Linda Evans - Sleipnir

I brought her down, took her up again, and brought her down until she quivered. When I slid inside, she gasped, pulling me close and raking my back with her nails. She was reduced to little more than panting groans when my mouth sought hers.

And then we fought a battle few—if any—other mortals had ever fought with Rangrid, and survived to tell the tale.

This time she was asleep before me.

When I woke the second time, I found her gazing at me. Her long hair spilled across both our bodies. I smiled, and she answered. Then she leaned closer to kiss me.

Ahh, what I wouldn't give...

But I was utterly relaxed, my body warm and tired, and I didn't want to move again for the rest of my life.

Her eyes crinkled nicely when she smiled. "Are you hungry?"

"Mmm; but I don't think I could manage it again."

Her eyes twinkled. "Not that, silly. I meant, would you like some dinner? Gerta did bring in a platter of food while we slept."

"Oh, so there really is a Gerta? I thought she was a convenient fiction."

She laughed. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy every second."

I held up three fingers of one hand in a Boy Scout salute.

"I cannot tell a lie."

She kissed my fingers; then rolled over and sat up.

I groaned. "God, how can women have so much energy?"

"Lie still, then, and I'll drop grapes into your delightful mouth."

I grinned. "That sounds good." Every great hero is entitled to a couple of grapes from a beautiful woman; isn't he?

She reappeared with a heavy tray, and proceeded to fill my "delightful mouth" with all sorts of wonderful delicacies. I fed her in turn, and we laughed like children and drank strong, dark mead until we were both tipsy.

Then I surprised myself, and made love to her again, slow and gentle; and we made it last for more than an hour.

Sometime thereafter I gradually awoke to a sensation I hadn't experienced since I was four years old. The mattress was cold and wet. I struggled up onto one elbow.

"Oh, no." I flopped back down.

"Mmm?" Rangrid opened her eyes, and looked worried. "What is it?"

"Somebody spilled." My mother's favorite phrase returned to haunt me.

We had managed to spread the contents of the dinner tray with remarkable thoroughness across the bed. The overturned pitcher had been responsible for waking me; mead was soaking its way coldly beneath us.

Rangrid rolled over, and eyed the mess askance; then turned and unexpectedly licked the inside of my right knee. I jumped. Her tongue tickled. Especially after... what... three ? Gad, a personal record... .

"Tasty," she approved.

"Oh, yeah? Let's see."

She shrieked as I pinned her down, licking and tickling mercilessly. About an hour later, we managed to stumble into the hot tub again, where we scrubbed away the sticky remains.

Gerta arrived to say she'd freshened the bed. Rangrid smiled her thanks. We lay in each other's arms in the heated water for a long time without speaking. I listened with surprising contentment to our mingled breaths and the soft hissing of the coals beneath the tub. I could get used to this... .

But then, Loki probably was on the verge of getting loose... and I still hadn't done anything about Gary... and Odin was just waiting for morning... .

And Rangrid's softness was more distraction than a man could bear.

I had to concentrate on Odin. He never had given me the answers I'd asked for. He'd given me a speech—and a bad one, at that—but no answers. Certainly not an answer to why he'd been snatching folks like Gary. Killing me made sense; at least it did after I'd sworn to wring his neck and proved I was dangerous enough to be a real threat.

Odin was afraid to give me back the Biter, which meant he was afraid of the knife, at the very least. Had he kept trying to kill me because I owned the Sly Biter? Was that why he'd killed Gary? Because of a knife? Baldr had said the Biter turned up when the balance hung precariously, and he'd confirmed what Gary's grandmother had said, about it choosing who carried it. Maybe Odin was systematically eliminating everyone who owned the thing. I should've asked Skuld about the Biter; but talking to Skuld, even for a few seconds at a time, was a soul-shaking experience.

Still, I should've asked.

The idea that Odin might have murdered Gary Vernon over a knife ...

That brought me squarely back to tomorrow morning. Why had Odin challenged me to a duel—instead of just murdering me—when he knew I wanted to fight him? Was he that confident? Or that skeptical of my chances? I worried over that like a rat with a bone, looking for a trap I knew had to be there. All my plans hinged on whether or not Odin could be killed. I didn't mind taking the risk—or I wouldn't have been where I was—but I would've felt better, knowing. It would have helped to know for sure whether I'd killed Loki's wife, or just injured her. I suppose that made me callous; but certainty beats blind speculation any day.

What if I couldn't kill him?

I wasn't normally so philosophical. All that mead was having an effect, and I wasn't certain it was a good one. I'd accomplished what I had by charging in feet first, and counting the cost later. Changing tactics now might be fatal; but I couldn't afford to ignore the possibility that Odin might not be killable.

I narrowed my eyes, and considered alternative tactics. Maybe I could defeat him without killing him? I snorted. Right. He wasn't about to quit fighting until I was very much the deceased Randy Barnes.

This wasn't getting me anywhere.

I tried to come up with some sort of battle plan, and instead found myself thinking about Skuld, and Loki, and predestination. Maybe it was just the major events that were planned out in advance. Maybe nobody understood the game plan when it came to details. If everything were predestined, then maybe Ragnarok was inevitable, and maybe Loki being freed was inevitable, and I'd merely been used as a tool of convenience.

I didn't much care for that scenario. Nor did it fit known facts. Obviously, Odin knew at least some of the rules were off; perhaps he knew, too, that everything was changeable. Given his spy network, even Odin could have figured that out, eventually.

I began to feel a little better. Not much; but a little.

I'd have felt better yet with the Biter in my hand. Funny, how naked I felt without it. I wondered if Gary had felt the same way. He was out there, somewhere, in that vast, dark hall. I wondered if he was awake, too, and what he was thinking. I missed having him around to bounce ideas off, or to offer advice. Right now, I needed Gary Vernon's advice. Nobody on Earth realized it, but I was the only thing standing between them and Odin's version of Ragnarok. That left me holding several billion lives in my water-wrinkled hands.

My lips quirked wryly. If I were Earth's best chance, Earth was in big, big trouble.

Rangrid stirred, and lifted her head. She saw me, and made an unhappy sound in her throat.

"It's time, isn't it?" I asked.

She nodded silently.

"Rangrid—"

"Don't. Please."

She left the tub quietly, and dried herself; then turned and held a clean towel for me. She kissed my lips again, with tears in her beautiful eyes; but she didn't shed them, and her chin came up resolutely, reminding me of someone, from long ago... .

She hugged me fiercely. I held her for long moments, with my heart thumping so hard it hurt. I wasn't sure whether she hugged me for comfort, or to offer it, but I wasn't ready to let go yet when she finally pulled away. I cursed Odin and followed her into the bedroom, where she dressed me in battle clothing. It felt alien and awkward. Heavy leather pants and shirt offered minimal protection. Over these went a sword belt, to which I supposed I would hitch some sort of scabbard. I certainly didn't have a sword of my own, and wondered darkly if Odin intended to offer me one. Last came my own boots, carefully cleaned and laced with new leather laces.