On the upper story, Ammas was undergoing a metamorphosis of his own, albeit a far more mundane one. Casimir's dagger was not the only thing he had retrieved from the Kettle Red that afternoon. His cursewright's robes hung cozily on his frame. Lightly he brushed road-dust off the brim of his hat, setting it on the crown of his head at a jaunty angle, smiling a bit at the way the charms jingled before he arranged it to a more sober pose. His dagger was sheathed at his belt, and hopefully it would remain so throughout the night: if they reached a pass where he was forced to draw a weapon on Carala, this whole affair was apt to end in disaster. In one hand he held the silver cage containing the airy spirit. It roused a little from its slumber, but he let it sleep for now. Soon it would play its part in Carala's treatment.

Suddenly he froze. From below came a throaty, sensual laugh, followed by moaning gasps of pleasure not at all unlike what he sometimes heard in the Prideful Lioness on the rare occasions he had ventured inside to speak to Laurette or Barthim. The woodland scent, rich and strong and sending shivers all through him, rose from the stair like a thin fog. The moans were deepening, darkening, becoming soft, hungry growls.

The she-wolf was in this tower with him.

Tucking the spirit's cage into his cloak, Ammas slowly descended the stair, his heart pounding. He struggled to master it, knowing if Carala-the-wolf sensed fear on him then things might go very ill indeed. Under the brim of his hat his eyes widened. Crouched in the center of the room, sides heaving like a bellows, was a slender wolf-woman the color of midnight, a thick and wild mane crowning her still hidden face. Thick pawlike hands clutched the stones of the tower floor, the lamplight gleaming off long curving talons. A thick brushy tail swayed anxiously over her hindquarters. Like Denisius in the Maathinhold, Ammas was struck by her feral beauty, and found himself wondering just how similar Carala's natural body was to the one he saw now limned in onyx fur.

"Carala," he said firmly.

The she-wolf raised her face, hazel eyes reflecting the lamplight. Her muzzle wrinkled back, showing long white fangs, a snarl rumbling from her chest.

"Carala Deyn, do you know me?"

With a sleekness even the Namarri would envy, the she-wolf rose to her feet, brazenly unashamed of her nakedness. Those amber eyes regarded him warily. Then with an unnerving speed she dropped to all fours and loped toward him, climbing the risers and meeting him on the stairs, rising again so she was eye level to him, sniffing his face. Her breath was hot, humid, the scent not unpleasant. And why should it be? She had hunted nothing yet, after all.

Ammas took a step backward, so he stood higher than she once more. She cocked her head to one side, tail flitting curiously. Slowly he raised a hand to her muzzle.

With a snarl she seized it in both paws. Ammas froze, his teeth gritting as he felt her iron strength. Immune to the wolf's blood sickness he might be, but he had no defense against having his hand bitten off or his throat torn out. Those amber eyes met his, as the black moist surface of her nose travelled along his fingers. The back of his hand was lined with fine white scars, a souvenir of her partial transformation beneath Munazyr. Before his wondering eyes, she opened her jaws, exposing a lolling pink tongue -- and darted the tip of that tongue along his scars. Soothingly.

"Carala," he said again, his voice soft, "if you know me, make some sign."

Slowly she nodded, the sharp points of her ears twitching through that wild mane of onyx. "Ammas," she hissed, the word strangled and growled, not at all like the unnervingly cultured voice of the wolf he had slain in the temple.

Ammas nodded. The she-wolf let go his hand and turned, sinking to all fours and loping to the tower door. Her pawed hands began to scrabble at the lock, a snarl in her throat. After some minutes of fruitless efforts to tug the door open she raised her muzzle to the ceiling and uttered a plaintive howl. The sound raised the hair all up and down Ammas's body. Gingerly he descended, his eyes meeting hers again when she craned her muzzle over one shoulder.

"Carala," he said in that soft, firm voice. "Would you run under the moon tonight?"

The she-wolf nodded.

Ammas stepped up beside her, surrounded in the fog of her woodland scent. She paced behind him, standing now, sniffing at the back of his neck, one pawed hand on his spine. Carefully he unlocked the door and tugged it open, stepping to one side, gazing at her as the moonlight blazed her fur in silver. Trembling she stepped into the open air, and howled again.

"Go and hunt, Carala Deyn."

She looked over her shoulder at him with what could only be described as gratitude, then took off in the direction of the Heptarch's forest on all fours, howling again, the sound now full of delight.

Ammas slipped the spirit's cage from his cloak and whispered to it. The airy spirit awoke at once, shining brightly, bouncing off the wires of its cage. "Watch her," he murmured, and opened the cage. The spirit darted off, easily catching up with the she-wolf and keeping pace with it. Ammas followed, a strange light in his eyes, wondering yet again which of the two of them might be tamed.