Night is the thief's domain and if he's not stealing he'll pass the hours under moonbeam, starshine, singing and boasting. Daytime's for dreams, lovemaking among shadows, but night's the country of the robber's heart and he'll always stay awake til dawn.
Pico, trussed, lay on the outskirts of the firelight entranced by the melodies, the twinkle of ankles beneath gusting skirts, the swing of honey-filled breasts. The fire pooled and siphoned color, the color of cloth like the color of jewels, bloodstone, black opal, lapis lazuli, emerald, a necklace about a hot throat. The flames snapped their fingers at the stars. Then amid the dancing girls a robber arose like an uncoiling cobra, and Pico saw when the fire flapped at the robber's face it was a woman, her eyes green as brass.
- The Book of Flying, by Keith Miller
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