“Deep is the night, deeper still the grave.

But you must not sleep, for I have need of you.”

from the teachings of Shaz Vharhisti

He had almost forgotten the delights of the Forbidden Garden.

He alone possessed the key, and though the door had been locked and no servant given leave to nurture that which was contained within the walls, still did it thrive, albeit now a veritable jungle, fed by the spring which had drawn the first weary travelers to the oasis generations before. Only there, under the branches of an improbable silver apple tree that germinated nightmares infused with cobalt light, could he commit the most grievous of sins without retribution. Only there was he hidden from Akahan.

He sought the deepest shadows, well away from the sun’s toxic caress, laying aside the protection of his outer robes to worship the warmth of day without exposing his flesh. What he had gained through the ritual of the sacred root rendered him ill-equipped for aught but the night and the pinch of time before dawn and dusk. It served his purposes, being one with the night. Being one with those that walked in the night. His experiment was nearly complete; his pleasure was his pain, and for all he despised it, yet did he crave more.

Just for a moment, then, could he indulge himself. He drew the letter from his robe, passing it beneath his nose, inhaling the scents—sweet orange and ginger and the sweetness of her body, meant to ensnare him. Lines like poetry were contained therein, the parchment in his hands an active participant in the message, as if the creature from which it had been harvested sang the words in a language ink could never transcribe. Her words moved him strangely, imploring, beseeching. She would make him a gift, if only he were to come to her. If only he would renounce the prince he served and set his orbit about her. She would even open her legs to him and add his sons to her House. He cast the letter aside and lay in the long grass, feeling nothing.

The world beyond his walls held little interest, filled as it was with the cacophony of vulgar, undisciplined minds and the rank odors of the common, unimaginative denizens of his homeland. He had taken his leave of it and had no wish to partake of its mundane pleasures. Yet was he summoned. Yet was the work he had begun unfinished. Yet did her promises tempt him. She had always been able to tempt him. He caressed the page, her words traveling through his hand. He had much to gain from this alliance.

And much to lose.

Give me the boy, she told him. Give me the boy and I will give you something far more valuable.

He knew only too well the temptation of that dance, and the treachery. Behind his eyes burned the knowledge that she could not give him anything he did not already possess. He shielded his face against the shifting light. He could no longer see across the distance between himself and the j’thirrin, but that would soon be remedied. The dead and dying wished only to sleep, but he required them for a greater purpose. Akahan would be satisfied.

Still, the letter fluttered like a wounded bird beneath his fingertips, the memory of the author as intoxicating as the perfume of the darkest night. Her gift, already given, would not be returned. He slid his fingers between his lips. If it were to be the last of her he ever tasted, he intended to make it last.