Tine woke up rudely and abruptly to the feel of something hard and wet wedged between his cheeks. He tried to roll but something weighed him down.

“Shh, don’t wiggle so much.”

Tine froze for a second trying to gather his thoughts.

“Yeah, that’s better.”

The hard wetness shifted. Tine unfroze, throwing his head back, relishing in the dull pain that followed the thud, crunch, and outraged outcry. He rolled quickly, gaining his freedom as his bedmate clutched a bloody nose. The noise brought another guard barging into the room demanding answers.

Disoriented Tine focused on the two threats and any possible escape avenues. Seconds later he found himself on the other side of the windowsill in a freshly turned flowerbed. The unblooded guard poked his head out the window, grabbing for Tine, who turned and ran.

Vaguely aware he was not being chased, Tine slowed to a limping walk, his sides heaving as took in his surroundings. Nothing looked familiar. Tine sighed and kept moving until he saw a glow on a hill. With little else to guide him, he headed toward the glow and steadily made progress toward it. In the hour before dawn the glow began to fade, but Tine was now close enough that he could make it on his own. It was a large building with what seemed like hundreds of steps to reach the raised courtyard. The sun was peeking over the city wall before Tine finished climbing.

He was a wreck: exhausted, filthy, and scantily dressed with a tear-streaked face. The young girl at the top of the stair took one look at him and held out her hand. Tine accepted it and together they entered the Temple of the Moon.

“The Maiden is expecting you,” she said as she led him down a hall to a door that billowed steam when it was opened. “But I’m sure you would appreciate a chance to clean up a little beforehand.”

“Yes, thank you,” Tine said quietly. He remembered some of the things Bra-Neche had told him about the Maiden, how she was good, and helped people who needed it. He wept again, but this time in relief.

The girl led him to a bench where he sat at her insistence. She knelt before him and washed his feet, her touch gentle on his wounds. When she finished she bid him to stand. His loosened pants pooled at his feet. He stepped out of them and followed her as she led him into a pool of steaming water. Her garment clung to her wet form, outlining her curves. He found himself responding to her touch as she washed his body. He emitted a soft cry as she finished washing his most intimate parts.

Clean and nude, he followed her again from the steaming bath and out another door. This hallway was as well lit as the other had been, but the doors were further apart. She stopped before the last door on the hall and turned to him, “You must enter the womb of the Maiden freely; there is the entry.” Then she waited.

Tine looked at the door, took a deep breath, and opened it to darkness. He could see well enough to determine there were down leading stairs. He was down five steps when he realized the door had been shut behind him and he was alone. He turned and went back up six, seven, eight steps when he sensed he was walking downward again. He turned yet again and went ten steps before the downward feeling began. He could see no light, no way to go but down. So he descended.

And descended.

Finally, when he was about to give up hope that he would ever find his way out again, he noticed a faint glow and headed toward it.

A cavernous amphitheater opened up before him. It was empty. Or nearly empty, he determined as he noticed one figure standing in the shadows.

“You are not one of Gavi’s get,” the voice echoed in the shadows, “Nor are you Surils, yet… there is the taste of Costan about you. Therefore you are still a son of the mother of us all.” The figure detached from the shadows, frail and pale in the ambient light. “Which makes me question… who?”

Tine trembled, his voice quivered as he asked, “I’m not a Son of Suril?”

“No,” a single wan hand with gnarled fingers beckoned him closer, “you are not.”

Tine cautiously stepped closer more curious than afraid, “If not Suril then who?”

“Costan had many sons. Gavi destroyed many of them before they could populate the lands. Some managed to find Daughters of the Moon to bear their sons, passing them off as Gavi’s get. Some fled into the far-flung lands where Gavi would not follow. Maraduke was one such son of Costan. He and Mali, a younger son, confused Gavi by each fleeing in opposite directions. Gavi could not follow both and in time he could not find either.” She, for Tine was certain the creature before him was female, drew him closer, close enough to touch, to smell, to taste on the air. She reached out to him, caressing him with her claw-like hands. Tine felt himself drawn to her, becoming tumescent as the seconds drew to minutes. His fluids flowed, a single drop at a time. Tine shuddered as she led him to a low bench, her robe parting slightly as she guided him into her. His semen flowed from his body to hers almost without his participation, as if she summoned it from his loins. She cried out, clutching him to her, her body shaking. The hood she had drawn closed became loose as she jerked and Tine gasped as he looked into her milky eyes. Her skin was thin and wrinkled with dark spots; her hair silver and thin.

Tine tried to pull away, but she clutched at him, clinging. A cry escaped her throat. Tine closed his eyes a moment. When he reopened them, she had changed. Her brittle locks had darkened, became softer, more vibrant. Her skin had filled out and smoothed, the spots gone. Her body and gone from bone to soft curves. She buried her face into the crook of his neck and whispered, “Tabolt’s get,” then she vanished entirely.