The smile widened. Her nails traced tingling lines down his cheek, his jaw, throat, chest. Her eyes did not leave his. He felt his muscles tightening, felt his groin tingle in pleasurable anticipation. Moriana! he thought.
Synalon was not without sensitivity. She caught his thought, his emotion. 'Do nothing for now, milord. Nothing.'
The blanket passed his hips. She worked her magic caress down until his organ stood stiff and bucking and his buttocks left the pallet in a spasm of pleasure.
'You don't find me displeasing at all.' Her eyes released his. Her hair fell in a black cascade over his belly, cool and fragrant, dancing with highlights of golden flame. Her lips closed like a noose of fire and ice. He gasped at the first suction, gripped her shoulders with increasing desire. Shudders wracked his body, increased in intensity. He tried to speak but his tongue turned thick and his jaw trembled.
The wet friction was excruciating as she moved up and down. Fost's every sense heightened, expanded. He felt the flannel, the firmness of her flesh, the heavy breasts swinging rhythmically so that finger-hard nipples brushed his thighs through the fabric. He grew drunk on the smell of her hair and the oil lamp and the moss used to seal the walls, on the scent of the night and the musk of her excitement. Up and down she moved, her tongue never resting. Then came the explosion from within.
His fingers clamped on her shoulders with bruising force. Her mouth was avid and hungry and infinitely delightful.
She raised her head. She licked her lips and brushed back her hair. 'Now the edge is off, milord. The ceremony can truly begin.'
She sat up straddling him and pulled the gown off over her head. Her pale, blue-veined, carnelian-tipped breasts rode up with it, then dropped to swing free. She pulled her hair from the garment's folds, shook it back, looked down on Fost as if from a great height.
Though he was spent, the sight of her beauty electrified him. He felt himself stiffening again, an obelisk lifted in honor of the triangle of black fur below her smooth stomach.
She raised herself on her knees and shuffled upward along him. He grunted as pleasure stabbed into him when she brushed the tip of his manhood. Then she was poised above his face, mysterious and gilded in lamplight. She lowered herself. He had a last thought of Ziore in her satchel beside the bed before his lips touched coarse, dewy hair. His tongue emerged and swept through the tangle to slick, succulent flesh. Synalon shivered delicately, cupped her breasts with her hands, then thrust her pelvis forward so that his tongue probed deep inside her.
Small, insistent animal sounds rolled from her throat. His tongue swirled within her, savoring both taste and texture. She was maddening and beautiful and he was drunk on her. His tongue withdrew, sought, found; it pressed in.
Her cries filled up the small chamber. Her fingers knotted painfully in his hair but he was lost in his pleasurable task. His tongue flirted, teased, bored in. She screamed.
Walls of pliant flesh clamped on his head. All he heard was the hollow drumbeat of her pulse, racing, outpacing his. He felt her perfect body tremble, felt her leaving, raised his hands and seized her. At last she tore herself away, her body shining with sweat.
'It is as I thought,' she said, her voice husky. 'You are truly fit for a Queen of the Sky City.'
His mind slipped out of gear and coursed back to the night before and the Dwarflike shape by the campfire. What was it? What had it offered? Some connection between that and Synalon's current passion was almost made, then slipped away from him.
She flowed down like water, her breasts falling heavy upon his firmly muscled chest, her mouth seeking his. Fost's fingers trembled on her buttocks as she lowered her hips and took him in. And then the ancient, insistent motion possessed them both. He forgot all but the heat and pressure and pleasure.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'If you're going to kill me,' said Moriana, 'this is a good place to do it.' Her words were almost lost in the wind moaning through the Gate of the Mountains.
Impassively, Rann studied her across the fire. His yellow eyes cast back the light like a cat's. At the third point of a triangle around the small fire wavered Erimenes's blue, misty pillar. The genie looked from one to another.
Moriana prodded the fire with a stick. Blue flames crackled toward the slit of cloudy sky visible high above. 'You say nothing, Prince.'
'I didn't realize comment was called for, Princess,' replied Rann.
'I see no need to fence with words. I don't trust you.' She angrily threw the stick away.
The prince sat within his cloak. Moriana stared at him across the flames as if she could penetrate that narrow skull and lay bare the thoughts within. But Rann was protected against her probing. He remained unreachable, unreadable.
Their journey from Brev had passed in festering silence. Fost and Synalon had been enemies but had no cherished tradition of enmity. But there was bad blood between Erimenes and Moriana and between the spirit and the scarfaced prince. It had not been a pleasant trip.
But the journey neared its end. Less than a day south lay the fringes of the glacier. Moriana must face the challenge of convincing Guardian to open a way into Athalau, not just for her and Rann, but for the vast mob of soldiers and civilians making its way south from the devastated Realm. And beyond that was the problem of defending the city and the people against the wrath of Istu.
Tension twisted within her, a slowly fraying cord near to breaking. She sought release in anger and the dangerous pastime of baiting her cousin.
'You want me to believe you're on our side. Why should I believe that?'
Erimenes's eyes widened in anticipation. Moriana lashed at Rann with bitter words, practically taunting him. Rann was not known to suffer such jibes in silence.
'What you believe means little to me,' Rann said after a time, 'except if it affects our chances for success. But I perceive you mean to have this out now, whether or not this is the right time for such disputes. Listen well, cousin. I would see the Fallen Ones cast out of our City in the Sky, and the Demon of the Dark Ones imprisoned once more – or better, destroyed.'
'Why should you care?' She remembered the ruined face of old Kralfi who carried the marks of Rann's handiwork to the grave.
'You may not be pleased to be reminded of this, but I'm as human as you are.' He raised a finger to quell her objection. 'Oh, I've done things you find repellent. I don't apologize for them. I merely wish to point out that my deeds notwithstanding, I am a man, not a Zr'gsz. If the Hissers bring down the blade, it falls on my neck, as well. So I am "on" your side, like it or not.' 'Why not join with the Dark Ones? You've done so before.'
'I've never done so. Synalon served the Dark Ones for a time. I served her.' He tipped back his hands and thrust his forefingers against the bridge of his nose. 'I might ask why you do not choose to throw in your lot with the Fallen Ones – as you've done before.' 'Because they betrayed me!'
'And didn't the Dark Ones betray Synalon? Think a moment, cousin dear. Her hatred for you springs from mere rivalry. The Dark Ones misled her. You've theatened her ambitions; they've wounded her pride. Which hatred do you think will prove more implacable?'
'Don't listen to him,' said Erimenes. 'He's too glib. He means you no good, him or that damned Synalon.'
'And how much good have you done the princess, demon?' snapped Rann. 'I remember when you were all aquiver to see Moriana tortured.'
'I, uh, that is…' Erimenes looked at the rocky ground and fell silent. 'You disclaim all loyalty to the Dark?' Moriana flung the words at Rann like a gauntlet. 'Why do you choose to serve Synalon, who would be the handmaiden of the Lords of Infinite Night?'