Swinn Daniels

Saxon and Martin were climbing a set of stairs that seemed to go on forever.

“They should think about installing an elevator,” said Martin.

“Or giving us wings.”

“Which wouldn’t work here anyway.”

“Not here, but out there they do.”

“Who told you that?”

“Valentine.”

Saxon carried his camera, Martin the reflector disk in its pouch. Both were dressed in black.

The stairs were made of a stone unlike anything in Saxon’s experience. It first appeared to be marble, with the debossed areas shiny but closer inspection revealed an analogue complexity that rivaled the cloud-stuff that made up the House of Bardo. Tiny metallic veins streamed through the stone and Saxon swore he could see in them things that were moving, perhaps nutrients being transported at a geological pace.

Every full turn as the stairs wound would reveal a tall window a shoulder width across. The vista presented was a discordant immersion that reminded Saxon again how alien this place was, and that though it looked friendly to humans, it was anything but.

They finally reached the top, both men perspiring but neither out of breath. A large door with a round top awaited them. It looked to be made from some petrified wood. Saxon was about to knock when the door opened of its own volition. The chamber beyond was of medium size, the floor tiled in the ubiquitous stone, but this time lightly colored. A single round bed, curtained, stood to their left, a couch and low table to their right. The walls were made of the same dark wood as the door. A massive painting of a figure seated in lotus with sun rays emanating from behind him graced the wall by the couch. The painting was made of metal foils and oil, each enhancing the other. Saxon paused to drink it in.

“Stunning, isn’t it.”

He turned to see a woman, petite yet exuding a powerful otherworldly presence, before him. She had emerald eyes and full lips, her hair a deep scarlet. She wore a simple green dress that caressed her, thanks to the breeze from the window she stood before. Her figure was ripe, waist tiny, breasts small and round, her legs long and muscular.

“May I taste you?”

“May you what me?”

“Taste. Your sweat.”

Saxon hesitated for an instant. But only an instant.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

The girl opened her mouth and a long and sinuous tongue stretched towards him, at least a foot in length. It delicately licked some moisture from his face, then returned to her mouth. Her gaze turned inward for a moment and Saxon had the strangest sensation she was savoring him.

She smiled.

“You are a most intriguing man.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“Oh, it is a compliment, have no fear. I have tasted much and more and you are... something different.

“For this is what I do.

“Taste.

“For this is who I am.

“Taste.”

“What about me?” asked Martin.

The girl stepped back, distancing herself from him.

“I do not need to taste you.”

“Why not?”

“I already know what you would taste like.”

Her head had tilted slightly and she made an unconscious gesture to brush an errant strand of hair from her face.

“What would I taste like?”

“Death.”

Her eyes as she looked at Martin seemed sad, as though she knew his final fate. Then she turned back to Saxon.

“My name is Jacqueline.”

She held out her hand but palm down. Saxon knelt before her and brought it to his lips. He kissed it. Then he looked up at her.

“Saxon.”

He stood.

“We are here to photograph you.”

“Yes. I know.”

She walked over to the window. Diaphanous curtains blew in the breeze and Saxon was already seeing some amazing compositions. She took ahold of a fold of curtain and ran it over her body.

“Something like this, perhaps?”

Saxon already had his camera to his face, Martin positioned to his left. Saxon began shooting and Jacqueline moved among the curtains as a nymph might move through a grove. She was a wonderful model, sometimes looking at the camera, sometimes gazing off into the distance. Then she took both curtains in either hand and stretched herself between them.

Jacqueline suddenly held up a hand.

“What function does that one perform, aside from leering like a commoner at a hanging?”

“He’s supposed to be working the reflector,” answered Saxon, his ire piqued.

“I do not think we need him.”

Martin began hurriedly unzipping the reflector pouch.

“Wait! I have it right here!”

“Too late. Be gone, sirrah,” she commanded.

Martin left them with a smile but Saxon saw something in his eyes that made him wary.

“Now, lay down your camera, Saxon. I would have you remove my dress.”

Saxon raised the hem of her dress and saw first her fiery cleft, inhaling deeply of her scent. Then he lifted the dress up over her breasts, and finally her head. She tossed it aside and Saxon picked up his camera.

“Please continue.”

So he did.

One hour passed in what seemed like only moments. He finished with her face and body in profile, one arm flung across her face, the other holding a curtain so that her body leaned almost to the diagonal, the light wrapping her body as though tasting her. She straightened and Saxon put his camera down, then held her dress out to her, face averted.

“Why are you so demure?”

“I’ve always been that way. When I shoot a woman naked, I feel I should only look at her through the lens.”

“A powerful bridge of trust that builds.”

“Forgive me for saying this but you look so young.”

Jacqueline laughed.

“Appearances can be deceiving. I have eaten with the gods and dined on the flesh of unicorns. I have ridden down the last of the frost giants with the Wild Hunt, and was served first cut of his roasted heart by Woden’s own hand. I learned the spear from Hercules that I might take down the Sacred Boar and trade its crackling for a place at table in Valhalla. I have gotten drunk on the tears of Angels and broken bread with Death.

“As you measure time? I am older than a star.”

Saxon stared at her.

“You still do not understand, do you. Come here.”

Saxon joined her on the balcony. She stretched up to bring her hands behind his head then draw him down to her waiting lips. The kiss that followed was something so immense, so alien, he almost lost his mind. His mouth, her tongue, her body, her essence, his hands upon her now, all of it flooded with a near eternity of tastes, from gods to galaxies, myth to meat, fruit, grain, sweet and sour caressing his soul through the conduit of his tongue, and much he had no name for, wines more ancient than planets, the Hunt and sometimes hunger so that sensation might be sharpened. Food not as fuel but as sacrament. And at its core an unchanged child, but with teeth, ever playful, ever hungry for new tastes, from now until the end of time.

She broke the kiss and Saxon fell to his knees, gasping.

“You live such short lives,” she said. “I had forgotten.”