“Prothero, darling, come look at this.”

Cold flame danced in the reflections in the Courser’s eyes, blue on blue. His soft muzzle was tipped toward the cruel wrought iron of the brazier where it jutted from the wall like a beastly claw. One pale hoof remained poised just above the ground. It was a wonderful kiss of freshness—the crinkle of magic in his nose, the coolness on his lathered chest. Ever the Dungeons produced fouler and fouler shocks to his constitution, but every so often: serendipity.

Howell was entranced.

“How do you suppose it does that? It burns, and yet, the emanation is cold. How extraordinary.”

His companion, steely-eyed, stern, stopped a horselength away. They snorted; said, “I do not know.”

“Oh, but it is refreshing, isn’t it? A breath of relief in this insufferable Furnace… I should like to study it, but perhaps not here. Not where the hellhounds might come at us…” Doubtless, Prothero knew where this was going, but Howell got away with a great many things in her company. He was endearing in his curiosity. It was forgivable when it wasn’t putting them in danger, at least.

“Do you think you might—?”

Howell hardly had to finish his sentence before Prothero moved, wrenching the mystical brazier from the wall with her teeth and a good hard yank of her head. Howell pranced lightly, delighted both by her straightforward helpfulness, and the comely ripple of muscle down her back.

“Yes! Wonderful! You are a dear, you know. A real dear. What would I ever do without you?”

Prothero did not answer that.