Circle at center

PART ONE
1
A Sage-Ambassador

Belynda read the words again. She knew them by heart, but there was always comfort to be gained from the calm repetition, the silent mouthing of text reciting the fundamental order of the cosmos. Yet, for some reason, today even the massive, gold-bound tome-her personal copy of the Tablets of Inception-was not enough to calm a vague sense of disquiet. An edge of tension thrummed in the back of her mind, a sensation she was unable to banish.

She found her eyes drifting, seeking the cloudy globe that rested so snugly in its alcove. There was no glimmer of light in the milky glass, nothing to suggest the powerful magic she had worked only a few minutes before. But the memory of her failure lingered like a sour taste, casting a pall over the rest of the day.

Decisively she rose and crossed to the magical sphere perched on a marble pedestal of classic simplicity. Belynda placed her hands on the smooth surface, already cool.

“Caranor… hear me. Please heed my call,” she whispered, using the pressure of her hands to squeeze the words into the glass, vaulting her magical message into the distant wilds of Nayve. She placed extra force behind the summons, a nudge that should awaken the enchantress if she were sleeping-though it was unthinkable that any dignified and proper elf would be asleep this long after the Lighten Hour.

And the sage-enchantress Caranor was a particularly industrious elf. She lived alone, as did all the most powerful spell casters, but she was ever laboring to help the less fortunate members of her race. Yet even at her busiest, Caranor should have heard, and replied to, the magical call of the sage-ambassador.

The knock on Belynda’s door was like a sudden crash of thunder and she gasped, sitting upright with a start that put a crick in her neck.

“What?” she demanded crossly, and then immediately regretted her harsh tone. “Please, come in,” she said in a more inviting voice.

For a moment there was only silence beyond the solid oak door to her apartments and meditation chambers. Finally, she heard one soft word:

“No.”

She sighed, smiling in spite of herself as she recognized the speaker. She addressed the door politely.

“I’m sorry, Nistel. I promise that I’m not mad at you-or anybody, really. Now, won’t you please come in?”

“You won’t yell?” The voice was injured pride tempered by a tremolo of worry.

“I promise.”

The door opened to reveal a person who was reaching upward to turn the knob. His face was masked by a bush of white whiskers, a beard that hung straight down to a point just below his belly. He continued to cling to the brass doorknob while he scrutinzed Belynda, clearly ready to flee at the first sign of displeasure.

“See. I’m not yelling.” Belynda forced herself to smile, coaxing the gnome forward with a gesture. “Now, was there something you wanted to tell me?”

“What? Oh yes,” Nistel admitted. “The delegates… you know, the elves from Argentian? They’re here. They’ve come to the College to see you. They said you knew they were coming.”

“Yes, I knew,” Belynda replied, her sigh this time reflecting deep exasperation. The elves were her own people, but even so she had to admit that they spent overmuch time complaining. Of course, in her role as sage-ambassador she was compelled to listen to those complaints, soothing worries as much as possible. No doubt that was why she had begun to find them so irritating.

“Should I send them away?” asked Nistel, concerned.

“No, no. Of course I’ll see them. Have them wait for me in the Metal Garden, beside the Golden Fountains.”

“Very well, my lady.” The gnome bowed stiffly, his rigid formality telling Belynda that he would just as soon have sent the elven delegation hastening back to their homeland.

He hesitated for a moment, and the elfwoman sensed that something else concerned Nistel. “What is it, my friend?”

“Just… well…” The gnome fidgeted in a great display of reluctance, but Belynda knew that he wanted to speak. Finally he could contain himself no longer. “A giant came. To Thickwhistle. I just heard.”

The news was startling. “What would a giant want in a big nest of gnomes?” wondered the sage-ambassador, thinking aloud.

“No one knows,” declared the gnome. “But it’s pretty strange, and that’s for sure.” The little fellow shivered nervously-strangeness was an unfamiliar occurrence in Nayve, and experience had shown him that it generally presaged trouble and disruption.

Nevertheless, the ever-dutiful assistant withdrew to carry Belynda’s message to the elven delegation.

Listlessly she returned to her reading table, but left the massive volume of the Tablets open to the pages of the Cosmic Order. It would be comforting, she hoped, to see those verses before her when she returned at the end of what promised to be a trying day.

She took her time getting ready, for a while merely wandering through the sumptuous chambers of her ambassadorial residence, eventually pausing long enough to drape a shawl of white silk over her slender shoulders. A word of command whisked a door closed across the entry to the messaging globe’s alcove. The panel matched the deep wood grain of the wall, and was virtually undetectable. Slipping tiny feet into diamond-studded slippers of silver foil, she examined herself in one of the full-length crystal mirrors lining the wall of her reception room. The shimmering gold of her ambassador’s robe rippled over her skin, outlining a figure that might have looked frail to one who did not know her: slender limbs, breasts small and firmly pointed, a belly that was flat and framed by narrow hips.

Her blond hair-the color maintained by a mixture of herbal dyes-was swept back from a high, unlined forehead. Belynda’s ears were typically small, delicately pointed at the lobe. It was the chin that distinguished her elven face as one of unusual strength and character. Square and stern, it lacked the narrowness common in her race, and many had remarked that it was this straightforward visage that had allowed her to progress to a position of such high honor.

Examining the serene expression, seeing her cool blue eyes reflected in the flawless glass, Belynda sighed again. She wished that she could actually feel the calm dignity embodied by the image in the mirror.

Her preparations were concluded as she donned a circlet of silver wire, a control for her long, golden mane. Still, she was in no hurry; instead of taking the direct route through the College halls she decided to take the outer paths to the garden. The glass doors opened soundlessly as she murmured the word of command, and she stepped into the private refuge of her small, walled garden-another mark of the status awarded to a sage-ambassador.

Trilling songbirds leapt into the air as she came outside. The canaries and bluebirds flew in cheery circles, a fluttering escort ready to herald her crossing of the grounds. Today, however, Belynda decided that she didn’t want the ostentation, and curtly shooed the birds back to their perches in her rose trees. Sulking, they settled to the branches, and she felt even worse than she had before.

Passing under the arched gateway that gave egress from her garden, she faced the Center of Everything, and here, at last, her mood lifted-at least slightly. The Silver Loom dominated the view, rising toward the sky from the center of the circular, verdant valley. Mounted in a broad dome of crystal that was surmounted by a higher dome of gold, the argent spire lofted every bit as tall as the summit of a great mountain, and symbolized the unchanging purity of the Fourth Circle.

For a few moments Belynda was content to know that within those domes the Goddess Worldweaver was busy at her weaving, and that her labors would assure the continuity of halcyon Nayve. Hearing a deep thrumming, a sound of power that she felt in the pit of her stomach, the elven sage knew that she had emerged just in time to witness the casting of the threads. She held her breath, as awestruck now as she had been the first time she beheld this daily ritual.

The songbirds grew still and it seemed that the very wind held its breath as a bright glow came into view at the base of the spire. The illumination flared into a ring of fiery intensity nearly equal to the brightness of the sun. Then, slowly at first, the glow began to ascend the lofty spike of silver. Faster and faster it climbed and, as always, Belynda found that she was holding her breath as the casting approached its climax.

Racing to the top of the spire, the bright glow reached the end and exploded into the air, sending balls of sparking fire crackling and weaving upward. A hundred or more of these fiery globes hissed into the air, each trailing smoke, spiraling upward and gradually vanishing into the corona of the sun. Only the smoky trails remained, and even those swiftly dissipated in the light breeze.

Belynda inevitably felt cleaner, knowing that a few more of the wild impulses, the untamed forces of the chaotic world, had been spun away from Nayve by the casting of the Goddess Worldweaver. Those threads would form the lives of a different place, affecting only an outer realm that held little importance for the halcyon Fourth Circle.

Only with reluctance did the elfwoman’s eyes lower from the majestic spire to behold the worldly manifestation of the Circle’s perfection: Three great institutions formed a broad ring around the dome of the Worldweaver’s Loom. The palatial edifices of the College, Senate, and Grove occupied the ridge of hills surrounding the bowl-shaped valley at the Center of Everything. Each of the three great structures was a teeming center of living, learning, and debate, and each, too, formed a portion of a ring, between them encircling the great Loom. Broad avenues, one oriented to each of the three directions, passed between the edifices, cutting through a trio of notches in the surrounding hills. The College, Senate, and Grove, in turn, all looked inward toward the shallow valley, in the center of which rose the Worldweaver’s Loom. The entire valley was more than a mile in diameter, well-watered and beautifully verdant. And with that spike of silvered steel pointed straight toward the sun, the scene possessed a magical symmetry that could soothe one’s spirit even when nothing else availed.

But Belynda could only reflect on this grandeur for so long. Slowly she started along the bark-paved pathway meandering through stands of flowering trees, past gardens, and over arched bridges. She paused on one of these-it seemed that she could never tire of watching the rippling streams flow toward the myriad pools in the valley. Starting off again, she wandered vaguely in the direction of metal, comfortable in the knowledge that the delegation from Argentian would be awed and intrigued by the wonders of Circle at Center. Surely they wouldn’t mind waiting a few extra minutes.

All too soon, however, she passed beneath a bower of blooming dogwood to find eight of the sylvan folk, her people, clustered in a small knot in the Metal Garden. The delegates included a mix of male and female, ranging in age from soft-skinned adults to elders, hair dyed a metallic gold in the fashion of Belynda’s. The visitors wore silk ceremonial robes, and she was glad to see that they had taken time to bathe and rest after the long journey from Argentian-not because of any offense to her genteel sensibilities, but since this was an indication that their complaints lacked any real urgency. Probably just the usual litany, Belynda reflected glumly.

The visiting elves stared in awe at the fluted spires of the Golden Fountain, which pointed straight at the sun and reflected the light in dazzling prisms. As if in honor of Belynda’s arrival, these gilded pipes suddenly spumed with a spray of sparkling water. Soft noise washed over the onlookers as the arcing froth first outlined the image of a swan with wings spread wide, then gradually settled, furling the wings into a steadily maintained simulacrum of a stately bird resting upon the water. The sound of the splashing fountain muted to a gentle shower in the background.

“It’s the sage-ambassador!” cried one of the elves, suddenly catching sight of her. The delegation hurried forward as one, reminding Belynda of chicks scurrying toward the shelter of a mother hen.

“Greetings, Tamarwind,” she offered, recognizing an elf, taller than the others, who wore the green mantle of scout. “It has been many years.”

“Indeed, my lady Sage-Ambassador.” The lean, wiry delegate from the forested uplands of Argentian looked at Belynda closely, and she was surprised to feel herself blushing. Her time with this male had been so long ago, and for such a brief interval in her centuries of life, that she’d assumed any such frivolous responses would have been long out of her system.

He continued: “You look very well. I trust your life is unchanging?”

“As unchanging as peace. And yours as well, I hope?”

“Certainly, my lady Sage-Amb-”

“Please, you remember that my name is Belynda. You should call me that.”

“Of course, my-that is, Belynda.” Tamarwind smiled, and an element of tension seemed to flow from his body as he relaxed. “Lady Belynda Wysterian, as I recall.”

Again she blushed, unconsciously responding to ancient memories: After all, this was the elf who had joined her in the conception of her two offspring. Of course, that fact was of little consequence to their continuing lives-but still she felt uniquely, surprisingly, awkward.

“This is Wiytstar Sharand,” Tamarwind said smoothly as a mature male, head crowned by a stiff mane of metallic hair, stepped forward. The elf wore the gold mantle of leadership. “He is the spokesman for the delegates.”

“My lady Sage-Ambassador.” Wiytstar bowed gracefully. “I trust your life is unchanging?”

She replied with the ritual words, but as soon as the formalities of introduction were concluded the elder frowned. Belynda knew that the complaints were about to begin.

“We seek constancy, the elven ideal, and the perfect stasis of the Circle-but in truth, there have been some changes at Argentian-disturbing developments, to be sure.”

“Yes?” Even though Belynda was fairly certain she knew what was coming, she added: “Please elaborate.”

“Most significant, the rains of the past three intervals have left us nearly an inch short of our quota!”

“Yes… there was a report of this in the Senate. Sage-Astrologer Domarkian spoke to the issue, declaring that the reduction in water has occurred throughout Nayve. But he has learned that there is no danger.”

“But-will this continue through the next intervals? Will it always be different?”

“Domarkian could not say for sure, though he indicated that the chances are good. However, as I said, the effect has been noticed in many parts of the Circle. The same reduction has apparently been experienced everywhere.”

“It’s the same? Everywhere?” Wiytstar seemed to find this news comforting.

“Yes. And there is no perceived harm in the effect. Now, were there other matters that brought you here as well?”

“There is something of a mystery we thought we should bring to your attention,” Tamarwind reported. “At least, I did.”

“And?” Belynda was curious-mysteries were altogether unusual in her serene, sedate world.

“Over the past years, ten or twenty or more, an increasing number of young elves have departed Argentian. They are mostly male-individuals who reportedly have been quite normal throughout their upbringing. The pattern is the same: The elf makes no announcement to kin or companion; he merely boards a riverboat in the city and rides to some point down the Sweetwater. They debark at any of a hundred villages and towns along the water, and then simply disappear.”

“Of course, the fact that they make no announcement doesn’t mean much-we all know how private our people can be. Still, to disappear, with no word, no sign?” The sage-ambassador frowned. “How many of them have gone?”

“There is really no way to tell, of course. But it would seem to be upward of twoscore, just in the last year alone.”

“I will take this up with the other ambassadors,” Belynda decided. “First we will try and determine if this is a matter affecting just Argentian, or the other realms as well.”

“Has it happened here, in Circle at Center?” Tam wondered.

Belynda could only shrug. “It has not been reported. Of course, there are so many elves here-something like twelve ten-thousands’ worth-that it would be difficult to notice a small change in numbers.”

Tamarwind nodded, apparently satisfied. Belynda noticed that the other elves had been fidgeting nervously, waiting for this seemingly trivial matter to be resolved before they continued with the litany. “And what is the next matter?” she inquired politely.

“It’s the children!” declared another delegate, a wiry woman nearly as petite as Belynda. Her hair was short, but spiked stiffly outward in a series of golden spurs. “I have joined this delegation, made this arduous journey only after a series of events so outrageous that I was left with no alternative but to seek ambassadorial intervention.”

“I understand.” Belynda was not surprised by the complaint, though she knew that the route between Argentian and Circle at Center consisted of good roads and a placid river ride. “Though of course you realize that the sage-ambassador’s role is to provide wise counsel, not action. But please, outline your complaints.”

“These young elves today-they’re… they’ve gone beyond any reach of control. They lack all semblance of respect!” The elfwoman shook her head in exasperation.

“It has been noted, without rebuttal, that they universally lack the discipline necessary for serious study!” claimed Wiytstar. “Why, there’s a painting class that is supposed to meet in the village hall every day at the Lighten Hour-and they have never visited their classroom!”

“It’s taught by that young firebrand, Deltan Columbine,” another elf maintained. “He says that walls aren’t conducive to art!”

“He takes those youngsters all over the place!” clucked the still-exasperated female. “Sometimes to the shore, or to the aspen groves. Wherever it is, they can be counted on to be loud and disruptive.”

“I see,” Belynda murmured calmly.

“And they have no manners.” Wiytstar resumed the litany, and Belynda assumed that he had expanded the topic to include elven youth as a whole. “They tease and laugh, and can be counted on to make noise even on the most solemn of occasions! Why, we had to have a funeral last year when Kime Fallyerae faded-and everyone there could hear children rustling the curtains behind the choir!”

“The offspring today are much worse-behaved than when we had our own children,” sniffed a third elf, a stout female with a hint of silver in the combed wave of her hair. “They have no respect, no appreciation for the greatness of our race-and their parents have no notion of proper control!”

Belynda did her best to look concerned as, inwardly, she sighed once again. Children, weather, or dogs: It was almost always one of these, and often two or all three, that brought complaints to the sage-ambassador of the Senate from the various elven homelands. It had been so ever since she had held her post, and no doubt before, as well.

Unfortunately, the topic of children made her rather squeamish. Of course, as a dutiful elf, she had given birth precisely twice in her early life: once, when she had reached nine hundred years of age, and then again fifty years later. Both of her offspring had matured and reached independence before her thousandth birthday, freeing her to spend her time on more important and interesting duties.

Such as listening to the complaints of these elves, she thought, forcing her mind to return to the present.

“-digging up the gardens with impunity!” the silver-maned Wiytstar was saying.

“And-and they’re breeding in the woods!” declared the matronly elf indignantly, speaking up for the second time.

“The children?” gasped Belynda, shocked into emotion by the unthinkable declaration.

“No! The dogs,” Tamarwind declared solemnly, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement.

“Oh. Of course.” Drawing a breath, Belynda tried to restore her dignity; clearly her mind had wandered as the recitation of complaints shifted topic. Yet she was shaken just the same, for she had allowed her mind to wander in neglect of her duties. Sternly she resolved to pay careful attention.

“Hah-woof.” The polite, dignified bark came from another of the arched entries into the garden. A large dog regarded the elves from there, brown eyes warm and moist over a sharp and pointed muzzle. The dog was pure white, long-legged and slender of body, fluffy with a coat of cottony hair. That fur puffed into a crown atop the creature’s head, while the ends of its long ears bore with regal dignity cascading tails of pure white. The animal stepped forward slowly, long tail wagging as the elves of the delegation looked askance.

“Hello, Ulfgang. Thank you for coming,” Belynda said, secretly relishing the consternation among the delegates. She addressed the elves serenely. “I had an inkling about some of the problems we might be addressing today, and I have asked my friend Ulfgang if he would join us.”

“A dog?” Tamarwind looked skeptical. Wiytstar, meanwhile, seemed stunned into speechlessness.

“He’s very well-schooled, I assure you. And it could be that he has some insight into the current problem.”

Still dubious, the elves of the delegation regarded the great canine. Ulfgang strolled up to them and sat on his haunches, turning chocolate eyes toward Belynda.

“You heard some of the concerns, about digging… and uncontrolled, er, procreation,” the elven ambassador began. “Can you tell the delegation what you have learned?”

“Hmph… yes.” The dog smacked his lips and passed a long tongue back and forth around his narrow snout. “It seems that there has been a… well, a discovery.”

“You mean-something new?” demanded Wiytstar, his pale face blanching even whiter.

“Hmph, hmph… yes, in a sense.” Ulfgang shook his head once, then looked at Belynda again. As gently as possible, she encouraged him to continue-though she herself was not keen on hearing him once more articulate his shocking revelation.

“It seems that the discovery-there’s no easy or delicate way to say this-Some of the dogs have discerned an effect-my apologies, I hope you understand-of a certain ingredient found in the dung of some of the larger herbivores.”

“Dung?” Wiytstar looked as if he was about to faint. Fortunately, the matronly elf took his arm and guided him to a nearby bench.

“Precisely. The effect seems to be, er, that a dog who rolls in the stuff becomes virtually irresistible to a prospective mate. At least, this is the case among the uneducated hounds of the countryside. Unfortunately, the discovery of such a powerful aphrodisiac, a discovery which has occurred in several parts of the Circle, has had an untoward effect on the population of my people.”

“But-but this is awful!” the petite elfwoman spluttered. “Nothing like this has happened before!” The others gasped in sympathetic furor, exchanging worried looks.

“Do you have a suggestion for what we can do about it?”

Belynda gently prodded Ulfgang with the question. Unlike the other elves, she had been trained to search for solutions. The delegates, so unaccustomed to anything resembling a problem, would most likely only dither and cluck disapprovingly.

“I have a suggestion.” The white dog smacked his jowls a few times, waiting until he had the attention of the elves. “I could go to Argentian, out to the pastures, and have a word with some of the shepherds. They’re not educated, of course, but they’re usually a pretty responsible sort of dog. With a little persuasion, they should be able to keep the riffraff out of the fields.”

“Could you?” asked Wiytstar, momentarily enthused. As he recovered his dignity, his expression grew bland. “That is, please do so.”

“It would be a pleasure,” the dog replied, with a polite dip of that white-tufted head.

Belynda knew that Ulfgang wouldn’t mind making the trip. For all his refinement, he enjoyed the company of the simple, uneducated dogs of Nayve-and there were very few of those to be found in Circle at Center.

“And when will he come to Argentian?” asked the wire-thin elfwoman, turning to the sage-ambassador.

“He will travel with your party, of course,” Belynda snapped, allowing a hint of her true power to glare from her eyes. “Now, I assume you will stay for a few days before you commence the journey home?”

“Of course, Belynda-my lady Sage-Ambassador,” declared Tamarwind smoothly.

“Ahem.” Wiytstar spoke hesitantly. “There is the other matter…”

“Certainly.” Belynda was terse now, tired of the complaining, seemingly helpless elves. “As to the problem of rambunctious children, I have counsel for you: The recent census shows that we have an unusually large number of offspring in their development just now. The condition is temporary, but will persist for several more decades. The solution, of course, is to wait.”

“Wait. Yes, of course,” echoed the elder male from his seat on the bench. This was a tactic that he, and every other elf, could understand.

“We thank you for your response,” Tamarwind added. “It has been a pleasure to see you in the Center.”

“And to have you visit, as well,” Belynda replied. She wondered fleetingly about the children that she and Tamarwind had parented-he undoubtedly encountered them now and then in Argentian. Too, his company had been pleasant. In fact, she had considered herself fortunate to have mated with one she could also befriend. The elfwoman went to his side as the other elves turned their attention back to the fountain, which once more blossomed into a wide-winged imitation of flight.

“Perhaps we could have a chance to visit more informally,” he said politely.

“I’d like that. Why don’t we meet for the evening meal?”

“I’m at your disposal.” Tamarwind was clearly pleased by the suggestion, though his features remained carefully cool.

“Meet me an hour before Darken at the Mercury Terrace-the one beside the lake.”

“Very good, my lady.” Tamarwind smiled and bowed. Belynda once more felt that flush creeping upward from her throat.

Accompanied by the regal dog, who went along to make some travel arrangements, the elven delegates withdrew from the garden. Finding that her irritation had only been increased by the meeting, Belynda turned up the hill, climbing toward the Senate.

She thought momentarily of teleporting back to her chambers and was surprised at her own impatience. Chiding herself, she resolved to take the long way, walking the whole distance. The rays of the sun, spilling from straight overhead, now seemed harsh and unrelenting. The white columns along the facade of the grand structure sometimes reminded her of ghostly trees, yet now they seemed more like the bars of a dungeon, or the wall formed by some kind of gigantic fence.

She hadn’t taken a hundred steps when she saw Nistel coming down the path, and she forced herself to take a seat and smile in welcome as the gnome approached. Yet as he drew closer she quickly perceived that the friendly overtures passed unseen by her frowning, preoccupied assistant.

“Blinker-what’s wrong?” she asked, using the gnome’s nickname as he halted before her.

Stammering, he shifted his weight from one curl-toed boot to another. “My lady-it’s trouble! Real trouble!” he blurted.

Belynda’s stomach churned as she tried without success to imagine what could be causing his agitation.

“They’re talking about it in the Senate already, and I came to find you as soon as I heard! It’s Caranor-she was found by a centaur!”

“She’s fine, isn’t she? What was her news?” Belynda stammered the questions, dreading to hear what Nistel would say next. She remembered her sense of unease when she had been unable to reach the sage-enchantress earlier that day.

“She’s not fine,” the gnome said, with a grim shake of his head. “She’s not even alive anymore! And the centaur said she was killed by fire!”

N atac was acutely conscious of his erection, but only gradually did he realize that, somehow, his loincloth had been removed. Perhaps he wouldn’t need the garment in Mictlan. But, except for the pervasive darkness, this was nothing like the realm of death he had always imagined-or that the priests had invariably described.

Primarily, there was that female aura, a scent that seeped into his pores, that had brought him to this profound arousal. He tried to reach out, sought the touch of womanly flesh, but he felt no motion in his arms or legs-Indeed, it was hard to recall the reality of limbs, of sight or sound or other sensation.

There was only the compelling smell and a massive, pulsing desire.

“Warrior Natac…”

The words were a whisper through the darkness, a sound of pure beauty in a womanly voice that drew a groan of desire from his lips. And with the utterance he began to feel a measure of control over the muscles of his mouth and throat.

At the same time, he realized that she had spoken to him in a language that he had never heard-yet the words burned with clear meaning in his mind. To compound his wonder, he replied in the same tongue:

“Woman… I hear you… but where are you? Where am I?”

“Shhh… you must listen, warrior.”

“Speak-tell me!” Natac demanded, struggling again to move, to feel his arms and legs.

Gradually he perceived that he was standing, with his feet planted firmly on a smooth, hard floor. His fingers clenched in answer to his will, and then he could feel his arms. Immediately his hand went to his chest, where it seemed that only a moment ago the priest had ripped out his heart.

But his skin was whole. Too, he could feel the steady pumping of that vital muscle through the intact bones of his rib cage.

Only then did he begin to discern a faint illumination, a muted wash of light from several small clay lamps. He was surprised to see that, unlike the pottery found in even the most backward mountain village, these lamps were formed of simple curves, unadorned by the images of gods. They burned from niches in the stone walls, and the surfaces between the niches were lined with thick furs, the lush pelts of animals huger than any Natac had ever seen. He was looking at one side of a cozy chamber, and guessed that the woman must be behind him.

With that realization he tried to whirl around to seek her, but though his wish was clear in his mind, his flesh responded slowly. Almost as though mired in thick mud, his feet dragged across the floor, and even when he had turned, the woman came into view only gradually, an image emerging from a red, smoky haze.

First he saw her eyes: huge, wide, and so deep a purple that they might have been black. They stared at him with tenderness and affection-but in their depths lurked a haunting sadness that threatened to break the heart he had just rediscovered. Soft and liquid, her look drew him in until desire weakened his knees and brought another involuntary groan from his throat.

Very gradually he realized that those eyes were set into a face of breathtaking beauty. The woman’s skin of unblemished copper gleamed like gold in the soft lamplight, highlighted by a small, upturned nose, and lips that were full and wide, rouged to an exotic shade of bright crimson. That lush mouth smiled, softly, and once again Natac had an impression of a distant sadness, a shadow reflected in those violet eyes hinting at something regretful within this woman.

But he had no further thoughts about that.

Her hair was thick and black, straight and long enough to spread in a fan over her shoulders and torso. A flower, a bloodred poppy matching the shade of her lip rouge, was set above her ear, blooming in perfect complement to the triple petals of her high cheekbones and delicate chin.

“Who are you?” asked the Tlaxcalan, hesitantly giving voice to the words-as if he feared that any further sound might cause this exquisite apparition to disappear. Once more that strange language came from his mouth, as fluently as he had ever spoken Nahuatl.

“Call me Miradel, Warrior Natac.” Again he heard that deep, solid voice, and this time it seemed like a steadying thing, a promise that she was real, that she would not vanish in the blink of his eye.

“Miradel?” He had never heard a name like that, and it was music when it flowed from his lips. “By the Smoking Mirror-you’re beautiful!”

“My beauty is a gift for you, now, and here.”

He was stunned by her words, and desperate to have her. But he forced a moment’s hesitation with another question.

“Is this Mictlan… or what place?”

“There will be time, later, for that… for all of your questions.” She stood, and only then did Natac realize that she had been kneeling on a fur-lined pallet that was itself supported a short distance off the floor. A white mantle of soft cotton was draped over her shoulders, and her unbound breasts bounced slightly as she rose. When the garment swirled to the side, he saw the bare skin of her hip, and ached with the knowledge that she was naked underneath the filmy gauze of cloth.

Somehow he had forgotten his own uncovered state, but even with sudden recollection he felt no discomfort, none of the modesty that should have inhibited him in the presence of this unknown woman.

“The time now is for us,” Miradel concluded, coming to him, taking his hardness in her hand. “You need me, warrior-and you must make love to me with all your heart, all your being.”

“Yes, my lady-I will!” he whispered, once again fearful that a strong breath of his voice might whisk her away.

Natac had enjoyed many women during his life. His beloved wife had been a splendid lover until age had dimmed her interest. And he had not infrequently availed himself of the young concubines who were always ready to serve the pleasure of honored warriors. But he had never felt desire, a consuming lust, such as now pounded in his chest.

Slowly, reverently, he reached to embrace her, then chilled as his arms moved through her with ghostly ease. He leaned into her, feeling the warmth of her flesh-but no other sensations, nothing in his own skin.

“You must let me touch you,” she whispered. “At least in the beginning…”

Seeing the fire in her dark eyes, Natac guessed that Miradel’s passion was as profound as his own. Her hand squeezed, and his lust surged beneath the pressure of her fingers. Then he felt her lips against his bare shoulder, smelled the cool fullness of her hair sweetened by the blossom.

They moved toward the pallet, she backward and he following like a shadow. Miradel sank down, curling her knees onto the soft fur. And then her mouth took him in, surrounding him with bliss. For timeless moments he knew only pleasure, and a building sense of imminent explosion. Her hands reached around him, pulling him against her face, and he erupted with shuddering force. Natac still stood, swaying almost drunkenly as the pure onslaught of sensation melted into soft satisfaction.

But, surprisingly, he was still hard, still consumed with desire. His senses returned to the room and he watched as Miradel, once more raising that wistful smile, leaned backward across the soft bed of fur.

“The magic is strong… you can touch me, now,” she said softly, invitingly.

He reached before she fully reclined, tugged away her mantle with a single pull. Finally she lay utterly naked before him, reaching upward, arching her back in sublime invitation. Hands alive with tingling feeling, Natac touched her slender foot, stroked the soft skin of her lower leg as he knelt.

The tiny tuft of black was a magnet, drawing his full attention. Reverently he knelt at the pallet, laid his smooth cheek against the silken skin of her leg. Her musk, that sensation that had been his first awareness of this strange existence, was like a powerful drug, drawing him inexorably. He kissed, and he relished the inhalation of her thick scent.

Finally he lifted his head and moved slowly upward, reluctant to break contact with any part of that glorious skin. His own flesh tingled as he stroked across her flat belly to the twin, coppery domes of her breasts. Miradel shivered as he nuzzled first one, then the other; finally she pulled him higher, so that their lips met, tongues intertwining like frantic serpents.

All the while he relished the new feeling in his skin. He touched the thick strands of her hair as he stroked downward from her neck, along her back, ultimately feeling the firm curve of her buttocks, cheeks clenching as his fingers slipped into the fleshy cleft. She sighed softly, pulling him against her as he stroked one of her breasts and felt the nipple harden in his gentle fingers.

Noticing new, soft sensations in his skin, he saw that the calluses that had hardened his fingertips and palms since his earliest days as a warrior were gone.

They gasped in unison. Engulfed by heat, he pressed as she strained against him. Her legs clamped his waist and for a moment he tried to tease her, to pull away. But inevitably he sank downward again and she shivered, moaned, clenched him with renewed desperation. Then for a long time they rose and fell in mutual rhythm, slowly at first, then faster, ultimately crying aloud in shared release.

It was with a sense of fulfillment that Natac drew long, ragged breaths, allowed Miradel to wriggle to the side. A languid contentment washed through him, though, surprisingly, he felt no inclination to sleep. Instead, he relished the tenderness and a momentary satiation, watching as she lifted her head to shake out the cascade of hair.

Her smile was coy, and the fire, barely banked, still smoldered in her eyes. “Once more, my warrior… you must take me again. It is the law of the goddess and the spell: three times before the Lighten Hour.”

Natac had no desire to argue, and when a round breast poked out from the curtain of black hair he was once more awed by her allure. By Teztcatlipoca, he wanted her again-now!

She looked at him, and he saw an almost desperate hunger in those dark eyes. He reached, moaning in protest when she slipped farther away from him, but it was only to roll onto her belly. He was still erect as he watched her rise to her knees, that glossy black hair a gleaming shroud over her back, fanning outward across the pallet.

He pounced on her like a jaguar taking a deer. Again she took him, crying out her own delight as ecstasy overwhelmed him. They mated like wild animals, she squirming and bucking, he clenching, thrusting, entering her so deeply that he felt he must be reaching all the way to her heart. The intensity of their lovemaking expanded to gather in his entire consciousness, building toward utter, complete release. Miradel matched his passion, lifting herself wildly, crying out with inarticulate expressions of need, of joy.

Finally he seized her hips, squeezed her against him, and once again his world focused into a shuddering convulsion. For long moments they remained clenched, muscles locked as they strained together, covered with sweat, shivering with tremors of remembered passion.

And only then did he sleep, drained and sated by his welcome into the afterlife.