SEND ME A WORD AND A PAIRING AND I’LL WRITE A DRABBLE BASED ON THE PROMPT

Enemies were not what Nik and Damon were. For the word was an insinuation closer to nemesis than its lesser form of which the twosome embodied; the lesser form, naturally, was rivalry. Their intent was never to smoulder, but always to singe — a predator baiting their prey for the chase and then reclining before their capture. It was a game to them; a puerile repetition of petty punches that they each provoked and produced. The warlocks dabbled in sorcery as their earlier selves had dabbled in the sandpits during their initial meeting. Only, the exchange of spades had evolved to exchange of energies to which no winner would ever reign. 

Fire could annihilate earth to scorched ashes just as water could quench the ravenous rampage of the reddened dread. But fire could never extinguish fire, thus, their mutual affinity was the power that left them powerless. Akin souls aflame, their converging combusts. 

So their play continued from dawn until dusk; never fading, always regenerating, the magic of their ancestors fuelling the element allocated as their forte, enabling blunder but never bloodshed towards the other and their dearest. Nik canted his head to review him now, construing his opposition in search a weakness he had not known within himself. And, his silent survey concluded without flounder, his results, in fact, inconclusive.  Nonetheless, he curled his fingers inward, the bite of nails indenting into the skin acting as the cue for his confrontation. 

"I hope you brought more fight in you than last time, my old friend, our last duel bored me tremendously," he paused his prowling footsteps and prepped his posture for battle; eye-line aligned to target singularly him, Nik’s fingertips tingled with the innate anticipation of his blood, "in your own time, obviously.”