Mercedes Lackey - Elvenblood

He turned head over heels again, and dove a second time, although this time he did not have the advantage of the sun behind him. He had intended, instead of thumping her in the back of the head, to rake her back with his hind-claws, perhaps even tearing the tender membranes of her wings. But Myre wasn't finished yet; as he feinted, then snapped his wings open an instant earlier than before, she turned on her back, risking all in a desperate attempt to grapple with him and carry him down!

He eluded her only by side-slipping violently, and be lost all the advantage of the speed his dive had given him in that panicked maneuver. She could have had him then—except that she had counted on being able to close, and she lost even more height trying to recover both from the flip and the uncontrolled tumble it sent her into.

Once again he raced for the sun—but slower this time. His breath burned in his throat and lungs as he panted; his wings felt as heavy as stones, and his body a burden too great for his wings to carry.

Now what? Now what? I can’t keep running like this; she has more endurance than I do! 1 have to end this, and end it quickly.' Running me out of endurance was how she won that last fight!

Finally it came to him. It was desperate—but right now, a desperate chance might be the only one he'd have.

Once again, he turned and dove. Once again, she flipped over to grapple with him, claw to claw.

This time he let her catch him.

Her fore-claws grabbed and locked with his, her hind claws raked across his belly-skin, sending rivers of agony racing along his nerves. He screamed—but pulled her closer, pulling her head between his wings.

And he sent the lash of captured lightning that was a dragon's most feared weapon arcing between the tips of his wings, catching her head in the middle.

Her mouth snapped open in a silent scream; her head arched back on her long neck until the back of her head met her shoulders. Her claws convulsed closed once, as he maintained the arc—then, when he released the lightning, she went limp.

He was ready for that, or else she might have achieved a Pyrrhic victory by making them both tumble headlong out of the sky onto the hard and unforgiving earth. He pumped his wings furiously as her limp body dragged at his; holding both of them in the air in a controlled fall instead of an uncontrolled one. Instead of both of them tumbling and plummeting to earth, he achieved a hard landing, with her body still locked in his talons. Fortunately, he had her to cushion his fall. He was not feeling charitable enough not to take advantage of that.

Just as well, since she had started to come to just as they landed. Her head hit the ground, and the force of the blow knocked her out again.

Not for long; just long enough for him to pin her to the ground, helpless beneath his weight, as the wizards ran toward them from the tents. Behind the wizards, the humans of the Iron People approached them cautiously.

"Shift, Myre!" he growled. "Into a human. Do it now, or I swear I'll—"

"You'll what?" she taunted, although there was panic in her eyes as she tried to squirm away and couldn't. "You'll kill me? You haven't the stomach!"

"I'll break your wings," he spat. "I'll shred them, and I'll break every bone, so that no matter how well you heal, you'll never fly again! I'll do it, Myre! I will!"

He saw by the fear in her that she believed him—and of course, it never occurred to her that she could simply shift to heal any damage he did to her! Father Dragon knew that little ploy, and his mother—and of course, he had been the first dragon to try it, to his best knowledge. But evidently Myre assumed, like most dragons, that damage to her true self was permanent damage.

Just as well.

Beneath his talons, she dwindled down and shrank into a helpless human, trembling under his claws, but staring up at him with hate in her eyes. Not a human of the Iron People, but a pale-skinned slave of the elven lords.

"Now what?" she sneered up at him as he loomed over her. "Are you going to eat me?"

He closed his talons around her, none too gently. "You're going to wish I had, Myre," was all he said.

:Shana!: he sent out the thought, even as he spoke. :Get a collar—a new one—and bring Kala and her tools.':

By now the humans were encircling them where they both sat, near-motionless, in the dry, hot grass. Keman was not going to give up his draconic form until he knew that Myre was no longer a threat. The sun beat down on both of them without mercy, but full sun was a friend to a dragon, the hotter, the better, he felt the pain of his belly wounds aching with every tiny movement, but the heat of the sun revived him, even as it wilted Myre in the form he had forced her to assume.

Shana came running up with a collar in both hands; Kala followed at a slow and wary walk, with her pouch of tools at her side. The Priest's wife paid no attention to Myre—all of her attention was on Keman. She was afraid; he knew that by the sweat on her forehead and the trembling of her hands. But she approached him even though she was afraid, proving that she was as brave as any person, two-legger or dragon, that he had ever seen.

"Put the collar around her neck, Shana," he ordered aloud, forming his words in the tongue of the Iron People so that everyone could understand it. "Lock it there."

She did so; he dropped Myre like the distasteful object she was and backed away a pace. Before Myre could even think to try to make a break for it, Shana seized her and wrestled her to the ground, sitting on her to keep her there.

Keman shifted again, concentrating not only on taking his halfblood form, but on healing the wounds that Myre had caused at the same time. It made the shift harder, but that didn't matter; the freedom from pain as he took the final form made him faint with relief.

If anything, Kala's eyes were even wider as she stared at him in his wizard-form.

"You could break the locks on our collars to keep them open, Kala," he said, softly, so that only she could hear. "Can you jam them so that they can never open again, as well?"

She nodded, slowly; then, while Myre cursed and tried to throw Shana off, she turned and walked to Shana's side. Motioning Shana aside to hold Myre's legs, Kala solved the entire problem by sitting on Myre's back and holding her head by the hair. Kala was not a light person; Myre's face reflected that, as she suddenly turned very, very red.

"You will hold still, creature," Kala said, slowly, and carefully, shaking the hair she held so that Myre winced. "Demon or monster, it matters not to me, for while you are in the form of a woman, and wear the collar, you will remain in the form of a woman, and there is no woman born I cannot deal with. If you do not hold still, I will not be responsible for what happens as I work. Some of my tools are very sharp."

Myre froze, not daring to move a single muscle.

That was all that Kala needed, and she released her grip on Myre's hair. Within moments, she had inserted one of her probes into the lock of the collar—jammed it into the mechanism, and snapped the tip off flush with the surface of the collar. Only then did she stand up, and allow Myre to clamber slowly and clumsily to her feet.

"No one will ever open that collar again," Kala said quietly. "You will remove it only when you may find someone willing to cut it from your neck. That, too, will not be easy. You will not be able to remove it with magic, and it is tempered to resist the most determined cutter."

"And while you're wearing it, foolish one, you will find you are unable to shift, or to work any but the smallest of magics." That was Kalamadea, coming up from the rear of the crowd. "I would not try, were I you. I am told that the effects are most unfortunate."