He hasn’t forgotten her. They are too much alike for him to forget about her (their eyes sparkle with mischief, their hearts are like siblings – both craving the thrill of chaos, their worries are limited because, really, what harm can be done to them). She could travel through time and place and yet remain the same; he could travel through time and place and yet remain mentally the same. Perhaps their only, true difference is the fact that she is a pretender and, well, he is not.
Nonetheless, he cannot forget her. He cannot erase the image of the world stopping around them (of time and movement and space bowing to her knees), or the way her voice lulled him toward a different, better path of chaos, or the prospect of something exciting tingling at the edge of his tricky mind. Despite his best efforts to blur the memory, the flaming burn of an interaction with a magician cannot be so easily covered.
So, with that in mind, it is no surprise he finds his gangly legs leading him toward the Desert. He knows where she is – he knows who she is – and he is not afraid to seek her out. Perhaps she might still have an offer available; he certainly screwed away the last one. The worst thing she could do, however, was kill him – and he would have plenty of fun continuing to wreak havoc in the afterlife.
The heat of the Desert warms his skin after being stuck in the nippy weather of autumn. The trickster can feel the sand thrumming under his hooves (he isn’t a stranger to magic, nor is he a novice at wielding sand) and it thrills him. It prickles at his mind and causes his heart to beat faster and sends a tangling cord of electricity to dance through his veins. Oh, how much he missed the aliveness of magic.
He doesn’t call for her. He doesn’t search for her. He knows she can most likely already feel his presence; she’s gotten inside his mind before. Instead, he waits just inside the border (trespassing in a casual way, yet clearly showing he is rebelling – or, in the mischief-maker’s case, simply ignoring rules because he doesn’t care) for the magician queen to show up.
She hasn't forgotten about him either.
In fact, she's kept tabs on him, at least loosely. She's kept her awareness on him, like watching him out of the corner of her eye. Not necessarily because she'd intervene on his behalf whether he needed it or not, but because she might consider it. He's one of her better puppets, so very easily swayed by promises of chaos. But she also knows that those easily swayed by one horse are just as easily swayed by another. She can't have him running off and spilling all her secrets. It just wouldn't do.
He comes to her (as she knew he would) and he has the good sense to know that he'd been the one to walk away from her offer. How many years had passed? But what are years when you are able to play with time, to stitch and fold it like clothing, to make draperies out of years trimmed in minutes and seconds? And so she is not angry with him. Although perhaps she'd pretend to be. Yes, maybe that would be fun.
He steps onto the sands, and he thrills to feel it. And why should she deny him? With a smirk she sends her own power prickling across the pink sand, prickling right up his hooves and into his body. Like tiny electrical jolts it arcs through him, not hurting, not causing pain, but just causing the smallest of zaps as it arcs around him. Perhaps he'll see it, blue and purple and all manner of unnatural colors against the hot sun and the bright sand. She knows better than to think it will frighten him, but fear also isn't what she's aiming for. She knows he's made up his mind about her. She knows that he fears her as much as he can. It'll never be complete with a stallion like him – there's only so much fear you can show when you don't fear death.
Rather than appearing before him, she summons him to her. She's been on a bit of a sand kick recently, and so without warning the sand splits into two enormous waves and crashes around him, swallowing him smoothly. But before he can think to choke on it, think to even react to it, he is spat back out again and stands in front of her.
She looks exactly as she always has. It's the gift of immortality, the magician's best friend, and she wears it with grace and ease. Age won't touch her, injury won't cause her pain, and nothing will ever mar the perfect inky blackness of her coat – at least, not without her consent. The crook and flail is bold on her chest, the trace of diamonds across her cheek catches the light as radiantly as ever, and today her eyes are a duplicate of his, their strange colors an exact match. Her face is twisted in a wry grin.
"Well well, Lokii." she begins, speaking to him like a cat might speak to a cornered mouse, smug and certain. "How nice of you to drop by." she looks him over for a moment, as though checking for injury, or perhaps as though considering whether he'd make a tasty dinner. "I trust you've been well?" 
 this isn't mischief He’s dealt with magicians enough times to know they keep an eye on their favorite things. He didn’t know if she’d been watching him while he’d been gone (although he likes to think she had), but a part of him always wondered. He didn’t get into too many precarious situations on his journey from and to Beqanna, and he supposes that might have been in thanks to her. Nonetheless, (although the trickster might have thoughts on whether he had a bodyguard or not) he never relied on the magicians to protect him.
He knows, however, that she is watching him today. Along with the thrill of the sand as his feet sink in, comes a prickle with it. It doesn’t hurt or heal and he finds himself chuckling. She is already playing games with him (already toying with his mind and body and emotions; already adding to the excitement of the day; already causing his chaotic adrenaline to rise) and he is enjoying every second of it.
Before he can take many more steps into the Desert, there are two high sand waves that come crashing toward him. For a moment, his heart skips a beat in panic (the sand waves remind him of a time in his life where he was trapped in the kingdom and a sandstorm caught him without cover; the sand waves remind him of a fellow illusionist’s tricks of the sand raging around him and causing him to scream for them to stop; the sand waves remind him of a journey between graves where he had to strike his own walking corpse dead by the sandstorms that now twirl against his heels) but it calms as the sand rages around him and then drops him off at her feet.
At one point, the trickster feared the sand. He overcame it, however, and now the sand is his pet.
She looks unashamedly the same. He smirks in her direction, mimicking that wry smile on her own face. Her eyes mirror his (but he rarely bothers with wondering about a magician’s clothing choices nowadays) and the diamonds that creep along her cheek shine in the light. She greets him like a cat to its prey and he nods in her direction. “You look good as usual, Camrynn.” His voice is a smooth tenor, a charming tune. His pets (miniature sandstorms curling around his heels like cuddly cats) twine and wind around him, but never grow to the enormous size they could be. Here, the magician is in charge, and he knows that.
“I figured it was time to check and see if you’d forgotten about me,” he croons (although they both know neither of them had). His head tips to the side, then. “Fine, I suppose. And yourself? How’s that ragtag bunch of evil-doers managing without me?” He winks, one bruised eye disappearing before reappearing. Oh how good it feels to play the games of chaos again. lokii this is mayhem
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