Avalon's story, in full

[maderr]

Hope you likey, Avalon ^__^ Glad your birthday was apparently a verra good one.

And remember my earlier bitching about a side character demanding his own? I was referring to this story, and I've already got his story mapped out -_- *pwned*

The Dragon's Treasure

Tate made a face as the last customer left the shop, then stomped to the door and defiantly flipped the sign so that it said closed.

Stupid humans, messing up his den.

Pulling the key out from beneath his tunic, Tate locked the door then turned and stomped back across the room, retrieving his broom from behind the counter.

There was dirt and grass and all kinds of stuff and he always swept so carefully and still the humans messed it all up again. Sighing, he set to work, sweeping up every last scrap of dirt and dust, frowning as he swept it into a corner.

He would have to sweep again, of course, and if he opened the door now for even a moment someone else would come to bother him.

Sometimes he really wished Master wasn't so nice because that meant Tate had to be nice and he didn't want to be nice. He wanted to snarl and growl and make the humans leave or, failing that, eat them – though humans tended to taste kind of yuck – and Master would never let him.

Though he supposed Master could be the type to make him kill everything in sight and be big and mean and scary all the time. That really wasn't fun – and it was messy, being an evil type of dragon.

Sighing, Tate returned to the counter and pulled out all his cleaning things – the bucket of water he'd gotten earlier, the lovely soap the nice lady next door gave to him, the pretty polish in the blue glass bottle.

Laying everything out on the counter, he then swiftly braided his long, dark turquoise hair, grimacing to feel all the grime which had collected in it during the day. Everyone laughed at him, of course, but he could feel it.

He didn't like being dirty. He didn't like his den – Master's shop – being dirty. All things dirt were bad, and the stupid humans who kept messing it up with their touching and knocking over and whining and indecisiveness – Tate growled low and tied off his hair, winding it around the back of his head so it would stay out of his way while he cleaned and not get dirtier than it already was.

That taken care of, Tate began to work his way slowly through the shop, cleaning the whole top to bottom – polishing the crystal balls 'til they sparkled, dusting off the dozens of jars filled with spell components, carefully cleaning the spell books, tending the magic wands, making certain all the magic charms and talismans positively glittered.

Finished with all the items, he then set to work on the shelves, the cases, the cabinets, then gave the floor another, more thorough sweeping, dumping all the nasty dirt outside before retrieving his soap and water and going to work scrubbing the floor – twice.

Stupid humans. He didn't understand why Master had to get money in such a frustrating way. Why couldn't he just make Tate go out and take it from the humans? Much more efficient, and then he could have a proper den, with everything clean and organized and pretty and no stupid humans trekking through putting their grubby hands on it and—

A soft, muffled crack came from the vicinity of upstairs and Tate sighed, rolling his eyes.

Master and his experiments.

Setting down his scrubbing things, Tate stomped to the back door of the shop and then climbed up the stairs, throwing open the upstairs door. He coughed as pale, greenish smoke poured out. "Master?"

"I'm fine, Tate," came a gruff, easy voice, the words managed between coughs. "Too much eye of newt."

Tate rolled his eyes again and promptly went back downstairs.

He was going to hide the eye of newt. This was the third time this week already – and it wasn't even half over! Grumbling about idiotic humans and even more idiotic human Masters, Tate went back to his scrubbing, finishing off the last bit of floor and then fetching the polish and a new rag, meticulously going over the floor all over again with the polish that would make it shiny and pretty.

Until the humans messed it up again tomorrow.

When he finally finished, the hour was late. Upstairs, everything had finally gone quiet. Master had probably fallen asleep in his chair again; Tate hadn't heard him trip over the piles of junk in his bedroom. Sighing again, he put away his things, put the dirty rags in the bin of stuff to be cleaned tomorrow – every third day was laundry day – and began to put out the lamps.

He wanted to go to bed, but his hair was dusty and sweaty now, and his scales needed a good scrub and maybe if he could get ahead in his chores tomorrow he would have time to polish them properly. That would be nice.

As he moved to the second to last lamp, the one nearest the front door, a familiar voice rippled through him, stopping him in his tracks.

Oh. Oh oh oh. It was early for Macklin to be back – but when he looked out the window, there he was.

His secret Treasure.

Macklin was so very pretty. Tate could stare at him all day. Every day. Forever. The dark silvery-gray hair, the skin that was always beautifully pale despite all the time Macklin spent outside, the bright blue-gray eyes. Tall, slender, the way he moved was so fine. His hands…he adored Macklin's hands. The claws were long, always carefully tended, kept clean and wicked sharp. The only thing sharper was likely his teeth; even from here he could see the points of Macklin's front teeth.

He saw demons all the time, running to and fro for their Masters, but none of them were as pretty as Macklin, who was so much better than jewels or gold or silver or anything else. He sparkled much, much more in Tate's eyes.

If only Macklin thought the same of him…but he could only sigh sadly as he watched his demon flirt with a human who hadn't yet gone to bed. Stupid Macklin.

When the human stepped closer, moving in a way that Tate knew all too well, he angrily yanked the curtain over the window and blew out the lamp, then stomped over to the desk.

Sitting down on his stool, he pulled out the ledger and the chest which held the day's coins, rumbling happily as he neatly wrote in the day's numbers and tallied them up. Then he pulled out a clean cloth and began to carefully wipe and polish every coin, stacking them up neatly.

He was just standing to carry them into the back when there came the familiar three quick, sharp raps at the door.

Tate jumped, then crossly ordered his heart to slow down. It couldn't be Macklin, he never came this late – he always came in the morning, not late at night.

But a quick peek out the glass in the door belied his words – there was his Treasure, smiling away.

Feeling sick, painfully aware of how dirty and messy he looked, but unable to resist any chance to spend time with Macklin, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

"Good evening," Macklin said, flashing an easy smile – but nothing like the one he'd given the human earlier, the kind that made Tate tingly because it was such a hot sort of smile and sad because that sort of smile would never be for him. "I thought I saw you at the window, figured I'd go ahead and drop off my goods for Mad Finnegan."

Tate growled. "Master is not mad." Personally, he thought 'mad' was far too mild a term, but he would defend his Master. "You may come in, but—"

"But don't make a mess," Macklin interrupted with a laugh, and reached out to tug at a strand of hair which had come loose.

Suddenly remembering how messy he was, Tate stumbled back and turned sharply around, stalking back to the counter and finishing up with the coins.

When he'd locked everything up in the backroom and relocked the front door, he finally strode back the counter, where Macklin had set out all the things he'd brought back on his latest trip.

Lots of stuff. Tate reached out and picked up the small, rather battered looking book lying off to the right. Shape-changing spells, and he recognized the wizard marks. This would bring in lots of coins. Giving a deep, pleased growl, he set it carefully aside.

Next he moved to the jewels – an enchanted hairpin, two necklaces, three talismans, and a cloak broach with travel protections laid upon it. "What is the enchantment on the pin?" he asked.

"Mild love spell," Macklin replied. "Nothing too bad, just will get a girl a few extra offers of lemonade." He winked. "Or encourage people not to track in mud, maybe."

Growling at the jest, Tate turned his attention back to the wares. Picking out several small vials of various potions and tonics, he set them in the pile of stuff he knew Master would want and gave a final nod. "Thirty silver."

"Oh, seventy easy," Macklin said with a taunting grin.

Narrowing his eyes, growling more loudly than he had before, Tate fell into the bartering, his tail twitching with every infuriating smirk Macklin tossed him.

At last they settled on a price of fifty three silver, and Macklin swiftly put away the remainder of his goods. Settling his pack, he reached out and again tugged at Tate's hair. "Always a pleasure, dragon. Tell Mad Finnegan I'll be back in a couple of days and will bring the silver serpent tongue with me."

"I will."

"Oh!" Macklin suddenly cried, snapping his fingers. "How could I forget?" He grinned. "Too busy arguing, maybe. That always gets my blood up."

Tate wished that were true, but knew it wasn't. Macklin just liked teasing him, the same as everyone else. He knew what got Macklin's blood up, he'd seen the man flirt and play in the streets more than once.

Reaching beneath his shirt, Macklin pulled out something hanging from a leather cord. Pulling it up over his neck, he held his fist out toward Tate.

Frowning, Tate held his hand out – his eyes widened as he saw the large, glittering diamond which fell into it. There was magic in it, but he couldn't tell what sort. It made his nose itch, his scales prickle, to smell and sense such strong magic, but dragons could not discern the particulars of magic. "What is it?"

"Something I've been trying to get for awhile," Macklin said, a hardness settling over his face, and if Tate had any reason to fear a demon, that look would give him cause to worry. "The former owner isn't very happy I took it, however. If you and Mad Finnegan don't mind me borrowing your dragon-y ways for a few days, I would like you to guard it for me. Like you would a treasure. Please?"

Tate barely kept from spilling that it was guarding a treasure, because Macklin was his Treasure and so he treasured everything about and belonging to Macklin.

Still, it made him a thousand different kinds of warm that Macklin was asking him to guard something. Macklin had never… "I will," he huffed. "You had better pay, though."

Macklin grinned. "You can name your price, oh clean and mighty dragon of Mad Finnegan." His teasing faded away. "Thanks, Tate. I really will be in your debt. I'd take care of it myself, but the man can be rather nasty, and if he manages to best me I don't want him getting it back. No one looks after treasure better than a dragon. I wouldn't bother you with it, but I don't know any other dragons around here well enough to ask."

Oh. Some of Tate's warmth died. Well, that was fair enough. He supposed. Still, once Macklin was gone, he knew his ears would droop the rest of the night.

Another sharp tug at his hair made him growl. "Stop that, demon."

Macklin laughed and winked. "Don't let it get so messy, then," he teased.

Still growling, Tate pointed to the door. "Out."

"Going, going. See, I didn't mess up your floor a bit." Macklin smiled. "Thanks for protecting the diamond, Tate. I'll reclaim it as soon as I know the bastard will leave me alone. If someone comes asking about it –"

Tate growled loud and sharp, baring his teeth, tail lashing. "I know how to guard a treasure, you stupid demon. Now go away!" He strode over and unlocked the door, pulling it open and pointing outside.

Laughing, Macklin obeyed. "Goodnight, Tate," he called over his shoulder.

Ignoring him, Tate once more closed and locked the door. He leaned against it and looked at the diamond in his hand. He would get Master to cast a protection over it, to hide its magic. That would hide it from anyone looking for it.

Slipping the cord around his neck, he went to blow out the last lamp. He would get his bath, lay out his clothes for tomorrow, and then he could sleep.

Humming softly, he set about his plans, frequently reaching up to touch the diamond his Treasure had entrusted to him.

*~*~*

"Mercy me, boy," Finnegan exclaimed, coming through the back door of the shop, holding his head and grimacing.

The way his silver-touched black hair constantly looked a mess, the runes and other marks tattooed into his skin, scars from various spells gone slightly awry, the much-abused condition of his trousers and shirt, and the fluctuating color of magic-soaked eyes—it was little wonder everyone called Master 'Mad'.

It did not help that being a highly skilled wizard affected age – Master was at least two hundred fifty years old, claiming there was at least fifty years where 'things got a little fuzzy,' but did not look a day over thirty summers or so. That combined with his laid back manner was often the starting point for all manner of the sort of mischief that had earned him the epithet 'mad.'

Tate glared at him for the 'boy'. He was not a boy. He was a dragon. And too old for 'boy' besides that.

Finnegan ignored the look, long used to it. Instead he made straight for the dragon, and shoved a hand under the dark blue tunic and pulled out the diamond. Ignoring Tate's squawks of outrage, he turned the diamond over and over, eyes flashing and glittering with shifting colors. "Where in the nine hells did you get this, Tate?"

Yanking the diamond back, Tate shoved it back underneath his tunic and folded his arms across his chest, glaring. "You were supposed to be up an hour ago."

"Inhaled too much eye of newt and pink salamander," Finnegan replied cheerfully. His voice was always a bit gruffer than his lean, handsome features seemed to indicate – he'd once said it was leftover from a mishap involving spending half a year as a frog. "Slept like a baby."

"Or an idiot," Tate shot back. "You were supposed to go help with that curse on the well."

Finnegan grinned and reached out to snatch back the diamond. "Hold still," he said, putting force behind it, giving Tate little choice but to obey. "Where did you get this, Tate? The power pouring off it is giving me a headache."

"Good," Tate retorted, his tail twitching. "I was going to ask you to shield it."

Nodding absently, Finnegan continued to examine the diamond, eyes flaring and whirling with color. "Of course, of course. I would anyway, just to spare myself the headache."

"If you ask me," Tate said tartly, "that is a good reason not to shield it."

Finnegan laughed, then settled to muttering and mumbling as he turned the diamond over and over in his hands. His eyes flared a brilliant azure blue, drowning out all the other colors for a single moment as he cast the shielding spell.

He let the diamond go with a satisfied smile. "There. All better. Now, Tate, tell me why you have a Sorcerer's power amulet in your possession. They don't taste very good, not that I've ever heard, and you hardly need such a thing."

Tate tucked the diamond away and frowned, tail twitching restlessly.

"Oh ho," Finnegan said with a grin. "Why did Macklin give you a power amulet, Tatey my boy?"

Growling, tail lashing with a fury now, Tate pointedly ignored him and went to go polish the crystal balls that some stupid person had pawed over and gotten all grimy and unshiny with their grubby hands.

"Tate," Finnegan said firmly, but without true command. "I need to know why a sorcerer might be coming down on my head with the fury of a thousand suns."

"Because you probably blew something of his up?" Tate muttered.

Finnegan grinned. "Besides that."

"He said he'd been trying for a while to take it." Tate could not help preening. "He said no one looks after treasure better than a dragon."

"And you'll even clean and polish it for him," Finnegan said with a wink.

Most teasing stung, because Tate could always hear the mockery underlying it – not with Finnegan though. He knew Finnegan appreciated him, and would do anything for him. He hadn't been fully bound from the first day they met, when Finnegan had needed a guide.

Somehow during that trip Tate had not been able to resist taking over and fixing everything. Though they bickered constantly, they also worked. Finnegan really only kept him bound at all so Tate could maintain his human-ish form indefinitely, and give him the protection of Finnegan's magic.

And to occasionally torture him by forcing obedience.

Finnegan liked his fastidiousness. He liked how easy and calm Finnegan was about everything.

Sniffing, Tate refused to rise to the bait, pointedly ignoring his Master to clean the crystal balls. "You need to go break the curse on the well, Master."

"Yes, yes," Finnegan replied, wandering around the shop. He paused at the books. "Oh! Shapechanging. My, my, I haven't seen this particular volume in years. I guess it survived that fire after all…"

Tate frowned and crossed the room to snatch it away, replacing it on the shelf. "That is for sale," he said with pointed slowness. "Not for you. Well. Curse. Now."

"Yes, Master," Finnegan muttered, rolling his eyes and wandering toward the back door. "So what are you demanding in payment for guarding the diamond?" he asked.

Tate shrugged. He didn't want anything, except what he couldn't have unless he resorted to something as unethical as a love spell – and those always backfired, and it was no fun being loved by a spell anyway.

"Pounce him," Finnegan advised. "He's a demon, they're more than willing to pay just about any price if it's suitably interesting." Finnegan winked. "You're plenty interesting, my boy – even with your scales dusty."

Growling in outrage, because his scales were not dusty, he'd cleaned them very thoroughly last night and washed them down again this morning, Tate picked up a crystal ball and lobbed it at Finnegan's head – but a flash of deep red in the wizard's eyes and the ball stopped in midair, hovering there.

Snickering, Finnegan moved the ball back to its cushion, then vanished from the room with a last 'pounce him.'

Tate muttered to himself about stupid, interfering Masters and puttered about the shop.

The day moved slowly, the only highlight being when he finally threw out an alchemist for breaking a jar of pickled orange toad. It was expensive. Throwing the stupid human out had felt wonderful. Watching him run for dear life had been just as sweet.

Growling low, Tate moved to the counter and sat down on his stool. He frowned as he saw that the stupid human had spilled some pickled toad on him. Fetching a cloth, he meticulously wiped the muck away, then wiped down all his scales, not satisfied until his deep turquoise shone as brightly as they could without a proper polishing.

He had hoped to polish them today, but it had been so busy all day and he had to do laundry…

Sighing, he bent over his ledger and began to copy down all that he'd sold, adding the things which he'd bought last night from Macklin.

Thinking of his Treasure, his hand went automatically to the diamond beneath his tunic.

A power amulet. That meant somewhere a sorcerer had enslaved some creature to use its power for his own. Sorcerers, unlike wizards, were not born with an inherent ability to use magic. They had to take it from others, storing the stolen power in talismans and amulets. As no one liked to have his power taken, sorcerers often were forced to enslave their victims, generally only doing what was strictly necessary to keep them alive – since when the creature died, his magic obviously died with him.

If it was enough power to give Master a headache…

He wondered why Macklin would risk angering a sorcerer so much, to steal his power amulet. Remembering the way Macklin's face had hardened as he spoke about it…

A sudden thought rippled through him, followed by jealousy and hurt, which immediately was replaced by shame. There was very little he actually knew about Macklin's life; demons were notorious for saying a million things yet nothing at all. So it really wasn't very nice of him to react with such negativity to this first hint of something beyond the pretty, smartass, clever, charming demon that was all he knew.

If he was willing to risk the wrath of a sorcerer – something even Master hesitated to do – then it was entirely possible that the sorcerer in question had enslaved someone who was important to Macklin.

Despite himself, his stomach churned. It could be a sibling, a friend, it didn't necessarily have to be a lover, look at how easily Macklin flirted with everyone…

Anyway, there could be other reasons he'd stolen the amulet. There was never any telling with demons.

Somehow the assurances rang hollow.

When the bell over the door chimed, Tate looked up almost gratefully – but the greeting died on his lips as wariness spread through him. His ears, long and pointed, peeking out of his hair, rose up high in alert.

The man who wandered into the shop was bone-thin, dark robe molded to his frame, the ends worked with runes and sigils done in heavy, lavish embroidery. Small sapphires gleamed in his ears, a ruby on a tight bit of leather around his neck. At least a dozen jeweled rings on his fingers.

So much power made Tate sneeze hard.

A sorcerer.

His tail lashed and he forced it to still as he slid off his stool and moved around the counter. This could not be coincidence. "May I help you?" he asked politely, twitching when he saw the interloper who was likely going to try and hurt his Treasure also had very muddy boots and had utterly ruined his floor.

With an effort he bit back a growl and resisted flexing his claws.

"I am searching for a new jewel," the sorcerer said. Unlike a wizard, his eyes did not swirl with colors. Rather, they were a dark, muddy color, like magic had splashed in his eyes and run together. This must be a young sorcerer, for in the older ones the eyes appeared nearly black. "A diamond."

Barely restraining his desire to growl, knowing his eyes would show his dislike if he wasn't careful, Tate forced all the emotions down and reminded himself he was just a shop clerk for now. He moved to the glass cases that held all their different talismans and amulets and other jewels. "This is our selection, as you can see we've many diamonds. Were you looking for a ring? A pendant? Perhaps a bracelet, we just acquired a fine diamond brace—"

"No," the sorcerer cut in coldly. His muddy eyes seemed to bore into Tate.

It made him want to sneeze again. His nose twitched with the effort to not.

"I am looking for a very particular diamond. I believe a peddler demon stole it from me. People tell me he frequents this shop. Did he sell you such a diamond?"

Tate almost snorted, amused despite himself. "No. He sold me no such thing. I purchased a book of shape-changing spells, a hairpin…" Quickly he rattled off all that he'd bought.

The sorcerer scowled. "If he attempts to sell you such a thing, let me know at once."

At that Tate wanted to roll his eyes. He took orders from his Master alone. More powerful men than this sorcerer had attempted to give a dragon orders and wound up only losing their voices. "I will tell my Master to be on the lookout for it."

"Do that," the sorcerer replied, then swept out of the shop.

Tate made a face at his back, but his shoulders slumped in relief once the sorcerer was gone. That could have been bad. He could probably take the sorcerer, but it would have been hard and he didn't actually like hurting humans – though the sorcerer had tracked in mud. Growling low, he moved back to the counter to finish cataloguing what had been bought and sold that day.

He'd just finished his nightly cleaning and was putting away the day's money when he heard the front door open, two voices spilling in to fill the space. Tate frowned. Master of course had a key…but that other voice…

Oh, not again. Macklin had said he wouldn't be back for a couple of days.

Baring his teeth at the unseen men, Tate resisted the urge to go look at his Treasure and instead made himself go out back to clean up. Yes.

Outside, he laboriously filled his bathtub and then quickly stripped out of his clothes and tossed them aside. Thanks to stupid people and annoying sorcerers and clumsy alchemists and a lot of mud everywhere he had not been able to do laundry. It would have to be done tomorrow.

With a low growl and flick of his claw, he heated the bathwater, rumbling low at the steam now curling in the air. Fire and all things pertaining to heat were the only magic dragons possessed, and it was not nearly as strong as what a wizard or sorcerer could manage, but it was all he needed.

Stepping and then kneeling in the tub, Tate reached up and began to unwind and unbraid his hair, letting the long strands fall down his back, shaking them out. His hair fell to his hips, perfectly straight and slightly darker than the scales which ran all along his backside, down his arms and legs.

Retrieving his soap and the rough-bristled brush he needed for cleaning his scales, Tate rumbled low and happily as he began to scrub himself clean, setting the brush aside only to rub soap into his hair.

He'd just washed it all out when the sound of voices once more drew his attention – he whipped around and stared in horror at Finnegan and Macklin.

No, he couldn't even bring himself to look at Macklin. Jerking his eyes away from the wide-eyed demon, he leveled his gaze on Finnegan, whose eyes whirled with a rather smartass looking orange. Growling loudly, baring his teeth, Tate started to stand with every intention of reminding Finnegan exactly how sharp his claws were.

Then he remembered he was naked and that Macklin was still staring.

He growled again, chest rumbling, growing hot. If he couldn't claw, he was going to burn.

Sensing the impending threat to his continued existence, making a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snicker, Finnegan grabbed Macklin and retreated back inside.

Master was going to die, Tate decided, growls never ceasing as he quickly finished rinsing and stalked warily inside, slipping up the stairs and quickly pulling a clean tunic from his chest.

Maybe he'd infest all of Master's clothes with itching spiders. And mix up all his components – no, he'd done that and had to scrub everything. The ogre blood had gotten all over and was hard to get rid of…

He would think of suitable revenge. What had his Master been thinking, to embarrass him that way?

They were still both downstairs, he could hear them talking. Tate twitched. Now how was he supposed to look at Macklin, never mind talk to him. He mewled low in misery. When he let himself think about Macklin, himself, and naked it hadn't been anything as humiliating as Macklin catching him covered in soap and looking silly with his wet hair everywhere.

Why did Macklin only ever see him at his worst?

Sighing, Tate turned away from the door and went to scrounge for food. He'd just bit into an apple when the low murmur of voices abruptly changed to shouts – he abruptly sneezed hard.

Eyes widening, he dropped the apple and bolted for the stairs.

Too late.

When he got downstairs, there was nothing but two bodies lying prone on a floor that was covered with entirely too much blood.

Roaring in fury, distantly wondering how the sorcerer had gotten the best of his Master, Tate immediately moved and dropped down beside Finnegan and Macklin.

"Tate," Finnegan managed, not opening his eyes. "Hand."

Obediently Tate gripped Finnegan's hand with his own, shuddering as the cold wash of his Master's magic washed through him, then back out, encompassing Finnegan and Macklin – Finnegan wasn't strong enough to use his magic himself right now, but he could force it through Tate's strength.

"Doesn't know you have it," Finnegan whispered. "Don't let him…"

Heat blossomed in his chest as he thought about the sorcerer flambé he would shortly be enjoying.

First to take care of Master and Macklin. Carefully he lifted them, carrying first Master to his own bed, then hauling Macklin to his own.

Tate sighed. First the bath humiliation, now he got to see Macklin in his bed but only in the worst way possible. Frowning at the blood-stained shirt, the dark, drying bits of it in the demon's silvery hair, he yanked the shirt away but forced himself to leave the rest for now.

He had a sorcerer to kill.

Outside he moved to the wide field beyond the cottage, then transformed. His dark turquoise scales glittered in the moonlight, skin of his wings gleaming. Eyes burning, a deep orange now rather than cool turquoise, he roared loudly into the night, shaking everything around him.

Around one talon was wrapped the strip of leather holding the stolen diamond.

"So you do have it," a nasty little voice said from the shadows.

Tate curved his long, sinuous neck around, orange eyes flaring as the sorcerer stepped into view.

"How is it you transform and act without your master? He should be dead, or at least unconscious for some time."

Growling, Tate moved forward, wanting very badly to crunch this human between his teeth.

"Give me the stone or I'll kill the power source, dragon. You won't kill me before I can cast the last bit of the curse laid upon him."

Tate narrowed his eyes, rumbling in dissatisfaction. Unfortunately, the sorcerer's words were true.

Well, he could do something else.

Growling loudly to hide the spell he was casting, he then transformed and threw the diamond at the sorcerer's head.

"Be grateful, dragon, that I am leaving you alive. If you or either of those nitwits – assuming they're still alive – attempts anything, know that I will kill the power source."

"You can't use the power if you kill the source," Tate spat.

The sorcerer smiled coldly. "It is rather hard to find such good power, but don't think I'll give it up if I must." He vanished.

Tate snorted and rolled his eyes, then transformed again and launched into the sky.

He rose up high, hiding himself from any potentially skulking sorcerers.

From very far away he could feel the tiny little flicker he'd left in the diamond to track down the sorcerer. Faint enough the stupid human likely would not notice it in amongst all the other magic around him, but which Tate could separate out because it was his.

He traveled for hours, annoyed that the sorcerer apparently had something strong enough he could teleport long distances.

At last he lighted upon…Tate snorted in contempt, breathing small flames.

It was a tower. The mighty sorcerer lived in a tower.

He could not wait to tell Master, who would laugh and laugh at something so idiotic and dramatic. Master was all about warm and cozy cottages, not dank, drafty towers.

Though, part of that was the fact that cottages were much, much cheaper to replace when experiments went especially awry.

Never, never again was Master allowed near pixie dust.

Tate swiftly made his way downward, landing close to the tower.

Magic. He fought back a sneeze, as that would likely result in a scorched tree. Hmm…lots of magic, so probably lots of protections and all. Rumbling a sigh, he transformed back into his human-like form, tail lashing irritably.

The list of grievances being thrust at him today was growing and growing. That stupid alchemist. Master being insufferable. Mud everywhere. Behind in the laundry. Macklin had seen him bathing, and now both Master and Macklin were recovering from bad injuries and on top of all that tracking down this sorcerer had forced him to skip dinner.

His stomach growled, emphasizing how woefully empty it was, making Tate all the more irritable. He stomped angrily toward the tower, crashing through the underbrush, snapping any branch dumb enough to get in his way, resenting the entire stupid forest.

Magic tingled along his skin but Tate only growled, nearly roaring, calling up all his heat, his fire, and the magic was burned off.

It was exhausting…but he didn't feel like taking his time.

Whatever was going on, he was going to take care of it. He would get the diamond back, and the source of the power – if it was someone important to Macklin, if not he was going to eat whoever it was right after he crunched the sorcerer.

He got to the door, which was thick, heavy wood held in place with thick metal bands. Tate sniffed contemptuously and burned it down. He flexed his claws and bared his teeth in a nasty smile.

It had been a long, long time since he'd felt like acting like a wild, uncouth dragon. It was proving to be rather fun, even if he would need another bath when he got home. After he made certain Macklin was very far away.

Growling low, he prowled into the tower and headed immediately up the stairs, following the faint – then stopped.

No.

This would only be bad.

Turning around, he instead headed downstairs, below the tower, into the ground, rolling his eyes to see that there was, in fact, rather a nice dungeon here.

His eyes widened to see all the creatures that were caged.

A dragon.

A griffon.

Three demons…

Oh. He'd sort of expected…but actually seeing…

Tate bolted to the cage halfway down the row, snarling in pain and bringing up his fire as magic shot through him like one of Finnegan's lightning spells. When all the magic had finally burned away, leaving him feeling a little dizzy and nauseous and he really wasn't looking forward to flying home…

Shaking his head, Tate focused on the creature in the cage. "You're related to Macklin."

The demon was tall and broad, with dark steel-gray hair and matching eyes, pale skin showing the signs of a hard life. Ordinarily the man would probably be fine and handsome, and probably someone who did not go down easy – but right now he looked only thin and wan, as though he were being drained of everything.

Which he was.

"You know Macklin?" the demon asked, licking his dry lips.

Tate nodded. "He's an annoying peddler who tries to charge too much for wares." He bit an urge to list all of Macklin's insufferable traits, like the way he pulled his hair and teased him for cleaning and always flirted with everyone except Tate and had seen him bathing and was now unconscious and still covered in blood and—he cut off his own thoughts with a sharp growl. "He was hurt by the sorcerer, who took back the diamond which holds your power. He says he will kill you if I try anything."

The demon laughed. "Yeah, he's got all us spelled with nearly-complete curses. All he has to do is say the last bit and we're dead."

"How do I break them?" Tate asked, tail lashing with anger and misery. He wanted Master to be here – though he was rather annoyed at Master for being so busy finding ways to embarrass and harass him that he'd lowered his guard. Still, no one knew magic better.

Cautiously, slowly, the demon crept forward. He really did look a lot like Macklin, just rougher, less pretty. "Could you do to me what you did to the spell on the cell? Burn it away? I've heard that dragons can do that, but I've never actually seen…that is what you did, isn't it?"

"It will be extremely hot," Tate said slowly, thoughtfully. He'd never tried it with anyone else…

The demon grinned, looking more like Macklin than ever. "I can take it. Once, uh, spent a night with a dragon, if you know what I mean." He winked. "Very into fire, you dragons."

Tate rolled his eyes, then reached out and placed his hands on the demon's, then focused. Heat rushed through him, poured out, and he only distantly heard the demon cry out in pain – but when he finally banked his heat and could focus again, he saw the demon only had a vaguely singed look about him.

"Fabulous," the demon said, flexing his claws and grinning in a nasty way that made Tate glade he wasn't the reason for it. His gray eyes flashed silver and he thrust out, the metal door of his cell screaming in protest as it was contorted and then tossed aside.

Quickly the demon made short work of the other cells, freeing all the creatures rapidly – probably before the sorcerer could hurt them.

Tate left him to it, turning and rapidly climbing the stairs all the way back up, determined now to get his sorcerer snack.

"Wait!" the demon called out behind him. "I'll help you."

"No," Tate snarled. "He hurt my master. He hurt my Treasure. I will take care of him."

The demon blinked, then nodded. "Thank you for rescuing us."

"Do not be stupid enough to get caught again," Tate said tartly, then turned and resumed his climb.

At the top, he burned away the door – ignoring that he was feeling more than a little dizzy now – and growled in satisfaction to see the sorcerer looking more than a little panicked and afraid.

"You are about to be my snack, sorcerer," Tate growled. "Though I doubt you taste very good."

Anger flickered across the sorcerer's face. "How is it you can do anything without your Master? Stupid dragons."

Tate snorted. "Dragons are not stupid, at least not as stupid as sorcerers. My Master does not have me fully bound. I can do as I please."

"What sort of incompetent wizard doesn't properly bind his dragon?"

"A good one," Tate said softly, anger only growing as he listened to this idiot malign his Master. "You hurt my Master. You hurt my Treasure. Did your mother not teach you never to anger a dragon?"

The sorcerer's face went white.

Apparently his mother had told him not to anger dragons, and what happened when you did.

Tate transformed.

*~*~*

It took him until late the next day, with Becket's help, to finally get home again.

Becket, he'd decided, was in general much nicer. Rougher around the edges, but he didn't tease so much and he never once tried to pull Tate's hair.

Tate missed the teasing and pulling though. It just wasn't the same.

He also missed his bed, and wanted to go to sleep in it…but Macklin was probably still using it, and he'd have to wash the sheets, which reminded him of the laundry he had to do and he so badly hoped that Master hadn't been stupid enough to try and run the shop.

In fact, he hoped Master was still in bed. Otherwise there probably wasn't much of a cottage left.

Mewling low, tired and hungry and grouchy, they finally reached the cottage – to see both Master and Macklin sitting out front, talking heatedly about something.

Not noticing them.

Tate growled loudly, and both men froze.

"Tate!" Finnegan exclaimed in relief, throwing his arms around his dragon as he drew close. "I'm so glad you're alright." He smacked him hard. "Don't run off like that!"

Growling low, Tate reached out and dug his claws in, quick and sharp – hard enough to sting but not draw blood, feeling somewhat mollified when Finnegan yelped. "Don't get caught by a stupid sorcerer," he retorted.

"Yes, yes," Finnegan replied with a grimace.

"Tate," Macklin interrupted. "I'm glad you're alright." He stood close to his brother, hand still resting lightly on Becket's arm. "Thank you," he said with a smile. "I didn't mean to cause so much trouble for you."

Rumbling low, feeling his anger and misery fading away, Tate gave a nod. His Treasure had never smiled like that. It made him prettier than ever. He smiled briefly back, unable to help it – and quietly kicked Finnegan, who had a faint smirk on his face.

Becket suddenly laughed, turning to his brother. "I get kidnapped by a sorcerer and you become a dragon's Treasure? Why do you get to have all the fun?"

"W-what?" Macklin asked, staring at his brother, then turning to Tate.

Tate turned sharply away and all but ran for the house.

Stupid Becket.

Feeling sick, he pushed inside and noticed absently that the shop was still a mess – he'd forgotten all about the blood and mud and oh how could stupid Becket say that?

Gloomily Tate tromped up the stairs and through the main room to his own bedroom, stomach twisting to see the evidence of a recent sleeper, the faint rusty stains left by Macklin's blood.

Blood was really hard to wash out of stuff.

He heard footsteps and whirled to snarl at Finnegan, who was likely going to be a know it all – and stopped, eyes going wide.

"Tate," Macklin said slowly, hovering in the doorway.

Tail lashing nervously, Tate made himself stand still and not try for the window or knocking through a wall. "Yes?" he asked tightly.

"Am I…did my brother…" He shook his head, frustrated. "Do you really think of me as your Treasure?"

"Yes," Tate said, unable to bring himself to look up, tensing as he heard Macklin draw close, stop right in front of him. "Your brother has a big mouth."

Macklin laughed. "Yes, he does. Part of the reason he was kidnapped in the first place."

Fingers grasped his chin and tilted his head up. Growling low, Tate jerked away – but kept his gaze up. "What?" he snapped.

"I knew you liked me a bit, you were always so easy to fluster…but I didn't know you thought that highly of me, Tate. I'm sorry, I had no idea."

Tate hadn't thought it was possible to feel more awful than he already did – but 'I'm sorry' could only mean—

"My brother has been troubling me for ages," Macklin continued, his fingers once more coming up to touch. "All I've been working to do for ages is find him, then get the diamond…then everything went wrong. So thank you, again, for saving him."

Tate nodded stiffly.

Then Macklin grinned, and suddenly the fingers resting so lightly on his cheek were buried in his hair and Tate's head was tilted and then oh Macklin knew how to kiss, yes.

Growling deep and low and long, determined not to let his Treasure go now, Tate pushed up on his toes and threw his arms around the taller demon, holding tight, kissing back with every last bit of emotion he'd been holding back.

Hands smoothed down his back, then strong, slender arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, and Tate's growls deepened and slowed, turning into a deep, vibrating rumble.

"Like I said," Macklin said when they at last broke apart. "I'm sorry for not realizing you thought of me as your Treasure – I would have jumped you a long time ago, Tate."

"Instead of those stupid humans in the street?" Tate asked tartly.

Macklin grinned. "You were watching me, eh? But that's just being friendly."

"Well, stop it."

"Yes, dragon mine," Macklin replied, and leaned down to kiss him again, and Tate wondered hazily where they could go to do more than kiss because his bed was messy and so was the rest of the cottage but his floor might be okay…