Cold Iron by D. L. McDermott Page A

swath through a thousand battlefields. So steeped in death is its edge that even a scratch, untreated, can kill an ordinary man.”
    She didn’t doubt it for a second. Some instinct had told her not to touch the thing. Thank goodness she had kept it wrapped in cloth, had hidden it in a location where it would not, by the very nature of the place, be touched by anyone: in a museum. She knew a little of ancient weaponry, enough to ask, “What is it called?”
    “It has had many names,” he said. “But in your language, it would be called the Summoner.”
    That didn’t sound so bad. “What does it summon?”
    He didn’t answer her at first. He looked her up and down, considering. Then he appeared to reach some decision. “Do I frighten you, Beth?”
    The question took her off guard. “Yes.”
    “How did you feel when I compelled you?”
    There was no point in anything but honesty here. “Helpless. Terrified. Sick with fear.”
    “What did you fear?”
    Another unexpected question. “What?”
    “What were you afraid would happen when I was using my voice on you?”
    She had not thought it through, and now that she did, she felt the icy dread of it all over again. “I was afraid that I would give in.”
    “And lose yourself. Forever. Become nothing but a hollow shell. And yet, my appeal was such that you were tempted.”
    “What does the sword summon?” she asked again, dreading the answer.
    “I’m the finest warrior the Fae ever produced. I have never known defeat in single combat. But I’m no sorcerer, no bard, no singer of real seduction. Beth, do you understand what I am trying to tell you?”
    She did, but she hoped she was wrong. “What does it summon?”
    “The Fae Court.”

Chapter 3

    T hat’s a fairy story,” she said, clinging to childhood reassurances. There is nothing under the bed. In the closet. At the bottom of the stairs. “A folk tale. A myth.”
    He took her hand and drew it to his chest, then slipped it beneath the velvet of his coat and inside the fine cotton of his shirt. “Do you still doubt the evidence of your own senses?”
    His skin was warm to the touch, his heartbeat strong, the muscles of his chest flexed and firm. She wanted to run her fingers over him, to find the gold rings that pierced his nipples, to make him gasp with pleasure as he had in Clonmel. Her mouth felt dry, parched, and she realized that she was thirsty—for him. A thing of dreams and nightmares. “You’re real,” she said. It came out a throaty whisper.
    He smiled, and she realized that he knew what she wanted, perfectly understood his own appeal. His hand still covered hers. He drew it down, and together their twined fingers found the tiny ring in his nipple. His nostrils flared, his eyes became heavy lidded, and he used the pads of her fingers to pleasure himself.
    His shameless sensuality was frightening. Sex with Frank had always been a distant experience, impersonal. Pleasure was something she found by herself. This was different. Raw, uninhibited, intimate .
    She tried to draw away, but he stepped closer, settled his weight against her, pressed himself, hard and ready, into the cradle of her thighs. He lowered his head to her ear and spoke, his breath dancing hot over her neck.
    “You’ve made the Fae a toothless bedtime story, because the truth would keep you up at night. We ruled you once, through the Druids. A rule neither kind nor benevolent. We are an old race, with atrophied emotions, and we used you to feel ,” he rolled his hips forward, and she felt his erection, thick and hard. “Mortal men, the Druids thirsted for power. They studied our magic, harnessed it with learning. They turned it against us and drove us underground, where most of the Fae dwell still, immured, ever seeking a way out. Save the ones like me, who the Druids imprisoned in their mounds. They thought they could use us, bargain with us.” He smiled ruefully. “But we are a sly race, and often outwitted