The knife was next to them, within reach of the peace-weaver – if she could free her hands. Another thrill shivered through Enet and she shifted on her knees, facing the Singer, avid, living his joy through the song, buffeted by the storm of his emotions.

The Yalotl was on her back, helpless to avoid the beating, her head snapping one way and then the other. Whatever she was shouting was garbled, lost amid the punches raining on her jaw and mouth until they faded into grunts. Blood and a tooth splattered from her mouth and across Enet’s tunic, up in a line of dots across her throat. Xac paused, staring intently at the blood on her skin, and then he leant forward and licked it from her neck.

The source was swimming with power, so thick Enet couldn’t help but breathe it in like pollen, like sunlight, until it filled her with radiance and need and she found the abandoned knife and shoved it into the Singer’s hand. The Chorus dropped his club and fell to his knees at her side, his hands clenching and unclenching with brimming, uncontrolled need as they watched Xac work, song-driven lust and bloodlust filling them both.

Enet watched her holy lord, her great Singer, her lover, as he peeled the Yaloh face off with the knife and wove her screams into the song until it roared and beat at them, beat inside them until they were all three growling like animals and everything was edged in golden radiance, in power.

Xac pulled Betsu’s face, still blood-warm, over his own and showed it to her. She screamed louder, somehow still fighting, but the Singer was invincible in his magic now and he lifted her in one hand and dragged her, clawing at his arm, to the offering pool.

A Setat rose with a need greater even than the Singer’s. Its song filled the source, filled them with such yearning, such inescapable delight amid the carnage and the power that Enet orgasmed as Betsu, faceless and yet somehow, she knew, smiling, freed herself from the Singer’s grip and walked into the water, arms out to receive the Setatmeh claw-tipped embrace.

They watched the waters turn pink and the Singer threw the woman’s face into the pool and then he returned at a run and fell on Enet like an eagle, his lust swallowing her whole.

And the song roared on.

THE SINGER

The source, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

The song is mine, my will and creation, my duty and my glory. I craft my greatness into music. My flesh and mind, my soul and intentions. My divinity.

I know the song’s needs; I know the Empire’s needs. None may gainsay me or stand against my will.