When they returned to the hut, the pile of rotting straw had disappeared. The interior had been swept and the holes in the wall patched. The wolf-pelts had multiplied and a few of the cushions from the ox-cart lay scattered across it. The wood they'd gathered earlier had been set for a fire directly beneath the hole in the roof.

Hiromasa stared. "How…"

"The mice." Seimei indicated the far corner of the hut. "I agreed they could stay if they tidied the place for us."

"You made mice your shikigami." Hiromasa didn't know why he still felt surprised by all this. "Can you ask the mice to cook for us?"

Seimei gave him a puzzled look. "How would a mouse know how to prepare human food?"

Hiromasa sighed. He set his bow and quiver aside and knelt by the kindling. He had a vague idea that one could make sparks by rubbing two sticks together. Doubtless it would take all evening to achieve it, but he was prepared to give it a try. As he reached for the topmost sticks, a tiny burst of flame winked into life at the bottom of the pile.

Quickly, Hiromasa withdrew his hands, pushing his sleeves out of the way as the flame caught, licking its way along the branches and twigs until it flared into a crackling, dancing fire. A ribbon of grey smoke rose. Most of it wended out through the hole; the rest of it clouded about the roof.

Hiromasa coughed and waved his sleeves, trying to disperse the smoke.

"It's all right." Seimei crouched beside him and looked into the flames. The fire seemed to leap beneath his gaze, burning brighter, radiating more heat.

"I thought you said foxes don't like smoke," Hiromasa remarked.

"They don't. However, they control fire." Seimei dipped closer to the flames, holding up his hands to warm them. "Foxes are yin animals, yet they control a yang element. Interesting, isn't it? I once asked a Chinese sage his opinion on the subject."

"You went to China?"

"A long time ago." Seimei gazed into the fire, expressionless.

Hiromasa stared, his mind whirling. It had been almost fifty years since the official break with the court of the Tang emperor. He knew Chinese merchant ships still landed along the west coast, due more to bad weather than intent, but it was a rare occurrence.

"When did you go? How did you get there? Did you go to Chang'an? Was that when you found the spirit-summoning incense?"

Seimei gathered his sleeves around him and stood. "What a lot of questions you ask, Hiromasa."

"You provoke them."

"Perhaps. But you've never been so curious about my past before. Only my age."

Hiromasa watched him leave the warm circle of firelight. "Things are different between us now."

Seimei smiled. "I'll prepare our dinner."

It took a long time to pluck the hen pheasant. Accustomed to food arriving in pleasing arrangements, Hiromasa had never given any thought to how much work went into making a meal. It seemed that, for once, Seimei had overestimated his abilities. The resulting combination of boiled rice and stewed pheasant was edible, but not palatable.

"I said I could cook," Seimei said as they cleared away. He sounded a touch defensive. "I didn't say I could cook well."

The fire began to die. Hiromasa stretched out on the wolf-pelts and gazed up at the sky. The hut was warm now, the smell of the food still lingering. The glow of the embers made the room seem almost cosy. He thought of his house in the city and how draughty it got during the evening. Perhaps living in a hovel wasn't so bad after all. Then he thought of the time – surely it couldn't be past the hour of the rooster – and reflected that, in the capital, the day was only halfway through.

If he were at home now, he'd have received several messages offering various ways to spend the night. Unless he'd received a summons from a member of the imperial family, the Chancellor, or his mother, Hiromasa would give his attention first to Winter Moon's invitation, then to any written by other ladies of his acquaintance. Sometimes it took him an hour to work through all the letters.

He chuckled, imagining messengers trudging through the forest to deliver their letters to him now. How ridiculous they would look! Hiromasa's chuckle became a laugh.

On the other side of the fire, Seimei asked, "What is it?"

"This." Hiromasa flapped a hand at their surroundings. "At home there'd be so much to do. Parties, contests, boring long discussions on the Chancellor's latest poem, an evening listening to Winter Moon chatter about the colours of her robes, an hour while my mother tells me about the virtues of one of my marriageable Fujiwara cousins, another hour drinking watered-down sake with one group of courtiers and the hour after that drinking very strong sake with a second group… Maybe a stolen moment with a princess, or some banter with a lady-in-waiting while her mistress decides whether to permit me behind her curtain…"

He rolled onto his side and heaved a sigh. "There's so much to do, and yet it's all so trivial." Hiromasa stared at the glowing embers. "There's only one thing in the capital that gives me real pleasure."

Seimei remained silent, his expression hidden by the encroaching shadows.

"Come here." Hiromasa sat up and patted the wolf-skin.

Seimei rose and moved around the fire to sit with him. They did not touch, but Hiromasa was aware of his closeness. Seimei resumed gazing at the embers. Perhaps he saw something there, some sprite or imp that resided in flame. Hiromasa looked at his friend's profile, the sweep of his nose and the softness of his mouth and the length of the lashes veiling his eyes.

He wanted to tell Seimei how lonely he'd felt these past few months, how he'd allowed himself to get so tangled in duty and court and social conventions he'd been afraid to step outside of it. He wanted to tell him that even the memory of one afternoon drinking sake together on the veranda was enough to carry him through the most tedious of court rituals.

Most of all, he wanted to tell Seimei that he missed being with him. Seimei was the only person of his acquaintance who never demanded or expected anything of him. Hiromasa couldn't imagine anyone else capable of passing an afternoon in a silence warmer and more intimate than conversation. His courtly friends sighed over the usual ideas of the fleeting nature of beauty, agonising over the writing of forgettable poems; Seimei made him perceive the world differently, made him aware of how everything was linked in an endless cycle of life and death.

Hiromasa wanted to say all these things, but the words caught in his throat. He took a breath and released it in a whispering sigh.

Seimei turned to him. His hair, bound at the nape, had loosened. He looked softer, younger. Without conscious thought, Hiromasa reached up and brushed the back of his hand against Seimei's hair. It felt warm, as animal as the wolf-pelt beneath them. Bolder now, Hiromasa tangled his fingers in the long black strands, his grip tightening to draw Seimei closer.

Seimei allowed it, his gaze darkening. His lips parted.

Hiromasa stared at his mouth, thinking of the things he'd heard about the Chinese. On the mainland, it was said, lovers kissed on the mouth. It seemed a strange, barbaric custom, one he'd flinched from trying before. But Seimei had been to China; Seimei would know how to do it.

Hiromasa angled his head, wondering how such a kiss could take place without loss of dignity. He leaned forward and pressed a questioning, delicate kiss to the corner of Seimei's mouth.

With a tiny moan, Seimei moved to accept the kiss. His eyes closed. Hiromasa copied him. It was easier to concentrate when his eyes were shut. He kissed Seimei again, enjoying the softness of his lips and the eager way he responded. Really, if this was the way foreigners kissed, it was pleasant but nothing extraordinary.

Hiromasa swayed forward when Seimei seized his sleeves and pulled him hard against him. The kiss heated, lips parting, breath shortening. Hiromasa flattened his hand through Seimei's hair, cradling the back of his head, holding him closer still.

Seimei darted his tongue against Hiromasa's lips. It tickled. Hiromasa giggled, then gave a muffled gasp when Seimei's tongue slipped inside his mouth.

It felt like a violation. Hiromasa jerked back in shock, but Seimei grasped at him, held him close.

"Kiss me," he murmured. "Take my mouth the way you'd take my body."

His words fired Hiromasa. Clumsily he imitated what Seimei had done to him, stabbing his tongue into Seimei's mouth. Instinct and desire guided him; no longer was this a mere curiosity. Hiromasa wanted to learn everything about it. If it brought Seimei pleasure, he wanted to master it.

Seimei broke the kiss, his breath sharp and staccato against Hiromasa's cheek. Hiromasa splayed his fingers in Seimei's hair and pulled him down for another kiss. This time he felt the power of it go straight to his cock. When Seimei whimpered beneath his mouth, Hiromasa ached. Desperate for more, he pushed Seimei back onto the wolf-skin.

Seimei's arms went around him. Hiromasa lay over him, feeling the heat of Seimei's erection pressed against his belly through the slithering layers of silk and brocade. Their clothes were a nuisance, a distraction Hiromasa didn't want. He untangled his hand from Seimei's hair and pulled at the collar of his hunting-costume. Without bothering to undo the sash at his waist, Hiromasa yanked at the folds of the under-robes to bare Seimei's throat.

Heat poured through him. Hiromasa felt the blood pounding in his ears, deafening him to everything but Seimei's exquisite, desperate noises. Hiromasa kissed his mouth, capturing the sounds, taking Seimei's moans into himself as a prize. Now he understood why foreigners kissed like this. Stealing someone's breath, tasting them, joining with them to silence words so only their bodies could speak… it was heady, delicious, dangerously addictive. Hiromasa felt as if he could touch Seimei's soul.

Overwhelmed by a rush of lust, Hiromasa broke away and turned his kisses onto Seimei's pale throat. He nuzzled into his hair, smelling wood-smoke and damp bracken; when he kissed his skin, Seimei tasted sweet and musky.

Need snarled at him. Hiromasa slid his tongue over the pulse in Seimei's neck, feeling it beat frantic and wanton. Seimei mewled and arched back, rubbing against him.

"Yes," Seimei whispered. "Bite me. Claim me."

Hiromasa sank his teeth into Seimei's neck and felt him buck beneath him. Seimei grasped at his shoulders, clawing into his brocades. Hiromasa licked over the bite and nipped at the curve of his shoulder. Seimei gave up tearing at Hiromasa's clothes and pulled at his own. Catching his urgency, Hiromasa reared back and scrambled out of his robes, heedless of the twisted heap they made beneath them.

Naked, he lay on top of Seimei. In the dying light of the embers their skin seemed the same colour, licked by gold. Hiromasa could already see the new bruises darkening at Seimei's throat. The sight made his cock jerk and spool a sticky wetness across their skin. He put a hand between them, pressing their erections together.

Seimei arched up, gasping, his eyes wide. "Please." He wriggled, trying to turn onto his belly. "Please."

Hiromasa stopped him, trapping Seimei on his back. "Why do you always face away from me when we make love?"

"This is only the third time you've bedded me." Seimei refused to meet his gaze. He undulated, clearly trying to distract him. It almost worked. "I seem to remember it was you who arranged me on the last occasion. Does it matter which way I face?"

"Yes." Hiromasa frowned. He'd meant to say 'no'. He persisted. "Is it because you're half-fox?"

"Perhaps." Seimei flashed him a glance, a shadow of wariness replacing desire. "You could blame a lot of my habits on my parentage, if you chose to do so."

"It's not because of your mother." Hiromasa knew that now with certainty. "It's because you're afraid."

Seimei went still. "I am not afraid of you."

"Then let me see you. Let me watch your face when we make love. I want to see what you look like when you come."

"Much like any other man, I imagine," Seimei said tightly. He tried to roll over again, a signal that the conversation was at an end.

"I'm not interested in any other man." Hiromasa leaned his weight through his hips and thrust hard. His cock slid wetly over Seimei's belly. The response was immediate and instinctive: an upward heave, a gasp of frustrated acknowledgement. Seimei lay still then made another attempt to twist sideways. Hiromasa caught him, seizing his wrists and pinning him to the fur.

Seimei still resisted, but now his struggles felt sweet, a sensual tease rather than with the intent to escape. "Perhaps I prefer to face away from you because it makes things easier."

"Not for what I have in mind." Hiromasa slid a hand down Seimei's thigh, urging him to spread his legs. Seimei obeyed, and Hiromasa settled between his thighs with a groan of pleasure.

"It's still easier –"

"Seimei. Hush." Hiromasa kissed him until he felt Seimei surrender. "What is it you fear? What don't you want me to see?"

Seimei closed his eyes and turned his head, presenting his throat in silent offering. Hot and restless, he moved in the fur, his skin sheened with sweat. Hiromasa tasted him; his scent like fire and wood-ash. He smelled his own arousal, the warmth of musk rising between them. He had the sudden urge to cover Seimei in it, to mark him the way an animal did its mate.

He rocked against Seimei, careful at first. Seimei's belly was taut with tension, his cock hot and hard. Hiromasa lifted himself enough to slide his hand back between their bodies and grasp their erections together. He thrust harder, feeling the spill of pre-cum rub slippery-wet over their hot skin.

Seimei whimpered and turned his head, his hair in his face. Hiromasa nuzzled it out of the way. "Let me see you," he whispered, licking the curve of Seimei's ear, biting the tender skin just behind it.

Seimei kept his eyes closed and trembled. "Why?"

"Because I want to know you. All of you." Hiromasa felt Seimei's hips stir, felt him respond to the rhythm he'd set. It was easier now, his hand moving on their flesh, drawing them towards orgasm.

"You always shut me out. Let me in. Let me prove…" Hiromasa stopped, suddenly aware of the aching passion in his voice. That he was capable of such raw hunger surprised him. He didn't know what he was trying to say – and still Seimei wouldn't look at him.

"Seimei." He wanted something, anything; an acknowledgement of their intimacy, the reassurance that this meant more than a conventional expression of physical lust. Desperate, Hiromasa buried his face in the curve of Seimei's neck. He groaned, blind now to everything but the need to climax, to feel Seimei shudder beneath him in helpless ecstasy.

Seimei gathered him closer. Hiromasa kissed his throat, bit him until Seimei cried out and went tense, so tense his body shook with it, and then he gasped and released, his seed warm and wet between them. Hiromasa knew he should look at him now, should lift his head to see what expression Seimei wore in the aftermath, but he didn't.

He struggled for his own climax, coating his hand in semen and stroking himself until he came, hot and brutal, over Seimei's chest and belly.

Hiromasa lay still. If it meant that much to Seimei, if he needed to conceal his feelings for a little longer, Hiromasa would let him hide. But he wouldn't be satisfied with this forever. He wanted more. Much more.

Hiromasa woke in the darkness before the dawn. Easing himself from the enveloping animal warmth of the wolf-pelts, and careful not to wake Seimei, he gathered his clothes and dressed before slipping out of the hut.

The forest, grey-painted and silent, waited for him. He strolled around the clearing, taking deep breaths, then sat on the fallen log. The chill of the morning settled over him, a gentle dampness seeping through his silks and brocades. Hiromasa took his flute from within his cloak and raised it to his lips.

He played without conscious thought, the music flowing from him as fluid as water. Though he began with a tune popular at court, his fingers soon moved to form other notes; first in variation, then in composition.

A leaf, red splotched with gold, fell from a tree and floated down to land at his feet. Hiromasa tried to capture the graceful spiral of the leaf in his music, but couldn't bring himself to end the lilting melody. He glanced up, playing to other leaves as they fell to join the first. Down they came, a silent flurry moved by the dawn breeze.

When the sun rose and the sky brightened, Hiromasa lowered his flute. He stared in front of him at the rigid tree-trunks, the jagged branches bare of foliage and the dull, lifeless tint of the earth. He stood, aware of the sharp, clear quality to the air that almost made him catch his breath.

While he'd played his flute, it seemed that winter had arrived.