Zoisite pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes with one white-gloved finger. His forehead itched, but he did not permit his concentration to break. Any moment now . . . Kunzite stood behind him, how close he did not know, but he could not turn around . . . Zoisite gritted his teeth. Please, please, please, let me be able to shield this time, or it's going to hurt, it's really going to hurt . . .

He heard the sizzle of magical energy behind him, felt Kunzite's psi-bolt charging the air, and Zoisite was able to raise his shields just enough to partially deflect the attack. But only partially: the force of it still sent him sprawling on the cold stone floor, a dull pain pounding in the small of his back. And his arms. And his legs. And his chest. My entire skin is one solid bruise, Zoisite thought angrily. If it weren't for these long sleeved, high-collared uniforms, everyone would see just how brutal Kunzite is being. He started to climb reluctantly to his feet. What he really wanted to do was curl up and sleep for about a week, even on the cold, hard Dark Kingdom stone.

As Zoisite crouched on his knees, brushing off the front of his uniform, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned his head to look; his teacher stood over him, the harshly handsome lines of his face set in a scowl of disapproval. Zoisite met his gaze angrily, glaring into his coolly scornful platinum eyes.

"That was terrible, Zoisite," Kunzite said.

"I'm sorry," Zoisite snapped, not sounding the least bit contrite. He stood up and turned to face his mentor; his hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his fingers knotting the white fabric of his gloves. Oh, how he wanted to drive a punch right into Kunzite's jaw, shatter that disdainful little frown on his tan lips, or claw out his long, lovely eyes. Lovely? Excuse me, lovely? What the hell am I thinking? He growled in the back of his throat and waited for Kunzite to start yelling.

Kunzite stepped up very close to him, perhaps a hand's length away, and Zoisite tried not to be intimated by the sheer presence of the superior general. Not only was he a head taller than his student, and more muscular, he also radiated an aura of strength. His very posture was one of power; the loose fastening that let his uniform jacket hang partway open, revealing his smooth chest; the cape, the same color as his hair, the color of ice; the tilt of his silver eyebrows . . .

" . . . are a disgrace! What do you have to say to that, General Zoisite?" The word 'general' was said with a fierce, heavy sarcasm.

"I apologize, Kunzite."

Zoisite realized his mistake an instant after he had spoken, before the blow came. Crack! Kunzite backhanded him across the face, and Zoisite reeled back a few steps, stumbled, fell on the floor. I have been spending so much time on this fucking floor lately . . . Zoisite waited a few seconds for the world to stabilize around him (the shadows at the corners of his eyes were shifting and swimming dizzily.) Again, he looked up at his teacher, who was now glaring at him with undisguised hatred. He considered begging forgiveness, and then decided not to. Instead, he sneered just a little at Kunzite as he staggered to his feet in pain. Again. For what had to be the thousandth time in these two weeks of training. Zoisite couldn't remember much anything about his life before Beryl had chosen him from the ranks of the youma to be trained as a general - I was just another anonymous soldier, I guess - but he was certain it had to be better than this. I won't cry. I won't cry, he told himself, but he felt hot tears slipping down his face. They were tears of rage as much as they were tears of pain.

"You are to address me as Kunzite-sama," Kunzite pronounced icily, his teeth gritted, his narrowed. "Next time you fail to do so, your punishment will be immeasurably more harsh. Now . . . run one hundred laps around the training room."

"Kunzite-sama?" Zoisite ventured, massaging his temples with one hand.

"Yes?" Kunzite snapped.

"What's the point of running laps when I can teleport?"

"First of all, as much as I may loathe it, you are my trainee, and therefore I must make you strong in every possible way. That includes giving you both the speed and endurance of a runner. And second of all, it's a punishment. You will now run two hundred laps."

Zoisite bit back a groan. "I hate you, Kunzite-sama," he hissed, anger surging in his chest. "I hope you die an awful death, you bastard. I hope you scream - "

"Shut up, Zoisite," Kunzite replied, his voice distant. "You may very well hate me, and frankly I don't care, but it would behoove you not to let your temper get the better of you. You now have three hundred laps to run, and if you speak one more word, it will be four hundred. Understood?"

Zoisite nodded, and tossed his red-blonde curls disdainfully over his shoulder as he started to run. One lap . . . two laps . . . his boots hammered on the hard stone floor, and his heart pounded in his ears. He let his running, his breathing, fall into the rhythm of I hate Kunzite; I hate Kunzite; I hate Kunzite. By his fiftieth lap, he wanted to collapse. Sweat trickled down his neck, beaded on his forehead, stung his eyes. His breath sawed at the inside of his throat. Zoisite did not stop. I'll show that bastard. I'll show that bastard. I hate Kunzite. I hate Kunzite.

"The Sun Realms are accelerating their war preparations, my lord General. Recruiting everyone between the ages of fourteen and forty, even parents, teachers . . ."

"Hmm," Kunzite mused, sitting up just a little straighter in his throne. He motioned for the youma spy before him to continue, and she did:

"They are becoming desperate, General Kunzite. And the war hasn't even started - except for those raids on their outer holdings in the Meteor Territories."

"But what about Commander Leoni? What has she been planning, saying, doing?"

"I do not know, my lord," the youma admitted, and she flinched as Kunzite made a noise of disapproval. She was quick to continue:

"Leoni is a very cautious woman. Paranoid, almost. She is careful to keep anyone unfamiliar far distant from her, or her plans. However, I was able to capture one of Sora's most trusted body guards, without anybody knowing that I did so. He is unharmed, in your dungeons. I thought -"

"That I could make him into a youma. Yes, yes; it will take work, but I think it will be worth it. One of Leoni's husband's most trusted body guards . . . you're sure about this?"

"Yes. In fact, I think Sora and this man - his name is Raichu - were friends when they were younger . . ."

Kunzite waved a hand, indicating his disinterest in such trivia.

"And are you sure that nobody knows we captured this man? That nobody will have any reason to suspect he's under Dark Kingdom influence?"

"Yes. Every two months, Sora's body guards get a three day vacation. Not all at once, of course . . . but that's when I took him. So nobody will miss him. He'll need to be back in two days, of course . . ."

"Plenty of time," mused Kunzite. "What's his name?"

"Raichu."

"No, I know that. I mean his family name."

"Kaniko."

"Hmmm. So he's of the Kaniko house?"

"An illegitimate son, yes, but favored enough by his father that he was given a post in the Royal Guard."

"That in itself might be useful. Very well. I'll question him, and then make him ours, tomorrow. Your work is adequate; you are dismissed."

The youma in front of him did not move. "My Lord General . . ."

Kunzite's response was curt and cold. "Yes?"

He saw the youma in front of him falter a little; she averted her eyes. He had some idea of what was coming next. He spoke again, a little more gently.

"Yes, Tiriki?"

The youma looked up, perhaps encouraged by the fact that he knew her name. She was not unattractive; her ears were delicately pointed, her eyes huge and brown, her skin a creamy-golden tone, her hair a deep purplish blue cut in a short, wild cloud around her head. "Is there anything else I might do for you? Any way in which I might . . . attend . . . to your needs?"

Kunzite had known the answer to her question even before she'd asked. "No, Tiriki, there is not. You do not need to offer me your services; anything I want from you I will take. However, I do not want that, so kindly do not trouble me about it. It is only because of your fine record as one of my top spies that I do not feel compelled to discipline you for this lapse in decorum. The next time you approach me about anything other than the espionage assignments you have been given, I will punish you. Wakarimasu?" Kunzite kept his tone soft, but menacing. Tiriki flinched; the lines of her face hardened just a little with hurt.

"Wakarimasu, Kunzite-sama," she choked, and turned and left. Kunzite sat on his throne a few minutes, before he got up and started to pace. Had he been cruel to poor Tiriki? Yes, and frankly he didn't give a damn. She was a good spy, but not irreplaceable. And the fact that she had attempted to proposition him belied an unacceptable level of disrespect . . . or respect. Just not the kind of 'respect' I want from her, Kunzite thought wryly. So let her go and cry her eyes out - figuratively speaking, that was. Youma couldn't actually cry. She was attractive enough, Kunzite supposed, but he just wasn't attracted. First of all, he just didn't find females all that compelling, and her personality - obedient, cringing - failed to draw him. Not that Kunzite could reasonably hope for much better in the way of a bed-partner; after all, most of the Dark Kingdom population was comprised of obedient, cringing female youma.

I can't even remember the last time I had sex, he thought aloofly. It didn't matter to him. He was strong, nearly immortal, nearly invincible, the second most powerful person in the Dark Kingdom. The lusts of the flesh could not and would not sway him. Kunzite reminded himself of all this, as he swiftly and silently paced the length of his throne room, his cape flaring out behind him. You are strong. You are strong.

Then why, he asked himself, do I keep thinking of Zoisite? His lip curled in what might have been a snarl or a smile. He sighed lightly, stopped pacing, closed his eyes, and remembered his trainee sprawled on the floor below him, beautiful limbs akimbo, his face blazing defiance. His green eyes alight with anger . . . his wild tumble of red-blonde curls . . . his slight, wiry form. He hates you, Kunzite reminded himself. Absolutely and totally hates you. Which is as it should be. You're brutal to him.

Kunzite forced himself to analyze the situation logically. You shouldn't be so vicious with him. Because that's Nephrite's style, not yours. Because at worst you may actually damage him, and at best you'll alienate a potential ally.

His face like ice, Kunzite continued his inward monologue. But you are doing it to alienate him, not as a potential ally, but as a potential lover. You don't like the fact that you're attracted to him. It's a weakness. Sex is a weakness . . . affection is a weakness . . . admiration is a weakness . . .

But he couldn't help but admire Zoisite; his anger, his raw tenacity. The very fact that he had managed to run those three hundred laps - I thought for certain he would collapse by a hundred. I know he wanted to. But he didn't. He's strong; almost as strong as you are.

He would be a worthwhile ally, Kunzite chided himself. What you are doing is foolish, very foolish. You are the King of Ice. You cannot let your own fears or desires infringe on your goals and duties. You have no fears. You have no desires. Cultivate Zoisite. Make him your own. But don't, in the name of Metallia and the Legions of Darkness, don't even think about taking him to bed with you! He doesn't want it, first of all. You don't want it, either . . . it's foolish, utterly foolish.

Kunzite sighed, one last time, and teleported away to his personal chambers. He tried not to think about much of anything as he threw himself down on his black silk coverlet, and abandoned himself to sleep.

"Kunzite-sama?" Zoisite asked, as he swung his rapier in a tight arc and dodged Kunzite's thrust.

"Yes?" Kunzite parried skillfully.

"Is there any word from the Raichu-youma yet?" Zoisite shifted his weight to attack.

"No. It's troubling. His report is a week late, now." Kunzite made a quick turn, and caught the brunt of his pupil's attack on his hip; a quick judo throw with his left hand sent Zoisite sprawling onto his back. In a silver blur of motion, the point of Kunzite's sword was quivering at Zoisite's throat.

"Keep your mind on the fight, trainee," Kunzite reprimanded. His voice was not unkind. "You are not skilled enough to parry and converse."

"Hai, Kunzite-sama," Zoisite acknowledged, still sitting on the floor. His back ached . . . but only a little. The last few months of training had gotten gentler; either that, or I've gotten stronger, he thought. Probably a little of both. Kunzite offered him one gloved hand and, with a small start of surprise, Zoisite took it. Kunzite quickly helped him to his feet.

"Thank you, my Lord-General," Zoisite said, softly. He was standing mere inches a way from Kunzite; his eyes were just about at his teacher's chin; he was afforded a tantalizing glimpse of Kunzite's well-muscled chest. His glance met Kunzite's own; steely, silvery, infinitely strong. Distant. He took a step back, and shook his chestnut hair, as if to rid himself of a lingering daze.

Kunzite reached out one strong arm, wrapped it around his shoulders. A thrill of anticipation tingled down Zoisite's spine. Could he possibly . . .

"I'm going to be teleporting you with me," Kunzite said, his voice deep and smooth. "Into my own personal palace, through my wards. They're keyed to my teleport only. Wakarimasu?"

"Hai," Zoisite said. His voice felt strange and tight in his throat.