Flight 4

I can't remember when last I wasn't running, since love, or lust, drove me to the betrayal of my father and my homeland. Now I run through dry woods, through fallen trees and branches that block my path, picked out by a swollen moon. The catastrophe that destroyed my home struck here too, the constant taste of ash in my mouth a thing I cannot become used to. I can hear him behind me, even through the pounding of my own heart, the constant rush of my breathing and whatever it is that has filled my body from that sweet fermented brew we all shared.

The loose robe snags and tears. I yank free and continue running. It's becoming easier, my instincts leading me over and around more and more obstacles, but he doesn't seem to be slowed at all, just as he won't be impeded when he catches me. My body is soaked in sweat, my inner thighs slippery from my own desire, my breasts, almost virgin-firm, a gift for my pursuer, ripple under fabric. For now, he has to chase me down.

My blood is up, and I run like the wind that brought me here, after my lover's father destroyed the only home I ever knew. My feet are tough – sandals are merely formal and it was once safe to run the streets of mighty Knossos barefoot and alone. This is different. This is sacred. I try to find a way through the gorge that looms in front of me, trying to keep running. I fail and tumble, as my home tumbled so few days ago.

He's on me then, hot and hard. I see a staff, topped with a pinecone, before it falls behind us and I know this man is not truly a man. We fall together, faces first, to the ground, his breath on my ear, his legs between mine, and his arms around me from behind, and we roll into hidden seclusion. The scent of fresh male sweat fills me. My lover can turn me on. The moonlight, the woods, the wine and herbs they gave me, this man, rock solid; these are turning me into something else. I see a soft cape, clearly his only garment, tossed aside. Back at the temple the men of this rite wore no garments. I pretend to struggle, but he holds me down, sitting on my legs, the hair on his thighs and between brushing my skin, then rips my robe from neck to hem and twice more from tear to arms. The pressure on my thighs eases, and he turns me over.

To my surprise his face is beardless, like a boy's. Then I see his eyes, deep in moonlight. I fall again, into darkness, then into light. My belly sears with lust. He reaches over me. I expect him to fill me, but he pulls my robe away, tossing the rag aside and leaving me lying upon dry moss. I hear him whisper.

'No, Mistress of the Corn.' A title, and my name in the ancient language of the east. 'You have yet to learn patience. First, I drink your honeydew. Then I winnow your past from your future.' His tongue slips inside my open mouth, wet, demanding. I feel his shaft, hot and hard, against me and I clasp him, my fingertips on his spine. He rises, and draws his own from throat to breasts. Power flows between us as he strokes my hardened nipples, and my senses lurch as he kneads firm softness beneath.

I see him smile, and I reach for thighs of hardened muscle. I should respect and fear this being, but other things are stronger. I can't reach the shaft that I need to feel inside me. His fingers slide down, across my flattened belly to the neat patch of fur below. I quiver, and again the weight of man, or more, is eased. Both hands slide between moistened legs, and I allow him to part them. He kneels between, using one hand to balance, while the palm of the other covers my mound, and a finger slides easily between by lips. He dabbles, stroking my hardened bud, then down to my sacred wellspring. Wet heat sears my body.

I see his head descend in the moonlight and feel hot breath begin to dry the dampness at my cleft. His hands, one damp with sweat, the other slick with nectar, clasp my thighs and raise them as I feel his tongue thrust inside. I grip his head, hair against my palms as I arch and scream. He doesn't stop, lapping round my petals, then upwards. Mind and body throb, and all that's left is sensation.

His thirst sated, but his appetite undimmed he rises, my legs still held in his grip. He has drunk from me, and now finally I must be filled. One thrust takes him deep, and in womb and mind brightness grows. Time departs, and from his flashing eyes it is no longer night. He, I, this place, its people, fields and shattered trees, are one. My body pulses in time with my heart and his throbbing shaft, and he allows my legs to twine his hips.

'The world has changed' he whispers. I feel worry swell, as I realize another betrayal must lie on my conscience. 'Forget your fears. Here you must stay.'