[Author's Note: Lots of storytelling in this chapter. Enjoy!]
Miria was on her knees, naked with sweat beading all over her body. Her private room was dark, save for several glowing candles, and filled with the narcotic, tangy scent of incense that all Sunite worshippers burnt when communing with their goddess. She rocked back and forth, whispering and humming platitudes and hymns to her goddess, waiting for Sune or one of her Maidens to make contact with her.
It happened in a rush. The candles flared and shifted into a violet hue and her breath caught in her throat. Miria's elven heart quickened, she felt her blood pulsing, pounding in her head, breast, and loins. Sexual energy filled her as the sensual presence of Sune entered Miria's private chambers. She grasped the holy symbol resting just above the valley of her breasts and held very still.
"My Daughter," came a woman's voice. Miria didn't dare open her eyes. She knew it was not Sune in the room with her, but one of her divine servants, and even though she was not her goddess, Miria knew she would be too beautiful to look upon without inducing a bout of enfeeblement.
"Blessed Servant of Sune," Miria said past the lump in her throat. "I am honored by your presence."
"For what matter do you seek our Lady Firehair's divine wisdom?"
"This Fest Hall has come under attack by outsiders. The so-called Righteous Hand of Silverymoon has declared the followers of Sune, and Sune herself, a blight upon the city, that we are immoral and prostitutes. They wish the Dancing Rose to be repurposed for righteous, wholesome works." Miria gasped, feeling a thrill of pleasure course from her toes to her loins. She knew the Maiden was eyeing her, judging her passions.
"Your heart for Sune is impure," the Maiden said, a measure of contempt in her voice. "You place too much value on duty, work, and discipline. You do not honor your passions as you once did, Miria Melineth. The Divine Dance has been lost on you. It is an exercise in superiority, now, and not of passion, not of pleasure, though you surely do take much pleasure from...Luravaln Xelarose. Interesting."
Miria was in stunned silence. She did not speak, for she knew not what to say. She did know, however, that the Maiden was right. She had lost her ability to enjoy her carnal desires, and that troubled her. The elf had lost herself in the duties of administration and running the Dancing Rose, and had forgotten what the Fest Hall represented.
She was about to speak to the Maiden, but she felt the sensual presence vanish. The candles returned to normal, though the narcotic smoke from her incense remained. She breathed deep, determination burning in her breast. The elf let the incense do its job, felt her skin tingle with heightened sensitivity. She rose in a hurry, feeling the sweat cascading over her bare flesh keenly, especially as several drops fell from her hardened nipples.
A cool breeze cast itself over her skin with almost an electric quality as her skin drew taut with goose flesh. The paladin held her hand out, palm up, and spoke a divine couplet, one that select servants of Sune were taught, and pinpoints of light began to swirl in her hand. More lights added to the swirl and they began to coalesce into a solid shape. Before long, a slender, lengthy rod of force coalesced in her hand, roughly the size and shape of a human phallus. She bit her lip and quickly applied the length to her sweat-soaked nexus, gliding the shaft over the moisture to ease its imminent penetration. Desperate to please her goddess, she plunged the member into her, and her world crashed around it.
*****
"You intrude upon my realm, woman," a deep voice bellowed. "What business do you have with me? Or is this another of your frivolous flirtations?"
"Come now," a sultry, ultra-feminine voice said. Her voice purred with sensuality, curling around the vibrations of her counterpart's deep, powerful voice like a lover's fingers roaming over skin. "Why must you spurn me at every opportunity?"
"Because there is nothing lasting about you, therefore you are not worth the effort," the deep voice said. "You, Sune, do not have tastes. You see, and you conquer, and you move on to your next whim."
"Tempus, Tempus," Sune said, smiling coyly as she stepped out from behind a giant marble column to face Tempus, the God of Battle, on his mighty stone throne. Her fiery red hair cascaded in long, flowing curls down her back and over her shoulders, covering most of the loose vermillion gown she wore. The neckline cascaded down below her navel, and only her divine magic kept her breasts hidden (somewhat). Daring slits rose up to her hips, giving a wonderous view of her long, shapely legs, accented by the high-heeled sandals she wore. "Can you not see that it is that very fact that makes us so alike?"
"You are nothing like me," Tempus said, his voice low and threatening. "What I conquer, I repurpose. What you conquer, you cast aside to be used later, if again at all."
"Perhaps I just haven't found what I'm looking for yet," she said, pretending to be hurt. He was right, of course. Some of those she had bedded were worthwhile, and they resided in her divine palace, but many, many others had been sent on their way with a pleasant memory and a story none would ever believe.
"Why are you here, enchantress," Tempus stated more than asked. He heaved a great sigh, already tired of her games.
Sune eyed him with desire. He had been her only object of affection that had resisted her every charm. His vest was made from the skins of powerful beasts, and his thickly muscled torso strained the leather, just as his thick, tree-trunk thighs strained his short, torn breeches. Even his bare feet exuded power and strength. "I have a proposal for you."
"Of course you do," Tempus replied.
"This is unlike my other proposals, dear Tempus," she said, smirking a bit.
"Explain."
"I need assistance with some unsavory individuals in Silverymoon," she said, feigning helplessness with a whimpering voice and slumped shoulders.
"I truly doubt that," Tempus said, coming forward in his throne. His elbows held his massive torso over his knees. "I may not be known for acquiring vast amounts of information, but I have my resources, and I know that you have a Chosen in that city."
"Checking up on me? How sweet," she said, taking a few steps forward. She made certain to let her leg slip through the fabric seductively. His scowl spurned her, but she did not let it affect her. "Perhaps I do, but she is unaware of her gift. Even now she lay with a man not worthy of her affections."
"That is the problem with you, Sune," Tempus said. "So few are worthy of your affections, that you cannot see those that would honor you day in and day out. Your pride removes you from true happiness."
"Pish posh, Battle God," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "The point of the matter is this: if my Fest Hall closes, it will be one less base of power for me. As you know, my people are not known for their prowess in battle, and I fear that the situation in Silverymoon may come to a violent end."
"Then you should take heed of your followers more closely, woman," Tempus said, standing. He hefted his weapon onto his shoulder and came down to her level. "I know of all battles. It is my duty, and my pleasure, to do so. I know that your Chosen just single-handedly dispatched a Knight in Silver. You will not receive my aid, Sune. Nor are you ever truly welcome in my realm. Begone, now, before I summon my Chosen."
For the first time since her visit, Sune scowled. She turned abruptly and took three steps before fading from sight. From behind his throne, a tall, strong woman with blonde hair and lightly tanned skin emerged, wearing shining red plate armor. A longsword and mighty shield were slung over her back, and she crossed her arms over her fitted breastplate. She scowled, though that did little to diminish her beauty.
"Whore," the Red Knight said, glaring at the empty space Sune had disappeared from. "She considers you a foe, yet still she comes seeking your assistance. It is illogical."
Tempus favored the Red Knight with a fatherly smile. She was not as powerful a deity as he, but with his sponsorship had risen quickly in the ranks of the pantheon. "Be calm," he said. "She is a frivolous, flighty thing, who does not understand what it means to have a true enemy. She would consort with the likes of Shar, if the Dark Goddess had the proper charms."
"Why do you allow her here?" the Red Knight demanded, glaring at the Lord of Battle.
"What would you have me do, stare at my empty hall for eons?" Tempus glared at her. "Mind your place, Red. My followers have been quiet of late, and even the battles fought are not great, glorious cataclysms as they once were. I remember hordes of drow assaulting a dwarven mountain from underneath, and though the shadowy creatures were dishonorable in their tactics, they at least made a good show. War does not tear our lands as it once did."
"What are we to do, then?" the Red Knight asked helplessly.
"Wait. We are gods, we will see the rise and fall of many nations, time is on our side. The fate of mortals is always the same, always has been, always will be. War is silent now, but it will come again. It is inevitable."
*****
"Sune be damned," Justicar Abondel said. His gloved hand pounded down on his oak desk. "I will cleanse this city of her corruptions, even if it is with my dying breath."
"Good." The voice was disembodied. "Your heart is filled with rage. That will crush the lovers and artists of the Dancing Rose."
Abondel glared into the darkened corner of his office. Once a tenday, every tenday, he was visited by this mysterious person. If it was, indeed, a person. He had never seen the visitor, only heard his voice from the impenetrable shadows of his office. "What do you care? You come unannounced only to stoke my anger. For what?"
"My Mistress demands it," the voice said. It took a cold edge. "You needn't question me, only trust me as you would trust your shadow."
"My shadow? It is inanimate. Shadows are nothing more than a trick of the light, no more worthy of trust than a stone."
Abondel immediately regretted his words as two red pinpoints appeared like eyes in the shadow of the corner. Slowly, dreadfully, a thick tentacle emerged from the corner of the room. Then, without warning, it lurched, darting unerringly for Abondel's throat and wrapping around like a constrictor.
"Do not doubt me," the voice boomed from within his skull. "Trust me. The shadows are more your ally than you believe, and are more alive than you would like."
Then, the shadow tentacle was gone, leaving the man gasping at his desk, clutching at his throat. He smoothed his crisp blue and gray doublet, then pulled it smooth from the hem. "I apolo..." he looked up and the shadow had vanished, signaling the departure of his shadowy visitor. A knock sounded at his door.
"Justicar," came a young man's voice. Abondel ran his hand through his sandy brown hair, smoothing it back, then over his neatly trimmed goatee. The man, a follower of nothing save for his own moral compass, had seen three decades of growing corruption in this city he loved, and when he had stumbled upon the Dancing Rose, a brothel in tavern's skin, he realized that all the physical disease and putrefication had come from their wanton sexual deviance. Sune and her allies, he reminded himself. His spy had returned from the Sharessan festival earlier that afternoon and confirmed the orgy that had ensued.
