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?"
