They continued to meet often, fueled the tiny spark, fanned it into a rampant conflagration. Not thinking of consequences, they succumbed to the intense passion they shared. Her virtue obliterated, both their lives could be in danger. The penalty–slavery for them both, but she would also be stripped of her powers. Yet, the notion of never being in his arms again caused such pain; to live without him would be her ruin.
This day they met in a field of white flowers. She anxiously awaited him dressed in her white battle gown with gold chain mail covering her shoulders, hanging past her hips, cinched at the waist with a gold rope. Her hair floated in the breeze. She stood, spear extended from her body, pointed heavenward.
He jumped from his steed. Silver chain mail accentuated his broad shoulders, and hit the ground with a thud as he stalked to her.
She dropped her weapon, went pliant, melted into his body. His feverish kisses weakened her knees. He removed her mail, tossed it aside. With hot eyes, he slipped the gown from her body, lowered her to the ground. She writhed beneath him, unknowingly driving him to the brink of insanity.
They lay sated, legs and arms entwined after their lovemaking, talking, laughing, unaware they were being watched.
As they dressed Sigvarðr said, “Let us meet at the ash, midnight, on the morrow.”
“Should we risk it again so soon?” She tied her belt.
Sigvarðr ran the tip of his finger along her jaw, lifted her chin. “I think so.” He took another kiss, dismissed any doubt.
“There I will be,” she sighed.