It infuriates him so see her like this, full to the hilt with black magic and so full of hate that she’s willing to sacrifice her friends. But at the same time, she’s fantastic, power pulsing through her in silver cords that only Merlin can see, and he’s drawn to it. They kiss like they’re going to devour each other, and perhaps they are, because with each rip of fabric and hoisting of legs by an unseen hand they’re tearing at each other’s skin, biting and scratching and then laving over the hurt with desperate kisses. “Come back, Morgana,” he pleads as she rides him, and she hisses “Never,” and her fingernails leave ten blunt indents in his chest as she arches back. So he concentrates on letting his own brand of magic fill her, tendrils of soft gold wrapping around the cold silver in her veins, and he cries out from the thrill and ecstasy of it and fills her with a different kind of warmth.