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"He's a wizard, of course he can. Don't meddle with wizards."

"I still bet he can't!"

"Oh, go on in then, see if he notices. I'll come in if there's any trouble."

Ania knocked gently on the door as she had been trained to, and then
pushed it open, entering a large room with a view of the sunset, across the
bay. On the comfortable hotel chaise longue was a man of early middle age,
reading The Journal of Thaumaturgical Topology in a plain house-robe of silk
and cotton, with no magical symbols on it that she could see. He glanced
up, smiled pleasantly, and waved vaguely at the low table beside him, where
she put down her tray with its jug of Northern wine and some crisp rolls.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

Still silent, he shook his head, and she noticed again how his bronze hair
was turning white where it curled against his ears. The stiff green cotton of
her uniform rubbed against her upper legs, as she bobbed respectfully and
turned toward the door.

As she reached the door she stopped, and turned around.

If he *could*, he wasn't saying anything. He didn't *seem* to know.

He looked up at her, and smiled again. "Yes?"

She absolutely shouldn't, there could be trouble, but Birgit would surely
claim he knew, and she suddenly trusted his smile.

"Sir, *can* you tell?"

His eyebrows, which curled upward like rusty wire against his golden skin,
arched a little and his smile became wider.

"Can I tell what, Ania?"

He knew her name!---but wizards always know names, you learn that at
school. It didn't answer her question.

"Can you tell...about me..." he was still smiling, "can you tell if I'm
wearing panties?"

He blinked, and somehow his smile became deeper around the eyes.

"Do you mean, *do_I_know* if you are," he said, "or *can_I_tell*?"

She looked at him, a little confused.

"There are many ways I *can* tell, if invited," he said, "as anyone could,
but I think you mean, can I tell by some use of magic, as you stand there,"
she nodded, "and you want to know if I *have* used it."

"I thought it would be just like...seeing," she said, "you'd simply know."

"One way, yes, is like *looking*, and so seeing. But even a prentice does
not use magic without will, and a man who would use it as a casual intrusion
is not even a prentice for long. I *can* tell, but I have not.
Do you believe me, Ania?"

"I *believe* you, sir," wondering if she really did, "I believe you can,
and I believe you haven't, but I do not *know*."

"I have always admired Doubting Thomas," he said, clearly enjoying her
answer, "`Trust but verify' is the foundation of modern magic. Am I being
asked for proof?"

"Sir, ...yes."

"For proof that I have not? That would be hard." She shook her head.
"You are asking me, then, to show you that I *can*?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

"I may choose my method?"

"...yes."

He looked more closely at her, and she wondered how much of a spell was
needed. The touch of her dress was intensely present, close to her skin and
yet creating a hollow space within which she stood, under his gaze.

Around her neck, she felt a softening, a cool feeling that was like water,
but was not wet. It spread around her body like a quiet wave.

"Now, I can tell," he said.

Following his glance to the tall mirror beside her, she stood still, and
looked at herself. She was now dressed in silk; the simplicity of her uniform
had become the perfect simplicity of the dress of a great lady, and its plain
green had changed while hardly changing, to something with depths like the
autumn sea. There was no seam anywhere, only a line of coral buttons that
ran from the neck, along each arm to the cuffs. It was shaped by its flow
across her body, liquid against her skin.

No spell but the magic of silk made clear that under that flowing green,
there was Ania. Nothing else.

She had always been friends with her small, muscular body, but seeing it
like this, and sharing the sight with him, was different. This was not the
practical object she washed briskly in cold water every morning, it was more
like music. Her neat round belly was like a standing wave in a mountain
stream, flowing over a stone, pouring into a rounded channel and frothing
where the silk clung to the curls between her legs, welling up in a turbulent
mound that somehow had more shape, more definiteness than she had ever noticed
before. She wanted to cup it in her hand, to imagine the water filling and
spilling against her fingers, she could almost feel the rush and tingle from
inside; but putting her hand as if to cover herself...no. An inverted modesty
kept her from snatching at her body, there or where her breasts---normally
unobtrusive, gentle swellings that needed no special support and did little
to push out her clothes---were suddenly sharply defined. Low on her ribs,
but the nipples high, looking as emphatic as they unexpectedly felt; how had
they become points of *drama* in something so undramatic as the body she
lived and worked in every day?

"Magic," she said. "Have you put an illusion on my dress, to look like
that? Have you put a glamour on *me*, to look like that? Or a glamour on
my mind, to *think* I look like that? You could do all those things to someone
who does have something underneath---I haven't said if *I* don't---and it would
look the same." The idea of mind-magic was an uneasy one, but then the
thought of such a glamour on the Manageress almost set her giggling; it took
two of the maids, every morning, to get Madame Chorny into her corsets.
The image was so naturally her own, and he looked so much less of an Evil
Power than Madame Chorny on her best days, that she smiled at him, a
quick secret grin like the one she gave when she had lured Birgit into some
new plot against the sobriety of This Great Hotel. "Perhaps it is good that
I do not have such powers. I could not be trusted with them."

"No illusion, no fairy gold," said the wizard. "That is real silk, now,
as real as your skin. Your body looks like that because it is exactly that
beautiful, and your mind---do you think I would hesitate to look under your
clothes, and then intrude behind your eyes?"

"No, you wouldn't do that," she agreed. "So I really am like *this*, and
your body is truly like *that*," considering his long legs and arms, the well
cared for hands lying open on his robe, his golden skin. "And you *haven't*
looked under my clothes."

"I am looking now, as any man might," he said, "as any man *would*."

"Then I believe you could look as a wizard, without showing me to others,
but I do not *know*. Look at me, then. Look at me, wizard fashion." She
turned to face him squarely, with a rustling of silk.

He looked down, as she tried to meet his eyes, and she realized he was
looking closely at her feet, in the felt slippers This Great Hotel demanded in
homage to its floors. She wiggled her toes, and his mouth quirked, but he
did not look up. Slowly his attention moved, learning ankles, knees, thighs,
between them, up the curve of her stomach to her breasts and arms, then the
roundness of her lips, until he was studying her eyes. Green eyes, as she had
often seen in the mirror, with dark lashes and brows. Were they beautiful,
then, too? But he wasn't looking at beauty, he was looking at her, looking
at her eyes, learning her.

She let out a breath as he leaned back on the chaise longue.

"You have looked, now," she said.

"I have. I have looked, and I would know you across the Rio Amazonas,
in sunlight or starlight, now or a hundred years from now. It is a wizard's
craft to look, and to learn."

"I think you would," said Ania solemnly, "I am sure you looked at me
with the eyes of a wizard. I am sure, but do I truly know," she could not
resist it, "whether you saw my panties? *If* I am wearing panties?"

He roared with laughter. "Ania, you remind me of my mother's junior
husband. If we are to settle this, we must share eyes a little. Is this well?"

She nodded again, a little uncertain.

"Now I am touching your mind, only a little, and not with illusion---just
a link. It is easily made; the Talent sleeps in your own mind, too, but was
not woken in childhood. Look in the mirror."

He came to stand beside her, more than a head taller, and they both
looked at her small, smoothly clad reflection.

"A mirror is a kind of illusion," said the wizard, "but this is true seeing."
He pointed at the neckline, and a handspan of green silk cleared to her
eyes, the woven surface calming like the waves on a millpond when wind
and watermill rest, letting her vision pass the surface to the riverbed, to the
creamy coffee color of her throat. She had never looked at her throat as a
shape, before. Her eyes moved, and his followed, for the clear patch spread
to her left breast, then to her right. The nipples were so red, so red; was
she seeing through the skin a little too, to the blood that filled them
so tight that the skin on them seemed to pinch her with a kind of pain?

Downward, to her belly, the round, gentle boulder that made the green
wave in the silent river of silk, clear through the still surface;
the strange cup of her navel.

Downward again, to the firm mound where dark curls clustered, and all
at once she smelled them, scented with herself from the lips, almost open,
that they grew along. She had not known but---yes---that was their purpose,
hair kept when human pelts went smooth, to carry the scents that speak
clearer than words. Did the knowledge come from him?

When the whole dress was clear they stood looking, for a little, at her
body's form beneath it. Then her glance shifted to the image of the man
beside her, and the spell faded.

"These things are by invitation," he said, as she turned to look up at
him. "We have had no discussion of *my* clothes. And to see more of yourself
you would need to keep your balance while looking from behind, which is a
slow-learned skill. Now, my small disputant, are we agreed that, Imprimis,
I can tell exactly what you are wearing, Secundus, I can learn this by looking,
Tertius, I have indeed looked, and hence, Quartus, I do indeed know, with a
sure knowledge, that you are not wearing any panties?"

She smiled at him.

"Come, Lady Logic, have you a reply to this?"

"They teach about knowledge in Sunday School," she answered, "not only
in your lore schools. Your favorite saint had a test for certainty, and I may
surely say what his master said to him.

"Thomas, stretch forth thy finger."

Part 2

"This too I will do, and very gladly, since I am bid," he said, "but we are
reaching to other kinds of knowledge. You do ask this."

"Thomas, I bid you," she said, "stretch forth thy finger."

"Well, what may follow, may follow; remember that some things can
never be turned back. You can still step aside, now or when you choose, but
choices are choices. I can give no promise but choice, for tomorrow I must
take a Path you cannot follow."

"Thomas, I understand you," said Ania. The space between them was narrow,
but it was still between them. He faced her across it like a tower.
"Touch me, Thomas."

"Choose touch, first, with your own hands. Reach out, and lay them on
my shoulders."

Opening her arms, she reached up and laid first her right hand, then
her left, on the plain weave of his robe, feeling the muscle and bone of him
beneath, always looking up, into his eyes. As the left hand touched him,
their heads straightened, their eyes came level, as though he was smoothly
bending his long legs. She looked down, and saw him standing straight, and
herself free of the soft carpet where her slippers still lay. Experimentally
she lifted one hand, and felt weight pull her softly down, to touch her feet
gently against the ground, as if standing in the sea. She clasped his shoulder
again, and floated, level with his eyes.

"Whenever you choose, let go my shoulders, and you are free of me."

"Thomas," she said again, "touch me."

His hands held her waist, thumbs where it was narrowest, palms following
the outward flare of her hips. Held, holding, she floated.

Silently, after a time, his hands curled around to her back and began to
stroke her, with no pressure, through the silk. Her shoulders rose and seemed
to spread, and her back felt as supple as a cat's. From the base of her spine
to her shoulder blades, she could feel his each individual fingertip.
Reaching around from under her arms, he touched each side of her neck,
fingers moving downward from earlobes to collarbone, over and over and
over. With a nudge from a forefinger at each side, the buttons nearest her
collar slid from their places, and his fingers had a longer run,
ear to the next button, before they met silk.

When the next button was released on each side she felt the dress slip
a little over her breasts, drawn down by its feathery weight. She held more
tightly to his shoulders.

Two more buttons, left and right, and her shoulders emerged from the
dress, and his hands flowed to and fro behind her neck before sliding again
down her back, to rise again under her arms. Grasping the loosened cloth
there at the sides, he pulled it left and right across her nipples, left and
right, left and right, until he moved inside the cloth and brought the backs
of his fingers slowly down across her breasts, so that she felt the soft tufts
of hair between his joints. A ripple ran along her arms as the remaining
buttons freed themselves, and the dress moved down her, pulling itself over
her belly, clinging for a moment to her buttocks, gathered and drawn like
a liquid rope between her thighs. She separated her legs to free it, so that
in a parting moment the dress caught, stretched across her knees; then it
was free, settling to the floor as if laid out for admiration. Her legs
drifted upward, knees gently bent, until her feet met his legs and slid
up their sides, coming to rest with her ankles against his waist.

Buoyed up by magic she rested in the air, naked and secure, touching the
magic with feet and hands.

Looking down at the parting of her legs she saw her hair gleaming with
moisture, and breathed deep of her own scent, mingling with the smell of the
wine from the open jug. There was a fainter, ranker smell too, which became
stronger as he released a catch on his robe and returned to holding her waist.
The robe fell open and she knew it was the smell of male lust, from the bush
of red hair around the base of a raised golden bar, as long as his long hands
and as thick of two of his thumbs. The tip was darkened to the color of old
bronze by the blood vessels swollen inside it; its opening seemed a slit that
vaguely echoed her own, starting at the apex and ending somewhere below,
rather than the round spout she had always imagined.

"Do you know, now, what *I* am wearing?"

"I have no doubt, Thomas. Am I in my turn asked to know by touch?"

"I do ask you, Ania, to know me by touch."

She started to lift her right hand from his shoulder, to reach down toward
that strange, almost glowing part of him, but felt herself begin to sink away,
downward. No; she regained her hold on him, taking the chance now to
slip her hand past his lapel, gripping his shoulder directly, under the robe.
She thought for a moment, while she moved her left hand also to his golden
skin, and as the robe fell way behind him she bent her knees, pulling herself
toward him, until the tip of him rested against against the crest of the mound
between her legs, flattening her hair. The robe caught where her ankles held
his waist until she released it, returning them to touch his golden skin, just
above the pelvis, her toes hooked behind his back.

Pushing and pulling gently against him she rested in the air, holding the
magic with feet and hands and sex, as his hands began again to move.

His touch could now follow great flowing curves along her skin, from
behind her knees to beneath her thighs, his fingertips brushing the base of her
mound and following the line between her buttocks, caressing the sensitive
muscle between them, rising up her ribs and out along her arms, in again to
move over her breasts, finger after finger crossing the nipples, then the right
hand supporting her back while the left palm pressed against her belly, round
and round, cherishing it, in widening and narrowing circles, up sometimes to
sweep over her breasts and down again, round and round, closer to the place
where she was pressed against him. Then both hands slid along her upper
thighs until the thumbs were beside her mound, pressing a little and pulling
aside, and now her lips were open and kissing the tip of him, held open by
the roundness of it, and her own little rod of flesh standing straight in the
opened space above it.

"A small magic," he murmured, grasping himself to move the tip to meet
hers, and then his curious opening---opened---and she found herself entering
him, sucked by that tiny mouth, pressed by the solidity around it, melting,
twisting her body, panting, still holding the magic with feet and hands and
sex, buoyed up by the magic, loud gasps of pleasure forcing from her lungs,
until a great shudder came and she rested, floating in the magic and the
afterglow, pressing her head in the hollow of his neck and shoulder.

Part 3

"Wizards are supposed to have great long beards," she said, her eyes
an inch from his short, square one. "In all the story books they have
great long beards."

He stroked her back fondly. "How many wizards at this convention have
you seen with great long beards?" he asked her.

"Hardly any," she admitted, "but that's not the point. Wizards are
*supposed* to have great long beards."

"Very impractical, in this city, where all the best restaurants specialise
in great bowls of soup. But the choice of a long beard is open, of course, and
to a wizard an open choice is an easy tool."

She watched dreamily as his neat beard grew longer, slipping like a wild
red rope into the space between them.

"That's better," she said. "Hey, that tickles."

"That's another problem, when you're reading in bed," he said, "or if
you roll over at night with it trapped under your elbow. You see why I don't
make a habit of it."

"Hey, that *really* tickles!" She looked down suddenly, to where two
strands of the beard were teasing away the softness of her nipples.
"How do you *do* that? No, don't stop." She straightened her arms for a
clearer view, and watched fascinated as the beard used the open space to
form a russet cloud against her, in which waves moved up her skin like the
spiral stripes up a barber pole, vanishing yet endless. "Can you feel what
you do with it, like with your fingers? Like with...?" giving a little
wriggle where he was still stiff against her.

"Not exactly, but with the link between us strengthening I can feel
something of what *you* feel, which guides me well enough."

"It guides you *wonderfully*," she said, her sensations leaping up like
flames in a sudden wind at the idea that the wizard knew them with her.
"Can you describe what I feel? Pass a test on it?"

"You would remember it as though I told you what to feel, and there
would be truth there; describing feeling always changes it, for feelings are
not words. But it is a wisdom tool to describe it for yourself. Ania, bright
angel, what do you feel?"

"I feel fond of you," she said promptly. "You have nice eyes."

"Describing emotions is close to describing words," he said, "with words.
Only a great sage learns wisdom that way. Most who try it end up as
Literature professors, and vanish up their own...never mind. And describing
my eyes is vain, when they can change as easily as my beard, or your friend
down there who rose to greet you." She giggled, and blew a kiss to return the
greeting. "The acyclic tantra is to describe your direct feelings, your bodily
feelings. Do you want to try that?"

"How can I describe anything while you tickle me so?"

"Don't just be tickled; feel tickled. What is the feeling?"

"It's all down the front of me, like pain, but it's not pain."

"How is it different?"

"I don't know---yes, I do, pain always feels under the skin, this is like a
hundred points of pain dancing just outside, not coming in, but my muscles
feel as if they must move, to fight pain, more and more ready to move, but I
don't move, do I, Thomas? I don't think someone running *could* be tickled,
though they could itch. I don't move, my hands are holding the muscles of
your shoulders, I can feel the firmness of them, and my feet can feel your
waist, a bit softer and looser, I'm holding you there too, and down there I
can feel---of course, that's *John* Thomas---just the end of him, pressing a
little where the feeling is like burning cold ice, only soft, and melting,
and trying to dissolve him, I want to *hold* you there too. Oh, now I can feel
my own hair on my back---my hair isn't that long, Thomas, ohh, magic---and
it's stroking me like your hands, not tickling, smooth, in front I'm fire
and behind I'm the sand dunes, and I feel your long fingers against my eyelids,
your hand smells of me, your other hand is with John Thomas, a finger just
under him---he's nibbling at me again, like a fish---and your finger feels
like bubbles bursting in me, and it is just inside me like a bubble that
can't burst, and it's moving and I'm squeezing and it won't burst,
and I have...to stop...talking..."

"Thomas, I have not kissed you," she said dreamily. She pulled towards
him, and began to lick his lips. His mouth opened as it touched hers, and she
moved the tip of her tongue along his gums, as his tongue slid over hers and
curled up to the roof of her mouth, dabbing delicately behind her front teeth
and tasting the shape of her, back near to the throat. Then it curled flat
around her own tongue, holding it in place as their mouths opened wider.

He began to hum. An old melody from somewhere the tall ships traded,
that all knew and none named, it filled her mouth and echoed in her throat,
her own voicebox sounding with his music, the vibration filling her. Slowly
she joined the music with her own breath, and slowly he quieted his own,
until she was singing his throat, controlling a bass resonance that felt
strange and natural at once. The music passed between them, sometimes driven by
one, sometimes by both, winding through their bodies like the murmur of the sea.

His tongue drifted out of her, and as their mouths separated he turned
upward to lick her eyelids, then as she moved upward with the slight pressure
of his hands beneath her he was licking the hollow of her throat, his beard
moving against her chest. His tongue moved downward---no, she had moved
upward---his tongue coiled around a nipple, his teeth pulled at it, while the
palm of his hand passed around, around on the other, or sometimes she felt
his separated fingers move, one, two, three, four across it before the rubbing
palm, slippery from its time between her legs, resumed its slow circling. For
a still moment she was held between finger and thumb on her left, between
teeth on her right, teased by a finger and by a tongue.

Downward, as his tongue caressed her belly and his hands the back of her
thighs, until she could look down and see the red hair of his beard mingle
with the black of her mound, and feel that tongue circling, flicking at the
sides and her stub of flesh, tunneling into her, sipping at the flowing juice
of her, while his fingers worked behind, and the silky hair of his armpits was
against her knees. Her body felt about to dissolve when she pushed away
from him, pulled down, so that his tongue made an undeviating trail up, past
her navel with a little flick inside, between her breasts, to her throat, and
she was balanced, sitting on the hardness of him like a rail, her legs back
beside his waist. Gradually she pushed backwards,sliding to the end and
squirming gently against it, until she was around the bronze tip.

She looked down at that golden bar holding them apart, pressed against
her open lips, and pulled tightly with her legs against his waist. As her calf
muscles pulled, harder and harder, the pressure into her became intense, but
she hardly moved.

"Help me," she said. "Force a way."

"This is difficult," he said, "with so much desire for you holding
that shape firm, but...watch." He changed under her eyes, the blunt bar
becoming a tapered cone, the swollen tip no wider than her finger.
She pulled again gently, and he was a thumb's length inside. She pushed
herself back, saw him slippery with her juice, pulled with a great jerk
and had him half inside her, stretched tight as a needlework canvas, hurting
but holdingthe pain as tight as she held him. Back again, the wet of her now
shining on half his length. Another pull, further, tighter. She moved into a
rhythm of forward and back, never now all the way out, each time a little
further in, and now his hands behind her were strengthening each pull, and
at last her mound slammed into his, the golden bar invisible, and she rested
against him, red hair tangling with black.

Impossibly tight, impossibly full, she felt his full thickness come back,
deep within her. Wrapped around him, pressed against him, holding him
inside her, with a shout that came from the bottom of her spine and uncoiled
through her lungs to a sound that left her throat raw and her ears ringing,
she felt every muscle in her body go as fuel to an exploding flame.

"Ania, what do you feel?"

"I feel soft. I feel you against me, and sweat running down the edge of
where I'm against your chest." She stirred her hips against him. "I feel John
Thomas inside me."

"*How* do you feel him inside you?"

"Just the way I feel your shoulders, in my hands. No, wait." She stirred
again, slid a little back from him, and pulled herself back against his groin.
"At the mouth I feel you, just like that, through the skin. That hair's much
stiffer than your beard, do you choose it that way? But inside it's not like
that. How *do* I feel you? Can you go very thin just at the entrance, but stay
thick inside, so I can concentrate? Yes, I can feel you're in there, but it's
not through the skin, it's in the muscles, in whatever stretches---like when
I'm carrying a weight, I know it inside my arms as well as by my fingers.
Thicken out again...yes, even just behind the entrance, it's the stretching
I feel. Like something big in my throat,but it's a good feeling. As though
I was hollow before, and now I'm solid." She twisted against him. "The
muscles get tighter, just by my noticing them, and having something solid to
tighten on is like the good feeling in my jaw of biting solid bread---teeth
don't feel, either, do they, I'd never thought of that---only the goodness
spreads wider, my hips feel right,they're balanced around you. But how does
it feel from the inside, to you?"

"When I first go hard," he said, "I feel my skin stretched like a pig on
tiptoe, unsafe, vulnerable, until---John Thomas, you called him?---until he
is held and supported as you hold him now, like being safe on four legs.
You make my body complete. All along him, the pressure of you balances the
tension from inside, he's your `bubble that can't burst'. The skin on most
of him doesn't feel the touch nearly as much as thatpressure, that holding
you give him. Around the tip he does feel through the skin,and when you
wriggle your muscles like that---"

"I didn't know I could do that until you made me feel them."

"---or slide along me, it is like having my tongue in bitter honey."

"Can you show me how it feels? You said there is a link... ohh, when I
do this, you...and when I squeeze...and, my muscles won't stay still,I can
feel it both ways, and... Thomas, you are holding tight, holding your own
muscles, it's *hurting* you, what are you doing?"

"When you came in, wondering if a wizard could see through cotton, you
had no thought of having a child."

"I might have a baby, mightn't I?"

"Ania, you would have a baby. Your body is at its most ready, and the
seed you have made is close to your womb." He pushed gently against her,
to slide her off, but she held him tightly with her legs.

"Wait a little like this, if you can...?"

"I can wait, if you hold very still."

She settled against his chest, and against his groin. Thin muscular
tremors ran through both of them, both holding still against a force that
pushed towards wild movement.

"Thomas, if I have a child, will he be a wizard? Can you see the future?"

"I can see some futures. An open choice is a powerful tool." He paused
for a long moment, his body trembling like a sheepdog waiting for a word of
command. "Healthy...and a wizard. She will be a very powerful wizard."

"She? Will she be beautiful? That is important, for a woman."

"She will be beautiful when she chooses. As you are beautiful."

"You are teasing me...no, I don't think you do that, do you? Will she
be happy?"

"That depends on her own choices. Her existence depends on our choice;
on yours, for I will abide by yours. I cannot be with you at her birth, but if
you want her, she is yours."

She pressed her forehead into his neck, wondering.

"The choice is now," he said, "for strong magic like hers can hold a child
in the womb, long before she is a person. Healcraft cannot eject her before
her time, only hurt her."

"How can I keep her out, then? Is that fair to her?"

"You have joined me to your body, and I have learned much of it. May I
speak of what I know?" She nodded against him.

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"You are nineteen years old. You have denied birth to...forty-seven of
your seed, by remaining virgin. Once, when you were sixteen, you would have
had twins. There is no justice to them, no injustice. The choice is free."

"I am filled with you," she said, "I want to overflow with you. I want my
belly round with her, I want to feel her kicking at me, I want her born and
sucking at me. I want our child."

He turned and walked toward the chaise longue, twisting himself inside
her with each step he took. At the head of it he leaned forward and placed
her buttocks there. A little weight returned to her. Grasping her wrists he
lifted her hands at last from his shoulders, and lowered her gently through
the increasing downward pull, until she rested with her head looking up at him,
her thighs still holding him. He raised her ankles against his shoulders.
As he bent forward to touch her breasts, she found her bottom curled into
his thighs, her hips upward around his now vertical flesh.

"I am the earth," she whispered, "you are the seed, the plough,
the gardener, planting me, what are you?"

He began a steady vertical movement, almost out of her and in again,
which carried his hands up and down her slippery chest, her small breasts
moving with deeper and deeper breaths and the passage of his fingers, and
her hips twisting and pushing, the muscles inside her jerking and squeezing
and tightening wildly as he came down, came down, came down.

"You are the rain, that turns the earth liquid, you are the thunderstorm,
you are the l_i_g_h_t_ning, you are the l_i_g_h_t_ning, you are the
l_i_g_h_t_ning, you are the l_i_g_h_t_ning,..." the rhythm peaked as
her legs went rigid against his ribs and he stood over her, coming in
pulses that spent their momentum deep inside her, welling up around him
like a pale grey flood, brimming over, but unspilled.

Slowly, he pulled out from her, a little of his liquid draining back
off the length of him, rejoining the pool that receded into that narrowing
opening as he softened and slid from her once distended grasp. Moving to her
side he eased her along the chaise longue until her hips were still upward,
on a pillow, but her legs were now held up by its head. He raised her back
gently, sat down, and laid her head on his lap.

"Lie here a little, if you want to help my seed to join yours, though it
is active stuff; already searching for your womb. A little would be lost if
you stood up, but the child would still be almost certain."

"I do not think I know how to stand up. I am warm butter, I am as soft
as...why, as soft as John Thomas." She turned her head toward his belly.
"I want to kiss him. How is he so silky smooth? Why do *these* lips notice
that, I didn't feel it before." She pushed at him with a lazy tongue. "A drop
there, that came too late. I thought it would taste stronger, being so strong,
making babies. Making babies. I'm going to have a baby. Thomas, I'm going
to have a baby."

He lay his hand on her belly. "Already my seed is swimming upwards.
At...yes, at midnight, our seed will join. From midnight, you are her mother.
Is it well?"

"Thomas," she said, "it is very well."

Part 4

"Birgit," said the wizard, "perhaps you should come in here now."

The thin connecting door to the next room slowly opened, to reveal a
tall young woman in the same green uniform that Ania had worn. Her breathing
was uneven, and she still held the small brush she had held ready for sweeping
with, if found in the empty room. She looked in at the silk dress on the floor,
and at Ania asleep with a mouthful of naked wizard. Her coppery face darkened.

"Checking out tomorrow, sir?" she said coldly. "I hope you have found
the service satisfactory."

"You are angry."

"You have taken Ania's cherry, and you're off tomorrow without a care.
What's she going to do? If there's really a baby coming?"

"Ania has taken my seed, by her own will."

"Didn't enjoy it, did you? Just an act of charity from a visiting sperm
donor?"

"I took great pleasure in it, Birgit, as did you. Show me the brush you are
holding."

She held it out, unwilling, and the handle glistened wet. He breathed in,
and smiled at the scent of her.

"Hearing her---excited like that...That's not the point! You got her all
worked up, and gave her all that stuff about choice, and she decided in a hurry
like she always does. Now she's pregnant---all right, don't interrupt me, you
pedantic old goat, from midnight she's pregnant---and nobody to care about her."

"You do not care about her?"

"Of course I care about her. *I* care about Ania more than anything, and
*you* have just wrecked her life. My best friend, just because you couldn't
stick to reading this." She picked up The Journal of Thaumaturgical Topology
and threw it behind him with a sound of tearing paper. "Bothers you when I do
that? More than what's going to happen to her?"

"She is your good friend. And she is beautiful."

"Of course she is, though she never saw it, and the damn bellboys are
too dumb to see it. They only care about big tits like I have. But I always
knew a man would see it, some merchant, maybe, and she'd be off with him
to raise babies and run a shop selling wool and linen. I never did anything
to spoil that. You've spoiled it, haven't you, just for an evening's `great
pleasure in it'. And I never even told her how I wanted to touch her breasts."

"Then why," asked a dreamy voice, "don't you touch them now?" Ania
looked up at her with a peaceful smile. "Birgit, I'm going to have a baby."

"I know you are, you little...and who is going to look after you? When
Madame Chorny dumps you in the street?"

"Ania, I think we should offer our visitor a little wine." He reached for
the jug. "Shall I pour?" She giggled, and then held very still as he filled
her navel until the wine rose like a round, polished ruby above her skin.

"That tickles," she said, and a drop escaped to flow down her sweat-soaked
side. "Birgit, I can't move until you drink it."

Slowly, Birgit knelt beside her, and brought her lips to the surface of the
wine. She gently sucked the top of it into her mouth, and with two long
movements licked Ania's belly, leaving a wine-red heart on her coffee-cream
flesh. She mouthed each nipple, holding it between her lips in silence until
she drew them closed across it, and then moved her face to Ania's for an
endless kiss, while the wizard stroked her hair. Eventually, she pulled away.

"Oh Ania, Ania, what is to become of you? He is going off to do whatever
it is he does, and you cannot stay long in our cubicle upstairs. I cannot take
care of you in this."

"Would you care for her," asked the wizard, "if you had a house?"

"Of course I...hey, what's the idea? One of those little houses for kept
women, over beyond Temple Hill? She's your little mistress, when you care
to come by, and I'm her maid? We visit with the other little pets, and keep
out of the way when their fat-bellied friends come calling? I've had offers of
*that* more than once in this hotel, and I'd rather sweep floors for ever."

"Your imagination paints vivid pictures, Birgit, but I would never think
of you or her in that one. There is a picture, though, that you had her in
already. On Bell Street, I think, the family Warend is trying to sell a linen
and wool shop."

"On Bell Street? That must be---they can't be selling *that*
place---it's..."

"They have had a shipwreck, and they must make choices. This choice is
yours. Do you want that shop?"

"But surely that would cost, oh, I don't know, you can't be giving *that*
just for getting into Ania's pants."

"I wasn't wearing any."

"And I am not giving anything for that. It was a gift between us.
Such a shop would satisfy you as lore satisfies me, you would serve the people
of this city, and you could pay me such return as seems reasonable to your
merchant-family soul---no, I'm not spying on your mind, you walk like a
merchant's daughter, allow me the perceptions of the ordinary man. I expect
your family was destroyed by the sheeprot plague of ten years ago, so many
wool merchants were. I am suggesting this because you belong in that shop."

"Like John Thomas belonged in me," said Ania dreamily.

"Ania! You will have to think of other things,soon enough. Sir, let us
be serious. You are talking about a great deal of money."

"Money is not the most serious subject, to a wizard, except for the dangers
in being careless with it. You can wreck the commerce of a whole city by
turning lead into gold. There is no such problem in buying a shop with a
cargo of what you are wearing."

"I am wearing...oh. Silk."

"You are wearing rather more than Ania was," said the wizard approvingly.
"I think that is wise, with your build. But you will find it is all silk;
only a trained eye can see the line at your hips. I rather fancy myself with
textiles."

"You rather fancy yourself, altogether," said Birgit. "Trained eye!"
She rocked back on her heels and started to laugh. "I think I like you,
after all. You do seem to think of yourself as God the Father, but you
did ask first, and Ania got more of a bang out it than the Virgin Mary.
Very well. The shop in Bell Street. We will pay you eight per cent per annum,
interest, paying off the principal as we can."

"And whenever you are in the city," said Ania, "unless you prefer
This Great Hotel, a bed for the night."

"*A* bed for the night?" said Birgit. "Well, accomodation is a fair item of
trade, I suppose. It is then no part if the contract if we decide, maybe to
save on sheets, to give you---"

"---*our* bed for the night," said Ania. She sat up and leaned against
the wizard, holding her legs carefully together. "Good, I don't seem to be
leaking. Oh, except there," as the last few drops of wine rolled down to join
the other liquids that had matted her hair to a flat,fragrant mass.
"That doesn't matter."

"You really do want a baby?" Birgit asked her, "and you want..."

"To keep a shop? And live with you? John Thomas is wonderful," she
reached across and held him, stroking gently with her thumb as she continued
talking, "but I couldn't live comfortably with anybody but you. A big, hard,
wise person like this is more of a teacher."

"Hard," said Birgit, prodding him in the belly, "huh. I never knew a man
that was hard there if he didn't get the chance to stiffen his muscles first,
and I never knew a man that didn't do that. Thought so," she said, prodding
him again. "Stiff as a board, now. Men!"

"Well, I like him, there too, and the best way to feel it is with your own
tummy," said Ania, "but it's not really such an interesting body as yours.
I always thought your breasts were the shape breasts are supposed to be,
I didn't feel I *had* breasts at all, really, until...anyway, I do now,
but I still think yours are nicer. Come and sit here." She made a space
between herself and the wizard.

Birgit sat down between them, with Ania's small right arm around her,
under the ribs. "I don't think I can quite reach that one," said Ania,
straining around to touch the nipple, "maybe you'd better lie down," and
pulled her sideways to lie across her lap, her head pillowed by the end
of the chaise longue. Trying to wriggle into a more comfortable position,
she found her knees across the wizard's lap.

"They're firm, your breasts, aren't they?" said Ania, running her hands
smoothly over them. "I always thought they would be, not like Madame
Chorny's. Or are they just being held firmly? It's not really fair,
you wearing all these clothes when we're not." She pulled the silk dress up
over Birgit's knees, with a slippery sound as they dragged against the wizard's
legs. "Raise your hips a little," and gathered it up around the waist.

"This morning I put on respectable white cotton drawers," said Birgit,
"not black lace nothing-very-much."

"With your red-brown skin," said the wizard, "I thought black would
look nice."

"And you were expecting to look, of course."

"And it does look nice, doesn't it?" said Ania, "Upsy-daisy," and lifted
Birgit's back to slip the dress up to her shoulders. "Peel it off, so it won't
get crumpled. Now, what else are you wearing?" The breasts were held by a fine
web of silk, exactly shaped to her, gossamer thin where it reached behind
her, changing gradually from a red gauze invisible against her skin to fine
firm silken cloth over the nipples, as black as the pupils of her eyes.

Birgit looked down at it, and watched Ania's slim fingers rub against the
silk. "You do fancy yourself in textiles, don't you?" she said. "How does
this thing undo? If I know men..." She fumbled for a moment between her
breasts. "At the front. Of course." She freed the fastening, but the web still
cupped each breast, pulling them slightly outward. Ania peeled it off the one
nearest her own breasts, and the end slipped down into her lap.

"Now I can feel one of each. This one's a little softer now, even with
the silk still on, because it's not being pulled. But even this one, without
anything, stays so round, and so strong."

"They droop a bit when I'm standing," said Birgit, "as Mr Textile here
implied. He obviously knows tits like he knows cloth. No, don't stop doing
that." Ania's hand went back to running over belly and breasts, as her own
right hand moved behind Ania's back and up and down the spine. "And no
wizards sitting idle, either."

He began to slide his right hand from her ankle to her thigh, and cupped
his left with a soft pressure over the black silk between her legs. She pushed
against his hand, rubbing her shoulder blades against Ania's lap, and her
breath came faster. She lay there contented, her eyes shut, while four hands
moved over her body.

"What's at the back of my knee? John Thomas standing tall again?"
She tautened her leg muscles to trap the end of him for a moment. "You be
careful with that thing. Don't think every woman just wants a baby."

"Your latest seed passed your womb five days ago," he said, "it is three
weeks since you bled. You cannot start a child before Michaelmas."

"And I'm not planning to start one then." She moved her legs up his lap,
to trap him between her knees with a rolling motion. "If you just let it into
the air, how high does it go?"

"That depends on how I am aroused. With you here, and Ania beside
me, doing that to you, and if you do *that with your knees much longer,
it will reach the ceiling with no magical help." He slipped a finger under
the black lace, and began to run it up and down, just inside her. "Your own
arousal makes sure of mine."

"Feeling mine with your fancy magic? Peeping Thomas?"

"I see it in the swelling of your lips and nipples, I smell it in the juice
you are pouring over my fingers, I feel it in the firmness of you in here,"
he reached a second finger under the lace, and tweaked the flesh between her
lips, "this is much older than magic."

"Keep doing that. Keep doing it." She reached down and unfastened the
lace at her hip. "I knew it would open that way... Put your fingers inside
me. Inside."

Ania reached with her left hand to hold the wizard's left. Laying her
forefinger along his, she pushed both into Birgit, rubbing against each other
flesh around them. Her knuckles, where her other fingers wrapped around
his larger hand, kneaded and pressed above the opening. Her left hand still
moved over throat, breasts, and belly; his right, from ankle to thigh.
Birgit's legs began to move jerkily.

"Birgit, I don't think we should treat John Thomas like that. He likes to
be held. Grasped and supported, not banged by your knees. I want to put
him in here," and she pulled her forefinger a little apart from the wizard's,
stretching Birgit's opening from inside. A spasm of its muscles pulled them
back together, squeezed bone against bone. "Turn over, Birgit."

Birgit rolled over towards them, raising herself from the space between
their laps and shifting onto his legs. Ania spread her open with her right
hand, grasped the trembling stiffness of the wizard with the other, and brought
them together. Once the tip was inside, her left hand pulled behind Birgit's
legs, so that the rolling finished with a smooth slide onto him and Birgit's
head on her own lap, which Birgit pushed apart, bringing her mouth to Ania's
mound. Joined through Birgit and in a kiss, gold hands meeting pale pale
brown as they roved across her coppery back or reached between her legs to
hold her and to stroke her, six hips jerking together, Ania and the wizard
felt her body's release and subsided, gasping, with her.

"I hope you were right about Michaelmas," she said, sitting in a cuddle
between them. "I have a shop to organise, and this one to look after." She
patted Ania's stomach.

"Oh, Birgit, I'm going to have a baby. A wizardly baby."

"I know, sweeting. And what a magic toddler can do to a well-run household,
I can't wait to find out. I just hope *I'm* not going to have one for a while."

"You need not fear my seed. I interrupted time for it." He slipped two
golden fingers inside her, and pulled out a thick, uneven, pearly-grey thread.
"It is all here, and cannot wake except where it can make a child. If ever
you want my baby, use it when your body is fertile. Put it back inside you
and give your body pleasure---I am sure Ania will help. It will turn again to
liquid, and find your own seed."

"Oh Birgit, sometime... I want to put his child in you, I want to suck
your milk, I want a little brother for my own baby. Please, Birgit?"

"Sometime, Ania. When you're ready to run the shop for a while.
But how can we recognise a fertile time?"

"See," said the wizard, putting the thread against Ania where the
well-sucked cleft still stood a little open, "Ania has a fertile seed,
not yet touched." The thread twitched, like a cat dreaming in its sleep.
He moved it to Birgit; even with an end inside her, it lay still.

"As I told you, you cannot make a child now. When your body is ready,
this will know."

"Ania said a brother. Can you tell?"

"No. I can tell only at the moment of choice, and this choice is not yet.
With Ania, I knew the time, and who will be close by when my seed meets hers,
in here." He placed his hand over her belly, and Birgit put hers over his.

"You will both be close by," said Ania, "it is close to midnight now.
Did you know she would be here?"

"I felt her love and her anger around you, soon after you came in."

"You knew she would join us like this?"

"I could sense what would flow from your choice. If it had meant
your abandonment on the streets, do you think *I* could have chosen to do
what we did?"

"Of course not," said Birgit. "You are the Lord of the Good Guys,
aren't you? That's in the past, now, the present is that Ania is just about
to conceive. How are we going to celebrate?"

"What do you mean?" said Ania.

"Well, I think we should mark the moment. Can you tell us exactly
when it happens?"

"The feelings of the seeds are tiny, but intense at that moment.
I can pass them through all of us."

"Well, there's an idea I want to try: you lean well back. Ania, get on his
lap, no, right against his slightly soft stomach, lean right back. That's nice,
John Thomas is sitting up between your legs." She reached out a hand to cradle
the hairy mass just beneath.
"Good little boy, sit up straight."

"I can't get him in, at this angle."

"You're not supposed to. Raise your right leg a bit." Birgit climbed
on to the wizard's knees, slipped her own left leg under it, and passed her
right over Ania's left, around behind him. Ania felt gravity lessen its hold
on her a little, as the wizard reduced the strain on his lap.

"Now, he's nicely between us, you see?" Birgit pulled open her mound to
wrap the lips around one side of him, then did the same for Ania's on the other.
"He's wrapped in flesh, now, isn't he?" she said as she pressed their bodies
together. "Not all parched and stretched and lonely?"

"Birgit," said the wizard, "your mind is as fertile as Ania's body.
John Thomas feels cherished."

"Good, put your magic hands around her there, I'm sure it will be good
for her milk when the need comes. Oh, you'll have big tits then, Ania,
I can see it. And hold up mine with *your* hands, yes, go on doing that.
Try nibbling on his ear---*that* made John Thomas twitch. Look at the darling
tip of him, nestling between us and barely peeking out! Makes me feel quite
sentimental. Now, I'll put my hands around your waist, where it's all going
to happen, and I'll stop talking, so we can feel it."

They moved gently against each other. The friction of their skins
pulled on the tension they felt, as the distance narrowed between
invisible things that yearned for each other so entirely that the
ordinary love and lust of a grown body seemed like casual liking.
Ania moaned with pleasure, feeling the two lovers outside her body,
the two longings inside it, closer and closer, groins pressed close
and grinding each other and the flesh between them, until the seeds met
and hips thrust against each other like fighting rams,
juices washing over a member that thrummed with the flow of its own.

"I can *feel* I'm pregnant now," said Ania, when they were able to speak
again. "He was quite right, it was midnight."

"Oh, he's always right," said Birgit, "about everything. Look."
She pointed upwards. "He did hit the ceiling."