The vat bubbled, and Albrecht looked up from his spellbooks when he heard the bubbles pop. Quickly, he stood up from the small table jammed into the corner of his bakery and took up his staff, which had been leaning against the wall nearby. He crossed the baking floor to the huge vat of dough and climbed the step-stool up to its rim. He stuck the end of his staff in and began to stir furiously while chanting the incantations he'd spent the last hour going over again and again. The broad, spatulate head of his staff churned the contents of the vat like an oversized wooden spoon, channeling arcane energy through his hands down into the gooey mixture: gingerbread dough.
Words of power echoed through the empty bakery as he chanted; he'd dismissed his apprentices and baker's assistants alike the night before, for today's undertaking was one meant for him alone. A grin split his face above his neatly trimmed beard as the dough in the vat roiled of its own accord. He gave his staff one last stir and then left it, leaping down off the step stool to prepare the next phase of the spell. His staff kept turning, stirring the dough without his hand guiding it.
On the floor below the vat stood the focus of the next part of his endeavours: a tall, iron mould, split in two and hinged. He dashed back to his table, snatching a large clay pot from where it had been propping up a spellbook, and ran back to the mould. He swung the two halves apart on well-oiled hinges, and opened the pot. He pulled a horse-hair brush out of the sleeve of his wizard's robe, dipped it into the open pot, and began to paint the inside of the mould with his unguent, a compound he had carefully mixed the night before. He chanted yet more arcane phrases as he went, coating each curve and cranny of the mould with the slightly buttery formula. When the pot had been depleted and the last square inch had been covered, he swung the two halves of the mould closed again and sealed them together with two heavy locks.
The vat continued to bubble, hot dough writhing as his staff continued to stir. It was almost time. He pushed the mould up to the edge of the vat, then waved his hand and spoke an eldritch word. Chains descended from the rafters of the bakery ceiling, lashing themselves around the great vat of dough. He yanked his hand down, as though hauling on an invisible cord, and the chains lifted the vat up off the smokeless fire it had been resting on. The flames vanished, no longer needed, and Albrecht made another gesture, causing the vat to slowly tip forward, until the hot gingerbread dough was almost spilling out. He formed a picture in his mind of exactly what he desired, and spoke the final word of his incantations. The vat tipped, pouring thick, steaming dough into the open mouth of the mould.
The mould was full in a matter of moments. Time was critical now. He left the vat, still dripping the last dregs of hot dough onto the floor, and pushed the mould into the tall, walk-in oven he'd originally built to bake enormous batches of pastry at once. Every rack had been torn out, however, leaving a tall, brick-lined space, just big enough to fit the mould. He strained with both his arms and his arcane might, and in minutes, the mould stood at the back of the oven. He quickly shut the door and began to stoke the fire- a real fire this time, not a conjured one. He was at the limits of his magical power as it was, and he wasn't through yet. With some effort, the fire roared to life. Sweat standing out on his brow, he painted glowing runes of power on the oven door and spoke one final enchantment. That done, stumbled back over to his table to wait, exhausted by the long, sleepless night, and by his vast expenditure of power. Head down on the open face of a spellbook, he slipped into sleep and began to dream.
He woke to the sound of a dull, metallic pounding, and had to fight back an almost overwhelming surge of loneliness as his wife's soft smile slipped inevitably back into the fog of his dream. He shook his head and stood, the beginnings of giddy excitement replacing the feeling; he'd been lonely for a long time after his wife had died so young, but would not be for much longer. Not if that pounding meant success. He crossed the bakery floor, now dappled with morning sunlight, and stood in front of the giant oven's thick steel door. The pounding echoed from inside. He cast about for his staff, finding it still gently spinning in the empty vat, and picked it up, wanting to make a powerful first impression. He struck the floor with the tip of his staff, and the oven door swung open.
The mould stood revealed within, blocky and imposing. The pounding continued. He struck his staff against the floor again.The locks on the mould burst open and fell off, and the two halves swung slowly apart. And there, revealed, stood the most beautiful thing Albrecht could imagine.
Her skin was a deep, warm brown, glowing in the morning sunlight, still carrying the residue of the magical oil he had coated the mould with. Her legs were long and slim, her stomach smooth, her breasts full and pert, like two perfectly baked confections. Her face was delicate and warm, her hair, a gooey mess of uncooked dough about her shoulders. Between her thighs, her lower lips peeked out, slightly puffed by the rising of the dough. She was a golem, a perfect golem of gingerbread. Her eyes opened, revealing dark, warm depths.
"Come to me," said Albrecht, extending his nearly trembling hand. "I know you can. Come." She blinked, and pulled out of the mould with a slight sucking sound. Her perfectly baked feet touched the brick floor of the oven tentatively, and she took a shaky step towards him before stumbling. Albrecht stepped forward, but she caught herself, and her next step was more confident.
"That's right," said Albrecht, smiling warmly. "This is walking. Now another step. Come this way." She came shakily towards him, still feeling her way, and Albrecht backed out of the door of the oven. She followed him out into the bakery proper, looking around with confused eyes.
"Yes," said Albrecht, taking her shoulders in his hands when she got close to him. Her eyes snapped back to his. Her skin was deliciously warm to the touch, like fresh bread, and she smelled of cinnamon and cloves. Her eyes were moist pools of molasses.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked her gently. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, eyes wide at the new sensation of air on her tongue.
"Ma... Master?" she said, hesitantly.
"Good!" said Albrecht. "Good. You can talk. That's right, I'm your master. I created you."
She looked down at herself, seeing herself for the first time. She marvelled at her hands, her dark brown fingers curling and uncurling. Sweet steam escaped from her joints as she began to cool.
"Why?" she said, after a moment.
"Because I was alone," said Albrecht. She accepted his answer at face value, and turned to look around the bakery again, enraptured by her first view of objects she had never in her short existence seen before. Albrecht reached up gently, and brushed his fingers over her gooey hair.
She spun around to look at him, eyes wide again. "...Master?" she squeaked, cheeks darkening as molasses pooled under her warm skin.
"Did I hurt you?" Albrecht asked, drawing his hand back. Golems were unpredictable. He'd done his best while creating this one, but it was possible she was more fragile than she appeared.
"N-no." she said. She stepped closer to him, unconsciously. She still radiated the heat of the oven, even if she was beginning to cool off. Impulsively, Albrecht leaned in and kissed her on the mouth.
Her hands flailed for an instant, and then found the front of his robes and clutched. She tasted wonderful--exactly like he'd expected a golem made of gingerbread to taste, all cinnamon and clove. At first she was passive under the kiss, but after a moment, her lips began to move, and her tongue found his.
"Master..." she said, when he broke the kiss.
