From uwm.edu!linac!midway!ellis.uchicago.edu!lev0 Sun Apr 28 19:32:07 CDT 1991



  The horse's hooves skittered for a moment on the thick crust of ice before
breaking through into the snow.  It was a bitter, cold night to be outside the
dwellings of men, between the kingdoms of Vergas and Drur, but Hilasko had no
home now.  His world had thrown him out.  And though he had agreed to his own
carefully planned betrayal, still Hilasko seethed inside.  Perhaps the hot
anger alone was the only thing that kept his blood from freezing solid.
  Days before, Hilasko had been the rising star of the Riverbend garrison.  He
had climbed in mere months from a patrol leader to an officer of the Pelaran
free mercenaries.  It was _her_ doing, Hilasko reminded himself.  She planned
his rise and engineered his fall.
  T'Pala was an officer of the Pelaran free mercenaries, the company
of warriors exiled from Pelara when Drur forcibly annexed the border
territory nine years previously.  They served Vergas, Hilasko's
kingdom, for pay and the promise of some day recovering their homes.
T'Pala was known for cold, efficient cruelty, deadly feats of
espionage, the swordsmanship of a master, and the bitterness of a name
taken from a village razed and burned years before by the Drur
invaders.
  She was also the only female warrior in the whole border garrison.
  Hilasko had given his freedom to T'Pala in exchange for power.  That had been
the strange paradox of her service, that the greatest power was born of
submission.  He had become the finest swordsman in the garrison only for her.
He had killed men in her name, both in battle and in secret, spied, invented,
mislead, and sent armies to victory or ruin as T'Pala chose.  Hilasko had slept
at the foot of her bed and learned the strange terror and exaltation of
kneeling at her booted feet, feeling the burn of a leather strap on his back,
then the kiss of a blade teasing blood from his skin, then the kiss of her
lips, and at last the long-delayed orgasm.  T'Pala was a bloodthirsty, but
ultimately satisfying lover.
  Hilasko had been her slave.  His only pleasure had been that she notice him,
his terror that she send him away.  Perhaps he had even loved her.  That love
had destroyed him.
  T'Pala had secretly sent Hilasko to spy upon their mutual employer,
the Vergan military command.  She had engineered his capture,
indictment, and conviction for treason.  Before the entire army T'Pala
had disowned Hilasko, then overseen his punishment.
  They hung him up by the hands over the pit of Lord Melanion Hunter, where the
bodies of the slain were thrown as sacrifice, and whipped him until the blood
poured down.  T'Pala had watched, but did not wield the whip herself, and that
was the worst of it for Hilasko.  Afterwards he had had to kneel and thank her
for not hanging him by the neck.
  Destroying her own slave was not merely a whim of T'Pala's.  She was
preparing him as bait for the Drur kingdom, Verga's opponent through
thirteen years of war.  Soon enough Drur spies were making offers to
the disgraced Hilasko.  He had shared the highest counsels of the
military command, then they cast him out.  He had skill, contacts, and
resentment.  Would he change sides?
  Hilasko, on T'Pala's order, agreed.  The Drur believed his defection to be
genuine.  Perhaps, he thought bitterly, they were right.  Once over the border,
he had no particular reason to pretend loyalty to T'Pala.  Like this
borderland, he belonged to no one.
  The snowed-over wilderness was the domain of Lord Melanion, hunter of animals
and men, master of the spaces between cities and ruler of the land of the dead.
Men could die there alone at night, but Hilasko had no choice.  Still, he
wondered, wouldn't he rather have clung shivering to the inhospitable town of
Riverbend than travel on such a night?
  At least the snow had ceased before sunset.  The sky was almost clear, with
shreds of clouds drifting like feathers across the full moon.  Hilasko could
see almost as well as in full daylight.  But not as well as the horse.
  Hilasko's bay gelding halted, staring apprehensively ahead, suddenly immune to
the prick of the spurs.  Unsettled, Hilasko called a challenge.  There was no
answer, not the slightest movement in the trees.  He jerked the reins, then
reached forward to club the intransigent horse between the ears.
  The animal snorted angrily, then lept sideways, dumping Hilasko off into the
snow.  The crunch of hoofbeats retreated behind Hilasko as his horse returned
to Riverbend without him.
  Hilasko pulled his face out of the snow and stared straight into the
eyes of a wolf.
  The animal was huge, easily outweighing Hilasko.  Its pelt was thick
and black. The eyes that watched him were luminous, unearthly silver,
and so were the fangs and the tongue that lolled steaming from the
beast's muzzle.  And then the wolf vanished.
  Hilasko shivered with reaction.  He had expected to die in the in the instant
he saw the wolf, though death would come soon enough without the horse or the
fire-tools in the saddlebag.  Maybe he had been lying in the snow all night,
and only then started to hallucinate.  He climbed to his feet, feeling the
melting snow work its way into his clothes.
  Up ahead Hilasko saw a building.  It was a small stronghold set up
on a slope, built of stone, and proof positive that Hilasko was indeed
out of his mind.  It had not existed but a moment before.  Yet he
could smell the smoke tumbling from the chimneys, so he decided to
freeze to death in this comforting hallucination.
  The outer gate stood open.  The courtyard was empty and unlit.  The
formidable wooden door swung open when he knocked upon it.  Inside
Hilasko came to a hall with a roaring fireplace.  There was a door at
the far end, and a long tapestry on one wall, depicting a hunt.  The
door swung shut behind him.
  "I am Hilasko," he called into the emptiness, "Once Hilasko vel Tregenis, the
last son of duke Harlisto vel Tregenis, once a patrol leader in the garrison of
the Verdan army, once an officer of the Pelaran free mercenaries, now a nobody
freezing on your doorstep.  In the names of all the gods of hospitality, I beg
the shelter of your hearth!"
  "Welcome."
  The man had appeared in the disturbing manner of all things in this
hallucination:  out of nowhere.
  His face was black, not the hue of human skin, but the color of
darkness under the trees.  Or the color of a wolf-pelt.  His hair like
rain at night spilled down to the middle of his back.  He stood
somewhat taller than Hilasko and wore a plain, brown leather hunting
costume with worn boots and a knife-belt fashioned to look like a
snake.  His eyes were blank, luminescent silver, as were the long
nails of the hand he offered Hilasko.
  "You know my name."
  In the sagas, the gods could not say their own names.  For this reason they
invented men.
  Hilasko took the silver-nailed hand in his own and knew he was not dreaming.
  "My Lord Melanion Hunter."
  The god smiled.  His teeth were silver, and pointed.  "The gods of
hospitality would reproach me.  You are cold, wet and most likely
hungry."
  Hilasko found himself propelled towards the inner door.
  "A bath for you, and dry clothes.  Then you will be served dinner."
  The chamber seemed ordinary enough.  There were rushes on the floor,
a smaller fireplace, and more tapestries on the stone walls.  Behind a
second door Hilasko found the promised tub of steaming water, together
with a jar of sweet oil and several large towels.  He soaked just long
enough to warm his aching bones, then dried himself and annointed his
chapped skin hastily.
  Hilasko saw himself in the mirror.  He was about twenty-five and
well muscled, even though he had scarcely eaten in days.  T'Pala had
thought him pretty enough, and she'd had her pick.
  His thick, tawny mane of hair was rubbed dry before the fire and combed with
fingers.  It would not do to keep a god waiting for dinner.  But then, Hilasko
thought, most likely dinner, if not the entire building, were for Hilasko's
benefit only.  Melanion was no creature fond of roofs.
  There were clothes laid out on a chest when Hilasko returned to the chamber.
They were plain but well-made and fit exactly.  The tunic was of thick, soft
silk and felt delicious against his skin.  His old clothes, together with his
weapons, had vanished.
  A small table had been set up in the main hall.  There were two
chairs.  A hawk sat perched on the back of one.  It glided up to the
mantlepiece as Hilasko approached and stared down at him with
unwinking eyes.  Hilasko took a seat.  Glancing up, he saw Melanion
sitting across the table.
  "I wish you wouldn't do that," Hilasko said.
  Melanion laughed.  Food appeared on the table.
  There were thick slices of some meat, bread, cheese, and a clay jug of wine.
  Hilasko speared a piece of meat on the small dinner knife and eyed it
suspiciously.
  "That is roast pork.  I know, for I killed the pig myself.  You
needn't fear m feeding you unsavory flesh."
  Hilasko asked "Why are you doing this?"
  Melanion gestured towards the hearth.  "You called on my hospitality."
  "No, you chose to appear to me."
  "I am present in all the woods, and everywhere men die.  You were once
dedicated to me."
  "The Hunter of men," Hilasko mused, feeling the memory of the whip burn his
skin.  "Do you hunt women as well?"
  The god's smile faded.  "On occasion.  Men are more interesting to me.  They
fancy themselves rulers in this world.  The stronger they are, the more they
are deluded, and the more fascinating the struggle.  Still every one is
surprised that he can die.  The women usually know better."
  Power is submission to the inevitable.  That was T'Pala's lesson.  Hilasko
finished his meal in silence.
  Melanion rested his chin in his hands and watched, still wearing that
disturbing, serene smile.  When Hilasko finally put his knife down, Lord
Melanion Hunter stood and gestured to a door that had just appeared in the
wall.
  "I fear there is but one bed in my home.  Will you share it with me?"
The sagas were filled with tales of mortals who had shared the beds of gods and
then perished.  And this was Melanion, eater of the corpses of the slain.
Hilasko remembered the brutal beating, received in the name of the god as he
hung over the sacrificial pit.
  To refuse would leave Hilasko out in the snow, at the mercy of wolves.  His
choice was between being a willing sacrifice and a hunted beast.  Hilasko had
lain face-down on the beds of soldiers while they made use of his body, and
played the victim of T'Pala's cruel and meticulously executed rapes.  Surely
the god would prove no worse a lover.
  "I will share your bed," Hilasko answered, his voice trembling against his
will.
  Melanion fed the remaining pork to a large lynx that crawled out
from under the table, saving a scrap for the hawk, which snapped the
thrown meat out of mid air.
  The god's hand on Hilasko's elbow guided him to the bedchamber door.  Out of
the corner of his eye, Hilasko saw the table vanish.
The bedchamber was lit by several candles.  Like the rest of the rooms there
were no windows.  The bed was a thick pile of animal pelts of all descriptions.
Then Hilasko could see nothing but the Hunter's eyes, set like jewelry in his
inhuman face, empty of iris or pupil.  His scent, a musky aroma of animals,
greased and snow-dampened leather, dead leaves and growing pines, filled
Hilasko's nostrils.  A silver-nailed hand tipped Hilasko's chin up.  Almost he
turned his face away, nearly he fled from the immortal kiss.  Then Hilasko was
past choice.
  The lips covered his own.  The silver teeth nipped at him, then Melanion's
tongue snaked playfully into Hilasko's mouth.
The taste was incomparably sweeter than the most honeyed wine.  A slow burning
intoxication spread from Hilasko's mouth down through his stomach and out to
the trembling tips of his limbs.  He cried softly  and wrapped his arms around
Melanion's leather-clad waist.  The tongue probed deeper.  The god's black hair
tickled Hilasko's neck.  One knee parted his own, and a thigh pressed against
his heated crotch.
  Hilasko let himself sag into the arms that held him, rubbing himself against
the leg, trembling to the marrow of his melting bones.  There was fear in him
still, but it had become merely another interesting sensation, slightly bitter,
pulsing somewhere under his ribs.
  "So eager," Melanion said, and let Hilasko fall back onto the bed.  "Almost
too eager.  I like the taste of sweat on my prey."  He drew his knife.  "I
forged this blade from a tooth of the oldest dragon.  To touch the hilt would
annhilate your soul.  I have killed animals with it, and men, and gods."
The blade flashed, parting Hilasko's tunic.  The point stroked his neck, traced
the old scars left by T'Pala, and played with his nipples.  Hilasko moaned and
bit his lips.  Gladly he would die at the hands of this divine lover.
The knife point pressed against Hilasko's nipple, drawing blood.  Hilasko
moaned again, arching his back.  He never thought to resist, for in that moment
he existed for the pleasure of the god alone.
  "Clean it," Melanion said, touching Hilasko's lips with the knife.
  Hilasko licked at the blade, savoring the strange, metalic taste.  It twisted
suddenly, slicing his mouth.  The Hunter kissed him again, this time lapping
the blood from his mouth.
  Melanion removed the rest of Hilasko's clothing with deft cuts of the knife.
Warm hands found sought out the ticklish places of his body, stroking Hilasko's
penis, which was so hard that it pained him.
  Melanion unfastened his belt, which proved to be a living snake.  After
bestowing one lingering kiss on Hilasko, Melanion turned him over on his face.
  Hilasko lay on the furs and felt the snake prison his wrist.  It was a
cool-blooded creature, supple as a bullwhip.  It stared at him with detatched,
unblinking eyes.  Its tongue flicked against his wrist.  Snakes twined around
his other wrist and likewise his ankles, pulling tight until he could no longer
move, only breathe and feel.  There was fear in him but no doubt.  Desire made
him pant as Melanion stroked his back and spread buttocks.
  Melanion licked Hilasko's shoulder, and then bit just hard enough to draw
blood.  The pain was an almost sweet sensation, submerged in the sexual heat.
He scarcely heard Melanion removing his hunting costume.
  The Hunter's unclothed body straddled Hilasko.
  "I have taken many a mortal to bed, but none so delicious as you.  You have a
body a young stallion could be proud of. "
  Hilasko had all but ceased to breathe.  The Hunter's hard, hot phallus nudged
between his bound legs.
  "You submit to my will as a proud horse does to the bridle."
The shock of penetration, like a spear though his heart, made Hilasko cry out.
He pulled uselessly at the snake-bonds, which tightened, stretching his limbs
even farther.  Melanion's full weight pressed down on his back.  A tongue
licked Hilasko's ears, neck, and shoulders in time with the long, slow thrusts.
It was too much to bear, to be thrust into and unable to move, not even to rub
his own neglected penis against the bed.  The thrusts were coming faster, then
Melanion slowed teasingly.  He pulled his phallus all the way out, then plunged
it back into the tight muscle of Hilasko's anus.  The sweet, burning heat at
the base of Hilasko's spine spread through his body.  One last, deep thrust
seemed nearly to shatter his bones.
  Melanion stopped, his body trembling.  The teeth on Hilasko's neck became the
inch-long canines of a beast.  Razor-like claws ripped into his back.  Bound
and spread and terrified, Hilasko was mounted by a beast, a wolf that cried out
like a man.  Hilasko writhed and shook as his mortal body absorbed the force of
Melanion's released passion.
  And then it was over.  Melanion, in a man's form again, lay beside
him, licking at his wounded back.  Aching and very much afraid of his
demonic lover, Hilasko wept into the furs.  His penis had gone soft
from the fear and the pain.  The bonds loosened just enough for
Melanion to flip Hilasko over on his back, then tightened again.
  "Other men have lost their minds when I took them so," The Hunter
said.  "You only weep."  His hands deftly awakened Hilasko's penis.
"You are strong, yes, and now you will have the reward for your
submission."
  Melanion's black tongue licked at Hilasko's nipples.  Fingers probed
his balls and gave his penis the softest touches.  Hilasko surrendered
to the teasing, feeling Melanion stroke him close to the edge of
orgasm, then leave his twitching penis and stroke his chest, face, and
bound limbs, over and over again.  Soon Hilasko was crying and begging
uncontrollably.
  "Please," he said.
  Melanion smiled down at him.  His hair brushed Hilasko's face as the
god kisse him once more.  A hand closed around Hilasko's penis, while
another stroked his balls.  Hilasko tried to scream as he came, but
the sound was lost into the mouth of the god.
  Fingers tapped Hilasko's lips.
  "Clean my hands."
  Still shaking, Hilasko sucked his cum off Melanion's fingers.
  He was not allowed to rest, for soon the Hunter was bringing Hilasko's
emptied, aching penis to attention again.
  "The night has just begun, my pet," said the god.

  Something pushed at Hilasko's shoulder.  He was cold, he realized, but not
dangerously so.  He blinked.  It was daylight.
  Hilasko was lying on a pile of pine needles under a big old tree.
He had been awakened by the nudge of his horse.  He proved to be
wearing his own clothes again.  His weapons were there as well.
  But it had not been a dream or hallucination.  The marks of the claws of Lord
Melanion Hunter still burned on Hilasko's back, and the sweet taste lingered
on his lips.
  Hilasko stretched, sighed.  No matter what happened to him next, he had been
the lover of a god, and that was no small thing.

-- 
"Do not TAUNT Happy Fun Ball."


