Sparks of Ice

He stood as though encased in granite. She knelt before him, prostrate in haughty servility. His eyes, near lifeless lamps of sight, ran over her bent head, noting the soft ropes of black jewels that cascaded like a silken curtain, obscuring her face.

A heated ache as hard as a hailstone filled his loins. He spoke, his voice hoarsely sibilant, like a raven's caw, "Come, Bella mia."

A spark, cold as a chip of ice, briefly lit up her face; was snuffed out before it gained in heat. She rose, graceful and lithe as a dolphin.

"My Lord"