A little excerpt from Prince of Ice:

     Horns sounded outside Aren’s Great Hall, and men shouted as if tribal warfare had begun anew. Aren remained in his seat, listening as weapons clashed against shields in the rhythm of an ancient defensive signal. No… In times past, no attack from a rival clan could have produced this panic. Only one slight, black-haired woman had this effect on the Norsk’s mighty warriors.
       He didn’t welcome this meeting. He sensed why they had come – the old darkness that had once consumed his brother had returned. Stars knew how it affected the Mages this time, but his people had, thus far, escaped its menace. Aren had sensed its shadow on the outskirts of his land, and he had moved his people northward until only in midsummer did the sun melt the snow from the ground. The darkness didn’t seek his people – it barely acknowledged the Norsk existed at all, since his brother had failed to become its vessel. It wanted the Mages – but the Mages would bring its fury back to the Norsk.
       Not if Aren had anything to say about it. He took a swig of flat ale from a tankard left half-full the night before. If the King and Queen of Amrodel had forgotten their past agreement, he would soon remind them. Battles between Mages should stay between Mages.
      The commotion outside his Great Hall intensified, and the wide wooden doors burst open. Aren’s warriors fell back as if driven by an invincible army. Their axes were poised in defense, but none seem to have engaged ‘the enemy.’ Aren sighed, then sat upright, more or less, in his seat. He refused to stand as the group from Amrodel entered the Hall.
     “My lord! Take cover! She’s armed!” Thorleif stumbled back toward Aren’s seat, then gripped his axe in shaking hands.
     “Is she?” Aren surveyed his assailants. Two men, and two women. Four. Not five. The two men positioned themselves on either side of the younger female. One man was distinctly fat, and obviously terrified. Aren squinted to see what metal object the man held – it appeared to be a skillet. The taller man had the lithe build common to the Woodland folk, and though he carried a light sword, he hardly appeared formidable.
       Though both women were slight of build and dark-haired, there was no question which one Aren’s warriors feared. She stood at the center of her little group, taller than the other woman, her back straight, her hair loose but held in place with small braids amidst the dark mass. Her lithe body was clad in dark leggings and a snug bodice, and she wore a old shearling coat that seemed overlarge for her body – it looked like the coat Damir ap Kora had worn ten years ago when he rode into the Norskland. Even across the dimly lit hall, Aren could see her blue eyes glimmering with challenge. He was not a Mage himself, but experience had taught him to read their energy. Her power seemed subdued and uncertain, unlike what he had known in the king and queen of Amrodel. But it was obvious this woman was the Mage his men feared.
       She shoved her way forward through the astonished Norskmen and presented herself before Aren. But she didn’t speak. She just stared at him, and her mouth drifted slowly open. Aren waited. She glanced back at Thorleif, who stood frozen as if waiting for the final blow. “This is him? Your leader?” Thorleif nodded, then froze again. Her gaze turned slowly back to Aren. “It can’t be!”
       Aren allowed himself to return her attention, though he almost dreaded what he would see. She was worse than his darkest imaginings. The Mage of Amrodel was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, bar none. Her face was small with delicate, fine features, her lips curled expressively, and her eyes glittered like a jewel of the sky. He had known she would come. He had known it all his life. He had seen that face in his dreams.
       Aren rose to his feet, placed his hand on his chest, and bowed. “I am Aren, son of Arkyn, Chieftain of the Norsk. I bid you welcome.”
       She recoiled, and her face revealed abject horror. “You’re… hideous!”
       Aren scratched his unkempt beard, then angled his brow before reseating himself. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “So much for the fabled graciousness of the Wood. Did you travel all this way to comment on my appearance, or does this invasion serve some other purpose?”

Other Bits:

      "I would think you might consider offering me something rather than the questionable allure of certain death.”