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    Summary

    "To the floor," Harrow narrowed her eyes, drawing her sword. She moved into position, raising her weapon in concentration. 
    "To the touch," Corona corrected, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "But we should raise the stakes."
    "What do you have in mind?" Harrow asked cautiously. She didn't trust the Third as far as she could throw them; and with Corona in those heels, she doubted she could even pick up Coronabeth Tridentarius.
    "Winner chooses the spoils," Coronabeth said, her voice low and husky. It made the hair stand up on the back of Harrow's neck. "And loser submits to her whims. Thoughts?"
    Harrow hesitated only a moment.
    "I agree. I hope you've brushed up on your skills, Tridentarius. The Third's keys will be ours."
    "Oh, darling," Coronabeth giggled. "You've really got to think outside the box. Ready?"
    "As ever," Nova said grimly. 

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