by Sarah Rayne
Floy and Snodgrass felt icy needles pierce their thoughts.
We can hear you, Humans, cried the Wraiths in delighted triumph. We can hear you and we can understand you, for the Mistress has bestowed on us the ancient Stroichim Inchinn, the power of knowing the thoughts of others …
Floy, with memories of Nuadu Airgetlam, said, ‘But surely that is forbidden — ’ and the Wraiths shrieked with mirth again.
Nothing is forbidden, Human weakling, nothing is not permitted in the realm of the Frost Giantess … You will see, Human morsels, you will see … The laughter became fainter, and the cold blue shapes seemed to blur.
Floy, keeping a firm control on his thoughts, said quite calmly, ‘May we know what is to happen next?’ and the Wraiths laughed again.
You will be the Mistress’s lover for the night, Human … perhaps for more than one night if you please her … There was a break in the voices and then they went on. For more than one night if you please her. If you have the endurance to withstand the things she will do to you … Floy shuddered and made a sudden convulsive movement, but the ropes held.
And after that, Human morsel, after that, the Mistress will render you up to the Soul Eaters who feast every night in the Cruachan Cavern, and they will take your soul, and then fling your drained body into the River of the Dead … And your body will submit to the constant lapping of the waters, so that in time you will change, Humans, little by little, into the fish-creatures you have already seen … You will become scaly and coldblooded, your fingers will join into webs, your eyes will become lidless and staring … The laughter rang out again. You will CHANGE, Humans, you will change most fearfully, and most repulsively, so that if your people should come in search of you — perhaps in a hundred decades or so — if more lost travellers on a freezing winter's night should find their way to the Lair of the Geimhreadh, they will turn from you in shuddering disgust …
Snodgrass said in a low voice, ‘Floy this is terrible. Can we not — ’ And stopped.
‘Wait,’ said Floy softly. ‘There must be a way to escape.’
There is no escape, Humans, there never was any escape … no one ever escapes the embraces of our Mistress …
The voices were growing fainter, but they could still hear the creatures’ words, lingering on the air.
You belong to the Geimhreadh now, you are her chosen bridegrooms … You must pleasure her in every way she wishes, Humans … She is greedy for the bodies of Men-Humans, and she is insatiable … You will see, Humans, you will see …
After what seemed a very long time, but was in fact only minutes, Floy said, ‘I think that if we are to escape, now is the time.’
‘Yes,’ said Snodgrass firmly and very definitely, and Floy wondered if Snodgrass was quite as firm as he was sounding, or if it was just to make them both feel better. All the same, he was grateful for Snodgrass’s firmness, because it was something good to have in this sort of situation. Aloud, he said, ‘We probably don’t have very much time,’ and Snodgrass said, ‘No, I expect we don’t.’ Floy managed to half raise himself and look about the cold, dank, stone chamber and take stock of their surroundings.
The horrid lapping River tributary was a little way off, to their left, although they could see the silvery darting shapes just beneath the water’s surface and they could feel the miasma of cold despair which rose from the River’s depths. Floy repressed a shiver and thought that, surely, despair was the coldest and the loneliest of all the emotions of Man. To know yourself utterly and forever abandoned; to be without hope, without anything in the world ever again … To have to think: this is all there will be anywhere, ever.
They were bound by the repulsive ropes to two long, rather high couches. The couches were covered with some soft slippery stuff; Floy thought it might be silk, but whatever it was it was cold and faintly slimy and Floy found himself wondering who had lain here last. Then he glanced to the dark River and wished he had not.
Above them, the stone walls stretched up and up into the distant shadowy roof of the chamber. Within the shadows, they could see thick, pale cobwebs and there were faint stirrings in the cobwebs, as if blind scuttling things might lurk there. Floy received a fleeting impression of whitish, boneless creatures watching them. Creatures of the Geimhreadh … creatures of the Wraiths … But I had better not think that, said Floy silently, and I had certainly better not start imagining things that might not be there. It would be better, it would be far more practical, to assess this situation and try to get out of it. The storm creatures had gone. At least, it was to be hoped they had gone.
To begin with, Floy thought it might just be possible to pull the hair-ropes off, strand by revolting strand. He levered himself into a half-sitting position, his legs bent to one side, and tried working his thumbs against the ropes. But the coarse hair, the pubic hair of the Geimhreadh’s past victims, had been tightly plaited and it held. Overhow many years have these ropes been fashioned? thought Floy, sickened, and then pushed the thought from him. No matter how many years, no matter how numerous the victims, the Geimhreadh’s ropes held strong and well.
‘No good,’ said Floy, at length, and cursed softly and angrily.
‘Could we reach each other’s bonds?’ asked Snodgrass. ‘And somehow loosen each other’s ropes?’
‘We could try.’
But the silk-covered couches were several feet apart; and the Wraiths had tied the ropes to the couch legs and arms. Neither of them could move more than an inch or so in any direction. Floy tried to think that the Geimhreadh, when she came, would surely have to free them. Wouldn’t she? But that depends on what she is expecting me to do to her, thought Floy, grimly.
With the coming of the night, the lapping waters of the River seemed to have grown quieter, as if the creatures that dwelled beneath the surface might be sinking into a torpor. From time to time, there was a brief turbulence, as if the soul-less, half-Humans beneath it still moved, but the River had become more quiescent. It is listening, thought Floy. It is listening and it is waiting, and it is saying: soon we shall reach out and welcome two new brothers to our depths. Floy half turned his head again and caught the white gleam of the River creatures and glimpsed a flash of iridescence. Dozens of pairs of eyes, watching, waiting, expectant.
And then Snodgrass said, ‘Floy. There’s someone coming.’
And Floy heard it as well.
Slithering footsteps coming closer.
The Geimhreadh.
* * *
As the Geimhreadh slithered into the room her neckless body reared up and forward, her narrow flat eyes blinking in grisly anticipation. Floy saw the lipless mouth smile and the forked tongue dart in and out and saw, as well, the gleam of sensuous pleasure in the creature’s expression. He thought: she is going to enjoy us. She is going to subject us to whatever dark, unnatural desires she possesses. I cannot think of a way out of this, thought Floy, but he held the dark, unblinking stare steadily, because however unthinkable it was that they should succumb to the Geimhreadh’s horrid appetites, it was even more unthinkable to Floy that they should show this monster fear.
The Geimhreadh was still swathed in the loose pale wrappings she had worn earlier; a fold partly covered her head, lending her the semblance of a Human, but it was still the snake-disguised-as-female they had seen at the first encounter. As she came nearer, the dreadful head poked out, and the swathing cloths loosened a little.
‘So you have not tried to evade me, my precious ones,’ said the creature, in her gobbling, clotted voice.
‘We have no choice, ma’am,’ said Floy. ‘It seems that we are yours to command.’ Incredibly, a smile widened the Geimhreadh’s mouth.
‘Courtesy under these circumstances, Human. That is something I had not looked for. You have some spirit. That will make this all the more enjoyable.’
And all the better to devour, my dears …
She moved closer, towering above them. Eight feet tall? wondered Floy, staring up. More?
&
nbsp; ‘The Wraiths have done well by me this time,’ said the Geimhreadh, swaying a little on her tiny, stumplike feet and staring down at Floy. Floy had the impression that she was inspecting his body and was liking what she was seeing. ‘And you are healthy, I think.’
Floy said, acidly, ‘That is for you to discover, ma’am,’ and again there was the smile.
‘We shall see, Human,’ said the Frost Giantess, and made another of the sudden undulating movements, so that the loose wrappings fell to the floor, and she was naked before them.
As a young man on Renascia, Floy had been considerably sought out by unprincipled ladies, and sometimes by ladies who were quite principled, as well. On occasion he had done the seeking on his own account. But the results had nearly always been the same. Nights in beds that were not his own, afternoons in beds that were not his own, as well: for the long drowsy afternoons on Renascia had always been made languorous and sensual by the slow sinking of the light into the Mountains, and by the heady, heavy golden rainbow light from the chasing Ikons who came out at this time of the day and spread their light everywhere. Afternoons had been times when no one had quite known where anyone else was, very nearly traditional for seduction.
Floy would have said, had he been questioned, that he had loved wisely rather than too well; his heart had never been in danger, although his loins had certainly been led astray a time or two, and there were a number of Renascian ladies whose cheeks were be painted with a far from maiden blush when his name was mentioned. Certainly he would have admitted that, if the pleasures were offered, he had seldom refused.
There had always been a moment in the love-making, during the slow, sweet seductions, which he had always particularly savoured. He supposed it was quite a trivial part of love-making, but it was a brief moment he always looked for because of the way it seemed to lend an extra strength to the intimacy of the encounter. It was the moment when the lady of his choice (or the lady who had chosen him) slid from her silken gown, or velvet robe, or unfastened her satin nightgarb and let it slide to the floor in a whisper of sensuous movement and the faint drift of feminine perfume.
That was the moment that always touched Floy deeply and fired him to genuine ardour, occasionally even to a fleeting love. That sudden gentle stirring of fragrance. It was that which lent the edge to his appetite, which sharpened his every sense. It had always seemed to him a moment of intense intimacy; the scent, the fragrance, the essence of the woman with whom you were about to share an immense closeness.
It was something he had come to look for, to enjoy briefly but lingeringly, spinning it out, rather as a man about to enjoy a five-course banquet will spin out the savouring of what on Earth had once been called an aperitif. An appetite teaser. Floy had viewed that ruffle of fragrance, that flurry of female perfumed skin, as an appetite teaser. An emphasis, a reminder, a precursor of the delight and intimacy to come.
Now, tied down to a cold couch by plaited coarse fibres; the cold greasy lapping of a sinister River in his ears, almost certainly facing not death, but a terrible, endless, soul-less existence, Floy remembered every one of those gentle, feminine flurries of fragrance, every single one subtly different, every one an indivisible part of its fair owner, and felt a shuddering sickness at what was happening now.
Instead of the flurry of scented feminine skin he had always looked for, now there was a sudden breath of ancient stale flesh; of unwashed limbs and of tainted, carious juices, long since bereft of any freshness. Floy felt his stomach lift with revulsion; but when he spoke his voice was light and fearless and very nearly insouciant.
‘And are we to spend the night together, you and I, ma’am?’ said Floy, and had the satisfaction of seeing brief surprise flare in the dark eyes.
‘If you satisfy me, Human, there may be several nights.’ She leaned closer and Floy saw again the glistening ringed, wormlike skin. A cold, finlike hand came out to caress him. ‘My needs are many, Human, and my appetites are voracious.’
Floy said, rather coldly, ‘I fear I shall be unable, ma’am,’ and regarded her challengingly.
The Geimhreadh laughed and Floy and Snodgrass shuddered. ‘Your body will harden when I wish it to, Human,’ she said. ‘There are caresses I can give you that your weak Human females would never dream exist.’ She bent even closer and Floy tried not to flinch from the stench of fetid breath and unwashed scaly skin. ‘And although I have never failed yet to harden the loins of my victims,’ said the Geimhreadh, in a hissing whisper, ‘if that should happen now, morsel, then I have many enchantments at my beck. Not for nothing have I trafficked with the one called the Robemaker.’
She moved away a little and stood watching him, the forked tongue flickering again. ‘Shall I begin by licking the tip of your manhood, Human?’ said the Geimhreadh) and her voice had thickened with anticipation. ‘Shall I insert the prongs of my snake-tongue into the shaft of your phallus, Human, and shall I probe deep within it so that I penetrate to the core and lick your juices at their source?’ She moved again, and Floy felt the thick, rough snakeskin against his arm.
‘And,’ said the Geimhreadh, close to his ear now, ‘shall I caress you in the ways of men with men, so that we can see if your desires lie in that direction, so that we can then summon the Wraiths to pleasure you?’ A thick, clotted chuckle broke from her and rang eerily round the stone chamber. ‘They have their own appetites, the Wraiths,’ said the Frost Giantess and, with a sudden jabbing movement, slid the length of her body alongside Floy’s.
It was far worse than Floy had believed possible. It was like being wrapped in the boneless embrace of a giant worm or a flapping, finned fish-creature. The Geimhreadh’s breath was cold and fetid in his face, so that his insides churned with nausea. He could feel the thick, flaccid body pressing and writhing against him; she could feel every line of him, making him shudder at the horrid intimacy of it. He could feel the tiny fin-hands sliding between his thighs, probing, touching, exploring …
‘Harden,’ hissed the Frost Giantess, the tiny embryo fingers working against him. ‘Harden, Human, or must I call up the Wraiths to weave their spells and make you!’
Floy looked her in the eye and said, ‘You may weave your enchantments and work your filth until fire freezes, ma’am, but you will never take any satisfaction from me.’ And saw the dark fury in her eyes and knew himself bound now for the worst the creature could devise.
She reared back, slithering from the couch, and paused, gathering her strength. There was a furious hissing and the Geimhreadh's eyes glinted redly. She towered above Floy, her thick body whirling into a column of pale, mucous matter, spinning higher and higher in the cold stone room, a great pillar of curdled gelatinous matter, neither Human nor snake nor fish, nor any creature of the earth at all now.
There was the piercing whine of icy wind and the Storm Wraiths were there, laughing and shrieking, blue and glacial, their jeering faces hovering above Floy, their long icicle fingers darting at him, tearing at his clothes, ripping his breeches from him, and then caressing him with their freezing fingers.
Floy gasped and flung his head back on the silk couch and felt the icy cold creep over his entire body. He was dimly aware of a filmy silver garment being thrown over him, partially obscuring his vision, and from a great distance he heard the Geimhreadh’s voice saying, ‘The Cloak of Sensuality, Human-and one of the Robemaker’s best achievements.’
Floy set his teeth and curled his hands into clenched fists. The Cloak had descended about him now; he was vaguely aware that it was enveloping him, thin, cool, not quite transparent, but not opaque either, so that he could see the Geimhreadh and the Wraiths through a mist. Aye, Human, through a glass darkly, but yet face to face …
The cold was creeping over his body, now; it was stealing inside his skin, so that he was cold inside as well as out and it was licking his nerve endings now, with tiny, roughened tongues … This is not in the least bit sensual, said Floy’s mind. I am not responding to any of this in the small
est bit.
He was not responding at all, he was shivering with cold, and repulsed by the Geimhreadh, who was still rearing up over him, darting her snake-head face at him, reaching out the tiny fin-hands to touch his skin …
And I am not responding … I do not believe in enchantments, and I do not believe in the Robemaker’s Cloak of Sensuality.
Without warning, the blood descended between his thighs and there was a rush not of heat, but of repulsive congealed coldness, a terrible travesty of lust. Repulsive! thought Floy, shuddering and sickened, but, as the thought formed, he heard the Wraiths screech with triumph, and the sound echoed and reverberated round the stone walls, and sent the waters of the River churning and foaming.
He hardens, Mistress, see how he is ready for your embrace … see how MANNISH he becomes … And then: what easy prey these Mortals are!
Floy’s eyes were half-closed, but he could still see, very clearly, the evil, grinning masks of the Wraiths, and he could see the flat snakesmile of the Geimhreadh; he could taste the sour stench of her rancid flesh. He knew his body to be hardening, responding, betraying him, making a sick mockery of every sweet moment enjoyed in the rainbow-lit afternoons and of every scented hour stolen or snatched or enjoyed. I will not respond, said Floy silently, furiously. This has nothing at all to do with the sweet longing of one creature for another. This is malevolent magic. I won’t respond.
But the Wraiths were swarming over him now, tracing icy patterns across his naked skin with their sharp, dripping fingers, and there was a frenetic throbbing between his thighs, a horrid cold coagulation of blood and seed.
‘There is no fighting, Human,’ said the Geimhreadh and slid on to the couch beside him.
The Wraiths shrieked their rasping cries again and swooped all about him, but the Geimhreadh had lumbered her great writhing shape on to the couch and she was twining all about his limbs. There was a moment when she coiled her body into a spiral, so that Floy felt the tail somewhere against his feet, thick and crustlike. And then she straightened, the neckless torso pressing against him.
