Next to Borabi, I was short. Not that I was tall next to most other people, either, but Borabi's long limbs were a dramatic contrast to my stocky build. He was lithe and graceful until he was startled, then those limbs went flailing everywhere like a colt's. When that happened, I laughed, and he scowled. Most of the time it was the other way around.
Like now. He writhed beneath me, a squirming mess of an elf, his breath hitching as he tried to stop himself from laughing. I held the paintbrush away from him and cuffed his pointed ear.
"Stop moving," I said. "These runes are very precise. I don't want to open a portal to some demonic realm because you're ticklish."
"I can't help it, Shale," he lied.
He could help it very well. He had unbelievable control, when he chose to exercise it. I leaned close over him, dabbing a spot of cornflower blue paint on his delicate nose. "Hold still, or I will stop touching you."
His pretty hazel eyes fluttered wide and his body stilled beneath me.
"There now," I crooned, "that's better." I drew the paint in thin lines across his body, weaving a spell with interlocking runes, the language of dwarves and of magic. I traced the curve of his bicep with a rune for the sorceress I needed to contact. His other arm was wreathed in the symbols of magical power, symbols for me to draw upon, like sinking a well into...