Free Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) by Julie E. Czerneda

offer me a more secure resting place. My hair quickly entwined itself around his shoulders and neck, then lay quietly as if not to attract my attention further. Perhaps I should have moved, altering a positioning that was clearly a caress, but why? My fears and indeed the rest of the universe were far away tonight, driven into shadows by the soft monotonous rhythms of the villagers’ songs.
    And the dancers. They had come and gone throughout the evening on a stage defined by a circle of fragrant fires: sometimes whirling, twisting, stamping their belled feet to drumbeats that ached in my bones; other times slow, sinuous movements coun terpointed by piercing notes on a wind instrument. There seemed no end to it, and yet I was amazed the dancers could maintain the pace demanded by the hours already passed. “Withren says they usually dance until dawn,” Morgan added to my thought. True to his word, his shields were in place, but our surface thoughts mixed easily, unguarded in a peaceful truce.
    “Will you join us, Lady?”
    I eyed Withren lazily as she approached, leaving the current group of performers. The headwoman looked wildly exotic with her face, upper body, and multijointed legs coated in paint, the colors glistening with sweat. I sensed her satisfaction. This night was important to the village, a measure of the bounty readied against lean months, a chance to draw together. Why not? I said to myself and Morgan with an inner smile, though the mere thought would have shocked me earlier in the day. I glanced at my empty goblet suspiciously, then shrugged.
    Withren led me into the circle of light cast by the fires. Fortunately, the dance step of the moment was admirably suited to the rank amateur. The drums were lighthearted and steady; I was soon surrounded by what seemed to be all of the mature females of the village. The pattern of the dance was a stamping circle of eight that brought us closer then farther from a chanting outer ring of males. I laughed at Morgan as I passed him and, following the actions of my nearest neighbor, used my hips to give a fairly good imitation of her swiveling torso. There was an innocence here that could heal.
    I don’t know how long the dance lasted. At some point, the male villagers began to join, causing hilarious confusion as they crowded the already tightly packed females. I was bounced from one painted, stamping body only to rebound against another. There seemed to be a large and significant amount of elbow rubbing involved. Breathless, I began to seriously consider moving to the relative safety of the edge. Then I noticed the edges of the dance were spreading out past the fires as pairs of dancers whirled off into the darkness beyond.
    A hot arm slid around my waist. I looked up in surprise.
    Premick’s painted face was puckered in a foolish grin that was certainly unusual on the dignified hunter. I could smell the local brew quite strongly on his breath. Fighting a temptation to giggle, I glanced around to see how the others handled this sort of thing. As far as I could tell, they were all happily being claimed. I tested his grip and found it to be like iron. “Premick,” I began, as we moved, continuing to stamp up and down quite madly in unison, toward the nearest gap in the fires.
    “Premick,” a deeper voice echoed. Morgan stood, unmov ing, in our path. Premick’s drink-clouded mind took note of the barrier, and slowly he stopped dancing. I waited motionless in his hold, uncertain all at once of Morgan’s intention. Surely the Human knew all this was in fun, that I was more amused than perturbed by this evidence of the villagers’ acceptance of me and my part in their celebration.
    But why did the music falter and stop? Why was I suddenly trembling as if in a cold breeze?
    It was power. Morgan’s inner power, combined with the portion I had given him of myself. Somehow, the humor was gone as I recognized that something else—rivalry, possession, claiming—was