Douglas Niles - Circle at center

“Warrior Natac…”

The words were a whisper through the darkness, a sound of pure beauty in a womanly voice that drew a groan of desire from his lips. And with the utterance he began to feel a measure of control over the muscles of his mouth and throat.

At the same time, he realized that she had spoken to him in a language that he had never heard-yet the words burned with clear meaning in his mind. To compound his wonder, he replied in the same tongue:

“Woman… I hear you… but where are you? Where am I?”

“Shhh… you must listen, warrior.”

“Speak-tell me!” Natac demanded, struggling again to move, to feel his arms and legs.

Gradually he perceived that he was standing, with his feet planted firmly on a smooth, hard floor. His fingers clenched in answer to his will, and then he could feel his arms. Immediately his hand went to his chest, where it seemed that only a moment ago the priest had ripped out his heart.

But his skin was whole. Too, he could feel the steady pumping of that vital muscle through the intact bones of his rib cage.

Only then did he begin to discern a faint illumination, a muted wash of light from several small clay lamps. He was surprised to see that, unlike the pottery found in even the most backward mountain village, these lamps were formed of simple curves, unadorned by the images of gods. They burned from niches in the stone walls, and the surfaces between the niches were lined with thick furs, the lush pelts of animals huger than any Natac had ever seen. He was looking at one side of a cozy chamber, and guessed that the woman must be behind him.

With that realization he tried to whirl around to seek her, but though his wish was clear in his mind, his flesh responded slowly. Almost as though mired in thick mud, his feet dragged across the floor, and even when he had turned, the woman came into view only gradually, an image emerging from a red, smoky haze.

First he saw her eyes: huge, wide, and so deep a purple that they might have been black. They stared at him with tenderness and affection-but in their depths lurked a haunting sadness that threatened to break the heart he had just rediscovered. Soft and liquid, her look drew him in until desire weakened his knees and brought another involuntary groan from his throat.

Very gradually he realized that those eyes were set into a face of breathtaking beauty. The woman’s skin of unblemished copper gleamed like gold in the soft lamplight, highlighted by a small, upturned nose, and lips that were full and wide, rouged to an exotic shade of bright crimson. That lush mouth smiled, softly, and once again Natac had an impression of a distant sadness, a shadow reflected in those violet eyes hinting at something regretful within this woman.

But he had no further thoughts about that.

Her hair was thick and black, straight and long enough to spread in a fan over her shoulders and torso. A flower, a bloodred poppy matching the shade of her lip rouge, was set above her ear, blooming in perfect complement to the triple petals of her high cheekbones and delicate chin.

“Who are you?” asked the Tlaxcalan, hesitantly giving voice to the words-as if he feared that any further sound might cause this exquisite apparition to disappear. Once more that strange language came from his mouth, as fluently as he had ever spoken Nahuatl.

“Call me Miradel, Warrior Natac.” Again he heard that deep, solid voice, and this time it seemed like a steadying thing, a promise that she was real, that she would not vanish in the blink of his eye.

“Miradel?” He had never heard a name like that, and it was music when it flowed from his lips. “By the Smoking Mirror-you’re beautiful!”

“My beauty is a gift for you, now, and here.”

He was stunned by her words, and desperate to have her. But he forced a moment’s hesitation with another question.

“Is this Mictlan… or what place?”

“There will be time, later, for that… for all of your questions.” She stood, and only then did Natac realize that she had been kneeling on a fur-lined pallet that was itself supported a short distance off the floor. A white mantle of soft cotton was draped over her shoulders, and her unbound breasts bounced slightly as she rose. When the garment swirled to the side, he saw the bare skin of her hip, and ached with the knowledge that she was naked underneath the filmy gauze of cloth.

Somehow he had forgotten his own uncovered state, but even with sudden recollection he felt no discomfort, none of the modesty that should have inhibited him in the presence of this unknown woman.

“The time now is for us,” Miradel concluded, coming to him, taking his hardness in her hand. “You need me, warrior-and you must make love to me with all your heart, all your being.”

“Yes, my lady-I will!” he whispered, once again fearful that a strong breath of his voice might whisk her away.

Natac had enjoyed many women during his life. His beloved wife had been a splendid lover until age had dimmed her interest. And he had not infrequently availed himself of the young concubines who were always ready to serve the pleasure of honored warriors. But he had never felt desire, a consuming lust, such as now pounded in his chest.

Slowly, reverently, he reached to embrace her, then chilled as his arms moved through her with ghostly ease. He leaned into her, feeling the warmth of her flesh-but no other sensations, nothing in his own skin.

“You must let me touch you,” she whispered. “At least in the beginning…”

Seeing the fire in her dark eyes, Natac guessed that Miradel’s passion was as profound as his own. Her hand squeezed, and his lust surged beneath the pressure of her fingers. Then he felt her lips against his bare shoulder, smelled the cool fullness of her hair sweetened by the blossom.

They moved toward the pallet, she backward and he following like a shadow. Miradel sank down, curling her knees onto the soft fur. And then her mouth took him in, surrounding him with bliss. For timeless moments he knew only pleasure, and a building sense of imminent explosion. Her hands reached around him, pulling him against her face, and he erupted with shuddering force. Natac still stood, swaying almost drunkenly as the pure onslaught of sensation melted into soft satisfaction.

But, surprisingly, he was still hard, still consumed with desire. His senses returned to the room and he watched as Miradel, once more raising that wistful smile, leaned backward across the soft bed of fur.

“The magic is strong… you can touch me, now,” she said softly, invitingly.

He reached before she fully reclined, tugged away her mantle with a single pull. Finally she lay utterly naked before him, reaching upward, arching her back in sublime invitation. Hands alive with tingling feeling, Natac touched her slender foot, stroked the soft skin of her lower leg as he knelt.

The tiny tuft of black was a magnet, drawing his full attention. Reverently he knelt at the pallet, laid his smooth cheek against the silken skin of her leg. Her musk, that sensation that had been his first awareness of this strange existence, was like a powerful drug, drawing him inexorably. He kissed, and he relished the inhalation of her thick scent.

Finally he lifted his head and moved slowly upward, reluctant to break contact with any part of that glorious skin. His own flesh tingled as he stroked across her flat belly to the twin, coppery domes of her breasts. Miradel shivered as he nuzzled first one, then the other; finally she pulled him higher, so that their lips met, tongues intertwining like frantic serpents.

All the while he relished the new feeling in his skin. He touched the thick strands of her hair as he stroked downward from her neck, along her back, ultimately feeling the firm curve of her buttocks, cheeks clenching as his fingers slipped into the fleshy cleft. She sighed softly, pulling him against her as he stroked one of her breasts and felt the nipple harden in his gentle fingers.