by Erin M. Kinch

“Amira,” the old man croaked, his once-rich baritone barely loud enough to carry beyond the bedroom. The effort cost him a series of wheezing coughs, and he collapsed against the pillows. His head felt strangely tight and heavy.

The door squeaked, and the sorcerer expected to see his wife with the luncheon tray. Her comforting words and sweet smile would be a welcome distraction from his aching joints.

Instead, a blonde vixen sheathed in folds of amber silk stood on the threshold.  (more…)