He was bleakly aware that, even with the changing weather, the odds did not favor them. Though he was recovering well from his earlier collapse, he was still far below his normal strength. Despite Isabel's enormous power, she hadn't an inborn talent for weather working. If he was unable to weave the spells well enough, they would fail.
Worse, though they had lowered the barriers between them enough for embarrassment, they were still woefully short of being fully capable of sharing energy. If he needed more than Isabel was ready to give, she might lash out at him instinctively, with disastrous results.
But try they must. The Armada was critically near Edinburgh, and if they didn't act right away, it would be too late.
His mind still chasing itself, he stopped in the kitchen for a quick meal of bread and cheese, then picked his way down to the stone circle. It was a night fit for witches, the ley lines that intersected at the circle a glowing spiderweb of power. The wind was rising in fitful gusts, shaping and tearing clouds so that footing on the lane was uncertain. The sea beyond the bluff was lighter than the land, and he could hear the harsh beat of waves against the shore.
He felt a curious fatalism as he cleared his mind and began to lay the foundations of his spell. He would do his best; no man could do more. If he did not survive this last great working, may God defend Scotland and those he loved.
Silent as the wind, Isabel joined him, almost invisible in a dark cloak. She handed him a similar cloak. "Wear this. The night is chill, and fair weather will not return soon."
He accepted the cloak but said mildly, "A sorcerer should be able to rise above heat and cold."
"Why waste energy suppressing discomfort when it can be used on your weather working?"
He smiled into the darkness. A practical sorceress. The contours of her face were barely discernible. He had thought her austerely beautiful from their first meeting, and the intimate knowledge he had gained during their work together had multiplied her beauty a thousandfold. "Are you ready?"
"As ready as I can be."
Knowing he might not survive the night's work, he made a formal courtier's bow to her, the cloak flaring around him. "It has been a pleasure working with you, Isabel de Cortes." Then he buried personal thoughts, grounded himself in the circle's earth energy, and reached for the winds.
As his awareness spiraled upward, he saw that the North Atlantic was blanketed with a vast patchwork of choppy clouds and gusty rain. The Spanish ships were strewn along the Narrow Seas, the leading wave already approaching the Firth of Forth, the gateway to Edinburgh.
He started by sharpening the winds across Scotland, making it difficult for the Armada to sail up the estuary. But that was only a temporary measure to delay them while he constructed a tempest.
Piece by meticulous piece, he began to weave vicious winds, drowning rain, and lightning that could rip the sky and blaze through rigging. It must be so powerful, so well-wrought, that it would continue onward even after his own strength failed. The storm must rage for days, sinking ships, driving others onto rocky shores and into the grip of deadly North Sea currents. The Armada must be destroyed to the point where it offered no threat — and may heaven have mercy on the souls of the sailors.
Already he was drawing heavily on Isabel's deep reserves of power. Her bright awareness followed him as he spun the winds into a pattern that fed on itself. She helped him concentrate the rain from many thousands of square miles into a smaller, more lethal storm. And she soared with him when he forged the lightning.
A dark, sullen dawn was breaking, the sun only a dim glow on the horizon. The overall spell was complete, but the structure was fragile. He needed a massive infusion of energy to set the pattern so that the tempest could become a force in its own right.
A gust of rain knocked him to his knees. Gasping, he reached for his partner, but for the first time he was unable to tap her strength. Though she had reserves still, they were beyond his reach.
"Isabel…" He tried to call, but his voice was a thin whisper lost in the rising wind. He was on all fours, most of his strength and awareness devoted to stabilizing the tempest with none left for holding him upright.
Her arms came around his shoulders. Though her touch stirred a wisp of energy, it was nowhere near enough to seal the spell. He tried harder to connect with the silvery pool of her power. She was struggling equally, he sensed her frantic effort, but there might have been a glass wall between them. Impenetrable. Impossible…
"Macrae." Her husky voice whispered in his ear. "The alchemical marriage — the mating of opposites to form a greater whole. It is the only solution left."
With shock, he realized that she meant a physical mating. His dazed mind tried to evaluate whether her proposal had a chance to work. There had been strong attraction from the beginning. In another time and place he would have courted her, or perhaps swept her onto his horse and carried her off to the Highlands, but he had buried such thoughts as inappropriate to the work they were doing together.
She might be right that passion could forge their spirits into a single invincible blade, but the cool voice of his conscience pointed out that he wanted desperately to believe that surrendering to lust was the key to victory. Was he a Guardian, a man of honor, or a randy male who would lie to gain what he desired?
Her lips touched his in a hesitant kiss. Her scent was of rain-washed roses.
His numb body began tingling to life. Sensing the change, Isabel's kiss became fierce, a demand laced with power.
Primal passion exploded through him, bringing every fiber of his body to blazing life. Be damned to his doubts — he wanted and needed Isabel more than reason, more than conscience, more than honor.
As he kissed her back, the shields he had borne from the cradle dissolved, allowing her access to the depths of his soul. Her fierce determination to conquer entered into his own soul, making them the invincible sword he had imagined. The gentle rain intensified into a downpour, fluid and fertile as it mated with the earth.
"Isabel, my enchantress…" He rolled above her, pressing her long body into the wet grass as he kissed her hungrily, blending his essence with hers.
Their lovemaking shattered the skies as the last barriers collapsed. Power was abundant, limitless, flowing through them and into the tempest, stabilizing the intricate structure of the spell. Lightning blazed until he was unsure if they were in Kent or soaring high over the North Sea in the heart of the storm.
As their spirits melded, he discovered that at the heart of her power was a lonely child who was an outsider among those she loved, convinced she was too strange, too unattractive, to ever find the closeness she craved. Even John Dee, greatest alchemist of the age, had found his student disconcerting.
Tenderly, Macrae showed her his vision of her unique, bewitching beauty. How she was a paragon among women, a mistress of mages. In return, she mirrored him back to himself. Was he really so darkly intimidating? Yet she was drawn to his strength, intrigued by his contradictions, so he gloried in his darkness.
He was distantly aware of Spanish ships foundering, sails shredding and masts snapping. Without the anchors they had shed near the Low Countries to escape the English fire ships, they were helpless before the tempest.
With a last paroxysm of power, the hurricane crystallized into a living entity, no longer dependent on its creator. They had succeeded. Against all the odds, they had won.
Drained of every shred of strength and passion, he fell once more into darkness.