Xessa sat up enough to sign. ‘There is no tomorrow, there is only now. Make me forget tomorrow, Toxte. Please.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean, that is if you want,’ she began but he caught her hands in his and kissed them until they stilled, before placing one against his heart; its beat was strong and slowly accelerating and she wrapped her free hand in the thickness of his hair, stretching up to him and pouring everything she had – and everything she wanted – into another kiss until her heart was full to bursting.

She inhaled, sharp, and her hand on his chest tightened and then found the neckline of his tunic. Her fingers slipped inside, onto warm, smooth, soft skin. He broke the kiss long enough to shove the dog away and slide it over his head, pulling free the long hair, plaited and beaded, that tangled in the material. The meagre candlelight outlined him in gold and pooled him in shadow, a hero from the old tales. First of the first children. She blushed at the absurdity, but then he was kissing her again, all the warm, hard expanse of his chest and belly and shoulders hers to roam.

The kiss didn’t end, not for a long time, not until there was fire flashing across Xessa’s nerve endings and she could barely breathe, barely see. She was still in the circle of his legs and shifted now, up onto her knees to tug off her own tunic and then the cotton band that held her breasts tight against her chest. She swung her leg over his, her kilt riding high, the thick sweep of her unbound hair framing his face as she grabbed it and kissed it again, feverish now. Wanting. Needing.

Toxte’s hands were on her hips, pulling the kilt higher and then tugging at his own, and Xessa pulled back from his face long enough to watch his expression as she shifted and sank onto him. His heat filled her, his arms tightened convulsively around her waist and back and his mouth sagged open. More than need in his face, more than desire. Love.

Xessa drank in the sight of him as they moved, her left hand pressed to his throat to feel the noises he made.

She sucked in air and let her head hang back far enough her hair brushed his thighs, let mouth and hands and body work their very own, very special, and ancient brand of magic. Slow but insistent, unstoppable, a rhythm that lit fire inside them both, a shared and sacred burning until fingers became claws and pleasure battered at them and swept them up and consumed them and the world cracked and broke open, drenching them in light.

ILANDEH

The womb, above Sky City, Malel, Tokoban

168th day of the Great Star at morning