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Syryn had flung himself to the floor because if he was going to get crushed to death, it might as well happen in a comfortable position. It was in this quiet moment of despondence that he noticed a glaring detail, one he had completely missed about himself - the outfit, the horror that he was wearing! He was dressed in a priest\'s vestment, the standard fare for someone from the temple of Eos no less. Oh the irony!

What did this say about Syryn? Was it a reflection of his desire to replace Lillith as Rowan\'s source of power in the future? He was momentarily stunned at what was possibly a terrifying revelation about himself.

"Anti mage -" Syryn was at a loss for words. He had intended to ask Artemus why the man looked just the same as he did outside the box. Did he not have secrets? Desires? Was he so boring? A sense of crisis loomed behind Syryn\'s calm facade.

Brows raised, the anti mage deigned to finally speak to the man who had a stupid look on his face. "Tell me, what were you doing before you appeared in the puzzle box?"

"Not telling you."

"If you left a dangerous situation behind, I need to know." Artemus\' reply was sharp and clipped. The fact that Syryn had been exchanged meant that the child was either inside another prison or out somewhere in the world where this stranger had been taken from. Neither of the possibilities were acceptable to the agitated professor.

Clamming up wasn\'t as fun as fucking with Artemus, Syryn decided. "Oh yes, I was in bed with two beauties, ready to die a small death, several times, in fact, through the night. The kid must be having fun."

And there was a crack in the professor\'s impassive mask. Syryn sought to poke at that crack. "Is he a sibling then? You must be distraught about your brother losing his virginity before you."

Artemus\' obsidian eyes were locked onto Syryn\'s face, dangerously flashing, deciding if he wanted to kill the annoying creature that was testing his already weathered patience.

"Truly, a frigid looking man like you would know nothing about the carnal delights of flesh." Syryn himself had no experience of it. Between obeying his master, killing humans, carrying out experiments and then getting locked away by Rowan, the pitiful demon Lord was just an old virgin maid, and not by his choice.

Syryn had belonged to Traxdart, a diamond that the Emperor himself had polished to a gleam. The Emperor of demons had taken great pleasure in watching Syryn unfold into a breath taking angel of death, a beauty that was for his eyes alone. His pure and chaste fawn, unsullied, and just perfectly sweet for when Traxdart deemed him ready to be eaten. Except Syryn had gone and gotten captured by Rowan. Years of celibacy followed his haunting of the frozen tower. Could anyone blame Syryn? He didn\'t want to stay a virigin this lifetime either.

"Fuck." The expletive left Syryn\'s mouth as he watched the orb shrink further. Whichever idiot was attempting to solve the puzzle needed to get his head out of his ass and stop making mistakes. Syryn refused to entertain the thought of the alternative.

Artemus felt the glass skim the top of his head as it shrank. To avoid it, he gracefully lowered himself to the floor and closed his eyes - ignoring the way Syryn watched him through a heavy lidded gaze. To have had to face such misfortune the very day he had been given back the lease to his life, who was more pitiful?

"Anti mage, if we\'re going to die, we might as well have some fun." Syryn suggested coyly. It wasn\'t his intention for anything to happen - just a little harmless teasing that would provide him the much needed entertainment that Artemus owed him in lieu of medical fees.

The anti mage had his eyes open now, regarding Syryn with a longsuffering patience. "Do you ever shut up?" He asked mildly.

Taking full advantage of his gorgeous face, Syryn peered up through his long lashes. "Yes, when there\'s something in my mouth keeping it busy, I do."

The pin drop silence that followed Syryn\'s innuendo barely scratched the surface of the embarassment he was feeling. Syryn was chicken shit after having reached this point. He had, however, crossed the line and decided to keep pushing just to see how far he could go with the professor\'s patience. And if Artemus decided to beat him up, that would be something to keep his mind from dwelling on their impending deaths.

"A part of me still believes that there\'s a possibility you\'re the kid I got pulled in with. I would appreciate it if you held your tongue."

A thinly veiled threat. Syryn decided to work extra hard to remove that small belief still lodged in his professor\'s heart. Artemus had no idea how easy he was making this for Syryn.

"Hold my tongue against what?" And the smile he sent Artemus was positively dripping with lasciviousness. "Profes-ss your desires!" Syryn quickly covered his near slip up.

This time, the period between the orb\'s movements had shortened. The glass ate up many more inches of space in their ever narrowing prison. The ends of their feet were touching now. With no room to stand, Artemus was resigned to his inevitable fate of getting squashed against the perverted priest who was starting to get a glassy eyed look on his face.

Panic. Claustrophobia. Observant black eyes assessed Syryn.

"What are you looking at?" It came out in a growl. Syryn was remembering his last experience being tormented inside a puzzle box. The walls were closing in around him eating up space, air - sucking out the breath from his lungs. There was nowhere to run, no escape to be found. With trembling hands, he smacked his own face with a ferocity that left his cheeks red and stinging. Syryn wasn\'t ready to go down a whimpering mess of a coward.

"If you wish it, I can end this suffering." Artemus offered with solemn composure. How the man remained unruffled even at this point - Syryn would have given an arm for that collectedness. Artemus was offering to kill him quickly; the alchemist morbidly wondered how he would accomplish that.

"Quick and easy?" He asked.

"Quick." Not easy, not even for a mage hunter whose blood stained hands carried the resentments of all the rogue mages and sorcerers he had ever hunted down.

"And leave you alone with my corpse? Who knows what you might do to my beautiful body." Syryn scoffed and even he was mortified at the words that were spilling unbidden from his lips.

"You are a vain creature." Artemus replied with what could have been a roll of his eyes, the slowest one Syryn had ever seen.

"Look at me anti mage, look at this," Syryn shoved his face into Artemus\' space till their noses were almost touching. "If I\'m not allowed some measure of vanity, then whom?" Syryn could feel his own heart beating rabbit fast, pumping blood through his panic steeped brain. He cursed Traxdart and promised himself complete vengeance if he ever escaped the puzzle box.

The anti mage placed a hand on Syryn\'s chest and gently but firmly pushed him away.

"You need to breathe." Artemus\' voice was reminiscent of Alka\'s calm tones. "Focus on your breathing. I\'m going to count to ten - breathe with me." Syryn counted internally with Artemus, taking deep breaths with each number. The scent of ink filled his lungs and Syryn found a measure of calm.

The glass orb silently changed again. Wide eyed, Syryn braced himself when Artemus was forced to hunch over him in their rapidly decreasing space. The anti mage was positioned awkwardly kneeling between Syryn\'s splayed knees, their chests just inches apart.

"Can," Syryn swallowed, "can you count again?" The panic was surging back to the surface like molten lava, burning his airway and scrambling all coherent thoughts. But at least he wasn\'t alone this time.

Syryn was drowning in an ocean and Artemus was the only bubble of air he could reach out to. The dark eyes boring into his own indigo iris\' reflected a pale face that begged for a lifeline. He hated how desperate and pathetic he appeared.

And like a sudden forceful tide knocking his feet off balance, Artemus lowered his head and closed the space between their lips. Syryn gasped against the anti mage\'s mouth but Artemus tasted smoky and hot, and any thoughts he had of pushing him off were washed away by the fragrance of ink that centred him to the moment - to the feeling of a good kind of breathlessness, and before it could disappear, Syryn was kissing Artemus right back.

His arms went around the anti mage\'s neck, sliding through silky hair, clinging to the solid feel of a warm body pressed up against Syryn\'s. The heat that came from Artemus\' mouth was as relentless as the tongue that parted his lips. Right then, a distant part of Syryn\'s mind came to two conclusions - One, Artemus, not frigid Artemus, had a mouth that every responsible adult had warned their children about, and two, his potion was working if the increase in body temperature was any indication.

The sweltering hot kiss lasted only a few seconds more when Artemus pulled away, a sheen of wetness clinging to his lips. Both breathless and affected more than they\'d have liked, Artemus let his head hang down against Syryn\'s chest. For what it was worth, Syryn\'s panic attack had taken a hike to the woods.

"Thank you." Syryn managed through deep breaths. It was obvious why the anti mage had kissed him. It was but a measure of kindness to comfort him in his last moments.

Artemus lifted his head and blinked slowly at the breathless Syryn, "You really aren\'t Syryn, are you?"

Oh, the professor\'s conscience had reared it\'s head. If Artemus was dying, he might as well let him pass on without having to know that he had plundered his dear student\'s mouth - Syryn would let him have that much. "Syryn? Is that the name of the kid you\'ve been going on about?"

The glass began to move again and Syryn watched the transparent surface press into Artemus\' back, squeezing the both of them together. Familiar faces - red hair, blonde locks, a lazy smirk and green eyes swam in Syryn\'s muddled mind. With a low snarl of frustration, Syryn grabbed a startled Artemus by his collar and mashed their lips together in a painful kiss that was less passion and more desperation, a vent for his feelings. Syryn was not reconciled to this death.