Jim Butcher - Furies of Calderon

"I know," he rumbled. "Just relax." He had to struggle to get the shirts off, though not much-they were so large on her. The clothes came away like layers of frozen mud, until she wore only her underclothes. Her limbs seemed shrunken and wrinkled to her. Her fingers were swollen.

Bernard laid her down again, close to the fire, and its heat flowed over her, easing the cramped tension in her muscles, slowly lessening the pain that had come with it. Her breathing began to be something she could control, and she slowed her breaths, though she still shivered.

"Here," Bernard said. "I got it wet, but I've been drying it out since we got the fire going." He lifted her, and a moment later settled a shirt, a little

damp but warm with the heat of the fire, over her. He didn't bother to slip the sleeves on, just wrapped her in it like a blanket, and she huddled under it, grateful.

Amara opened her eyes and looked up at him. She lay curled on her side. He sat on his legs, holding his own hands out to the fire, and was naked above the waist. Firelight played over dark hairs on his chest, over the heavy muscle of his frame, and made soft lines of several old scars. Blood had dried in a line on his lip, where a blow from the other Steadholder had apparently split it, and his cheek had already darkened with a bruise, reflected by others on his ribs and belly.

"Y-you came after me," she said, moments later. "You pulled me out of the water."

He looked over at her, then back at the fire. He nodded once. "It was the least I could do. You stopped that man."

"Only for a few seconds," she said. "I couldn't have stood up to him for long. He's a swordsman. A good one. If the river hadn't flooded when it did-"

Bernard waved his hand and shook his head. "Not that one. The one who shot the arrow at Tavi. You saved my nephew's life." He looked down at her and said, quietly, "Thank you."

She felt her cheeks color, and she looked down. "Oh. You're welcome." After a moment she said, "Aren't you cold?"

"Some," he admitted. He nodded toward where several articles of clothing were spread on stones near the fire. "Brutus is trying to spread some heat into the stones beneath them, but he doesn't really understand heat too well. They'll dry in a while."

"Brutus?" Amara asked.

"My fury. The hound you saw."

"Oh," she said. "Here. Let me." Amara closed her eyes and murmured to Cirrus. The air around the fire stirred sluggishly, and then the smoke and shimmering waves of warmth tilted, moved toward the clothing. Amara opened her eyes to inspect Cirrus's work, and nodded. "They should dry a little faster, now."

"Thank you," Bernard said. He folded his arms, suppressing a shiver of his own. "You knew the men after Tavi."

"There was another, too. A watercrafter. Your sister threw her out of the river."

Bernard snorted, a smile touching his face. "She would. I never saw that one."

"I know them," Amara said. She told him, in brief, about Fidelias and the mercenaries and her fears for the Valley.

"Politics." Bernard spat into the fire. "I took a steadholt out here because I didn't want anything to do with the High Lords. Or the First Lord, either."

"I'm sorry," Amara said. "Is everyone all right?"

Bernard shook his head. "I don't know. After that fight, I can't push Brutus too hard. He's mostly making sure that other earthcrafter can't find us. I tried to look, but I haven't been able to locate anyone."

"I'm sure Tavi's well," Amara said. "He's a resourceful child."

Bernard nodded. "He's clever. Fast. But that might not be enough in this storm."

"He had salt," Amara said. "He took it before he left."

"That's good to know, at least."

"And he wasn't alone. He had that slave with him."

Bernard grimaced. "Fade. I don't know why my sister puts up with him."

"Do you own many slaves?"

Bernard shook his head. "I used to buy them sometimes, give them the chance to earn their freedom. Lot of the families on the steadholt started that way."

"But you didn't give Fade that chance?"

He frowned. "Of course I did. He was the first slave I bought, back when I raised Bernardholt. But he spends the money on things before he saves up to his price. Or does something stupid and has to pay for repairs. I stopped having the patience to deal with him years ago. Isana does it all now. All his clothes get ruined, and he won't stop wearing that old collar. Nice enough fellow, I suppose, and he's a fairly good tinker and smith. But he's got the brains of a brick."

Amara nodded. Then she sat up. The effort of it left her gasping and dizzy.

Bernard's hand steadied her, warm on her shoulder. "Easy. You should rest. Going into water like that can kill you."

"I can't," Amara said. "I have to get moving. To find Tavi, or at least try to warn the Count at Garrison."

"You aren't going anywhere tonight," Bernard said. He nodded toward the darkness at one side of the cavern they huddled in, where Amara could

distantly hear the howl of wind. "That storm came down and it's worse than I thought it would be. No one's moving tonight."

She looked at him, frowning.

"Lay down," he told her. "Rest. No sense in making yourself more tired."

"What about you?"

He shrugged. "I'll be fine." His hand pushed gently on her shoulder. "Rest. We'll go as soon as the storm breaks."

Amara stopped struggling against the warmth easing into her with a sigh of relief and let his hand push her down. His fingers tightened slightly, and she felt the strength of them through her skin. She shivered, feeling at once a sense of reassurance and a sudden spasm of raw, physical need that curled in her belly and lingered there, making her heart speed up again, her breathing quicken.

She looked up and saw in his face that he'd seen her reaction. She felt her cheeks color again, but she didn't look away.

"You're shivering," he said, quiet. His hand didn't move.

She swallowed and said, "I'm cold." She became acutely aware of her bare legs, brazenly on display, and curled them up toward the shirt (his shirt) that he had draped over her.

He moved then, his hand sliding from her shoulder. He stretched out on his side, his chest against her shoulders, so that she lay between him and the fire. "Lay back against me," he said, quiet. "Just until you get warm."

She shivered again and did, feeling the strength of him, the warmth of him. She had an urge to roll onto her other side, to press her face into the hollow of his shoulder and throat, to feel his skin against hers, to share that closeness, that warmth, and the thought of it made her shiver again. She licked her lips.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm…" She swallowed. "Still cold."

He moved. His arm lifted, then draped across her, careful, strong, drawing her back a bit more firmly against him. "Better?"

"Better," she whispered. She turned, hips and shoulders, so that she could see his face. Her mouth lay a breath from his. "Thank you. For saving me."

Whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips, and his eyes focused on hers, then on her mouth. After a moment of aching silence, he said, "You should go to sleep."

She swallowed, her eyes on his, and shook her head. She leaned toward

him then, and her mouth touched on his, his lips just a little rough, soft, warm. She could smell him, his scent like leather and fresh wind, and she felt herself arch into the kiss, slow and sweet. He kissed her back, gently, but she could feel the faint traces of heat in it, feel the way his mouth pushed hungrily at hers, and it made her heart race even more swiftly.

He ended the kiss, lifting his mouth away from hers, his eyes closed. He swallowed, throat working, and she felt his arm tighten on her for a moment. Then he opened his eyes and said, "You need to sleep." But-