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“Will I stop?” Faunos murmured. “A word, and I’ll stop.”
“No -- no.” Soran barely recognized his own voice. He shifted down on the bunk, took a handful of the linen of Faunos’s wrap and heard it tear at his hip. His own wrap slithered onto the deck after it, and he felt the blood-heat of a shaft as hard as his own as he shifted down again, inspired to do something he had never done in his life before.
He had never actually tasted a man on his tongue, never imagined wanting to, though he had been with the most beautiful courtesans in the empire. But Faunos Phinneas Aeson was no courtesan. He was a prince, no less than was Soran, and a freeman. And unexpectedly, Soran’s mind and body caught alight.
Was the blaze inside him some thread of Zehefti magic, breathed into him? Or was it just Faunos himself, who lay gasping under Soran’s hands and mouth, head arched back into the cushions, hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to command the Power, the so-called Curse of Diomedas. He did not have to struggle to control it, not now, but the habits of a young lifetime would be hard to break.
If it were some breath of Zehefti enchantment that made Soran’s nerves and thoughts ignite, so be it, he decided. Faunos was clean and hot and male in his hands, gloriously young. Desire arced between them like the blinding trident of Hurucan, which tore up the sky when the storm was at its darkest. The divine flame of Aphrataya burned with a pure white light.
How many men had Soran known, in how many years? None of them were like this, and if he were bewitched, he was grateful for it. Every courtesan he had ever known was his father’s choice: bathed and perfumed, schooled in the ‘manners’ -- taught to dance, sing, converse, and then give the prince of Vayal whatever he desired for his pleasure, no matter what he wanted, or how.
This was so different, and Soran’s heart beat like a drum. Wild little sounds issued from Faunos’s chest. His legs wrapped around Soran’s shoulders and hugged him close. Every atom in Faunos’s body, every thought in his mind, wanted this as a freeman, as a lover who had never been taught the manners --
And then it began. Out of nowhere, Soran was breathing the scents of the drowned lands, watching the sparkles of light begin to shimmer around the long, tanned limbs, even in broad daylight. This time he made sure his eyes were open, and he marveled.
He stroked, caressed, tickled, for long, delicious minutes, learning to play Faunos with hands and tongue, as if he were a harp. A nimbus surrounded the witchboy, almost but not quite fully visible. The scents of jasmine and bergamot strengthened, and the body in Soran’s hands was pliable, malleable, as if it weighed nothing. He might have picked up Faunos, held him without effort with one hand.
With a soft curse, Soran lifted his head away, set him down and covered him again, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. He pinned Faunos against bunk, hands tangled in the mass of copper hair. In moments he had his breath back, and was moving again, humping strongly.
When Faunos’s hands raced down his back and clenched into his buttocks to pull two bodies so close together they might have been one, Soran surged up. It was many years since he had lost control of himself utterly, and he wondered if it were the Zehefti enchantment again. Pleasure streamed through him like a flood of warm oil, and to his astonishment the witchboy spent himself a moment later.
Jasmine and bergamot mingled with the musky scents of men, and Soran breathed deeply of it, wanting to savor it, remember it, as if part of him still fretted that this might be the last time. He forced himself up on both elbows and shook his head to clear it of the mist shrouding his thoughts.
He blinked down into Faunos’s face, saw the tears sparkling on his lashes, and licked them away. Faunos’s eyes remained closed. “Did you enchant me?” Soran whispered. “Was this a taste of the Zehefti enchantment I’ve been taught to dread?”
“Perhaps,” Faunos said, as if speaking at all were a monumental effort. “I can’t control what happens to me, Soran. I never could. I’m sorry, if I frightened you or disgusted you. There’s years of study left ahead of me -- five years, even if I had a teacher. Longer, since all I have is the books.”
Soran summoned the last particle of his vitality to crawl onto the bunk beside him, and laid his head on the cushions. “I can help you. What I know of the Power isn’t much, but I’m not too stupid, and I’m willing to learn. Teach me the ancient alphabets, the old language. And you can practice commanding this Power of yours while I do deliciously unspeakable things to you.” He opened one eye and found himself looking into green Zehefti irises. “There’s many things, sensual things, your old teacher wouldn’t have done to you for all the silver in Vayal … but I’d relish the chance.”
“You said a moment ago, you’d never hurt me,” Faunos said quietly.
“I never will,” Soran agreed. “But I was taught the arts and guiles of the bedchamber by the most skillful courtesans in the empire. You’ve never even imagined most of what I know, what I’ve seen and done.” He splayed his right hand over Faunos’s concave belly, idly painting in the seed of royal Zeheft and royal Vayal which was abandoned there, cold now, and forlorn. “I can show you the place where sweetness is so intense, it feels savage, and savagery is tamed into sweetness … if you’ll let me.”
“I’ll let you,” Faunos whispered. “I know what you want, Soran. I’ve already given it to you -- twice, unless memory plays tricks on me! I don’t mind. I’ve never been half so excited in my life as when you rode me, sundered me, plucked virginity from me ... and it was yours to take. You came of age a while ago. I know what you need. It’s only right for a man.”
“You’re also a man,” Soran scoffed.
“Not for five years,” Faunos said darkly, as if he resented the time. “Your people and mine will call me a boy that long.”
“You won’t want to ride me for five years?” In the same moment, Soran was relieved and disappointed.
“I didn’t say that.” Faunos sat up, reached for the linen wrap Soran had torn, and used it to mop sketchily at them both. “But I wouldn’t presume on your affections. Not while lords and ladies have already drunk to your health at your coming of age banquet, and any kingdom I ever aspired to lies at the bottom of the bay. I’ve no teacher, no guardian, yet you won’t drink to my coming of age for years yet, and I’m mindful of that.”
Soran tugged the pillow to comfort under his head and watched him with lazy admiration. “Rank and title are no matter. Vayal will follow Zeheft soon enough.” He stroked a line around Faunos’s shoulders, across his breast and belly. “If this is the Zehefti enchantment … I’ll have more of it. Much more.”
For a moment Faunos struggled to understand. “You want to travel with me? Because travel I must. There’s no way back, if you want to stay with me.”
“Or will you be staying with me?” Soran countered.
Fauos dragged his fingers though the mass of his hair, deliberately working the snarls out of it. “You don’t know where I’m going.”
But Soran only shook his head, slowly and emphatically. “There are only two places you could be going. I’m prepared to bet those beautiful eyes of yours are focused on both, and you’ll reach your destinations eventually. Your teacher had a dream. I think you want to live it for him.” Faunos was waiting, and Soran gestured vaguely into the east. “Find the two missing foci, the Eyes of Mayat and Hados. You’ll spend your life hunting for the temple and the tomb. Tell me I’m wrong.”
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