Kushiel's Dart

Camael's forge inside, and wetter than Eisheth's tears."
    A chair scraped and I heard Melisande rise, knew by the rustle of clothing that she had come around to stand behind him. I could hear her hands slide over the breast of his doublet and knew that she whispered at his ear. "Do it hard, my love," her rich voice breathed. "I want to watch you make her spend."
    Tears trickled from beneath my closed lids as he laughed, obeying her order, bringing me to the brink of pleasure with fierce, hard thrusts.
    "Mmm." Melisande's voice, low with approval. "My love, you do well." She touched my cheek, grazing it with her fingertips, and gave the command coolly. "Now, Phedre."
    I obeyed without volition, shuddering at the force of my climax and crying out. Baudoin laughed again and thrust once more, twice, letting himself spend.
    "Ah," he said, withdrawing from me. "We should have one of these, my lady. Shall we buy one at market, do you think?"
    Relieved of his weight, I straightened slowly, turning to meet Meli sande's amused eyes. "You will not find one such as Phedre, my prince," she assured him. "And her service is pledged only to Naamah and Anafiel Delaunay. But come, you have tasted only the smallest part of what it is to have an adept kissed by Kushiel's Dart. If you would know the full of it, the night lies at our disposal. Unless you wish to give the signaled" she added wryly, addressing the last to me.
    "My lady knows I do not," I said softly. I did not care how skilled a lover Baudoin de Trevalion was; he would never hear the signale spoken from my lips. Nor, while she served his pleasure, would Melisande Shah-rizai. If she could wait, so could I. That much, I vowed to myself.
    Melisande laughed. "Well, then," she said, going to the far doors and flinging them open. "We shall play."
    Beyond the dining hall lay a pleasure-chamber. Through the door, I could see it bathed in firelight, cushion-strewn, with a complete flagellary and a wooden wheel with manacles, an exact replica of the one I had seen in the halls of Valerian House. Baudoin looked at Melisande and smiled.
    I thought of Hyacinthe's name and bit my tongue.
    But if it is true that no soul is free of the touch of Kushiel's fire, it also true that in most, it is a mere smolder. Baudoin de Trevalion did not burn with it, without Melisande to fan the spark in him. It was her I feared, and not him; I made no protest as I was ushered into the pleasure-chamber and gently stripped of my cloth-of-gold. Melisande's touch was cool as she guided me onto the wheel and fastened the manacles about my wrists and ankles. Baudoin examined the flagellary, picking up a tawse and fingering the slit in the center of the leather paddle.
    "How is it done?" he asked, turning to Melisande and raising his eyebrows. "Do I give a Skaldic war cry and charge at her?" He hefted the tawse two-handed, holding it like an axe. "Waldemar Selig!" he shouted, then laughed.
    On the wheel, I started with surprise. Melisande looked patiently at Baudoin. "There is no 'how' to it, my prince. You may do as you wish." Making certain that I was secured, she tugged the wheel.
    It was well-crafted and beautifully maintained, turning smoothly and soundlessly. The pleasure-chamber, and Melisande and Baudoin in it, rotated in my vision. I hadn't reckoned how disorienting it would be, as the blood rushed to my head, then receded as I came rightside-up again. As the wheel inverted me once more, I saw Melisande select a scourge from the flagellary. "Like this, my love," she said to Baudoin. The world careened around me as Melisande snapped her wrist sharply, then vanished briefly in a haze of red as the weighted tips of the scourge bit at my skin.
    The sound like a harpstring rang in my head, and I saw Kushiel's face swimming in the distance, stern and bronze. Then it faded, and there was only the dizzying vision and the ebb-tide of blood in my head. Melisande replaced the scourge and nodded to Baudoin. "As you wish," she said softly.
    After that, he stepped up to it, and my flesh knew the slap of the tawse, the flat wash of pain where it landed, with a thin sharp line from the slit in the middle that felt as if it split my skin every time it landed. The wheel turned, and I knew not where I was, nor where the next blow would fall; but the red haze never returned. When at last he wearied of it, he turned to Melisande, drawing her reverently over to the cushions. I was left hanging, partially inverted. Before the