The chill air blew the blue frosted mists across the field of brown tipped grass.  Ghost like shadows played and hid as indistinct shapes in the haze-shrouded predawn.   A vague silhouette moved, accented by a swirl of fog.  The dull tattoo of paws against winter-hardened ground broke the eerie silence of the morning.  A Spirit come to earth, the echoing sound of running steps trapped within the wall of fog, beating as a heart beat.   Driven by some innate sense of danger, a smaller shape broke from the protective hang of some long fallen tree, its skeletal branches disappearing into the obscurity of mists.   The large feet of the smaller prey heightened the racing beat of the morning's heart, a counter rhythm to that of the hunter's tread.   For a moment they ran in harmony, paces matched, but the longer stride of the hunter soon over whelmed that of its prey, even the erratic path of the frightened shadows, could not elude determined jaws.  A muffled cry and last drawn shattered breath drew an end to the macabre symphony.
	
Tentative rays of sun burnt the fog into thin wisps of fading vapor.  A woman rose slowly from her hunched position in the grass, where hunter and prey had fallen.  Hand lifted and wiped away the smear of crimson across her tanned cheeks.  Malia stood in the dim morning light, her naked flesh almost immune to the chill that still clung so tenaciously.  She hadn’t meant to wonder so far way from the village, and by now was far too tired to travel the distance back to the village.
She’d spent the night, prowling the local wood and plains, reveling in the power of her wolf shape.  It seemed to her still, that her dark sister of the moonlight was a separate entity, a separate spirit, housed within the same vessel as Malia.  She had yet to achieve the unity that Brenir shared with his feral half, nor the control.  Wolf thoughts encroached upon human, she wanted only to find a dark narrow burrow, and sleep.  Unmindful of her naked condition, the woman sought shelter, in the form of an abandoned badger hole.  It just barely fit the slim form of the woman, and smelled strongly of fox musk.  She prayed silently to her gods, that she deprived no one of their shelter and then fell quickly asleep.

Brenir awoke in a mild panic, to find Malia’s half of the sleeping pallet empty.  So accustomed to her, that her very absence shrieked of wrongness to him.  A forced breath settled a steely calm over the trained senses of the shaman.  He searched within his heart, for that place his mate always occupied, and found her there still.  She was far away, but safe to be sure.  
He quickly quelled the desire to abandon his daily duties and go search for her.  If he wished her instinct and abilities to fully develop, then he could not allow himself to cosset her.  Taking another soothing breath, the Shaman dressed and made his way from his home, visiting an ailing elder of the village.  If Malia had not returned by nightfall, then he would go in search of her.

The sounds of the encroaching evening roused Malia from her exhausted sleep.  Even in her human shape, her senses were keen, and a barrage of scent cues, informed her of her surroundings.  Earlier that day it had rained, giving the air the sharp clean fragrance of earth and new growth.  Also, the fox musk had intensified, and a peek through the burrow’s opening revealed fresh paw prints in the soft mud.  A pang of guilt twisted Malia’s stomach, but there was little she could do about it.  Either the fox would return, and reclaim its burrow, or some other denizen of the prairie would.
She crawled forth from the cramped space and stretched long arms and legs.  The cooling evening air teased the hair on her arms to stand on end.  In the distance, a wild wolf howled, its call soon answered by a second and third voice.  Malia stiffened nervously.  Brenir had warned her against meetings with true wolves.  Though the animals were sacred to her people, wild wolves often acted unpredictably, when faced with skin changers.  The faint sounds of the pack faded and diminished.
With a sense of relief, Malia took her bearings and decided upon the direction of the village.  She took a few steps as woman, before shape of bone changed, lowering her to the ground as a wolf.  Hearing and smell intensified, her vision dimmer, though some how grew more focused.  Her wolf body felt sleek and strong and she padded arrogantly towards the direction of her village.  Let the wild pack find her, she could easily prove herself their equal.

The shaman finished the last sanctities at the end of a nerve-racking day. He’d performed all of his duties mechanically, waiting, and wishing each moment that Malia might arrive.  In his heart, he new she was safe, but his fevered mind kept dredging up mages of her broken bleeding body, laying at the bottom of some ravine, in desperate need of him.  He could not betray the trust Malia or the village has placed in him, by just running off in a panicked fear, but at last nighttime had come.  Carefully removing human vestiges of cloth and jewelry, Brenir slipped into his wolf shape, a large black male wolf, only just beginning to grizzle at his muzzle.
The wolf easily picked up his mate’s trail, even after this morning’s rain, her scent still created a clear path for him to follow.  Powerful muscles stretched and bunched as he glided swiftly over the uneven ground, his fleet paws easily finding purchase amongst roots and rock.  His mate had traveled far that night, past the village as a woman, into the forest as a wolf.  He stopped at a spring, and drank from the crystal waters, even as she had done.  By this time the moon was high in the sky, and the wolf was tired.  Even eager as he was to find his mate, his practical mind knew he should pause a moment to rest.
Suddenly ears perked atop his wedged shaped head, as another form appeared next to him, sharing a drink from the spring.  Without needing to look, he knew instantly it was his mate, her glorious scent a refreshing shock to his senses.  She’d approached from upwind, and had moved stealthily, masking her approach.  Admiration and pride in her mounting skills glowed warmly within his heart.  She playfully ignored him, pink tongue lapping at the water, a single ear twitching mockingly towards him, as if aware of his thoughts.  Had he been in man shape, he would have laughed, but he merely chuffed, and blew into his whiskers.
Her head arouse proudly, and leveled an arrogant stare in his direction.  Still clumsy in the physical language of wolves, her gentle tease was still evident.  Mock him will she? The impudent little pup!  Thrilled to find her safe and alive, and drunk on the joy her presence brought to him, the older wolf lowered his head and drew back his lips in a playful growl.  Giving his mate nary a second to react, he charged.

Brenir’s surprise attack left Malia disoriented and confused.  Be fore she had time to even ready herself for impact, he was atop her, knocking her to the ground, legs sprawling.  Despite the deep-throated growl, the she felt reverberating trough her very being, she knew now Brenir merely played.  She swatted his ears with a heavy paw, as he bit tenderly at her neck and shoulder.  The game did not last long.  His superior skill and size soon had her pinned and panting.
She felt giddy with love for her mate, that transcending form.  With a tremor of fear and excitement, she recognized the heat of desire tightening the muscles of her groin.  She and Brenir had never mated in any form other than human, but the prospect of it now, as wolves, excited her, rather than repulse.  Brenir was her mate, in any form, and she would claim him as such.
As in the first night they declared their vows, it would be Malia to initiate this coupling.  She shimmied gracefully from beneath the comforting bulk of her mate, moving regally beneath his amber gaze.  His shaggy brows lifted questioningly, but for now he watched.  She gave a soft provocative growl as her hind quarters swished back and forth.  She forced herself to look away from the look of confusion and worry in her mate’s eyes, else she would loose nerve, and give up on this bold gesture.  
Malia growled again, and gnashed fangs carefully at Brenir’s erect ears, before lowering muzzle and nipping at his neck.  She then walked past him, sweeping plumed tail purposefully towards him.  She smelled his distinct musk as it mingled with her own, heard his soft growl as he rose from the ground.  She planted her feet firmly, tail pushed to the side as hips sashayed invitingly before her mate.  She felt him sink fangs into her flank and gave a low, impassioned cry.  
After their Mating, male and female wolf slept the night, curled about each other, on the river’s bank.  Morning roused them from sleep, and the two wolves returned to their home.

Spring returned fully to the land, as Malia moved quietly towards the outskirts of the village, her laundry basket tucked under her arm.  It had been many weeks since that night in the woods.  Rather than create awkwardness between them, it only strengthened their strange bond, creating an intimacy Malia never dreamed possible.  She hummed softly to herself, filled with a content happiness as she sauntered through her daily chores.  
The shaman’s mate felt a strange tickle at the back of her throat, and uneasiness settled within the pit of her stomach.  Senses perked, she looked about herself but saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Behind her, the soft laughter of children tinkled gaily.  With a smile and shake of her head, she dismissed the unwelcome feeling.  
	To break the silence, she began to sing as she knelt beside the river, which had begun to swell from the snows melting in the nearby mountains.  The earth was soft beneath her knees, and the water frigid, making her fingers numb as she washed the soiled laundry, amassed over the winter season.  Without warning, a sharp pain blazed at the back of her head.  Stars blossomed behind her eyes before her vision blurred and grew dark.  Her last recollection was the shock of cold water as she slid forward into the icy waters.

	Ithila watched as the girl’s inert body slid into the rushing waters.  He felt no triumph, but a niggling sense of disappointment.  There was no satisfaction in his victory, however, the opportunity to rid himself of Malia had presented itself, and the priest found he could not resist.  It was too painless by far, and it had robbed him of the chance to claim compensation for all the injustices the girl had wrought.  Never the less, she was gone, and that would have to satisfy him.  With a pleased smile, Ithila trotted off, it certainly would never due for him to be seen by the river.

	The wolf stirred within the girl, shaking the fogginess and pain from her injured head.  The change happened quickly, as the muscled wolf struggled to keep itself afloat in the rapidly flowing currents.  Survival instinct stole over panic, which surely would have killed the wolf, and allowed her to struggle her way to the nearest shore.  Paws scrambled on rock and tumbling sand, till at last she was able to find purchase, and pull herself to safety.  She lay several minutes, drenched fur clinging to heaving sides.  
The rapidly moving waters of the river had pulled her many miles from familiar territory.   The dazzling pain faded from her head.  The wolf whined as it slowly stood and breathed deeply of the strange scents that surrounded her.  To the wolf the scent filled air wove a more vivid tapestry than any visual cues could have.   Just beyond the bank of the river was a forest; a wilderness inhabited by no man, unfamiliar even to the wolf.  
She shook herself vigorously, her thick pelt protecting her from the cold that still clung to the early spring air.  She knew the dangers of freezing water, and did not want to become a victim of that sickness. The she-wolf was tired and hungry, the struggle in the river having left her drained and weak.  She loped towards the cover of trees, she needed a safe sleeping borrow were she could regain her strength, then, she would hunt and find her way home.

“I’m sorry, but we were able to find no trace of her.  Only the laundry basket, which was over turned at the river bank.”  
Brenir paced.  His fury raged within him like a caged beast, causing a vein to throb at his temple.  He faced a cowering villager, who cringed and shied from the wolf that stared back at him through his shaman’s eyes, barely contained.  A soft growl rumbled from the furious man’s throat, the wolf smelled the messenger’s fear, smelled the scent of prey.  The villager fled, leaving the shaman alone.
The wolf rose strongly in Brenir, along with the desire to run, to hunt, and to find his mate.  However, Brenir could not loose himself just now, he needed to think, he needed control!  This was not like the times before, when Malia had gone missing in order to hunt, this time the sense of danger and wrongness was overwhelming. He knew Malia still lived; but for how much longer he had no way of knowing.  
Doubt mocked the shaman; tearing at his certainty that Malia still lived.  He needed to find her.  Ithila had something to do with this of that the shaman was certain.  He snarled savagely and strode purposely from his hut, he needed action, and he wanted Blood!

“Ithila!  Come out now!!”  The shaman roared, his voice rumbling like thunder, power and strength cording the heavy muscles of his back and shoulders. He shook savagely upon the panel to the entrance of the shrub priests dwelling.
Ithila hobbled out, his face composed in a look of surprise, even as his shoulders hunched in humble reverence.  “Why, shaman, whatever brings you?”  He whined, in a reed thin voice.
“Where is my wife, priest?” Brenir demanded through clenched teeth.
Ithila managed to feign a look of pure innocence as he replied, “What ever can you mean O Shaman?  Is she not at home?” 
Brenir snatched the font of the Shrub Priests shabby robe, in hands that had begun to resemble large misshapen paws and dragged the puny man into the air, so that feet danged several inches from the ground.  A voice almost unrecognizable as human snarled “Do not test me Ithila, I would sooner rip out your throat, then see harm done to her.”

The shrub priest was truly frightened now; perhaps he’d gone too far?  He began to shake and as he looked into Brenir’s eyes, he felt as if the shaman could look straight through his soul.  He lost control of his bowels, soiling his robes.  The Shaman seemed larger and stronger, his thick shoulders hunching as a thick pelt began to sprout along naked flesh.  Ithila was drawn closer as he stared into the gaping maw of an enraged beast, arms thrown defensively over his face.
“Please Brenir, do not hurt me, I saw her… She, she fell into the river… Don’t eat me!
The shaman discarded Ithila as easily as a child throws aside a broken toy, and the air went out of the shrub priest’s lungs as much from relief as from impact.  He watched the man that was now also wolf stalk towards the river, with an impending sense of doom.  He had to act quickly, for he knew as soon as Brenir returned with Malia, whether alive or dead, the shrub priest’s life was still forfeit.
The bitter man picked himself off the ground and began to stumble back towards his puny hut.  His foot caught a jutting rock, and sent him sprawling into the dirt once more.  As the sound of his tearing robe filled his ear, a plan began to unfurl and flower within his mind.

The creature prowled the riverbank.  Despite fur, and other wolven characteristics, he was still mostly physically recognizable as man.  His thoughts however, were much more primitive.  Consumed with fear for his wife, the shaman’s iron fisted control over his dual nature had slipped.  Easily, he found were Malia had fallen.  Ithila had stupidly left the log he had used laying on the ground, splattered with a trace of Malia’s blood.  The priest’s scent covered the log, as did Malia’s.  Brenir howled, a sound filled emotion; no human word could ever hope to describe it.
Visions of the priests writhing body, and his blood hot in Brenir’s throat, filled the shaman as he raced along the riverbank.   The racing waters stole Malia’s scent, making hunting for her seem impossible.  He could not know what side of the river she had exited on, if she exited at all.
 Every flotsam and jetsam that floated along the river’s edge seemed to form the shape of a drowned woman, and the shaman plunged often into the icy river, only to discover the debris to be only that.  He ran all night, first on two legs then on four.  He ran well into the next day, pads of feet swollen and torn, his lungs burning in his chest.  Only when the sun reached its zenith at midday did he stop to rest, but then, only briefly.

Malia struggled from the cramped burrow the wolf had chosen the night before.  She looked into the sky, hidden as it was by the reach of trees; she knew it was still morning.  Her stomach rumbled but she ignored its complaints.  She knew she must return home quickly.  She need only follow the river up its course, but she had to hurry.  Fear left a metallic taste in her mouth and tingled at the back of her neck.  Hurry, she had to hurry.
The she-wolf ran all day, stopping only to rest briefly, and drink cautiously from the river’s edge.  She’d left the river on the wrong bank, and with the river so swollen with spring thaw, shallow places to safely ford across were few.  By late evening, she’d found a narrow bend in the river bridged by an old fallen tree, the wolf scaled and continued towards home.  
Only a thin sliver of the moon hung in the sky.  It reached its zenith just as the wolf reached the outskirts of her village.  Something was wrong, very wrong.  The acrid scent of smoke, fear and anger burned the wolf’s sensitive nose.  Had the village been attacked?  Had there been a fire?  
Still as a wolf, the young woman padded towards the center of the village, leaving the safe shadows of the huts.  A group of villagers hurried towards her, these were her friends, people she grew up with, but something about them lifted the hackle at her back, and caused her ears to lie flat against her skull.  Upon her now, with no place for the wolf to escape, a torch was shoved into her face, momentarily blinding the wolf.
“She’s here, we’ve found her!” Came the victorious shout.  Several bodies flung themselves atop the wolf, pinning and tying her.  She feared to struggle, not wanting to hurt these people she knew and loved.  

Tied and bound too tightly to afford the girl room to change forms, they brought her to the village square, were Ithila held court.  Scratches and bruises mottled his face, arms and chest.  His robe was filthy and bloodied, torn nearly from his scrawny body.  The trembling villagers tossed Malia at the Priest’s feet.  The gods surely favored him, for the plan was unfolding much better than even the priest had hoped.  He’d never imagined it would work so well!
“Demoness!” He screeched accusingly at Malia.  “What have you done to our beloved Shaman?”  A trained showman, Ithila performed his best now for the entranced villagers.
Thin arms gestured wildly and his voice shook with emotion. “I saw the girl fall into the river, pulled down be an evil spirit.  Look upon her!  Trapped in the form of a wolf!  Why doesn’t she change, and defend herself with words?”
A buzz rose from the villagers; they could not know that tied as she was, she could not change shape, but Ithila knew.  “Then, worried for the girl, I went to Brenir, I told him what had happened.” Tears ran down the Shrub Priest’s cheeks.  “I begged him to wait, to let me come with him, but he would have none of that.
“Then, last night I dreamed.  I dreamt, that I saw the demon, lure our brave shaman, trap him, and steal his soul!  Far too vivid to have been a true dream, it could only have been a sign, a vision from the gods themselves!”
“Burn the witch!” Came the frenzied voices of the villagers, many crying, as Ithila was.
“Yes…” Ithila nodded, as if with a great effort.  “It is the only way.”

Brenir had no way of knowing that he passed the place Malia had exited the river.  He even doubled back a few times, and when the breadth of the river allowed, stalked the other side. Finally, as the end of the second day neared when unbeknownst to him, Malia lay bound at Ithila’s feet, he found a trace of her, where she’d crossed a log, and turned towards the village. Elation filled him, which he expressed with a few sharp yips.  Exhaustion threatened to drain his strength, but he pushed himself onward, homeward, and back to his mate.  He’d barely slept, and eaten nothing but a few dug up grubs and roots, but all that could wait.  Only Malia mattered.

	Wolves do not possess the ability to cry, as humans do, none the less, tears stung Malia’s eyes as the villagers hefted her, and brought her closer to the fire.  Acrid smoke burned at her eyes and filled her sensitive nose with its stench, blocking all else out.  Her brain exploded with the need to speak, to change forms, to some how change this horror that was unfolding before her.  But nothing came, only a few pitiful whimpers, that where easily drowned out by the cries of the shrub priest and his bloodthirsty audience.
	Eager hands tossed more wood into the hungry fire, building the already raging flames higher and higher.  A make shift platform had been built, upon which Ithila stood, and a few strong villagers dragged her up.  They dropped the heavy she wolf unceremoniously upon the uneven planks, at Ithila’s feet.  She didn’t need to smell them, to know how frightened they were; she could feel it in the way their hands shook.  In a powerful voice, that all could easily hear, Ithila turned, and addressed her.
	“Recant now, witch, and return to us, our shaman.  It is your last chance!”
	Desperately Malia again tried to defend herself, to speak, but only whines and whimpers were forth coming.
	“Then you shall die!!” the shaman raged, and plummeted a dagger into her breast, whispering for only her ears to hear.  “Brenir is next”
	The dagger wound alone, probably would not have been able to kill her, especially had she the chance to skin change, but there would be no such opportunities. All too soon the frightened hands of her executioners, men she had grown up with and called friend, were lifting her vulnerable form, and hurling her into the awaiting inferno below.  The dagger wound was an unimagined mercy, as it stole her consciousness quickly, saving her the torture of slowly burning to death.

	Ithila watched, panting.  His sense of joyous triumph nearly overwhelmed him, filling him with a strange, and a not completely unpleasant sense of desire.  He couldn’t believe how easy it was!  His beautiful plan, oh how it was working!  And not only would the villagers not blame him, but would probably celebrate him as a hero.  There was Brenir of course still to deal with, but the priest had plans for him as well.  An unwholesome grin pulled at Ithila’s lips, causing him to look down, so that none might witness or question his glee.

	Brenir stumbled into the village as a man.  Wrongness stabbed painfully at his brain, just as the sun’s early rays of light, assaulted sandy feeling eyes.  The village lay strangely quiet, as a thin miasma of smoke tainted the air.  Fear, tension, lack of proper sleep and sustenance combined to drain his normally high stamina leaving him a little weak, and giddy.  For no reason at all, a sudden terrible panic struck the shaman last night, as he made his way back home.  His insides felt twisted, and his heart hallow, empty some how, as if someone and ripped its contents asunder.  Willingly, he dismissed this to weariness, but his need to find Malia drove him like a living thing.
	No clothing had survived his mad flight to find Malia, over the past several days, and it was stark naked, the state of the Shaman, as he ducked into their shared hut.  She wasn’t there, no one had she been since shed first gone missing.  He barely had the presence of mind to slip into a loincloth, before he was once again out and into the village. At last the living began to stir, as forms hovered in their doorways, but none came out to great him.
	“Jonar, have you seen Malia?” the shaman croaked to one such familiar form, but received nothing in the way of a response, other than for the man’s gaze, to sift in the direction of the village center.
	Brenir’s pace quickened to a run.  His heart slammed against his rib cage, and it became increasingly more difficult to breathe.  The sight that greeted him brought him to his knees, as he fell upon an outward circle of ash and debris.  Nothing remained of his mate, but a scarce pile of charred bone and ash, which blended anonymously with the remnants of her execution pyre.  But Brenir did not need to identify them, to know Malia had found her end here.  He wept, clenching fists hefting piles of ash into the air, and rubbing them mindlessly against his chest, filled with an emotional torment few would survive with sanity intact. 
	“No!!” he sobbed.  “No Gods! How could this be?!”
	“Be at ease, Brenir, if in fact that is who you are.” A voice rose behind him, causing a cold hatred filled calm to steal over his mind and body.  Ithila continued.  “Only a demoness met its end here tonight.  If you are our beloved shaman, and not the soulless shell of a demon, then you will rise, and rejoice with us.  And pray to the gods for the safe resting of your beloved Malia.”
	A thin, reedy growl began to give rise, deep in the shaman’s chest.  A red haze filled his vision and mind, ripping away violently any semblance of humanity, and reason Brenir had left to him.  Then crazed wolf beast knew only two things.  His mate was dead, and Ithila had been the one to orchestrate it.  And even as the fire had burned away Malia, so did this rage burn away Brenir.  In a single, smooth motion, the change took him swiftly, transforming him from man, to nightmarish beast; the feared and terrible half form, most powerful of all his shapes.
	He spun, in an agile leap to see the fear widening in Ithila’s gaze, to smell his metallic edged fear.  The bodies of others began to hedge around his vision, but the beast ignored them, concentrating only on his prey.  The shrub priest’s arms pin wheeled, as he cried something in a sharp, whining voice, but somehow, Brenir could not quite interpret its meaning.  The wolf leapt, claws pulling back with scrapes of cloth, as Ithila somehow managed to elude him.  Upon the second leap, his quarry was not so lucky.
	
Ithila knew his error instantly, when Brenir turned, and stabbed him with those inhuman eyes and instantly was gripped with the realization he was about to die.  His villagers his only hope now, he cried out to them, as he scrambled away from the enraged shaman.  “It is not the shaman, but a demon.  Kill it, now!”
Hope flared in his breast as he darted away from the first lunge, loosing only a few scraps of cloth.  He looked desperately for a place to flee, to hide and to protect himself.  No exit was forthcoming, and as he turned to evade the wolf again, he fell, beneath the hard, heavy body.  Death didn’t come easily to the cowardly little man, but in slow, painful strips, as the wolf tore him from limb to limb.
Villagers gathered about, clutching cudgels, and any sort of blunt implements they could find.  Harsh sunlight set the bloody scene ablaze in painful contrast, and hard lines.  Faces set in grim resolve as the beast tore the priest to shreds.  They’d not acted fast enough, and the last, gurgling breaths of the dying man filled the air.

A strange pain interrupted the wolf as he ripped the priest apart bodily.  A powerful, stabbing pain that burned its way into conscious thought; something attacked him, and attacked him still. Blows raining down from all directions, beating upon his head and shoulders.  Those familiar figures, villagers, some part of his brain informed him, people he once loved and served.  They attacked him, trying to kill him, just as they had killed his mate.  He tried to summon the strength to fight back, to hurt them.
A few vicious swipes took down one or two of them, but there were too many, and the pain grew until he could barely control it.  He tried to flee, to escape the pain, the hatred, but the time for escape passed long ago.  A powerful blow of something blunt, a hammer perhaps, crashed and crushed his spine, crippling the powerful animal.  Still he fought, dragging himself inch by inch.  Another blow, another, and still another, until nothing remained, nothing but a smear of pulp and bloody fur.