(Copyright Heather P. Knight 2006)

Marrak entered the outermost chamber of His beloved Nepenthe’s rooms. The artifacts of her conjury filled the space around Him. Glass vials and globes hung from the rafters alongside dried herbs and the shriveled carcasses of small animals. Powders and liquids stood in jars and bottles along the shelves of one wall, each neatly labeled with pictographs of the contents. She used such things in her potions and philters. There were also live creatures that scrabbled in cages and other containers. Mostly insects and belly-crawling things. Some of them had once been human He remembered.

He also remembered that His own mortal mother had been housed in those rooms. She was then the old God’s wife. But now the old God was dead and Marrak the victorious inheritor of celestial power. A pity Amara had not lived to witness her son’s ascension. Her sin in taking her own life could not be undone, but her suffering would not be eternal for when Marrak took His place in the immortal realms He would free her from the Pits of Torment and place her at His side.

Nepenthe’s sins might yet be forgiven by Him, but first she must show her reverence for His power. So far she was not repentant and His irritation returned. Still she did not acknowledge His presence with grateful attendance. Did not even call out His name in welcome. He must correct her ignorance He saw and strode through her rooms in search of her.

He came into her study chamber, that which had been His mortal mother’s place for the making of garments and tapestries. There were Nepenthe’s books and scrolls and tablets where she read and wrote and drew in furtherance of her magical arts. There was her chair where she had set her spells to bind His mortal desires to her will. And there on the floor had she given the promise of her love for His service. Yet she with her sorcery had not forseen His divine inheritance and had sought to have the merely mortal part of Him. She would have His immortal love as well if only she would prove herself worthy of His glory. He was eager for her worship of Him and impatient for her presence. Thoughts of her fired His mortal frame with divine heat.

"Nepenthe," He called for her loudly. She did not answer. "Nepenthe," He called again as he moved through the curtain to the third room.

The space was dark and sparely furnished, unlike the clutter of her other chambers. Carved lines and symbols on the wood planks of the floor were painted them with a reddish-brown oily substance. In the center of the floor was a large design closed by a circle drawn thick with the stuff. Ordinary seeming objects were set at spaces along that perimeter; a lit candle, an inflated bladder, a bowl with dark liquid inside, a rusted iron spike. Nepenthe stood outside the design in the space between the candle and the spike.

Her gaze was focused high toward the center of the room’s ceiling and her arms were stretched upward as if she attempted to hold something unseen there. Focus and fatigue marred her lovely features as He watched. Her robes and her hair flew about her as if she stood in a powerful wind, but there was none. Not even the candle’s flame betrayed a breath of air in motion.

What trickery was this? She sought to avoid His just chastisement of her sins by use of her puny magic against His divine power! He would not allow her to escape His punishment and crossed the circle to bring her His corrective rebuke. At the instant His glory entered the design He saw the mortal objects change their nature.

The bowl and the bladder emptied their contents by unseen power into the circle even as did the candle’s flame and the disintegrated dust of the spike. The four ribbons streamed upward and spun together into a dark spot above His head, like wool threads twisted to yarn from so many spools. There was a thread that wound from Nepenthe as well He saw as He took another timeless step. Silvery stuff sped from the delicate hollow of her throat and into the emptiness above. With His third step He bridged the center of the design and the heat of His glory burned on His breast.

Nepenthe was suddenly before Him, her vibrant beauty pale and faded as from unnatural age. Her skin once rich as cream was dusty with blemish and rot. Her golden tresses were gone grayish-white and her murky blue orbs sunken colorless. The rosy plump lips He remembered were withered dry against pitted teeth that had been fine as pearl.

"Marrak," she pleaded weakly for His mercy as they floated together in the darkness. His radiance alone illuminated them as it poured forth from His relic of victory over the old God. He enfolded her in His arms and allowed His power to infuse her mortal flesh.

He paid no heed to the crumbling of her magic around them, though His mortal self would have been distressed to see the walls dissolve and shatter and the very air around them become thick with putrid smoke. Dark blood rolled on the ceiling, it’s thick waves endlessly forming impossible shapes. Dust and sand dripped upward into the pool from below as flame creatures swam from one to the other between. Yet all her magical spells was as nothing to His immortal power.

"Nepenthe," He said to her corpselike form as tentacles of dust and blood snapped at Him. Smoke shapes tore at Him with claws and fangs and the flame swimmers dashed themselves against His body. All to nothing for her magical beasts could not touch His divinity. They were repulsed by His glory. "Recognize your God and receive My mercy for your sins," He commanded her with all the power of His voice.

"Marrak," she breathed as their bodies floated gently to the floor of her tower room and the center of her glistening design. Her creatures ceased their attacks and spiraled back into the dark blot that hung motionless below the tower roof. Her own form renewed its youth and beauty as He held her and she looked up at Him with eager smile and flames of worshipful adoration in her black eyes.

His mortal body responded with all the power of His divine inheritance. Even more than her enchantments on His mortal flesh did His celestial self desire her. Her thighs, her breasts, her lips; all ripe for His affection. With the old God’s relic a burning brand of His victorious power between them, Marrak blessed His most treasured Nepenthe and poured forth upon her the favors of His immortal love.