In Lothian Manor, a steady rain tapped at the windows of Bors Lothian's bed chamber with gusts of chill, wintery wind that rattled the glass in the window frames. Cold seeped in from the stone walls despite the tapestries hanging over them and the small hearth burning quietly in the corner of the room.
In a stately bed, carved from the trunk of one of the demon's sacred oak trees, Bors Lothian lay uncomfortably, propped up by a pile of pillows and wearing nothing but a dressing gown beneath the heavy fur blankets piled atop the feather mattress.
"Blech," Bors said as he finished drinking the steaming contents of a thick, wooden cup. "What is wrong with physicians? Have they seared the sense of taste from their tongues? What an utterly foul concoction," he groused as he set the cup on a table beside the bed.
