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Annatar’s - Sauron’s, Celebrimbor viciously corrected himself - face was bent over him in concentration, heating a small metal tool in a bright blue flame. Although the flame was at least a foot away from his head, Celebrimbor could feel the heat from it, the little flyaway hairs near his ear beginning to shrivel up with heat. His scalp felt like it was starting to burn.
Sauron was silent, his golden cat’s eyes narrowed to slits. His hair, of much the same hue as his eyes, was tied back in a long braid, and for a moment, Celebrimbor jealously wondered who had been given the honour of braiding Annatar’s - no, Sauron’s - hair. He remembered long lazy nights of letting that gold fall through his fingers, warm and soft, of the days when he had looked at Annatar’s - SAURON’S - hair under the light of the Sun and thought it nearly as fair as his long-ago memories of lost Laurelin.
Sauron lifted the sharp shining tool out of the flame and held it so that Celebrimbor could see. “Tell me,” he said, voice as smooth as running water, “where are the Three?”
“Am I supposed to be scared?” Celebrimbor asked, amused. It really did feel like his scalp was on fire, now. “For the sake of what you once meant to me, I will tell you nothing. If you loved me even a little, you won’t do this, and if you never loved me, nothing you do could possibly hurt worse.”
Sauron’s eyes widened. “We shall test that theory, then,” he said, and the heated tool descended.