Fox and Yuvion

The fox was curled in sleep when she got a visitor. He appeared wearing a shape of a black-furred male fox, sleek and powerful. His eyes were dark and deep like the night sky, and he didn’t leave any footprints on the snow.
She yawned, stretched, and got on her hind legs.
The male fox stood a few yards from her. He didn’t breathe, but then again, neither did she.
“Yuvion.” She inclined her head.
“Fox”—the word came out in a low growl—“you play a dangerous game. Assisting those mortals nearly killed my winter.”
“Lord, that wouldn’t be the first one,” the fox said. “And I play my own game, not yours, not your sister’s.”
He barked a laugh. “Why did you help the Sun’s chosen, then?”
The fox swooshed her tail. “My reasons are mine. Do you even know you’re your winter spirit intended to use his light to free herself?”
Grimacing, he bared his teeth. “Of course I do. She cannot hide her thoughts from her master. I have punished her for her disobedience.”
The fox’s eyes flashed. “I see…” She got up, sauntering toward a snow-covered tree and brushed herself against the bark. Her back curved elegantly as she smiled at the god.
Involuntary, Yuvion shifted a fraction, then stilled. “But you knew that would happen, didn’t you?” he mused, his head tilted.
“Lord, I’m merely a fox. I wouldn’t presume to know your mind.”
He revealed his canines in a smile of a predator, and despite the fox knew better, she shivered.
“Fox. You are an amusing creature, but even I have my limits.” He didn’t even move, but at the next instant he stood in front of him, snout to snout. His eyes were depthless pool of ink. “Cross me one more time, and you shall regret.”
Then he was gone. The dark moon on the sky wavered as the moon god returned to his domain, leaving the fox alone in the still of the night.