Wizard's First Rule

Unclasping his hands, he touched it with his fingers. "What's this for?" "It is a gift from the Bird Man, with his apology for what he tried to make you do. He said he, too, had no right, and wishes to thank you, with this gift, for opening his heart's eyes. Tomorrow he will teach you to use it." Kahlan turned to sit with her back to the fire, facing him, close against him. It was a warm night, and with the heat of the fire, Richard glistened with sweat. The symbols painted across his chest and around his upper arms gave him a wild, savage appearance. "You have a way of opening people's eyes," she said in a coy voice. "I think you must have used magic."

"Maybe I did. Zedd says that sometimes a trick is the best magic."

The sound of his voice resonated with something deep inside her, made her feel weak. "And Adie said you have the magic of the tongue," she whispered.

The look in his gray eyes penetrated her, impaling her with its power, making her breathing quicken. Haunting sounds of the boldas carried in from the distance, mingling with the sound of the fire, of his breathing. She had never felt this safe, this relaxed, and this tense, all at the same time. It was confusing.

Her gaze wandered from his eyes, feasting on other places on his face: the shape of his nose, the angle of his cheeks, the line of his chin. Her eyes stopped on his lips. Suddenly she was aware of how hot it was in the spirit house. She felt lightheaded.

Probing his gaze again, she withdrew the apple from her pocket and took a slow, juicy bite, dragging her teeth across the meat. The iron look in his eyes never wavered. Fluidly, impulsively, she put the apple to his mouth and held it there as he took a big, wet bite. If only it were possible for him to put his lips on her like that, she thought.

And why not? Was she to die in this quest without being allowed to be a woman? Must she be only a warrior? Fight for everyone's happiness but her own? Seekers, in the best of times, died all too quickly, and these were not the best of times.

These were the end of times.

She ached at the thought of him dying.

She pushed the apple harder against his teeth as she watched his eyes. Even if she took him, she reasoned, he could still fight on, at her side, maybe with even more resolve than he had now

It would be for different reasons, but he would be just as deadly, maybe more so. He would be different, though, not the same person he was now. That person would be gone forever.

But at least he would be hers. She wanted him so desperately, in a way she had never wanted anything before, a way that was painful. Were they both to die without being allowed to live? She felt a tingling weakness with the need of him.

Teasingly, she took the apple from his mouth. Juice ran down his chin. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned over and licked the sweet juice from his chin. He didn't move. Their faces were inches apart; she shared his breath, quick and warm. So close was she that her eyes could scarcely focus on his. She had to swallow the wetness in her mouth.

Reason was rapidly evaporating from her mind, being replaced with feelings that tantalized her with promise, gripped her with hot need.

She released the apple, brought her wet fingers to his lips, and watched, her own tongue on her upper lip, as he let each finger slide into his mouth, slowly sucking the juice from them one at a time as she offered them. The feeling of the inside of his mouth, wet and warm, sent shivers through her.

A small sound escaped her lips. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her chest heaved. She ran- her wet fingers down his chin, his neck, to his chest, lightly gliding them over the symbols painted on him, tracing them with her fingers, feeling the hills and valleys of him.

Coming to her knees above him, she circled a fingertip around the hardness of one of his nipples, firmly caressed his chest as she let her eyes slide closed for a moment while gritting her teeth. Gently, but forcefully, she pushed him down on his back. He went easily, without protest. She leaned over him with her hand still on his chest for support. The feeling of him surprised her, the rigid hardness of his muscles, sheathed with yielding, velvety soft skin, the wetness of his sweat, the coarseness of his hairs, the heat. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing, with the life in him.

Leaving one knee next to his hip, she put the other between his legs as she looked down into his eyes, her thick hair cascading down around his face as she continued to support herself with the hand on his chest, not wanting to move it, to lose the connection with his moist flesh. A connection that was igniting her with its heat.

Between her knees, the muscles of his thigh flexed, sending her pulse racing even faster. She had to open her mouth to get her breath. She lost herself in his eyes, eyes that felt as if they were probing her soul, stripping it bare. They sent fire raging through her.