Temple of Cocidius

by Maxx Whittaker

  Her body fits against mine like my other half. I can feel every inch, pert nipples, thick thighs, her honey-wet cleft along my cock. “You’re just saying that so I’ll share my gifts.”

  She destroys her smirk with a quick pass at my lips. “You don’t have any gifts I need.”

  This never crossed my mind. I’ve always given something to the Artifact. “Then what-”

  “Shh.” One arm frames her face, fingers tangled in her wild hair and hips raised against mine. Her cunt is swollen, almost as hard as I am. If I just take a deep breath…

  My cock strains, hot and tingling, burrowing of its own will. When it roots in her we flinch and cry out, a sound that sets off a series of small avalanches around us. Gold coins and trinkets pour onto the dais, under her buttocks and my elbows.

  She writhes, struggling to take me deeper and restrain herself. I lick both her breasts, crushing her nipples, take one in my mouth and clench it between my teeth. She’s mine; I tamed her, and I’ll hold her here to be fucked.

  A scrape and clink of cold keeps time with my thrusts, heightening the sensation of hedonism. Tindra’s scales catch in the hair around my cock, tugging my flesh on each withdrawal. Scales scrape my balls, a small, delicious punishment each time they slap her swollen mound. Her long hands run wild over my shoulders, my face, curious and hungry. She throws both arms over her head, gripping fistfuls of any treasure she can reach, lifting her tits high and moaning her pleasure and frustration. Her strength and her restraint mean Tindra’s body tell me everything. The ripple of her passage grows to a stroke, working me like a hand while we fuck.

  Sounds of pleasure grow heavy, fall from her throat to her chest. Tindra clings to me; the pressure makes our bodies writhe in sweat. I can feel her tense around me, grip my cock with her slick walls, and she cums on a long cry. I feel the heat of her, the fire for a split second. And for a split second, cock buried in her, I fear she’ll lose control and consume me.

  Her climax tempers to a frenzy. She wants more, and so do I.

  I start to pull out; she twists with my head still puckered between her dripping lips. The move unbalances us both. We slide from the dais, over its stone lip and into an ocean of greed.

  Slick and trembling, Tindra falls to her belly, soft, full ass rolled to ease the angle of my cock. I lay over her, chest plastered to the smooth muscles of her back, hands buried in her hair, and fuck her atop the gold.

  I take her hard, unapologetic. It’s what she wants, her whole body pressed to the gold save for that ass turned to fill my palm. Wetness from her climax slicks my cock and glistens in the cleft of her buttocks.

  “Mm, mm...ohhhh!” She claws the coins, rings, ruby-studded chains. The sight of it, the feel of her, the sweet-smoke scent that grows with each smack of our flesh…

  Tindra’s noises change to small encouraging sounds. She feels my balls tighten in the hollow beneath her buttocks, the selfishness when I hook a leg up her hip and drive like a madman. Tindra knows I’m on the edge, and that she’s dragged me here.

  Her palm slaps my ass, fingers digging unyielding muscles. Her force is inescapable. She drags me down, grinds up, meeting my thrusts. Her pussy tightens without warning. The force of her climax sends me over the edge, balls aching to spend. She’s so tight that my cum fills her in sharp spurts, a force that makes her writhe until she shudders again on a long moan.

  We lay together, my head buried in the soft slope between her shoulders, plastered with coins like pagan idols. Our ragged breaths echo in the cavern, and for the first time I’m physically aware of time not passing. It’s a sensation over my skin as visceral as cooling sweat – a sensation Tindra has given me.

  When she stretches, I roll away and lay there a moment, staring up into the dark weathered arches above.

  “You feel the time,” she murmurs, head nested in folded arms, “but you feel something else, too.”

  “What is it?”

  “Gold.”

  “I could do so much…With all of this? Loria could be restored. Rebuilt. My people would eat, have shelter.” My fingers trill the coins, fingers that ache to scoop up fistful...after fistful, after fistful.

  Tindra grips my wrist, staying the gesture and unfogging my mind. “Gold leeches magic and influence the way soil does. Pentave’s hoard has more than a warrior could wish for. But it will never be free of his corruption.”

  “Nothing? Nothing here can be taken?” All of my armor and weapons are still at Akershus. Perfect as they are, I need something. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t eyed a few things here.

  “Anything can be taken. But each object comes with a price. Whether you can resist the corruption, how long?” She shrugs, and folds to her knees. The gold is forgotten as I watch her stretch, hypnotized by the perfect lines of her long body. My gaze falls to her lips, the delicate lines of her arms and full hips. “There’s a more interesting price to pay.”

  Her smile is enough to keep me here another hour or two. “So, you’ve guessed.”

  “Is it my soul? Because I should warn you, I’ve spent eight dungeons fighting to keep it, so...pretty attached.”

  “Souls.” Tindra wrinkles her nose. “I’m not a lich.” She smooths my shoulder and chest with a slow hand. “It’s your blood I’m after.”

  “Mm...how much, exactly?”

  “All of it? You’re about to become a god; surely you can survive without it.”

  “You’re jesting.”

  “I am. A few drops on my tongue, nothing more.” Tindra scrapes through the gold until she finds a silver-blade letter knife.

  “What does that get you?”

  “The bloodline of a wizard, a hero, and a prophet.”

  Always more questions than answers. “Fair enough. So long as you promise not to go mad with power and enslave all mortal races.”

  “For now.”

  I hold out my wrist. Tindra pushes it away, and she folds around me, settling in my lap. Her pussy gloves my cock, still hard from the sight of her body, and she fucks me again, slowly, eyes never leaving mine.

  I pant against her breasts and the little scales of scrape me, a sensation I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of. Her tits, slick with sweat, bob across my face, and her nipple pulls my lip with each bounce.

  As the need for release builds in us, her pussy tightens around me, drawing more. It’s inevitable, like the tide, rising in me with each hot pass of her lips over my cock.

  At the last moment, when we’re both gasping, moaning, so close, she rests the petite blade at the pulse in my neck and pulls.

  I tense, but there’s no pain. Because of our ritual?

  Her lips rob me of thought, wet and soft, suckling at my heart beat. I cum, explosively inside her, as her body rocks against mine with orgasm, and she takes my seed and my blood in the same moment.

  We mmm in unison and she pulls away.

  “Good?”

  Tindra wavers, looking tipsy. “Mmm.”

  Brushing a kiss at her temple, I lift her from me. Tindra fumbles through the treasure for her clothes.

  All that’s salvageable for me are my britches and even that’s a stretch. Dressed as I can be, I pick my way through the chaos on unstable footing. Tindra joins me on my circuit. Pentave has arranged his best pieces on a smaller stone dais around the chamber’s edge. Blades imbued with cold blue light or gold sparks. Full sets of armor and cloth; flat black steel with dragons for pauldrons. I wonder who lost this and shake my head at the irony.

  I come to a stop, feeling a want, almost a covetousness I’ve never known for armor. My brother was always having something crafted, riveted, polished. Fussy, I’d snipe at him. As bad as Esmanth and her gowns. He’d patiently explain the effect a knight’s appearance could have on his adversary. And I’d ignore him.

  Now, I understand.

  The suit stands erect, challenging, almost like there’s a man inside. Sword and suit boast details in gold, blacked brass, silver; fine work, but none of i
t vain. It feels regal, masculine, the scrolls and shapes of ancient heraldry. A scarlet tunic hangs below the gold-wreathed curves of the faulds. A matching cape clasps at the base of a gorget, resembling a stack of silver bands, knot-work etched lames that stretch to a bascinet. But it’s the empty-eyed helm that draws me most, because I feel it’s looking at me? Into me? Or that I know something about it.

  I grip the cheeks, raise and turn. The crest raises from front to back, a dragon’s tail. Head hung down, wings spread across the back of the helm.

  “This one?” Tindra looks reserved but a touch amused.

  “It has to be.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Meaning?” I begin pulling the armor from its stand. It’s the only set free of dust. Treasure before the dais is parted, a depression centered on the display. How long did Pentave stand here, gazing at it?

  I already have an idea what Tindra will say.

  “He couldn’t wear it.”

  “But he obsessed over it.”

  “I’m sure he did. Pentave could barely handle the pieces. Did you get a look at Pentave’s fingers?”

  “Mm...no.”

  “No matter. When he took the armor it seared his talons so deeply that even his mortal form was affected. Legend says the cloak and tunic are colored with the blood of dragons.”

  I glance at her, helm cradled cool and solid in my palms. “Is the legend true?”

  She holds my eyes and nods. “Entirely.”

  Not the purer vintage of your bastard grandsire, but still...

  My tear lands in the helm’s hollow neck. “Why did he have my father’s soul?”

  “I’m not sure. Payment? Mordenn makes bargains, as you probably know. Pentave needs the souls of MacVortigan’s line; that’s four of the five of you. Your father, though? Strengthen the mortal and magic blood, perhaps.”

  “Mordenn just...giving away a collection?” Sounds suspicious.

  “Oh, loaning it. He intends to get it back. Though, I understand you cheated him out of your mother and brother, for now. Your sister...she may yet be the thing that turns Mordenn and Pentave against one another. A woman of the MacVortigan line has more value...Pentave can’t cleanse the armor without her.”

  Esmanth. My gut twists.

  Guess it’s time to make a bargain of my own. Hopefully a plan forms soon; I can’t give up my company.

  I feel caught in a river of Fate, swept by its current and banged against the stones. “This is...it’s so much. I need a while in the garden to get my head around it.”

  “Don the suit and take up your sword.” Tindra cups my cheek and brushes a kiss. “Be vigilant. I told you the prizes here come with a price, and this one may carry a heavier cost than most.”

  “I’m ready.”

  She kisses me again, full and lingering. “Of course you are. You were born ready.”

  –A Stitch In Time–

  “What?” Tindra stops in the light from a sole torch we found outside the hoard chamber.

  I flex my hand, waiting.

  Phase. I will myself to change, thin, anything, try to remember how I allowed Pentave to pass through my body, but I can’t. Whatever I did, it’s like quicksilver, flowing along the edge of my mind, and I can’t grasp it.

  I’ve been preoccupied, thinking about where we need to go when we leave the chamber, where the portal might be, if Kumiko has made it back alright.

  This is when it strikes: I did it.

  I’ve bested the eighth trial. Time rushes into the cavern with the sensation of a sealed amphora being opened. God powers, any minute now.

  Any time…

  Tindra comes closer. “Is something wrong?”

  The power of all eight artifacts courses through me. Yet something is missing. Shouldn’t I feel more? “Nothing, just...eh. Nothing.”

  “Tell me. Maybe I can–”

  Something scrapes rock in a darkened side chamber. A hiss, followed by an impact against earth-clumped gravel.

  “What in the hells–” I charge forward. If Pentave wants a second go he’ll have it.

  A small animal cry rings out from the alcove. “Lir?”

  All my powers, all my battle prowess, and I freeze at the word with my heart in my throat.

  “Lir, is that–” The girl stumbles out, half-weak, half blind, hands extended and flailing the air. “Oh!” The word is a tiny sob. She takes me in, eyes wide, then turns away to search the cavern. “I thought you were my brother.” She stumbles again, hunched and trembling.

  Still frozen. I can’t make sense of her words, not in this moment. “Esmanth...?”

  “Gods, you sound you just like him,” she buries a hard sniffle in her sleeve.

  Tindra’s hand drives into my back, shoving.

  I look to her. “How–”

  “I don’t know! I’ve been here with you.” Tindra pushes again.

  Esmanth squeals at my embrace. Fear and the too-tight grip of my arms. “It is–” I choke and have to wait for the ache to pass before I can try again. “You really are.” She’s so tiny. How did I forget?

  She fights me in earnest, putting shame to my last thought when she shoves me away. In the torchlight her eyes shine like a clear lake under the black furrow of her brow. “Who are you?”

  “I–” Tindra shrugs at my backward glance. “Esmanth, it’s me.”

  She hasn’t always been so small. Not this small. I’m huge, and hopefully less insufferable and dissolute. A little. I’ve changed.

  My chest hurts, and my trust in what’s happening is tenuous; I don’t know how to explain. “It’s me,” I promise again. “I’ve just...been through a lot.”

  Her face crumples, and then her body. “Lir.” She hugs herself, head on the stone, sobbing. It’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard. “Oh Lir, it’s you. It’s been – ohhh.”

  “Get up.” I drag my sister into my arms, hating the armor now, hating that I can’t feel her against me. “Get up and don’t think about that.”

  “I was in that awful place...forever, forever.” The word trembles out. “Then something grabbed me. Up, but I was falling? When I landed, in the dark…” Her shivering grows to a shudder. “I thought he’d sent me to a deeper hell.”

  She pulls from my embrace and I cradle her doll face, brush the streaks of dirt and tears. “And if he had, I would have found you, Now, we’re together.”

  Esmanth peeks past me, at Tindra. Her eyes widen over Tindra’s bone ridges and scales.

  “Don’t be afraid. She’s a friend.”

  “I’m not.” Esmanth drags a breath, some color seeping into her face. “I’ve seen things, Lir. Learnt things.” She holds out her hand; a silken white mist fills her palm.

  “What is that?”

  “I don’t know.” Esmanth changes the density with a flex of her fingers. “It’s all I can manage. But I feel…”

  Like she’s capable of more. I know that feeling. “Tindra?”

  Tindra watches us, working her lip. “I don’t – I need to consult.” Her last word is final. She’s not going to say more on the matter. “We should go. You need rest,” she says gently to Esmanth, “and the temple may yield answers.”

  “I’m more than ready, wherever that is.” Esmanth fits her hand into mine, huffing out a laugh at the ridiculous size difference.

  Tindra claims the torch and leads us along the stone catwalks by sense, a scent of Pentave I can’t detect.

  It’s not till Esmanth clears her throat that I realize we’ve walked in silence for long minutes. This feels like a dream, one that will shatter if we speak.

  I look her over, disbelieving. She’s clad in a white burial kirtle; the color hurts my eyes and my heart.

  She follows my gaze, smoothing her skirts. She looks so much like Mother for a second. “Iden brought it to me in the cells. He told me it was a wedding dress. White, for marriage? He’s been too long with the Outsiders, the traitor.” Her mouth quirks. “I think he believed it. And I think
those two demons wanted me to know what was coming.”

  Rage floods me hot, bright. “Bastards. Fucking bastards all.” Mynogin. Iden. He seems like a distant memory, such a small thing, compared. And I’ll crush him just so.

  Tindra waits patiently, close enough to reassure and far enough to give us privacy. “Do you need to stop?” I ask Esmanth. “Take a rest?”

  “What I need,” she says, straightening, voice filling the cave, “Is for you to explain all of this, and then tell me how we’re going to get revenge.”

  “We?” I tug her hair and take her hand. “I’ve already done the hard work, so it’s good of you to show up now.”

  Her laugh is weary but her step is determined. “That’s what brothers are for, isn’t it?”

  –Falinor–

  Upon the Brensic Sea

  The air chills as we wind up through the empty veins of the ancient volcano. “This goes much faster if you’re a dragon,” Tindra promises, smiling.

  Esmanth shakes her head, still wide-eyed at my story. I can’t stop looking at her, holding her hand. My disbelief is different but equal.

  “So you and Tindra fell into the passage and I fell into the passage. What are the chances?”

  “Uh, higher than you’d think.” The odds of any damned thing being possible have exploded since I began this quest.

  “Almost at the entrance,” says Tindra, weighing a branch in the path.

  She stops, closes her eyes a moment. “Mother and Father won’t be waiting. Or Tagan.”

  “But I’m here.” I wrap Esmanth with the weight of my arm.

  She looks over my armor. “I still can’t believe how different you are. How did this happen?”

  We’ll reach the garden soon. I don’t know how to explain it all. And there are a few things…“Iden sent me as Mynogin’s champion to a cursed temple.”

  “Iden! Mynogin?” Esmanth pales.

  “No idea who I was. He wanted powerful relics within the temple, and so did I.”

  “You tricked him.” She breathes this like a secret. “I’m glad. The gods punish evil, but for Iden and Mynogin...there has to be some earthly justice.”