“Nearly?” I asked. I could have reached out and grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the bed. And she would have relented, and even acted as if that was what she had wanted all along. But it would have been the last time we were together.
Instead of acceding to the bed, she sat down on her knees beside it, in a position of supplication I found entirely irresistible.
“You mean to say that all of the gods of the Pantheon were true persons of Greek history,” she said.
“No,” I countered. “True persons of history, but not all of Greek history. The Greeks were conquerors before written history, and their gods came from many different traditions. It would be impossible to tease out all of the stories after the fact.”
“Impossible for you?” she asked. “You were there.”
“I was, but no. Even if I cared to remember, there are too many threads.”
She looked disappointed. “That’s a shame.” She sighed grandly, adding, “And I reject your premise.”
“What?”
“Which is unfortunate; I was looking forward to rejoining you.” She spread her thighs just slightly, and her hand felt its way down. I strongly considered leaving the conversation at that and simply watching her.
“Where do you disagree?” I asked.
“You told me the Greeks had met their gods in person…” she hesitated to tickle herself, which we both enjoyed. And then her hand slid back up to her belly. “But you’ve also said the gods came from traditions older than the Greeks themselves. Are you suggesting these gods are all immortals? Because, milord, you have told me often there is no-one like you and I believe you.”
“All of that is true,” I agreed—although it wasn’t. “You can continue doing that if you wish.”
“I do,” she said. “But I’d like you to administer to the contradiction before I administer myself.”
I’ve talked philosophy with a lot of people, and while it was often a frustrating undertaking, I couldn’t recall any of those conversations being quite this maddening, for reasons having little to do with the subject itself. “This Cardinal you’ve made friends with,” I said.
“Yes? Would you like to see what I do for him? I’m already on my knees.”
I ignored the offer, as painful as that was. “Does he talk to you about Jesus?” I asked.
“Sometimes. But only in passing. He doesn’t believe I have a soul. I think that makes it easier for him.”
I asked, “Has he ever met Jesus?”
This question had a significant effect on her mood, which came as a surprise as it didn’t occur to me, prior to asking, that a succubus could also be an adherent of the Christian faith. Her hands, just moments ago finding interesting places on her body to rub and massage, fell to her sides. “That is not the same thing,” she said. I felt the urge to backtrack, but it was too late.
“Nor is it all that different,” I said. “It’s been nearly two millennia since Jesus of Nazareth walked the Earth, but finding someone today who would declare he never truly existed, and that he wasn’t a god, would be difficult.”
“The God. He also never lived atop a great big mountain and hurled lightning at people,” she argued, hopping to her feet and walking over to the water pitcher again. Her carriage had changed from enticing and graceful to simple and efficient, and I realized for the first time just how much of what a succubus is and does is a performance. However, she was still naked; the situation could be salvaged.
“You’re missing my larger point, Rowena,” I said. “The Greeks may not have met their gods face-to-face, but their ancestors did, in the same way the ancestors of your Cardinal met Jesus.”
“I understand your point,” she said without turning.
Something in her tone of voice recommended I keep quiet for a while, and so I did. Presently, she turned again and leaned back up against the wall, stretched dramatically—it was reminiscent of a cat somehow—and looked at me. A grin crept back onto her face.
“I am beginning to question the wisdom of debating gods with an immortal man,” she said.
“Do you accept my premise?” I asked.
“I do, conditionally.”
“Conditionally.”
She walked slowly across the room, hips swinging slightly. Despite the lack of clothing, she carried herself with the allure of a well-dressed courtesan on a Parisian ballroom floor. I gathered from this that she had decided she was no longer cross with me. Committing one knee to the bed, she leaned forward, breasts dangling nearly within reach.
“My fear, milord, is that should I compare the philosophical underpinnings of Christianity to the warrior gods of legend, you will find a way to prove them equal in merit, and I don’t think I’d like to hear any of that.”
She leaned in and kissed me deeply. I reached around and grabbed her perfect little behind and pulled her onto the bed properly. Her legs separated and her knees slid in beside my hips.
“So let’s save any more… probing… on the matter for another time, milord.”
With a free hand she pulled away the sheet that separated us and settled on top of me. A little moan of satisfaction escaped her lips—a portion of the performance or not, I no longer cared—and then she was tilting her head back and panting and I was lifting myself up to meet her downward thrusts.
And my last cogent thought, before I gave in to what would be a largely mindless afternoon of carnality, was that I was very glad Rowena found my explanation satisfactory. Because the last thing I wanted was to have to tell her the truth: some gods were more real than others.