a wicker basket filled with rainbow hued balls of wool.
"I had you brought here," she continued, voice firm and with a confidence of one much older than her appearance. "I knew that you would follow your son."
"He is here?" The Woodsman started forward. "Where?"
"Outside." Her smile was wicked, but the Woodsman didn't care. He rushed to the window and threw it open. Outside all was dark, but he could see golden eyes in the woods around the glade, watching him from between the trees.
"With those wolves and lions?" He turned furiously to the woman, and saw that she had risen to her feet. She was tiny, barely over five feet tall, her thick head of golden hair falling in cascading curls to her waist. She watched him, and there was no fear in her gaze, no discretion or propriety.
"He is. Even now he walks amongst them, but don't fear. He is quite safe."
"Safe with wolves? Are you mad?" The Woodsman took three long strides toward her, and just barely managed to stop himself from gripping her arm. "I must go to him!" With that, he stepped around her, and made for the door.
"You will not find him!" Her voice was a clarion call, and the authority in her tone stopped him before he could cross into the hall. "You may search all night and tomorrow and forever after, but you will not find him. He has become one of them."
The Woodsman felt his heart clench, and he turned to stare at the woman. She stood, hands behind her back, chin lowered, and watching him through her thick lashes. "What do you mean, he is one of them?"
"A wolf. He walks on all fours even as we speak. I turned him into a gray haired beast when he arrived, and in such form will he stay until I release him."
The Woodsman gaped at her, and then shook his head. And yet. The lion had led him on. The wolves and boars had walked beside him, as calm and quiet as domesticated dogs. This house. This room. This woman. He knew, deep in his soul, that he believed her.
"Turn him back. Return him to me."
"Such is within my power."
"Then do so!"
"Only if you pay the price."
The Woodsman raised his ax and rushed toward her, only to stop with the ax held high, the blade shaking in the amber light of the room. "Turn him back, or I will strike you down!"
Fearless, the young woman gaze up at him. "I know you will not. For one, should you do, you would never see your son again. He would slip away amongst the trees like a fish into the ocean, never to return. And two." At this she reached out with her hand, and with one icy cold finger traced the curve of his bicep, tracing it slowly, savoring the swell of the muscle and the power in his arm. "And two, you are not the kind of man to strike down a woman, no matter how much you wish it were otherwise. Am I wrong?" She looked up at him with wide eyes, darkly amused at his plight.
The Woodsman clenched his ax tight and gritted his teeth and stared down into her porcelain beauty. How could a face so perfect hide such malice? Her features were elfin and sweet, her lips succulent and rich and the red of a ripe apple, and her nose pert and small. She was the most beautiful woman he had not only ever seen, but ever dreamed of, and he wished he could strike such fear into her that she would free his son.
But he couldn't.
With a groan he lowered his ax. "What is it you want? Who are you? Why have you done this to me?"
"Three questions," she said, and dropped her hand from his arm to his chest. She spread her fingers wide, and pressed her palm over his heart. Even through his clothing he could feel how cold her hand was. She pressed it against his chest, feeling his muscle, and then ran it down his torso before dropping it away. "Three questions, but I'll answer them in reverse order.
"First, why have I done this to you? I could give you many reasons, all of them true. I could say that I have grown wroth with your chopping down my trees, felling beings who have stood peacefully in their groves for centuries until you came along with
"I had you brought here," she continued, voice firm and with a confidence of one much older than her appearance. "I knew that you would follow your son."
"He is here?" The Woodsman started forward. "Where?"
"Outside." Her smile was wicked, but the Woodsman didn't care. He rushed to the window and threw it open. Outside all was dark, but he could see golden eyes in the woods around the glade, watching him from between the trees.
"With those wolves and lions?" He turned furiously to the woman, and saw that she had risen to her feet. She was tiny, barely over five feet tall, her thick head of golden hair falling in cascading curls to her waist. She watched him, and there was no fear in her gaze, no discretion or propriety.
"He is. Even now he walks amongst them, but don't fear. He is quite safe."
"Safe with wolves? Are you mad?" The Woodsman took three long strides toward her, and just barely managed to stop himself from gripping her arm. "I must go to him!" With that, he stepped around her, and made for the door.
"You will not find him!" Her voice was a clarion call, and the authority in her tone stopped him before he could cross into the hall. "You may search all night and tomorrow and forever after, but you will not find him. He has become one of them."
The Woodsman felt his heart clench, and he turned to stare at the woman. She stood, hands behind her back, chin lowered, and watching him through her thick lashes. "What do you mean, he is one of them?"
"A wolf. He walks on all fours even as we speak. I turned him into a gray haired beast when he arrived, and in such form will he stay until I release him."
The Woodsman gaped at her, and then shook his head. And yet. The lion had led him on. The wolves and boars had walked beside him, as calm and quiet as domesticated dogs. This house. This room. This woman. He knew, deep in his soul, that he believed her.
"Turn him back. Return him to me."
"Such is within my power."
"Then do so!"
"Only if you pay the price."
The Woodsman raised his ax and rushed toward her, only to stop with the ax held high, the blade shaking in the amber light of the room. "Turn him back, or I will strike you down!"
Fearless, the young woman gaze up at him. "I know you will not. For one, should you do, you would never see your son again. He would slip away amongst the trees like a fish into the ocean, never to return. And two." At this she reached out with her hand, and with one icy cold finger traced the curve of his bicep, tracing it slowly, savoring the swell of the muscle and the power in his arm. "And two, you are not the kind of man to strike down a woman, no matter how much you wish it were otherwise. Am I wrong?" She looked up at him with wide eyes, darkly amused at his plight.
The Woodsman clenched his ax tight and gritted his teeth and stared down into her porcelain beauty. How could a face so perfect hide such malice? Her features were elfin and sweet, her lips succulent and rich and the red of a ripe apple, and her nose pert and small. She was the most beautiful woman he had not only ever seen, but ever dreamed of, and he wished he could strike such fear into her that she would free his son.
But he couldn't.
With a groan he lowered his ax. "What is it you want? Who are you? Why have you done this to me?"
"Three questions," she said, and dropped her hand from his arm to his chest. She spread her fingers wide, and pressed her palm over his heart. Even through his clothing he could feel how cold her hand was. She pressed it against his chest, feeling his muscle, and then ran it down his torso before dropping it away. "Three questions, but I'll answer them in reverse order.
"First, why have I done this to you? I could give you many reasons, all of them true. I could say that I have grown wroth with your chopping down my trees, felling beings who have stood peacefully in their groves for centuries until you came along with
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