Tales of the Djinn: The Guardian (34 page)

“Yes,” the phantom lover growled.

Luna moved her feet, first the left and then
the right. She liked sex and the teasing that went with it. It was
no surprise that she was aroused. When a trickle of excitement ran
down her inner thigh, however, that startled her a bit.

The phantom saw the rivulet. He let out a
groan so raw she couldn’t help shivering.

“Ass
up
!” the sultan snapped like a
sexual drill sergeant.

The sorceress barely had a second to comply.
The phantom streaked to her, clamped both smoke hands around her
hips, and shoved his cock to the very end of her vagina.

Anyone in Luna’s position knows a smoke form
feels similar to a gale force wind. The edges are almost solid, but
they penetrate more deeply than purely physical objects can. Smoke
forms hum as if lightning ran through them, providing a delectable
vibration. Despite her worldly habits, Luna hadn’t done this
before. The fetish was too eccentric.

She discovered she liked it.

The sultan had experience refining his
technique. He knew how to blur his edges to strum a woman’s nerves.
Before he’d finished pumping in and out even once, Luna was
moaning. By the time he’d enjoyed half a dozen strokes, she’d
almost swooned from the strength of her sensations. The sultan’s
sensual assault couldn’t be resisted. He was in her everywhere. He
was also bigger than a normal man. Luna felt overwhelmed, a rare
state for an empress. Iksander was in control of her, from his
driving cock to the fingers that gripped her hipbones like fiery
steel.

Sensing she needed anchoring, her phantom
lover nipped the bend between her neck and shoulder.

“Do not faint,” he warned. “If you do, you’ll
miss your orgasm.”

The implication that he would still take his
both outraged and titillated her.

“You’d have to stop as well,” she panted, “if
I were unconscious.”

“I wouldn’t be able to,” he contradicted. “I
am a monster. I need my monstrous release too much.”

Well, that was an interesting answer,
especially since the mere mention of stopping made him thrust more
frenziedly.

“Give yourself up to me,” he said. His smoke
hands slid down her arms to shackle her at the wrists, which
strained from the clutch she had on the chaise cushion. “I need it.
I need it. Fucking hell, I need it.”

His compulsive chant made her need it too.
She arched her bottom higher, inviting him farther in. Her nerves
were tightening, her pussy unable to grip him even a little bit.
His pelvis made no sound as it hit her buttocks. She cried out
hoarsely, still not coming.

“Thirty heartbeats,” he rasped, his smoke so
dense his next thrust jolted her onto her toes. “Thirty strokes and
you’ll explode.”

She wanted the climax more than she’d ever
wanted anything. She whimpered with desire, too agitated to keep
count. His cock was bigger, hotter. If he tore her apart, she
suspected she’d scream with thanks. She slammed her rear back at
him, his nearly solid rod a torturous delight pumping her
pussy.

“Now,” he roared, shoving in so hard his
smoke form and her body overlapped.

Her nerves shot fire from the hum of their
spirits occupying the same space. She came and came, from her
fingertips to her toes. Liquid gushed. Muscles spasmed. Burning
lungs fought for air. The reactions were all hers: her personal
earthquake. Her pleasure was unspeakable—a perfect terror of
ecstasy.

In the middle of the tumult, the sultan
groaned violently with relief. Smoke from his ejaculation
overflowed her in a great cloud.

When the cataclysm in her pussy ended, the
mighty sorceress could not move one muscle. The sultan, by
contrast, was simply warming up.

“Ahh,” he sighed, a long mellow sound. “That
was excellent. Shall we do it again? Perhaps on your bed this
time?”

He had to carry her in his buzzy arms. Her
knees wobbled too badly to support her.

The city’s phantom showed her many pleasures
in the succeeding hours, everything he’d threatened and more
besides. Face down, with her hips propped on a bolster and both
hands laced behind her neck, the sultan took her anally. This
excited him so greatly he had to rub her button with his smoke
fingers to speed up her climax. Next he performed oral sex on
her—an interesting proposition when the tongue in question was all
buzz and no wetness. He made her come many times this way, with no
release for himself. Extremely wound up then, he ordered her to
pretend she was asleep while he masturbated beside her bed.

Luna would not have guessed the sultan’s
desires were this unusual. Her city had more of a reputation for
depraved sex. Obviously Iksander hadn’t exposed these interests to
his
kadin
. If he had, they wouldn’t have burst out so
potently now.

The sorceress hardly minded. She complied
with all his requests and savored them. Finally, he ordered her to
finger herself to orgasm while his smoke form occupied her body.
They came together, two sets of nerves coiling tight and then
springing loose in unison.

The sorceress’s understandable relaxation
caused her to fall asleep without meaning to. Her night with the
phantom had been the most extraordinary amatory experience of her
life. She understood why his partners never complained. They only
had energy for sighs of ecstasy.

Her eyes struggled open as the nearest clock
in the quarter gonged three times. Alarmed, she sat up. She didn’t
think she’d been sleeping long, but her bedchamber was abandoned.
Only the disarray of its furnishings suggested she’d had a visitor.
The sultan had left without a goodbye. Worse, he hadn’t remained to
the actual stroke of three.

That wasn’t right. Luna was superior to other
women. She shouldn’t have been given even one minute less.
Convinced there must be some mistake, she hung her red scarf out a
second time. The sultan did not return. To add insult to injury,
she overheard at the market that a rug merchant’s plain-faced
daughter had been his chosen one. The girl hadn’t hung out a scarf.
He had simply showed up outside her room and knocked.

Night after night, the same thing happened—no
matter what she arranged to befall the other women’s scarves.
Finally, she changed apartments to make him think she was someone
new. He showed up then but took one look at her and gathered his
smoke together in preparation for leaving.

“Wait,” she cried.

He paused momentarily, green eyes glinting as
his cloud shape hung in the air. Luna pressed her hands to her
heart. She addressed the sultan sincerely, with a tenderness that
surprised her.

“You don’t have to go. I am an empress, nobly
born like you. You and I can share a real life together. I know our
connection was stronger than the others. I see no reason we
shouldn’t be happy.”

The sultan’s green eyes blinked. His shadowy
mouth opened as if he would speak. He seemed to think better of it.
He shook his head twice—unmistakably. Then he streaked away from
her.

In an instant, Luna’s desperation changed.
Fury cut through it like a sword. Iksander had rejected her,
probably in favor of some sardine-scented fisherman’s daughter.

No one rejected the empress—not without
paying handsomely. In a flash, how to make the sultan pay came to
her. Whatever he believed about his feelings, he obviously still
loved his banished wife. Luna had failed to make him hate her. This
was grief he was expressing, not simply erotic obsession.

Luna decided to eliminate the chance that
he’d summon Najat home.

~

It is a lesson all mages learn that, no
matter how strong they are, someone somewhere will outdo them.
Though the eunuch hid Najat’s location carefully, before a day had
passed, the empress discovered it. Luna had many magical resources
and rage had increased her power. She traveled easily to the
isolated mountain fortress. Once there, she cast a sleep spell on
its inhabitants, leaving only Najat awake.

Najat was unaware of this. She worked in the
nunnery’s undercroft alone, performing an inventory of their
foodstuffs. She had begged the Mother Superior to keep her busy.
She loved Iksander dearly. Ever since the whirlwind had dropped her
here two months ago, her conscience had tormented her. If only she
hadn’t flirted with Philip . . . If only she’d fought the potion
harder . . . If only she’d done what she knew Iksander would have
wished and gone to Joseph the Eunuch with her troubles.
If
only
circled in her head like a wagon wheel on
cobbles—bump-bump-bump—until she feared she would go insane.

She didn’t know insanity would have been
preferable to Luna’s plan for her.

The empress watched Najat for some time, more
curious than she wanted to admit about her rival. Though beautiful,
the
kadin
appeared unhappy. Her brown robes were
unflattering, borrowed from the nuns, no doubt. Hollows darkened
her eyes, each jerky stroke of her quill on the ledger suggesting a
temperament turned nervous. Flashes of anger thinned her mouth
intermittently—at herself perhaps, or maybe her husband. One thing
was certain: she hadn’t given up all hope.

That was good. Hope left Luna with more to
take away.

She waited among the shadows to be
noticed.

After a moment, Najat thought she heard a
sound. “Sister Graziela, is that you?”

Sister Graziela was fast asleep. The empress
stepped into the open. Because she was veiled, Najat didn’t
recognize her as the sorceress.

Najat clutched the ledger book to her chest.
“Who are you?”

“I come from the Glorious City.”

Like the sun breaching the horizon, hope lit
the
kadin’s
face. Luna couldn’t fail to notice she was
achingly lovely. “Has my husband forgiven me? Is he asking me to
return?”

“He is not,” Luna said.

The joy drained from Najat’s visage, replaced
by anxiety. “Is he well?”

“He is better than you realize,” Luna
responded.

The
kadin’s
brow furrowed with
confusion. “Why are you here then? I can tell something is
amiss.”

“Come. Take a seat for me.”

Located among the nunnery’s shelves of stores
was a small square table with one wood chair. The sorceress held it
out for Najat to sit. When the other woman was where she
wished—seated and gazing up at her—Luna brought out a golden
bowl.

The dish was large, suitable for serving a
gallon of soup at a fine table. Many decorations graced it, but
around its flattened rim a few simple words were etched.

I will not spill
, they read.

Luna placed the bowl on the table in front of
the
kadin
. “Do you know what this is?”

Najat’s eyes were wide. “A bowl that will not
spill?”

She tried to rise. Luna held her down by
pressing on her shoulder. The empress was strong. One hand was all
it took.

“Do you know what
this
is?” Luna asked
as if the little struggle had not occurred. This time she brought
out an amphora of shining brass. Whatever was in the vessel
sloshed.

Frightened now, Najat shook her head.

Luna stroked her dove-soft cheek with the
backs of her fingers. “It is filled with concentrated seawater. As
you know, salt is caustic to our kind. The slave who boils down my
supply has developed terrible scars.”

Luna poured the dangerous fluid into the bowl
that would not spill. Again Najat tried to rise, and again the
sorceress shoved her down.

“I don’t like this game,” Najat said. “Stop
now, or I shall call the nuns.”

Anger made Iksander’s favorite as beautiful
as hope.

“By the power of the Creator,” Luna said, “I
command you to stay in the chair.”

Najat stayed, even when Luna grabbed the back
of the neck and plunged her face into the seawater. The effect was
painful. Najat struggled violently. Despite her thrashing, not a
single drop splashed on the sorceress. Desperate, Najat attempted
to change into her smoke form to escape. Luna’s magic kept her from
succeeding.

When long lack of air stopped the
kadin’s
struggles, the sorceress pulled her up again. Najat
wasn’t beautiful anymore. Her skin had blistered terribly and
turned red, actually peeling away in places. She was, truth be
told, a bit of a horror show. Nonetheless, sufficient life remained
in her to revive. Djinn are hardy beings, and royals no less so.
After a minute, Najat gasped noisily for breath.

“What is your quarrel with me?” she asked,
the words distorted by her swollen lips.

“You stood between me and something I
wanted.”

“Iksander,” Najat said, finally
understanding. “You’re the sorceress who gave me the lust potion.
You wanted to destroy his love for me.”

Luna didn’t like her figuring this out, or
the compassion in her tone. Her fingers tightened on the
kadin’s
nape.

“If you murder me, you’ll turn ifrit,” Najat
warned. “The gates to heaven will forever be barred to you. For
your own sake, do not do this.”

Luna had often wondered why she was born a
good djinniya. Honoring God didn’t suit her character. Honoring
anyone but herself didn’t. Still, she had never committed the act
that would turn her dark—not by her own hand at least. Willful
murder of another person was different from deaths sustained in
battle or taken for self-defense. It was different from accidents
and suicides.

Only murder changed how the Creator regarded
them.

Luna wondered if it mattered. Najat would
heal her wounds eventually. Also eventually, her husband would
forgive her. His nature was over-proud but not pitiless. They would
reconcile and likely be happier than ever. Did Luna
want
to
share an afterlife with the joyous pair?

“I must be who I am,” she said.