Knot Magic

KNOT MAGIC: an April Fools' tale of trickster magic and lost love

"There's your target," Drusilla said, staring daggers at the stage where a pompous politician was droning on and on about the contributions of whoever was about to be awarded the post of Special Investigator and Prosecutor of Witchcraft.

Morgana glanced up, made a moue of disappointment, and looked away. "Not interesting," she said, waving a dismissive hand at the stage.

Drusilla laughed. "Look again," she challenged. So Morgana did.

The old, fat politician had been joined onstage by his physical opposite in terms of masculinity; a tall, gorgeous young man with shoulder-length black hair in long, elegant waves bowed politely and stepped up to the podium.

Morgana's sexy bits suddenly awoke and began tingling. She sat up straight and leaned forward, eyes sparkling.

"I detect a sudden spike in your interest level," Drusilla said with a mocking smile at her best friend. "You're so predictable," she added, elbowing Morgana gently.

Morgana smirked, giving Drusilla an indignant but very small shove. They had to be careful not to draw attention, which was difficult in a crowd of this type. Three-quarters conservative men, strait-laced, religious, disapproving - this type was always, always irresistibly drawn toward the very women they claimed to despise.

"Shall I give you details?" Drusilla teased softly.

"Oh, very well," Morgana huffed, hunching her shoulders. "If you must," she added.

"Kenzo Futaba. Rising conservative star, ordained Jesuit lawyer, and now Special Prosecutor of witches and wise women. He's spearheaded multiple investigations and is wily enough, we suspect, to plant evidence without being detected - which he then uses to bring us down in whatever way he can. His misogyny probably boils down to Mommy Issues - no surprise there. Arrived here from Japan at age five with his mother and was abandoned by her at St Pat's Cathedral not long after that; taken from the Church orphanage at age eight and adopted by Cardinal Soria; graduated seminary top five of his class, bishop-in-training, sushi chef on the side -"

Morgana interrupted. "Wait wait wait. Ordained? He took celibacy vows?" she was incredulous.

"That's what stuck out to you, huh? Why am I not surprised? Yep, celibacy vows. Damn shame, too, I'll agree with you there. Made two years ago upon seminary graduation. Unbroken, so far as we can discover, which is no small feat given the fact he was quite the Ladies' Man prior to entering seminary six years ago."

"I wonder what made him take it that far," Morgana said. "What a waste."

"It hardly matters if you set your sights on him. He's got zero chance against a Love Warrior like you, poor man," Drusilla said, putting a fond arm around her friend's shoulders.

"He probably hates redheads," Morgana pronounced with deep pessimism.

"But he definitely loves cats," Drusilla countered, which made Morgana look up with a fiendish light in her eyes.

"Oh, does he?" she breathed.

"Documented weakness for cats of all kinds. The one type of charity he donates any of his wealth to? Feline rehab facilities. From what I can find out, he's never been able to adopt one, but his deepest, darkest secret is his past volunteer work in kitten nurseries."

"Stop teasing me," Morgana demanded. "This better not be an April Fool's joke - that starts at midnight, no sooner."

"It doesn't mean he's an easy target, Morg," Drusilla cautioned with a laugh. "He doesn't have the body of Adonis for nothing - holds several high-degree belts in various martial arts, and is a champion fencer too."

"None of that matters once he eats or drinks from my hand," Morgana pointed out. "And now I have an easy way in. I bet the Vatican's the source of his wealth at such a young age?"

"Bingo. He won several international cases on the Vatican's behalf, gaining them the right to keep stolen treasures from around the world," Drusilla said.

"Well, if I needed convincing, I don't anymore. Thanks, Dru - this might be fun after all!"

"Need any help?"

"If I do, you're my first call. I doubt it, though. This might be my easiest takedown yet," Morgana said, eyeing her prey as he stepped forward to accept his award. He then gave a brief, predictably hostile speech in a predictably sexy voice about the urgent need to stomp out all traces of witchery in society, no matter how long it took or how bloody it got. At least it was short, Morgana thought wryly.

"Be careful, Morg," Drusilla said, feeling a sudden frisson of unease. His voice had a unique resonance, something that spoke of unplumbed depths. "He sounds... different."

Morgana had noticed it too; a subtle discordance she could not quite articulate. "Curiouser and curiouser," she murmured.

"That's all well and good, but curiosity killed the cat," Drusilla pointed out grimly.

"And satisfaction brought her back," Morgana countered, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"When do you start?" Drusilla asked with a laugh.

"No time like the present," Morgana said. "All the trickster energy coming to life for April Fools' Day makes it almost too easy." With that, she blew her friend a kiss and wound her way sinuously through the crowd of 75% men in suits and ties. As always, too many of their eyes lingered too long, so she put a glamour in place to make herself appear to be as much of a potato as the majority of them were, despite their expensive tailoring. She was Fae enough that glamours always came easily to her, but trickster energy gave her an additional boost; deception is nigh-effortless around those who want to be fooled.

She pushed her way into the path of the young Japanese Adonis, extending her hand when he passed with the same name she always used for crowds and circumstances like this. "Frank Forter," she said gruffly when he took the pudgy-looking hand that both was and was not hers in his. He was even more gorgeous up close, dammit, she thought irritably. His hand was much bigger than hers, dry and strong, though beautifully shaped with long fingers.

"Kenzo Futaba," he replied, his gaze sharpening with suspicion as he noted the feel of the hand he had just taken; it had been an effort of will to touch it, so obviously did it exude the perpetual clamminess typical of short, plump, nervous men. He could not help but notice it felt nothing like it looked - slender, with delicate fingers but a firm grip. A hand he could easily crush if he chose.

She was so distracted by her inspection of him that she did not at first notice his sharp double-take as he took her hand. His grip tightened suddenly, and her pulse quickened when she realized her glamour had not quite convinced him. He was eyeing her as closely now as she was him; this would never do.

"Middle name Norbert?" he asked suddenly, his eyes predatory.

"Close," she replied gruffly, though she knew her cover was now questionable at best. "Norman."

"Nice to meet you, Frank N. Forter," he said with scorn that could not quite hide a note of intrigue. He then turned away and answered the beckoning finger of one of his church-masters, she noted with disgust.

"Not as nice as you think," she muttered under her breath as she gave him some room before she followed. She did not want to acknowledge it, but she was disconcerted; he seemed somehow very familiar, but more importantly not half as stupid as most of the men she dealt with in her work. This would be more of a challenge than she was used to. A tingle of excitement coursed down her spine, and she began to plan her attack, taking full advantage of the coming day's prankster spirit.

***

Kenzo Futaba exhaled a profound sigh of relief upon arriving back in his new house several long, boring hours later, at just after midnight. April first; the holiday for Fools. They could have it, as far as he was concerned.

He had moved into this place on the Ides of March barely two weeks ago, but the movers had unpacked to his specifications and removed all inconvenient traces of upheaval. It was a perfectly apportioned space, filled with the things he treasured most. So why did it feel desolate?

A cat, he reminded himself. He needed a cat. Had always wanted one, but could not have one in the orphanage, was still not allowed one after the Cardinal adopted him, and could also not have one in seminary. He wondered what it would be like not to be lonely, and if maybe it was time to reward himself; perhaps he could also indulge in a dalliance with some convenient woman.

It had been too long since he enjoyed the touch of a woman, smelled her scent and plunged into her willing flesh. One reason he chose to live apart from the Church as he pursued his studies and political career was so he could indulge his flesh when he chose. There was no point trying to maintain a moral standard no one really believed in, he thought cynically. That shit was just for the hoi polloi.

He stripped naked, finally free of his uncomfortable dark suit and dog-collar, then shrugged into his favorite robe - a traditional Japanese hakama he would never allow the Cardinal to know he had; the Church disapproved of his 'heathen bloodlines', they had made that clear in all their lectures about how grateful he should be.

Finally at ease, he sat on the sumptuous velvet-and-brocade sofa with a sigh, approving of the orderly mahogany bookshelves that flanked a merrily blazing fire in the elegant stone hearth. His doorbell rang, which made him groan in irritation. There was no one to open the door, because he had sent everyone home for the night. He leaned back, hoping whoever it was would be swallowed up by the earth rather than ring again.

His hopes were dashed by a second, more strident ring a minute later.

He got up cursing, a habit he indulged in private even more since his ordination into the priesthood. He looked through the peephole first, reluctant to undo the triple lock for anything trivial. Still, what in his life counted to him as other than trivia? - he asked himself bitterly before flinging the door open.

No one was there, just as he'd seen through the peephole; he was irritated with himself for opening it despite knowing that.

Except the mat was not, in fact, quite empty. There was a small cardboard box in front of the door.

Kenzo eyed the box suspiciously, then poked it with one foot. Something moved inside it, and he was about to slam the door and call the police in case it was something dangerous when a plaintive mew escaped it, stopping him short and sharp. He approached the box cautiously, eyeing it with inquisitive suspicion that had a large bubble of hope growing underneath it despite himself.

Sure enough, he opened the box to find a bright ginger tabby kitten with ridiculously wide blue eyes gazing up at him. He melted immediately; he had just been wishing for a cat, and this kitten showed up like a sign from the god whose priesthood he had joined despite his lack of faith.

"Doushita, nyan-nyan?" he murmured, reaching one long finger toward the tiny pink nose, which sniffed it. The kitten took its time inspecting his finger, then, decision made, shoved its small furry head against his hand, purring like a miniature motorboat. Smitten, he picked up the tiny creature by its scruff as its mother would, then draped it over his broad shoulder and went back inside to get some tuna.

"How'd you know I was wishing for you?" he murmured as he watched the kitten devour the tuna with enthusiasm. "If I believed in a god, I'd thank him. You're exactly what I needed." His face was lit with a soft glow of contentment no one who worked with him or had gone to school with him - or even slept with him - had ever seen.

The kitten stretched and yawned, turning away from the tuna after eating about half. She rubbed her head against his arm, purring, then curled up with her little chin resting on his hand. He laughed softly at her sleepy protests when he picked her up - it was a 'she', he had checked - and deposited her on the couch, where she curled into a contented circle of ginger fur, one blue eye cracked open, watching as he poured himself three fingers of whisky in a cut-crystal tumbler.

"Perhaps I'll name you Amaterasu," he told her, feeling a small, spiteful satisfaction at invoking the name of the Shinto sun goddess. The Church would certainly disapprove - at least the part of it he had the misfortune to belong to so completely, by no choice of his own. "It fits - your fur is bright as flame," he decided. "I'll shorten it to Tess in front of churchy types."

Suddenly the newly christened Sun Goddess rose and hissed, her tail bushing out as she directed all her tiny feline hostility at the dark shadows in the next room. He looked up and set the tumbler down. He had more respect for the instincts of cats - even miniature ones - than for the religion he professed or the politics he preached.

"What is it, little one?" he murmured, scratching the top of her head lightly as she continued to bristle. Her small triangular ears were laid flat back against her head. She looked up at him, her eyes cerulean pools of innocence, then looked back into the shadows and began growling.

"Nothing's there, look," he told her, walking toward the other room. His phone rang in his hand, startling him into a curse. He cursed again when he saw it was a call he would have to take, and wandered away from the firelight and the kitten. He didn't want his day job to touch the sanctity of this lovely evening that was starting to feel like the home he'd never had and always dreamt of.

The kitten's ear stayed cocked in his direction as his voice trailed away into the cavernous depths of the house. When she gauged he was far enough away, she transformed quickly back into the petite redheaded witch Morgana, who immediately went to the front door and opened it silently to retrieve a bag she had left in the azalea bushes just beside the porch steps. She closed the door just as quietly, then brought her bag to the counter, keeping a sharp ear out for Kenzo's return. He was still unpleasantly occupied, judging by the carefully cloaked irritation in his deep voice.

Nodding in approval, she silently thanked Drusilla, who was expert in manipulating soundwaves with her spells and was currently impersonating the Cardinal on the other end of the unwanted phone call. The trickster spirit of April Fools' seemed to be helping their deception along.

Morgana uncapped the potent tranquilizer she had mixed, guessing from long experience that this sort of man would be a solitary drinker of some form of hard liquor. The potion's flavor was subtle enough he would probably not detect the difference in the whisky's sharp flavor in time to avoid its effects. She poured in a larger dose than she normally would, having been deeply impressed with the muscles in his arms and shoulders when he'd carried her inside.

"That's a quality physique all right," she murmured as she put the remainder back in her bag and hid it under a chair in a deeply shadowed corner. She put a light glamour on it for good measure, then turned back into the fuzzy ginger kitten feigning sleep just as he returned on silent feet, his face puzzled and slightly suspicious. The look softened when he glimpsed the little bundle of orange fur, his lips curving in a rare smile.

He lifted the tumbler and took a long swallow of the burning liquid, enjoying the fiery trail it left on the way down his throat. He needed it even more after that strange call from his adoptive parent. Why would the Cardinal call just to ask how the evening had gone and if the house was to his satisfaction? He had never made wellness checks before.

Kenzo settled beside the kitten, trying not to disturb her, but pleased when she immediately woke and daintily crossed the couch cushions to sit on his thigh.

This was also quite well-muscled, Morgana thought, though her human lust normally did not translate when she shifted her shape. She was going to enjoy this job, it seemed. He was physically her ideal, which had never happened before. Silky black hair in long layers to the middle of his back, dark eyes tipped up at the corners, perfect features and a grace that bordered on feline, for a great clumsy human creature.

She purred in approval, nuzzling his hands and leaping up to his shoulder for a better view of his chiseled jaw, exquisite cheekbones, and the glorious fiery depths in his dark eyes - though she wondered how much of the red and gold in them was simply reflected from the cozy fire that still crackled in the hearth.

His eyelids began to droop sooner than she expected, waking her from the trance she'd fallen into, locking gazes with him and lost in unexpected thoughts. His hand faltered in stroking her fur, then dropped. She saw the beginnings of alarm in his sleepy gaze, the knowledge that something was wrong, but he had caught on too late.

She had to admit he'd surprised her, naming the kitten after a pagan goddess; there might be hope for him yet, she thought, as she shapeshifted back to her human form.

***

Kenzo, drugged but not quite asleep, thought he was dreaming; how else could he be seeing his kitten transform into a woman? She stretched, naked in the firelight that seemed to caress her skin. Even more shocking, he knew her. This was a girl he had known in dreams all his life, though not even with Fleur, his longest-term lover, had he met her likeness in the harsh light of reality.

Still, he preferred the kitten. Kittens were not as whiny or demanding as women. Not to mention the drawback that women were full of lies and spite.

His drugged, stressed mind wandered back in search of a time free of resentment, all the way to the halcyon days before his mother - his own mother - sold him off to the church and walked off giggling with a white man who had refused to accept her with the added burden of another man's child - especially a child of a different race.

He first dreamed of this red-haired girl years before he and his mother left Japan. He had believed she must be a child goddess, because he'd never met a real person with hair like the sunset, eyes like the sea, and skin like the moon; they did not exist in the tiny mountain village of his birth. She was kind in his dreams, smaller than he was, but leading him by the hand through a deep, dark forest.

She often appeared in his nightmares after his mother abandoned him, seeming to keep pace with his age, as if they were growing up together. She was a beacon he looked for in every bad dream, knowing if he found her, they would guide each other to safety and she would let out a ringing laugh that dispelled his fears. She sometimes took the form of a ginger tabby kitten in those dreams, he recalled with hazy surprise that he had not recognized her in the box on the porch. She was probably the reason he'd fallen in love with the entire feline species. All this was definitely another dream.

But it had been years since he saw her. She deserted him once he committed to the priesthood. The last time he'd seen her in a dream, he was calling her to come to him; but she stood apart, tears streaking silver down her face. Finally she turned her back and walked away. The last he saw was a flicker of her red tresses, soon swallowed by shadows.

His heart had fully broken then; he repaired it the way many humans do - with anger, gluing the pieces back together with thick, bitter misogyny. His little goddess, the closest thing to family he had as a ward of the Church, functionally orphaned, had been no more faithful than his mother; he was determined never to trust a woman again. He reveled in his work against feminist causes, taking delight in causing women the same misery they had caused him, using them for sex and dumping them, one after the next in a long line until Fleur.

Fleur had been almost-goddess; she was more like the redhead of his dreams than any other living woman he'd met. He knew even when he met Fleur that she was not his dream, but reasoned that she was as close as he was likely to get and he deserved the fulfillment of his lifelong fantasies.

He half-loved Fleur, never quite trusting her, never quite honest with her, until she wisely decided this was unacceptable and left him. That abandonment had not hurt half so much as the previous two, but still stung enough to make him even colder and more remote.

This woman, though - this was his original goddess, he knew without question, and even in his groggy state he thrilled against his will, delighting in the play of firelight over her bright hair. She approached him, her silver-blue eyes much colder than they had ever been in his dreams. She was angry with him, had to be; he had deliberately provoked her memory, after all, along with his mother's. He spat on them both in every way he could, at every opportunity. He would not hear her silvery laugh ring out now, and he could not in fairness blame her for that.

She carried a bag - where had she gotten that? he wondered vaguely - and set it beside the couch where he slumped. This might not be a dream after all - he did not remember being even close to sleepy. If this was real, she must have drugged his whisky, he thought in a haze that tried to be indignation and couldn't quite make it.

She brushed the hair out of his slitted eyes and laid two cool fingers against his throat to take his pulse. "Good thing I increased the dose," she murmured, confirming his suspicions and deepening his bitterness with her new betrayal.

"Huhhh," he moaned, in a failed attempt to demand who she was. He fought the drug-induced haze without success.

"Shhhhh," she mocked in reply, turning him expertly face-down despite her petite stature, making him wonder with a chill how many times she had done this before. He did have to grant she was careful to put his head down gently, facing the fire. "You've been a bad, bad man, you know," she murmured in a bell-like voice with a slight Irish lilt, taking his arms one at a time and pulling them behind him, crossing his wrists at the small of his back. "I'm here to punish you."

His dark eyes widened at that; he struggled harder to shake off the overwhelming drowsiness, with no improvement. Her clit and nipples tingled, thrilled at his helplessness, but anxious that she was running out of time before the effects of the potion wore off.

With a great effort of will, he slid his left hand off his right wrist, but it fell uselessly beside him and she simply put it back, lifting gleaming scarlet coils of silken braided cords out of her bag.

"These have been blessed by a priestess of the Fates," she explained in a thoughtful tone. I've never used them before, but you're the right one."

"Nnnooo," he managed to moan softly, flipping his left hand away from his right again, desperate to force his muscles to obey his commands. She was going to tie him up - he could not bear the loss of control, of physical dominance, of power; it was his only protection.

"I'm afraid it's a 'yessss', Futaba Kenzo," she mocked. "You've crossed the wrong women." With that, she straddled him, her slit opening slightly against his ass, only his hakama's thin layer of black silk providing a barrier. She closed the first loop of cord around his wrists with a decisive snap, then wound it between and around both hands until the rope neared its end, wound in intricate patterns that bound his wrists tightly behind his back.

He had stopped trying to move at the first intimate touch of her tender center, paralyzed anew with lust and fear; but as the silk cords wound and tightened around his wrists, panic moved him to continue his struggle - though escape was almost hopeless without his full strength.

"Now for the triple knots; three times three plus three will hold even the Faerie King Oberon himself. You're mine now, for as long as I choose," she murmured in a soft voice that terrified and soothed him at once. He gave up, staring blurrily at the dancing fire as she knotted the cord again and again.

She took the next cord; he knew before she began that she would repeat the process and bind his feet, leaving him fully in her power. He wondered what she would do to him, what she wanted. If this was even real. He hoped it was just a dream.

By the time she finished knotting the cord around his ankles, the drug was wearing off. He was able to squirm and grimly aware this was definitely no dream. She watched him grope for the ends of the cord and fail, then lift his head and look over his shoulder to see the many loops of crimson cord that bound him hand and foot. He clenched his fists and flexed every muscle, just once, to see if there was any give. There was not.

He reconciled himself to captivity for the moment and squirmed to sit up. She watched with her head tilted, vexing him with her apathy to his efforts. She was nowhere near regretting this and even further from worrying he might escape; so far, anyway. He lifted his eyes to her face, sitting uncomfortably against his bound hands, fully conscious of her for the first time; it took her breath away as much as his. She was shaken, but trying to hide it.

"What's your name?" he asked, his tone almost casual. She laughed in disbelief.

"Morgana," she said defiantly, shrugging off caution. He wouldn't remember anything she chose to erase once they were finished here anyway.

"Why did you haunt my dreams all my life, only to leave me when I had learned to trust you, Morgana?" he demanded, taking her by surprise. Her beautiful eyes widened in shock, pupils contracting.

This was the last question she had expected, he noted with satisfaction. If she was going to hold him prisoner, he would do all he could to make sure she didn't have everything her way. Even if she had no idea what he was raving about and wrote him off as a lunatic, it would put her off her game. He would have to rely on his wit while she kept him tied up, neutralizing his physical strength and skill. He had to admit she was no fool in how she'd approached - as expected of the laughing girl who walked through darkness unafraid.

Morgana's heart raced, her mind reeling; until his blunt question, she'd had only a suspicion that he was the boy from her dreams. She wrote that off as wishful thinking on her part, because for years after they separated she had thought - wrongly - that she glimpsed him everywhere she went. He had broken her heart, and she had done all she could to drown her memories of him.

So, she thought with rising anticipation; the trickster energy of April First had pulled a big prank on her while she had believed she was using it for her own purposes.

Very well, she could adapt, she told herself firmly, taking deep breaths to slow her racing pulse - she was used to dealing with trickster gods. This was not in any way a normal job, she saw that now. This was personal, even intimate - a confrontation between lovers who had forgotten each other in the mists of time. So she would roll with it, and go deep.

"Why did you not listen to me in our shared dreams, Kenzo?" she asked in a voice full of heartache and anger after a long pause fraught with tension. She'd grappled with her answer and chosen honesty. "I warned you against the Church; I told you I could never go there, even if I wished - and I would never wish that evil into my life. It was you who abandoned me, breaking our bond for personal wealth and power."

This time it was he who was shocked; his eyes went wide and dark. "Wh - what?" was all he managed in reply. His mind raced back, seeing the scene again. Was it possible she was right? Surely not. He had spent so long cultivating resentment against her for her abandonment.

But he saw it all again; his unconsciously arrogant assumption that she would do anything he asked, no matter how desperately she argued against it. He watched himself turning his back on her where she stood at the edge of the forest, not seeing her arms stretched out after him, ignoring her voice as she called his name, just once. He had really believed she would be right behind him, because he assumed she was there for his benefit, not as her own person with her own needs and goals and desires.

When he finally turned, she was still at the edge of the forest, crying silently as she watched him walk away. She did not turn her back until he went beyond the boundary she had set for herself. She was right; it had been he who presumed, he who abandoned her after their strange dreamscape intimacy over the years. All this time, he'd had it backward.

But there was no way he could accept that; he'd spent too much effort achieving wealth and status through vengeance against the women he saw as faithless. If he let her turn it around on him, he would not only cast himself in the role of villain in his own story, he would also have to think about his mother again. Fathomless, resentful rage welled up in him at the very thought.

A strand of hair fell across his face, and he tried to lift his hand to brush it away, forgetting she had tied him up. She came near, making him flinch, and gently brushed it away for him.

"Don't touch me," he commanded, hating how sensitized his nerves were to her touch. She narrowed her eyes and deliberately placed both hands on her hips, drawing his gaze to her voluptuous curves. Her nipples were peaked; she was either cold or aroused - possibly both. Her vulva was at eye-level now, and he noted that her carpet did indeed match her drapes, as the old saying went. He felt his cock harden and regretted his tone as she leaned over him with a sensual, cruel smile playing over her full lips.

"Or what?" she whispered into his ear, her warm breath against his sensitive skin raising goosebumps all along that side of his body. She brushed her bare leg against his, lifting it to straddle his lap. Before he could even blink she sat on his thighs, slid her small, slender hands into his silky black hair and pulled it a little, forcing his head around to face her. She was still naked in the dancing firelight; he was nearly so, his hakama draping open, exposing his semi-hard cock. He hissed in surprise and unwilling arousal, knowing she would mock him for it.

But she did not mock him. Her eyelids drooped as they stared at each other, pupils dilating and breath quickening in her own arousal. He could not help smirking in triumph, just a little. It seemed he did still hold some power over her.

"Don't you dare give me that smug look," she breathed, taking his now fully erect penis in both hands, making him wince and squirm as she caressed its length ever so gently with her fingertips. "How has celibacy been working out for you?" she asked with a seductive smile, gripping his cock firmly in one hand and stroking him to the edge of madness.

"You are raping a priest, Witch," he snarled, writhing against the silk cords that bound him, clenching his fists behind him.

"Tsk, so melodramatic," she mocked softly. "Rape requires penetration, as every Church lawyer knows by heart; I am molesting a priest, yes, one who has waged war against women all his adult life. You've earned this," she said with mingled anger and lust in her silver-blue eyes, then spat into her hand and closed her fingers to wet them. She grasped his cock again and worked her wet hand like a piston to urge him ever-further toward the edge of control, making him wilder and more desperate by the second.

He writhed, but the knotted cords held him tight, muscles flexing uselessly against the red silk ropes. She stopped suddenly and stood; he was left cold and gasping on the knife's edge of explosive ejaculation. His eyes went wide and desperate, but he would die before he begged her.

"This is what it's like when I do leave you at the height of your need, Kenzo," she said, her voice shaking. He felt sure he was going mad; she couldn't be serious.

But she was. She strode toward the bay window facing East, tormenting him with the sight of her luscious buttocks in retreat. She stood watching as his erection dissipated, taking far longer than it should given how enraged he now was.

He kept his expression calm, though his fists were clenched so tight his fingernails - always carefully manicured, kept short - dug into his palms. Were that not sufficient humiliation, he was sweating heavily despite the cool, damp spring weather, and had to keep his teeth gritted against the temptation to beg her to let him come.

"I guess you're proud of yourself," he said bitterly once he was sure he could modulate his voice.

"Not infrequently, yes," she agreed with a casual air that infuriated him. "At this moment, not particularly. Nor am I ashamed - at least not of myself." This was too far; he would not tolerate this. Not from a woman, and especially not from a witch. He had been wrong as a child to trust her.

He bared his teeth, trying for a smile but only achieving a predatory snarl. "Of what, then? Me? You have no right to be ashamed of me. I am so far above you that you cannot even conceive it."

She came closer and saw worry flicker in his eyes. She leaned over, not touching him, but bringing her face very near his. He could smell her hair, an elusive, delicious scent of jasmine and orange blossom.

But it was her eyes that startled him; deep pools of cobalt blue, shot through with silver starbursts around the pupils. Could those really be human eyes? he wondered, feeling delirious. She was staring daggers with those eyes, straight past his defenses into his withered soul.

"On the contrary," she said, the calm in her voice belied by the storm in her eyes. "I have every right to be ashamed of you. I knew you before you were twisted by greed and fear. You are above no one as you are now - perhaps, just barely, you are still above ground; no more than that." Her words were spoken in the clear tones of a bell, yet cut like razors, so sharp the sting of it was delayed. He wondered if she meant that last as a threat, and a thrill of fear ran down his spine.

She was calm, but he finally understood that her rage exceeded even his; he had never suspected such a thing was possible - especially not in a woman. This was the calm of the Arctic Ocean, and he was pinned beneath that gaze by a hundred tons of glacial ice.

Her wrath was pure, all the more because hate did not drive it. This was the pitiless gaze of one who knew what he should have been, and grieved every inch of the vast distance he had deliberately placed between that and what he now was.

He would not accept even the possibility that she was right; he could not. It would destroy him to think as little of himself as she thought of him. If his erection had not already withered, it would have under those burning-ice eyes. He was so stunned he did not realize she had walked away until he blinked and saw her pouring two glasses of water.

She brought them back and set them on the table beside him, then lifted one glass to his lips. He had not realized his thirst until that moment, so he accepted against his first inclination to refuse anything she offered, like a petulant child.

After he drank, she followed suit. He felt humbled by this gesture, then newly furious at himself for letting her manipulate his feelings as well as incapacitate him physically.

"This is untenable, you must see that," he said after a moment to gather himself, trying to match her calm despite his riotous feelings. "What exactly do you want to happen here?"

"I want you to answer for your crimes against my people," she said, not missing a beat. It made him blink; she did not hesitate for thought, as he had expected.

"Your people?" he asked warily.

"Witches. All women, for every woman is my sister - but especially innocent witches. You have been the biggest scourge on us since the Burning Times, and you know better. Deep down, you know we are not the monsters - you are."

"'Innocent witch' is an oxymoron," he sneered. "You take advantage of your charms to seduce unwary men, you use spells and evil spirits to work your will, you indulge your every disgusting urge, you distract us from the work of God for your selfish whims, you use and use and then discard -" he had not been aware that his voice was rising with every word as he worked himself back up into a fine rage.

He only realized it when a knot of black satin was thrust into his mouth - she had slid the long belt of the hakama out of its loops and was using his own sash to gag him, he realized incredulously. He tried desperately to dislodge it, but could not; she wrapped the sash around his head twice more, sealing his lips closed around the smooth knot of cloth.

His control broke; he thrashed and struggled, roaring ineffectually into the thick triple-gag that bound his mouth, wrenching his tightly tied wrists and ankles apart as hard as he could, berserk with rage against and fear of his unwilling vulnerability. The cords did not give in the slightest; the knots held him firmly.

This was what he'd been afraid of; this was why he sought refuge in the Church she had warned him against so urgently. He was terrified of being subject to a woman's mercy - in particular, this woman's. And now he was.

He glared up at her and received a fresh shock: she was smiling down on his struggles. She was enjoying this.

Another tsunami of helpless rage threatened; he held it back by sheer effort of will, afraid to lose his mind as well as his freedom. Nothing irreversible had happened yet, he told himself sternly, forcing his straining muscles to relax.

It would only get worse for him to escalate. He must leash his temper; consider cooperating with her, perhaps - just long enough to get free so he could bring all the wrath of the Patriarchy down on her head, whose hair was the color of the hellfire that awaited her.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths through his nostrils, thinking of the tranquil face of a lake in the halcyon days of childhood summers, when endless potential filled each moment with magic. A memory came to him unbidden, of splashing in that lake with a tiny red-haired girl in a white dress. She laughed up at him, and her eyes matched the endless blue of the sky and water.

His eyes flew open, anxious to banish the sudden aching need for a return to those days, to that innocence, only to behold the same girl grown to womanhood - but she was not laughing with him now. Her generous mouth was set in a stern line, her lovely eyes bleak with disappointment. The stark contrast between the two shared moments made him groan, the sound muffled through the gag.

"Now you begin to understand what you've done to my sisters," Morgana said in a voice of ice. "You and all those like you - you steal our freedom, steal our voices, leave us with nothing of our own, no more than livestock to serve as brood mares and sex objects for you despicable beasts who charge at life penis-first. You monsters who made a god in your own pathetic image and claim not only supremacy, but exclusivity.

"And all the while you spit on our goddesses, proclaiming your insecure, supposedly masculine 'deity' the height of perfection. As if it weren't obvious the god of the Patriarchy poisons everything a real man is - partner, not ruler. As if that pitiful creature you worship could be a source of anything but misery. Ignoring everything nature teaches you! Do you not know why it is we women who hold the power of Creation in our wombs, and not you penis-wielding monsters? You prove every day you cannot be entrusted with life!"

He was afraid now; helpless in the face of her fury. She was an actual Fury, he realized suddenly, bringing justice and vengeance with her. He glared at her, unwilling to admit weakness no matter how undeniable it became.

"Those beautiful eyes of yours, lit now only by hate. How I despise you for polluting the soul I have always loved," she spat. He struggled harder, desperate to free himself before she killed or permanently maimed him. The wrath on her face was terrible.

She straddled him again, facing him. "Now you will taste the despair you've wrought on womankind," she breathed, and he was mortified to find he was growing hard for her again, despite his fear and captivity. She reached behind his head, taking the ends of the long sash that bound his mouth but still trailed almost to the floor. His heart leaped for a moment, hoping she would remove the gag and let him speak. Instead she brought both ends around the back of his head and criss-crossed them into a blindfold.

He thrashed and struggled harder, shouting protests into the muffling silk, not wanting to be left in darkness, bound, gagged, and utterly helpless. He shook his head, knowing it was useless; when she was finished he saw nothing through the black sash.

She made him stand, ankles still bound, smiling when she saw his nostrils flare with fear. She brought him to his knees on the floor, wound more rope around his chest and arms, then cinched it to the cord that bound his wrists.

He lost his sense of direction as he knelt there, trying to control his rage and panic; he soon grew dizzy, not sure which way was up until she laid him down on the thick rug in front of the fireplace.

She used the last of the scarlet cords to bind his legs together above the knees. She stood and looked down at him as he squirmed. She laughed. "Look at you; you can do nothing but wriggle like a fish, flopping uselessly on the ground waiting to be eaten. But I'll be merciful; I won't make you wait much longer."

He tensed at the threat he could no longer see, panic lighting up his synapses until he quivered like a taut bowstring in the hands of an archer. He heard rustling noises as she searched for something in her bag, then felt her beside him even before she turned him onto his back. Something warm and wet trickled onto his navel, then pooled, making him jump and curse into his gag. Her finger dipped into it and trailed across his abdomen, painting strange designs on his hypersensitized skin. He smelled sweet wildflower essence; it was honey, he guessed, surprised.

His guess was correct; she poured rosemary honey oil onto his belly, then used her fingers to paint runes and symbols all over his body while she spoke the ancient spells to open his eyes, soften his heart, pierce his defenses. He stopped flinching sooner than she expected. His muscles were relaxing, and his erection had returned; perhaps there really was hope for him.

She was doing witchcraft on him, and he could not stop her; he told himself he should be berserk with panic, but only a small, shrinking part of him was. He must be dissociating, he realized. Still, a sense of warmth and well-being started just behind his navel where the honey oil pooled, radiating throughout his body, soothing him like a sensual lullaby. He knew he should fight it, but failed to see the point in this moment when power was hers.

He was ashamed of his robust arousal, furious with himself for beginning to relax into this captivity, but above all, he was a pragmatist. He was helpless for now, so if there was any pleasure or enjoyment to be found, he wanted it.

"Mmpph," he grunted, startled when she slipped her arm beneath his shoulders and half-lifted him, then slid cushions behind him so he was half-sitting up. He felt her fingers loosen the knot of the blindfold, and then it fell away. He blinked in the firelight at her lovely face; she, too, seemed much calmer, he thought.

"I know men love to watch," she said, caressing his face. Her lips curved in a mocking, seductive smile; he was galvanized with mingled alarm and anticipation.

She leaned in toward his ear and neck, where she'd marked his skin with her demonic symbols not long ago, and retraced them with her tongue. Delicately at first, then with hunger, pulling at his earlobe with her teeth. He flinched and grunted into the black silk gag, though she was too gentle for it to really hurt. Goosebumps erupted all over his body as she repeated this everywhere her fingers had just been.

He groaned, senses sated with her skillful ministrations. Rosemary for remembrance, he thought incoherently, a stray memory from Shakespeare. Something deep inside him was terrified that any moment her teeth would sharpen, elongate, sink into his flesh, that something monstrous would devour him alive; yet he refused to relinquish the pleasure of the moment in fear of something he couldn't prevent.

Her mouth and hands were everywhere; she was relentless. She found every sensitive area he possessed and claimed it for herself, while he lay helpless to stop her. And if I could, would I? he wondered. She was a lioness; he, both prey and lover. Never in all his youthful debauchery had he known such intense pleasure or such wild frustration. He did not know if he hated or loved or feared her, or all three.

And that was before she straddled his legs just below the knees, gave him a dangerous smile, and leaned forward in a slow swoop that gave him a glorious, prolonged view of her magnificent breasts at every angle. While he was still distracted by her spectacular display of cleavage, she plunged the rest of the way down and took his cock in her warm, wet mouth.

She took him deep, to the back of her throat, making him come up off the floor moaning in ecstasy. She withdrew and teased his penis with the tip of her tongue along its fully erect length, then ran her tongue around the rim of his glans before settling into a rhythm of sucking, licking, and teasing.

He groaned into the silk in his mouth, grateful it was muffling the sounds of his surrender to her will. His eyes closed in rapture, but he opened them again almost at once, greedy for the sight of her bright head bent over him, her luscious mouth full of his cock. He could feel an annihilating orgasm beginning to build like a typhoon, and for the first time he was as afraid as he was eager.

To his regret, however, she thwarted his hopes and fears once again by her sudden withdrawal. She sat up, her lips swollen and pink from their efforts, and rose to her feet in one graceful motion. He threw his head back in despair, writhing for the relief she kept denying him.

She returned with a glass of water in hand. "It's important to stay hydrated when exerting yourself physically," she informed him, her voice and face brightly impersonal, as if she were acting out a Public Service Announcement. He rolled his eyes at her, which surprised the first genuine laugh from her he had ever heard outside their dreams. It was just as he remembered, but fuller - like a bell of pure silver.

"I'll take the gag out so you can drink. Whether or not your mouth stays free is up to you," she warned as she straddled him again, but much closer, setting the glass on the floor beside them. He could feel the smooth curves of her cheeks against his thighs along with the tickle from the ends of her waist-length hair, the brush of her nipples against his ribs, and the wild wet heat of her center radiating out to his engorged penis. Sweat broke out on his forehead; he had never been half this desperate for relief in his life.

He might actually beg her this time, he realized with panicked pride as she reached behind his head to undo the gag, her breasts pillowing against him with velvet-soft pressure.

He winced when the gag came out, his mouth aching. She pressed her fingertips into the hinges of his jaw and massaged the soreness away, then lifted the glass to his lips. He drank thirstily, then glared at her.

"Something to say? Now's the time," she said in a tone of light menace.

"Tch! I was going to thank you, dumbass, but you sure make that difficult," he snarled, hoping she would not gag him again, but unable to tame his tongue beyond this grudging offer of gratitude. She blinked, startled, then let another peal of laughter ring out that tempted him to stop scowling.

"I guess you have a point there! You're welcome, asshole," she retorted. "As a reward, I'll answer one question, if you have any."

He suspected this was a test, so he forced himself to ignore the riot of desire in the center of his body and consider carefully. First to be rejected was whether she was going to kill him, although it was admittedly the most pressing question coming to mind. He did not really believe she would do any lasting harm, no matter how infuriated she was. Second, he rejected the idea of asking her to untie him; it was stupidly obvious what the answer would be, and was therefore a question that would disappoint them both. Sheer failure of ingenuity.

So what else did he want from her, he wondered? And a great light dawned. He waited until she finished drinking, then cleared his throat.

"Yes?" she inquired.

"Will you let me suck some of that rosemary honey off your nipples?" he asked, letting his eyelids droop with lust. Her eyes went wide, the pupils contracting in surprise again before dilating with her own arousal.

"You know your herbs, Priest," she said with grudging respect.

"Not as well as you know your knots, Witch," he retorted, but couldn't resist the tug of a half-smile at one corner of his mouth.

She let out another trill of laughter. "If I knew them a little less well, my life would be very much more at risk," she said wryly, answering his smirk with one of her own and passing over the element of magic in the knotwork the Priestess of the Fates had taught her, because the less he knew of that the better.

She lifted the little clay pot that contained the honey and resumed her position on his lap, their smiles fading as desire resumed its place at the forefront of both their minds. He watched with the hunger of a starving predator as she dipped one slender finger into the honeypot, bringing it out dripping with light-golden nectar which she rubbed slowly, thoroughly into the dark rose areola first, then the tight pebble of the nipple itself. Her lips parted, her eyes closed in pleasure, and she moaned just a little as she rubbed.

"Do you have multiple doctorate degrees, or just the one in Medeival Torture?" he muttered, squirming a little in his urgent tumescence.

She opened one eye and blew him a kiss. "If you make me come, I might tell you," she offered mischievously, dipping her finger once more into the honey and repeating the slow massage on her other breast.

Both nipples gleamed wet, almost dripping in the dancing firelight when she was done. She leaned forward, resting her sticky finger on his lips, which opened to receive it. He tasted her fingertip tentatively at first, then sucked on it eagerly for a brief moment before she rose, her knees planted on either side of his hips, to offer him her breast.

He broke into a sweat again at the sheer effort of holding back his ejaculation as his mouth tasted her nipple and sucked greedily at her breast. The honey was an explosion of sweetness on his tongue, the tang of rosemary adding a sharp note. He closed his eyes and saw fireworks, vibrant flowers of light bursting and fading as his synapses lit up with pleasure. She gasped, startling him, and he withdrew to look at her face.

Her lips were parted as if in surprise, her auburn brows knitted as if in concentration, her eyes closed to hide whatever was in them - a secret he suddenly had desperate need of learning. Just as he was about to ask her to do so, she opened her eyes; they were dark with desire, merely a slim ring of silvery blue remaining visible around her dilated pupils. She mewled in protest, reminding him of her kitten shape, then fisted her hands in his hair to bring his mouth to her other breast.

"Wait," he said, and she stopped with obvious reluctance.

"For what?" she demanded petulantly.

"Take me inside you. Please," he asked softly, his voice rough with need.

Her face lit up with surprise, then darkened with increasing arousal. "Since you asked so politely, I guess I'll allow you to enter my Holy of Holies, just this once," she teased, though she was panting with her own desperate need.

"Blasphemy," he muttered darkly, then suckled her nipple again, teasing the last bit of sweetness from her skin as she poised herself above him. She guided the tip of his cock to her quivering entrance, rubbing her clit with it in passing. That brief contact almost made her scream, she was so close to her climax.

"I'm a witch; Blasphemy is my middle name," she said breathlessly, then impaled herself upon him. A tsunami of glorious pleasure immediately began to gather strength, pulling at the very center of her being, gathering tension and quivering on the edge of an abyss she might never escape once she fell into it. She stayed for one perfect moment, poised on the edge of the most explosive orgasm of her life, anticipation tinged with just a little fear; this was not remotely what she'd planned for the evening.

Kenzo was lost from the moment she took him inside her. He remembered with scorn the pleasure of a few moments before; if that had been fireworks, this was the birth of a galaxy. He might never emerge from this, but drown in the waves of shattering pleasure that shook him one after the next, with hardly a break between peaks. But even this was not quite the zenith; the edge of the universe was ahead, and he longed to take the plunge.

They moved in a rhythm as ancient as the Elements, their bodies remembering the dance with ecstasy beyond the borders of coherent thought. They reached the edge together, and without hesitation, threw themselves over as One. Each of them was a complete soul, lacking nothing when they were apart; but together, they created something entirely new, strange, and unbearably beautiful.

In the aftermath, they lay panting and sticky, sated with pleasure and stunned by its power.

Dawn was already approaching, Morgana saw as she stared out the Eastern window toward the horizon. She ignored the deep pang of regret she felt at the prospect of leaving, and firmly put her confused emotions behind a locked door until she could examine them in private at her leisure.

She disentangled her limbs from around him, though he murmured as if to protest. She lifted herself away from his warmth, though she already ached to feel it again.

"Morgana. Untie me; let me touch you," he said in a low voice.

"Ah, you'd love that, I suppose," she replied with false flippancy.

"Wouldn't you?" he retorted, making her blush.

She looked up, her luminous blue eyes much warmer now despite herself; was that a sheen of tears in them? he wondered, incredulous.

"You know I would," she replied with heartfelt sincerity that moved him. "But you also know it's not that simple. We are both still who we were last night; two enemies at war."

"There's a thing called a Peace Treaty that seems to work for bloodthirsty nation-states sometimes," he answered, his desperate, pleading tone giving the lie to his casual words.

"Yes," she whispered. "But those must be signed by the respective Generals, and we are mere soldiers."

"Speak for yourself," he huffed. "I consider myself at least a Sergeant-Major."

He was rewarded with another ringing laugh, though this one was muted by pain. "Major pain in my ass," she retorted, a tear streaking a path of light down one cheek. She thought for a long moment, and he held his peace with some difficulty.

Finally she spoke: "Let me be painfully honest for one moment before I go back to casual insults and take my leave of you: I hate you for leaving me to enter the Church; but although I tried to forget our bond, I could never completely do it. I never wanted to leave you. I still don't. But the path you chose is one I oppose with every cell of my being and every breath in my body. While you remain on it, we are enemies. I will fight the Church until they stop murdering my sisters, or until they succeed in murdering me; and while you are in it, the Church includes you. I can't trust you with my safety or that of my tribe."

There was a terrible silence between them as he absorbed this. At last he lifted his dark, beautiful eyes to meet hers once more. "Fair enough. Where does that leave us now?"

"Gloriously fucked, of course - and now I'm afraid I must kill you," she said lightly, turning away and leaning over her bag to get a change of clothes she'd brought with her.

"You have a shitty sense of humor," he growled. She might threaten, but he was no longer afraid of her; only of losing her again.

"You're not alone in that opinion," she agreed, pulling her yoga pants over her buttocks and sliding into a baggy sweatshirt. The effect was that of a sudden blackout.

She reached into her bag again and brought out a syringe. "What the fuck?" he demanded, suddenly alarmed again.

"I told you, I have to kill you," she explained, uncapping the syringe and flicking it with one finger.

"I don't believe you. You're not a murderer," he said.

"Aren't you, though? Or as good as?" she replied, the ice returning to her voice. He winced; she had a point.

"It's not as if I can stop you," he shrugged, his eyes full of pain as he steeled himself for yet another betrayal; he could only hope it would be the last.

"No, it's not," she agreed, and plunged the hypodermic into his deltoid muscle. Once again, the last he saw of her was a flicker of her red hair, and then darkness encroached.

***

When Kenzo awoke later that morning, he was aching literally everywhere. His muscles were stiff from being tied up for hours, and there were welts on his wrists and ankles where he had strained so hard against the red silk cords.

But he treasured these as proof he had not been dreaming it all; as long as he had the memory of how gloriously that night with her had ended, he still had hope and passion. He would renounce the Church and find her again, he determined. Once he did, there would be no chance - and no reason - for her to abandon him.

"I knew you wouldn't kill me," he told her under his breath as he went to the fridge for orange juice. "You suck at lying."

There was a note under a magnet on his fridge, he saw with a sudden leap of his heart. His hand trembled slightly as he took it down and read it.

"Of course I didn't kill you, dummy," she had written in elegant script. "April Fool's, you gorgeous, infuriating fool. There's some ointment to rub into your sore spots - I left it on your kitchen island." That was all; she had not even added a signature. He smiled, shaking his head at how utterly ridiculous she was, and lifted the paper to his nostrils, hoping for a whiff of rosemary honey.

***

Morgana was muttering curses at the trickster gods who'd been having so much fun at her and Kenzo's expense.

"Not everything is a joke, you gaggle of assholes," she swore under her breath as she stormed up the stairs to her apartment. "I specifically read tarot to prepare, and you guys said there would be 'nothing too unusual'. You're the most awful liars and cheats!"

A sudden gust of wind whipped a strand of her hair across her face. "April Fool's," the breeze whispered on its way to play with the new Spring leaves on the trees.