She stood tall before him—proud—haughty, even—framed by the door she had just entered and shut, adorned with jewelry from crown to toe. Broad cuffs of beaten gold and silver wrapped her wrists and ankles, and glittering rings circled every red-tipped finger. Dark rubies hung at her ears and throat, and trailed down between her breasts like fallen drops of blood. Chains as delicate as spider silk twined around her slender waist and fell in arcs across her hips. A scattering of bright stones was twisted into the silver braids of her hair, flashing with even the most subtle tilt and turn of her head. A treasure trove that any king would envy, she wore—a treasure trove, and nothing else.

Her icy eyes glinted in the light of the hearth.

From his chair across the room, Gwydion looked her over slowly, from head to foot and back again, unmoved and unsmiling.

"You do not like what you see?" Achren asked, sensing his displeasure, her voice like a knife sheathed in velvet. "Every last piece is Fair Folk craft… You do not think the effect beautiful?"

Gwydion hesitated. "I think… it is a distraction," he answered quietly. His green-flecked eyes looked squarely into the enchantress' own. "What lies beneath this armor you wear, Achren?"

Almost imperceptibly, she flinched—her back stiffened, and her crimson lips parted slightly in surprise. The change was as fleeting as a snowflake melting on a warm hand, but Gwydion knew he hadn't imagined it. And then it was gone—supplanted once more by iron, overlaid with sensuous guile.

"Why not remove it and find out?" she purred in challenge. With a faint clink of metal on metal, she stepped closer to Gwydion and extended one pale hand, palm down, on level with his gaze.

Gwydion considered her for a moment, then reached out and clasped her wrist: a war-roughened hand upon polished gold. Slowly, he pulled the cuff over her wrist-bones and past her fingers, then let it clatter to the flagstones below.

Next, went the rings. Gwydion drew Achren's proffered hand close, moving as if to bestow a kiss upon it. Then, with a flash of white, he gripped one of the faceted stones between his teeth instead, and slipped the ring from its delicate perch. Achren's eyes widened, then a smirk came to her lips. One by one, Gwydion pulled the rings off and discarded them like afterthoughts: garnet, diamond, obsidian, ruby, emerald, jet. One hand, then the other. Then the second wrist cuff, wrought in silver.

He bent low to slide the anklets off, as she raised each foot in turn. He felt Achren shiver a little as his fingers brushed the sensitive skin just below her ankle bones and upon her soles. Gwydion stood and surveyed the remaining gems, pondering which should be the next to surrender.

Decision made, he circled around behind the enchantress, swept her hair aside, then unclasped the elaborate necklace and freed her chest of its weight. It, too, he let fall to the floor—a pool of scarlet at her feet. A tingle ran up Achren's spine as Gwydion carefully withdrew each gold hook from her ears, and she felt his warm breath upon her cool neck.

Gently, then, he plucked each gemstone pin from her tresses and ran his fingers through the braids, unleashing a curtain of glistening waves over her shoulders and down her back.

Finally, he came to the chains about her waist—thinner chains than any Gwydion had ever seen, but no less binding for their delicacy. His eyes flicked back up to meet Achren's, as he reached out and twined one strand through the fingers of both hands. With a swift tug, the silver and gold links sundered. Then the next chain; and the next; and the next. Slowly, he unwound them, reaching around her waist and behind her back again and again, until every last chain slid away.

And then, he stepped back.

And there Achren stood—still tall, still proud, but with a shadow of something softer in her expression and carriage. She was stripped truly bare at last, her silvery-white hair and alabaster skin luminous in the firelight, like the moon reflecting the sun.

Silence reigned for several breaths.

"Well?" Achren asked. "What say you now?"

Gwydion nodded in approval, holding her gaze. A faint smile touched his lips and the corners of his eyes. "This is no battlefield, Achren—there is no need for armor here."

Again, a long silence fell as Achren considered his words—considered him. He was a wolf, as always: keen, wary, poised and powerful. And… hungry. Achren could sense it, if not quite see it: a latent, sharp-toothed hunger pacing behind his external calm.

Now it was Achren's turn to smile, knowingly. "What of your own armor, Gwydion?" she asked. Her voice was quiet and measured, but insistent nonetheless.

A flicker of confusion passed across his face—momentary weakness, quickly masked.

Achren's eyes sparked. Slowly, she strode forward, hips swaying just enough to notice. "Yes—you, too, wear armor. For all that you toy with me here, I see you wear it still: your shield of honor… and wisdom… and restraint." She stopped just shy of him, and pressed a hand over his breastbone. "And I wonder… What passionate heart does it protect?"

Again, she saw that brief flicker in Gwydion's countenance—not of confusion this time, but disquiet, and yearning long denied.

Achren shook her head gently. "Always the noble hero: virtuous… incorruptible… infallible, even. Do you never tire of bearing that weight? Those limits? Are you not weary of how it sets you apart—renders you untouchable?"

Gwydion shuddered reflexively as Achren trailed her sharp fingertips down the length of his torso. Her other hand combed the hair back from his temple; cradled his head. His body remained still; his tongue, silent. But his eyes smoldered.

"You have pierced my shell—scattered its fragments at your feet," Achren murmured. "Will you lay your own armor down now, in trade?" She lifted her gaze, and captured his. "Will you set aside the hero awhile, and allow yourself to simply be a man?"

Gwydion swayed a little under Achren's touch; shuttered his eyes against hers; his jaw clenched. When he answered her at last, his voice was low and hoarse, frayed around the edges. "What would you have me do?"

Achren pulled him closer, brushing her lips feather-light against his ear. "Only whatever you wish, Gwydion…" she whispered, "…only whatever you wish."