If anything ever happened to him… The mere thought made her shudder.
Eld ~ Boura Maur
The Tairen Soul and his mate were in Kreppes.
An unexpected thrill of anticipation curled in the High Mage Vadim Maur’s belly when he received the news from his assistant, Primage Zev, one of the handful of Mages who had been with Vadim since their earliest days as Novice greens. Of all the Mages now living, Zev was the one Vadim mistrusted least. He was an experienced Primage who knew his limitations—one of which was a lesser command of Azrahn than Vadim possessed.
“How many tairen are with them?” he asked.
“Just the Tairen Soul, Most High.”
“Elves?”
“No sign of them.”
Fezai Madia had been bragging that the harrying tactics of her Feraz on Elvia’s southern border were keeping Hawksheart and his minions occupied. Perhaps she was right, after all.
“Primage Soros?”
“Awaiting your orders, Most High.”
“Excellent.” Vadim rose from behind his desk and stretched, enjoying the youthful tug and pull of supple muscles in his new, virile body. Gethen Nour, the Primage whose body Vadim Maur now inhabited, had tended his form well. Pity he had not been so conscientious about tending his work. “Zev, old friend, it’s time to prepare for conquest.”
“Yes, Most High.”
“Come with me.” Vadim strode from his office, and Zev hurried close behind. Purple robes and blue swept over black stone as the two Mages ascended to the uppermost level of Boura Fell. There, in a large room fitted with skylights that traveled up through more than four tairen lengths of rock to the forest floor above, a hundred Feraz, recently come from Koderas, had assembled. On the far side of the room, brightly garbed fezaros, Feraz cavalry, crooned to their caged zaretas, the swift tawny cats of their desert land that they rode into battle. Nearer to the door, twenty Feraz witches sent by their leader, Fezai Madia, amused themselves by trying to ensnare the Mages and soldiers Vadim had set to guard them.
When the witches caught sight of Vadim, six of the sloeeyed beauties headed his way, hips swaying, bright silk veils fluttering, ankle bells jingling an exotic invitation with each step. They surrounded him and trailed silken, perfumed hands over his chest, his arms, his back. The air around him grew heavy, warm and sweet and intoxicating.
“At last, they have sent us a handsome one.”
“Look at his hands. Such strong hands.” Smaller, feminine palms brushed perfumed skin in a simulated caress. Breasts rubbed against his arm. Moist lips skimmed across his neck, his jaw, his ears.
“Are you so strong everywhere, zaro?” Nimble fingers darted under his robes and reached for the fastenings of the silk trousers he wore beneath.
In his old body, Vadim had been mostly immune to the seductive enchantments of Feraz witch women, but the lust surging through his new, youthful body as the witches worked their wiles made it clear that was no longer the case. And it gave him a new understanding of Gethen Nour, the Primage who had inhabited this body before Vadim. He’d always despised Nour’s endless carnal indulgences—a powerful Mage controlled his urges; he did not let his urges control him—but if this ravenous hunger was a force Nour had constantly battled, no wonder he’d given in so often.
Now, however, was not the time to surrender to such urges. What the Mages did with Azrahn—enslaving the souls of the weak—Feraz witches achieved through seduction. When a man surrendered to the sensual spell of a Feraz witch, she could bind him to her will, enslave him with her touch, her scent, her body, until he would rip his own flesh apart to please her.
With more effort than he cared to acknowledge, Vadim suppressed the lust screaming through his veins and caught the wrist of the witch unfastening his trousers.
“Enough,” he said. “In a battle of power with me, my dear, you would not like the outcome. Ask your Fezai Madia what happened to the last witch who tried to bend Vadim Maur to her will.”
The witch in his grip went still, and most of the sultry promise blanked from her beautiful face, leaving a look of wary suspicion. “You are Chazah Maur?”
“I am.”
“But I was told Chazah Maur was an old man. Not one so young and”—her gaze swept over him—“dazoor.” His lip curled. Like most of the Feraz language, dazoor was a word with many meanings. When applied to an object, like a house, it meant sturdy, well built for its purpose. When applied to a man, it meant much the same thing, but considering that Feraz witches considered men good for only two things—muscles and mating—the connotation translated to something more like “strong and mountable.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment to my new form, Fezaiina, but rest assured, I am the same Mage—with the same power—as before. So I suggest you and your sisters save your seductions for the Celierians and the Fey. I need my men and my Mages clearheaded and under my control. I will not take it kindly if I find you’ve interfered with that.”
“Zim, Chazah.” The witch lowered her lashes and inclined her head. “As you command.”
“Good. Now give me an update on the potion you have been working on. Is it ready?”
“The potion has been tested and approved by your Primage Grule in Koderas,” the witch said. “My sisters and I are waiting on the rest of our supplies, then we can begin preparing the potion in the quantities you require.”
“How long will that take?”
“Once we receive what we need? Three days, Chazah.” Then, because no Feraz witch could help herself for long, the Fezaiina trailed a hand across his shoulder. “Time enough for other things, hmm?”
He caught her wrist again and this time wrenched it hard enough that the sultry seduction in her eyes became a dangerous glitter. “Do not press me. I will see that you get what you need. You see that you do what you’ve promised.” He thrust her away from him.
The Fezaiina rubbed her wrist and regarded him from beneath her lashes. “Zim, Chazah.”
“Watch them,” Vadim told Zev when they exited the room. “Make sure no one goes near those women without first being warded against Feraz witchspells. And don’t let the same men guard them more than once.”
“Yes, Most High.”
“Be sure they get what they need for their potion. I want twenty barrels of the stuff in four days’ time.” “Yes, Most High.”
“And see to it our friend Lord Death gets well fed. I want him strong and healthy by the end of next week. I have a feeling I’ll be needing him soon.”
Zev bowed without question. “Of course, Most High. I’ll see to it immediately.”
When the call came for the feeding of Lord Death, the High Mage’s oldest and most treasured prisoner, the umagi Melliandra made sure she was the one chosen. A full week had passed since Lord Death had nearly slain the High Mage, and though she’d practically had to tie herself to the wall to keep from going to him, she’d deliberately stayed away until now. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself by constantly being first in line to tend the most powerful prisoner in Boura Fell. The Mistress of Kitchens would get suspicious, and Melliandra’s careful, quiet plans for freedom would be ruined.