Spellbound

“Be gone from this place.” Her voice filled the great hall, rang like bells. “Or face the death of mortals.”
    He wiped a hand over his mouth, furious that she’d drawn first blood. “A battle, then.”
    At his vicious cry, a shadow formed at his feet, and the shadow took the shape of a wolf, black-pelted, red-eyed, fangs bared. With a snarl, it sprang, leaping toward Bryna’s throat.
     
    Cal pounded up the cliff, driving his mount furiously. The castle glowed brilliant with light, its walls tall and solid again, its turrets shafts of silver that nicked the cloud-chased moon. With a burst of knowledge, he thrust a hand inside the cloak and drew out the globe that waited there.
    It swam red as blood, fire sparks of light piercing the clouds. He willed them to clear, willed himself to see as he thundered higher toward the crest of the cliff.
    Visions came quickly, overlapping, rushing. Bryna weeping as she watched him sleep. The dark chamber with the globe held between them and her whispering her spell.
    You will be safe, you will be free. There is nothing, my love, you cannot ask of me. Follow the stag whose pelt is white, if your heart is not open come not back in the night. This gift and this duty I trust unto you. The globe of hope and visions true. Live, and be well, and remember me not. What cannot be held is best forgot. What I do I do free. As I will, so mote it be.
    And terror struck like a snake, its fangs plunging deep into the heart. For he knew what she meant to do.
    She meant to die.
     
    She wanted to live, and fought fiercely. She sliced the wolf, cleaving its head from its body with one stroke of will. And its blood was black.
    She sent her lights blazing, the burning cold that would scorch the flesh and freeze the bone.
    And knew she would lose when midnight rang.
    Alasdair’s robes smoked from the violence of her power. And still he could not break the circle and claim her.
    He sent the ground heaving under her feet, watched her sway, then fall to her knees. And his smile bloomed dark when her head fell weakly and that fiery curtain of hair rained over the shuddering stones.
    “Will you ask for pain, Bryna?” He stepped closer, felt the hot licks when his soft boots skimmed the verge of the circle. Not yet, he warned himself, inching back. But soon. Her spell was waning. “Just take my hand, spare yourself. We will forget this battle and rule. Give me your hand, and give me the globe.”
    Her breath was short and shallow. She whispered words in the old tongue, the secrets of magic, incantations that flickered weakly as her power slipped like water through her fingers.
    “I will not yield.”
    “You will.” He inched closer again, pleased when he met with only faint resistance. “You have no choice. The charm was cast, the time has come. You belong to me now.”
    He reached down, and her shoulder burned where his fingers brushed. “I belong to Calin.” She gripped the amulet, steeling herself, then flipped its poison chamber open with her thumb. She whipped her head up and, with a last show of defiance, smiled. “You will never have what is his.”
    She brought the amulet to her lips, prepared to take the powder.
    The horse and rider burst into the torchlight in a flurry of black, storm-gray, and bright steel.
    “Would you rather die than trust me?” Cal demanded furiously.
    The amulet slipped through her fingers, the powder sifted onto the stones. “Calin.”
    “Touch her, Alasdair”—Cal controlled the restless horse as if he’d been born astride one—“and I’ll cut off your hands at the wrists.”
    Though there was alarm, and there was shock, Alasdair straightened slowly. He would not lose now. The woman was already defeated, he calculated, and the man was, after all, only a foolish mortal. “You were a warrior a thousand years ago, Caelan of Farrell. You are no warrior tonight.”
    Cal vaulted from the horse, and his sword sang as he pulled it from its scabbard. “Try me.”
    Unexpected little flicks of fear twisted in Alasdair’s belly. But he circled his opponent, already plotting. “I will bring such fury raining down on your head…” He crossed his arms over his chest, then flung them to the side. Black balls of lightning shot out, hissing trails of snaking sparks.
    Instinctively Cal raised the sword. Pain and power shot up his arm as the charges struck, careened away, and crashed smoking into stone.
    “Do you think such pitiful weapons can defend