ORIGINAL SIN
Evening crept over the dry scrubland, stretching warm, golden tendrils over sun-baked rocks and dusty, skeletal vegetation. The air was still dense and heavy with the heat of the afternoon, but a clear, mineral breeze had begun to sweep in, bringing the promise of a nocturnal shower. Lady Virginia, Knight of the Outer Temple of the Radiant Path, shaded her eyes against the last dying rays of light glimmering under the gathering clouds. Her leather gauntlet was dusty and smelled of stone and sand. The road before her, paved by the industrious hands of a half-forgotten civilisation, stretched far into the horizon.
The day had been sweltering – the heat oppressive. Virginia's armour had become a furnace, flushing her pale skin rose-red. Her body was strong, wiry and athletic, so that she could carry her starburst-emblazoned breastplate, lance and sword with ease, but it had been built for colder climes. Her ancestors were from a misty, frostbound North, where the ice-floes hemmed in conifer-lined fjords for half the year and, in the other half, the sun never set. Now she found herself at the southern edge of the Middle Sea and the only trees in the distance were the lonely, gnarled trunks of an olive grove, branches groaning with green fruit, plump and smooth as opals.
Marséna, Virginia's sister-at-arms, though, knew the road well. These were her lands and she led the way, driving the recalcitrant pack horse over the worn flagstones that marked the way through the wilderness.
Virginia cleared her parched throat and spoke, “Is our journey still long?”
Marséna replied, “No – I recognise that olive grove. Neucastel da Mar should be no more than a couple of leagues from here.” Her voice was rich and tinged with the melodious, fluid intonations of the northern coasts of the Middle Sea.
“Are you certain it's the same grove?”
“Olive-trees don't change,” Marséna replied, “they say that the very oldest were planted centuries ago and, at night, the dryads within come out to dance. When I was a child, I came to these lands often with my family to trade wine and fruit for cloth.”
“Will you be able to track her down once we're in Neucastel?” Virginia was already planning ahead. Their quarry would not wait for them. She knew that if they miscalculated but one step of their pursuit, the slippery Tiefling would disappear through one of the Planar Portals that ringed the drowned island of Tartesson at the very edges of the known world.
“Leave it to me,” Marséna said, “the people here speak my language and they are human – I really don't think a red-skinned Tiefling would pass unnoticed.”
“We can only hope she hasn't sold the Calyx yet.” Virginia bit her lip at the mention of that blasphemous act.
Marséna's chocolate-dark eyes flashed with understated fury, “If she has, I'll mount her horns on my shield and flay her tail for a belt.”
Virginia suppressed a laugh. Marséna had a fiery temper and a propensity for truculent language. Everything Marséna did, whether on the battlefield or in the bedchamber, was infused with passionate artistry. Virginia knew by the glint in Marséna's eye, the fervour in her voice and the ferocity with which she wielded her silvery longsword that she could love no other.
“She will pay for violating the sanctity of the Goddess' Altar,” Virginia nodded. There was no need to inflame Marséna's anger any further.
“Is it true she's a Demoniac?” Marséna spat out the word. Legends of fiends and subtle demons had filled her imagination since she was a child listening to her mother tell stories of ancient heroines – of wild women with sharp spears and deadly bows.
“Perhaps,” Virginia pondered her answer with great care, for a paladin's word was her life, “all that the Mistress of the Lance told me was that the Tiefling is a warlock and one who has sealed her pacts with the Lords of the Inverted Labyrinth of Minauros. But if we are on guard, not even her infernal arts will overcome us.”
“You just cover me and I'll gut her like a spring lamb,” Marséna boasted. Even in full armour, she walked with sharp elegance. She truly was in her element.
“Everything in due time,” Virginia said firmly, “for now, we need to blend in. I don't think people will take kindly to us in full armour demanding information.”
“Of course, and you stick out like a black swan,” Marséna teased, “blonde hair and green eyes – you're a northern barbarian to us.”
Virginia arched an eyebrow, “So?”
“So we improvise. If we can pass ourselves off as ordinary merchants or travellers, we won't stir the accursed Tiefling's suspicion.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Virginia nodded.
Marséna had already brought the pack horse to a halt and tied the animal to the craggy base of a weathered rock. From their canvas travelling-pack she chose an azure cotton man's shirt and breeches and handed them to Virginia. For herself, Marséna kept a loose, white chiton – the summery tunic of female commoners throughout the lands of the Middle Sea.
Marséna busied herself with loosening the straps of her gleaming breastplate while describing their respective roles, “It's very simple – you're an artisan from the North, a swordsmith to be precise, and I'm your lovely Mareterran wife. Since I speak the lingua franca with a Mareterran accent, they'll have no reason to think we're anything but normal travellers.”
“Why do I have to be the...uhm, husband?” Virginia looked in bewilderment at the ease of Marséna's transformation. The taut, graceful warrior was gone and replaced by a demure, smiling peasant girl. Only her functionally short, coal-black hair seemed out of place, but there was no question of her looking anything like a questing lady-knight.
“For two reasons,” Marséna said with her usual, playful irony, “one, it took five years for me to tell my mother about you and me, so don't count on the good citizens of Neucastel being too understanding and two, you don't even have to strap your breasts down.”
Virginia shot Marséna a cold glance and pretended to be offended. Marséna, of course, was right. By the time Virginia had finished changing and concealed the last of her armour and weapons under a tight-bound canvas pack, she decided that - with a little effort – their ploy could succeed. Marséna had the lithe body of a fencer, but there were soft edges around the tense muscle – a hard woman, no stranger to physical exertion, but a woman nonetheless. Virginia, for her part, took on all the boyish charm of a handsome young merchant.
Marséna even remarked, with a hint of jealousy, “You'll have all the girls losing their wits for you...and the joke will be on them.” She stole a quick kiss from Virginia's lips.
Without stopping to think, Virginia drew Marséna closer. The fabric of the chiton was thin. Marséna's hard flank tensed under Virginia's hand. Soft breasts pressed against the loose fabric of Virginia's shirt - warm, tan skin and plump, coffee-in-milk nipples shrouded by the airy fabric. The dying light of the early evening flattered Marséna beyond description.
It was a fleeting moment of intimacy and then it was back to work. Marséna unfastened the taut hemp rope that held the horse bound to the rock and together they drove onwards. Virginia considered the heat and gazed with longing at the shade of the old olive grove. The road cut straight through the ranks of ancient trees, their twisted, dark roots pressed deep into the rich earth. For an instant, the cool order of her mind gave way to a flight of fancy. An image: cold wine under the shade of an olive tree, laughter, and then some rough-and-tumble lovemaking on the grainy soil.
Virginia let that thought linger as they passed further towards the sea. The air was more saline, alive with the tangy brio of distant waves. Soon, the black city walls of Neucastel peered out over two low hills dotted with fruit orchards. At the gate-house, the guard in his harlequin-coloured uniform greeted Virginia in Neucastellain. Virginia motioned for Marséna to answer. With a haughty smile, Marséna exchanged a few, fluid phrases and the guard ordered his comrades to swing open the gate.
They crossed a succession of stony bridges and found the city abuzz with traders. In the market square, stalls and caravans jostled one another for space. The air was permeated with spicy, foreign aromas – cardamom, anise, muscatel and dried persimmon – mingling with the more mundane scents of beasts, metal, unwashed bodies and rotten fruit.
Virginia was at once fascinated and disgusted. She disliked crowds and chaos, finding her ideal environment in the cloistered discipline of her fellow Sisters at the Order. Sharp cries in a multitude of tongues pierced her ears, fusing with the sounds of tolling bells from a nearby shrine and the plaintive whinnying of their pack horse. As night fell, the seamier side of the great market-city came to life. Nubile, bare-chested boys and gaudily-painted girls alike called for Virginia's attention. To them, she was a barbarian – doubtless a man much given to the pleasures of food, drink and sensuality.
It was a small mercy that Marséna knew precisely where their destination was to be. She spoke in the colourful, vulgar Mareterran vernacular and the locals, separated from Marséna's country by only a sea and scattering of islands, understood well enough to pass on their recommendations.
Marséna steered Virginia towards a street full of wine-sellers and said, “They say travellers with something special to sell usually wind up in the cava d'vin.”
“What?” Virginia felt slightly dazed by the onslaught of incomprehensible tongues spoken at impossible speeds.
“Like an inn,” Marséna offered, “but, how would I put it...shadier.”
They proceeded under the shadow of arched porticoes, with cracked red stone and faded mosaics hovering overhead, depicting scenes from the mythical story of the city's founding. The smell of fresh wine and heated herbs permeated the air. Marséna paid a stable boy to tend to their horse, while Virginia made sure that a canvas pack - in which her longsword had been wrapped - remained by her side. There was no need to run unnecessary risks and she, an experienced paladin, would never be caught unarmed. Together, they stepped through the weathered doors of the wine-hall. What Marséna had called an inn resembled, in reality, a great, domed grotto with long, communal tables set in an edifice had once been a cellar for storing barrels of wine. The interior of the locale was stony and redolent of soot, smoke and sour lees. It felt like a den of thieves – lit by firelight, damp, cool and musty.
A stern, bearded man who showed no sign of inebriation stopped Virginia at the door. Sensing that the pale-skinned stranger was an outlander, he spoke in halting lingua franca and pointed at Marséna, “This is no place for a woman.”
Virginia remained unperturbed. “She's my wife.”
The man snorted dismissively, “I thought you Northmen knew a good time – a nice boy like you could enjoy himself here alone.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” Virginia replied. Her tone was low and dangerous. The man knew better than to press his case. With a half-muttered curse, he returned to his business.
Marséna scanned the room. There were black marketeers amongst the evening's revellers, she was certain of it. Sinister men in dark cloaks, hunched over goblets of night-dark wine whispering deeds unworthy to see the light of day. She sensed it and revelled in it. That was why she had become a knight: to knock the scheming wrongdoer off his pedestal.
Following Marséna's lead, Virginia sat down at a communal table. The wood was stained with dark wine and ash. The men who whispered in hushed tones between themselves had the weathered visages of cut-throats and assassins. Their scars and flamboyant costumes spoke of lives lived at the very edges of civilisation.
Marséna took a seat and the men stopped their conversation and stared, for she had a hard, austere beauty than no city woman could possess. With a smile, Marséna indulged them and introduced herself as Virginia's interpreter. “My husband is in search of something special,” she began, “and perhaps you could help him find it.”
“Depends on what, and how much you're willing to spend,” a hard-faced man replied. His visage was tattooed and he had almost certainly been a criminal or a slave, because his left ear had been cut off. The bronze-skinned infidels of the Eastern Desert often practised this as a form of chastisement, so that all would know an escaped or disobedient slave on sight.
Virginia's exterior remained utterly impassive. Under the table, though, she clutched the pommel of her longsword, ready to strike like a serpent should the occasion demand it.
Marséna perceived Virginia's tension and knew it wasn't necessary. As hot-blooded as pirates and cut-throats could be, they would never pass up the chance to add a few more ducats to their coffers. So she probed for more information, “A chalice, perhaps,” Marséna ventured, “we heard of a great artefact taken here from another world. Some say it contains the essence of a Goddess.”
The one-eared man grinned. His teeth were sharp, like a shark, and yellow with age. “You barbarians are all the same, searching for ugly things of no value. A demon-bitch was here not two strikes of the Bell Tower ago offering a most miserable cup as if it were a treasure of the August Emperor himself. If you love such things, tell your man to return to his northern wastes!” A wave of mocking laughter echoed the one-eared man's taunt.
“Where did the demon-woman go?” Marséna insisted. She tried to sound curious even as her soul bristled with indignation at the bandit's irreverence.
“To the Fallen Tower Inn – but trust me, she'll rob you.”
“What do you care if she does?” Marséna asked.
“Nothing,” the one-eared man shrugged, “but you are from Mareterra and so was my mother – I feel sorry for you, married to a gods-accursed Northman.”
Marséna readied a barbed riposte, before deciding to hold her tongue. Virginia would reprimand her for having been too impulsive. So she forced a nervous grin and told Virginia, “Our business is done here.”
They hastened off through the tight, claustrophobic back-alleys of the city's market. Virginia felt their quarry close. It was her sixth sense telling her that the Tiefling would only delay a little more and probably leave by cover of night. The Goddess' Calyx could not be left in that blasphemer's hands – the honour of the Order depended on restoring the relic to its rightful place.
Virginia found herself gripping the cool pommel of her sword with grim resolve. Marséna led the way, never running, but proceeding briskly. Virginia knew that her companion felt vulnerable unarmed. Still, the best tactic was to avoid detection – at least for the time being.
The Fallen Tower Inn stood, decrepit and disreputable, near a ruined stretch of city wall. Cyclopean stones overgrown with weeds held up two of the inn's walls, while the newer, more regular stones of the modern city wall towered over it. This was a marginal place, at the very edge of the city for a good reason.
Inside, the stink of smoke and dried poppy-paste was suffocating. Travellers and peasants wrapped in heavy, grey cloaks gambled, drank and occasionally sang along to the mournful tunes of the cantastorie – the folk-tale teller. Virginia peered through the haze. She was surprised that no-one had dared cast Marséna anything but the most surreptitious of glances. Even if she appeared unarmed, Virginia's height and alien complexion were powerful deterrents.
Marséna was quick to get her bearings. “She was here,” she whispered to Virginia, “I can feel it.”
They drank strong, tannic red wine from glazed, earthenware cups and waited for their presence to blend into the chattering mass. Only when Marséna was satisfied that the last of suspicious gazes had turned to other travellers did she call over the lithe, iodine-tan serving-boy.
“You,” Marséna said, “have you been here all evening?”
“Yes, madam” he replied, though he looked anxious to move away from Virginia. “What of it?”
“I hear that there's a demon-woman around here with something interesting to sell. Something that we've been searching for.”
“Searching for what?”
“A cup,” Marséna clarified, “my husband is a swordsmith and would smelt the relic to make a master-work blade.”
The boy eyed Virginia with dark suspicion, “He is a barbarian.”
“Where does the best steel come from, boy?” Marséna snapped. “So have you seen the demon-woman or not?”
“A coin for my troubles, Madame?” Marséna motioned for Virginia to loosen her coin purse. Five pieces of silver were counted out and the boy's disposition became more pliant. “She stood in the shadows, by the door leading to the cellar. When she couldn't find a buyer, she left and went towards the Contrad al Drac Alat.”
Marséna grimaced. That was a particularly labyrinthine part of town. A Tiefling warlock would have no trouble disappearing into the darkness. As a half-breed in a city full of humans, the Tiefling must have known she was constantly being watched, so she must have kept constantly on the move.
Virginia waited for the boy to leave and then inquired, “She's gone, isn't she?”
Marséna pondered an answer. “Yes, but that doesn't mean we can't retrace her steps.”
Virginia followed Marséna to the cellar door the boy had indicated. A damp, musty scent emanating from the yawning darkness beneath. They stood for a moment in the dusty penumbra, backlit by the flickering lamps of the inn's drinking hall. Marséna felt the wood of the cellar door, trying to imagine a Tiefling on the run standing in that very spot.
A foreign scent caught Marséna's attention. It was sweet, wispy, elusive. She knew that smell. Marséna knelt at the edge of the door and felt the damp floorboards beneath her. Ash - a thick, resinous ash, black as tar and smelling of opiate. The fine, dark dust coated her fingertips. It was warmer than the surrounding floorboards.
Marséna smiled, “You see, Virginia, every woman has a fatal vice.”
“A vice?” Virginia squinted in the twilit blackness.
“Our demon-thief has a weakness for Dreamsmoke and that's not something you find easily in these lands. If she wants her next fix, she'll stay in town just a little longer.”
“What makes you think she's running out?” Virginia inquired.
“A hunch,” Marséna conceded, “but you see this powder? This is the residue of Dreamsmoke resin. Most users throw it out. Our little Tiefling's pretty desperate if she smoked all the way down to the residue.”
“We'll go with that then,” Virginia said grimly.
They moved with caution. The narrow, tortuous roads of the Drac Alat district were silent. Only a few lonely crows called in the distance. Above them, the stylised wyvern-insignia of the district looked down severely on all passers-by, like a menacing, watchful guardian of the city's authority.
“There we are,” Marséna pointed out an orange glow in the distance, “there's never smoke without fire.”
The pulsing glow led them to the sickly aroma of Dreamsmoke and the low humming of pipes. It was the music of the wild men of the Southern deserts of Erythreum, where the forbidden shrubs from which Dreamsmoke resin was extracted grew in abundance.
Inside the Dreamsmoke den, tattooed sailors and pirates indulged in the vice they had acquired during their journeys to distant lands. Half-dressed women and dusky, doe-eyed boys plied their trade between the long, soiled divans. Smoke hung heavy in the air, whirling from battered copper censers.
Virginia scanned the narcotic haze. “There!” she hissed.
The Tiefling was not the blackguard they had been expecting. She possessed all the hallmarks of her race: red skin, swept horns, and a thin, lashing tail, but instead of the dark robes of an infernally-bound warlock, she wore the tight leather jerkin and functional, short breeches of an explorer. With her shock of spiny, golden and vermilion hair and unconventional piercings, she had an arrogant, unkempt kind of beauty about her.
Marséna, though, had no intention of allowing this half-breed, little more than a girl, to live with impunity any longer. “You!” she called accusingly.
The Tiefling shrugged, took a long drag from her slender, silver pipe and said, “Nah, I don't have time to stay and chat – shame, though 'cause you're definitely my kind of human.” Brilliant motes of arcane fire began to leap from the Tiefling's fingertips.
Virginia was too late to interject, “Marséna, wait!”
Sensing an oncoming confrontation, the den's clientèle began to stir. Virginia knew there was no choice but to act first. She drew her longsword from the canvas pack and leapt forward to interpose herself between Marséna and the Tiefling.
The Tiefling was faster. A sharp burst of flame shrouded her deft fingers and Virginia was forced to backpedal to avoid being singed by the dancing, eldritch fires.
Marséna moved to outflank the Tiefling. Improvising a staff out of a copper brazier, she swept forward and lunged at the Tiefling's knees with a low, arcing strike. It was a split second and Marséna was convinced she had caught her adversary. The Tiefling, though, was faster still. A wrinkle in space manifested around her form and deflected Marséna's blow, sending ash and smoke from the brazier streaming across the den in a shower of embers.
The Tiefling counter-attacked. A lambent, fiery lance burst forth from her fingertips. Virginia overturned a table to intercept the sorcerous blow, rolled out to the side of her cover and lunged forward. The Tiefling drew her wickedly curved dagger and hastily parried Virginia's blow. Virginia, though, was far stronger. She thrust the Tiefling against the wall and brought her knee to the warlock's belly.
The Tiefling doubled over with a vile curse. Her crimson eyes burned defiant – she was far from beaten. A cascade of sparks erupted from her fingers and shrouded Virginia's blade. In an instant, the electricity had reached the knight's hand. Virginia gave a startled grunt and dropped her weapon. The Tiefling seized the opportunity to make a dash for the door.
Marséna anticipated her move. With a firm thrust of the brazier, she struck the back of the Tiefling's ankles, sending her sprawling to the ground. Placing her knee firmly on the Tiefling' s back to pin her to the ground, Marséna gave a triumphant smirk, “I think you have something that belongs to us.”
A curious crowd gathered to the scene while Virginia helped Marséna bind the their prisoner's wrists. There would be no conjuring tricks now that her hands were immobilised. The Tiefling simply allowed herself a little irony as Marséna dragged her to her feet, “Pity – I'd usually let you tie me up any fucking day. Just my luck, huh?”
They searched the Tiefling by moonlight near the olive grove at the outskirts of town where they had set up camp. Virginia had decided that attracting further attention was unnecessary, especially after the commotion in the Dreamsmoke den. The Calyx was found safely wrapped in a soft, black cloth of the kind warlock's often used to store sorcerous components in hermetic condition. The relic itself, Virginia noted, was unremarkable. It was simply a platinum-plated goblet in the shape of a blooming lily used in water-purification ceremonies. The relic's value, she decided, was symbolic rather than practical.
The Tiefling offered up unrepentant quips, “It's not worth the metal it's smelted from, I swear – if I'd have known I couldn't sell it for more than fifty ducats, I wouldn't have bothered...so now you girls have your magical junk back, can I go?”
Marséna, quite nonchalantly, struck the Tiefling across the face with the back of her hand. “How about I make a trophy out of your horns?”
The Tiefling slumped over, dark blood trickling from her cut lip, staining the silver ring that pierced it. “Shit...what was that for? You've got your cup back you crazy bitch,” she mumbled.
Marséna's expression hardened. With a fluid, deadly motion she unsheathed her gleaming longsword, the firelight flickering off the mithril blade. “Care to repeat that?” It pleased her to see a glint of terror in the Tiefling's eyes.
Virginia interrupted, “Marséna, enough!” She turned to the Tiefling, “As for you, we were ordered to bring you back for judgement. You have committed grave blasphemy.”
The Tiefling snorted. “Just trying to put food on the table--”
“And feed your habit,” Virginia concluded.
“I suppose that's hunger of a kind,” the Tiefling volunteered, “so you're not going to kill me or anything – I mean, you're the good kind of knights, right--”
Marséna's expression turned predatory, “And good knights slay demons.”
“I'm not a demon,” the Tiefling said, “though there's a bit of that in my bloodline and all, it's not like I chose to be born this way.”
“Many Tieflings get by without desecrating our Altar,” Virginia observed, “no-one here has led an easy life, but we should all be accountable for the choices we make.”
“Yeah, it must be easy enough to say when you don't have horns growing out of your head,” the Tiefling noted. Her slender tail flicked with irritation. Virginia stoked the fire and sparks flew onto the dry earth. The silvery leaves of the olive trees flickered with each crackling burst. “You know, if you'd have untied me, I could have fixed you up a much nicer fire.”
“You must think you're funny,” Marséna snarled. The Tiefling's impudence irritated her. “Trust me, when the Order is done with you, you'll be sorry our paths ever crossed.”
The Tiefling remained outwardly impassive. Marséna, though, like any good huntress, sensed an edge of fear. The Tiefling licked her lips and cleared her throat, “Say...really, you've got your cup back and, if it helps, I'm sorry and I know that I really shouldn't have taken it in the first place. Can't you just cut a girl a break?”
Virginia remained unmoved. “Duty is duty.”
The Tiefling sighed. “I seriously never wanted it to go this far.”
“The Calyx is sacred to us,” Virginia said, “you've sealed pacts with infernal powers – are they not precious to you?”
“No, but I guess you wouldn't believe me if I said I only did that stuff to get by...”
Marséna gave a mocking laugh, “Don't listen to her, Virg – classic Tiefling sob story. I've heard it time and time again.”
Virginia remained silent. Marséna opened her travelling pack and produced a thick cylinder of dried fig-paste and nuts. She cut off a piece with her hunting-knife and handed the rest to Virginia. It was moist and sweet and not in the least leathery like the dry rations sold in the North.
Virginia scrutinised the Tiefling and, almost as a second thought, inquired, “What's your name?”
The Tiefling shrugged, “You don't fucking want to know, trust me.”
“Well, I do,” Virginia replied firmly.
“Shit...” the Tiefling breathed, “well, if nothing else is going to satisfy your curiosity, it's Bryseis.”
Marséna cackled under her breath. “Don't tell me you actually call yourself that!”
“No,” for once, the Tiefling sounded defensive, “I prefer 'Rysse'.”
“I would, too,” Marséna said.
Virginia offered Rysse a slice of fruit cheese. “You should eat something.”
“No, Milady Knight,” Rysse sneered, “I wouldn't dare.”
“Suit yourself,” Virginia said.
Rysse turned onto her side to face the fire. The rich redness of her skin seemed to meld with the glow of the flames. Virginia rose and and noticed Rysse's tail flick restlessly against the ground. Her short breeches were low-cut, to allow plenty of room for her tail to flow from the tautness of her lower back. The tight curve of her bottom was just in view, sheathed in dark leather. Pretty girl, Virginia thought, such a waste.
The firelight had almost died out and, behind an olive tree, Virginia devoured Marséna's mouth. They had left Rysse sleeping by the fire and Marséna made it clear she desired Virginia's touch. Marséna's tongue burned against Virginia's, warm and full of moist promise. Virginia leaned Marséna against the gnarled tree. With deft, loving touches, she eased the fabric that shrouded Marséna's breasts down and away. The chiton pooled at Marséna's waist.
They kissed again and Virginia buried her tongue in Marséna's mouth, desperately seeking to kiss the breath from her companion's lungs. Marséna's breasts were soft in Virginia's hands, her nipples ripe and stiff as they greeted the cool air of night. Virginia smiled and felt Marséna's heart beat faster with each new breath. She kissed Marséna's lips, her throat, the soft vale between her breasts. Her skin had a soft, mineral scent – a tinge of sweat and dust and it was yielding, sensitive to the touch.
Virginia kissed each of Marséna's glorious nipples in turn – a wet, suckling kiss, leaving the stiff peaks glistening. Marséna cupped Virginia's head, drawing her closer, as if she were nursing her. Short blond hair, smooth as cornsilk slipped through Marséna's fingers, each motion bringing Virginia's wet kisses lower.
The scent of earth fused with something saltier and richer. Virginia pressed her lips against Marséna's hard, muscular belly. The aroma grew stronger, building with each descending kiss. Marséna parted her thighs and slipped her crumpled chiton off.
Thick, raven-dark curls crowned the fat mound of Marséna's pouting sex. Virginia's throat tightened, her heart beating dry and hot in her chest. Marséna's scent, a thick, addictive musk, wafted through the air. Virginia leaned forward and the dry, sandy soil gave way under her weight. She parted Marséna's labia. The swollen flesh was dewy and full of sweet, female promise.
Virginia spread Marséna's sex and kissed the hooded jewel of her clit. It was an act of reverence, like entering a Goddess' shrine. Marséna shivered and moaned, her breath misted in the air. Virginia began licking at the rich bloom of Marséna's pussy, the earthy juice thick on her tongue.
With each loving stroke of Virginia's tongue, Marséna's breathing grew more frantic. Something stirred in her belly - a throbbing need that made her hips roll against Virginia's mouth. Virginia's eyes blazed with desire. Marséna was begging to be fucked. She pressed Marséna back against the tree, the rough bark grinding against the darker woman's back. With deft, fluid ease she worked three fingers into Marséna's sodden sex, thrusting in rhythm with her tongue. Marséna's familiar, pliant cunt stretched – velvety soft - to accommodate her. Just like a good wife should, Virginia thought with a half-smirk.
Virginia lapped away until she felt the walls of Marséna's sex clamp down and roll against her fingers. Rich, fertile droplets had stained the ground beneath Marséna's spread pussy, the earth now damp and soft with the fruit of their lovemaking. Marséna slumped back against the tree and Virginia straddled her, smothering her lips with wet kisses, redolent of salt and come.
They coupled well into the night, first face to face, sex grinding against sex, building the tension that only found release when Virginia forced Marséna to her knees and thrust her ripe cunt against her lover's hungry mouth.
Cicadas hummed in the darkness and Virginia's heartbeat slowly subsided, running at the more leisurely pace of an athlete at rest. She cradled Marséna in her arms, holding her with a fierce, protective tenderness. It was cool, but neither of them felt it.
Marséna saw the crescent moon poke from under the clouds. A silvery disk piercing the darkness – it was Artemis' night and they had celebrated in a way that the Moon Huntress of legend would have been most proud to call her own. “I could get used to playing your wife,” Marséna said, half-seriously.
“I know, my love,” Virginia nodded. She reached to feel the pommel of her longsword. It was an instinctive move. She disliked feeling vulnerable and her blade was always by her side, no matter the occasion.
“Too bad the Order has us bound in another way,” Marséna complained, she rose and began unfurling her bedroll. They needed at least a few hours of rest and, if they slept in shifts, there would be precious little time to recover for the journey ahead.
“Maybe it's all for the best – now we can never leave each other, even if we wanted to. Our Oath has us sworn to our Sisters and to the Goddess until death drives us apart.”
“Still, imagine an olive-grove like this with a big stone olive-press, a little farmstead, a vineyard and lots of clean country air. And just the two of us.”
Virginia smiled and watched intently as Marséna turned out the bedroll. Marséna's bottom was entrancing in the moonlight, her loosened sex nestled just beneath, still moist and ready. Virginia imagined her pale wrist buried between dark pink labia and, just as quickly, dispelled the thought. It was time to rest.
Marséna slept and Virginia donned her armour, took a long drink of water and went to check on the last embers of the camp-fire. Rysse was shivering, half-awake, muttering invective and flexing her wrists against her restraints.
“Cold?” Virginia said.
“Fucking freezing, thanks,” Rysse snapped back.
Wordlessly, Virginia went to fetch a blanket from her travelling pack. “Here,” she said and spread the heavy, rough fabric over Rysse, “don't worry, it will get much warmer in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
“Hmm?”
“This time you get a real 'thanks',” Rysse said, turning over to face Virginia.
“You're wasting your life,” Virginia concluded. If Rysse was hoping for a charm offensive, she wouldn't give her the chance.
“No, no fucking way. What I was doing before I discovered I had half a talent for the mystic arts was a waste.”
“Oh?” Virginia narrowed her eyes, “and what was that?” Surely pacts with demonic powers were the last of all last resorts.
“You don't want to know,” Rysse's lips curled into a sardonic smirk. “So...you and the Lady Knight planning for the big day?”
Virginia grimaced. “You presume to know much.”
“You know what they say about Tieflings: good eyesight, better hearing.”
“And even if it were as you say?”
“Nothing. I like women, not playing dress-up. You're lucky, though.”
“So I hear,” Virginia said. She tapped the pommel of her sword.
“She's my type, too – now if only she didn't want to split me into five different trophies.”
“You shouldn't have stolen our Calyx. Good night.”
“Virginia,” Rysse said. Her voice was hesitant.
“Yes?”
“Any chance I could get these restraints loosened just a little?”
“No.”
“Would it help if I said I had a sick little sister or something?”
Virginia ignored her.
“Well, you can't blame me for trying. How about we share a dose of Dreamsmoke? It'll make you sleep better...”
Virginia remained unmoved. Once she began a task, her resolve was not easily shaken.
Rysse turned over onto her belly and drew her knees closer to her chest for warmth. “Suit yourself,” she muttered.
The next morning they set off at first light. Marséna resolved to tie Rysse's bound wrists to the horse and, much to her satisfaction, this undignified position caused the Tiefling endless irritation. So they journeyed forth, the two knights still disguised as itinerant merchants with a furious Tiefling in tow. Even by early morning, the heat of day had begun to blur the arid badlands on the horizon. Only the hardiest of plants and weeds clung to the loose stones and shattered boulders, occasionally interspersed with islands of fertility that yielded ancient orchards and twisting vineyards, heavy with dark fruit.
Marséna proposed they stop at a nearby way station for travellers coming to and from Neucastel. That would allow them to shelter from the worst of the midday heat and have a short rest before proceeding onwards to the nearest Planar Portal.
The sun climbed, flooding the hilly landscape in an ocean of blinding light. Rysse cleared her throat to speak out, “Anyone care to give me a hand?”
Marséna whipped around. “What now?”
“My goggles,” Rysse clarified, “the sun's burning my eyes.”
“Nonsense,” Marséna observed. This was almost certainly some demonic ploy.
Rysse squinted, straining her eyes, “Fuck, well at least you've got your looks – the word's nocturnal. Look it up.”
Virginia breathed a weary sigh, “Give her the godsforsaken goggles and let's press on.”
Marséna approached with extreme caution. Rysse observed each motion with darting red eyes. “They're in the utility pouch strapped to my thigh.”
Marséna reached down and began to unbuckle the pouch. “If it's rigged with a trap...”
“Oh don't worry,” Rysse said, snaking her tail to Marséna's waist, “the only thing likely to catch your attention is just a little further up...”
Rysse took her gambit. She wrapped the pointed tip of her tail around the dagger concealed at Marséna's waist and tossed it out of the scabbard. The motion was perfectly timed. In an instant, Marséna noticed and dived for her longsword. That gave Rysse the narrowest window of time to lunge forward and position herself under the falling dagger. The blade cut downwards, loosening her restraints.
With a swiftly-muttered incantation, Rysse burned off the remains of her rope that clung to her wrist and made a dash for it. She had not, however, anticipated the speed of Virginia's response. Sword at the ready, the Northwoman flanked Rysse, her blade as blinding as a sunray.
Rysse uttered a command word and conjured a barrier of acrid, choking smoke that manifested like the billowing clouds of a forest fire. Virginia's sight was obscured with burning fumes, but she did hear the Tiefling pass. “Marséna, to my right!” she called.
Marséna would not be fooled twice. She dashed forward to gain momentum, and leapt into Rysse's path to block her escape. The Tiefling readied an enchantment, but Marséna was quicker. Rysse had just begun to utter the first words of power when a sharp, cold blade grazed the skin of her neck.
Marséna was not amused, “Just give me an excuse,” she hissed.
“Do it,” Rysse challenged.
Knowing Marséna's impulsiveness, Virginia intervened. “Enough! Tie her up again,” then she said to Rysse, “treat this as your final warning. I won't hold her back next time.” Her tone was cold, but Virginia knew that Rysse had communicated something subtle in trying to escape. She had used a harmless enchantment, a mere distraction. She had no ill-will towards her captors and simply wanted to appear to be more trouble than she was worth.
They pressed on and scaled a low hill. The air there was cooler, and the low shrubland gave way to tall, green cypresses growing in orderly, almost picturesque rows. The sweet smell of fresh herbs laced the air and the sun reflected off motes of dust and pollen, so that the breeze appeared to shimmer in the light.
The way station that Marséna remembered from her youth was now no more than an abandoned mill, the stones overgrown with weeds and cracked. Still, the interior was cool, like a cellar, and the well was in good working order. There was no question of trekking under the midday sun.
Virginia tied the horse to a lonely cypress so that it could feed off the hardy, dry grass while Marséna drew some fresh water from the well. They drank and washed their faces in near silence while Rysse watched them with a longing eye. She had not drunk anything since breakfast.
It was Marséna who finally brought her a waterskin. “No tricks,” she warned.
“No tricks,” Rysse agreed. She was too thirsty to even consider an escape plan.
After a quick meal, Marséna was eager to settle down in the cool darkness of the mill's stony interior and rest. Only a few insistent birds broke the silence. Virginia stood outside, in the shade of the ruined building's portico. It felt surreal. Rysse sat quietly at Virginia's feet, her gaze extending into what seemed like infinity.
The landscape blurred in Virginia's vision. It felt as if something were overpowering her, forcing her into another state of consciousness. She closed her eyes for an instant and felt the faintest breeze course over her cheek. It was scant relief. Her pale skin was flushed – by the end of the day she knew she would be sunburned.
Despite herself, Virginia began musing out loud, “This climate isn't for me,” she breathed.
Rysse shrugged, “I've been hotter.”
“The Abyss?”
“No,” Rysse snorted, “just 'cause I'm a warlock doesn't mean I enjoy all this demonic stuff. I'm pretty much like any other rank-and-file worker you'll find in the world – I don't like my boss.”
Virginia agreed absent-mindedly. Rysse had a haughty, forbidden allure – wicked and tempting at the same time. The heat was becoming uncomfortable and invasive – as if it were piercing her skin and working its way into her very veins. Feeling a little light-headed, she sank down to sit by Rysse's side. The cracked stone was cool under her. She contemplated Rysse's hands; her long fingers, her svelte, agile wrists. It was a shame that they had to be tied together.
Rysse cocked her head to one side. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Never seen a Tiefling before?”
“Of course. I've seen plenty.”
“Up close?”
“Hardly.”
“That's your problem,” said Rysse, “you build up all this fear, this resentment, this hatred even for warlocks, sorceresses, the demon-blooded – but admit it, you're just curious.”
“Of a Tiefling?” Virginia stroked the pommel of her sword. It was warm, the brushed metal hard and reassuring.
“You humans are always the centre of the fucking cosmos, aren't you?” Rysse's droll, irreverent voice was playful rather than resentful, “You always figure you can be curious about us...and it never occurs to you we can be just as curious about you.”
“I am sworn to the Order, I can't afford flights of fancy.”
“Hmm...really?” Rysse drew closer to Virginia. “None at all?”
Virginia inhaled sharply. A quiver of excitement echoed through her chest. Rysse's sweat smelled spicy, exotic and tantalising at the same time. “No, none at all,” Virginia murmured.
“So answer me: is this demonic temptation, or is Milady Virginia just claiming her spoils of war?” Rysse's lips brushed against Virginia's.
“You bewitch me with your mind-games,” Virginia breathed. Welling desire swept through Virginia's loins. Her sex tightened with forbidden need.
Rysse answered with her lips – soft like plums, and then her tongue, wet, curious, infuriating. Tight fire surged in Virginia's breast. She drew Rysse close, smothering the Tiefling's mouth in a hard, needy kiss. Before she knew it, Rysse was on her belly, and she atop the Tiefling, grinding her sex furiously against the girl's thigh. Her pussy was aflame and stickily trapped in the leather of her breeches.
“Shit,” Rysse gasped, panting between kisses, “what kept you?”
“Quiet!” Virginia hissed, remembering Marséna asleep inside the mill. With a deft slash of her dagger, she sliced open Rysse's restraints, allowing the Tiefling to balance herself on her hands and knees. She fumbled for Rysse's leather jerkin and pulled the garment open. Metal buttons flew off, straps burst open. Small, red hillocks, soft and ripe, presented themselves to Virginia's touch. The Tiefling's plump, purple nipples were stiff, but yielding and taut under Virginia's touch. Rysse's tail wrapped around Virginia's waist, pulling her closer.
They struggled together on the ground, displacing dust and gravel. Virginia was drunk with desire. Her sex pulsed - molten-wet and demanding relief. Virginia kissed Rysse's mouth again, fumbling for the waistband of the Tiefling's breeches. With a firm tug, she pulled them down to Rysse's knees. The sudden rush of female musk was sublime. Rysse smelled of cinnamon and cloves, mingled with salt and earth. She was also wet – deliciously wet.
Virginia moistened her lips. Rysse held still, thighs half parted, nipples like bullet-points pressed into the stony floor. The Tiefling's cunt was poppy-red, the swollen folds heavy with juice and crowned with wild, ruby-red hair. Virginia feasted on her. Rysse's flavour seared Virginia's tongue like an infernal, forbidden fruit. Virginia lapped at that savoury pussy and found the bud of Rysse's clit with her thumb. It was the rough, calloused thumb of a swordswoman and that sensation drew a throaty snarl from Rysse's lips.
“Pull down your breeches,” Rysse ordered.
Virginia paused her frantic licking, sat up on her knees and complied. Before she knew it, Rysse's tail was wrapped around her thigh, the pointed tip teasing the juicing mound of her golden-furred sex. If the Tiefling wanted to play, Virginia decided, she would play. She kissed the base of Rysse's tail and, without warning, slipped two tensed fingers into the Tiefling's roiling pussy.
Rysse gasped, arched her back and flicked her tail against Virginia's clit in retaliation. Virginia bit her lip. She eased Rysse's cunt open, loosening the velvety canal with each thrust. A third and fourth finger were added and then her thumb, first flat against Rysse's labia, and then bunched up to fuck the upstart girl's sex.
Rysse hissed a curse in an infernal tongue. Virginia wound her hand into the Tiefling's cunt, until the deep red outer lips fitted snugly around her wrist. She knew it was now Rysse's turn. The smooth tail between Virginia's thighs snaked into her sex, thin and delightfully flexible.
Virginia's cunt pulsed with need. The infuriating tip of Rysse's tail seemed to have a mind of its own, flowing in to caress a sweet spot that only Marséna's hand had managed to find before. Virginia nipped the base of Rysse's tail and drew her kisses lower. She found the tight, earthy rosebud of the Tiefling's bottom and began to tongue it wantonly, leaving moist and glistening trails.
Rysse bit her lip to restrain her mounting gasps. Virginia sensed it wouldn't be long now. The furnace of desire building in her loins and stoked by Rysse's tail was irresistible. So, too, was the naked fury of her need. Virginia sat up to better time her thrusts into Rysse's hungry sex. The Tiefling's spicy scent made her mouth water. So she brought her free hand to her mouth, slicked it with a little spit and entered Rysse's bottom with three fingers. Rysse gave a low, hungry grunt, “I always knew this was all that you knights got up to...”
Virginia ignored her. Her peak was near, she could feel it beginning to unfurl like a tight-wound knot. Rysse reached to draw Virginia's hips closer as her cunt rolled and contracted against the lady-knight's invading hand. Black painted fingernails dug deep into Virginia's flank. Virginia did not remember Rysse having claws, but the Tiefling's nails were exceptionally sharp. Four long, livid flesh wounds remained impressed into the hard, white flesh of her side.
A new battle-scar, Virginia thought wryly. The heat enveloped her, fusing with the wave of ecstatic release that now flooded her sex. She was one with the midday sun, one with Rysse. She closed her eyes and savoured the joy of her peak and the sweet sound Tiefling's lusty, ragged breaths. That moment seemed to ooze on forever in darkness and dusty, sweltering desire.
When Virginia opened her eyes again, it was dark; the air still, damp and cool. She sat up, a little unsteadily, and found that she was naked. Marséna slumbered on by her side. Then the memory came flooding back to her. She gingerly tapped her flank and felt a sharp, stinging sensation. She brought her finger to her lips and tasted blood. Her hand smelled of cinnamon.
For the first time in years, Virginia was assailed by a cold, numbing panic – an ancient terror of failure that lay throbbing in the quietest recesses of her soul. She reached for her shirt and dashed outside. The pack-horse was still there and so, too, was the consecrated box in which they had stored the Calyx. A roughly-torn papyrus note had been left on the canvas travelling pack. Virginia clenched her fist with impotent rage the moment she saw the chaotic scrawls written in red ink:
“Like I promised, you can keep the cup. Just so that you know, the only mind trick was at the end – I guess neither of us needed that much convincing and, as much as I hate to admit it, I won't be forgetting you any time soon. I've still got to decide what that means for me – or for you. Maybe in a better world we'd have been free to talk it over. Be seeing you, Rysse”.
Virginia forced a bitter laugh and crumpled the papyrus between her fingers. It was late afternoon and the marine breeze from the distant Middle Sea was picking up again. The spindly grasses stirred and Virginia let the slip of papyrus float away on the wind. She dressed briskly and went inside to wake Marséna from her dreams of fruit-trees and olive groves.
-- THE END --
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