Eira slumbered on, a vision of sinful repose that would have made even the most jaded arch-succubus of the elder ages blush with envious recollection.
By any veracious measure, it was a record for her to sleep this much.
He had inspected twice from across the vestibule and found the bond stubbornly quiescent each time — not unconscious quiescent, but the soft, contented, satisfied and unresponsive torpor as though she had crawled into the wrong sarcophagus at sunrise, drawn the lid shut behind her with both diminutive hands, and politely declined all further engagements with the conscious world.
The Original Void-Ice Fairy. Ancient. Imperious and yet she was currently drooling, faintly, into a pillow embroidered with someone else's initials, her lithe, alabaster form splayed across the sheets in the most wanton tableau of utter surrender:
