Fantasy fiction; Imaginary wars and battles -- Fiction
“Thou art a fool,” she cried, “that knowest not what thou askest.
Of all things earthly mightest thou have taken choose; but I am not
earthly.”
He answered, “I will have nought else.”
“Thou dost embrace then a great danger,” said she, “and loss of all thy
good luck, for thee and thy friends beside.”
But Brandoch Daha, seeing how her face became on a sudden such as
are new-blown roses at the dawning, and her eyes wide and dark with
love-longing, came to her and took her in his arms and fell to kissing
and embracing of her. On such wise they abode for awhile, that he was
ware of no thing else on earth save only the sense-maddening caress of
that lady’s hair, the perfume of it, the kiss of her mouth, the swell
and fall of that lady’s breast straining against his. She said in his
ear softly, “I see thou art too masterful. I see thou art one who
will be denied nothing, on whatsoever thine heart is set. Come.” And
they passed by a heavy-curtained doorway into an inner chamber, where
the air was filled with the breath of myrrh and nard and ambergris, a
fragrancy as of sleeping loveliness. Here, amid the darkness of rich
hangings and subdued glints of gold, a warm radiance of shaded lamps
watched above a couch, great and broad and downy-pillowed. And here for
a long time they solaced them with love and all delight.
Even as all things have an end, he said at the last, “O my lady,
mistress of hearts, here would I abide ever, abandoning all else for
thy love sake. But my companions tarry for me in thine halls below,
and great matters wait on my direction. Give me thy divine mouth once
again, and bid me adieu.”
She was lying as if asleep across his breast: smooth-skinned, white,
warm, with shapely throat leaned backward against the spice-odorous
darknesses of her unbound hair; one tress, heavy and splendid like
a python, coiled between white arm and bosom. Swift as a snake she
turned, clinging fiercely about him, pressing fiercely again to his
her insatiable sweet fervent lips, crying that here must he dwell unto
eternity in the intoxication of perfect love and pleasure.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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