Free Foxfire by Barbara Campbell

shrugged off the distraction and found the rhythm again, but still something felt . . . not wrong so much as out of place. Frowning a little, he redoubled his efforts. Nay, there it was again. Barely discernible over the sighing of the breeze and the moaning of the branches and the gurgling song of the stream.
    Laughter.
    Rigat opened his eyes. His hand tightened reflexively, and he bit back a yelp.
    The fox sat between his splayed legs, observing him down the length of its narrow muzzle. There was only one reason why his vision mate could have returned. He had failed to preserve the holiness of his quest and now he was going to be punished. Oh, gods, why hadn’t he forced himself to sleep? Why hadn’t he prayed until his knees ached?
    
    Once again, the voice spoke only in his mind. The teasing tone was even more astonishing than the words themselves. Keirith’s vision mate had no sense of humor, but what could you expect from an adder? Callie claimed his Starling was good-natured, though, and Fa’s Wolf was often playful. Perhaps it depended upon the animal.
    Oddly, though, his vision mate’s voice sounded deeper and less raspy. And its—nay, the voice was definitely masculine— his body seemed more substantial, too.
    The shaft of moonlight in which he sat leached the ruddiness from the fur on his shoulders and back, but the white of his neck, chest, and belly seemed to glow in Gheala’s light. It took Rigat a moment to realize that the moonlight couldn’t possibly be so bright. Nor could it be streaming through the branches from the east when Gheala was barely visible in the west.
    
    Of course, his vision mate could look and sound any way he chose. If it really was his vision mate and not simply a vision. Maybe he had fallen asleep. Maybe this was just a dream.
    The large, triangular ears pricked forward.
    A hot flush suffused him. He yanked his hand free and hastily adjusted his clothes. This was not at all what he had expected from his vision quest.
    
    He had to grin, although he knew the poor Tree-Father would die of embarrassment when he touched his spirit during the testing.
    The fox’s black whiskers twitched. < Then it would be wise to shield him from this particular aspect of your vision quest.>
    â€œHow?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.
    
    The fox directed a pointed glance at his lap, and Rigat’s face grew warmer.
    < . . . and your boundless gratitude to be chosen by such a hunter. Gortin will be suitably impressed, and your tribe will rush to congratulate you.>
    Well, his family would. He wasn’t so sure about the others.
    
    He shook his head, but his vision mate was too wise to be fooled.
    
    The wave of relief surprised him. Even Keirith couldn’t understand—not completely. But his vision mate did.
    When the fox rose, he failed to suppress a cry of dismay. The thick brush lashed once and he winced, fearing he’d angered his vision mate.
    
    The voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of . . . something. Anticipation? Eagerness?
    
    The familiar predawn hush had settled over the forest. Although the sky overhead had lightened to charcoal, the shaft of moonlight in which the fox stood was as brilliant as ever. Rigat waited, sharing his vision mate’s eagerness.
    The