Temple of Cocidius

by Maxx Whittaker

  A ruin?

  Stance abandoned, my sword tip scrapes the pitted mosaic floor.

  Only the cathedral’s skeleton remains, making a gatehouse almost comical. Ancient arches reach for the blank night sky like broken finger bones. Chunks of fallen buttress rest among stone caskets that once filled the cloister, lids broken by time or pillage, leaving the broken effigies of kings and nobleman. I try not to look, to be reminded. Instead I pick my way through the rubble, watchful, listening.

  Moonlight illuminates the silhouette of headstones beyond a tumbled wall segment, seraphim and crosses murky shapes in the swirling fog. It carries a damp, pungent odor of grave moss and sweet, ancient decay. The scent of greatness and sorrow; sickness, suffering, and heroism long forgotten. Even meaningless. A sharp breath of wind cuts the fog, biting through my leathers. It feels like a whisper, a siren’s song beckoning me to give up now.

  I press my palm to the inner doors and push with all I have.

  They scrape open on a moan of twisted hinges. Silence hangs in the breath afterward, a warning. Tension strings around me and I crouch ahead of whatever shrieking mass the doors have belched out.

  Two slashes and the biting, clawing chaos moves on, alighting into the darkness overhead. Bats, the length of my arm. Two lay dead at my feet, a third tilling along on its remaining wing. One thrust, and it’s still.

  Gods-damn bats. I fold in the doorway and catch my breath, waiting for the beating in my ears and brain to dull, to let in ambient sounds. I can’t be this on edge about bloody bats, not if there’s something worse inside this ruin.

  Torches light my way to the crossing, the only part of the church still remotely intact, but from here? Left, right, dead ahead? Each pathway stands dark, exiled even from moonlight beneath towering arches.

  Straight. This where I’ll find the altar, the heart of a cathedral. Maybe it summons something, or there’s a reliquary. I tell myself it’s the most practical path, but there’s more. Something whispers in the darkness ahead, that same voice from the cloister. The words are a sensation in my chest; they beg me to come, to hurry, and promise my defeat.

  Why keep it waiting?

  One hand on the wall, sword arm taut, I feel my way column to column along the knave. My path is littered with who knows what; branches, stone chunks, leaves of a hundred seasons. I stumble along, crunching it all beneath my boots, and abandon any hope of surprising my foe.

  An upended tile catches my toe, pitching me forward. I impact a wall, a pilaster. I brace for the punch of body against structure but whatever I’ve hit crumbles. Bricks bite my ribs and pummel my back, leaving me sightless, breathless and for a moment, trapped.

  Stone grit scrapes my eyes as they strain to see anything. I hold my breath and listen, feel with the same sense that’s pricked the hair on my neck.

  Plaster trickles from overhead, a warning hiss. It heralds the odd, fearful creak of polish-worn marble buckling, slipping, collapsing. Twisting from the rubble, I scrape up my sword and drag myself up the sanctuary, cut and undermined by debris.

  The knave’s collapse knocks the breath from me. Sound and impact sting my skin, wrench bones and tear at my ears. No air will come; my lungs feel locked in a paradox of needing and getting. Writhing on to my back, frigid air forces a gasp and the sparks behind my eyes pass.

  Moonlight floods in, running down the knave like pale blue water.

  Working up onto my elbows, I stare back the way I came and swallow.

  Not branches, stones, and leaves. Light glints off low haystacks of bleached bones and magnifies the black hollows of eye sockets. Scraps of rotted silk, mail, and leather flutter between the piles like dead winter foliage.

  This is not the byproduct of ruined crypts. Remains choke the knave and sill into the darkness of the aisles beyond.

  That won’t be me. I stagger up, grab my sword again, and pick my way to the sanctuary. I’m done waiting and watching. It’s time to fight.

  The sanctuary is nothing more than a crumbling half-circle, empty window traceries above lit like demonic teeth. A casket-sized hole gapes in the dais floor where an altar once stood. Moonlight casts the hole in stark shadow, but stalking closer I can see a lazy sway of torchlight below. A glance reveals nothing but a narrow stone chamber and maybe a tunnel.

  Whatever hunts here, this must be its den. I hold my breath and watch, listen. Nothing stirs, and if something waits, it’s not coming out.

  Fine with me.

  Sheathing my sword, I grab the jagged lip and vault inside.

  -The First Chamber-

  Meridiana

  The chamber is no bigger than a grave. What I took for a tunnel is a recessed portion of the back wall, a rough stone door frame.

  Unlike everything in the ruins above these doors look new, made of polished planks banded and riveted with silver. No rings, no lock. They stand ready to be opened, and sword in hand, I’m happy to oblige.

  A fireplace fills one wall, black onyx carved like the gaping maw of dragon. Flames lick high inside the grate. Beside it is a finely carved table laden with earthenware jugs, a goblet, rich white cheeses and smoked meats. A pie, a bowl of fruit.

  I turn slowly, wondering at the danger, the illusion.

  A bed along the back wall rivals the finest noblewoman’s, the most expensive Patavian whores. Its silk canopy is a deviant shade of pink, and the pillows, the sheets, the bed skirt. Black tassels arcing down from the peak give the silky pink folds the appearance of a–

  “Mhm.” A feminine cough spins me around, and my sanity wavers. The room behind me has changed, and I swear a table in its center wasn’t there.

  And there was definitely not a woman standing here a moment ago.

  Is it a woman? After what I saw in the knave, I’m not so convinced.

  She looks me over with an open expression of disdain, and I can’t help but take her in, too. Her face is a distressing combination; part girlish, with full cheeks, a pert nose, pouty lips. But the vee of her brows and something about her eyes tell the truth of her age, tell a story of millennia spent on debauchery and sin. Thick hair the color of rubies spills around her shoulders. It almost conceals small pale horns at her forehead. Her ears are sleek and elfin in contrast to a body that’s tight and thick.

  Horns and a beautiful face. Now I absolutely don’t trust her.

  Silk barely covering the giant globes of her tits is the same shade as her hair and is supported by a gold bustier fashioned like a pair of cupping skeletal hands. I won’t lie; I’d consider the risk of taking their place. A jeweled belt around her narrow waist flaunts her taut stomach. A silk cloth drapes the fronts of her thighs, concealing nothing. It leaves her hips naked, and a small band of flesh above the tops of her red leather boots crafted like dragonscale. They hug her full thighs and long legs. She flexes a graceful arm, clad in gloves that match her boots.

  I’m supposed to notice these things. Even if I wouldn’t ordinarily, something about this creature compels me to see only seduction.

  “Meridiana,” she sighs, and struts close while flicking her tail. It’s smooth and red, articulating toward me like a beckoning finger.

  “Lir.”

  Her scent envelopes me, something like harvest-fair candy floss, ripe apples, dark liquor, and sex. She runs a razor-point nail up my breastplate.

  I clench my sword’s grip.

  “Leather. I suppose that’s novel. Idiots in plate get tiresome.” She sighs. “And you’re not the most hideous being to enter here.”

  “Is that what I saw above? The hideous ones?”

  “The weak ones.” Her tail prods my sword hand. “Put that away. Didn’t your mother tell you bedtime tales? Don’t you know what I am?”

  I have a good idea.

  She smirks, holding out her palms. “I have no swords, no blades or poisons. I promise not to lay a hand on you.”

  That’s a little disappointing. I sheath my sword. “Seems there’s been a lot of hideous, weak, un-handed
men coming through here...”

  Meridiana arches a slender, cinnamon brow. “My realm is the first, so far as I know. I have to tolerate every single one of you...adventurers.” She spits the word, then grips my ear between hot fingers and drags me to the table. Her touch is electricity on my skin, and I let myself be led, even as alarm bells scream a warning inside me.

  “Sit.” The seductive force of her words drops me into a chair that appears as I’m falling.

  Another appears and Meridiana takes her seat across the table. She flicks slender fingers, and a three-tiered Yarot board appears, set with a full complement of red and blue marbles, and carved figures in their starting positions. “These are the rules of the game–”

  “I know the rules for Yarot.”

  She gestures over the board. “These are the rules of my game: We play for your life and your soul. Each time you make an error…” Her gray eyes flick to mine and she smiles with a full red mouth, pillowy lips begging to be sucked. “Well, you’ll see.”

  “That’s it? I have to beat you at Yarot?” My earliest, haziest childhood memories involve my father teaching me to play. At university I won easy drinking money fleecing masters of the game by playing green. I’d wager there aren’t ten people in the Westlands who can beat me.

  Her beautiful face takes on that sneer again. “I’m a succubus, Tamlir. Don’t be dense.”

  Is it weird that I like when she gives me shit?

  “So…”

  Her tail brushes over my leggings and slips inside. I grip the table and struggle to keep my face blank.

  Her laugh is almost a moan. My cock stirs at the sound. “So, don’t spend, and win the game.”

  “Oh, I’ll spend you at least once. The last insufferable pile of flesh spent until his heart gave out.” Meridiana impales the lacquered wooden board with a fingernail. “Don’t make a mistake, don’t slip up, or you’ll be punished. And after enough punishment... ” She smiles and licks her lips. “And you know what happens then.”

  I’ve heard the legends. And though she’s caught me off guard, I have spent a year on discipline, focus, willpower. I can win Yarot in my sleep; I can still win with a beautiful demon jerking me off. “Ladies first.”

  “Mmm, a chivalrous one. Novel.” She bites her lip so hard a thread of blood runs down her chin. I have the urge to lean forward, lick it off her, rip her clothes from her body, take her…

  Her tail slaps my hand in a rebuke and her mood storms over. “Blue pieces. First move is yours.” Meridiana leans back in her chair, breasts straining the gold cage of her bustier, and yawns.

  This is nothing. The prostitutes in Crannock try this all the time on men at the tables.

  Maybe a succubus is on another level, but breasts, legs, and bed-me looks? This is where my mortal frailty becomes a boon; I’ve had some practice with this.

  I study the first two levels, seeing how I can move the blue marbles to get my pieces through. The first level is randomly placed, and I’ve drawn a great field. I’ve got her, at least to the second deck. No matter what she does, I’m solid at least that far. I make my move, slide a blue marble in her path, and skip my dragon a space ahead. “Done.”

  Her tail loops out, snakes around the neck of a bottle on the sideboard and sets it beside me.

  “Poison? Potion?”

  “Ale, you obnoxious sword-poker. I told you no poison. I don’t need either of those things to get the better of you.” She stays reclined. Her tail flicks onto the board and rolls a red marble forward.

  She could be lying about the ale. This is a mad god’s temple; no truth, no rules. I raise the jug to my lips and swallow. Nothing happens. Well, except that I drink some ale, and just ale as far as I can tell.

  I guess not everything is a trap. “Not moving out a man?” I ask.

  “No.”

  Hm. Her strategy doesn’t make sense to me. Maybe it isn’t supposed to. I examine the board again.

  Heat radiates through my gut. Not the ale, but it spreads to my head the same way. No matter how hard I look at the board, I can’t really understand it. It’s not from the ale. I’ve barely had any, and this doesn’t feel physical. It’s something else.

  What in the hells?

  “Tick tock,” she murmurs. “The next aspirant will be here before you make your move.”

  “I’m the last aspirant this cycle.”

  “I meant the next cycle. Are you moving or not?” She blinks slowly, fanning her thick black lashes in a bored gesture.

  I am, but where? My thoughts feel weak, fuzzy, and tearing my eyes away from her heaving chest long enough to move is like torture.

  The blue marble near the center seems good.

  I push it into the empty hole.

  She giggles, finishing on a small catlike yowl. “Oops.”

  Flames lick higher, throwing sparks from the fireplace and dancing shadows over Meridiana’s pink skin. The heat in my belly flows lower, to my thighs, mirroring the heat of the room. I squint at the fire. It’s definitely higher than it was before my mistake.

  Shite. I get it. Make too many of them, burn alive.

  Sweat beads on my forehead while she makes her move. It’s my turn, but all I can think about is the wet gloss of those thick lips.

  Still, I can do this. I’ve been playing this game all my life. I try to clear my mind, and make two quick moves, the saber and bow.

  Meridiana raises one perfect eyebrow. “Not a bad move.” She leans forward, and I can’t understand how her tits don’t spill from her bustier. I lick dry lips, swallow, wish they would.

  Concentrate.

  Her tail flicks again, ridiculously agile, but her move is baffling. Once again, her strategy eludes me. “What are you doing?” I lean, studying her pieces, equally annoyed and fascinated at what feels like an amateur mistake on her part. “Now I can take your…”

  “I am over a thousand years old,” she snaps, eyes flashing. “You are obviously skilled, have clearly played the game.” She sits back, smiles a smile that scares me more than anything else I’ve seen today. “I am better.”

  We’ll see about that. My mind races, trying to figure out what she’s up to, but I can’t. There’s no move on the board that makes sense but the one she’s opened for me, and I take her Unicorn. Usually a move that spells an early loss for an opponent.

  Her smile only widens.

  Shite.

  This time, she leans forward, moving a piece normally for the first time. Well, maybe not so normally. She grips her Knight, towering above the other pieces in his plate, and strokes her fingers slowly down it before gripping it in her palm. She slides it forward, hand pumping it slowly, into another bizarre placement.

  But I’ve lost interest in the game, in everything but her tight grip. I imagine it around my cock, my head pushing up from her fingers into her waiting mouth, erupting across her tongue, down her throat.

  “Your turn,” she says.

  What? My mind is thick, I can’t think of anything but her, of taking her. I reach out absently, move a piece, not sure which one, not caring. Damn the game, damn all this. I want her, more than anything I’ve wanted in my entire life.

  The flames roar.

  “Oh my. Are you hot?” she asks, wide-eyed, and my awareness ebbs back to me. “It doesn’t bother me, but you look a little miserable.”

  “No, I’m good.” I shake my head, try to clear it. The board, what the hell is wrong with me? The move I made, I’m going to have to work hard to recover. I wipe my face, wicking sweat into my sleeve. I can’t swallow; it helps to take a long swig of the ale – until it seeps into my blood, leaving me more disoriented as she makes her next move.

  I’m not addled, now, but I’m trapped. I have no choice but to sacrifice a piece. I move my raven onto the board.

  “Oh, no,” she pouts, as heat belches from the fireplace. The sound is deafening, now, the maw of hell fifteen feet away. I’m being cooked alive inside my leathers.

  Merid
iana raises one leg and rests it on the game table. The silk cloth falls between her thighs. I can see the mound of her pussy through the thin scarlet silk. I try not to look, fail. “You’ve already lost. Call the game.”

  “No.” There’s a move left. No way I wrecked up the whole game on the first tier. Heat turns my stomach and the exposed skin of my hands turns crimson.

  Her tail swings around the table and whips my thigh through leather. She squeals. “Surrender. I’m hungry.” She slides a piece and tanks me even more. My brain cooks and the tip of her tail plays over the silk between her thighs. I want to fuck her, beyond my own will. Bend her over the table and grab that tail.

  My brain fogs again, but not before realization hits like lightning.

  She’s a succubus, and she’s compelling me.

  How did I not realize? How could I have been so stupid?

  A smile twitches at her lips; she licks them. She’s seasoning me up with lust and fear.

  I can’t win the game, not like this. I never could. She’s used more than just seduction, and winning was never her object either.

  The game was rigged from the start.

  There has to be a solution. This is the first room of the temple – if I can’t think my way out of this, the odds of winning look pretty damn bleak. And I will win. I won’t make the same mistake as every other poor bastard.

  My flesh is ready to blister, and my cock is engorged enough to split. The intensity of it all splits my thoughts apart. I have to focus. I drag my pack close and reach inside.

  “Ah ah ah…” She clucks her tongue. “No magic. No cheating or I’ll suck your seed till you’re a husk.”

  Why don’t I completely hate the sound of that? “No magic. I just need to–” I set a plate-sized disk in my lap.”

  “Need to what?” She rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Hurry up. Take your turn. Or give in. Either way this is over.”

  I make the mistake of glancing up. A wet spot darkens the silk between her legs. My will starts to tear.

  “Just hold on one....” I pretend to do something with what’s in my lap. Looking down is torture. Sweat burns my eyes.