Master of Dragons by Angela Knight Page A

strode away, heading for his quarters. His thoughts slid grimly to the coming confrontation with Varza. He veered up a set of narrow stone steps, his armored boots ringing. Flecks of quartz glittered in the light of torches as he climbed.
    The fortress looked like the rough stronghold it was; he saw no reason to waste magic on amenities. They’d dug a warren of rooms and corridors in the black stone of the cliffs: barracks, a kitchen and dining hall, training areas, interrogation rooms. The furnishings were just as rough—handmade wooden chairs and tables, pallets of hay that served as beds. Conjured furniture might be more elegant, but it also tended to vanish when its creator was killed.
    Arralt’s own rooms lay deep within the cliff. Personally, he’d have preferred a better view, but Varza did not care for sunlight. Reaching the thick wooden door, he swung it wide and stepped inside. Into a haven of opulence.
    The light from a magical fire glinted off gold and gems and rich inlaid wood. His lover had a taste for beauty, and saw no reason not to indulge it.
    Through the diaphanous curtains around his bed, he saw a figure rise from the thick feather mattress. The curtains blew aside as if from a sudden breeze, revealing a woman—lush and naked, her hair a waterfall of forest green in the torchlight, her body as pale as new snow.
    Even now, he found himself enjoying Varza’s sense of theater.
    Once, her name had been Ceredith, and she’d been an open, laughing beauty who had loved him with all the passion in her uncomplicated soul. He regretted her loss, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
    The eyes that had once been sapphire blue were now yellow and hard as she studied his face. “You failed.”
    Arralt stiffened at the fury rising in her eyes. “Cachamwri knew. He sent one of his dragons. The bloody beast took her.” He drew the Sword of Semira from the scabbard he’d thrown across his shoulder and tossed it on the bed. “At least I kept her from escaping with the sword.”
    Varza’s yellow eyes narrowed in sudden interest. “This dragon—what did he look like?”
    Arralt shrugged. “Blue, of course. Cachamwri knows of that idiot legend. Even my men were ready to hand over the blade to the creature.”
    To his surprise, a slow, cold grin spread across Varza’s face. “It’s not an idiot legend, my love. But perhaps it is an opportunity we can use.”
    Arralt turned to stare at her, appalled. “You don’t mean there’s any truth to it?” If there was…
    She laughed, a seductive purr. “Fear not, my general. Even true prophecies can be twisted into a new shape, given enough skill and power.”
    â€œWhat do you have in mind?”
    â€œOh, a great many things.” The light from the fireplace painted the curves of her lush breasts with gold. Her teeth looked very white against her red lips. “But I must think on that a bit longer. In the meantime, about the kidnapping…”
    â€œIt is not so easy getting enough men into place. Llyr has been foiling assassination plots for centuries, and he is particularly protective of his wolf bitch.”
    Her smile was darkly seductive. “Why don’t you let me take care of that?”
    He grinned back. “Why, Varza—whatever do you have in mind?”
    â€œWhat I do best.” A gesture of her hands sent magic spinning over him. In an instant, his armor was gone. His lingering anger and frustration vanished as she reached out a hand and began to stroke him, lust in her unholy yellow eyes.
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    Nineva gaped as she turned in the center of the huge square, taking in the surrounding châteaus and castles that shone in the night like magical torches. The cobblestone streets were empty, though she thought she could hear laughter and music in the distance. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
    â€œNot exactly,