Note: Sorry for the delay, I wrote myself into a corner and I've been trying to figure out how to make this work! That'll teach me to write by the seat of my pants! Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! Woot! Makes my day. Lots of sex in this chapter!

Anders's warm breath feathered wisps of her hair across her ear, tickling her awake. Her forehead was chilly, it was the only part of her peeping out from under the furs that covered her and Anders. Enchanted furs at that. Anders had devised a spell to enchant the furs with warmth. She had worked out how to make things more water repellent. In the days since running from Denerim, between them, and the hunting abilities of the others, they hadn't frozen to death, or starved. The mages, out of necessity, were trying things they had never learned at the Circle. Neria was close to figuring out how to erect force fields that could shelter them from the elements but otherwise leave them unaffected. She just needed to learn how to make them last longer.

They had made occasional forays out of the woods to bargain for items they needed while they journeyed off the road to Orzammar. From time to time, they stole what they needed, but always left coins to generously cover the replacement of whatever they stole. The journey by wagon took three weeks by road, it was much, much slower going off the road, hiding in dense woods or climbing over hills and mountains. They figured it might take two months traveling like this. They had to stop constantly to hunt or gather food. Sometimes they would stop for a few days at a time, to dry and smoke a large animal they had killed or fish.

They were starting to look as wild as the forest around them. Many of them wore cloaks or rudimentary clothes made out of animal skins. Beards were getting long and scraggly. Neria had given up on the little braids in her hair. She didn't even have a comb. She just used her fingers to pull the tangles out. The last time they had tried to approach a farmhouse the people had run away in terror, assuming they were a band of outlaws by their looks. They had stolen what they needed and left a pile of coins.

But at least they didn't stink. There was plenty of water around and the mages could make a force field that held the water, which they heated with a blast of flame. Anyone who wished could have a nice warm bath with a minimum of fuss. The last farmhouse had provided several bars of sweetly scented soap. The skins didn't stink either. Between spells of preservation and careful cleaning of the skins, they were nearly odorless.

Neria yawned and stretched, her backside bumping into his groin. Anders, she noted, must be having a pleasant dream. It had been a long time since they had had any opportunity for anything but semi-chaste kisses. They hadn't had privacy at first, when they all had to sleep together sharing body heat, but now with their enchanted furs they slept a ways apart from the others. They had a little privacy, if they were very, very quiet. She turned over, so her face was next to his. Her hand groped under the fur, reaching for his erection. She wore a mischievous smile that made her eyes crinkle. When her hand touched him, his eyes flew open looking very startled.

"Shush," she warned him, her finger on her lips.

He blinked very slowly and let out a breath he had been holding. "Maker," he whispered, "what a way to wake up." His hand glided down her belly, found the waistband of her trousers and pushed them down, taking her smalls with them. He rubbed the heel of his hand against her, making her draw in her breath with a loud hiss.

"Shush!" he told her.

Her mischievousness was contagious. She could see it in his eyes now. It had become a contest, to see who could get the other to make too much noise. Sometimes they got a little competitive with one another, this was going to be one of those occasions. Anders sent a healing spell through the hand rubbing her and she covered her mouth with her free hand to prevent the loud moan that so wanted to escape. She retaliated with tiny electrical arcs from her hand into him. He forgot himself and moaned loudly and jerked his hips so wildly she nearly lost hold of him.

"Fuck!" he hissed quietly, cursing his near lack of control. It had been too long.

"Good idea," she whispered, deliberately misinterpreting his exclamation. She pulled his clothes out the way and looped a leg over his hip and guided him to her entrance. They moved together carefully, subtly, hoping to not attract any attention. Anders hitched up her shirt and sucked on her breasts, muffling his moans in her chest. Neria bit down on the furs to keep herself silent. Then Anders flooded her with his tainted healing energy. Through the loop she was able to reflect some back at him. She hadn't ever done that before, she watched him closely to see how he responded. He was close, very close. She followed it up with her special electrical charge. He learned quickly, he reflected part of it back to her. She felt the bolt of energy flood through her, pooling in her center and it sent her over the edge, moaning as quietly as she could. Her reaction took him with her and he surged into her with a quiet grunt of pleasure.

They lay together for awhile, waiting for their ragged breath to calm and their hearts to stop galloping. She kissed him tenderly, thinking how close she had come to losing him when the Chantry had captured them.

"How did I get so lucky?" Anders whispered quietly in her ear. "Not all that long ago, I was going to be hanged as an apostate and now..."

"Now you're going to be hung as an apostate, and you're living in squalor with a group of outlaws. Without even a comb." She mused his hair even worse than it was to start with. "You've come up in the world." She giggled quietly.

Anders held her gray eyes with his. "It is worth it to wake up next to you every morning." He buried his mouth into her neck and mumbled something.

"What?" She pushed his mouth away from her neck.

"I said..." He buried his face between her breasts and mumbled again.

She sighed. "All right, don't tell me what you said." She pulled up her smalls and her trousers and pulled down her shirt, trapping his head.

He squirmed out of her trap and put his mouth right next to her ear and whispered, "I love you."

Her eyes shone with the tears that threatened to spill. She pressed her lips to his, trying to express in that one kiss everything she felt for him. She didn't even come close. She knew she would spend her lifetime, whatever was left of it, trying.

.

Ser Harrith, the templar Zevran had bribed, was getting quite wealthy. Poverty wasn't the only vow that Harrith had broken, but it was his least favorite. With poverty, he couldn't afford to break the others vows as often as he liked. With the destruction of the lyrium warehouse, the templars remaining in Denerim with him were getting nervous and were buying lyrium from him. Word eventually got to him that not only had the stockpile been destroyed but the dwarves had stopped any further deliveries until the Grand Cleric mended her rift with the Grey Wardens. While it was, in one sense, extremely good news for him, in another sense it wasn't. Eventually even he would run out of lyrium and he was just as addicted as every other templar. He tripled his usual price and spread word of the dwarven embargo to the other templars. He was going to maximize his gain.

There were other rumors too. That most of the templars had been taken away and were being held in a camp, deprived of lyrium. Only a few had been left in Denerim, like him, mostly to guard the Grand Cleric. Apostates were practically ignored these days and the Grand Cleric was in fear for her life.

In some ways Harrith knew he had had a role to play in bringing these events about. He had sold key information to the Wardens, but he didn't trouble himself with guilt. The Chantry sought to control templars as they sought to control the mages. It was a game of control the Chantry was too fond of playing. He was happy to see it backfiring on them for a change.

The weekly service that was attended by the nobility in Denerim was the only service that Mother Sweeney was personally delivering these days. Alistair had long ago tired of hearing her voice. He would have used it as an excuse to nod off, but Eamon shoved an elbow into his side every time his eyes fell shut. He looked around, most of the other nobles he knew were catching up on sleep, a few of the extremely devout were paying close attention.

The Grand Cleric hadn't been plaguing him incessantly since he had lost his temper with her and refused to supply troops to guard her lyrium deprived templars. He was grateful for the respite. He wondered what Neria was up to. He suspected they would go back to Orzammar since they had such strong allies there, but he knew the Chantry was actively hunting them. He thought the Grand Cleric had lost all objectivity in her pursuit for victory over Neria. He was certain her goal of gaining control over the Grey Wardens was now secondary to simply crushing Neria.

Alistair hadn't been idle since the warehouse exploded. He had hired some people to spread the rumor that their had been a fire in the warehouse. He knew the Chantry was circulating their own rumors that it had been done by the Grey Wardens. When it came to credibility, the Chantry usually won out. Still, most people weren't willing to believe the Hero of Ferelden would attack Denerim.

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.
Foul and corrupt are they
Who have taken His gift
And turned it against His children.
They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.
They shall find no rest in this world
Or beyond."

It was the Grand Cleric's favorite passage to drone on about, ever since Neria had first crossed her path. She went on and on every week about magic. The Canticles of Transfiguration deserved a rest. Alistair let her voice fade into the background and he daydreamed, trying to maintain an interested look on his face.

"What is a maleficar?" the Grand Cleric asked rhetorically. "Is it simply a mage that practices blood magic? Is this a suitable definition? Why do we keep the lawful mages of Ferelden in a tower but in order to ensure their power is not put to ill purpose?" She paused for a moment. "The Chantry has the Maker-given duty to protect innocents from mages and we perform that duty tirelessly."

She paced behind her lectern, her voice grew in power, finally catching Alistair's attention.

"But there are dangerous mages that the Chantry cannot protect the citizens of Ferelden from. Not only do they wield dangerous and forbidden magics, they wield political power. Not since the Tevinter Imperium have mages wielded so much influence and power so openly in Ferelden. They are unchecked by anyone, free to do as they please.

I speak of the Grey Wardens, good people.

Yes, we are all grateful at their part in ending the Blight, but they appointed a mage to lead the order in Ferelden..."

Alistair had had enough. It was bad enough what she had been doing behind the scenes, but to try to turn Fereldans again the Grey Wardens was beyond the pale. Alistair got up, he gestured to Eamon and others in his retinue. They turned and left the Chantry. A few other nobles followed behind, ones who still remembered the horror that the Grey Wardens had delivered them from. The Chantry erupted into a low rumbling of murmurs and the Grand Cleric stopped her address, waiting until they had left. What she said after that, Alistair could only imagine.

Interim Knight-Commander Quinn had been tracking the Wardens for two weeks now. His group of templars had enough lyrium for five, maybe six weeks. Ample time, he believed, to find the Grey Wardens. The Grand Cleric believed they would head back to Orzammar. They followed the West Road, out of Denerim, stopping at farms and villages along the way to make inquiries. So far he knew they were not on horseback and were ill-equipped. Several villagers and farm-holders had sold them things. The latest reports had them wearing animal skins and looking like barbarians. With luck he might find them frozen to death. Autumn was definitely on hand and the temperatures had been plummeting. If they were as ill-equipped as he suspected, there would be little chance they could survive in Frostback Mountains. The Wardens were obviously not traveling on the road, although they sometimes ventured near to trade with the farm-holders.

"Ser Quinn," one of the trackers called for his attention. He was bent over something. Quinn walked over and looked down. A ripped and torn shirt lay in the mud. Something about it seemed familiar. It's possible it could be one of the Wardens's. He had seen Neria the night she was captured in Denerim. He didn't quite remember what she was wearing, but this shirt seemed small enough to fit an elven woman.

"It's worth a try," Quinn told the tracker. The tracker knocked as much mud and dirt off the shirt as he could. He held it out for his dog to smell. The dog's tail wagged furiously and he went scurrying off into the woods with his nose to the ground.

"He has a scent, Ser. We should follow him." The tracker followed his dog and Quinn gestured to the templars to follow.

They dog lead them to a cave where they had obviously made a camp. He thought they had their trail now and the shirt was definitely one of theirs.

"This camp is old, Ser," the tracker said. "There are fresh animals tracks over their footprints. They've probably been gone at least several days."

"Then we've got to move fast if we're going to catch up to them. Chances are they're having to stop and hunt and that's going to slow them down. We might catch up to them sooner rather than later." Quinn was optimistic and he really wanted his promotion to be permanent.

The tracker got the dog back on the scent outside the cave and the small army of templars followed.

There she was again, the elven mage. She was so small, so delicate, he could crush her with his hands. He would crush her. But not yet. Oh no, not yet. First he had to get her to talk - was it to talk? Or was it to beg? He couldn't remember. He strode across the floor to the chair where she was tied. Her hands bound behind her, her legs tied to the chair. She was proud and silent but that would change. He would have her screaming for mercy or for more, he hadn't decided yet - maybe both.

He loomed over her and he could see the apprehension growing in her eyes. This time he took off his gauntlets so he could truly feel her skin. It looked smooth. It was pale where it wasn't flushed. Flushed? Did she desire him? He tipped her head up so her eyes would meet his but she kept them looking down. "Look at me," he said, growling. Slowly her eyes crept up to his, so slowly it felt like they burned tracks against his body. When they finally locked with his he felt her desire in the unspoken challenge in her gaze. That look took control of him as surely as blood magic. "Maleficar," he reminded himself.

She controlled his hand, it wasn't him. Maker, no! Not allowed! It seemed to brush her cheek, his hand did, and follow the smooth curve over her jaw and down her neck. She hummed in her throat in obvious pleasure, and his hand ran along the neckline of her blouse. "Yes," she hissed at him. It was her, not him, that made his fingers work so violently on the cords holding her bodice shut. And when he realized he couldn't take her blouse off with her hands tied he - no she made him do it - cut through her blouse. Slit it down the middle and pushed it back so her breasts were exposed. But she was a knife-eared slut and she wore nothing underneath her blouse. It was almost as if she had planned it. She had planned this! Of course, it would take planning to control a templar like himself.

His excitement pushed him against his armor in a manner most uncomfortable. He stripped off his chest piece, his leggings, his boots, just leaving on the padded clothes he wore underneath. He watched her closely as he removed his armor. She had a small, cat-like smile on her face, barely curving her lips, but her smugness was evident. He needed to erase that look. He knelt beside her and touched her breast. Maker, they were so soft, so perfect and small. The tips were pink. He brushed one with his thumb and it reconfigured itself into a hard knot. Then he put his mouth upon it and the plump feeling of her breast against his lips made him moan loudly. She moaned too. Even more when his teeth grazed her, and when he pulled the knot into his mouth and sucked. Now that cat-like smile was gone and her mouth was a soft O and the challenge in her eyes had softened to wanting.

"Maker, yes, templar," she said, breathily.

The dagger in his hand, when did he pick it up? He used it to cut through the waistband of her skirt, then slowly rip through it. He peeled it away from her legs. Of course, she wore no smalls. More proof of her planning. He could smell her arousal. She smelled of the ocean and the forest. He wanted to see her. So he pushed her knees apart, one on either side of the chair and he looked into her, using his fingers to pry and separate so he could see. She squirmed in the chair as his fingers found spots that pleased her.

"Yes, there!" she told him.

He wanted to please her. No, it wasn't him. It couldn't be him. It was her, controlling him, he reminded himself. How could he fight a maleficar? He conceded defeat, there was no use struggling against this. The Maker would understand that he was the victim here. The oceanic forest before him pulled him. He wanted to touch and taste he pushed a finger within her depths and she met his finger with a push of her hips and his tongue darted to the spot where she had said "Yes, there". She was gasping and twitching and panting and struggling against her bonds and he licked harder with his tongue, enclosing that spot between his lips and sucking.

"Please..." she gasped, "Please release me."

What sort of release she was asking for he wasn't sure but if he wanted his own release, he would have to release her. He let go of her thighs and she cried out a protest, but the dagger was back in his hands and it sawed through the ropes around her feet, then the ones binding her hands. He scooped her up and carried her to the divan. She lay there, looking at him, her breasts swollen with arousal, her thighs glistening. He quickly tugged off his own clothes and lay over her, his knees separating hers and he gasped as she wrapped her tiny hand around him. "Maker, I will hurt her!" he thought considering the difference in their size. She didn't seem concerned though, she guided him into her and slowly worked him inside her. The sweat was pouring off him. He let her take the lead and held himself off was almost more than he could bear. She was so small, so warm, so wet. She moaned as she pushed him further and further inside her, so slowly his mind was unraveling. Her hand reached between them and he saw her rubbing that spot. Then, when he was halfway in, she gave one final thrust up with her hips and he was fully within her.

"Go slowly," she commanded him.

He grunted and slowly pulled back from her and then lingered just at her entrance before he thrust himself in, even further than before. She murmured her approval in his ear. Then soon she commanded him to go faster and harder and he did. He was slamming into her, his fingers clenching her shoulders. She was meeting his battering with her own thrusts and her cries were getting louder. Then she uttered a hoarse curse and he felt her tighten around him, her body trembled under his. It was magic and it was pulling him after her. A few more thrusts and...

She was gone. He lay face down on the divan thrusting against the cushion his erection in his hand and he helplessly spent himself, leaving a mess. He sobbed his frustration along with his release. She had gotten away from him again! She always tortured him, leaving him alone and wanting. He viciously pounded the divan with his fists. That witch! She had done something to him. Something made him see her, believe she was there and real, that she wanted him.

Tavish got up and wiped himself clean. His humiliation couldn't be so easily erased. In brief moments of lucidity he knew the hallucinations were getting worse and more frequent. He was on a half-ration of lyrium while he recuperated from his wound, the one the mage Anders had given him. He only got that much due to his rank and he wouldn't be given a full dose unless he was fully useful again. But in his delirium he blamed her. It wasn't his addiction to lyrium, it was her. He was her thrall and the only way he could be free was to kill her.