The Artifact of Foex (11 page)

Before Chet could ask what he meant, Fenimore
jumped in. “Is this a democratic vote, the way independent
city-states do it? Because there may be no clear majority,
here.”

“Flame have always operated via consensus,"
Journey said, her voice as gently corrective as that of a
primary-school teacher.

The message was clear. The Flame clearly felt
the Raptus was their territory, that their rules applied. Journey
and Knife seemed comfortable in their
ownership—dominance?—regarding the Raptus. Chet vaguely wondered
how long it had been since their council had been made guardians of
the Raptus. Foex had died over five-hundred years ago. It was a
measure of Chet’s acclimation to his new companions that
five-hundred years seemed like a brief window of time. Though, to
be honest, he’d always possessed a long-term sense of history, even
before he’d become an archeologist. A mindset, it seemed, shared by
everyone on the bed.

“You don’t have the majority or authority to
arbitrarily settle upon a mode of decision-making,” Fenimore
countered.

Knife gave him a mild look. “You object to
destruction, I take it?”

“By the Abyss sundering Uos, of course I
oppose destruction. It chose us, don’t you see?
It
chose
us
. That tells me we need to explore what we have, not
mindlessly discard it.”

Journey snorted. “Explore how, exactly? We
know too much as it is. The Raptus was created for complete control
over people. The more you try to use it, the more you slide
downhill into a bloody mess. The worst case scenario is an
all-mighty autocracy instigated upon Uos. I assume Magicians had
some form of checks and balances to keep this from occurring. We do
not. The gods might eventually step in, but only after much human
blood had already been spilt. They are not generally known for
their mercy in such matters.”

Fenimore turned to Chet. “What say you,
scholar?”

Chet reached out and touched the Raptus with
his index finger. “I want more information...”

“I shouldn’t have asked. Scholars always want
more information.”

“LaDaven,” Journey rebuked, her eyes
glittering a subtle warning. “Yes, Chet?”

“Why can’t we study it to find out how it
works? A find of this magnitude is amazing. Even you don’t know how
it works, right? Aren’t you curious?”

“Not really,” Knife said. “We’re more
concerned with how ancient and recent technologies will mix.”

“Apart from these cord things, that’s why
we’re so jumpy," Journey said. “Modern technology definitely ups
the ante. Imagine one person having control of every nuclear weapon
and arsenal on the planet. Such power would be absurdly simple
through this device.”

“But I thought you said getting rid of it
wasn’t something you wanted to take on," Chet said, feeling lost.
“How do we destroy it, anyway?”

Knife’s expression was resolved. “It’s too
dangerous to leave lying around for another failure of vigilance. I
didn’t want to do this the hard way, but it’s acting up in an
aggressive manner. Better we go on the offensive than remain
passive. As for destruction, we’ll need to unlock it first—each
member of the Council of Six will need to help with that—then one
of us will have to order the Raptus to destroy itself. I volunteer
myself for that part. I’ll involve Pelin if I have to; she’d be
willing.”

Journey gave him a sharp look, then asked him
a question in an unknown language. The same language as before?
Knife replied in like. The exchange seemed significant, and Chet
squirmed, hating that he was locked out of it. Fenimore, too, was
scowling. Journey’s eyes flickered upon Fenimore, then down at the
Raptus. She shrugged, opening her hand in Knife’s direction. He
didn’t look smug, but it was clear to Chet that he’d somehow won
their—argument? Debate?

Fenimore looked like he was sucking a lemon.
“How did the Flame manage to lock it, anyway? You have no magic, in
the classic Magician sense.”

“The goddess Aiena led us through the ritual.
Each of us spilled blood upon it in turn while speaking words. To
unlock it, we’ll need to do the same.”

“Specific words, I assume.”

“Of course specific words,” she said. “Each
of us chose a different children’s poem. I have mine memorized.
Knife?”

He grinned at her. “Thespian. I did have mine
memorized for a while, but I can only recall bits and pieces
now.”

Chet shot Knife an uncertain look. “You
seemed to have an eidetic memory this morning.”

“Hey, memorizing relevant data in the short
term is one thing. That’s just a trick I’ve picked up.
You
try to remember intricate, iambic-pentameter stanzas for
five-hundred years. Through death, slavery, genocide and a world
war, no less. In retrospect, I didn’t choose my passage
well—something about pretty little anuros flying in the springtime.
Absolute poppycock.”

Fenimore frowned critically. “This will be a
futile plan if you’ve all forgotten your sacred charge.”

“Oh, hush. Of course I have it written down
at home. I re-transcribe the passage from my caches every lifetime
or so, at my house in Allistair, I’m afraid. The others will
undoubtedly have their own systems.”

Journey turned back to Chet. “So... what
do
you think?”

He frowned. The Flame were self assured,
convinced that destruction was the right thing to do. Besides,
Fenimore didn’t seem to have good reason—or a viable game plan—for
the relic. He wasn’t defending a helpless people or even bringing
it home to a rightful ruler. There was too much at stake for simple
curiosity to lead the day.

Chet shrugged, glancing at Fenimore. “Sorry,
I’m with them.”

“Very well. It seems we are set upon
destroying it. Don’t expect me to be happy about it, though.”

Both Flame nodded, their expressions
reserved, even respectful. No one tried to pat Fenimore on the arm
condescendingly or invalidate his opinion.

Knife rose and stretched, then began a series
of isometric exercises. Journey put the Raptus away in her large
purse and got out a book. Chet stared at them. Hadn’t they just
made the decision to run like abyss and destroy the Raptus? Yet
they seemed to take it for granted that they were done for the
night. Well, it was their call. He led Fenimore to the bathroom and
showed him how to use the shower. When Chet emerged, Journey eyed
him speculatively, her book upturned on the bed. She was idly
fingering a tit, and Chet’s mouth began salivating as if he were a
conditioned lab animal.

Journey smiled at him. “Come here, sweetie.
Are you ready to try this new skill of yours again?”

“But I thought—aren’t we getting going now?
Isn’t time of the essence, all that?”

“We need to wait to speak to the Shadow
Dancers. Besides, we don’t have a ride. We’ll have to rent a car in
the morning.”

“I see.” Chet looked away, self conscious.
“Can I ask a question of a personal nature?”

“Of course.”

“You and Knife both have this, um, smell.”
Would she take offense at the empirical observation?

Journey chuckled low in her throat. “That’s
ichor, Chet. It’s the Flame god gift that allows us to survive
fire. We are chemically altered by Pelin upon initiation. You
probably didn’t notice in the van, but all my bodily fluids have a
slight purplish tinge to them.”

“It makes me, er, responsive. More responsive
than I usually am," Chet said. His cock was hard even now.

“Ichor is an aphrodisiac—best on Uos,"
Journey grinned at him. Her body was undulating beside him, her
need apparent. “Here, you climb on top this time. Knock yourself
out and just fuck me, okay?”

Chet scrambled to comply, shedding clothing
with each step forward. Funny how he’d thought Journey was a fancy,
glamorous lady only... yesterday? “Just fuck me" felt more like
prostitute’s language. Or the way he’d thought stereotypical Flame
would speak, except Journey defied stereotypes. At least Knife had
quietly slipped outside and was leaning over the balcony, Chet
noticed with relief. He was grateful to have sex without an
audience this time.

Journey, too, rid herself of clothing and
sank on the bedspread, her knees spread outward. Her nudity was
still new to Chet. The rational part of him wanted to look at her
sex closer this time to see the ichor tinge for himself, but his
cock was quivering, the hunger all consuming. He crawled on top of
her and began bucking. Then Chet frowned. Something was wrong,
different from last time. The formula oddly changed. He could feel
her slippery, wet sex but didn’t seem to be inside of her yet.
Maybe he should buck harder for sex to happen?

Journey snickered. “Here, I’ll do it.”

Chet tingled with embarrassment as she took
hold of him and tucked his dick inside of her. He hadn’t realized
he’d need to fit inside her, key-in-lock style. Last time Journey
had done all the work, but now he was in charge.
Right?

He thrust experimentally, curious how sex
should be best accomplished. Her wet tightness still felt superb
the second time around. Journey grinned up at him, biting her lower
lip. Her hips were thrusting upwards to meet him, her tits jiggling
in the most alluring manner. Chet found a tempo she seemed to enjoy
and hung onto it as long as he could. Journey tilted her head back,
emitting moaning noises low in her throat. Chet felt himself warm
to the work.
Hey, I’m pretty good at this,
he thought with
delight, increasing the tempo.

“No, go slower.
Slower.
Make it
last.”

But Chet found that he couldn’t slow down. He
was coming, coming—he threw his head back and spilled into her.

Journey sighed, gazing up at him with evident
disappointment. “I really am going to have to train you, Chet. I’ll
have you fucking properly in no time, if you’re a willing
student.”

Chet cleared his throat awkwardly as he
rolled off. “Sorry.”

A noise behind them startled him. He glanced
back; the bathroom door was open, steam pouring out, and Fenimore
was standing naked at the base of the bed, stroking his erect
penis. “My turn, eh?” he murmured, crawling on the bed toward
Journey.

She sat up abruptly, her legs audibly
snapping closed. “I don’t think so, LaDaven. Go jerk off or ask
Knife to accept you.”

“Oh, come now. You’ll like me.” He started
fondling her breasts with both hands. “I won’t spill early like
your bashful swain here.”

Journey growled, moving her legs under her in
a crouch, then slid her hands up Fenimore’s arms. She stopped just
below his elbows and savagely pinched the fleshy part of his
forearms. Fenimore yelped, thrusting himself away from her. He
rubbed his forearms, his face mottled with confusion and anger.

Journey knelt on the bed as if ready to
spring, her whole attitude fierce, almost animalistic. “You touch
me again without my consent, Fenimore LaDaven, and I’ll do
permanent damage to your scrotum. I’ve castrated men before with my
bare hands. Do we have an understanding?”

Fenimore opened his mouth and shut it, his
expression enraged. “Yes, good Flame.”

Journey slowly sat back on her heels. “You
don’t
get
to be as old as I am without learning where the
boundaries lie. I don’t like being raped.”

Fenimore looked as if he’d like nothing more
than to slam out the door and leave, except he was bound here
through the Raptus. They all were. Chet could almost see him
thinking about it as his eyes lit from Journey to the Raptus,
sitting innocuously on the bedside table. Fenimore grabbed his
dusty pants and stalked out to the balcony. Chet realized Knife now
faced them, watching everything through the sheer curtains, his
arms resting easily on the wrought-iron balcony. Knife nodded at
Fenimore and murmured something that Chet couldn’t hear.

Chet regarded Journey on the bed beside him.
He’d thought that she would have scrambled to get dressed like
Fenimore, but she was breathing deep, her eyes closed. Regaining
her composure? She glanced at Chet apologetically. “Excuse me, I
don’t mean to startle you.”

Chet opened his mouth to reply, his confusion
palpable, then froze. Journey was changing. Her body rippled as fat
and musculature morphed under her skin. Her tits receded to a flat
chest, and a penis and scrotum blossomed between her legs. Between
his
legs. Chet barely restrained himself from crying out,
jumping out of bed and scrambling out the door. Journey was
definitely male now. Even his face was different. Journey was still
of the flaxen race, but he had a thicker jaw, flat cheekbones, his
nose a different shape. She—he—still appeared young. A little older
than Chet’s age, maybe his late twenties.

Journey opened his eyes and smiled at Chet,
his expression tinged with irony. “Are you freaking out?”

Chet discovered that he was frozen in a
protective crouch. He deliberately forced himself to sink back to
the bed. Journey seemed to take it as an invitation to cuddle up
beside him. Chet paused, aghast. There was something viscerally
wrong about the situation, but Journey was warm and familiar.

Chet took a deep breath and tried to relax
with the man—Flame—in his arms. “A little.” His voice was
shaking.

They lay quietly together. Feeling calmer as
each minute passed, Chet’s scholarly curiosity perked up like a
dium—a reptilian rodent which couldn't resist getting into
everything. “Do you do this often? Change sex?”

Journey chuckled. His voice had changed too.
Did he have a wider throat now? Chet leaned back and decided that
Journey really had changed the external width of his throat. If he
could do that, it probably meant he could change the internal
larynx structure as well.

“Yes, I am most decidedly bi-sexed. Not every
Flame is. Knife doesn’t like being female, though he’ll do it when
there’s need.”