When the morrow came, Altair had lifted a small wooden bucket and drenched himself beneath the icy waters. Steam danced from off his naked body, where the icy waters met his scorching heat. He moaned before the elements entwined with one another. Around the arm, blood ran with the flow of water down his palm from where his swordsmanship tore the flesh from his arms.
"M'lord," Shyla said demurely. The sting on her neck was incomprehensible to the throbbing of her loins. " Lord Edwin would like a word."
"Dry me," He commanded her, curious how far his bedevilment had gone.
Shyla had not shied away. She lifted a rag that smelt of roses and jasmine and reached for his... Altair stopped her smiling as a redness trailed up her neck. She nibbled at her lips, feeling herself going madder by the day.
