His paper was due next week at the editorial offices of Celtic Review, and he still had exams to grade from last semester.

"But we can't take the time to check people's calendars. Oh, no. Just-" He raised his hand and snapped his fingers in front of his face. "And we're supposed to come flyin'!"

Rounding the corner, he headed for the chamber at the end of the corridor. The reddish glow from the doorway froze him for a moment, giving him a chill of uncertainty. Had he missed something in Eochy's terse summons? No matter. Gaelen swept his uneasiness aside. So the better acoustics in this section of the tunnel could warn Eochy and the others of his sour mood, Gaelen raised his voice. Let them know what to expect before he entered.

"I've got a life, unlike some people!" He shouted toward the open door.

"Hurry up, Gaelen," came the reply from the chamber. "We've got lives, too, and they're wastin' away waitin' on you."

A rumble of male laughter and a few well thought-out curses accompanied Eochy's words.

Gaelen's mood soured.

It didn't get any better when he entered the Council chamber.

His feet froze on the stone floor of the cave. His voice froze in his throat.

The circular table, nearly forty feet across, a cross-section cut from a single tree--no one knew how long ago--occupied the middle of the chamber. Seated around the table were ninety-nine members of the Council of One Hundred.

"Take your seat, Gaelen."

Though he heard the leader of the Council very clearly, Gaelen was still rooted to the spot where he'd stopped, staring until his eyes hurt.

"Gaelen?" Eochy stood and came toward him with his bandy strut. "Why aren't you prepared?"

"No one told me."

"You've lost track of time out there in the Otherworld. You should call home more often." Eochy grabbed his elbow and pulled him to the only empty chair at the table. "Now, get 'em out."

"No."

"What?"

"I'm not going to parade my private parts for the entire assembly," Gaelen insisted.

"We've all got ours out," Eochy said.

They did, indeed. Each and every person at the table had them out and the iridescence caught the light from the stones mounted in the smooth chiseled walls of the sidhe.

"Gaelen, we can't begin the convocation until you get your wings out."

There, somebody said the W-word. Damn. Damn.

"Look," he pleaded, "I haven't had them out in years. They'll be all wrinkled and..."

Eochy waved to the doorkeepers. Two strapping lads, selected for their brawn and lack of humor, came up behind Gaelen, each one taking a sleeve of his heather tweed jacket.

R-r-r-i-i-i-i-p-p-p-p-p!

"Hey! That's my favorite jacket," Gaelen protested.

"It's ugly," one of the brutes muttered, with what might have been a smile on a less stony face.

Then off came his shirt. His one hundred dollar, hand-made dress shirt. It wasn't fairy-tailored, so they had to pull harder, but off it came.

Gaelen sat, humiliation bubbling with the stomach acid, and waited. It would only get worse.

The chill of the room and the prickly feeling of all eyes on him made his wings pucker and swell. He thought he could control himself until...

Oh, no. Not Carly. Anybody but her.

Carly O'Malley smiled at him from the gallery, and her wings--Oh, Bridget, what wings the woman had--shimmered three shades each of red and gold. The snickering around the table had Gaelen's already rough temper near to boiling.

"Ah, Gaelen, me boyo, you've a lass interested in seeing your wings."

"I've seen 'em," Carly said, "and a sight worth waitin' for they are."

Women tittered at Carly's words.

A sharp snapping pain twisted in his shoulders. Biting his tongue, he winced as the thin skin unfolded, first on the left, then on the right.

Not good to keep them packed away like that, his ol' da had said. Gotta shake 'em out and stretch 'em once in a while, boy.

The men on the Council and in the audience grimaced in amused compassion. The women were not so kind.

They watched, eyes widening, tongues flicking out to moisten their lips, their anticipation palpable.

Gaelen was a tall man and he'd been told by women--most recently the exquisite Carly O'Malley--he was extremely well-formed. In all his parts. Of course, he'd kept his wings folded as he always did unless he'd had warning of some ceremonial occasion like this one, but everybody knew that a man's wing-span was precisely equitable to the size of his...

"Ohhhh," he moaned, unable to control them as they spurted faster, fuller, taller.

"Oooooh." The women echoed his moans with their own.

"Just look at the coloring!"

"Wouldn't you just love to see those things sprout over your head in the dark?"

Sprout.

"Aren't you finished yet?" Eochy asked. His own wings wagged impatiently, the fairy equivalent of a tapping toe.

And just as irritating.

Gaelen tried to relax, but he couldn't resist a quick comment.