In the Fortress Rhilshen, the demon mage Dar-Karow set aside his guitar and regarded the golden-haired woman who lounged supine in the sun upon a divan. Her eyes were closed in appreciation and she seemed entranced, utterly bemused by the warm notes that lingered in the air.

?That was so sad,? the woman breathed. She opened her eyes and looked up at the window, smiling wistfully at her ghost-reflection in the glass pane. ?But it was wonderful. I could have listened to that for hours and hours.?

In response, he smiled, showing a hint of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, deepening the parenthetical lines around his mouth. He sounded wry, self-deprecating. ?Oh? My songs never used to be quite that captivating.?

?Nonsense. I?ve always adored you.? The woman, Alazais, sat up and stretched languidly. ?Perhaps captivity enhanced my appreciation for your art. Eases the wounded heart, soothes the savage beast and all that. Besides, you have scant cause to complain.?

?True,? agreed Karow, tersely. He ran a hand over his shaved head and offered the woman a mocking smile. ?I am but an amateur, and my tunes will never compare with those who have made bloodsong the study of their life. Thus, the Emperialle honors me with her praise.?

?So formal with me now?? asked the woman as she stood and walked toward him with a lazy, feline stride. She rested her hands on the mage?s shoulders, bent to brush her lips upon his face. ?What troubles my Dar-Karow??