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Archive-name: Fantasy/wizards.txt


Archive-title: Affairs of Wizards, The

*All 4 Parts*

    Everything in this story is fictional, except for the way that magic

    works.  Since some of the wizards on the Net are not entirely sane,

    I am not taking the risk of publicizing my True Name.

                 The  Affairs  of  Wizards

   "He's a wizard, of course he can.  Don't meddle with wizards."

   "I still bet he can't!"

   "Oh, go on in then, see if he notices.  I'll come in if there's any trouble."

    Ania knocked gently on the door as she had been trained to, and then

pushed it open, entering a large room with a view of the sunset, across the

bay.  On the comfortable hotel chaise longue was a man of early middle age,

reading The Journal of Thaumaturgical Topology in a plain house-robe of silk

and cotton, with no magical symbols on it that she could see.  He glanced

up, smiled pleasantly, and waved vaguely at the low table beside him, where

she put down her tray with its jug of Northern wine and some crisp rolls.

    "Will there be anything else, sir?"

    Still silent, he shook his head, and she noticed again how his bronze hair

was turning white where it curled against his ears.  The stiff green cotton of

her uniform rubbed against her upper legs, as she bobbed respectfully and

turned toward the door.

    As she reached the door she stopped, and turned around.

    If he *could*, he wasn't saying anything.  He didn't *seem* to know.

    He looked up at her, and smiled again.  "Yes?"

    She absolutely shouldn't, there could be trouble, but Birgit would surely

claim he knew, and she suddenly trusted his smile.

    "Sir, *can* you tell?"

    His eyebrows, which curled upward like rusty wire against his golden skin,

arched a little and his smile became wider.

    "Can I tell what, Ania?"

    He knew her name!---but wizards always know names, you learn that at

school.  It didn't answer her question.

    "Can you tell...about me..."  he was still smiling, "can you tell if I'm

wearing panties?"

    He blinked, and somehow his smile became deeper around the eyes.

    "Do you mean, *do_I_know*  if you are," he said, "or *can_I_tell*?"

    She looked at him, a little confused.

    "There are many ways I *can* tell, if invited," he said, "as anyone could,

but I think you mean, can I tell by some use of magic, as you stand there,"

she nodded, "and you want to know if I *have* used it."

    "I thought it would be just like...seeing," she said, "you'd simply know."

    "One way, yes, is like *looking*, and so seeing.  But even a prentice does

not use magic without will, and a man who would use it as a casual intrusion

is not even a prentice for long.  I *can* tell, but I have not.

Do you believe me, Ania?"

    "I *believe* you, sir," wondering if she really did, "I believe you can,

and I believe you haven't, but I do not *know*."

    "I have always admired Doubting Thomas," he said, clearly enjoying her

answer, "`Trust but verify' is the foundation of modern magic.  Am I being

asked for proof?"

    "Sir, ...yes."

    "For proof that I have not?  That would be hard."  She shook her head.

"You are asking me, then, to show you that I *can*?"

    Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

    "I may choose my method?"


    He looked more closely at her, and she wondered how much of a spell was

needed.  The touch of her dress was intensely present, close to her skin and

yet creating a hollow space within which she stood, under his gaze.

    Around her neck, she felt a softening, a cool feeling that was like water,

but was not wet.  It spread around her body like a quiet wave.

    "Now, I can tell," he said.

    Following his glance to the tall mirror beside her, she stood still, and

looked at herself.  She was now dressed in silk; the simplicity of her uniform

had become the perfect simplicity of the dress of a great lady, and its plain

green had changed while hardly changing, to something with depths like the

autumn sea.  There was no seam anywhere, only a line of coral buttons that

ran from the neck, along each arm to the cuffs.  It was shaped by its flow

across her body, liquid against her skin.

    No spell but the magic of silk made clear that under that flowing green,

there was Ania.  Nothing else.

    She had always been friends with her small, muscular body, but seeing it

like this, and sharing the sight with him, was different.  This was not the

practical object she washed briskly in cold water every morning, it was more

like music.  Her neat round belly was like a standing wave in a mountain

stream, flowing over a stone, pouring into a rounded channel and frothing

where the silk clung to the curls between her legs, welling up in a turbulent

mound that somehow had more shape, more definiteness than she had ever noticed

before.  She wanted to cup it in her hand, to imagine the water filling and

spilling against her fingers, she could almost feel the rush and tingle from

inside; but putting her hand as if to cover  An inverted modesty

kept her from snatching at her body, there or where her breasts---normally

unobtrusive, gentle swellings that needed no special support and did little

to push out her clothes---were suddenly sharply defined.  Low on her ribs,

but the nipples high, looking as emphatic as they unexpectedly felt; how had

they become points of *drama* in something so undramatic as the body she

lived and worked in every day?

    "Magic," she said.  "Have you put an illusion on my dress, to look like

that? Have you put a glamour on *me*, to look like that? Or a glamour on

my mind, to *think* I look like that? You could do all those things to someone

who does have something underneath---I haven't said if *I* don't---and it would

look the same." The idea of mind-magic was an uneasy one, but then the

thought of such a glamour on the Manageress almost set her giggling; it took

two of the maids, every morning, to get Madame Chorny into her corsets.

The image was so naturally her own, and he looked so much less of an Evil

Power than Madame Chorny on her best days, that she smiled at him, a

quick secret grin like the one she gave when she had lured Birgit into some

new plot against the sobriety of This Great Hotel.  "Perhaps it is good that

I do not have such powers.  I could not be trusted with them."

    "No illusion, no fairy gold," said the wizard.  "That is real silk, now,

as real as your skin.  Your body looks like that because it is exactly that

beautiful, and your mind---do you think I would hesitate to look under your

clothes, and then intrude behind your eyes?"

    "No, you wouldn't do that," she agreed.  "So I really am like *this*, and

your body is truly like *that*," considering his long legs and arms, the well

cared for hands lying open on his robe, his golden skin.  "And you *haven't*

looked under my clothes."

    "I am looking now, as any man might," he said, "as any man *would*."

    "Then I believe you could look as a wizard, without showing me to others,

but I do not *know*.  Look at me, then.  Look at me, wizard fashion."  She

turned to face him squarely, with a rustling of silk.

    He looked down, as she tried to meet his eyes, and she realized he was

looking closely at her feet, in the felt slippers This Great Hotel demanded in

homage to its floors.  She wiggled her toes, and his mouth quirked, but he

did not look up.  Slowly his attention moved, learning ankles, knees, thighs,

between them, up the curve of her stomach to her breasts and arms, then the

roundness of her lips, until he was studying her eyes.  Green eyes, as she had

often seen in the mirror, with dark lashes and brows.  Were they beautiful,

then, too? But he wasn't looking at beauty, he was looking at her, looking

at her eyes, learning her.

    She let out a breath as he leaned back on the chaise longue.

    "You have looked, now," she said.

    "I have.  I have looked, and I would know you across the Rio Amazonas,

in sunlight or starlight, now or a hundred years from now.  It is a wizard's

craft to look, and to learn."

    "I think you would," said Ania solemnly, "I am sure you looked at me

with the eyes of a wizard.  I am sure, but do I truly know," she could not

resist it, "whether you saw my panties?  *If* I am wearing panties?"

    He roared with laughter.  "Ania, you remind me of my mother's junior

husband.  If we are to settle this, we must share eyes a little.  Is this well?"

    She nodded again, a little uncertain.

    "Now I am touching your mind, only a little, and not with illusion---just

a link. It is easily made; the Talent sleeps in your own mind, too, but was

not woken in childhood.  Look in the mirror."

    He came to stand beside her, more than a head taller, and they both

looked at her small, smoothly clad reflection.

  "A mirror is a kind of illusion,"  said the wizard, "but this is true seeing."

He pointed at the neckline, and a handspan of green silk cleared to her

eyes, the woven surface calming like the waves on a millpond when wind

and watermill rest, letting her vision pass the surface to the riverbed, to the

creamy coffee color of her throat.  She had never looked at her throat as a

shape, before.  Her eyes moved, and his followed, for the clear patch spread

to her left breast, then to her right.  The nipples were so red, so red; was

she seeing through the skin a little too, to the blood that filled them

so tight that the skin on them seemed to pinch her with a kind of pain?

    Downward, to her belly, the round, gentle boulder that made the green

wave in the silent river of silk, clear through the still surface;

the strange cup of her navel.

    Downward again, to the firm mound where dark curls clustered, and all

at once she smelled them, scented with herself from the lips, almost open,

that they grew along.  She had not known but---yes---that was their purpose,

hair kept when human pelts went smooth, to carry the scents that speak

clearer than words.  Did the knowledge come from him?

    When the whole dress was clear they stood looking, for a little, at her

body's form beneath it.  Then her glance shifted to the image of the man

beside her, and the spell faded.

    "These things are by invitation," he said, as she turned to look up at

him.  "We have had no discussion of *my* clothes.  And to see more of yourself

you would need to keep your balance while looking from behind, which is a

slow-learned skill.  Now, my small disputant, are we agreed that, Imprimis,

I can tell exactly what you are wearing, Secundus, I can learn this by looking,

Tertius, I have indeed looked, and hence, Quartus, I do indeed know, with a

sure knowledge, that you are not wearing any panties?"

    She smiled at him.

    "Come, Lady Logic, have you a reply to this?"

    "They teach about knowledge in Sunday School," she answered, "not only

in your lore schools.  Your favorite saint had a test for certainty, and I may

surely say what his master said to him.

    "Thomas, stretch forth thy finger."

Part 2

    "This too I will do, and very gladly, since I am bid," he said, "but we are

reaching to other kinds of knowledge.  You do ask this."

    "Thomas, I bid you," she said, "stretch forth thy finger."

    "Well, what may follow, may follow; remember that some things can

never be turned back.  You can still step aside, now or when you choose, but

choices are choices.  I can give no promise but choice, for tomorrow I must

take a Path you cannot follow."

    "Thomas, I understand you," said Ania.  The space between them was narrow,

but it was still between them.  He faced her across it like a tower.

"Touch me, Thomas."

    "Choose touch, first, with your own hands.  Reach out, and lay them on

my shoulders."

    Opening her arms, she reached up and laid first her right hand, then

her left, on the plain weave of his robe, feeling the muscle and bone of him

beneath, always looking up, into his eyes.  As the left hand touched him,

their heads straightened, their eyes came level, as though he was smoothly

bending his long legs.  She looked down, and saw him standing straight, and

herself free of the soft carpet where her slippers still lay.  Experimentally

she lifted one hand, and felt weight pull her softly down, to touch her feet

gently against the ground, as if standing in the sea.  She clasped his shoulder

again, and floated, level with his eyes.

    "Whenever you choose, let go my shoulders, and you are free of me."

    "Thomas," she said again, "touch me."

    His hands held her waist, thumbs where it was narrowest, palms following

the outward flare of her hips.  Held, holding, she floated.

    Silently, after a time, his hands curled around to her back and began to

stroke her, with no pressure, through the silk.  Her shoulders rose and seemed

to spread, and her back felt as supple as a cat's.  From the base of her spine

to her shoulder blades, she could feel his each individual fingertip.

Reaching around from under her arms, he touched each side of her neck,

fingers moving downward from earlobes to collarbone, over and over and

over.  With a nudge from a forefinger at each side, the buttons nearest her

collar slid from their places, and his fingers had a longer run,

ear to the next button, before they met silk.

    When the next button was released on each side she felt the dress slip

a little over her breasts, drawn down by its feathery weight.  She held more

tightly to his shoulders.

    Two more buttons, left and right, and her shoulders emerged from the

dress, and his hands flowed to and fro behind her neck before sliding again

down her back, to rise again under her arms.  Grasping the loosened cloth

there at the sides, he pulled it left and right across her nipples, left and

right, left and right, until he moved inside the cloth and brought the backs

of his fingers slowly down across her breasts, so that she felt the soft tufts

of hair between his joints.  A ripple ran along her arms as the remaining

buttons freed themselves, and the dress moved down her, pulling itself over

her belly, clinging for a moment to her buttocks, gathered and drawn like

a liquid rope between her thighs.  She separated her legs to free it, so that

in a parting moment the dress caught, stretched across her knees; then it

was free, settling to the floor as if laid out for admiration.  Her legs

drifted upward, knees gently bent, until her feet met his legs and slid

up their sides, coming to rest with her ankles against his waist.

    Buoyed up by magic she rested in the air, naked and secure, touching the

magic with feet and hands.

    Looking down at the parting of her legs she saw her hair gleaming with

moisture, and breathed deep of her own scent, mingling with the smell of the

wine from the open jug.  There was a fainter, ranker smell too, which became

stronger as he released a catch on his robe and returned to holding her waist.

The robe fell open and she knew it was the smell of male lust, from the bush

of red hair around the base of a raised golden bar, as long as his long hands

and as thick of two of his thumbs.  The tip was darkened to the color of old

bronze by the blood vessels swollen inside it; its opening seemed a slit that

vaguely echoed her own, starting at the apex and ending somewhere below,

rather than the round spout she had always imagined.

    "Do you know, now, what *I* am wearing?"

    "I have no doubt, Thomas.  Am I in my turn asked to know by touch?"

    "I do ask you, Ania, to know me by touch."

    She started to lift her right hand from his shoulder, to reach down toward

that strange, almost glowing part of him, but felt herself begin to sink away,

downward.  No; she regained her hold on him, taking the chance now to

slip her hand past his lapel, gripping his shoulder directly, under the robe.

She thought for a moment, while she moved her left hand also to his golden

skin, and as the robe fell way behind him she bent her knees, pulling herself

toward him, until the tip of him rested against against the crest of the mound

between her legs, flattening her hair.  The robe caught where her ankles held

his waist until she released it, returning them to touch his golden skin, just

above the pelvis, her toes hooked behind his back.

    Pushing and pulling gently against him she rested in the air, holding the

magic with feet and hands and sex, as his hands began again to move.

    His touch could now follow great flowing curves along her skin, from

behind her knees to beneath her thighs, his fingertips brushing the base of her

mound and following the line between her buttocks, caressing the sensitive

muscle between them, rising up her ribs and out along her arms, in again to

move over her breasts, finger after finger crossing the nipples, then the right

hand supporting her back while the left palm pressed against her belly, round

and round, cherishing it, in widening and narrowing circles, up sometimes to

sweep over her breasts and down again, round and round, closer to the place

where she was pressed against him.  Then both hands slid along her upper

thighs until the thumbs were beside her mound, pressing a little and pulling

aside, and now her lips were open and kissing the tip of him, held open by

the roundness of it, and her own little rod of flesh standing straight in the

opened space above it.

    "A small magic," he murmured, grasping himself to move the tip to meet

hers, and then his curious opening---opened---and she found herself entering

him, sucked by that tiny mouth, pressed by the solidity around it, melting,

twisting her body, panting, still holding the magic with feet and hands and

sex, buoyed up by the magic, loud gasps of pleasure forcing from her lungs,

until a great shudder came and she rested, floating in the magic and the

afterglow, pressing her head in the hollow of his neck and shoulder.

Part 3

    "Wizards are supposed to have great long beards," she said, her eyes

an inch from his short, square one.  "In all the story books they have

great long beards."

    He stroked her back fondly.  "How many wizards at this convention have

you seen with great long beards?" he asked her.

    "Hardly any," she admitted, "but that's not the point.  Wizards are

*supposed* to have great long beards."

    "Very impractical, in this city, where all the best restaurants specialise

in great bowls of soup.  But the choice of a long beard is open, of course, and

to a wizard an open choice is an easy tool."

    She watched dreamily as his neat beard grew longer, slipping like a wild

red rope into the space between them.

    "That's better," she said.  "Hey, that tickles."

    "That's another problem, when you're reading in bed," he said, "or if

you roll over at night with it trapped under your elbow.  You see why I don't

make a habit of it."

    "Hey, that *really* tickles!"  She looked down suddenly, to where two

strands of the beard were teasing away the softness of her nipples.

"How do you *do* that?  No, don't stop."  She straightened her arms for a

clearer view, and watched fascinated as the beard used the open space to

form a russet cloud against her, in which waves moved up her skin like the

spiral stripes up a barber pole, vanishing yet endless.  "Can you feel what

you do with it, like with your fingers?   Like with...?" giving a little

wriggle where he was still stiff against her.

    "Not exactly, but with the link between us strengthening I can feel

something of what *you* feel, which guides me well enough."

    "It guides you *wonderfully*," she said, her sensations leaping up like

flames in a sudden wind at the idea that the wizard knew them with her.

"Can you describe what I feel?  Pass a test on it?"

    "You would remember it as though I told you what to feel, and there

would be truth there; describing feeling always changes it, for feelings are

not words.  But it is a wisdom tool to describe it for yourself.  Ania, bright

angel, what do you feel?"

    "I feel fond of you," she said promptly.  "You have nice eyes."

    "Describing emotions is close to describing words," he said, "with words.

Only a great sage learns wisdom that way.  Most who try it end up as

Literature professors, and vanish up their own...never mind.  And describing

my eyes is vain, when they can change as easily as my beard, or your friend

down there who rose to greet you."  She giggled, and blew a kiss to return the

greeting.  "The acyclic tantra is to describe your direct feelings, your bodily

feelings.  Do you want to try that?"

    "How can I describe anything while you tickle me so?"

    "Don't just be tickled; feel tickled.  What is the feeling?"

    "It's all down the front of me, like pain, but it's not pain."

    "How is it different?"

    "I don't know---yes, I do, pain always feels under the skin, this is like a

hundred points of pain dancing just outside, not coming in, but my muscles

feel as if they must move, to fight pain, more and more ready to move, but I

don't move, do I, Thomas?  I don't think someone running *could* be tickled,

though they could itch.  I don't move, my hands are holding the muscles of

your shoulders, I can feel the firmness of them, and my feet can feel your

waist, a bit softer and looser, I'm holding you there too, and down there I

can feel---of course, that's *John* Thomas---just the end of him, pressing a

little where the feeling is like burning cold ice, only soft, and melting,

and trying to dissolve him, I want to *hold* you there too.  Oh, now I can feel

my own hair on my back---my hair isn't that long, Thomas, ohh, magic---and

it's stroking me like your hands, not tickling, smooth, in front I'm fire

and behind I'm the sand dunes, and I feel your long fingers against my eyelids,

your hand smells of me, your other hand is with John Thomas, a finger just

under him---he's nibbling at me again, like a fish---and your finger feels

like bubbles bursting in me, and it is just inside me like a bubble that

can't burst, and it's moving and I'm squeezing and it won't burst,

and I stop...talking..."

    "Thomas, I have not kissed you," she said dreamily. She pulled towards

him, and began to lick his lips.  His mouth opened as it touched hers, and she

moved the tip of her tongue along his gums, as his tongue slid over hers and

curled up to the roof of her mouth, dabbing delicately behind her front teeth

and tasting the shape of her, back near to the throat.  Then it curled flat

around her own tongue, holding it in place as their mouths opened wider.

    He began to hum. An old melody from somewhere the tall ships traded,

that all knew and none named, it filled her mouth and echoed in her throat,

her own voicebox sounding with his music, the vibration filling her. Slowly

she joined the music with her own breath, and slowly he quieted his own,

until she was singing his throat, controlling a bass resonance that felt

strange and natural at once. The music passed between them, sometimes driven by

one, sometimes by both, winding through their bodies like the murmur of the sea.

    His tongue drifted out of her, and as their mouths separated he turned

upward to lick her eyelids, then as she moved upward with the slight pressure

of his hands beneath her he was licking the hollow of her throat, his beard

moving against her chest.  His tongue moved downward---no, she had moved

upward---his tongue coiled around a nipple, his teeth pulled at it, while the

palm of his hand passed around, around on the other, or sometimes she felt

his separated fingers move, one, two, three, four across it before the rubbing

palm, slippery from its time between her legs, resumed its slow circling. For

a still moment she was held between finger and thumb on her left, between

teeth on her right, teased by a finger and by a tongue.

    Downward, as his tongue caressed her belly and his hands the back of her

thighs, until she could look down and see the red hair of his beard mingle

with the black of her mound, and feel that tongue circling, flicking at the

sides and her stub of flesh, tunneling into her, sipping at the flowing juice

of her, while his fingers worked behind, and the silky hair of his armpits was

against her knees.  Her body felt about to dissolve when she pushed away

from him, pulled down, so that his tongue made an undeviating trail up, past

her navel with a little flick inside, between her breasts, to her throat, and

she was balanced, sitting on the hardness of him like a rail, her legs back

beside his waist.  Gradually she pushed backwards,sliding to the end and

squirming gently against it, until she was around the bronze tip.

    She looked down at that golden bar holding them apart, pressed against

her open lips, and pulled tightly with her legs against his waist.  As her calf

muscles pulled, harder and harder, the pressure into her became intense, but

she hardly moved.

    "Help me," she said. "Force a way."

    "This is difficult," he said, "with so much desire for you holding

that shape firm,"  He changed under her eyes, the blunt bar

becoming a tapered cone, the swollen tip no wider than her finger.

She pulled again gently, and he was a thumb's length inside.  She pushed

herself back, saw him slippery with her juice, pulled with a great jerk

and had him half inside her, stretched tight as a needlework canvas, hurting

but holdingthe pain as tight as she held him.  Back again, the wet of her now

shining on half his length.  Another pull, further, tighter.   She moved into a

rhythm of forward and back, never now all the way out, each time a little

further in, and now his hands behind her were strengthening each pull, and

at last her mound slammed into his, the golden bar invisible, and she rested

against him, red hair tangling with black.

    Impossibly tight, impossibly full, she felt his full thickness come back,

deep within her.  Wrapped around him, pressed against him, holding him

inside her, with a shout that came from the bottom of her spine and uncoiled

through her lungs to a sound that left her throat raw and her ears ringing,

she felt every muscle in her body go as fuel to an exploding flame.

    "Ania, what do you feel?"

    "I feel soft.  I feel you against me, and sweat running down the edge of

where I'm against your chest."  She stirred her hips against him. "I feel John

Thomas inside me."

    "*How* do you feel him inside you?"

    "Just the way I feel your shoulders, in my hands. No, wait."  She stirred

again, slid a little back from him, and pulled herself back against his groin.

"At the mouth I feel you, just like that, through the skin.  That hair's much

stiffer than your beard, do you choose it that way?  But inside it's not like

that. How *do* I feel you?  Can you go very thin just at the entrance, but stay

thick inside, so I can concentrate?  Yes, I can feel you're in there, but it's

not through the skin, it's in the muscles, in whatever stretches---like when

I'm carrying a weight, I know it inside my arms as well as by my fingers.

Thicken out again...yes, even just behind the entrance, it's the stretching

I feel.  Like something big in my throat,but it's a good feeling.  As though

I was hollow before, and now I'm solid."  She twisted against him.  "The

muscles get tighter, just by my noticing them, and having something solid to

tighten on is like the good feeling in my jaw of biting solid bread---teeth

don't feel, either, do they, I'd never thought of that---only the goodness

spreads wider, my hips feel right,they're balanced around you.  But how does

it feel from the inside, to you?"

    "When I first go hard," he said, "I feel my skin stretched like a pig on

tiptoe, unsafe, vulnerable, until---John Thomas, you called him?---until he

is held and supported as you hold him now, like being safe on four legs.

You make my body complete.  All along him, the pressure of you balances the

tension from inside, he's your `bubble that can't burst'.  The skin on most

of him doesn't feel the touch nearly as much as thatpressure, that holding

you give him. Around the tip he does feel through the skin,and when you

wriggle your muscles like that---"

    "I didn't know I could do that until you made me feel them."

    "---or slide along me, it is like having my tongue in bitter honey."

    "Can you show me how it feels?  You said there is a link... ohh, when I

do this, you...and when I squeeze...and, my muscles won't stay still,I can

feel it both ways, and... Thomas, you are holding tight, holding your own

muscles, it's *hurting* you, what are you doing?"

    "When you came in, wondering if a wizard could see through cotton, you

had no thought of having a child."

    "I might have a baby, mightn't I?"

    "Ania, you would have a baby.  Your body is at its most ready, and the

seed you have made is close to your womb."  He pushed gently against her,

to slide her off, but she held him tightly with her legs.

    "Wait a little like this, if you can...?"

    "I can wait, if you hold very still."

    She settled against his chest, and against his groin.  Thin muscular

tremors ran through both of them, both holding still against a force that

pushed towards wild movement.

    "Thomas, if I have a child, will he be a wizard?  Can you see the future?"

    "I can see some futures.  An open choice is a powerful tool."  He paused

for a long moment, his body trembling like a sheepdog waiting for a word of

command.  "Healthy...and a wizard.  She will be a very powerful wizard."

    "She?  Will she be beautiful?  That is important, for a woman."

    "She will be beautiful when she chooses.  As you are beautiful."

    "You are teasing, I don't think you do that, do you?  Will she

be happy?"

    "That depends on her own choices.  Her existence depends on our choice;

on yours, for I will abide by yours. I cannot be with you at her birth, but if

you want her, she is yours."

    She pressed her forehead into his neck, wondering.

    "The choice is now," he said, "for strong magic like hers can hold a child

in the womb, long before she is a person.  Healcraft cannot eject her before

her time, only hurt her."

    "How can I keep her out, then?  Is that fair to her?"

    "You have joined me to your body, and I have learned much of it.  May I

speak of what I know?"  She nodded against him.

    "You are nineteen years old.  You have denied birth to...forty-seven of

your seed, by remaining virgin.  Once, when you were sixteen, you would have

had twins.  There is no justice to them, no injustice.  The choice is free."

    "I am filled with you," she said, "I want to overflow with you.  I want my

belly round with her, I want to feel her kicking at me, I want her born and

sucking at me.  I want our child."

    He turned and walked toward the chaise longue, twisting himself inside

her with each step he took.  At the head of it he leaned forward and placed

her buttocks there.  A little weight returned to her.  Grasping her wrists he

lifted her hands at last from his shoulders, and lowered her gently through

the increasing downward pull, until she rested with her head looking up at him,

her thighs still holding him.  He raised her ankles against his shoulders.

As he bent forward to touch her breasts, she found her bottom curled into

his thighs, her hips upward around his now vertical flesh.

    "I am the earth," she whispered, "you are the seed, the plough,

the gardener, planting me, what are you?"

    He began a steady vertical movement, almost out of her and in again,

which carried his hands up and down her slippery chest, her small breasts

moving with deeper and deeper breaths and the passage of his fingers, and

her hips twisting and pushing, the muscles inside her jerking and squeezing

and tightening wildly as he came down, came down, came down.

    "You are the rain, that turns the earth liquid, you are the thunderstorm,

you are the l_i_g_h_t_ning, you are the l_i_g_h_t_ning, you are the

l_i_g_h_t_ning, you are the l_i_g_h_t_ning,..." the rhythm peaked as

her legs went rigid against his ribs and he stood over her, coming in

pulses that spent their momentum deep inside her, welling up around him

like a pale grey flood, brimming over, but unspilled.

    Slowly, he pulled out from her, a little of his liquid draining back

off the length of him, rejoining the pool that receded into that narrowing

opening as he softened and slid from her once distended grasp.  Moving to her

side he eased her along the chaise longue until her hips were still upward,

on a pillow, but her legs were now held up by its head.  He raised her back

gently, sat down, and laid her head on his lap.

    "Lie here a little, if you want to help my seed to join yours, though it

is active stuff; already searching for your womb.  A little would be lost if

you stood up, but the child would still be almost certain."

    "I do not think I know how to stand up.  I am warm butter, I am as soft

as...why, as soft as John Thomas."  She turned her head toward his belly.

"I want to kiss him.  How is he so silky smooth?  Why do *these* lips notice

that, I didn't feel it before."  She pushed at him with a lazy tongue.  "A drop

there, that came too late.  I thought it would taste stronger, being so strong,

making babies.  Making babies.  I'm going to have a baby.  Thomas, I'm going

to have a baby."

    He lay his hand on her belly.  "Already my seed is swimming upwards.

At...yes, at midnight, our seed will join.  From midnight, you are her mother.

Is it well?"

    "Thomas," she said, "it is very well."

Part 4

    "Birgit," said the wizard, "perhaps you should come in here now."

    The thin connecting door to the next room slowly opened, to reveal a

tall young woman in the same green uniform that Ania had worn.  Her breathing

was uneven, and she still held the small brush she had held ready for sweeping

with, if found in the empty room. She looked in at the silk dress on the floor,

and at Ania asleep with a mouthful of naked wizard.  Her coppery face darkened.

    "Checking out tomorrow, sir?" she said coldly.  "I hope you have found

the service satisfactory."

    "You are angry."

    "You have taken Ania's cherry, and you're off tomorrow without a care.

What's she going to do?  If there's really a baby coming?"

    "Ania has taken my seed, by her own will."

    "Didn't enjoy it, did you?  Just an act of charity from a visiting sperm


    "I took great pleasure in it, Birgit, as did you. Show me the brush you are


    She held it out, unwilling, and the handle glistened wet. He breathed in,

and smiled at the scent of her.

    "Hearing her---excited like that...That's not the point!  You got her all

worked up, and gave her all that stuff about choice, and she decided in a hurry

like she always does.  Now she's pregnant---all right, don't interrupt me, you

pedantic old goat, from midnight she's pregnant---and nobody to care about her."

    "You do not care about her?"

    "Of course I care about her.  *I* care about Ania more than anything, and

*you* have just wrecked her life.  My best friend, just because you couldn't

stick to reading this."  She picked up The Journal of Thaumaturgical Topology

and threw it behind him with a sound of tearing paper.  "Bothers you when I do

that?  More than what's going to happen to her?"

    "She is your good friend.  And she is beautiful."

    "Of course she is, though she never saw it, and the damn bellboys are

too dumb to see it.  They only care about big tits like I have.  But I always

knew a man would see it, some merchant, maybe, and she'd be off with him

to raise babies and run a shop selling wool and linen.  I never did anything

to spoil that.  You've spoiled it, haven't you, just for an evening's `great

pleasure in it'.  And I never even told her how I wanted to touch her breasts."

    "Then why," asked a dreamy voice, "don't you touch them now?"  Ania

looked up at her with a peaceful smile.  "Birgit, I'm going to have a baby."

    "I know you are, you little...and who is going to look after you?  When

Madame Chorny dumps you in the street?"

    "Ania, I think we should offer our visitor a little wine."  He reached for

the jug.  "Shall I pour?"  She giggled, and then held very still as he filled

her navel until the wine rose like a round, polished ruby above her skin.

    "That tickles," she said, and a drop escaped to flow down her sweat-soaked

side.  "Birgit, I can't move until you drink it."

    Slowly, Birgit knelt beside her, and brought her lips to the surface of the

wine.  She gently sucked the top of it into her mouth, and with two long

movements licked Ania's belly, leaving a wine-red heart on her coffee-cream

flesh.  She mouthed each nipple, holding it between her lips in silence until

she drew them closed across it, and then moved her face to Ania's for an

endless kiss, while the wizard stroked her hair.  Eventually, she pulled away.

    "Oh Ania, Ania, what is to become of you?  He is going off to do whatever

it is he does, and you cannot stay long in our cubicle upstairs.  I cannot take

care of you in this."

    "Would you care for her," asked the wizard, "if you had a house?"

    "Of course I...hey, what's the idea?   One of those little houses for kept

women, over beyond Temple Hill?  She's your little mistress, when you care

to come by, and I'm her maid?  We visit with the other little pets, and keep

out of the way when their fat-bellied friends come calling?  I've had offers of

*that* more than once in this hotel, and I'd rather sweep floors for ever."

    "Your imagination paints vivid pictures, Birgit, but I would never think

of you or her in that one.  There is a picture, though, that you had her in

already.  On Bell Street, I think, the family Warend is trying to sell a linen

and wool shop."

    "On Bell Street?  That must be---they can't be selling *that*


    "They have had a shipwreck, and they must make choices.  This choice is

yours.  Do you want that shop?"

    "But surely that would cost, oh, I don't know, you can't be giving *that*

just for getting into Ania's pants."

    "I wasn't wearing any."

    "And I am not giving anything for that.  It was a gift between us.

Such a shop would satisfy you as lore satisfies me, you would serve the people

of this city, and you could pay me such return as seems reasonable to your

merchant-family soul---no, I'm not spying on your mind, you walk like a

merchant's daughter, allow me the perceptions of the ordinary man.  I expect

your family was destroyed by the sheeprot plague of ten years ago, so many

wool merchants were.  I am suggesting this because you belong in that shop."

    "Like John Thomas belonged in me," said Ania dreamily.

    "Ania!  You will have to think of other things,soon enough.  Sir, let us

be serious.  You are talking about a great deal of money."

    "Money is not the most serious subject, to a wizard, except for the dangers

in being careless with it.  You can wreck the commerce of a whole city by

turning lead into gold.  There is no such problem in buying a shop with a

cargo of what you are wearing."

    "I am wearing...oh. Silk."

    "You are wearing rather more than Ania was,"  said the wizard approvingly.

"I think that is wise, with your build. But you will find it is all silk;

only a trained eye can see the line at your hips.  I rather fancy myself with


    "You rather fancy yourself, altogether," said Birgit.  "Trained eye!"

She rocked back on her heels and started to laugh.  "I think I like you,

after all.  You do seem to think of yourself as God the Father, but you

did ask first, and Ania got more of a bang out it than the Virgin Mary.

Very well.  The shop in Bell Street.  We will pay you eight per cent per annum,

interest, paying off the principal as we can."

    "And whenever you are in the city," said Ania, "unless you prefer

This Great Hotel, a bed for the night."

    "*A* bed for the night?" said Birgit. "Well, accomodation is a fair item of

trade, I suppose.  It is then no part if the contract if we decide, maybe to

save on sheets, to give you---"

    "---*our*  bed for the night," said Ania.  She sat up and leaned against

the wizard, holding her legs carefully together. "Good, I don't seem to be

leaking.  Oh, except there," as the last few drops of wine rolled down to join

the other liquids that had matted her hair to a flat,fragrant mass.

"That doesn't matter."

    "You really do want a baby?" Birgit asked her, "and you want..."

    "To keep a shop?  And live with you?  John Thomas is wonderful," she

reached across and held him, stroking gently with her thumb as she continued

talking, "but I couldn't live comfortably with anybody but you. A big, hard,

wise person like this is more of a teacher."

    "Hard," said Birgit, prodding him in the belly, "huh.  I never knew a man

that was hard there if he didn't get the chance to stiffen his muscles first,

and I never knew a man that didn't do that.  Thought so," she said, prodding

him again.  "Stiff as a board, now.  Men!"

    "Well, I like him, there too, and the best way to feel it is with your own

tummy," said Ania, "but it's not really such an interesting body as yours.

I always thought your breasts were the shape breasts are supposed to be,

I didn't feel I *had* breasts at all, really, until...anyway, I do now,

but I still think yours are nicer.  Come and sit here."  She made a space

between herself and the wizard.

    Birgit sat down between them, with Ania's small right arm around her,

under the ribs.  "I don't think I can quite reach that one," said Ania,

straining around to touch the nipple, "maybe you'd better lie down," and

pulled her sideways to lie across her lap, her head pillowed by the end

of the chaise longue.  Trying to wriggle into a more comfortable position,

she found her knees across the wizard's lap.

    "They're firm, your breasts, aren't they?" said Ania, running her hands

smoothly over them.  "I always thought they would be, not like Madame

Chorny's.  Or are they just being held firmly?  It's not really fair,

you wearing all these clothes when we're not."  She pulled the silk dress up

over Birgit's knees, with a slippery sound as they dragged against the wizard's

legs.  "Raise your hips a little," and gathered it up around the waist.

    "This morning I put on respectable white cotton drawers," said Birgit,

"not black lace nothing-very-much."

    "With your red-brown skin," said the wizard, "I thought black would

look nice."

    "And you were expecting to look, of course."

    "And it does look nice, doesn't it?" said Ania,  "Upsy-daisy,"  and lifted

Birgit's back to slip the dress up to her shoulders.  "Peel it off, so it won't

get crumpled.  Now, what else are you wearing?"  The breasts were held by a fine

web of silk, exactly shaped to her, gossamer thin where it reached behind

her, changing gradually from a red gauze invisible against her skin to fine

firm silken cloth over the nipples, as black as the pupils of her eyes.

    Birgit looked down at it, and watched Ania's slim fingers rub against the

silk.  "You do fancy yourself in textiles, don't you?" she said. "How does

this thing undo?  If I know men..."  She fumbled for a moment between her

breasts.  "At the front. Of course."  She freed the fastening, but the web still

cupped each breast, pulling them slightly outward.  Ania peeled it off the one

nearest her own breasts, and the end slipped down into her lap.

    "Now I can feel one of each.  This one's a little softer now, even with

the silk still on, because it's not being pulled. But even this one, without

anything, stays so round, and so strong."

    "They droop a bit when I'm standing," said Birgit, "as Mr Textile here

implied.  He obviously knows tits like he knows cloth.  No, don't stop doing

that."  Ania's hand went back to running over belly and breasts, as her own

right hand moved behind Ania's back and up and down the spine.  "And no

wizards sitting idle, either."

    He began to slide his right hand from her ankle to her thigh, and cupped

his left with a soft pressure over the black silk between her legs.  She pushed

against his hand, rubbing her shoulder blades against Ania's lap, and her

breath came faster. She lay there contented, her eyes shut, while four hands

moved over her body.

    "What's at the back of my knee?  John Thomas standing tall again?"

She tautened her leg muscles to trap the end of him for a moment. "You be

careful with that thing.  Don't think every woman just wants a baby."

    "Your latest seed passed your womb five days ago," he said, "it is three

weeks since you bled.  You cannot start a child before Michaelmas."

    "And I'm not planning to start one then."  She moved her legs up his lap,

to trap him between her knees with a rolling motion.  "If you just let it into

the air, how high does it go?"

    "That depends on how I am aroused. With you here, and Ania beside

me, doing that to you, and if you do *that with your knees much longer,

it will reach the ceiling with no magical help."  He slipped a finger under

the black lace, and began to run it up and down, just inside her.  "Your own

arousal makes sure of mine."

    "Feeling mine with your fancy magic?  Peeping Thomas?"

    "I see it in the swelling of your lips and nipples, I smell it in the juice

you are pouring over my fingers, I feel it in the firmness of you in here,"

he reached a second finger under the lace, and tweaked the flesh between her

lips, "this is much older than magic."

    "Keep doing that.  Keep doing it."  She reached down and unfastened the

lace at her hip.  "I knew it would open that way... Put your fingers inside

me.  Inside."

    Ania reached with her left hand to hold the wizard's left. Laying her

forefinger along his, she pushed both into Birgit, rubbing against each other

flesh around them.  Her knuckles, where her other fingers wrapped around

his larger hand, kneaded and pressed above the opening.  Her left hand still

moved over throat, breasts, and belly; his right, from ankle to thigh.

Birgit's legs began to move jerkily.

    "Birgit, I don't think we should treat John Thomas like that. He likes to

be held.  Grasped and supported, not banged by your knees.  I want to put

him in here," and she pulled her forefinger a little apart from the wizard's,

stretching Birgit's opening from inside.  A spasm of its muscles pulled them

back together, squeezed bone against bone. "Turn over, Birgit."

    Birgit rolled over towards them, raising herself from the space between

their laps and shifting onto his legs.  Ania spread her open with her right

hand, grasped the trembling stiffness of the wizard with the other, and brought

them together.  Once the tip was inside, her left hand pulled behind Birgit's

legs, so that the rolling finished with a smooth slide onto him and Birgit's

head on her own lap, which Birgit pushed apart, bringing her mouth to Ania's

mound.  Joined through Birgit and in a kiss, gold hands meeting pale pale

brown as they roved across her coppery back or reached between her legs to

hold her and to stroke her, six hips jerking together, Ania and the wizard

felt her body's release and subsided, gasping, with her.

    "I hope you were right about Michaelmas," she said, sitting in a cuddle

between them. "I have a shop to organise, and this one to look after." She

patted Ania's stomach.

    "Oh, Birgit, I'm going to have a baby. A wizardly baby."

    "I know, sweeting.  And what a magic toddler can do to a well-run household,

I can't wait to find out. I just hope *I'm* not going to have one for a while."

    "You need not fear my seed.  I interrupted time for it."  He slipped two

golden fingers inside her, and pulled out a thick, uneven, pearly-grey thread.

"It is all here, and cannot wake except where it can make a child.  If ever

you want my baby, use it when your body is fertile.  Put it back inside you

and give your body pleasure---I am sure Ania will help.  It will turn again to

liquid, and find your own seed."

    "Oh Birgit, sometime... I want to put his child in you, I want to suck

your milk, I want a little brother for my own baby.  Please, Birgit?"

    "Sometime, Ania.  When you're ready to run the shop for a while.

But how can we recognise a fertile time?"

    "See," said the wizard, putting the thread against Ania where the

well-sucked cleft still stood a little open, "Ania has a fertile seed,

not yet touched."  The thread twitched, like a cat dreaming in its sleep.

He moved it to Birgit; even with an end inside her, it lay still.

     "As I told you, you cannot make a child now.  When your body is ready,

this will know."

     "Ania said a brother.  Can you tell?"

     "No.  I can tell only at the moment of choice, and this choice is not yet.

With Ania, I knew the time, and who will be close by when my seed meets hers,

in here."  He placed his hand over her belly, and Birgit put hers over his.

     "You will both be close by," said Ania, "it is close to midnight now.

Did you know she would be here?"

     "I felt her love and her anger around you, soon after you came in."

     "You knew she would join us like this?"

     "I could sense what would flow from your choice.  If it had meant

your abandonment on the streets, do you think *I* could have chosen to do

what we did?"

     "Of course not," said Birgit.  "You are the Lord of the Good Guys,

aren't you?  That's in the past, now, the present is that Ania is just about

to conceive.  How are we going to celebrate?"

     "What do you mean?" said Ania.

     "Well, I think we should mark the moment.  Can you tell us exactly

when it happens?"

     "The feelings of the seeds are tiny, but intense at that moment.

I can pass them through all of us."

     "Well, there's an idea I want to try: you lean well back.  Ania, get on his

lap, no, right against his slightly soft stomach, lean right back.  That's nice,

John Thomas is sitting up between your legs."  She reached out a hand to cradle

the hairy mass just beneath.

"Good little boy, sit up straight."

     "I can't get him in, at this angle."

     "You're not supposed to.  Raise your right leg a bit."  Birgit climbed

on to the wizard's knees, slipped her own left leg under it, and passed her

right over Ania's left, around behind him.  Ania felt gravity lessen its hold

on her a little, as the wizard reduced the strain on his lap.

     "Now, he's nicely between us, you see?"  Birgit pulled open her mound to

wrap the lips around one side of him, then did the same for Ania's on the other.

"He's wrapped in flesh, now, isn't he?" she said as she pressed their bodies

together.  "Not all parched and stretched and lonely?"

     "Birgit," said the wizard, "your mind is as fertile as Ania's body.

John Thomas feels cherished."

     "Good, put your magic hands around her there, I'm sure it will be good

for her milk when the need comes.  Oh, you'll have big tits then, Ania,

I can see it.  And hold up mine with *your* hands, yes, go on doing that.

Try nibbling on his ear---*that* made John Thomas twitch.  Look at the darling

tip of him, nestling between us and barely peeking out!  Makes me feel quite

sentimental.  Now, I'll put my hands around your waist, where it's all going

to happen, and I'll stop talking, so we can feel it."

     They moved gently against each other.  The friction of their skins

pulled on the tension they felt, as the distance narrowed between

invisible things that yearned for each other so entirely that the

ordinary love and lust of a grown body seemed like casual liking.

Ania moaned with pleasure, feeling the two lovers outside her body,

the two longings inside it, closer and closer, groins pressed close

and grinding each other and the flesh between them, until the seeds met

and hips thrust against each other like fighting rams,

juices washing over a member that thrummed with the flow of its own.

     "I can *feel* I'm pregnant now," said Ania, when they were able to speak

again.  "He was quite right, it was midnight."

     "Oh, he's always right," said Birgit, "about everything.  Look."

She pointed upwards.  "He did hit the ceiling."



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