She is water ahead of him. A silver-red storm cloud pulled from the sky, melted beneath the Solterran sun and turned to pouring liquid. She slinks ahead of him, the curves of her body the undulating bends of a river. His lips still press against the silk of her copper skin. He drinks her warmth, her scent as though she were water to his parched throat.
 
Maybe she was.
 
Her words strike from her sharp tongue and land with the bite of a whip’s thong upon his skin. He should be the lion now chastened, but he is too wild, too fierce and his claws dig deeper into the sand beneath him. His lips lift, curling into a smile – a terrible snarl and it is a wonder when the sunlight catches only blunt square teeth where it is sure fangs could rest.
 
She peels from him, leaving his lips like ice, even in he dry heat of the desert. The Crow watches her go, storm grey skin consumed by a red, red desert. He walks on, alone, his electric eyes bright as he watches to check there were none who heard their recent exchange. Content in their secrecy, he slips on home, for tomorrow would rise with more labour beneath the unrelenting sun.
 
@Rhoswen – wrapped this up for us at last lovely <3