The Queen of Wolves by Douglas Clegg Page B

child—but also to this. This?”
    She reached up and tore at the gold of her face, pulling at the mask as if it could come off, but instead, she only tore at her own skin—for the gold was within and on her skin, and could not be separated from it until death.
    She began weeping, and I felt the heat of her pain. I set down the bowl and went to her. I crouched down to pick up the moistened cloth, and then I took her in my arms.
    “I do not understand this world,” I whispered. “Nor do I understand the destiny to which we are drawn. I have hated you. I have loathed everything about you. Yet, here we are. At the edge of the world’s oceans. For whatever gods or demons have called us to this Earth, I know that your fate and mine are bound together.”
    She fought against me, but I drew her close to me that she might weep upon my shoulder. I felt her mortal heartbeat as I held her.
    “I will not leave you,” I said.
    “How can you say that?” she whispered through tears. “I will destroy you. I know this.”
    “In visions of prophecy?” I asked, amused by her fear. “What if our vision has been faulty? No, I do not believe you will harm me—not in that way. You brought me back from death as a fulfillment. No, Pythia, you fear that I will destroy you. We have both envisioned this. Even this dream, I do not believe.”
    Within a few minutes her sobbing had ended. I carried her over to the bowl of water. I took the washcloth, dipped it, and brought it up to her face. I wiped the tears from the mask, from her lips, then washed her throat clean of the foulness of her journey.
    I kissed her throat, feeling the throb of the stream between us, smelling that delicate aroma of mortal skin. I had an urge to drink from her—it was both the scent of life and a feeling of wanting to get beneath her flesh, to be part of her, to ease her pain by the passing of blood.
    Remembering those I had loved, I pressed myself close to her as I washed down her slender belly, following the curves of her body. I reached for the pouch she had still had wrapped about her waist, the only modesty that remained on her. The orb was within the pouch, and when she felt me touch it, she drew her hand down to remove mine from it.
    “I felt its pulse when I touched it,” I said.
    “You must not take it from me. I do not understand its power, but it is of some great worth. I will not lose it.”
    “Nor will I take it unless it is given to me,” I said. I dipped the cloth into the bowl, and wiped the warm water below the binding of the pouch, where its strings hung across the light hair where her thighs opened.
    Thin rivulets of water ran along her legs, and I brushed the cloth at the back of her knee and down to her calves. Finally, when I reached her feet, I took special care and massaged them with my hands to try and warm them.
    She pressed the sole of her foot against my chest. I felt the now-familiar pleasure rise as she brought her left foot downward, playfully brushing it lightly between my legs. I drew a dry cloth from the wardrobe and began drying her skin, daubing at the droplets of water that remained.
    She closed her eyes, smiling, moaning softly as I brushed the cloth down her belly.
    I laid her down upon the soft bed and grabbed a vial of perfume. Opening one, I smelled the petals of sirus blossom, one I had known well in my youth, for in those years this blossom grew the world over. I dipped two fingers into the aromatic liquid and rubbed it along her ankles and daubed her shoulders with it. I took the scent and gently caressed her thigh. I held her feet until she parted them, slipping back the cord at the top of my trousers as I drew her knees away from her center.
    I slipped between her legs and embraced her, bending toward her face, kissing the last of her tears back, and rocking the two of us slowly together. My lips wandered her pale flesh, and I remembered those I had loved, and how fleeting love could be—and yet, how the fires