The Sorceress of Belmair

He laughed softly. “You are bedeviling me, Cinnia.”

“Am I?” She squirmed slightly beneath his tongue.

“Aye, you are,” he said. “I see I shall have to retaliate, my queen.” He quickly slid between her legs, pushing them up, his dark head moving from one side of her thighs to the other as he taunted her with his wicked tongue.

Cinnia felt him spread her nether lips open with strong thumbs, and caught her breath. This was a form of lovemaking that Cinnia loved almost as much as when he put himself inside of her. His tongue slowly licked at her, and she began to tingle from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. “Oh, yes!” she told him. Why was he waiting? But then the very tip of his tongue touched that sensitive little nub.

Her sharp intake of breath told him he had found her pleasure jewel. He encircled it several times with just the point of his tongue. Then taking it between his lips he sucked hard on it, and she began to whimper.

“Oh, yes! Yes!” she half moaned, encouraging him.

She was salty, yet she was sweet like honey. The scent of her filled his nostrils and roused his passions. When she shuddered with her first release Dillon did not wait. Pulling himself up he sheathed his manhood within her, reveling in her cry as she wrapped her body about his, clutching at him frantically.

“Please! Please!” she cried to him. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

His mouth found hers as their fingers intertwined. Their tongues frantically dueled with one another as they found their rhythm. Their loins moved in measured cadence; long, slow strokes that made them desperate for more. Quick hard thrusts that eventually brought them to a climactic and fiery explosion of pleasure again and again and yet again until they finally fell away from each other, burning, wet with their exertions and thoroughly sated.

When he was finally able to speak Dillon said to her, “Sorceress, what is it you have done to me? I possess you, and it is not enough.”

“Have you fallen in love with me?” Cinnia asked him boldly, propping herself up upon an elbow so she might look down into his handsome face.

He thought a moment, and then said, “Aye, I think that I have, my queen.” His hand reached up to gently stroke her lovely face.

“I have never been certain that love really existed,” Cinnia said. “Whatever there was between my father and my mother, if it was love, is unknown to me, for she died shortly after I was born. And yet, Dillon, while we have known each other but a short time, you say you love me.” She looked deep into his bright blue eyes. “And I believe that what I feel for you is love, too. Have we bewitched each other, Majesty?”

He smiled up at her. “Perhaps, Cinnia, it was something that was just meant to be,” he suggested. “I don’t want to question it. Do you?”

“What if it is only lust we feel?” she asked.

“I am a man who has known enough women to know that what I feel for you, my queen, is not lust. You, however, must believe in the calling of your heart, Cinnia,” he told her. “Only you can be certain whether what you feel for me is love or lust. But I shall believe that you love me for it pleases me to do so.” He drew her down so that her dark head rested upon his shoulder.

“Will you give me a child?” she asked softly.

“One day,” he told her. “But not yet. First we must learn the mystery that plagues Belmair, and then we must attempt to solve it.”

“How?” she said.

“Tomorrow we will think on it, my queen. For now we will sleep,” he replied, and safe within his embrace Cinnia slept until the morning.

Prentice, the scholar, however, had slept but four hours. He was awakened several hours before the dawn in the darkest hours of the night. There was someone, he sensed, in his chambers. He could hear the rustling of papers, and arising swiftly from his cot, he called out, “Who is there? What do you want?” Fumbling for a lamp, he shook it, awakening the glow worms who powered it. They blazed brightly, illuminating the scholar’s chamber, and Prentice’s eyes peered myopically as he carried the lamp toward his table, which was half enveloped in dusk. A movement caught his eye. He saw…He could not quite make it out, but there was something there. “Show yourself!” he called again in what he hoped passed for a commanding voice.

“Where are my books?”

“Who are you? Let me see you,” Prentice said, half relieved he was not imagining things and there actually was someone or something there.

“Where are my books? Give me my books!” the disembodied voice said again.

“Any books in my chambers belong to the Academy. As I am an Academy scholar I am entitled to peruse them,” Prentice said.

“Who are you that you invade my private chambers, and will not reveal yourself to me?” Where was his courage coming from? the scholar wondered even as he spoke.

“I will have my books!” the voice insisted.

Prentice had now located the voice. It was coming from beneath his table. Stepping back a few paces he reached for his broom, which was in a corner.

“I can destroy you, bold scholar,” the voice told him.

“My master the king, and his father, the great Shadow Prince Kaliq, will then seek you out and punish you,” Prentice said. Then he swooped his broom hard beneath the table. “Get out from underneath there!” he said. “Show yourself to me!”

There was a shriek, and the scholar briefly saw his visitor before it disappeared in a puff of angry dark blue smoke. Prentice wanted to disbelieve what he had just seen, but he could not. Instead he found his cup, commanded it to fill itself and then sat down with his tea to calm his rattled nerves. After a few minutes he decided that as unnerving as the encounter had been, it had also been very exciting. With this quest to learn about Belmair’s past magic, his life had suddenly become almost adventurous. He felt the skin of his gaunt face stretching into a smile, and a little chuckle escaped him. Relaxed now he dozed briefly in his chair. When he awoke again and glanced at the clock upon the wall he saw that it must certainly be dawn, or near it. Standing up, he shook out his robes and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. Then he ventured forth from his chambers.

He climbed the three flights of stairs, one wooden, one stone, one marble, to the grand foyer of the Academy. It was virtually empty of course, for the hour was early. At the great bronze doors he waited patiently until the doorkeeper, sleeping in his chair opened his eyes, and jumped up.

“Why ’tis Master Prentice, isn’t it?” the doorkeeper said.

“Haven’t seen you in several years. Are you actually going out?”

“I must see the king at once!” Prentice said, and the doorkeeper immediately unlocked the door, pulling one aside to let Prentice through. At first the bright light of the new day hurt his eyes for he had not ventured from his chambers in some time. What was that lovely smell? he wondered. And then he chuckled at himself for a fool. It was air, fresh with dew and the scent of early-summer flowers. The scholar hurried through the park and gardens of the royal enclosure, reaching the drawbridge to the royal castle, which was down. It was always down, for Belmair was a peaceful world. Swans and their recently hatched young swam in the broad moat among pale yellow water lilies and delicate lavender water hyacinths.

The guard on the other side of the drawbridge greeted him. “Good morrow, scholar. What business have you here?” “I am Master Prentice, and I must see the king. I was told to come whenever I had found anything of note in the studies I have been commissioned to undertake at His Majesty’s request.”

“You’re an early bird, aren’t you?” The guard chortled. “Eager to make an impression on the young king, are you? Well, go along into the Great Hall. The castle steward will arrange for your audience. His name is Britto, and he’s a good enough fellow if not perhaps just a little filled with self-importance. Do you know where it is?”

“Thank you,” Prentice said to the guard, “aye, I think I can find it. I was in the castle about ten years ago. Nothing has changed, has it?”

“Nay, ’tis as it ever was,” the guard said as he waved the scholar past him.

Prentice hurried along, reaching the Great Hall shortly thereafter. “I am seeking Master Britto,” he called out, and immediately a short, plump man in dark maroon robes stepped forward, looking the scholar over as if deciding if the tall, gaunt fellow with the shock of graying red hair was worthy of his time.

“I am Britto,” the castle steward said.

“I am Master Prentice, the king’s personal scholar. I should like to speak with His Majesty, please, for I have