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Placing the crystal goblet on one side of the altar, Jared called in the small silver chalice and set it on the other side. Moving with the measured step of ritual, he walked to the fire pit, created a tongue of witchfire, and lit the pile of kindling and wood he’d gathered earlier to create a small bonfire.
Almost ready.
He undressed, leaving his clothes on the path just beyond the circle. Shivering, he returned to the altar and called in the folding knife he’d honed that afternoon. He knelt before the altar, carefully opened his wrist, and let the blood, hot from the vein, flow into the small silver chalice. Once the chalice was filled, he put a warming spell on it to keep the blood heated. Then he vanished the knife, pressed his thumb over the wound, and walked back to the edge of the clearing.
On the edge of Ranon’s Wood was a natural bowl. Surrounded by the grassy slopes was the large dance circle, its dirt carefully sifted and raked. At the new and full moons, the witches gathered there to dance privately with their Sisters. But the full moons after the spring and autumn equinox were the public celebration of the male.
As the sky darkened and the moon began to shine, the males would gather in the streets, quietly talking, watching the women drift casually toward the circle.
As they followed the women, they would hear the drums, the Craft-enhanced sound rising out of the bowl and filling the countryside. Then the Priestess’s voice would rise above the drums in wordless song, calling them to the dance. Another witch’s voice would be added to hers, and another’s, and another’s.
Slowly the males would flow up the slope and down the other side, filling in the spaces that had been left between the women as the Priestess lit the bonfire. One by one, the women’s voices would quiet. The Priestess would tip the large silver chalice and cast the circle with Craft and the blood the witches had offered for the dance. By the time the circle was completed, it was only her voice and the drums, calling.
The Wisdom Dance, the elders’ dance, came first. Standing at the edge of the circle, the Priestess would extend her hand and bring the first man across. She continued bringing men across the circle, finally stepping out as the last man who chose to dance stepped in.
The drums would change the beat. The fiddle and flutes would take the place of the women’s voices. And the men would dance the steps that had been danced since the time of the great Queen Shal.
After the Wisdom Dance, the Priestess’s voice would rise again with the drums. The elder males would come to the edge of the circle and bring across the young males who had gone through the Birthright Ceremony for the Boys’ Dance.
The Wisdom Dance expressed experience and dignity; the Boys’ Dance celebrated high spirits and energy.
Then came the Youths’ Dance for the males who had gone through puberty but had not yet made the Offering to the Darkness.
After the Youths’ Dance came the dance celebrating male power in all its primal glory. The Fire Dance. The dance of sex.
Consorts, husbands, and males who were handfasted could wear short loincloths if they wanted to. The other males, those who had made the Offering but were not yet formally bound to a woman, indicated their willingness to become lovers by wearing nothing but their Jewels and their pride.
A hot dance. A grinding dance whose steps were as formal as all the others and yet blatant and arousing, promising pleasure.
You’re not old enough for the Fire Dance, Jared.
But I’ve made the Offering!
Yes, you have. But in most other ways, you’re still a youth.
I’m ready for the Fire Dance, Father.
Jewels or no, being a man is more than having a hard cock.
But—
We’ll talk again before the spring dance. Everything has a price, Jared. You can’t take a man’s pleasure without taking a man’s responsibilities, too. You may be ready for the one, but you aren‘t ready for the other.
Jared watched the fire rise toward the sky.
Had that been part of it? Still sulking like the youth he truly was, had he ignored the warnings and accepted that witch’s invitation in order to defy his father’s judgment and prove he was a man?
Except Belarr had been right. Hehadn’t been ready for the Fire Dance. He had briefly enjoyed a man’s pleasure and then paid a brutal price.
Stepping forward, Jared inspected the wound on his wrist. It had already begun to clot.
He called in the knife again, reopened the wound, then vanished the knife. Using Craft and the blood dripping from his wrist, he cast a circle big enough to contain the altar and enough space around the bonfire for a single dancer.
As soon as the circle was cast, he used healing Craft to seal the wound.
He closed his eyes, swaying slightly. He could hear the drums and the women’s voices calling the Shalador males to the dance.
His heart began to beat in time with the drums.
His blood heated.
He opened his eyes.
On the other side of the bonfire was another male, a phantom shape with blazing green eyes and golden skin.
Jared’s breath caught as the wild stranger bared its teeth in a smile that challenged him to embrace—toaccept —what it meant to be an adult Red-Jeweled male.
Primal and savage, the Warlord had come to the dance.
The drums got louder.
Returning the smile, Jared began the Fire Dance.
Round and round they went as the music became more urgent, more demanding. Round and round. Skin glistened with sweat from the heat of the bonfire and the heat of the dance.
Emotional chains that he hadn’t known were there broke and melted away. Social restraints burned in the fire.
Faster and faster. Heart pounding. Feet pounding.
Side by side now, they danced, drawing the male fire closer and closer to the surface until it consumed everything else.
The drums became more insistent as the music built to the climax.
Jared kept dancing, dancing, dancing.
His body throbbed as the Warlord, with a savage smile, slowly faded as it filled him, flooding him with a fierce, triumphant hunger.
The drums faded, and the Fire Dance came to the end.
Jared stumbled away from the fire and sank to the ground, exhausted and painfully aroused. His body quivered and burned as he stretched out full length on the cold ground.
Too sensitive to bear the prick of grass, he rolled onto his back and stared at the moon.
He needed. Mother Night, how he needed!
His rational mind supplied a terrifying word for the intensity of his condition.
Rut.
Except for Warlord Princes, Blood males rarely experienced the rut, that savage, almost uncontrollable need for sex. That Warlord Princes went through the rut once or twice a year was one of things that made them what they were—and one of the reasons they were considered so dangerous. During the rut, their tempers rode the killing edge for so long almost anything could provoke them into violent destruction. Other males weren’t safe around a male in rut. Even women weren’t safe from the cold rage that was entwined with hot desire.
