No matter how annoyed he'd been with the Flamesparker's behavior, he had never been able to deny his attraction to the red-haired sword wielder.  And now, to watch him dance in the firelight - it was like Feron was flame made flesh, and it seemed to ignite a heat in his heart that made it beat faster than it ever had before.
Siro wanted Feron.  Wanted him achingly, immediately, and damn the rest of their companions.  And as Feron danced, his dark eyes sparked to each of them in turn, and when the boiling gaze landed on his own, he could've sworn those lips begged to be kissed.  Great Mother, he wanted to beg to kiss them.
He kept his composure as best he could and tried to act disinterested, but his eyes would not be wrested from the sleek hips and strong chest as they flickered in the fireglow.  And in its turn, his mind betrayed him also, imagining the heat was the heat of two bodies in joyful union, making him think the crackles were from the electricity created by the ecstasy of him and this lithe dancer exploring each other entirely.
He stood and excused himself, claiming boredom.  He thought he claimed boredom.  He wasn't quite sure WHAT he said, all he knew was he had to leave and regain control.  
He had learned this lesson.  Feron wasn't his friend, merely a traveling companion, and he was betrothed.  He certainly was not a potential bedmate...and never would be.  
He would remember.  He must remember.  Flame was beautiful, powerful, and attractive - but reach for it and you would be burned, scarred forever.