He rose from the bed, tying back the black hair that fell to his waist with a piece of silk. Red, of course. A souvenir of his first encounter with Hella and something he kept always by his bed. She’d taken the ends of it, stepped between them, and pulled up the taut, soft silk into her swollen labia, soaking it just for him after he had given her a magnificent fucking with only his long, hot tongue. The material was still supple and it still smelled of her.
Where was she? Beautiful blue bitch that she was, he missed her dreadfully.
He went to his personal scrying pool, a smallish one he’d had installed in his bedchamber. It was filled with volatile oil that sometimes caught fire when a spark got that far. Tonight it seemed sluggish and dull. He saw nothing and moved away from it toward the window that looked out onto the other Arcan islands in the archipelago.
The full moon was brilliant in the clear dark sky, and it was possible to discern fires along the shorelines of the Forest Isle. Had the revelers attending the Midsummer solstice stayed on?
The event always caused trouble for Marius of one kind or another. But Vane knew better than to go over. The Lord of the Forest’s talking trees had fainting fits the second the Lord of Fire stepped foot onto the island. In any case, he had not been summoned.
He looked elsewhere, to Gideon’s island, the Island of Mists. The lair of the Lord of the Dark was shrouded in it. Vane supposed that the winged one was safe inside his labyrinth of caverns, lying with his love, Rhiannon.
How nice for them both, he thought bitterly.
His heated blood raced in his veins. Late as it was, he could do with a dip. Would Marius mind if he swam over through the subterranean tunnels that connected one isle to the next?
The shady pools in which the tunnels ended were delightful places to loll and there was always a chance of a tryst with a naked naiad. Of course, a water spirit could never set him on fire like the incomparable Hella, but they were fun to catch, squirming deliciously and pretending to protest as they took full advantage of his famously long shaft. All he had to do was sit down naked, spread his muscular thighs, and beckon. They were happy to sit down right on his lap, their sinuously curved backs and napes presented for his kisses. His shaft filled the smaller ones to the limits of their tight cunnies. Feeling cool, moist buttocks against his thighs while abundant breasts filled his enormous hands would assuredly calm him down.
He would pull the excited naiad off before the hot lava in his balls shot out, letting her wriggle in the air and marvel as his scarlet, scorching ejaculate arced over the water of the pool and formed pretty drops of volcanic glass in its depths for her to dive for.
His own arid domain afforded him no such amusements.
Vane resolved to swim over then and there.
Deep underwater, his fire banked by his leathery skin, he counted the twists and turns, figuring out where he was and popping up in a pool that seemed familiar. An aged willow draped its feathery leaves over one side of it, murmuring to itself in Treeish. Vane couldn’t make it out and didn’t care.
The moon hung above, heavy and full and glowing white. Vane dipped back down again when he heard a rustle but saw nothing. It was even more fun to get a naiad by her slender ankles and make her fall upon his naked, dripping body. He knew and they knew that they came to the pools for the same reason, especially during a full moon: to indulge their sensual appetites.
He rose again, squeezing the cool water out of his long black hair, and realized he’d lost the scrap of silk from Hella.
Somehow it seemed like a bad omen. He began to walk out of the water, not making a single splash as he did. He saw not a soul, female or male. A sense of fiery frustration made his body steam faintly in the moonlight. Had the lusty female spirits of the forest all moved to a vestal nunnery? The thought was infinitely depressing.
Bah. His long swim had been a waste of time.
And then he saw her. She was a glow of white that he had at first assumed was moonlight on a wet rock, so still did she lie. She took no notice of his presence, paying homage with her naked body to the heavenly sphere that hung in the night sky.
The most beautiful naiad he had ever seen was about to mate with the moon. Its shimmering reflection in the water pointed directly between her opened legs. In a little while, when it had reached the highest point of its rise in the sky, its changeable light would penetrate her to her core.
Her orgasm would be as changeable and subtle. How eagerly she must be anticipating the moment. Thighs of pure white parted as he watched—no, they were pressed apart by her hands, spread wide and welcoming. She touched a fingertip to pink labia fringed with jet curls, as black as the wealth of wet hair that straggled over the rock underneath her.
Then she touched her clitoris and a shudder ran through her entire body. Demurely she withdrew her exploring finger and moved her hands to her breasts. Above her plump quim was a rounded belly that begged to be squeezed, and, instantly erect, he watched avidly as she strained upward, playing with her pink, high nipples. The solitary naiad was as round and full as the moon itself. All in all, a succulent offering.
He would not dream of disturbing her. He had only been looking for some slap-and-tickle, and an uncomplicated mutual release. This unknown naiad was a vision of unearthly sexuality. Vane had heard of moon-mating but never seen it.
The reflection on the water inched closer to the apex of her thighs. She reached out her arms as if she would embrace the mighty moon and hold it to her heart. That heavenly orb seemed to loom lower, to his amazement.
He could not blame the moon. He himself was so aroused that he forgot to take his cock in hand. Vane wanted to watch.
The advancing moonlight touched the plump undercurves of her behind, pressed into the rock. She gave a little moan and moved her hands down, leaving her nipples in an astonishing state of erection. Had another naiad wantonly straddled her and positioned her own private parts over one of those full, soft breasts—Vane had also heard that they played with each other in every way imaginable, man or no man—the nipple would have felt like a tiny cock.
Never mind that. This naiad’s hands gently stretched her labia open. The moonlight touched her there a moment later. It seemed to pour down from the sky, into her, filling her—the beautiful naiad raised her legs high and clasped her ankles, offering her tender, most secret parts with shameless abandon and crying out with joy as the moon lit her up from the inside out.
The moon moved higher, caressing all of her and bathing her voluptuous body in white light. The naiad was brightness itself, helpless with pleasure, lost in a rapturous dream that he wished he could share.
Vane stayed where he was until the last of her whimpering cries died away on the evening breeze. He was a lucky man indeed to have witnessed her intimacy with the moon, and she would never know she had been watched.
He waited, expecting her to rise from the rock and scamper off to sleep with the others. But the naiad stayed exactly where she was…if not exactly in the same shape. Her body seemed to diminish as the moon began to move on, beginning the downward phase of its night’s journey.
He was on fire again but with curiosity this time. Slowly, with utmost stealth, Vane moved through the water toward the rock. He stopped several feet away, studying the white apparition once more. The gorgeous naiad had vanished utterly. The top of the rock where she had lain sparkled silver, outlining the shape of her voluptuous body, a shape filled with a celestial light that would come and go with the phases of the moon but never fade. That was all that was left of her.
Full of wonder and a little regret, Lord Vane sank slowly into the water and went back home through the subterranean passageways, vowing to ease his cock with Hella. If he could find her.
The stairs of his stone castle were warm underfoot—the walls radiated heat, as usual. Usually he found it pleasant but not now. His body retained the coolness of the flowing water he’d swum through but his damned mind was on fire again. It was going to be a long, long night.
Finding a towel, he scrubbed at his damp skin, feeling out of sorts, willing away the memory of the moon-drunk naiad. Was there wine in the ewer his manservant had left? He poked his nose into it—the fire in his bedchamber had gone out and he could not see whether the liquid it held was water or wine.
A whiff of grapes reassured him. Excellent. He would have a little wine—no, a lot—and look for Hella in the scrying pool again. He would not, however, tell her about watching the voluptuous naiad, so white and so cool and so very different from the slender fire nymph. He tipped the ewer up over his head, expertly filling his mouth with the thin stream that poured from it like a peasant imbibing from a leather wine sack. The rich and powerful Lord Vane knew exactly how to get stinking drunk.
An hour later, he sat staring into the pool of volatile oil. The serenity of the night had been troubled by events he could not understand.
To begin with, Marius had appeared on the scrying surface, tears running down his handsome face. He was saying something about fire…and an ancient tree…Yes, yes, get on with it, Lord Vane said mentally. When did lightning
not
strike lonely, sea-girt realms and did it not always aim for the
highest
point?
Vane had picked up the astral projection with a reverse turn of the calendrical adjuster, an invention of his own. The other Arcan lords relied on mumbled spells and that bitch of bitches, luck, to scry. But he was a practical man. And at the moment, a very, very frustrated one. He had finished the wine in the ewer a while ago and rung for more. He was deep in his cups and irritable. No Hella. He could swear that the lava in his balls was backing up into his brain.
He reached out and turned the calendrical adjuster the other way.
“Vane? Is that you?”
He belched with surprise. The damn thing worked better than he’d thought.
“Yesh.”
“Are you drunk?”
Vane’s reply was obscene and to the point.
“Ravelle has returned.”
That bit of news brightened his mood. Let the others dodge the demon. Lord Vane wanted to fight him.
“I can take him.”
“Together, we will be stronger, Vane.”
The Lord of the Fire belched again, pure sulfur this time. “Hand him over if you have him. What kind of trouble is he making now?”
Marius swiped a hand over his face and mixed dirt with the drying tears on his face. “He torched Philonous. I came in time to save him, but he might not live. I was hoping that you—that there is an antidote to fire.”
“There isn’t. It burns and it kills. Powerful stuff. Why I like to play with it.” Foggy as he was, Lord Vane had a feeling he was supposed to be sympathetic. “Philo—who? I don’t remember that name.”
“The most ancient tree of all. He’s watched out for me since I was cast down to the Forest Isle.”
“Oh, that Philonous,” Vane said with a notable lack of conviction. He did feel sorry for Marius in his drunken way.
“Can you get here quickly? Isn’t there anything you could bring to help heal him?”
“I have a salve for scorches. But I just came from there.” He touched a finger to the surface of the oil, wishing he could make the Lord of the Forest go away.
Marius’s pleading look changed to one of suspicion. “You did? Where were you?”
“I came up in a pool I’d never seen. Nothing going on,” he lied, just in case Marius knew the moon-loving naiad. “I came back and started to drink. I was looking for a fuck, but a fight will do.”
Marius shook his head. “The Arcan lords must meet as soon as possible. I signaled Gideon with bonfires on the beach—”
“Saw them,” Vane said indifferently.
“And someone got a message to Simeon underwater using Pio.”
“That swordfish? One of these days I’m going to have him for dinner.”
Marius shook his head. “Vane, listen to me. Ravelle will not stay in the Outer Darkness and the islands and their inhabitants are in danger.”
“I can take Ravelle with no help from you three. Stupid horned bastard. High time someone put him in his place.” Marius hesitated before he spoke again, and the Lord of Fire gave in to a mad, wine-fueled impulse. “All right, green man. I’m coming. How many subterranean turns before I get to where you are?”
“Eleven. Hurry.”
For the second time that night Lord Vane hoped that cold water would calm him down and sober him up. He looked for the jar of salve that he kept by the fireplace, tied on a half-assed breechcloth, and came up in the right pool with a banging headache.
Gideon, Lord of the Dark, was already there, but then he could fly, Vane thought sourly. And Simeon had evidently just come—he was talking to Marius. The Lord of Fire spat out the water he’d swallowed, and went to join the other three Arcans. To his surprise, Rhiannon was with them.
He pulled up his breechcloth and smoothed down his drenched, tangled hair. Whatever they were kneeled around had been badly burned. He could smell it from here.
He looked down at the tree spirit on the damask cloth—from Gideon’s banquet table, by his guess. Vane brought out the jar of salve and tapped Marius on the shoulder with it. “It won’t do him much good, but here it is.”