from the forthcoming novel, The Silvergrey Sea
[Drago] backed away as Dævara stepped out of the mound of cloth and bent from the waist to retrieve it.
She took her time.
The diminutive whore’s backside was poetry in flesh. A waist that couldn’t have been larger than twenty inches offset slender hips to increase her bum’s apparent tumescence…
…she turned back to her client. Her eyes were sparkling liquid fire. Dark red tresses worked their way around her shoulders, their curling ends brushing the pale blue areolas that capped her small teats.
Lamplight caught the silver sparkles dusting her white flesh as she moved in a way that would have put serpents to shame.
She wore no jewelry.
She needed none.
This Post is Not Safe For Work
The Great Soul’s upper lip felt the jump in Madame Josie’s pulse as his teeth pinched the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. It brought to mind the pleasures he had surrendered all those centuries ago.
He needed to return to his mission but this delay, though he chaffed at it, would give him the chance to indulge his lusts again.
Besides, he’d need help if he were to remain in control of the skin suit he had to wear. The damned Hyborean was becoming insistent, despite his best efforts to keep the latter weak.
The Great Soul had access to the Drago’s mind and could feel the latter’s struggle as he tried vainly to reassert control of the body he had inhabited since before his birth. Too often the Hyborean succeeded, if only for a moment.
Sleep would be impossible until the Great Soul had a permanent way of quieting his host. That Madame had seen Drago’s struggle to emerge, too. A perceptive one, she was. To solve this problem before the Hermetists tried to kill him again, became an urgent need.
The new master of Drago’s body spared a thought for those incompetents who couldn’t even manage a proper invocation. True, they hadn’t expected him and remained ignorant of the mission he was supposed complete. Coming as it had from a malevolent source, the Great Soul was determined to see that directive fail.
He’d gladly have enlisted the conspirators’ help, but those wizards were traitors to their own Order, more concerned with hiding evidence of their crime than anything he might have to say.
Fools.
A Brothel on Noir
The Red Palazzo might have been lifted straight from Oerth. The Great Soul wondered at the depth of cultural memory. He only saw enough of the exterior by moonlight to determine it was at least three storeys high. Walking into the foyer was like stepping into his own youth.
Gaslight in frosted crystal sconces picked out gold thread in a rug woven in green, yellow, azure, and deep red. The deep red fringes ended far enough from dark stained wainscoting to reveal slate flagstone. Wallpaper, textured and also dark, mirrored the colours woven below. A crystal chandelier threw its light upward, highlighting the decorative textures of the plaster ceiling. Polished brass completed the look. Coat hangers, accents on the ornamental gaslights and overhead fixtures, and a rail just visible through an arched opening to the left all twinkled a golden yellow in the light.
“A splendid suite overlooking the harbour we have for you, Cherie.” He turned to his hostess. Practiced though it undoubtedly was, her smile still pulled one from him. Her plump lips glistened red in the mellow light. Emerald eyes gleamed. Her figure was ample beneath the gown she wore, but not so much that she wouldn’t have aroused him were she naked. Restrained gold earrings she wore with a matching necklace of gold wire, woven like lace. The set sparkled with peridots. “But—” she squeezed his bicep”—perhaps some refreshment, first you would like?” Her smile became ever so slightly wicked.
“I would benefit from something to relax me. It has been a trying few days.”
Josie Arlington, Madame of this brothel, gestured with her free hand toward the lounge. “This way.” Her grip lightened as she glided along beside him.
The Company of Beauty
A low babble of voices, barely noticed when he entered the establishment, became more prominent as the pair passed beneath the archway.
The room was a dream of Storyville. The brass rail he’d seen from the foyer ran along a bar to the right. Patrons stood or sat on stools chatting and drinking. A selection of tables was scattered throughout the remainder of the room. Many had various card and dice games going. At several elbows, as graceful and colourful as butterflies, were the whores of the Red Palazzo. Others were flitting from table to table, seemingly at random. Some did not appear human.
In the corner, a three-piece band competed with the racket and barely held its own.
Paintings hid most of the walls above the waist high wood paneling. They were in a profusion of styles but were all carnally themed. Some were flirtatiously suggestive, others as obvious as waking up to finding a cunt rubbing one’s lips.
“Anything catch your eye, Cherie?”
An Elven Whore
Before he could reply, one that had arrested his attention turned her head and met his gaze. Her smile when she saw him lasted only a second and was devastating even so.
He felt the Hyborean take advantage of his distraction and try to wrest back control of his body. The whore reacted instantly. Her smile was replaced with, first a frown, then a widening of her eyes and a slight opening of her mouth. At that moment, the Great Soul was sure she had seen the other, just as Madame Josie had. She recovered her smile and walked toward the pair of them.
Her skin was a soft, brilliant white. What he first mistook for silver glitter seemed to him a quality of her skin. He noticed the palest blue under her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks, also merely another aspect of her native colouring, he later learned.
And those eyes! A liquid scarlet peppered with gold flecks. Those beestung lips were a glossy blue and curled in a way that had him thinking of what they’d feel like against the skin of his scrotum.
“Salutations, luv. I’m Dævara, I am. Buy a lady a drink?” She carried a scent that the Great Soul couldn’t place. It made his heart pound and head ring. He only managed a nod by way of answer.
Dævara led him by his other arm through the crowd, exchanging nods and quips with several patrons. Her laughter was music. She was a tiny thing, not quite reaching his shoulder. Gold streaked auburn locks spilled over her bare shoulders and onto the silk brocade of a hunter green dress that hugged an improbably narrow waist and trailed a good three feet behind her.
Belatedly, he noticed that Madame Josie had departed.
Tranker’s recommended quarters are in a brothel where Drago finds unlooked-for help to quell the troublesome owner of his borrowed body.
They settled at a small table near one of two fireplaces, neither lit this early in the season.
The pair sat opposite each other. She took his hands in hers, eyes boring into him. Her tiny smile carried a heavy freight of mirth. He had to admit he was smitten in a way he hadn’t been since his long ago first youth. There was something bewitching about this one. Her hands were silken and warm. He could feel the pulse in his left wrist against her fingers.
A voice to his right asked if he wanted anything to drink. Dævara merely looked at him. Not knowing what she wanted, he nodded to her. “Irish whiskey fer me, Neville, if ya please.”
“And for the gentleman?” Drago rarely indulged but decided to then. “A half-litre of the house red wine.”
In the interval before the drinks arrived, they merely stared at each other, hands caressing. Drago stretched out one leg and met a slippered foot. It proceeded to glide up and down his calf. He was losing his balance staring into the bottomless flames of her eyes.
Thoughts he hadn’t had in he couldn’t remember how long surfaced and danced a jig in his forebrain. A part of him wondered at this. Was the whore reading him in some way?
The Great Soul should have been worried at that but found he couldn’t care less.
The drinks arrived and they broke eye and hand contact to clasp them. The waiter poured a generous measure of dark red wine into his glass before leaving.
He took a measured sip. Dry without being bitter and a fruity finish. Not bad for house wine.
The whore’s glass had almost as much whiskey as his wine. She downed half of it in one swallow.
He had never seen an alien of her type. It had been centuries since the being who rode the Hyborean had worn a body; perhaps that explained it. A thought occurred. “Dævara—”
“Call me Dæv.” Again the impish grin.
“Dæv, then.” Drago returned the smile. It seemed impossible to do otherwise. “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
She feigned surprise. “Why, I dunno. If it’s not too personal, I s’ppose.” The playful smile returned.
The soul controlling Drago was enjoying himself much more than he thought he would. “Are you…synthetic?”
The musical chimes of her laughter brought out his own. He hadn’t laughed for far too long, either.
Finally, mirth silvering her voice, “No, I’m natural enough, I am. Would ya prefer a synthetic? We’ve three lovely ones here.”
The Hyborean’s master shook his head. “You’ll do fine. I was simply curious. Your colouring.”
“I see. So, ye’ve not met an elf b’fore, then?”
“No, they’re rarely seen—that is, they’re not native to my home world.”
“Where’s that, then?”
“Hyborea.” He could hardly tell her the real truth of that—not just yet anyway.
She nodded. “I know it, I do.”
A Secret Discovered
She took one of his hands in both of hers. The first two fingers of one pressed into the underside of his wrist. “What’s yer name?” It seemed a casual question.
“Drago.” A tingling, edging to pain in his wrist. He tried to pull away and found he couldn’t move. The Great Soul avoided panic, but only just.
The smile was still in place, but those eyes were suddenly deadly serious. “Ya don’t frighten easily, I vow. I asked ya what yer name was, I did. Lyin’ ta a whore is common enough, but ya shoudna expect ta get away with it when I’m the whore.”
She had made him. Not that it mattered. He had intended to reveal himself, anyway. He’d have to if he were going to enlist her help in subverting the spirit within him. “Could we converse in private? I don’t think everyone should hear this.”
Her smile vanished for a moment. “Alright. I’m trustin’ ya, ya understand. Don’t make me regret it.” She withdrew her hands and he could move.
There were several ways the mind from the Silvergrey Sea could escape this. He thought she knew that. Not knowing what he was about, she yet chose trust.
He rose and held out his arm.
She took it with a smile and a wink, and everything appeared normal.
Cards on the Table
She led him through the room and through another arch of deeply carved wood. A grand staircase dominated the room beyond. Arm in arm the two ascended.
Hers was a room on the third floor. There were four storeys to the brothel, he learned. All the public spaces had so far been as beautifully appointed as the lounge. The halls were quite wide, the ceilings a dozen feet high.
An intimidating black oak door with a large gold knob centered in it led to her suite. Dæv reached up to it. At a touch, the door noiselessly opened.
Within was a room made for lust. Deep pile carpeting framed a massive full-canopied bed complete with sheer draperies. Exquisitely detailed murals depicting populous orgies covered the walls.
Likely hiding windows, heavy silk drapes defined a left wall. Almost everything in the room was in shades of red, even the lighting. A massive unlit chandelier hung from three chains. The only lights on were two hanging Tiffany lamps to either side of the bed. A closed door in the opposite wall completed the scene.
As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Dævara turned that high-voltage smile on him. Taking one of his hands in both of hers, she pulled him into the room.
In a state of passivity, he hadn’t the energy to question, he let himself be led. He could feel the ‘goofy’ on the grin he wore.
Around to the far side of the bed they went. The whore left him standing with half an erection while she turned and reached behind the closest bedpost. The stiffness her brocade dress couldn’t hide the shape of her arse. The stiffness of his cock increased.
She pulled out something the Great Soul thought for a moment was a sex toy.
Then he felt its heat.
The elf had a metal staff in her hand. It was red and the Great Soul could see characters on it that flickered as it moved. She shoved one end just under his nose. He could feel a shrivelling in his trousers. That frightening light was back in her eyes. Drago suspected those pursed lips were as thin as they could get, which wasn’t very.
“Now then,” she said. “Tell me who y’are ‘n why I shouldna turn ya over ta th’ Herms.”
Full Disclosure
As the fog of lust cleared, the being controlling Drago re-evaluated his decision to enlist the whore’s help and to tell her all as a prelude to the asking. After a moment, he decided that both still seemed worth the risk of being turned in to those who had done this to him.
So he told her everything.
It took longer than it might have, largely because Dævara asked several pointed and pertinent questions. Taking her into his confidence seemed wiser and wiser as the interview wore on. She was obviously more than just a whore.
By the end, the stave was leaning against the bed and they were both seated on it. The Great Soul’s tale was uninterrupted save for a brief intermission while drinks and a good meal were delivered.
“What d’ya mean ta do?”
“I need to hide.”
“Ya seem well hidden now, ya do.”
“I couldn’t hide from you.”
That smile never really went away. It blossomed now and he could hear it in her voice. “I’m somethin’ of a special case, I am.” It folded back up. “I take it ya think others might be as perceptive, do ya?”
“I’m sure Mr. Tranker suspects something. Also, your Madame.”
“Not much gets by either, ‘tis true. You’re worried o’ someone else, I think.”
He nodded. “The Hermetists. Mr. Tranker will have to bring them in at some point. They have many ways of seeing through deceptions. If they find me out…” He didn’t have to finish.
“It’s a dangerous plan, ya have. Ye’re opposing two sides, one o’ which will do far worse than th’ other, if ya fail.”
“I have no choice, really. The Thirty Aions cannot go back to what it was. Damnéd Hermetists could have been a great help.”
“The Herms have always been as much squabblin’ as doin’ any good, they have. I wouldn’t write ’em off, though. Some’re bound ta see the right o’ yer cause, they should. So, what d’ya need from me?”
Plans Made
The Great Soul looked on the elf with frank admiration, not for her looks this time, but for her strength and evident courage. Things were bound to get quite dangerous in the next few weeks. Despite this, she was eager to help him. “The man Drago struggles to get his body back. Not only may that give me away, but it’s also a constant distraction, one that I will not be able to afford.”
“Do ya want ta evict him?” Something like a frown creased her smooth brow. He could tell she did not approve of that kind of theft.
“No. What happened to him isn’t his fault, any more than it’s mine. After this is over, I’ll must do right by him. I just need to hide the fact that he’s here with me and keep him from getting in my way.”
“There’s somethin’ we could do, but it’ll be permanent, it will.” She seemed little better pleased with that. She told him what she had in mind.
“That seems drastic, but I confess I cannot think of anything else that would work. How do we proceed?”
“I’ll havta talk ta Drago. I’ll not do this unless he agrees.”
Drago’s master nodded. It was the only ethical thing to do. “How do we manage that?”
Dævara’s hand darted out. A finger touched the middle of his forehead and everything went black.
⁂
When the being controlling Drago again opened his eyes, he knew some time had passed. His head felt woolly, like he’d been drugged. The elf whore was leaning over him, tiny smile in place. “How d’ya feel, luv?”
“A bit fuzzy. What did you do?”
“I made ya go away fer a while, so I could talk ta yer host, I did.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He’s a bit exercised about everythin’ that’s happened, he is. I explained th’ situation an’ what we propose ta do about it. He’s agreeable.”
“I must confess to being a bit surprised at that, all things considered.”
“So was I. Life fer him wasn’t lookin’ ta be terribly exciting. Hyborea is a dull old world, it seems.”
“You told him he’d lose himself if he agreed and he’s really okay with that?”
“Tha’s not exactly what’ll happen. Ye’ll both lose yer individuality in a single mind. It’s a delicate thing ta do proper, but I c’n manage it, I can.”
Now the Great Soul was hesitant. He’d assumed he’d be left ‘in charge’ as it were. He had questions about that.
Dæv explained that they’d be a single person. She assured him, nothing significant would change for either of them, a claim he found difficult to accept on its face. He did, though. There really wasn’t another option after all. Besides, much more than just his life was at stake. Mentally bracing himself, he asked, “How do we proceed?”
Consulting the Experts
Dæv was sitting with feet curled under her. For answer, she stretched and pulled open the top drawer of the nearest nightstand. Out came a dark bag of what looked to be heavy silk. “Here we go.” She pushed the drawer closed with the back of the hand that held the bag and sat straight. Opening the drawstrings, she slid out a fat pack of cards. They shone and glittered like jewel-encrusted, lacquered gold.
“Tarot.” He hadn’t expected to see something like that, though He couldn’t say why.
“‘Tis the Syrat, it is. What’s ‘Tarot,’ then?”
“The what?”
“Have ya not heard of it?”
The Great Soul shook his head. “Tarot is a pack of cards used for divination and magick. I take it ‘Syrat’ is much the same?”
“The Syrat. And yes, it is.”
He held out his hand. “May I see them?”
She didn’t move other than to raise one eyebrow and give him a slightly lopsided smile.
“Sorry.”
“Ya do know better, then.”
“Of course. Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking.”
She put a hand over his. A giggle that made him tingly, followed by, “I’ve a deck o’ playin’ cards modelled on the Syrat in th’ top drawer on t’other side table, if ya want ta have a look.”
He did. The Great Soul skootched to the other side of the wide bed and grabbed a grubby deck of cards slightly smaller than the sparkling wonders Dævara held in her tiny hands. These were mere plastic, though brightly painted. Mosaic images made of strangely shaped runes composed most of them. More characters he couldn’t decipher, bordered each card. Some here dominated by single characters, writ large.
The whore-cum-fortune teller had been rifling through her cards as well. She pulled out one and showed it to him. Overlapping characters in red and black formed the unmistakable image of a tower crumbling. Lightning in yellow, so bright it seemed to glow, stitched down the card. A large silver rune overlapped the image without hiding what was beneath.
“The Blasted Tower,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “So, ya do know the Syrat. This card was often called ‘The Lightning Struck Tower.’ It has a different name now, ‘The Elven Dark’.”
“Sounds grim. The Blasted Tower is a card of the Tarot, as well.”
“I must find a deck o’ these Tarot cards, I think. They merit study. What d’ya think, o beast o’ mine? Will ya submit ta Change?”
The Great Soul nodded.
The Ritual
Preparing for ritual magick involved a lot of detail work. Preparing for magick that involved sex even more so. It made spontaneous arousal quite difficult. A partner skilled in both the arts of sex and ritual was a blessing. Dævara was just such a one.
She became all business as she discussed details. She had everything necessary ready to hand. In far less time than Drago’s master would have thought possible, everything was set.
Dævara turned back into a high-class courtesan. Taking his arm, she led him to her lavatory. Her scent set his pulse racing. His mouth tasted of copper.
After opening the door, Dæv flicked a switch with her free hand. Yellow light from a dozen glass-shaded bulbs revealed the space. It was tiled in green and white on the floor and up the walls to the small window just under the tin ceiling.
The room had fixtures of brass and porcelain. Included in the latter was a large claw footed tub with a wrap-around shower curtain. From a long rod handy to the bath hung large fluffy towels in green and red. A deep plush mat, also green, lay to one side of the tub.
Once she had her client in the room, Dæv pushed the door closed. Giving him a tiny smile, she turned away. Moving her hair aside with one hand exposed a closely spaced row of pearl buttons running from collar to waist.
“D’ya mind?” she purred. That odour at once sweet and slightly bitter was making him light-headed. His erection was becoming painful.
The dress was embroidered with what he had thought was an abstract pattern. From his current vantage, the Great Soul saw that the figures were people engaged in a variety of extremely acrobatic carnal acts. The detail was exquisite. Some of the figures were performing feats of sexual legerdemain that looked impossible.
As he slid each smooth sphere out of its tiny leather lasso, enjoying the reveal of soft white flesh beneath, the whore began undoing the buttons that ran from cuff to elbow along the gown’s sleeves.
So short was Dæv, the Great Soul had to crouch to reach the last few. He straightened and, placing his hands on her shoulders, slid the dress down. Once he reached her biceps, the weight of the garment did the rest. Besides the garment, she wore only slippers.
He backed up as Dævara stepped out of the mound of cloth and bent from the waist to retrieve it.
She took her time.
Pre-Ritual Preparation
The diminutive whore’s backside was poetry in flesh. A waist that couldn’t have been larger than twenty inches offset slender hips to increase her bum’s apparent tumescence.
As she bent over, firm cheeks parted enough to show a stripe of flesh stained deep blue. A tiny rosebud anus dotted the ‘i’ of her slit, chubby outer labia, bare of mane, completely concealing the inner. Trimmed pale blue verdure was just visible in the gap between her thighs.
Drago’s cock became so hard his diaphragm began to cramp, forcing a grunt from him.
Placing the dress on a hook behind the door, the elf stepped out of her footwear then stepped to a full-length mirror and began removing silver combs holding back her auburn tresses. She caught his eye in reflection and gave him a look so full of fiery longing he could almost believe she meant it.
Finally, the whore turned back to her client. Sparkling liquid fire were her eyes.
Dark red tresses worked their way around her shoulders, their curling ends brushing the pale blue areolas that capped her small teats.
Lamplight caught the silvers sparkles dusting her white flesh as she moved in a way that would have put serpents to shame.
She wore no jewelry.
She needed none.
Again, that arousing scent as she came close enough for him to feel her heat. He reached for the elf. She backed off a step. Even her disapproving pout was sexy. Smiling, he let his hands drop.
Dævara glided back again, moving in close. Her eyes never left his. This woman could do more with a look than most women could with their entire bodies, even were they given an eternity to prepare.
Drago’s erection pressed against her abdomen, almost high enough to reach her breastbone. She had his trousers around his ankles and his shorts past his knees in a flash.
She bit her lower lip just as he felt cool fingers cup his testicles. The head of his penis tapped her stomach once every heartbeat. His scrotum was snugged tight against the shaft of his dick. Slowly she worked the former, gently tugging and teasing it, until it hung a little more loosely. Not once did she touch his cock.
To Drago’s surprise his chosen assistant, an elf whore named Dævara, is an accomplished mage in her own right. Preparing for the rite is almost too stimulating. Never has bathing been this much fun.
She was testing the Great Soul, he knew. Before committing fully to the rite they had planned, the elf whore needed to know he was up to the challenge. Again, he realized that he’d obtained an excellent assistant.
Without speaking, she backed up toward the chair, tugging gently on him to get him to follow. The Great Soul took two awkward half steps before realizing he could just step out of his pants. His briefs weren’t helping, either. Drago bent to yank them down and off. His assistant didn’t make that easy. She kept tugging on his scrotum, forcing him to take a couple of skipping steps to avoid pain.
It was when she sat that he realized the reason for having a chair in the lavatory. Being so petite, she was too short to properly service her clients orally if she knelt. The chair gave her just the right elevation for most of them.
Most of them.
Drago’s body was well past six feet tall, while she was under five. This gave him almost a foot and a half over the woman. In addition, his oversized erection was nuzzling his own navel at present. In that pretty heart shaped face, those plump glossy blue lips were just level with his testes.
She gave him the most teasingly wicked smile he could ever remember seeing before leaning forward and, with eyes never leaving his, laying a wet open-mouthed kiss on his right testicle, applying just a hint of suction.
It lingered.
It felt delicious.
The Great Soul could feel an exquisitely pleasurable contraction of his prostate: the beginnings of orgasm.
The whore felt it he was sure. She broke the kiss unable to suppress a grin.
Bitch thought she had him. He was determined to prove her wrong.
Oral Challenge
“That’s your best, is it,” working his sardony.
Dæv’s mock scowl wasn’t arousing, but it was cute. An expression of lust replaced it. She knelt on the chair and raised herself until her chin was level with the head of his erection. Now came the hard part.
From what he’d experienced so far, this woman was likely one of the most skilled fellatrices he would ever encounter. He braced himself for the challenge.
Again that look as those lips moved slowly toward the head of his pulsating dick. They parted and Drago felt hot breath puffing over his glans. Her pointed, pale blue tongue slithered out and landed on the bundle of nerves just under the head. The rest of it followed, caressing the sensitive tissue as it wrapped around Drago’s shaft and pulled it into her waiting mouth.
Seeing his cock slide past those lips nearly made him lose it, but Drago’s master held firm. The angle of his erection made eye contact difficult and then impossible as she slid his member into the warm, moist sheath of her mouth. He felt resistance back up to the base of his shaft as the head hit the back of Dævara’s throat.
With one small hand on Drago’s balls and one gripping the base of his dick, Dæv pulled his member down level and drove her face toward his stomach. He felt her tongue press against the underside of his cock as the former slid with little resistance down her throat.
The elf’s chin rested against her client’s scrotum and again those liquid scarlet eyes met his. Her lips distended around the thick base of his penis, he felt as her tongue lick his balls, left to right and back again. He also felt what had to be Dævara swallowing against him, effectively stroking his erection with the muscles of her throat.
He had been right. She was the best. He held on, but only just.
Her face became flushed blue and her eyes began to water. He heard, finally, gagging sounds. The Great Soul was wondering if she’d pass out before he came when she finally retreated, exposing his saliva slicked cock. The sight of lips sliding back off him nearly drove him again over the edge.
Spit dripped from her lower lip as the whore panted, open mouthed, fast stroking the top third of his spit glistening cock. Those eyes above her tear-streaked cheeks were wet and challenging. The Great Soul saw a hint of a smile in Dæv’s eyes. She knew he couldn’t hold out long.
But he had a surprise for her.
She had her breath back sooner than he thought she could. With no warning as she swallowed his pride again, making abortive choking sounds as she forced him into her esophagus. He couldn’t believe how long her tongue was. It past under his scrotum, crossed his perineum, and actually licked his anus. The Great Soul knew he wasn’t going to make it. He decided to give her her victory while robbing it of its savor.
A Masterful Response
Theatricality was the key. He let her see his eyes widen and began to grunt as he panted. “No!” he shouted. Roughly grabbing fistfuls of hair, he began fucking her throat without mercy, slamming her face into his pelvis with each stroke.
The Great Soul controlled Hyborean roared as he pushed her mouth away from his dick.
The elf whore tiled her head back, ruby eyes dancing in anticipation of his defeat. Her mouth was open, tongue lashing the air, eager to taste and to feel his cum on her face.
He short stroked his cock with one hand while grasping a fistful of her hair with the other. It was a powerful orgasm. Drago spasmed for a good fifteen seconds.
When it was over, he had to laugh at the look on Dævara’s face; her sweaty, but otherwise clean face.
“Not a drop,” she sounded genuinely impressed. A real, pleasure smile bloomed. “Yer the genuine article, y’are.”
Drago’s grin was mostly for the orgasm that still had him tingling. He collapsed to the floor; his legs being unwilling to support him for some reason. His dick was still rock hard, but nowhere near as sensitive as it had been. He still had his shirt and jacket on, too.
Alchemycal Purification
“Let’s have a quick wash b’fore we continue.” Dæv held out her hand. Her client needed a little help. She sat him in the chair and knelt before him. He thought briefly of removing the rest of his clothing before he realized this was a part of the service he was paying for or would be if not for Madame Josie’s largesse.
Dæv removed his shoes and socks, then took off Drago’s thin tie, jacket, and shirt. Picking up the rest of his clothes, giving him another stanza of fundamental poetry in the process, she hung them beside her dress on the back of the door.
Turning back toward him, Drago’s assistant held out a hand. “Come.”
“Too soon. You’ll have to give me at least another twenty minutes.” That delightful laugh again.
Standing, the Great Soul took Dævara’s hand and walked to the tub.
⁂
This claw foot bathtub a beast, being at least twice as wide and half again as long as any other he had ever seen. The curtain was several layers of sheer linen, two of them hanging inside the edge of the bath were heavily oiled to repel water. Blue, heart shaped somethings dotted the bottom of the tub, he assumed for reasons of safety. The four showerheads, two at either end, were each a foot wide and pointed almost straight down. They were comfortably high enough for the tall man to stand under.
Dævara kept him waiting a moment as she tied her hair up. Well, it certainly didn’t look like it needed washing.
The stinging spray of the water was scaldingly delicious. He let the petite elf soap and rinse him. Her hands were firm as she smoothed the faintly abrasive, foaming paste on his body, combining ablution and massage. It felt wonderful. She didn’t tease though, passing through his pelvic region thoroughly and quickly. He had to squat while she washed his hair. While her fingers worked his scalp, she playfully pressed her torso against his back and swayed side-to-side, humming a little tune.
Then it was her turn. She had wanted to clean herself, giving her client a bit of a show. He insisted on returning her favour.
She really didn’t need to bathe either, but he seized the opportunity to let his hands wander.
Her skin would have put any satin weaver to shame for its silky softness. There was little fat on her, except for teats and buttocks. Even they were merely layered over with fat; taut muscle underlay them. He took a bit more time around her cunny and buttonhole than he needed to, lingering over their shape and texture, exploring under the pretense of scrubbing.
Dævara’s eyes closed and her breath caught as he stroked first one, then both erogenous zones between her legs. She leaned forward slightly, bracing herself on his shoulder with her upper torso. Dæv’s legs moved further apart. He took that for approval, and so continued for a while.
“Enough fer now.” Dævara’s voice was lower and slightly hoarse as she placed a hand on his exposed shoulder.
Wanting to continue, he complied. They had work to do.
Sex magick is soul alchemy. Forging a single being from two warring one’s is Drago and Dævara’s purpose. The fun part is just a bonus.
Freshly toweled, the two moved from the lavatory to the ritual space and to the perfume of dragon’s blood, pepper, and camphor.
Tall stands marked out the four quarters. Atop each one, a foot-wide brass dish cupped sourceless fires: red, yellow, blue, and green, providing the only light. Defining the space between them was a double ring of white light hovering a bare three inches from the carpeted floor. Characters the Great Soul thought were the same as on the Syrat clustered between the circles, rotating widdershins.
On the floor, inside the space thus protected, was a mound of furs overlaying softer cushioning. To one side, just inside the circle was a small table with a phial of mother-of-pearl on it, leather saddle, and a tied bundle of birch rods.
As assistant, Dævara preceded him. She made a motion as of parting drapes and a section of the bright circle dimmed. Stepping over it, she turned and held out a hand to him. The Great Soul took it and followed her. Once inside, she made a closing motion and the circle was once again inviolate.
Hand in hand, they walked carefully to the center of the cushioned floor.
Dæv bade the Great Soul stand with arms and legs slightly out. From the small brass table, she took the flask. Removing its ruby stopper, she poured a small amount of fragrant golden oil into her open palm. As she swirled it and breathed on it, a scent of cinnamon, ginger, and something bitter, myrrh, he thought, wafted up to his nose.
The Great Soul smiled when he realized what it must be. To think it had survived all this time. Come to think, it was the very perfume the elf had worn.
She began rubbing it into the Hyborean’s master’s skin, beginning with his feet. Drago had to steady himself with a hand on her shoulder while she did first one then the other.
After that, he closed his eyes and reveled in the feel of the firm pressure and the warmth as she anointed him. He expected to feel a tingling, bordering on burning as the oil touched his skin and was surprised that he didn’t. Then he realized that this oil must have been made the old way, by the art of the perfumer.
As she continued to anoint him, The Great Soul opened his eyes only once, when she began stroking his dick and massaging his balls as she rubbed oil on them.
Those eyes were wide and intense on his. Her left twisted as it delivered long strokes to his erection. Gently, she rubbed each testicle all the while, occasionally ascending to encircle both and pull gently on his scrotum.
It wasn’t mere desire he saw in her face but something stronger, something purer. His head began to feel light; he realized the magick had already begun. He closed his eyes again, as Dævara moved on to the rest of his body.
The Great Soul thought he was to return the favour, but no; hers was the subordinate role.
Thus, he found a comfortable spot in which to lounge, while his assistant coated herself with the holy oil.
Dævara sat in the center of the circle facing Drago. The lights tinted her skin; the silver flecks that were part of her twinkled as she moved.
It began with her legs. After pouring a palm’s worth of oil, she lifted one white, lithely muscled leg and began kneading the oil into her thigh, near her pelvis. The leg was straight, her toes pointed.
So intent seemed she on her task that she glanced in his direction not at all. Up to her calf and finally her foot she worked. Never bending her leg, she rubbed oil into the heel before finally bending her foot to access her toes. When finished, she lay the leg down, and lifted the other, repeating the performance.
Her arms were next, shoulder to elbow.
She then did her back. This impressed him more than he thought it would. With not so much as a twitch to disturb the serenity of her expression, Dævara stretched first her left then the right arm across her torso, over and under her shoulders. The whole of her back done in four sections and a handful of seconds.
Not until she finished her back did Dæv looked at him again, when she began with her neck and shoulders. Gathering more oil into her hands, she began stroking her stomach. Slowly, she let her hands rise in circles until they reached her small, perfect teats. Scarlet eyes pierced him as she rubbed the fatty mounds and tweaked those frosted nipples, biting her lower lip.
Stoking the Fires
Drago’s hands reached down and began stoking his manhood, massaging testes with his free hand. He went from semi-flaccid to raging hard almost at once.
Finally, his assistant raised herself from her seat. Turning around, she bent over with knees apart, giving Drago an excellent view of that sonnet to lust.
He heard the clink of the stopper going back into the neck of the vial. Her two hands came around her thighs and began working the oil into her buttocks which began to glow in the light of the braziers. One hand began playing with her tiny anus; the other vanished and reappeared between her legs where it slowly rubbed oil into her vulva.
He settled more comfortably against a mound of furs and continued masturbating as he watched her do the same.
Long slow strokes of Dævara’s two middle fingers along her slit; it widened like eyelids opening until he could see the blue-black of those inner lips. They glistened, as if already anointed. The elf whore rubbed them, first pinching them between her fingers, then sliding one finger between the two.
He heard her gasp softly. It was the first such sound she had made since the bath. She slipped one finger into her vagina and one from her other hand pushed softly into her asshole. In syncopated rhythm, her fingers worked both entrances. She added a second finger to her cunt.
Her anal finger disappeared past the second knuckle and stayed buried. By the twitching, curling of the exposed fingers, he knew she was wiggling it.
Her breath began to louden and quicken, the occasional whimper escaping. She had three fingers in her vagina now, wriggling them like the one in her butthole. Dævara alternated between that and full-palmed rubbing of the whole of her snatch, perineum to front commissure. Her pubic region became a darker blue and shinier in the light of the fires. He could see the muscles of Dæv’s thighs quivering.
Her respirations stuttered between breath and panting breath, each forceful exhalation punctuated with a squeal or squeak that powered Drago’s arousal more than the vision before him.
The scent of her sex washed over him, noticeable even over the incense. It was musky and sweet and something else he couldn’t identify. Tingling washed over his body. He felt hot; began to sweat.
Drago’s own stroke quickened just as his assistant’s fingers began punishing her clitoris mercilessly. The hand that had been busy at her anus now plunged into her cunt, fingers fucking furiously.
Her breathing stopped. Her toes curled tightly as her shins lifted clear of the furs. She was coming. Drago ramped up his own pace. He watched as her ass cheeks flexed and her back rounded. He felt the surge of his own orgasm as her fingers began to glisten with her own ejaculate.
The Great Soul’s orgasm was stronger than his last had been and he knew he was feeling hers as she was feeling his.
Waves of pleasure rippled out from the core of him as his grunts competed with her high-pitched cries.
Dævara didn’t squirt, but thick perfumed fluid flowed over her fingers and stringy trails hung from her wrist to the bedding as she convulsed a dozen times, each spasm accompanied by its own a cappella note.
Drago’s orgasm was again dry. It was not yet time for the elixir.
They both flopped over, panting.
Preparing the Athanor
After Drago’s heart slowed, he opened his eyes to find Dæv’s on his as she licked and sucked sticky fluid from her fingers. He watched, listening to her tongue lapping and her lips smacking, feeling lust surge again. He moved toward her on all fours.
Without breaking eye contact, Dævara rolled onto her back and parted her knees.
Drago’s hips hit her thighs just as his face squared over hers. Their eyes never lost contact; left to right and right to left—sun staring at moon; moon at sun. His erection lay against the hot sloppy mess of her cunt. He could feel a pulse with his cock; whose he wasn’t sure. Her eyes begged for penetration; vulva feeling like it might actually suck his penis in. The moment must be prolonged, Drago reminded himself.
The Great Soul began sliding his dick up and down along her sopping lips. His assistant’s breathing became hoarse, almost a groan. Her jaw trembled. She began to close her eyes, but no. His up thrusts ran along a hardened knob—her clitoris swollen and exposed. Judging by the delicious sensation it gave him, and her hitching inhalations, they were both about of get off once again.
So Drago stopped and just held their bared genitals together.
It was then that he took notice of the sound. It was like the ringing of a distant bell, a high sweet note.
A breath of air cooled the sweat on his buttocks and thighs. A taste like tin filled his mouth. The Hyborean’s master understood this as a part of the rite, an indication of impending success.
He had thought the swirling in front of his eyes was incense, but it carried no scent and it sparkled. All around them gathered and flowed the Astral Light summoned by magick to be the medium of this ritual.
Their eyes still locked stare for stare. The Great Soul broke contact to line up his worshipping acolyte with her waiting temple portico. They held each other’s eyes again as he slowly walked the nave to the altar. Only when their pubic bones met did he descend to place a kiss on her lips. Her tongue, twisting and teasing, tasted of thick honey; the flesh of her cheek smelled of roses and something tantalizingly beyond definition.
They breathed into each other as Drago set the rhythm of his thrusts—twice for every in breath, thrice for every out. His last orgasm, having barely retreated, bulled to the front of his awareness in seconds. He felt the staccato clenching of Dævara’s vagina as she climaxed again as well.
Her legs, thighs surprisingly strong, clamped hard around his waist as she broke the kiss and howled into his ear. Their joint ecstasy went on for a long while.
The tide of sensation finally retreated, leaving them both the stronger for it.
The Elixir is Made
They were close now; the air felt thick. Her white body, flushing a pale blue on her cheeks and upper chest, glistened with sweat that picked out the multi-coloured flames adding to the silver glitter in her skin. Drago’s body felt sticky and warm. “One last thing before the end,” he panted.
She kept her lips together, nostrils flaring with each short breath. The curl at the corners became more acute.
The Great Soul slipped free of her restraint and descend to her vulva, planting tiny kisses as he went.
The smell of her sex made him dizzy and almost brought another orgasm on its own. He realized, from the spasming of her abdomen, that she was on the verge of yet another, herself.
The elf-mage crested again as soon as his tongue touched the deep blue of her inner labia. He had to hold Dævara down as he continued, so strong were her thrashings.
The taste of her was indescribable. He felt he could have lived off of only that for the rest of his life. Thick ambrosial fluid flooded his mouth every few seconds as his assistant sustained a continual orgasmic state longer than any woman with which he had ever been.
Drago realized that his own orgasm kept rising and retreating without any assistance from him.
He almost spoiled the rite then. The pleasure of the experience drove all other consideration from him.
It was Dævara, giving sterling service, who brought him back to their purpose. She did it with a touch on his head and a single clear word forced out around her helpless cries.
The Great Soul withdrew.
The heart of Magick is Change. Dævara effects the re-emergence of a Magus who last walked the worlds centuries previous. Along the way, she gives Drago a lesson in m-dimensional biology and the properties of organic Silver.
He then went to the saddle and quickly placed it near Dævara. Without assistance, she rose and flopped belly down across it. He quickly tied her hands and feet to the leather restraints attached to the four lower corners of the device.
Dæv was now bent helplessly before Drago, arms and legs spread wide, her head resting on pillows, and her face, forehead down, facing the black leather of the saddle.
He could see the contractions of her vulva as she continued to orgasm. Fluids continued to leak from her. Strands of grool hung to the plush of the pillows under her.
Not waiting on ceremony, Drago’s master grasped the collection of birch rods- began to lash Dævara’s buttocks and thighs. The first crack! to the fleshy part of her ass hiked her ecstatic sobs in pitch and volume. Elongated blue marks surmounted each bubble of flesh, turning brighter each second.
Drago varied the strength and frequency of his strokes until he had what her howls told him were the perfect strikes. No words did the elf speak, only the music of her voice, driving his lust almost past control.
The room was now dancing with Astral Light. Millions of sparkling motes swirled and tumbled in the air. A silver snowstorm it was. Winds that only his soul felt buffeted him. The clear ringing of the astral bell never faded.
Time to bring the third player into this drama, he knew.
Reaching into his unconscious, the Great Soul brought forth Drago the Hyborean. The latter’s eager climb to the island of consciousness was a surprise.
Dæv had told him the other was consenting, yet nothing but struggle had been the nature of their contact heretofore. Inviting him to participate in the climax of the rite, the two souls knelt between Dævara’s feet for the sacrifice.
Success
I welcome you, Warrior, with your forceful spear. Shatter the barrier that True Communion be made.
Though he had striven to avoid it, the Great Soul had bruised the elf’s buttocks and upper thighs rather badly and had broken skin in a half dozen places. Two trails of silver tinged blue marked where her strange blood flowed freely. It didn’t seem to have bothered his assistant; her cunt continued to spasm and leak juices and her moaning ululations were as aroused and arousing as they had always been.
Drago spoke the purpose of the Work: “It is my will to erase the walls that separate my being from that of my host. May this rite of destruction accomplish that act.”
The twain inched forward on their knees and plunged their cock into Dævara’s waiting slit, giving it three full pumps before withdrawing.
Aiming an inch higher, they slowly began pushing past the tight outer sphincter of the elf’s anus. It admitted them readily.
Just as the two souls began to feel the resistance of the inner barrier, Dæv said, “I welcome you, Warrior, with your forceful spear. Shatter the barrier that True Communion be made.” It was remarkably clear and without noticeable accent, her voice. She remained silent after as well. Drago had no time for wonder at her phenomenal control.
The inner constricting sphincter proved no barrier at all. The delicious sensation of driving to the hilt released another orgasm—from them both, he was sure. Drago’s scrotum was instantly soaked the moment it contacted her vulva, still twitching strongly.
Now for the hardest part. The Great Soul faced Drago and willed the surface separating them to dissolve all the while stroking in and out of Dævara’s asshole.
The Great Soul had overcome the reflexive spasming that would have resulted in ejaculation at the beginning. His task now required that his semen flow and that meant relaxing that control. It was going to be difficult, especially given that he had to do it subconsciously. He wouldn’t know if he had succeeded until it was time.
When the Great Soul was sure he was ready and fully focussed on shattering the barrier, he short stroked and let the flood come. With relief almost as strong as this final orgasm, the Great Soul felt spasming surges of semen cannoning along his urethra.
He could see Drago the Hyborean in his mind’s eye, as what had been opaque became clear. Still there the barrier but weakened. It would fall with a single thrust.
The Great Soul let his awareness return and withdrew his member from the elf’s back door. Very soon, post ejaculation lethargy would have him. He had to hurry.
Crouching, he saw his semen dripping from her still clenched rosebud. They drank, the Hyborean and the Magus, from the consecrated chalice. His tongue dipped into her vagina to scoop enough gluten to make the elixir.
They held it in their mouth, willed the erasure of the separation and swallowed. Much faster than they had expected, it was gone. Drago and the Great Soul slammed together and became one being.
To the spirit having left untimely the Silvergrey Sea was added the soul and memories of the Hyborean, Drago.
The disorientation was severe but short-lived. The two men felt their memories and sense of self merge. Soon, there was only one voice and a single mind that ruled the myriad clamouring for his attention—the parliament of the human ego.
An Offering of Thanks to the Assistant
Dævara a-hem-ed.
Remembering their agreement, Drago the one and only, quickly slurped up more of the elixir from his assistant’s anus and vagina and crawled around to face her; except that he couldn’t the way she was trussed up. He quickly freed a hand and foot. She got another hand free and pushed herself up.
They shared the elixir in a sweet lingering kiss.
“Thank ya, luv.” Her voice was the well-modulated brogue of their first meeting. Sweat coated her face. Her eyes shone as she grinned.
⁂
Moving sprightly for someone who had just been bound, beaten, and ass fucked, Dævara freed her remaining foot and stood. Clawing at the ceiling, she stretched. Drago noticed the silver snowflakes were no longer visible swirling through the air just as she turned to leave the circle, lavatoryward.
She bore no wounds.
Powerful magick, that elixir.
Drago caught up to her before she reached the circle or rather, where the circle had been. All signs of the occult were gone from the room, even the fires, and the smell of incense.
Drago felt great. So, it appeared, did she. Linking arms with him, she looked sideways and raised a red-gold eyebrow.
“Success.” He smiled.
The elf’s eyes widened, making her smile especially festive.
Through the door and into the shower they went, this time just to wash the last of the ritual from their bodies.
The Return to Normal
“One question,” Drago asked as hot stinging spray hit his back.
“Yes, luv?”
“What makes your blood that silvery blue colour?”
She was rubbing that paste on her teats and belly, making a lather. She handed him the crystal jar containing it. “My blood’s silver based, it is.”
“I had no idea silver could act as an organic element.” Her colouring was mostly explained, now. “Have you any iron in your body?”
She shook her head. “Iron’s toxic ta me, it is.”
Well, that explained some myths. “Badly?”
“Not really, no. I can touch somethin’ made o’ steel ‘r iron ‘thout much but a red mark that itches fer a few minutes, tha’s all. A bullet would kill me, though—” she grinned again—”tha’s what’s s’posta happ’n anyway, so I did hear.”
“Any other exotic compounds?” Drago was genuinely curious. Before his original death, the only life known was Oerth-based. Well, the only confirmed life. Elves has visited his homeworld in the past, by all accounts, though no evidence of them remained.
Without being asked, she began to scrub his back. He heard, “I’ve some gold in me. Also sulfur and arsenic. They’re all toxic ta human’s, I b’lieve.”
“I’m not in any danger—” twisting around, he looked down at her—”am I? You know, because of—” I indicated the other room.
She shook her head. “Ye’d hav’ta do a lot more’n swallow some o’ me spend, ya would. Th’ elements’re not present in large amounts, they’re not.”
Drago was relieved, though still intrigued.
“I’m still confused, though. How can these elements possibly be organic?”
Drago hadn’t expected an answer, but Dæv had one. “How much d’ya know about M-dimensional biology?”
“Nothing.”
“Guess the same goes fer M-dimensional chemistry an’ physics, then.” He could hear her smile.
“Yup. I’ll have to educate myself.” Drago meant to if the chance arose.
“Any other curiosities I c’n satisfy?”
“Well, I’d heard elves had pointed ears. Why don’t you?” Dævara’s ears were small, lobeless and flat against her skull.
Another musical chuckle. “Some fækin do. No proper elves have ’em, though.”
“What about wings? Do any elves have those?”
“Aye, we all do.”
“I seem to have missed seeing yours, for some reason.” Drago looked over his shoulder down at Dæv, who laughed at his expression.
“They’re not proper physical ones, they’re not.”
“What other kind are there?”
“Hard ta explain, it is. They’re made of stuff that lives on another plane.” Again, without needing to be asked, the elf began scrubbing his buttocks before moving around to give his Old Fella a good going over. It ached from the base and no wonder, given the workout it had just had.
“Astral Wings?” he asked.
A smile from her, “Ya might say.”
“Wait. Aren’t elves and fæ the same?”
“All elves are fæ, but not all fæ ‘r elves. We’re all M-dimensional beings, though.” Finished with Drago’s crotch, she began rinsing off. He did the same.
“A shared biology. A different kind of life, you mean?”
A nod. “Ya have the right of it, ya do.”
They finished. Drago redressed and took his leave, thinking of pixies, dragon, fawns, shapeshifting beasts of all sorts. Intrigued, he was. He would learn all that he could about the fæ once his business was done.
The elf Dævara was a rare bijou gem: as knowledgeable about hard science as she was about magick and the arts of Love.
‘It’s a shame,’ Drago thought, ‘I’ll likely never see her again.’
He was dead wrong about that.
Dævara’s encounter with Drago leaves her longing for a more magickal existence. So she heads, all unknowing, to her first meeting with the love of her life.
“Good fortune t’ ya, me Beastie.”
With a wink and a nod, Drago was gone, on his way to the apartments Josie had set aside for his stay. The door clicked softly closed behind him.
Dæv looked around the room. Elbow on fist, finger tapping lower lip, she wondered if she should dress before tidying up. Not much point, really. Grabbing a short length of braided red leather from a nightstand drawer, she tied her still damp hair back and began to restore the space.
Brazier stands first. A hidden door to the left of the lavatory sprang open at her touch. Within was a space half full of odds and ends that she’d gathered during her stay on Noir. As she elfhandled the heavy brass poles into the space, cursing through the first trip and shoving pillows aside before making the second, Dævara’s mind kept running back to the rite just ended.
Sex was an old familiar friend to her, but magick was a lover long absent from her life. This whole constellation was unfriendly to the arcane. There was no formal prohibition, but disapproval could turn violent. She’d almost learned that the hard way a few hours after arriving three years ago.
Pillows next. She first stripped the covers from the half dozen stained by the ritual; they’d go out to wash later. The rest joined the stands in the hidden room.
Her nerves still tingled from the influx of energy. Suddenly, a desire for contact with the Syrat overwhelmed her. Abandoning her task, the elf strode to the bedside table and took out the indigo bag, sliding the metal cards into her hands.
Dævara sat on her bed fondling them awhile; feeling the warmth of renewed contact with what she had come to know as a living entity.
After a few moments, she knew it was time to move on; on to a system friendly to magick. As a fæ, it was as much a part of her as food and she’d been on a strict a diet for too long.
Au Revoir, Cherie
Twenty minutes later, the rooms were spotless and Dævara was dressed for travel, carrying everything she intended to keep. She wore snug well-worn black leathers, consisting of leggings, shirt, and boots, and a soft natural leather coat that flared at the waist and stopped inches from the ground. Her hair was in a steel and crystal net with a queue constrained in a leather sheath at her back. In her hand was the red metal staff, on her back a pack that carried much more than it appeared to have room to hold.
The large key turned with difficulty in the lock, as it always did.
It was late enough that Dæv was sure she’d find Josie in her rooms.
Her soft knock on the dark wood door was quickly answered.
The Madame of the Red Palazzo was in a shimmering violet dressing gown, dark hair loose at her shoulders. Her eyes lit up at the sight of her visitor, then quickly dimmed as she noticed Dæv’s attire. “Tell me you’re not leaving, Cherie. Please.”
“‘Fraid so, Dear Heart.” She moved into her friend’s embrace. The door swung to as they shared a fiercely affectionate hug.
Josie broke the embrace. “Ah, Merde! I knew you’d go one day.” Unshed tears gave a shine to her eyes in the gaslight. “What made you decide?”
“Drago. He reminded me of things I’d left behind.”
Josie gestured into the room. “Can you stay for tea?”
“I really should be off. If I stay, I’ll not have th’ heart ta go, I won’t.”
“This is about that deck of yours, isn’t it.”
Dævara’s hand went to the pouch concealed at her hip. “Yes. I’ve been without magick too long. My sort’re born ta it, we are.”
“I suppose so. Well—” a smile bloomed—”come see an old woman the next time you pass through, Cherie.” Another strong hug, this one trembling as Josie’s sorrow threatened to surface.
As the Madame pulled away, Dæv planted a firm, affectionate kiss on her full, red lips, giving the gesture a strong sexual kick from her Leannán soul. “Good fortune attend ya, my darling Josie.” The door closed on Madame’s astonished smile.
Noir in Fog
It was a warm slightly damp night, smelling of tree blossoms and faintly of brine. Just like any other, Dævara thought, ever-ready smile broadening. The oft’ present fog hid the submoons. Distant sounds echoed faintly through the air, carried by the damp.
The Red Palazzo fronted a park of sorts, gravel pathways lined with blooming Spirya trees. She turned left, muffled merriment muting with every stride, as she headed toward Seaward Boulevard. The air felt cool against her face and hands and she moved through it.
Once Dævara hit the asphalt, her boots made no sound. Rather than disturb her thoughts with the tap of her staff, the elf held it in the crook of her left arm.
The boulevard descended in wide arcs to the large quay that fronted most of the town. Dæv walked down one side, ignoring the occasional rumble of a vehicle, eyes watching her shadow grow and fade as each gas lamped pole passed.
Familiar buildings, sometimes as many as a dozen storeys tall, businesses mostly, with a few of the better upscale apartment complexes mixed in, passed slowly.
Three parklets, mostly empty but for a few dog walkers and a pair of lovers, drifted by her as well. All as familiar to her as her own face; none she’d ever likely see again. She lingered at one, bittersweetness misting her eyes. After a few moments, she slowly moved on.
The sweet pain of leaving mingling with the wistful longing for travel rendered her mind a pastel sea of foggy swells, with the avian cries of old loves distant in time, present in memory.
So lost was she in the past that she almost walked by the alley. Only the smell reminded her.
Toward a New, More Magickal Life
She stopped and looked back at the narrow opening between the diners, both specializing in this moon’s version of seafood. Overhead, a commuter train rattled along the rail line that followed the street. The lamp above was a large yellow pearl of salty fog. Retreating two steps, she went into darkness.
The smell wasn’t all that bad today. There had been days where she couldn’t go more than two or three steps without feeling faint. She made this trip infrequently as a result. Dævara only bothered to go to into this blind alley because of what was at its end.
Having spent an unpleasant few minutes stepping daintily over unspeakable refuse, Dæv arrived at the blank brick of the dog run’s end.
Leaning her staff against it, she pulled a small bronze oblong from her pocket. Tapping the front caused it to light up, showing a colourful image whose glyphs she had been at pains to learn when she had started wandering decades ago.
More taps and slides as shapes morphed into others. Muttering under her breath, “Too cold. Not enough nature. Too much law. Ah!” There was a nice one.
It was in another Aion, part of a whole galactic region saturated with magic. It was temperate and simple in technology, with a white sun in a green sky and two large violet moons. Its year was just over a year UT as well.
After memorizing the keys, she put the device back in her pocket and took up her staff. She thought of lying in tall yellow grass under a red sun, the smell of almonds, and spoke the word, “Pistol.”
Periwinkle sparks erupted from a point on the bare wall, spiralling out into a trumpet bell shape. She felt tiny tickles on her exposed skin as many of them struck her. She giggled and stepped into the vortex. The point where the whirlpool originated suddenly seemed a long way away.
A feral cat wandered into the alley just in time to see a dark spiral sucked into a bright circle of light. The light then vanished, leaving the animal unable to see. Fortunately, it could smell and let its nose lead it straight to dinner.
Dævara Teller wouldn’t return to Noir until Josie Arlington was long dead.
—Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, March 2020
Copyright © 2020, Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved