He walked the heaving horse into the trees, slid down, then lifted Edain down. He carried her to the tree and laid her on a bed of fallen leaves.
“We have a few moments,” he said. His hands were in her hair, running his fingers through it. He bent his head and hot, eager kisses captured her mouth, her throat. He pushed her resisting hands aside to unfasten her cloak. When he did, the white cat jumped out of the front of her gown and raced off into the bushes.
Magnus rolled on top of her, pulling her bared legs up around him. It was madness, but she could not stop him; she was caught up in the fever herself.
“My beautiful, golden witch,” he gasped. “Holy Mary, I can never leave you.”
At that moment they heard the distant blast of a horn. The stallion tossed its head. “Give me the accursed reins,” Magnus shouted. But it was too late. The horse reared and bolted into the night-dark woods and disappeared.
When he turned back to her, Edain was standing in a pool of moonlight, her wool gown and loosened gold hair almost silvery. “I am not going with you,” she said. She turned and walked into the woods the way the horse had gone. A small white shadow, the cat, got up from the ground and followed at her heels.
The trees and the darkness closed around her.