Eternal fire burned in his eyes, fueled by the coal in hers. One had no heart, the other no love.
Dressed to die for, she enters the ballroom, the Dance for the Dead, and watches the shambling, growling dancers wobble across the floor. She sits. She waits.
Then enters the ruler of this underworld, the one who placed them all here: the Grim Reaper. No one notices but her. She seems to glide across the floor towards him, and he watches in silence. He puts a hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder, and they begin their cobblestoned waltz.
Effortlessly sliding in between the other dancers, eyes locked, each enamored by the power of the other. How alike, yet how different the two. He dips her, and for once she is forced to see the world aside from him. The ceiling, draped with spiderwebs, then again the skeleton, draped in melting black, then spinning, other dancers who barely notice they are dead, then back to the Reaper.
The dance ends. The Reaper makes his leave, and she as well at the opposite end of the room.
Later, the witching hour strikes, and the two once again meet, this time in embrace, in body. They shrug off their clothes as if they were no more than rags; her beautiful, flowing pink garment tossed to the floor; his black robe, writhing as if alive, shedded onto the ground.
By morning she has left, and all he has to remember the dance is a piece of cobweb, fallen from the ballroom ceiling, picked from her hair.