Ayla came to consciousness in quite a temper. The glow of coital bliss had abated completely with Ariadne’s return and in its place was a cold fire. It was strange to be so relieved and yet so very, very angry at the same time. When she had thought Ariadne was dead, she had mourned deeply. Now that the goddess was there in the flesh, she felt the pain of the wound inflicted by that immortal hand all over again.

“Leave,” she said in cold tones. “You are not welcome here.”

Ariadne looked at her steadily, gold flecked eyes giving no emotion away as the dark lines swirled beneath her skin.

“Go!” Ayla picked up a pillow and threw it at Ariadne. The petulant act had little effect on the mother of all witches. Instead of striking her it flew very wide, hit the wall and slid down it.
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