Chapter 60

"When I told you to take a kingdom, this was not what I meant," said Lyta. Her voice was a passion-softened murmur, and the words tickled my lips for she spoke them on the wings of a soft kiss.

I chuckled. Her eyelids fluttered as the sensation traveled between where we were joined, her fingernails gently digging into my shoulders. She straddled me, and the two of us were upright. An intimate embrace, suitable for my dear old friend.

"You thought I would seize some petty kingdom in the north?" I asked.

"You are from Rhandonia," she teased. She shifted her hips, grinding once, a stormy sensation bubbling between us.

"I am," I allowed, sucking her lower lip into my mouth. She shifted again, a bolt of pleasure coursing through me. "Gods, why do we not see one another more often?"

"Because we are sovereigns."

"Not for very much longer."

"You plan to abdicate?" she asked, clenching herself and sliding up a few inches before sitting down hard again.

"Do not move so much."

"You fear you'll fill me too quickly." She kissed the tip of my nose.

"I would like this to last."

"When will you leave your throne?"

"When the war is done," I said. "And..."

She chuckled and this time I shivered with the sensation. "There is always a reason to hold onto power."

"I want to walk away, Lyta. I cannot leave Zuunkhorun any lesser than I can manage. There are certain reforms...it will take time, but I will abdicate."

"You have broken the back of the Heacharids. Aucor is open for a conqueror. Zuunkhorun could be as vast as it wants."

"If Zuunkhorun wishes to grow, it will be with a different Tyrant on the throne."

"What then? Will you return to Chassudor?"

"I thought I would go to Bashamailon."

She traced a finger over my lips. "You could stay in Mairault."

"Lyta..."

"Not forever. For a time. We could have a child together." She saw my expression change and she bulled on, knowing that a look of hope on her beautiful face could make me do nearly anything. "A wizard from our union, Bel. Imagine."

"There is no guarantee a child will be a wizard, even when both parents are."

"We can try as long as it takes. Does the thought of having me so often not appeal?"

"Of course it does. But...I think of the children who would be born without the talent. How would they feel?"

"Imagine if someone heard the Dreadstorm speak thus," she laughed, taking a shivery breath as she raised herself up, then settled back down. I groaned, gripping her buttocks. I was closer than I wanted to be. "We would love a child without a talent, educate them and train them. They would still have my keen mind and your pretty face."

I laughed, kissing her. "Is that what I am?"

"A pretty cock too," she gave her hips a grind and both of us could only hold on as the pleasure raked through us.

"I promise you, we will discuss such an arrangement later, when the war is over and I am able to rest."

"That is all I can ask. Now," she said, easing herself up. "Let us finish."

Lyta stayed in Zuunkhorun for a time after that, but we never discussed children again during the visit. She had brought her husbands, Jassam and the two new fellows, both of whom I quite liked. Jassam had regaled them with tales of Ujaala and when I told him that she was long departed from us, I believe the enormity of eternity truly sunk in. I sent the three of them to the comfort house in Ironmotte and given to understand they had quite the time.

When Lyta departed, I knew the next time I would see her would be in Mairault or Bashmailon. Or anywhere other than Zuunkhorun, for I would be finished.

Lyta Sullac was not the only visitor I received in that final decade of the war. I did not know the gnarled woman who approached my throne one spring day during my open audience. Her skin was a pale gray, her ears slightly pointed, her eyes a strange shade of burgundy. She leaned heavily on a cane and regarded me with amused familiarity.

"And what do you wish to say?" I asked in Zuunese.

"We are a long way from the island, are we not?" she said in Eomet.

I stared at the old woman in disbelief, recognition dawning. "Talynore?"

She smiled, only a few teeth left in her jaw. "It is me. Do I look so different?"

"No, I should have known it was you immediately. The eyes tell."

"They do, don't they? Yours look older than they did on that island. Or in Castellandria. But they are the same, even though you no longer look at me as you once did." She sighed, breaking in to a grin. "You are more regal now. Had you looked like this on the island, I might have let you put it in my cunny."

I snorted, looking about the room as the court pretended that she hadn't said that. "I am pleased to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"I am nearing the end of my years." She coughed, a wet, hacking sound as though to prove her assertion. "I needed a place to die."

"You are welcome here, Talynore."

A note of hope crept into her voice. "I thought perhaps to see our daughter."

I winced. "She has been gone for many years. Her grave is far away. Somewhere in Chassudor."

"My elvish grandfather gave me some years, but my orcish grandmother took most of them back. It was too much to hope that she'd be as long-lived as I."

"She lived well and fully. Some of her descendants are here."

"I was never much of a mother," she said.

"She had mothers who loved her, Talynore. You can rest assured of that."

I installed her in Zuun Khatai, and one of Gonril's granddaughters looked after her in those final months. From time to time, Talynore thought the girl was Malycent, and she was kind enough to play along.

Talynore died the following winter. I found a manuscript among her possessions. In the end of her life, she had taken it upon herself to chronicle her loves. And yes, that was my inspiration for the volume you now hold. I would not set quill to parchment until many years later, but my inspiration began there.

Two chapters concerned our dalliance, 'Of Storms and Shipwrecks,' and 'Of Siege and Temptation,' the first on the island in the Turquoise and the second during the Heacharid siege of Castellandria. It was at once gratifying and humbling to see myself from the eyes of a paramour. She was kind, but I did not find the regret I hunted for. Leaving me and Malycent did not haunt her. Talynore was too free to be bound by anything, even love.

On the first day of spring, I bade farewell to Zhahllaia, Tanyth, and Jerrika, who would remain behind. Allegeth was back in Bashamailon, ruling her kingdom at peace.

I could not find Sarakiel. My beautiful librarian had spent the bulk of her time in Zuunkhorun with our children, and as the flood thinned, she turned once again to academic pursuits. Sarakiel would read anything, and her remarkable mind would hold it, examine it, and add it to an ever-growing encyclopedia that existed behind her eyes. She was not a warrior, and would stay in the capital.

Finally, I gave up looking for her and went to the gates where the army had prepared to travel. Wagons and horses waited next to lines of footmen and stormwights. Belzuun-Hegal had taken the shape of a massive serpent and lay coiled in the middle of us. Lysethe, Ten Ghosts, and Maireili were with the command group, armed and armored, seated on their mounts.

Sarakiel waited there as well, sitting upon her stallion, a descendent of Arkohnus's own steed. She was dressed in traveling clothes, a cloak about her shoulders. Her indigo eyes fixed on mine.

"Sarakiel, what are you doing here?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"I am going with you." Her lovely face was set.

"Are you certain? We ride to sack Heacharium. A sacking is a cruel thing."

"I want to see cruelty. Bel, these animals killed my firstborn. I want to watch my husband exact the storm's vengeance."

It was a shocking admission from the gentlest of my wives. Yet I could deny her nothing. I hoped that when she saw me cast the Heacharid Empire into the abyss she would find some peace. The others with us, Lysethe, Maireili, and Ten Ghosts, watched with worried eyes for they knew well the cost of battle.

"Then this you shall have," I said, leaning over in my saddle and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. She returned it with terrible passion.

We rode from the Arkohnum Gate on that spring morning, heading into the setting sun. Even though the empire was largely defeated, the ride to the capital still took the bulk of campaigning season. We passed other battles, other wars. Either vassals fighting their lords or neighbors the Heacharids had forced into accord were now settling old differences. We remained unmolested. None wanted to test my army. Quiyahui fluttered overhead as my battle standard, alongside Belzuun-Hegal, whose steps shook the very earth.

I was no longer merely the Dreadstorm, nor even the Tyrant of the ascendant kingdom upon Aucor. I was the avatar of a new cult. Many on the continent venerated the wizard who slew the chosen of Xomera without thought, who smashed previous bastions of unbreakable faith, whose land bloomed with promise as flame and famine swallowed everything else.

The Mad Tyrant accused me of sending missionaries to spread the faith of the Feathered Serpent. I swear I did nothing of the kind. The faith spread of its own, on wings of desperation. Worshipers falling to paroxysms of ecstasy at the sight of Quiyahui was disturbing to behold, yet it sped our passing over the ravaged continent.

When the histories chronicle the final fall of the Heacharid Empire, they frame it as a great crescendo. Everything led to the final siege of Heacharium where they had a fool's chance against the war machine I had built. This would be where heroes were born and sagas carved into the skin of the world.

That is how the stories go, but this was not a story. The war had been won many years before, but the Heacharids asked no quarter and I had granted none. They would force me to finish things and I wanted nothing else. It had been done. Their cities lay in ruins. Their vassals rebelled. Generations of their youth had found graves instead of families. The empire had fallen; I needed only go collect its head.

I had relentlessly cleared the path to Heacharium, year after year. In that final season, I knew before I left Zuun Khatai that I would shatter their rule once and for all. Nothing of note lay between me and the capital anymore. I would arrive at its walls, break it, and cast the empire into the midden of history.

I will not retell the Siege of Heacharium. It was a far more pathetic battle than the histories would have it anyway. The Historiae Heachariae calls it a last stand, a beautiful lost cause against an impure beast. The Mad Tyrant calls it the pinnacle of my hubris and were there any true gods, I would have been struck down. The Zuunkhorunia describes it as the glorious end to free Aucor from the Heacharid yoke.

None of these are correct. It was the vengeance of a once young man who fought a war on a distant sea, and the wife he left behind to do it. It was the grief of two parents given terrible purpose. It was rage taking form like the birth of a god.

Heacharium was already exhausted when we arrived. The bulk of their fields had been burned and salted, their numbers thinned, their populace gripped by despair and disease. My Master of Wolves had spent years preparing the battlefield and he had done an excellent job. Despite this, their walls still held until the end of autumn. There were, of course, numerous engagements during this time, the many smaller battles that make up the whole. The other histories will mention the Charge of the Immortals as a moment of unparalleled valor. I will say only that they proved exceedingly mortal in the end.

On that cold autumn day, Belzuun-Hegal ripped the gate from its foundation and my army flooded in. We pillaged what was left in the city, but the Heacharids had long since spent most of their treasures to keep this day from coming about. The few scraps of spoils that had been in the capital now belonged to the kingdom of Zuunkhorun.

I had not intended to fling myself into the battle as I had in Sabbatium, but when the gate fell, I turned to Sarakiel. The cruel light I saw in her indigo eyes spurred me. She had asked her husband for the vengeance of the storm. I had no choice but to grant her wish.

I followed the vanguard into the streets, Lysethe and Ten Ghosts flanking me. I had seen Lysethe in battle many times. More than a century at war had only turned her into a more terrifying opponent. Her sunbeams tore through Heacharid formations like the fury of a god.

Ten Ghosts was no less fearsome. Mounted upon the back of her slavering vorghal, her massive war club smashed skulls and shattered men. Her ferocity in battle could not have been further from her gentle compassion outside of it.

As for me, I was the heroic Tyrant the Zuunese celebrated. I think I was beloved for this more than all I built in the kingdom itself. Physical courage might be a rarity, but I believe it to be overvalued in a leader. Better a sensible coward than a mad hero. Sadly, I have more of the latter in me than the former.

Xomera's Font, the palace of Heacharium, had once been the city's great cathedral. Centuries of dominion had expanded it, transformed it into the most sumptuous palace in Aucor, each emperor trying to outdo the last, and perhaps heap glory upon Xomera with the most extravagant additions. Thanks to the war, it was in the early stages of decline when I took it, its first cracks beginning to become apparent like the wrinkles at the corner of a young bride's eyes. Still, it was an impressive structure. There are those who found it pretty. I was not one of them.

We slaughtered the imperial guard, going from room to room to root out every last fighter. I do not wish to mistake what seems like bravery. They were fanatics and they fought for that reason and that reason alone. Ur-Anu slew more than one of these men, leaving them to bleed over the flagstones at the heart of their empire.

The emperor and his court were hiding like rats. We pulled them from their quarters, corralling them in the main hall where they cowered in terror. The hearth was cold, the trophies on the walls shabby. The pennons hanging from the rafters were of vassals in open rebellion. This palace had lied to its inhabitants. They believe themselves to be rulers when they were nothing.

House Farad, the ruling house of the Heacharid Empire, watched me from their place in front of the ash-filled hearth. I saw defiance, terror, and loathing in their eyes, though all of them quailed from their captors. Emperor Sabbatiamos Heacharios was a gray-bearded man, thinner than I would have expected, with the deep blue eyes I came to associate with the Heacharids. To his credit, he knelt in front of the others, as though he could shield them from my justice.

I stood with my personal bodyguard, a few stormwights, Ten Ghosts, and Lysethe, considering the fate of my captives. I leaned upon Ur-Anu, the haze of battle fading from me. A new image decorated its haft, that of Xomera's Font with flames dancing from its towers. Sarakiel, Maireili, and their bodyguard entered the room. I longed to hold Sarakiel's hand, but they were clasped over her womb. Now that Sarakiel had arrived, I could begin.

"Your Majesty," I said, giving him a mocking bow. "You may rise."

He got to his feet, wincing as his knees gave faint pops. "Do what you came to, blasphemer," he spat. I almost believed his bravado.

"I appreciate the granting of permission." An amulet gleamed from his neck, the delicate scents of magic tickling my senses. Pulled it from him, turning it over in my hand. It was a rose in the middle of a sunburst, the symbol of House Farad. Later, I would learn that it protected its wearer from poison. I was far deadlier than any venom.

"Thief! Despoiler!"

"I am that and worse," I said, taking the jeweled crown from his brow and casting it away, letting it clatter over the flagstones.

"He is a curse upon us!" howled a man clad in the finery of Xomera's church. "A punishment for our disrespect for our lady!"

"Xomera did not call me here."

"Who did?" asked a noblewoman in a tremulous voice, clutching two small children to her breast.

"You did," I said mildly, hanging the emperor's amulet from my belt. My amulet now.

"A traitor?" gasped the emperor.

"Don't be a fool," I sneered. I glanced at Sarakiel and found that her eyes were fixed upon Sabbatiamos Heacharios, blazing with hatred. He had not sat the Ivory Throne when Arkohnus had been slain, but that did not matter. In his person was the empire itself. Its sins were his to answer for.

I gestured with Ur-Anu, sweeping the obsidian blade across the prisoners. "The Heacharid Empire summoned me. The instant one of your soldiers set foot upon Axichis, I was called."

"That was two centuries ago," protested Sabbatiamos Heacharios.

"You made an enemy of a wizard. We do not reckon years as you do."

"You must understand. Those who invaded Axichis are in the arms of Xomera. We are blameless! You take your vengeance on the innocent!"

Pity dripped from my voice. "The plague cares not for the wrongs of its sufferers."

"You admit you are a plague?" he said, as though this was a triumphant revelation.

"Oh, I am," I said. "You think that you would show me the madness that I have wrought? I know it well, Your Majesty. It lingers with me in my dreams. It is my constant companion. But you called me on the Turquoise Isles and I do not refuse a summons. You can try to turn me away with your words, but that misunderstands what you face. Know me by my name."

He stared at me in confusion, fear keeping him silent. If he said the wrong name, would I fly into a rage? Or would he summon the form of his destroyer? I took pity on him and gave my name.

"I am the Sorrow of Heacharium. I am the Lament of Xomera. I am the Dreadstorm and now I am here."

"Please, Dreadstorm," begged the same noblewoman. Her two children watched me with the terror of the young. "Do not harm my children."

"Your children are safe from me today, my lady. It is your empire I slay." I turned back to the emperor, the glittering black tip of Ur-Anu pointing at his heart. The thread the weapon showed me was pathetically easy. A single thrust and he would die where he stood. "And you are the empire."

"What will--" the emperor began.

"Silence!" I roared, the word slamming into them with echoing thunder. "The Heacharid Empire dies this day. You may continue to exist, if none of your former vassals decide to become your lords. But you will never be an empire again. You will measure yourself by the ancient borders. The Nakal River to the north, the Enqiri Hills to the west, Ozom to the south, and the fields of Varro to the east. You might forget these borders, but I will not. I have a long memory for everything except mercy."

"Mercy?" asked the noblewoman, hope creeping into her voice.

"In a century, maybe two, a conqueror will rise thinking the Dreadstorm's anger has abated or his attention is elsewhere. The wizard vowed, yes, but he is not wrathful enough to return. That person will need a reminder. And so I grant you the gift of the Dreadstorm's mercy."

The spell had been prepared, brewed in my mind and buzzing like a hive of bees. I had been sizzling there, keeping the spell bound inside me as I spoke. I released it now with a sense of profound relief. Lightning leapt from Ur-Anu's glassy tip, raking the emperor with vicious, blue-white talons. A rictus seized his body as every limb went stiff. His head was thrown back, smoke issuing from his mouth.

The other prisoners screamed in terror, retreating from him only to run into the stormwights that surrounded them. Instead, the courtiers were reduced to shrinking and cowering from their emperor's agonizing fate. Their ears would fill with the crackling of his mortified flesh and their noses would fill with his burned pork stench.

My magic was not as strong then as it is now, but it was stronger than this. When I wish it, my lightning can kill in a heartbeat. My enemies often do not know they have died until whatever persists of them rises as a stormwight. I did not use such spells against Sabbatiamos Heacharios. I wanted him to feel every second of his life bleeding from him.

Diotenah approved. The mist of her consciousness, her cruel desires and the poison of her power, purred with glee over my decision. I killed him inch by inch, and though he was perhaps the most blameless of any Heacharid emperor, he felt the pain reserved for all of them.

I do not know how long I held him in agony. Finally, I allowed him to collapse to the floor. He lay there, smoking, his clothes scorched rags on his ravaged form. The only sound, echoing in the cathedral hall of Xomera's Font, was a faint hissing of his flesh cooling. Then, he rose. As with every stormwight, the decay had been supernaturally rapid. Patches of flesh were missing, revealing gray muscle and white bone. Lightning played over him like dancing worms.

Diotenah exulted in my mind. I do not know if there was enough of her consciousness to be aware of who I had just transformed, but the ring seemed to understand that this stormwight was more than a mere soldier. This was a trophy without peer, a sign of complete victory, and a dire warning for generations to come.

"Behold your emperor," I said. The stormwight stood, hunched, staring dumbly at me and waiting for orders.

I decreed that the stormwight of Sabbatiamos Heacharios would be shackled to the Ivory Throne of Heacharium where he would remain for all time. The ruler, whether he styled himself emperor, king, or any title he could imagine, would always have the last emperor of the Heacharid Empire by his side, trapped in the humiliating condition of undeath. If they ever tried to rise from the mire that I had consigned them to, I would return and the emperor's stormwight would be joined by many, many more.

I stood atop the highest ramparts of Xomera's Font, watching the scattered fires glitter in the night. That was when I knew Heacharium would not be another Sabbatium. It would no longer be what it was, but it would persist, albeit in a diminished state. It stretched to the horizon, an incredible achievement of a power that once held a continent in its hand. In its time, Heacharium truly was one of the great cities of Thür. I suppose I can admit that now.

The task I had set myself to, that I had devoted the better part of two centuries to, was complete. Yet I felt empty, more lost than I had since that awful day I watched two sons, one conceived in love the other in deceit, slay one another.

The people in the streets below were close to blameless for the crimes of the empire, but they suffered anyway, just as their emperor had done. I felt no peace. I looked out over the city and the question circled in my mind. Had I balanced an invisible scale or tipped it forever? I wonder this still. The historians are no help, some calling me monster, other hero. I think both terms are far too grand and far too small to hold me.

Quiyahui soared overhead, like a bolt of lightning through skies cloudy with smoke. Belzuun-Hegal, her many bodies formed into the shape of a single colossal woman, stood in the city's central plaza. Stormwights marched the avenues in undead legions.

I smelled her first. Somehow, her candlewax and incense slithered over the persistent scents of smoke and blood. "Bel?" Sarakiel's voice was soft.

"Were you satisfied?" I asked, cursing myself for the note of recrimination in my voice.

"You took our vengeance," she said. Her steps were as soft as breath upon my neck. I longed for nothing more than her arms about me but I had no right to ask that of her. "I knew that my hurt would not go away, but I was fool enough to think it would."

"I am sorry, Sarakiel."

"I am too."

I turned to face her. She stood across from me in her simple traveler's robes, though she was luminous and beautiful as if she wore a noblewoman's finery and priceless jewels. Grief sat on her lovely features, upon her slouched shoulders. Grief and weariness. I saw in her a reflection of myself, but unlike me, Sarakiel had done nothing to bring this state of affairs about.

One piece of me was not reflected in her, and that was shame. Shame that had lived in me for too long and I needed to release it, else it continue to poison my soul. In this place, after more than a century of war, countless dead, and devastation to a continent, I had to unburden myself. I sensed that if I did not, I would truly become the monster the Heacharids believed I was. I would leave aside Belromanazar of Thunderhead, whatever remained of him. I would be merely the Dreadstorm, fit only to cause misery and death.

I took a step to her, my hands momentarily reaching for her before I pulled them back. "No, Sarakiel. I am sorry. Arkohnus was slain by that...creature I sired with...with..." I could not say the words, though they blazed in my mind. My daughter.

If I had seen pity upon her face, I might have broken, but I did not. I saw only the compassion that made my heart pound a tattoo of fierce love. I awaited her words like I had never awaited any other in my long life.

"I never hated you for that," she said finally. "I was angry, yes. Frustrated that you could be manipulated thus. But I also know that she," Sarakiel grimaced rather than speak Theophilia's cursed name, "was an expert in manipulation. She knew exactly how to ensnare you."

"I am easy to manipulate."

"You have obvious levers," Sarakiel allowed, a rueful smile faintly crossing her face. "She knew how to pull them."

"Sarakiel..."

"Arkohnus chose the life of a knight. He chose to aid us in our war. He chose to lead the vanguard every time. If it had not been that battle, it would have been another. I forgive you, but I do not think I have anything to forgive."

The anguish that I had kept hidden inside me broke in a sudden storm. I fell to my knees, tears blurring my eyes, sobs choking my throat. I had wanted to hear those words of absolution for over a century. Wanted them so badly I did not admit it to myself. They had only been spoken when the conquest was complete, when the home of my enemy had been utterly conquered.

"Bel, oh, my love," she exclaimed, falling to her knees and embracing me. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes as she wrapped me in forgiveness. I clutched her like a drowning man.

"I see him. Our son, our boy, dying," I sobbed.

"He died as he would have wanted. He remained true to his vows. He remains beloved to the kingdom. He is immortal."

"I would have rather had more time with him."

"As would I, but we do not get to choose."

I looked into her face, caressing one cheek. "You are wise, Sarakiel."

"I was born into nothing. My people were hated in Castellandria. A kind woman adopted me and taught me a trade and helped me hide what I was. And then, one day I meet a beautiful man and he looks upon me as the most beautiful woman alive. He gives me eternity. It would be a shame not to use it for something."

We leaned in as one, each of us knowing the mind of the other as well as our own. Our lips touched in a soft caress. Her breath was hot on mine. My tongue slid gently into her mouth, and she uttered a soft moan, halfway between lust and relief. She gripped me, her passion growing with every movement.

"I need you," I murmured.

"Your robes," she muttered back, groping for a way to undress me.

We parted only long enough to pull our robes off and cast them aside. Now I was nude, standing upon this tower in the middle of Heacharium. I was hard, a bead of nectar collecting at the tip of me. Sarakiel's indigo eyes were aflame as she knelt before me, all soft curves, her pointed tail lashing back and forth. She took me in her soft grasp, stroking my length from base to crown.

She licked the tip of me, her eyes closing in momentary bliss as the taste sat on her tongue. She looked up at me, continuing to milk me with intoxicating intent. "I love you, my sweet wizard," she said.

Before I could respond, she pressed her lips to the tip of me. She held me there for a moment, her soft flesh against mine. Then she opened slowly, taking me into her hot mouth. Her tongue was active, washing across my overheated flesh. She knew me well and had long since learned the pathways to bring me pleasure. I was an instrument that she played with virtuosic skill.

She sucked, taking me deeper and deeper with every bob of her head, her tongue never resting. She was a wet vortex about me, her passion driving my own bliss. In an instant I was on a precipice, the inviting clouds of a storm below me. I held back as they rose.

Soon, I felt at the back of her throat. She never hesitated, opening her throat with the ease of one who had practiced. Sarakiel was used to my length, and had long ago learned to take me as deeply as we both desired. She gripped me with swallows, holding me tightly as she milked, then I was out into her mouth. Her saliva flowed like rivers, washing over me. She pulled me from her straining mouth, then spat once upon the head, stroking me hard.

"Sarakiel..."

"First one," she gasped from wet lips. "Just the first."

She took me again before I could give her leave. I no longer fought the rising storm. I could not have. She was too expert. Yet her expertise was cut with a fanatic need. She did not want me to fill her mouth because she wished to please me. She needed the benediction of my pleasure, the knowledge that in her supplication, I was her slave.

I could fight no longer. I was not over the precipice. The storm had risen about me and I surrendered to its joyous wrath. Pleasure raked me with talons of lightning. I released myself into the ecstatic fury.

I felt her swallow only the first rush of seed. I opened my eyes without realizing I'd close them, watching as I striped her neck and chest with hot pearl.

Her eyes met mine and she smiled breathlessly, continuing to stroke my staff. "I need you hard."

I picked her up with a growl, kissing her with desperate strength. I tasted myself on her lips, the light stormy flavor of my passion, and that only inflamed me. I turned her about. The smoke hung low in the sky, the fires continuing to burn far below. I put her on the ramparts. She yelped as her soft buttocks touched the cold stone, but I silenced her with another hard kiss.

I parted, running my finger over a line of my seed and bringing it to her lips. The skeletal serpent ring of Diotenah glittered from the cold digit. She took it in her mouth, now impossibly hot against my finger, sucking it clean, her tongue polishing the flesh as she'd polished my spear so ably.

I fell to my knees in supplication before her, spreading her thick thighs. Her sex was before me, the wet folds embracing me with their scent of incense and candlewax. I took her in my mouth, kissing her nether lips as passionately as I had her mouth. I had never encountered her so wet before.

She let out a ragged moan, rocking her impressive hips to meet my explorations. I was not delicate. I was as insistent as she had been, brewing my own storm with my lips and teeth and tongue. I found the places she loved to be kissed and I showered them with passionate attention.

I looked up once where she towered above me like a goddess of lust. She ran a finger up another line of my seed, then touched her puffy nipples, rubbing me against them. They were hard as I was now, standing up against her heavy breasts. Then the fingers went to her mouth, where her tongue ran over them.

I chased her pleasure, returning to full attention. I slid two fingers inside her, one cold the other warm. These I beckoned, in and out of her. They were sticky with her, fragrant and wonderful. I found her pearl, sucking and licking. Her body went tense and she let loose with a scream that echoed over the city.

I chuckled, ready to return to her, when I felt her fingers in my hair, pulling me up. I stood, and she gripped my hands, kissing the fingers that were so recently inside her. Her talons poked from her fingertips, glittering blackly in the night.

"Fuck me, my love," she begged. "I need to feel you."

I could only nod. My beard was soaked with her, the scent maddening in its beauty. She guided me to her orchid and my fingers dimpled the supple flesh of her hips. Our eyes met and I knew that the crazed need I saw in hers was mirrored in mine. I took her with a single thrust.

She leaned back over the ramparts, shuddering with a crash of bliss, her cries once again falling to the streets below. It was madness. She was poised out over the abyss, a long fall into one of the courtyards of Xomera's Font. I held her with my sex alone. Yet we did not care. Every thrust threatened to topple her from her precarious perch, and yet every thrust was harder. I sank every inch of myself to her, pummeling the gateway to her womb.

We truly fit together in way that was at once venal and ethereal. Our bodies felt forged to this obscene rutting, even as our spirits twined together in glorious love.

Her back arched, nearly bowed double. Her fat breasts jiggled as I hammered into her. A single spot of my seed remained between her clavicles, like a tiny wobbling pearl. She could only scream with pleasure. It was not the mechanics of our act, which was simple savagery, but where we were. What we had done. The overwhelming need that proved none other would do in that moment. We could only be as we were.

"My storm," she murmured, the end of the word erased in a full-throated cry. It ran through her body, quakes chasing it. Her sex gripped mine, kneading me, milking me. Into her barbaric quakes, I released my pleasure. My senses were erased in cataclysmic wonder. I felt more seed than I thought I had left flooding into her body in mad gouts.

Moments later we cuddled beneath the ramparts, our bare skin wet with perspiration. I stroked her tri-colored hair, kissing the base of first one horn and then the other.

"You should not do that," she teased sleepily, "unless you want to get me ready for another bout of love."

"Who says I do not?"

She held me closer, pressing a kiss into my neck. "Give me a little time, you beautiful man."

"I'll give you all you could ever want."

We did not know it then, but this was when we conceived Bethor, the final child Sarakiel would bear. Sometimes I wondered if a piece of Arkohnus hadn't found its way into his brother, in that way of the Theva. The war against the Heacharids was over, and we could put our grief to rest. I looked forward to living in peace and indeed I did.

For a time.