Free Divine by Mistake by P.C. Cast

a maple-bay color, like ripe acorns or the leather binding of old books, shading down to mirror the black of the hair on his head from knees to hooves. He shifted his stance, still deep in conversation, and his coat rippled and caught the light from the sconces. He might be a grump, but he must groom himself regularly. Like I said before, he was large, and would probably measure fifteen or sixteen hands high at the withers. He was shaped more like a Quarter Horse than a Thoroughbred, heavily muscled and built for bursts of speed.
    Studying him, I realized that I was not revolted or horrified by this merging of horse and man. And I didn’t have to waste too many brain bytes pondering my acceptance. I grew up horse crazy, which definitely was the norm for an Oklahoma girl, and had my own horse until I left home for college. Actually, my dad liked to joke that I could ride before I could walk. (Wonder if being an experienced equestrian was a prerequisite for this kind of marriage? It certainly couldn’t hurt.) And, truthfully, if he wasn’t Mr. Frown Face I would say that he was actually attractive in a bizarre I’ve-lost-all-touch-with-reality kind of way.
    Their discussion appeared to be over. His friend saluted him and headed toward the door, pausing only long enough to bow quickly to me. ClanFintan settled himself into the chaise next to mine. He really did move gracefully for such a big guy/horse/whatever.
    In a formal, stilted voice he said, “Please excuse the interruption, my Lieutenant had matters of great import to discuss with me.”
    He truly sounded like he had a cob up his big ol horsey butt.
    “Not a problem. Join me in a glass of this excellent wine,” I whispered. Ignoring my abused throat I beamed him a big, gosh-I’m-such-a-nice-girl smile.
    “Thank you.”
    Maybe if he had a drink he’d loosen up and act human (or whatever).
    Servants were spilling out of a distant doorway with platters so laden with food that they reminded me of scuttling crabs. Smells engulfed me, and my tummy suddenly rumbled so loudly that I swear ClanFintan had to fight back a smile. I would have whispered an explanation about being “just a tad” hungry, but I didn’t think my voice would carry over the ladylike roar of my stomach.
    Several wonderful servants (sorry I thought of them as crabs) began offering first me, then ClanFintan, choice portions from platters steaming with delicious-smelling fish in creamy sauce, tender mouthwatering poultry (well, it tasted like chicken) sprinkled liberally with what appeared to be lemon pepper, grains that had a distinctly garlicky smell and veggies that looked like a nice mixture of pea pods, whole mushrooms and baby onions. Being a dainty and ladylike eater, I snagged helpings of everything while motioning for more wine. Yes, I realized I was drinking perhaps a tiny bit too much wine, but it was medicinal. I had, after all, recently been dead.
    The meal decided it. I couldn’t be in hell; the food was too wonderful. Between bites I did manage to glance at my dinner companion, and I was interested to note that he was also eating with gusto, and not just the grains and veggies. It looked like centaurs were omnivorous. (Note to self: be careful, he likes meat and he’s a biter.)
    I guess he noticed my lingering glances, because his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile as he announced, “A good appetite is a sign of returning health.”
    “Well, thank you, Dr. ClanFintan.”
    You’d think I sprayed milk out of my nose the way his eyes opened at my whispered retort. His look made me worry that I had a big piece of food stuck in my tooth or a big booger stuck in my nose.
    “You know that I am not a physical doctor. I am spiritual High Shaman.”
    I had to swallow a piece of chicken before I could whisper an answer. “I’m just kidding you.”
    “Oh. I. Oh.” Now his eyes narrowed at me, and I swear he gave a very horselike snort before he returned to chowing down.
    I was starting