with her. Filling her body, filling himself with his need of her, filling the night with the singing soaring dragonflight of loving her.
“Yes—oh, yes—now!” she cried out, arching powerfully—and it made no difference to him that the flesh beneath his hands was too full, breasts too heavy, waist too thick and hips too sleek. He sought blindly between her soft thighs, drank from a mouth that tried to suck the life from him. Her thick perfumed hair was a living thing that twisted around him, chaining him to her. He wrenched his head away and cried out Sioned’s name in agony.
“No, little prince,” Ianthe laughed, gleeful, breathless, wrapped around him like a snake. “You know who I am and what I want—what you want! Give it to me! Give me your son!”
Even as his flesh withered away from her, he felt it happening, knew she had won. She let him go. He staggered to his feet, clutching the bedpost, flung back the hangings on their metal rings—tapestries of dragons in all their violence and lust.
Ianthe moved languidly on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, her head thrown back, but her arms cradled her breasts as if a child already nursed there. The eagerness of her fertility would welcome the mindless gift of his—meeting, matching, fusing together inside her belly, creating a life that would be partly his and partly Ianthe’s. He understood now why time had been so important to her, why she needed him “capable.”
Long lashes lifted from eyes the color of dead leaves. “Sometimes it takes only once,” she purred. “But I won’t risk that. Come here to me, princeling. Be sure we’ve made a son.”
A son. “I’ll kill you,” he whispered.
“No, I don’t think so.” She laughed up at him. “Come, Rohan. You’ve already betrayed her. What would once more matter? I make sons, and she can’t even carry a child!”
Thighs splayed for him, arms held out, triumphant laughter. Something hideous lurched inside him, feeding on his hate, capable of killing. Ianthe laughed again as he dug his fingers into her throat. She writhed beneath him, hands grasping, guiding, greedy. Rage snarled through him and he loomed over her, tightening his grip. He drove himself into her in mindless fury, lifted one hand to strike her, laughing madly at the blood that streamed from her lip. She screamed then, a sound hoarse and frightened and shrill with lust. And he laughed again.
“You wanted me, Ianthe? Let’s see how much you want this!” He wallowed in her, spent himself in a vengeance that was her victory over him. He knew it, could not stop himself. He let it go on and on, setting the marks of his hate onto her flesh. When he was finished he fell to one side, nauseated by his own body, hating himself for not having the strength to kill her where she lay. But she had said something that made killing her impossible. She had spoken of a son.
It was a long time before she roused, bruised and bloodied, and slid out of bed. Rohan saw her fingers spread over the curve of her belly. She smiled down at him, raking her tangled hair back from her face, and licked the blood from her lips.
“My father makes only girls,” she said scornfully, her voice rough and throaty. “Your Sunrunner witch can’t even make those. Oh, she’ll get you back, Rohan, safe and sound—I need you alive to confirm that this child is yours.” She laughed again, enjoying his flinch. “You wanted me—all these years, ever since that night I came to you at the Rialla, you’ve wanted me. Don’t bother denying it. We both know it’s true. But you Chose Sioned. Tell me Rohan—could you touch her, after being with me?”
“No,” he whispered, though not in the manner she heard it. He could never touch Sioned again, not having befouled himself with Ianthe. He could still feel her on his skin, feel himself in her flesh.
The door locked heavily behind her. She had won—for now. When she returned, he would kill her. He must.
Chapter Twenty-four
Most of the winter had seen Goddess Keep washed by torrential rains. Unpredictable cloud cover made faradhi communication sporadic at best. Andrade, irked at having to rely on more conventional means of learning the news, subjected visitors to questioning so intense they came away terrified. With the coming of spring, thick fog walled up the keep and the Sunrunners grew as restless as hawks denied flight. Thoroughly sick