"Have you lost your mind? What did you just agree too? You've completely taken leave of your senses and that's all there is to it." Louisa could hear the berating of her mind immediately as she hung up the phone. "He wants to meet me," she cried aloud with a mixture of both delight and horror. "He really wants to meet me."

Flame, as Louisa Moreland was known in her online computer circle, had been chatting with for weeks now, and getting to know, Michael Perryman, a.k.a. Shining Knight. They had formed an attachment that went beyond the electronic norm of the cyber-world. They had long-since cast off all pretense of characterization and anonymity, replacing it with something akin to a friendship born of shared interests, genuine respect and hours of conversation.

Still, Louisa was hesitant. She had heard countless stories of women drawn into the chat rooms and playgrounds of geeks and weirdo's that ended up finally meeting their supposed 'dream date' only to find their dream a nightmare. She was realistic and prided herself on her pragmatic nature, however, at times like these, those qualities paled in the light of following the lead of her heart. But she was determined not to end up a mere statistic.

From the beginning, there was something that garnered Louisa's trust in Michael and fueled the fire of desire she had to finally meet him in person. She knew this was the logical next step if there was to be any true relationship between them, however, as she glanced into the mirror after her hurried, early-morning shower and shampoo, the pangs of self-doubt got the better of her.

"What if he takes one look at me and regrets his decision to meet me?" Louisa wondered. "What if he sees me, turns and walks away." A veritable symphony of fear and doubt that would rival the greatest composer assaulted her from all sides. She tried in vain to remain cool and concentrate on the matter at hand. "What on earth am I going to wear?"

Louisa's mind raced as she prepared for the two-hour road trip that would bring them together at last. They had chosen to meet in a city exactly half of the 380 miles between them, in a public park, at 10:00 a.m. "I'd better get a move on if I'm not to be late," Louisa mused, knowing perfectly well that she was always late to everything. Giggling, Louisa hit herself with the realization that, "I'll probably even be late to my own funeral."

The drive was relatively uneventful with great music on the radio and Louisa could tell this was going to be a beautiful summer day. There was not a cloud in the sky and the sun rising in the east rivaled the fiery red of her long, curly hair. After finding a place to park and sitting for a few moments to work up her courage and gather her thoughts, Louisa gazed into the rear-view mirror, checking the little makeup she had taken the time to apply earlier that morning. The mascara on the lashes framing her doe-brown eyes was not smudged and only her lightly applied lipstick needed freshening.

Louisa gave her curls a fluff, her clothes the visual once-over, donned her dark sunglasses, more as a defense mechanism than to shield her eyes from the sun, and hopped from the car to set off across the street to her destination...the park and Michael. "Oh dear," she mumbled worriedly, "I'm late again. I wonder if he's even still here."

Her eyes drank in the scene before her. There were countless children playing in the fountain to her left, squealing in glee as the water blasted up from several jets below the surface. There were police officers strolling about answering questions, helping any in distress, smiling and giving everyone an air of reassurance. Nannies and young mothers were pushing babies in carriages along the park's walkways. Old men were feeding the birds or playing chess at various tables. There was even a young couple completely engrossed in each other on a park bench nearby.

It was this couple that Louisa took exceptional note of. The young woman was sitting beside her beloved, his arms draped languidly around her, her hands demurely in her lap. She was smiling and laughing at some secret he had just whispered in her ear. The young man, it was obvious, had eyes only for her. It seemed as though for them no one else existed in the park, or in their world.

Louisa wondered absently if perhaps that couple would be her and Michael...someday. How she longed to find that kind of bliss with someone. "But, I have to find him first," she sighed, glancing at her watch again. Then, looking up from her watch, not twenty feet away, was a man she just knew had to be Michael.

He was exactly as he had described himself. Taller than her own five feet six inches and of a lean medium build he was dressed in jeans and a baseball jersey that lent itself to revealing the sinewy musculature beneath. His dark hair curled up in the back of his baseball cap, boyishly and Louisa smiled despite herself as she watched him wring his hands, check his watch and glance around like rabbit watching for a hawk.

"Why, he's as nervous as I am," she gasped incredulously and began to take a few deep breaths to calm herself. Deciding not to approach the young man directly, Louisa circled around behind him, keeping out of his line of sight as best she could. She had watched him, gathering her courage, for about ten minutes and decided it was 'now or never'. However, just as she was forcing her feet to obey the command of her brain to walk, the young man, seemingly sensing her presence, turned and rose to his feet.

Louisa stopped in mid-stride, gasping and lifting her hand to her throat. "Blessed be, but he is handsome!" Louisa thought, silently uttering the oath. She looked at his feet, the pavement, the sky, anywhere to avoid seeing any rejection, which might show in his eyes.

"Louisa?" The voice that called to her was deep, masculine and yet decidedly gentle, sufficiently taking her off guard enough that she lowered her sunglasses looking up fully into his face. What met her was not the rejection she had so dreaded, but the kindest of expressions, the most sensitive eyes and the brightest, most endearing smile she'd ever seen.

Her voice betraying her at the moment, Louisa could do naught but simply nod that she was indeed the person he was expecting. Her mind once again capable of coherent thought reaffirmed the order of 'walk' to her feet and she met him half way across the expanse of space between them.

"Yes," she breathed softly, her eyes glancing away again as a perfect little blush heated the cheeks of her heart-shaped face. "Yes, Michael, I'm Louisa," she managed as she was folded into the strong embrace of the man she knew at that moment was for whom she had been expressly created.

"Mine," she thought she heard him breathe into her hair.

Though it has been many years since that perfect July day, in the park of that old southern city, Louisa and Michael have revisited it often. It was the sight where Michael knelt to one knee offering Louisa his ring, and proposing to spend the rest of his life with her. It was where Louisa told Michael that he was to become a father at last. It was the same fountain, in the same park where their children and grandchildren played, hour after hour, under the watchful eye of the couple on the park bench, who had, after all, become Louisa and Michael.

It was the setting for every major event the two had experienced together. And now, it was where Louisa came daily to relive those moments, close to the man she had lived in love with together for over 40 years until exactly one year ago. They had shared every aspect of life...happiness, sorrow, laughter, tears, birth and presently, they would share the world to come.

"Soon, my love," Louisa whispered to the breeze rustling through the tree branches overhead, tousling the gray curls that were once so red. "Soon." Her voice, raspy and full of emotion was the only betrayal of the grief that had plagued her since Michael's death.

She closed her eyes, feeling the chill growing in the autumn air, resting her head upon the back of the park bench. "Michael." He was the last thought of her mind, the plea of her soul with the final breath of her body.

"Louisa?" came the voice of a handsome young man smiling down at her from bright, white light. And as she nodded he enfolded her in his arms breathing "Mine," into fiery red curls once more.

He sleeps beside me now, this man I will love for all lifetimes to come. The soft rasps of his breathing and constant beat of his heart beneath my cheek both reminders that we are one now, forever. A flood of memories cascade back through my mind as I lie in my lover's arms this night of Beltane. The blessing of fertility and the renewal of life having been so celebrated only a scant few hours ago.

Was it so short a time ago that I stood in the sacred pool being cleansed for the ritual? All my life I have waited for that night, been trained and prepared for that night, brought up to know that my entire reason for being was for that night. And as the morning dawned bright and clear, I new that I would take the form of the goddess…that this night and she would smile upon me for the rest of my life. My name is Rosamund, and this is my tale.

Dawn broke crisp and clear the on the morn of the great feast. The night sounds of the surrounding forest were bowing gracefully to the encroaching of awakening birds and insects. The first streaks of light were breaking pink and gold across the Eastern sky, as I was awakened at dawn and whisked by the chosen handmaids of the High Priestess to be bathed by the first rays of the sun in the sacred pool.

The mists of morning were still low in the forest and swirled about our bare feet as our party walked the short distance from camp to the pool across the soft velvet of moss and lichen. The chill in the air was sharp even through the cloak I was wearing. Though by calendar, it was now the first day of the month called May, the sun had yet to warm the earth as it would on the mornings a few weeks from now.

The chosen maids, usually so giggly and talkative were quiet and somber now, no doubt thinking of their task at hand and showing the proper respect this day deserved. There would be plenty of time for laughter and the air of celebration at midday. There would be dancing and singing of sacred songs, dedications and offerings to the goddess for bountiful crops. And tonight...tonight there would be a great roaring fire and the Blessing of Beltane would be complete with the offering of flesh and the sacred joining of a symbolic goddess to the symbolic god.

With that thought, my cheeks burned with a maiden's blush. For I was to be the symbolic goddess, though chosen in secret and I was given no foreknowledge of whom had been chosen as my partner. I began to shiver with something more than the chill now. I began to shiver with fear...fear of the unknown that awaited me, although I, as well as every other maiden of my people, had been raised with the knowledge that someday we might be chosen for just this purpose. I reminded myself that this task was the highest honor attainable in my life's station and that I should be proud, not afraid. But the thought did little to calm me so I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed a prayer to the goddess for strength.

A clearing broke just ahead and the gentle morning light cast a myriad of colours through the mists now rising and burning away over the sacred pool. The waters were calm, completely still, and called to mind a reflecting glass I had seen once in the chambers of the High Priestess. There was no movement of fish or foul here. No insect sang in this part of the wood. And indeed, it seemed as though no sound dared disturb the scene before me.

We arrived at poolside on silent feet with breath held as though we too agreed with all of nature that this moment should be not disturbed. I closed my eyes tight with anticipation and as the handmaids gathered around me, each set about to her own prescribed task.

One removed my cloak, another my slippers. Yet another sat and wove flowers into a chaplet for my hair while still another built a small fire in a pre-dug firepit. Each knew exactly what her purpose was and I stood as a sacrificial lamb before them, silent under their watchful eyes and soft reverent hands.

I chanced to glimpse one handmaid carrying a large wooden bowl covered with a fine linen cloth. The bowl, and its contents, was placed upon the ground and the handmaid began her ritual prayers before removing the cloth covering. “Ae-alleu, ohm syyeth alleu,” she sang the prayer in a soft, high voice. Twice, three times, then lifted the linen cover from the bowl.

Inside the bowl I could see several cakes of finely milled soaps, cloths for drying, various herbs that I knew by sight and their uses by heart, so long I had studied and used them. Also there was a garment meant for me that had been purified, no doubt, by the High Priestess and more flowers for weaving into my hair.

The handmaids stood, having removed my vestments entirely and watched with a mixture of pride, envy and reverence as I began the ritual. Hands were upon me then, guiding me toward the pool. A slight breeze caressed me and I felt more alive at this moment than ever before in my life. The breeze kissed my body like an infinite number of tiny lovers, causing my skin to pucker with a chill and my nipples to harden to pebble-sized points. My exposed flesh became heated with a full-body blush as I felt the carnal excitement of mingling with the elements.

The guardian of the wooden bowl passed out the soaps to the other handmaidens and began to chant prayers that the others took up as they followed me into the icy waters. They began at my head and slowly worked their way down, their hands caressing every part of my body as they cleansed. Not one inch was left unblessed by their ministrations.

My thigh-length hair was washed gently then rinsed thoroughly. My neck and arms tended to in likewise fashion. My breasts, belly and thighs were paid particular attention and my eyes closed to the feelings that overtook me as my womanhood was gently abraded.

As the handmaidens finished my bath and lead me from the pool to dry me with the linen, a small fire was lit and the herbs brought in the wooden bowl were placed in ordered fashion upon the smouldering embers of the fire.

First to be added to the fire was bay, pungent in its scent and well-known for its cleansing properties. Then rosemary and wild mint followed, both so sweet in their scent and clinging as the oils rose on the smoke to permeate everything in their path.

The fire neither grew nor abated as each small bundle was added, but the richly perfumed smoke arising from it intensified and floated lazily heavenward.

Finally, cloves, renown for their spice, that had just been broken were sprinkled over top of the small fire and as this cleansing aroma rose I positioned myself above to by cleansed. I stood over the glowing coals, one leg on each side of the small fire, to allow the smoke access to even the most secret places of my body. I felt renewed…reborn as the pungent, earthy aroma, engulfed and bathed me.

MORE TO COME.........

Opening night has always brought me giddy apprehension coupled with tremendous excitement. This opening night was no different. My performance was flawless throughout the first and second acts. And as the curtain closed on the final act a round of thunderous applause met my ears. I was on top of the world. My leading man pushed me forward, to accept my laudation, as the curtain rose for our bows. Cries of "Encore, Encore" burst from the audience as I accepted a bouquet of three dozen long-stemmed roses.

The roses were of a heady fragrance and I inhaled deeply of their scent as my eyes locked with the dark-haired, strangely alluring young man who handed them to me. I didn't recall having ever seen him before, but assumed he was one of a multitude of stagehands. My smile seemed to melt away as I watched his full, sensuous lips move silently. His hand touched my own as the flowers passed between us and I pulled back as though singed.

I took a single step backward, my breath catching in my throat as the flowers were taken from me by another stagehand. I looked around for the young man and saw him near the edge of the stage, just out of the audience's sight near the curtain. His lips were still moving silently and something about the way his eyes raked my body frightened me.

My co-stars had already taken leave of the stage as I took a final curtain call and dropped a low curtsy to the audience. Upon rising, however, my eyes darted back once again to the strange dark man still whispering unknown words in my direction. It seemed as though the scent of the roses was still all around me, and my vision was becoming blurred. I tried to lift my leg to step back, but remained seemingly frozen in place. A coldness in my feet began to slowly creep up my legs, over my knees, caressing my thighs, clinging to my hips.

I couldn't move! I began to panic. I cried out, my eyes wide with fear as suddenly the applause faded to absolute silence, all eyes upon me.

A solitary sound reached my ears. A whisper of unintelligible words likes a prayer…or a…spell? I touched my legs, my hips, followed the coldness up my body with my hands. My body was not only growing cold, it was growing hard, solid almost like…"NOOOOOO! O God no please, NO!" The realization hit me with the weight of mountain. This was impossible. My body, was turning, to stone.

My breath was coming in gasps now. The coldness claimed my stomach, my abdomen, my back. I looked down to see my breasts through the thin, clingy material of my costume. They heaved with my final breaths as the stony coldness claimed them. My nipples were now perfect little pebbles on alabaster globes.

My arms froze in place with one hand raised to my throat, the other reaching out to the audience, beseeching them for help. Tiny hairline cracks formed as the stone commanded my flesh to relinquish its hold on my body. My long red curls lost their luster as they too solidified and a look of stark terror became forever emblazoned across my face. I tried to cry out to anyone listening, "P-Please, hellllp meeee. I d-don't waaaant toooooo turrrrrrrn toooooooooo stoo-oooo-ooooone."

But my voice was gone. No word would I utter ever again. And the last sound I heard as the crackling reverberation of the stone seeped into my brain, was the thunderous applause of the audience and their cries of "Encore, Encore," as the curtain fell for me one last time.

May 19, 1999

News of the finding of her father's remains had only just reached Lady Moira Connelly half a world away. Her month long engagement with the Royal Opera House in London was at the mid point when the tragedy struck half a world away in the States. Her father, Lord Colm Connelly, Moira later learned had been on a business trip in New York and had not been heard from since the destruction of the city by the eternals.

"I'm coming with you, Moira," the small, wavering voice of her best friend Narcissa Blackwood caressed Moira's heart like a gentle, healing balm as she paced back and forth, lost in her thoughts while waiting for the cab that had been called over an hour before. Moira stopped in mid-stride and looked back toward the doorway of Narcissa's bedroom to find the diminuitive, chestnut-haired beauty standing there, suitcase in hand, a look of determination all but out of place on her pretty, delicately-featured face. "Now don't give me any guff, your Ladyship," Narcissa smiled sweetly, using the high and mighty term endearingly toward the young woman that she had become so close to in the past few months. "I'll not be taking no for an answer." The soft Welch tones of Narcissa's speech tending to assuage any negative thoughts Moira's brain devised and so she acquiesced with a simple nod of her head. Truth be told, Moira didn't know what she would do without Narcissa of late.

The beautiful young woman she had come to treasure as her best friend had been a source of quiet strength and constant companionship since Moira's musical tour had brought her to England from her beloved native Ireland, over six years ago. Narcissa was the perfect antagonistic compliment to Moira, tiny and delicate with a willowy thinness that was in opposition to Moira's own somewhat tall and very curvacious body. The muted tones of Narcissa's earthy colouring contrasted with Moira's own typically Irish fiery red hair and pale white complexion.

They were as night and day in temperment as well. While Narcissa was quiet and contemplative, with a shy naivité which belied the true inner strength of mind and purpose beneath, Moira was an extravert with a bubbly personality, quick of wit and tongue, which was seemingly unparalleled. Moira never hesitated to speak her mind, or as more truth be told, to speak before thinking. Narcissa's own thoughts were about as far from her mouth most of the time as the sun from the moon.

Narcissa crossed the room and enfolded Moira in her embrace. "It's going to be alright, Moira. I'm here for you. You know you can always count on me, right?" Narcissa queried, closing her eyes and sending all the healing virtue she could muster to Moira's soul, feeling the anguish that lingered there, just out of sight of those who didn't know where to look. But even Narcissa's powers of mental persuasion couldn't draw Moira from the depths of despair she was in this day.

Ever the Lady, however, Moira was raised to never give way to her deepest emotions....to rise above all that she was feeling....to push her pain down and never let it surface. And now, she was thankful for that reserve of strength that seemed to take over of its own accord in a time of crisis such as this. "Yes, 'Cissa. I know," Moira replied, her voice flat but cracking just a bit with her next words. "I just can't believe he's gone."

Narcissa nodded sympathetically, though inside she knew she couldn't truly understand what Moira was feeling. Narcissa had never known her own father. Having been raised entirely by her mother and grandmother, trained in the old ways of those close to the earth and nature, her father was a subject of which no one ever spoke. At times, it seemed she didn't even have a father at all.

Downstairs from their flat on Lexington Abbey Lane, in the fashionable, yet not too uppity, district of London, Moira and Narcissa heard the cab driver blowing the horn of his taxi. "Let's get you home." Narcissa stated, pulling herself from her own childhood musing, picking up Moria's luggage and her own and whisking them both downstairs into the awaiting car. "Heathrow...and step on it, luv."

At home in Connelly Castle, formerly Moreland Manor, in Drogheda, Ireland, Lady Rhiannon Connelly, wife and now widow of Lord Colm Connelly, 11th Earl of Daerdon, and mother to Jarred, Mara and Moira, wept silently in her private chambers. The heart of her existence, the very blood that coursed through her veins had been taken from her in the most vile manor imaginable. He died apart from her, separate and alone. And that knowledge was inexplicably devastating to Lady Connelly.

Lord and Lady Connelly had lived together, deeply in love, for more than thirty years. They had raised a family together, borne the loss of a stillborn child, their first, together, traveled the world, together, and now the very thought of living the remaining portion of her life without him was not even a consideration.

Absently and with tears clouding her vision, Lady Connelly left the bed she had shared with her beloved…the bed in which she had borne her children…the bed she had taken to upon hearing of his death…the bed she had remained in for over a week. She crossed the ermine rug-strewn stone floor of the castle's master sleeping chamber to her dressing table.

Her maid had been sent from the chamber by her lady over a week ago, so Lady Connelly dressed herself in the stunning crimson velvet gown that was her husband's favorite. She styled her hair in the fashion he favored most, removed all jewelry and embellishments save the single gold claddagh wedding band she had treasured so long and had worn, heart facing in toward herself, on her left hand.

Feeling herself ready at last, Lady Rhiannon Connelly left her chamber, walked to the oldest and seldom used wing of the castle. There she climbed the spiral staircase to the western-most turret and upon reaching the pinnacle of her flight, stepped upon the grey stone sill of the window and without thought or hesitation, flung herself into the darkness below, never feeling the cold stillness of the waters surrounding the castle. The last word to escape her lips was the name of her beloved..."Colm".

With all the uproar in the world of late, getting a flight home at the last minute was next to impossible for Moira. She was therefore doubly glad for the company of her friend on this journey, if for no other reason than to help her keep her itinerary in order. Moira had booked a flight from London to Pembroke, Wales and then passage on a boat over to Cork in Ireland. From there she would travel up country to her home in Drogheda. She knew the trip would take several days to bring her home to her family, or what was left of her family, but it was the best she could do.

As she sat in the window seat of the airplane, on the short flight to Wales, Moira listened to the soft, unintelligible spell being uttered by 'Cissa and thought back to her childhood at Connelly Castle. Her parent's love for each other spilled over to their three children and her grandmother, her father's mother, for whom Moira was named suddenly leaped to the forefront of her mind. Grammy would sit for hours with Moira at her feet, spinning tales of her ancestors and the powerful creatures that so filled her fantasies, even to this day.

"Grammy, tell me the story of the great beasties that watched over our home so long ago," the impish little voice of a five year old Moira squeaked out from beneath her covers. Her grandmother, feigning shock then grinning with delight at her granddaughter, tousled Moira's riot of curls, not so unlike those of her own youth so many years before, then tweaked her turned up nose as she sighed with mock exasperation.

"Now, how many times ha' ye asked me fer tha' story child, and now ye be askin' me fer it again?" The faux-rebuke in the voice of Moira's grandmother was overshadowed by the twinkle in her merry green eyes as she looked down upon the child, tucked soundly in her bed. "Tis you should be a tellin' this story ta me, it is. I'm thinkin' tis probably a fact tha' you know it far and away better than I'll e'er be remembrin' it," Grammy smiled and wagged her finger at Moira's pleading expression and then acquiesced as she and Moira both knew she would, before began the child's favorite story.

"Let me see. As was told t' me by m'own grammy, O now, more years ago than I care t' recall, 'Twas many an odd hundred year ago, long before the family came to live here in Ireland," Grammy began, as she always did. "Our lands were far from here, in Britain, under the High King himself. Our ancestor…"

"The FIRST Earl. Right, Grammy?" Moira's eyes shown with delight. "The FIRST Earl, like my Daddy, yes?"

"O, aye, child. Just like yer Da'," Grammy smiled and nodded. Moira always interjected that bit. Grammy had come to expect it over the years and felt a tender tug at her heart to hear the pride her granddaughter had in her son. "As I was sayin', child…our ancestor had gained tha favor of Himself, tha High King of Britain. And the King bestowed titles an' lands upon tha first o' our line."

"But that weren't all our first laird was given. The High King gave to our laird the protections of tha Great Ones, tha winged creatures who had sworn t' protect those they served. Our laird received tha protection of tha gargoyles…well, at least one clan of gargoyles, tha' is." Grammy's eyes softened as she spoke of the great beasties. It seemed to Moira, even at her young age, that Grammy had a secret regarding the protectors, and now Moira wondered that she had never asked her Grammy about it. Of course, now it was too late to ask, as Grammy had been dead many years…another great loss of Moira's life.

Moira smiled despite herself as she reveled in the feelings that memories of her Grammy and the stories brought back to her. She clasped Narcissa's hand and closed her eyes, trying to relax to the droning of the airplane's engines. Little could she realize how precious this miniscule amount of relaxation would become to her as her days grew more and more stressful and her nights too long to bear alone.

MORE TO COME..............

Yawning and stretching in the early-morning, pre-dawn light, I turned to find the dream, the goddess, my Rose still where she fell into an exhausted sleep the night before. The scent of our coupling still heavy in the air above our bed. The taste of her juices still on my tongue. The smell of her still strong in my nose. Her hair tousled and wide from passion and her body streaked with earth anointings ravaged by my plying hands. Oh the sweet torment she was still causing within me.

'Gods above,' I thought as I felt my returning strength in the form of the pulsing life between my legs. 'How can I even think of joining again so soon after last night?'

She appeared last night, as though from a vision, stepping through the skins of the tent she had been prepared in. She came toward me then, glistening in the moonlight, glowing in the firelight, her luscious body covered in varying shades of amber and ochre, her limbs streaked with countless lines from the fingers who plied the ointment. Oh how I envied them their hands upon her body, the intimacy of their touch, for not one place upon her was left un-anointed.

She wore only a heavy bronze chain, which girded her loins and held a medallion, which rested just above the dark curls shielding her womanly essence. Upon her head an ornate headdress of the same style. Her skin was painted atop the anointing oil and she smelled of spices, sweet cleansing smoke…and woman.

I was acutely aware of my strength, virility and maleness as it seemed only that much more emphasized by her small frame and round, womanly figure. My cloak did little to hide the growing urgency underneath and as she moved over the earth like a goddess true, I could no more stay my hand from seeking out the source of my ache than I could cease my breathing at will and remain among the living.

Her breasts were large, round globes capped with twin perfect nipples that had been painted or stained with the juices of berries. They puckered and hardened, seeming to reach toward me seeking out the heat of mouth. My tongue licked my lips of its own accord as my eyes drifted over her from head to toe, eventually coming to rest on her woman's mound. My breath caught in my throat as the light from the fire blazed high, sending countless sparks spiraling into the night sky, and she came near. Her sex was covered by a thick nest of curling dark hair that beckoned my hands to curl their fingers through the silkiness…my lips and nose to be tickled by each springy strand. She was nature itself in the purest of woman-form.

It took every ounce of my strength to stand still, to not lift her into my arms and plant her firmly atop my rod. She was, at this moment, my goddess, my perfection, my only desire for the whole of eternity, my only object of worship. And I was ever unworthy and thus fell to my knees before her, head bowed, eyes cast down, hands by my sides, not daring to touch her, lest she be only a vision and disappear with the rising smoke of the fire.

She closed the distance between us on silent, delicate feet. My head remained bowed before her, the ache in my loins rising in intensity with every step she made in my direction, until at last, she stood before me, no more than a mere breath away. But that distance may as well have been a league because I was not inside her, joined with her, whole because of her.

Her hand reached out innocently, hesitantly, almost as though she were a bit frightened and traced a line down my square jaw until her fingertips cupped my chin. She lifted my head so that I now, at last, cast my eyes upon her fragrant thighs and hair-encased sex. My mind raced at the thought of plowing through that fluffy barrier and rewarding my lips with a taste of the nectar I could only imagine beneath. I groaned audibly, my hips unconsciously thrusting beneath my tunic, the rough wool wreaking havoc on the hardness beneath.

Hearing the groan from my lips, she closed the tiny gap between our bodies until my lips finally came to rest in the wispy thick hair above her womanhood. Still I could not bear to bring myself to dishonor her by touching her holy flesh with my hands. My lips, however, sucked and licked upon the strands of her nether-hair, parting them with my nose, until they found the fruit of their desire, her hidden gem, the treasure beneath the folds of her sex. I laved and suckled upon it as a babe upon a nipple for life and sustenance.

Her juices flowed like the waters of a great river out of her sex, over my tongue and down her thighs. Her breath quickened and her breasts heaved. Her fingers sought out her nipples to pinch and stimulate and relieve their own aching as my mouth danced to the age-old rhythm she was teaching me upon her sex. Her hips began to rock into my face even as her whimpers reached my ears like the soft cooing of a dove and nothing, no sound could have been sweeter or more desired at that moment.

Her hands reached down to grasp my head as she pressed my face farther and farther into her. It seemed I could never get close enough. The smell of her was heady, a mixture of sweat, arousal and spices. The taste of her was more intoxicating than any ale ever drunk, both sweet and salty at the same time, and I wanted more.

My hips, thrusting now much more obviously beneath my tunic caused my organ to release many small drops of juice from deep within, soaking through my tunic making the shaft slick with need as I continued to devour my lady.

She reached down my shoulders and over my arms seeking to draw my tunic over my head. But to remove it, my lust-laden brain rationalized, I must remove my mouth from her sex. Knowing that I would never willingly allow this to happen, I reached down to my side and drew my sword, sliced my tunic from my body as though it were spun silk, and felt it fall from my lust-heated body and down around my knees to the ground. My manhood sprang forth in all its glory, raging and aching with need.

An animalistic growl left my body at the moment the mixture of crisp, cool air and fiery heat met and melded in my loins. She reached down then and with the touch of her hands drawing me upward, gave me leave to touch her. And touch her I did. Over and over. Taking what she gave and giving in return until we scarce could tell where the one of us ended and the other began. Melding into each other and lifting each other to heights of which we neither had ever dreamed.

A pallet of skins lay just beyond the fire and how we reached that spot to lie down upon them is anyone's guess. The night was cold but our passions were heated to the point of consuming us both. And when at last, hours later, exhaustion claimed us we lay, still joined, as one, upon the soft bed of skins. Our desire was sated. Our union consummated. And as the fires died and the first rays of dawn streaked hues of red and gold through the heavens, I slept with her locked possessively to my body. My arms enfolded her, and I marveled at the miracle beside me, the dawning of a new day and the dawning of a new life with my Rose.

A cloud passed in front of the falling sun casting its shadow over the top of the mountain and down its side. The warm Southern breeze of September seemed almost to chill the air as it met the errant cloud and swept the shadow down into the hollow valley and over the lone young woman in the tall early autumn grasses below. The last of the summer insects were buzzing busily from drooping flower to flower, gathering what nectar they could before the days grew short and the snows began to fall. Already flocks of geese and other migrating birds were forming their great V's in the sky and heading for warmer climes. Nature was readying herself in all her mysterious ways for the winter that would come as surely as moonrise each night.

But Nature took no notice of the woman. The sun didn't cease to streak the heavens with its dying crimson hues. And the breeze brought no respite from the burning torment in the broken heart below. She sat, legs drawn up beneath her chin, arms clasped round them, head bowed and resting on the tops of her knees, rocking and looking for all the world a wounded child, instead of adult she was. She rocked herself slowly back and forth, sobbing silently ignoring the beauty around her, beauty that she should be aware of, beauty she herself created. She was in her safe-place, her dreamscape, the place she ran to when the real world overpowered and abused her. But there was solace for her here. Not now. Not after...

"Do you have any idea how much I love you? Can you conceive of how dear you are to me?" Those were words she had waited a lifetime to hear, or was it only moments ago he had whispered them before? "You are the heart that beats in my chest, the purpose that gives my life meaning...the..." Aewollynn placed her fingers lightly against the lips that had kissed her eyelids between each word, the lips that caused her heart to swell with each sound they uttered.

No more words were necessary. He read her meaning in the gentle pressure of her fingertips silencing him as well as any spell cast to mute him. Her eyes, so brown they seemed as one with the earth she so adored, glistened with unshed tears of love as they sought out every inch of him and settled at last upon his own. His eyes rich and green and flecked with gold, spoke all to her soul that his mere mortal words could not. And never, though she live a thousand lifetimes, would she be able to say that she was loved more than this.

He had been, for the past year, her constant, her rock, the towering pillar of strength and steadfast assurance that guided her as surely as the years of training in the arts of her people had guided the development of her elemental power. He had been her heart's most guarded treasure. She had concealed her love for him as cunningly as the mother earth conceals her precious veins of shining ore and sparkling jewels that so many seek these days. And she whispered silent thanks to his god and her goddess for the blessing of their meeting and of this bond seemingly growing stronger between them each day. She whispered silent thanks for Talan.

"Now concentrate child." The calm of the gnarled voice washed over Aewollynn as she tried her best to obey.

"See the object before you and think on nothing but the power which lies within. Bring that power into yourself and guide the use of it in the way the goddess imparts to you." The gentle old Magus, Yversolt, her master since before her life was her own, reigned in her thoughts as Aewollynn gazed down her arm and past her outstretched hand.

She was, of course allowing her mind to stray to Talan again and she mentally reprimanded herself for not having been more guarded. He was not of her people, an outsider, a gondo˙sch, a follower of the new ways. His people and her people no longer willingly mixed. And her master was very capable of reading her thoughts. He was even now probing her mind, reaching out to the recesses of her sub-conscious thought to find the cause of her mental wanderings. So she buried Talan ever deeper into the mists just beyond the gentle probing and turned a blushing smile upon the old man before her.

"Forgive me, Master." Her voice was properly contrite, her head then bowed with the expected acquiescence that every apprentice Mage was want to show. "The day is so bright and the air so refreshing, my thoughts refuse to be contained," she continued.

"Perhaps child. But the mind is our greatest tool and proper discipline is the only way to achieve the balance necessary to bind us to the service of the goddess. You have great potential, child, but you must discipline your mind, and put aside all…distraction." Yversolt's brow furrowed as he searched Aewollynn's form, as if he were catching a glimpse of something unsettling that he couldn't quite place.

"Aewollynn, I want you go to the circle stones and meditate this e'ne. Find your place among the creation of the goddess and center yourself there." His voice was not so much a reprimand as a gentle warning, which served to snap Aewollynn fully back into the present.

"Yes, Master," she softly replied with a voice almost too full of contrition to be heard. And with that she fled into the forest, leaving Yversolt to ponder the present, as well as the future for his young charge.

MORE TO COME..............