Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  A long hiss and a shifting of the fuel in the furnace brought her attention back to the fire. There was a popping noise and a shower of sparks. The fire snapped.

  It was time.

  She let her focus on the fire soften, seeking the lightening of her mind in which magic grew. Gathering her power, her Light, she sent it flowing down her arms and into Marcus’s body. He stiffened as it touched him, surprising her. She hadn’t expected him to feel it.

  “Do not fight it,” she whispered.

  She felt his spirit hesitate, then relax. She rode his acceptance, chanting Words of Light. Magic flowed into the furnace, into the coals, into the iron. The rise and fall of the bellows echoed inside her mind. She let her mind grow soft, wrapping it loosely around Marcus’s. It felt so natural, to hold him this way. She swayed forward, giving in to her yearning to press herself against him. The contact felt so good. She couldn’t pull back.

  How long she stood, with her body and mind touching him, she did not know. Light flowed between them, around them, binding them. His rhythm on the bellows quickened. Heat hissed from the furnace. Sweat ran from her pores. The fire rose, consuming the ore, melting it, changing it. The magic swirled and danced around it.

  Light infused her spirit. Her knees felt weak; her hands slid from Marcus’s shoulders to wrap around his torso. The rocking motion of his body as he worked the bellows intensified the tingling in her nipples. She rubbed them against Marcus’s shirt, seeking relief. Her leather apron muted the sensation. Goddess! She needed him closer. Clumsily, she tore at the apron’s ties, groaning in thanks when the heavy garment slumped to the ground.

  “Gwen …” He made a noise in his throat, half pleasure, half pain. His lungs worked in tandem with the bellows, the rhythm quickening yet again. Her arms tightened convulsively about him. He was slick with sweat, his shirt plastered to his skin, his hair dripping. She pressed her cheek on the top of his head and clung to him.

  She’d released the Light. Now it remained to call Deep Magic. Anxiety seeped through her veins. Once Deep Magic was called, there would be no turning it back. No way to undo what she started.

  There was still time for retreat. If she drew back now, the sword would still be powerful, infused with Light. The Elders would accept that, perhaps even applaud it.

  And yet … what if it were not enough? What if Avalon were destroyed, because she had given in to her fear? Light danced behind her closed eyelids. It had to be now. The power—the Words—were there, within her, waiting to be set free.

  She summoned the Words to her lips. Cast them into the world.

  Deep Magic, set free.

  Power exploded inside her, poured through her contact with Marcus and into the furnace. A rushing noise sounded in her ears. Her head spun. Her body felt as though it would whirl into a thousand pieces, as if her human flesh could no longer contain her.

  It could not.

  The wolf leaped to its feet and howled.

  Chapter Nine

  Marcus wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

  The heat in the furnace was tremendous. Sweat poured off his skin, running in rivulets down the side of his face and neck, and into his shirt. He was acutely aware of Gwen’s soft breasts squashed against his back. The peaks were hard little nubs pressed into his skin, tantalizing and unreachable. The combination of her body pressed against him, and yet out of view, inflamed him to a peak of lust beyond anything he’d ever experienced.

  He had a death grip on the handles of the bellows. He couldn’t stop pumping, couldn’t risk the furnace cooling. He’d felt a tingle when Gwen had first laid her hands on him, a slight spark as her magic passed through him. His first instinct had been to resist, but once he’d relaxed, the sensation had disappeared. If Gwen’s Light were still flowing—and he expected it was—his dull, mundane senses couldn’t feel it.

  But he could feel her arousal. The scent of it surrounded him, musky and dark and enticing. Her body moved on his, rubbing up and down along his spine. Her open mouth pressed on the back of his neck, her tongue rasped his skin. Her questing hands ran under his apron, down his chest, over his stomach, tore at the laces on his braccas …

  Jupiter and Pollux. Her fingers closed on his erection. He jerked his hands from the bellows just as her teeth sank—hard—into his neck.

  Pain—and something far more primitive—exploded inside him. A deep, primal part of him forced its way to the surface of his psyche. Instinctive, feral power gripped him. The next heartbeat found him on his feet, yanking at the ties of his own apron. He spun about, grabbing Gwen as she stumbled against him, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She fought his control, thrashing and biting. He felt her knee connect with the inside of his thigh. There was a wildness about her that stirred his lust. His mind spun; his vision turned bright red. He wanted her; he needed her. He pinioned her wrists between their bodies. She kicked at him; he covered her mouth with his. She bit his lip, then sucked the wound into her mouth. The next thing he knew, she was on her back on the ground, surrounded by heat and ash and the odor of burning charcoal. He straddled her, stretching her arms over her head, and holding them there with one hand. His lower body imprisoned her legs.

  “Gods, Gwen. What—”

  “Marcus. Please …” Her voice sounded strange. He did not know what she was asking. Her back arched, thrusting her breasts toward him. Reflexively, he covered one with his free hand.

  Her breath was pulsing in sharp, shallow puffs. Her eyes were not focused. She jerked her arms, but he didn’t let go. He was rock hard and throbbing painfully, his stones heavy and tight.

  “Marcus … please. I need … something, or I won’t be able to stop it—”

  His hand covered her breast.

  She gasped, writhing under him. And then he saw it. A shimmer passing over her body. He felt it like a tingling on his skin. Her eyes changed, the pupils narrowing. They were human eyes no longer.

  Gwen was shifting.

  “Marcus.” Her voice was a thready gasp. “Help me. I don’t want—”

  Horror warred with a bolt of pure, raw lust. He felt something inside him shift, some part of his own humanity falling away. The wolf had been the guardian of his own ancestors; perhaps the spirit of that ancient beast had risen in him now, to accept the challenge of Gwen’s Deep Magic.

  With a shudder, he gave himself over to the primitive madness. He heard fabric rending, and barely understood that he’d torn Gwen’s tunic from neckline to hem. He shoved his braccas down over his hips. He sprung free, hard and pounding and relentless.

  With one hand, he rolled Gwen over, holding her by the neck as he ripped the shredded tunic from her body. She was trembling now. Struggling but not. Her legs parted. Rising on all fours, her hands braced on the ground, she thrust her buttocks backward in unmistakable invitation. The soft round globes ground into his groin. He slipped between them and encountered slick heat.

  His brain spun beyond thought, beyond caution, beyond any notion of restraint. He hardly knew who he was—hardly knew what he was. He only knew he needed this woman’s complete submission. Now.

  “Mine,” he growled. “You are mine, Gwen. Say it.”

  “Yours,” she gasped.

  He covered her, caging her body with his legs and arms. A whirling vortex sucked at his sanity. Every touch, every sound, every smell left him reeling. Her scent inflamed him; he dragged his tongue across her neck, pressed his open mouth to the fleshy mound of her shoulder. She tasted of salt, of honey, of feminine mystery.

  His body was on fire for her. His shaft jabbed between her legs, the broad head finding the entrance to her body. He surged forward and penetrated her, touching the barrier that was proof no man had preceded him. His teeth scraped her skin. Her head dropped, and tilted slightly, like a wolf bitch offering her jugular to her mate.

  His teeth sank into her flesh. The same instant, his hips jerked forward. He surged into her heat, driving through her maidenhead, impali
ng her with one deep, primitive thrust. A cry tore from her throat. The sound filled him with savage satisfaction. Gods, she was tight. Her slick, hot passageway closed on him like a fist. Held him. He licked her shoulder and tasted her blood.

  Reality slammed into him.

  “Hades.” What was he doing? He was rutting on Gwen like an animal. Gods, had he lost his mind? Had her magic crippled his brain? He started to withdraw, then stopped, frozen by her strangled cry.

  “Nay,” she gasped, reaching around with one hand, her fingernails biting his hip. “Do not stop, Marcus. Finish it.”

  Finish it.

  The words set him ablaze again. The top of his skull felt as though it had separated from the rest of his head. Blood rushed hot and urgent to his groin. He grasped her hips, hard, and slid into her a second time, the head of his phallus dragging on the hot walls of her slick inner passage. The pleasure was so sharp, so intoxicating, that the smithy walls might have collapsed around him and he would not have noticed. He closed his eyes, his world narrowing to his cock, to the flex of his fingers on Gwen’s hipbones, to the shuddering surrender of Gwen’s sweet body.

  His hips jerked again and again, pulling and plunging. The rhythm took over his will; only death could have stopped him. A bright light burned in his mind, then spread to fill his body. His stones grew heavy; Gwen’s inner passage contracted.

  He thrust with all his strength, one last, glorious time. She let out a strangled cry, her body convulsing in his hands. His world exploded in a rush of pleasure so intense he was sure he’d been lifted off the ground. For a moment he hung suspended in a place of perfect bliss; the next instant he collapsed, barely managing to avoid crushing the woman under him. He rolled onto his back on the warm stone floor, snagging her about the waist and pulling her on top of him to sprawl across his chest.

  His heart pounded convulsively. Gwen trembled. They were both struggling to gasp air. Sanity, as unwelcome as it was, crept back into his skull. Jupiter and Apollo. What had he done?

  Coward that he was, he waited until she lifted her head and spoke his name before he dared to open his eyes. The sight of her made his heart contract painfully. Gods, she was lovely. Her braid had come completely undone. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like pure moonlight. Her face was flushed, her cheeks red, her mouth swollen. Her eyes were clear and gray. He searched them intently. Incredibly, he saw no anger.

  His shaking hand stroked up her arm. She flinched when he reached her shoulder. With a muttered curse, he lifted her hair and stared at the wound he’d inflicted. He’d bitten her. Gods. Bitten her, and used her more violently than he’d ever used any practiced whore. To add to the insult, his body was not even ashamed. He was still hard. He wanted her again.

  “Gods, Gwen. I’m sorry. I have never in my life treated a woman so shamefully. I … I don’t know what to say.”

  Her hands smoothed over his shirt, her fingers playing with the curling hair below his throat. “Do not apologize to me, Marcus. There is no need.” She kissed his lips. “Do ye not realize what ye did? Ye stopped it.”

  Stopped it? He’d stopped nothing. He hadn’t been able to. He’d let the basest part of his nature consume them both. He’d torn her clothes from her body, not even stopping to remove his own. He’d bitten her, put bruises on her body. And Gwen looked happy about it. Or, more precisely, relieved, as if his unforgivable assault had lifted some incredible burden from her shoulders. He pushed himself up on one elbow, suddenly aware they were lying atop a layer of ash.

  “You should be furious with me. Or crying.”

  She shook her head, a smile touching her lips. “Ye do not understand. The wolf wanted freedom. Ye stopped it, after I had already begun to shift. That has never happened before.”

  Suddenly, he remembered. “But why would you call the wolf here? Now? You promised—”

  “I did not call it.” She looked away, biting her lip.

  He reached up and touched her mouth, smoothing the ragged skin. “Then what happened? Tell me.”

  “I misled ye, Marcus. I promised not to call the wolf, but that was a promise I could not make. I do not control the wolf. Not entirely. Aye, I can call it, and sometimes do, but most often … the magic comes unbidden, especially when my emotions rise strongly. I cannot control it.”

  Marcus sat up the rest of the way, shifting her into his lap. His erection prodded her bottom. “You can’t control when the wolf will emerge?”

  “Not entirely. Not since my time in the cave. I spent so many nights in the wolf’s body, my human soul had begun to fade. Now when the wolf wants freedom, my Light cannot always subdue it. But ye …” She blushed and started to scramble off his lap.

  Reluctantly, he let her go and rose.

  She stood twisting her fingers together. “My Deep Magic has never struck so quickly and violently. Never have I been able to stop it once it’s gotten so far. But when ye turned on me …” She clamped her lips together, her cheeks flushing bright red. Ducking her head, she searched the floor for her tunic. When she found it, under the anvil, she stared at the shredded garment as if she’d never seen it before. Hugging it to her chest, she looked back at him.

  “The wolf yielded to ye, Marcus. Surely ye felt it.”

  “I did. But what does it mean?”

  “I hardly know. I did not even think such a thing was possible.”

  His gaze traveled over her. Her cheeks were still flushed, her pale skin smudged with soot. The imprint of his fingers was on her hip; she’d have a nasty bruise there tomorrow.

  He touched it gently, his remorse sharp. “You’re going to be sore.”

  “It does not matter.” Her fingers clutched the ruined tunic. “But how will I explain to Rhiannon that I ruined her tunic?”

  “No difficulty there. We’ll blame it on the soot and sparks from the furnace. My clothes are destroyed with alarming regularity.” He approached her, relieved when she didn’t flinch. Not willing to give her more chance to protest, he lifted her off her feet and into his arms.

  “What—? Put me down, Marcus.”

  “Aye, my lady,” he said, imitating her Celt accent. She snorted, and he grinned. Striding across the smithy, he rounded the wooden screen and laid her gently on his bed. Easing the ruined tunic from her fingers, he scooped a blanket off the floor and offered it to her instead. “Wait here.”

  He returned a moment later with a filled washbowl, a linen towel slung over his shoulder. He set the bowl on the trunk next to the bed and dipped the rag in the water. “You’re a mess.”

  “This water is hot,” she said with some surprise as he dabbed at the soot on her face.

  “I keep a full cauldron in an alcove on the far side of the furnace. The water heats while I work. It’s useful for washing up.”

  He finished cleaning her face. She sat up, and he drew back her hair from her neck, exposing his bite. He washed the wound, frowning.

  “I can’t explain what came over me,” he muttered. He kept his head down, running the cloth over her shoulders and arms, washing away soot and sweat.

  “Magic,” Gwen said. “Did ye feel it?”

  His hand stilled. “I felt something. Light. Some tingling.” He met her gaze. “Lust. Was that magic, too?”

  “I do not know.” Her gaze drifted to the furnace, where a faint aura shone. Her pulse quickened. “The iron. May I see it?”

  “The bloom is too hot to pull out. Give it some time to cool.”

  The towel dipped between her breasts. He bent his head, circling the rag around her areole. Her nipples puckered to tight buds. She let the blanket slip to her stomach. His mouth went dry; he tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Dimly he was aware of her easing the rag from his fingers.

  She rinsed it in the warm water, then, with light strokes that he felt deep in his belly, washed his face. “Ye are a fright as well.”

  “I never said you were a fright.”

  She guided the towel down his neck. “Take off your shirt.”<
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  He obeyed, shucking the garment and tossing it on the floor. His braccas followed. Naked, he held himself very still as she stroked the rag over his chest. She instructed him to turn so she could reach his back. He did.

  When the rag dipped to his waist, he stood and captured her gaze. “If I make love to you again, will the wolf remain in its lair?”

  A shadow passed through her eyes. “I do not know.”

  “There’s only one way to find out, then.” When she didn’t answer, he added. “I want you, Gwen. I want to make love to you. Not mount you like a rutting boar.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “Tell me you want that, too.”

  “But the wolf—”

  “I’m not afraid of the wolf.”

  “Ye should be.”

  Perhaps she was right. Perhaps lust had eaten all the sense in his brain. It made no difference; he wanted her again. Desperately. Wetting the clean towel, he bent over her, stroking a circle around her navel. Her belly quivered; she made no move to stop him. He tugged the blanket completely away, revealing a triangle of white-blond curls.

  “Lean back, Gwen, and part your legs for me.”

  Slowly, she did as he requested, lying back on the mattress. She wasn’t certain, he could tell, but all doubt had fled Marcus’s mind. He’d forced the wolf’s retreat once. Surely he could do it again. If not … well, it was a risk he was willing to take.

  He dipped the wet towel between her legs. She flinched a little; she must be sore, after the way he’d he used her. He clamped down on his self-loathing. She’d said his roughness was due to magic—it was an excuse that meant little to him. A man’s actions were his own, and Marcus could not deny he’d reveled in his harsh treatment of her body. His orgasm has been the most intense he’d ever known. Had Gwen even found release? He didn’t know—he’d been so lost in his own pleasure that he hadn’t been aware of hers.

  He could correct that, at least. Kneeling before her, he ran his hands up her legs, parting them more fully, opening her completely. He placed a kiss high on the inside of her thigh.