"You know, Old Wolf of mine, I believe I'd noticed that," a quietly musical and gently amused voice said from somewhere very near. "In fact, we've been rich for as long as I've been old enough to notice anything."
"Aye, but now we're richer-and 'tis so damned clever! Little love-lass, where are ye?" Mirt demanded in an amiable roar, stamping around the trophy-crowded room impatiently. Still rubbing his hands, he peered into the bedchamber, where the great canopied bed hung from the ceiling on thick gold-cord ropes overhung by the magnificent canopy Asper had made. Her wardrobe doors stood open, but so many clothes were bulging forth that there was no way that even so slender an imp as his little lady could be hiding therein. The bed hung well clear of the floor, with only a huddled pair of his old boots beneath. The bed-sized bathing-pool in which she loved to soak was empty, though the scent of blossom water bespoke its recent use. Nay, she was not here!
"Where are ye, love?" he roared, whirling back to face the domed trophy chamber and spreading his arms wide. "Wher-"
The air shimmered in front of him, over the widest open expanse of furs and cushions, and that shimmer became an opening door of silver sparks and roiling blue flame. Silent flames traced a doorway that hung upright in midair.
Through it stepped a very long, shapely leg, followed by a tall, even more shapely body that sported a face even the most unattentive Waterdhavian knew.