze contained similar tests of endurance and wit. No two tricks were the same, though some were variations on themes. Seemingly solid stone shifted beneath a dancer's feet here, there it was a mirror-made illusion.

Blades, falling stones, false avenues . . . all designed to test and exhaust and delay the contestant.

Time was important, but so, Temorii had said, was the style in which one extricated oneself from the dilemmas.

No one expected to go freely through, although some could expect easier times than others, as not all took the same route and not all the traps worked every time.