Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Pleasure's Foehn by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page B

blizzards. Go figure.”
    She started to leave then turned back. “Do you have a desert as well?”
    “Of course we do!” he stated. “We have Araibis troops here from time to time!”
    She looked down. “How would I find the desert?”
    “Ever try looking under hot zone?” he inquired with a smirk. 59
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    “Oh, yeah. There it is.” She glanced up. “How hard would it be to track a heat signature in the desert?”
    “Nigh to impossible,” the man answered. “Now if you don’t have any other stupid questions, I have work to do!”
    Smiling to herself, Davan left engineering. She didn’t think she’d need the instrument in her pocket as she followed the schematic to the area marked hot zone. Unless she missed her guess, that would be where she would find the Deathwielder. 60
    Pleasure’s Foehn
    Chapter Seven

    Cair was shit-faced drunk. He was so drunk he could no longer sit up and was lying with his back to a large boulder, watching a viper winding its way through the deep sand past his boots. The jug of brandy in his lap was a swallow away from being drained but there were two more lying unopened beside it—more than enough to keep him numb for hours to come unless Seamus finally figured out where he had run off to. Overhead, the sun beat down mercilessly and the dunes undulated with heat ghosts. His shirt was unbutton to the waist, thrown back to reveal a chest glistening with perspiration, the thick pelt of wiry hairs sparkling with droplets. Arming the sweat from his forehead, he winced as a drop of the salty moisture slid down into his eye, stinging him. Not that it mattered. The pain in his heart was a thousand times greater than any physical pain he could ever imagine experiencing. He lifted the jug to his lips and finished off that soldier, so inebriated he couldn’t throw the empty away but rather letting it slip out of his fingers. He snorted, remembering an old Meiriceánach saying about being too drunk to hit the side of a barn—whatever the hell a barn was!
    Idly he watched as a scorpion climbed up his pant leg then scampered across his knee and jumped onto the other knee before climbing down again and going on its way. Frowning, for one of the things he hated most in life were insects, he was so intoxicated, he couldn’t have shooed the evil thing away even to have saved his life. He had just enough energy to reach for another jug and struggle to uncork it. An eagle screamed as it flew above him and he let his head fall back to follow the path of the magnificent bird as it sailed upon the thermals. Squinting against the bright glare of the sun, he wished he could be as free as the eagle and take flight, soaring as far from the Foehn and the hurt in his soul as the megaverse would allow. Mumbling to himself for he knew already his mother was setting into motion the reassignment that would take him back to Amhantar, he pulled at the stubborn cork until he managed to pop it free of the jug, splashing some of the liquor onto the back of his hand. Licking the brew off with his tongue, he thought he saw movement out on the desert floor and tried to focus.
    Aye, he thought something—someone—was coming toward him from the shimmering folds of the hot desert waves. Perhaps a mirage, a figment of his imagination or one of the troopers from the Tribunal sent to fetch him home.
    “To rule the roost!” he blurted out, his words slurred. He hiccupped. “To rule the fucking roost.” He put a finger to his lips. “Shush. Shush!” His voice became a whisper.
    “To be the pissant king whether I like it or not!”
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    Rippling like a building wave, the figure came steadily toward him. If it was an enemy, he thought as he took a long swig of the brandy, he was screwed. Weaponless, unable to put up a fight, he could do nothing but lie there and accept his fate. Whatever that was.
    Once more the eagle screamed and Cair turned his sweaty face up to the raptor.