With one swift stroke, Ares drew the sharp blade down Iphicles' right cheek.  Startled, the king touched the raw wound.  Without thinking, goaded by a dark impulse he refused to question, Iphicles ran his blood-stained fingers along the hollow just under Ares' left cheekbone, leaving a red smear.  He saw the god's tongue come out, the pink tip catching between strong white teeth.  Ares raised his hand, but the king didn't flinch, standing his ground.  The god only pressed his hand to the wet cut.  A sudden heat, then a tightening, before he pulled away.   Then, at a flick of Ares' wrist, studded bracer catching the hazy light, Iphicles' brown wool pants and thick jerkin disappeared, replaced by fitted black leathers and a white shirt open to his waist.

"Now you look just like him," Ares said.  "Powerful.  A little slutty."