Sometimes it helped to have a necromancer as a business associate. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dryyyy bones...

Smiling, Ivan Kurtz, magus, ruminated further as he gazed at the eldritch thing on his black lacquered cocktail table. Nice find, the Prism of Nezrabi. Wonderful big glob of magical whup-ass glass. The sight nearly made him salivate. It had taken four years and a hurtful bundle of money to secure the perfect deliverer of payback, but the wait and expense would soon be worth it.

Is revenge sweet? In this case, the cliché was a gross understatement. In this case, revenge was reclining on a yacht in the Mediterranean, eating the finest chocolate and sipping the finest wine, while the multiple hard dicks you had growing all over your body fucked the tightest pussies and asses in all the universe without the rest of you having to break a sweat. Revenge was food, drink and a chain-chain-chain of effortless, transporting orgasms...at the end of which was your own personalized paradise, infinite and eternal.

Oh yeah. Jackson Spey was gonna get it. But good.

Ivan snickered then gulped some not-so-fine wine. “Wizard.” He chuffed in contempt. “Okay, big balls, we’ll see how much of a fucking wizard you are.”

He pulled his feet off the cocktail table and dropped them to the floor so he could lean forward and study his prize. A vellum-bound book lay beside it, but Ivan hadn’t yet perused it. He would do that first thing in the morning, when his mind was fresh. For now he was content simply to savor his victory. There would be plenty of time to figure out how to activate his instrument of vengeance.

The Prism of Nezrabi was a symmetrical chunk of what appeared to be crystal, roughly three feet in circumference, its surface expertly faceted with various geometric forms set one on top of the other. The intersecting circles etched into the crystal’s surface all contained relief-carved hexagons, then pentagons, then triangles. The center of each figural mound was set with a small stone, no two of which were alike. Thin lines extending from these stones formed an intricate grid in the crystal’s interior. Its core consisted of a silvery black sphere surrounded by tiny metallic flakes that seemed to float around it like stars.

It was impossible to say what, exactly, the lines were. They could have been precisely placed fractures. They could have been hair-thin infusions of some foreign material--simple water, perhaps, or a mixture of organic or inorganic compounds. Legend had it the crystal contained dragon’s blood. There were just as likely other legends that claimed it contained fairy dust or the sulfuric vapors of hell.

Conclusion--it didn’t matter what the damned thing held as long as it worked. And if it worked, it would soon be holding Jackson Spey.

Ivan took another hefty swallow of the fruit of the vine just as Bothu, the necromancer, glided back into the living room from the bathroom. He folded his long, ashen form into a burgundy leather easy-chair, crossed his legs and splayed his bony fingers over the chair’s arms.

“It better do what you claim it can,” Ivan murmured, sliding him a glance. He hated looking at the guy. Bothu’s complexion reminded him of snow saturated with dog pee and vehicle exhaust. The stringy red hair that seemed coated with shoe polish sure as hell didn’t improve his appearance any.

The necromancer’s bland expression didn’t change. “How well it works obviously depends on the aptitude of the person using it. I got you the Prism, Ivan, and I got you the instruction book. Now it’s up to you to figure out how to put them together to play out your scheme.”

“Come on, man, tell me where and how you scored it. That must’ve been some mighty influential crowbait you mumbo-jumboed over.” Ivan leaned forward. “Come on. We’re partners.”

“Partners?” Bothu repeated with a sneer. “This was a business transaction. Period. I provided you with a rare and desirable commodity and you compensated me. Where and how I got it don’t concern you. So quit asking.” He pulled a joint and lighter from the breast pocket of his somewhat malodorous black silk shirt. “And here’s a word of advice. You’d better figure out how to keep Spey from finding out what you’re up to. Even though your recklessness seems to know no bounds, I don’t need another run-in with that man.”

“He won’t find out.” Ivan poured himself more wine. “I’m keeping this plan securely under wraps.”

Bothu barked out a “Ha!” before he lit the joint and took a long, savoring draw. “Just like four years ago,” he said, filaments of skunky smoke drifting from his mouth. “You had it all under control, didn’t you? You were so bloody clever. That’s why Spey came at us like the Wrath of God and we were powerless to stop him.”

Scowling, Ivan flashed back to the miserable night that had set in motion more suffering than he'd ever known. His resentment mounted along with stubborn, self-righteous determination. “That’s exactly why I’m doing this. I owe him one. And he’s gonna get it--the most monstrous, hideous, crippling strike he’s ever had to endure.”

Bothu rolled his eyes and shook his head. “When are you going to learn? You’d be well advised to let a sleeping panther lie.” He took a series of shorter, quicker tokes.

That did it. Ivan Kurtz was sick to death of hearing about his rival’s preeminence. “Panther, my ass!” he shouted, throwing up his arms. “Spey’s a human being, for chrissakes!” He shot one forefinger at the necromancer and the other at the Prism. “I’m sitting on one of the most powerful tools in the history of magic, and you’re trying to tell me it won’t work against some goddamned biker?”

Bothu leaned forward and said in a measured voice, “In case your notoriously piss-poor judgment has been further clouded by amnesia, let me remind you that ‘goddamned biker’ also happens to be one of the most powerful Adepts on this or any plane. I don’t want to cross him. I learned my lesson.” After a final drag on his dwindling doob, Bothu flipped the roach into his mouth and swallowed it. “Take my advice, Ivan. Be a true mage for a change. Use the Prism for a magical mystery tour of your own. But leave Jackson Spey alone.”

Dramatically, Ivan dropped against the back of the couch and gripped his head. “I can’t believe my ears. After what he did to you, to us--”

“You idiot,” Bothu interjected, “we asked for it. Or does your memory fail you on that point, too? It wasn’t as if his attacks were unprovoked. You went after him. You let envy and thwarted lust supersede your judgment, and I was foolish enough to let vainglory supersede mine.”

Ivan fell to brooding. “Water under the bridge,” he muttered. “That prick still needs to be taken down. His fall is long overdue.” He sat forward and rested his arms on his thighs. Immediately his gaze was drawn to the Prism. “You know what a high-minded bastard Spey is, how he prides himself on his focus and clarity, his drive and discipline.” The Prism, Ivan fancied, was eavesdropping on his sarcastic characterization. “Such purity of intent. Such high regard for the highest principles of High Magic.”

“Don’t forget his intelligence,” Bothu said. “The man is no slouch in the smarts department, either. And it’s all those attributes that made him as powerful as he is. I was ignorant of those facts five years ago.” With a dour, thin-lipped smile, he pulled out another joint and lit it. “But the wizard didn’t hesitate to educate me.”

Ivan barely heard the necromancer. He was still lost in his own bitter thoughts. “I know Jackson Spey once had an Achilles heel. I believe he still does. Once I confirm the existence of it, I’ll know how to take him down.” He lifted a fist and brought it down beside the Prism. “In there.” The thought of his rival’s impending journey--or, rather, precipitous descent--made him smile. “Spey’s weakness will make him wallow in the muck, over and over again, until it either drives him mad or wipes out all vestiges of that precious purity of intent.”

“What Achilles heel?” Bothu asked, narrowing his eyes.

Kurtz took a leisurely swallow of wine. “Same one he’s had since his pre-Merlin days, when he was still playing Easy Rider. He managed to overcome that weakness for a while, but I’m willing to bet he never fully rid himself of it. So I’m going to put him to the test.” He drank again and smacked his lips. “And I have just the right tester.”

“What are you babbling about?”

Feeling gleefully cunning, Ivan shifted his eyes in Bothu’s direction. “One little word. One little three-letter word that’s been the downfall of many a powerful man.”

Chapter One

Jackson Spey had just emerged from the shower, a good day’s work behind him and a relaxing evening of reading ahead of him, when his apartment buzzer made its dying-fly sound. He didn’t have a proper doorbell. He sure as hell didn’t have a doorman. He had a basement flat accessible to pretty much anybody, although the door itself did have three locks. He often neglected to use them. Tonight, only the chain was secured. Not that anything in his domicile would be of much interest to thieves.

His mind was still on a particularly complicated project he’d been puzzling through at his woodshop. A very wealthy couple would be paying him a very handsome sum to design and build a quirky combination of stairways and bookshelves for their library. Although he was an accomplished furniture builder, he still saw every project as a unique challenge. And he loved challenges.

The buzzer sounded again. For the hundredth time, Jackson considered getting an updated living space with more amenities. He could certainly well afford it, but he just didn’t desire it. Material things unrelated either to his vocation or avocation meant little to him--except, of course, his bike. Stuff was only stuff, meaningless and ephemeral.

Tying the short velour robe more snugly around his body, Jackson sauntered through the living room toward the door. A thin spear of hope shot through him, prompting a drizzle of adrenaline. He tried to ignore this Pavlovian reaction. It seemed adolescent, silly. Besides, the person he wanted most to see would have called first.

The door didn’t have a peephole and didn’t need one. Jackson wasn’t worried about attackers. The neighborhood might be a bit on the seedy side, but he didn’t feel particularly threatened. People pretty much minded their own business. Too much, actually. Besides, any ordinary attacker wouldn’t fare too well against him.

He pulled the door open against its chain. He left the chain in place, figuring the person on the other side was probably looking for somebody else in the neighborhood and would be gone within seconds. If the visitor was an acquaintance, he or she would have called out his name.

A woman’s face appeared in the narrow space. “Excuse me. Are you Jackson Spey?”

He saw made-up eyes, smelled perfume. The cloud of scent almost made his own eyes water. “Yes.”

“The magician?”

Jackson wasn’t fond of that word. The fact that this stranger used it immediately put him on guard. Most serious practitioners of High Magic resented its modern connotations. Crowley, bless his rotten heart, had thrown a terminal k onto magic to distinguish the occult art from stage illusion and visual trickery.

So he didn’t answer the woman’s question. “Who are you?” he asked instead, leery of her motives.

“My name is Christy. Christy Kemmer. Can I talk to you?”

“Is this going to take a while?”

“It might.”

Jackson believed in civility. As long as a person didn’t get obnoxious, he was willing to give that person a chance. He undid the chain and fully opened the door. “All right. Come on in.” He stepped aside to let her enter.

The woman’s gaze did a quick slide down his body and up again as she stepped past him. Strolling off to the right, toward the living area, she made a casual loop in front of the bookshelves and desk, peering quite rudely at Jackson’s possessions. He frowned as he regarded her back. She wore an ankle-length leather coat and spike-heeled boots. Her hair, obviously permed and dyed, lay wetly on her back like a squiggly bunch of Chinese noodles drenched in some bicolor sauce. The sound of chinkling jewelry drifted from both wrists.

“Uh...have a seat,” Jackson said, lifting his jeans and polo shirt from the back of his recliner. He tossed the clothing on the sprawl of books that took up half his sofa then sat on the one uncluttered cushion. “So...” He turned up his hands, releasing obvious questions. Who the hell are you? What do you want?

Concluding her nosy scan of his living space, Christy sashayed over to the recliner. Settling in, she opened her coat and crossed her legs. She didn’t seem to be wearing much. Long, glittery fingernails curled over the edges of the chair arms. The nails, decorated with tiny decals, looked fake. Maybe she was on her way to a club.

“I’m the High Priestess of Artemis-on-the-Crescent,” Christy announced. She lifted her over-plucked eyebrows. “Have you heard of us?”

Jackson thought a minute. The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Is that the all-female coven?”

“Yeah. We’re old-school.” Christy smiled.

Spey got the distinct impression she was trying to look alluring. Yet, despite the boot-sheathed calves and shimmering lipstick and electric blue eye shadow, he found her distinctly unattractive. Hillbilly chic, he thought, wishing she’d get to the point and leave him alone. He would’ve bet anything she had some gaudy tramp-stamp--a dragon, maybe--riding her ass. Women who were full of themselves and tried too assiduously to be temptresses really put him off.

“Okay, so you’re a witch,” he said. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“Once in a while,” Christy went on, “we need a male participant to represent the Great Horned One, the god of the hunt.” She leaned forward, laying her forearms together and clasping her hands on her thighs. The movement not only pressed her breasts together but gave Jackson a clear view of her artificially enhanced cleavage. Again, she smiled. “That’s where you come in.”

He sat back and folded his hands. “Um...listen, Christy, I don’t know where or how you heard about me--”

“Ohhh...just through various connections,” she purred.

“Yeah, well, I’m a pretty low-profile guy, and I don’t generally lend myself out to covens I’m unfamiliar with.” Jackson forced a laugh. “Hell, I don’t lend myself out to covens at all. I’m a solo act.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Smirking, the High Priestess remained in her folded-over position.

“Okay, there is one coven I’m associated with. But only one. It’s like I have an exclusive contract with them.”

“Covens don’t operate under contracts, Mr. Spey. You know that.” Putting both feet on the floor, Christy slid forward in the recliner. “We really need you. We need your power. We need your...sensuality. It’s for a good cause.”

Jackson held her painted gaze. “Sounds like you’re talking about sex magic.” Where did she get that stuff about sensuality?

Christy wiggled a bit in the chair. “Yeah, I am.”

“For what purpose?”

“We’d like to use an upcoming esbat for a Passion Celebration. You know, to kind of juice up our love lives. So we need to bring in a man to serve as a temporary High Priest or magister.” Christy winked. “You know it would be hard to do this kind of rite without one.”

Jackson was getting more uncomfortable. “But why me?”

“Because you’re familiar with witchcraft and magic. When we cast this Circle, we want it to erupt with power--the right kind of power.” Christy’s gaze again tripped along his body. “And you sure look like the man to bring it on.”

Jackson rested an elbow on the sofa arm and ran a thumb and forefinger over his mustache. Of course he was quite familiar with sex magic. He’d performed such rituals many times. Their purpose was to promote potency and fertility, to generate or enhance romance or physical attraction. But he’d always chosen his own priestess, if he used one at all, and devised his own rituals. Glancing up at Christy Kemmer, he realized how much he didn’t want to do such a thing with her. And she definitely seemed to implying that’s how it would go.

“With all due respect,” he said, lifting his head, “I play by my own rules. Abiding by other people’s constraints only weakens my work.”

This seemed to throw off the High Priestess. A crease appeared between her brows. She must have thought herself and her proposition irresistible. She rose from the recliner and slipped off her coat, letting it fall to the chair. The faux-leather skirt she wore barely covered her ass. Stepping over to the sofa, she managed to squeeze her behind next to Jackson. Reflexively, he drew back by a couple of inches. Christy didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, we might be able to work something out,” she said, angling her body toward him and smiling. “We’re flexible.”

Before Jackson could respond, her hand slipped beneath his robe and curled around his cock.

He jerked backward. “Hey!” he cried out, half in shock and half in warning. “What are you--?”

With remarkable agility, Christy climbed onto Jackson’s lap and faced him. Her boots bracketed his bare legs. The fingers of her free hand flattened against his lips.

“Shh. Just relax and enjoy.” Her long fingernails raked through his mustache from upper lip to jaw line then skimmed over his short beard. “I didn’t realize how freaking hot you were. And you have really spellbinding eyes.” She dipped toward his ear. “Why don’t you think of this as an interview with me?” she said in a growly whisper. “Just tell mama what you want. I’ll do anything for you...now and during the ceremony. I’ll suck you dry. I’ll let you fuck me in the ass. If you like kink, I’m a dominatrix, too.” She punctuated her promises by darting her tongue into his ear.

Stunned, Jackson felt his cock swell within her grasp. There was no controlling it. Her fingers moved slowly and firmly up and down the length of his shaft. Occasionally, her nails circled and squeezed the ripening head.

“You’d better tell me what you want,” she said more harshly, “before I decide for you.” Her hips had begun to shift back and forth on his thighs.

Jackson realized she wore no pantyhose, no panties, not even a thong. And she was preparing to mount him. He had no desire to hold her or kiss her or nuzzle those studiously elevated breasts, obviously slathered with suffocating perfume. He had no condoms handy and sure as hell didn’t want to thrust his flesh into this STD bait bucket without one. What he should have done was throw her out of his apartment.

But his cock dictated otherwise. It dictated he needed a release. He’d obviously needed one for a while, or he wouldn’t have responded so quickly to the brazen caresses of a stranger he didn’t even find attractive. Now, rigid, he was past the point of no return.

And he was thinking of his Significant Lover, whom he hadn’t seen in two months--how much he missed that sumptuous mouth, those adroit ministrations.

“All right, suck me,” he said in a coarsened voice, suddenly wanting it. “Kneel on the floor and suck me.”

Christy obliged. Sliding to the rug, she positioned herself between his spread legs. “Shit, you’re really hung,” she breathed. “Long and thick. Damn.”

Her wonderment made his cock stiffen further. It stood up like a pole now, the head plump and taut, the engorged veins straining against their sheath of fine skin. Women--and men too, for that matter--had always been impressed by his anatomy. Jackson vaguely wondered why their effusions never failed to arouse him.

Still gripping his rod, Christy slipped the head into her mouth. Her lips pulled at its soft rim. Her tongue laved and circled it. As her right hand continued to stroke him, her left burrowed beneath his balls and seemed to test their weight.

She began doing what he’d commanded. She began sucking.

Jackson closed his eyes and gave himself over to the persuasive, wet tugging. He loved how the feeling snaked up into the rest of his body, urging every nerve and muscle and blood vessel toward orgasm. He relished the growing fullness in his loins. Years of discipline had made him able to hold out longer than most men, and hold out he did. Christy didn’t take in much of him--a couple of inches, maybe--but it was enough. The pulling at his cock head, the pumping of his hard shaft, the diddling of his full balls all blended to intensify his arousal.

Recollections of other encounters surfaced in Jackson’s mind and made his excitement flare. Good head and wild fucks, supernatural or otherwise, most especially the recent ones with...

Jackson couldn’t bear up any longer. With a barbaric growl, he shoved his cock toward Christy’s throat and let the cum jet out of him in spasm after delectable spasm, the forceful contractions liquefying his limbs, his torso, until his entire frame seemed to be funneling through his rod and puddling on the back of Christy Kemmer’s tongue.

Eyes still closed, Jackson wilted into the sofa cushions. His groin continued to pulse and tingle. He heard Christy’s knees crack faintly as she got up. He heard her rustling around the recliner then heard a few delicate spitting sounds. Jackson smiled. It appeared “mama” didn’t swallow.

“You’re so freakin’ big you almost choked me,” she chided.

“Sorry, but you asked for it.” Jackson lazily opened his eyes. He hadn’t been able to watch her. The images in his mind had been far more compelling.

Christy had donned her coat once more and resumed her seat in the recliner. “Yeah, well, with a monster hard-on like that, you gotta be more careful. It’s a matter of consideration.”

Jackson closed his robe and sat up. Debating with himself whether or not to say what he wanted to say, he quickly opted for frankness. “Listen, lady, I didn’t invite you here. I sure as shit didn’t seduce you. You’re the one who pulled the tool from the belt and started using it.”

She looked pouty. “But still--”

“But still, nothing. If I wasn’t considerate, it’s probably because I don’t know you from Martha fucking Washington. You come here uninvited and want to give me head, fine. I doubt there’s a man alive who would refuse such an offer.” Jackson had to pause briefly to think about this. “Well, maybe Rush Limbaugh.” He tied the belt on his robe, making it clear the candy store was closed. “So, given the circumstances, you couldn’t really expect me to get all courtly with you.”

“You could’ve just fucked me, y’know,” Christy said petulantly. “I was right there on your lap.”

God, what planet did she come from? “No, I couldn’t have ‘just fucked’ you. I don’t just fuck just anybody who just appears at my door.” Jackson was rapidly losing patience.

“Whatever,” Christy said dismissively. “But what about that favor I asked? Will you do it?”

“If I do, it will be on my terms.” Jackson rose from the couch. “I’ll get back to you.”

Christy looked confused at first. “Oh. Okay.”

She fished around in her large, multicolored handbag and pulled out a business card. Her contact information was printed in some mock-medieval typeface on a sparkly silver stock. Christy Kemmer it read; beneath that, Lady Alessandra, which was obviously her witch name. Readings and Spell Castings was printed at the bottom between her home phone number and cell phone number. Jackson wondered if she had a separate business card for her dominatrix gig. He guessed she did...and a web site, too.

“Call me anytime,” she said in a throaty voice, lapsing once more into her seductive mode. “I’d love to strip you naked and bind you up and punish you.”

Jackson chuckled quietly and shook his head. “I guess you haven’t figured this out yet, but I don’t do submission.”

“Well maybe we can--”

He didn’t want to hear it. “Come on, I think it’s time you left.” Walking to the door, Jackson rested his hand on the knob. “I have things to do.” Like figure out how to make myself more inconspicuous.

* * * *

“How’d it go?” The mage peered at his accomplice.

Christy sashayed into Ivan’s apartment and tossed her purse on a chair. She peeled off her coat and tossed it on top of the purse. “He’s thinking about it.” She dropped onto the sofa and crossed her legs, bobbing the upper one. “He’ll get back to me.”

“How soon?”

“I don’t know.”

Ivan joined her. “So, what are your impressions?”

She gave him a questioning look. “Of Jackson Spey?”

Ivan rolled his head back. “No, of Hoover Dam. Of course Jackson Spey! Jesus...” Suspiciously, he eyed her short-skirted hips. “Are you wearing any underwear?”

Christy uncrossed her legs and spread them.

“Oh for the fuck’s sake,” Ivan said in disgust. He lumbered up from the couch, hurried over to his linen closet and grabbed a towel. Returning, he thrust the towel at his guest. “Here, sit on this. That’s expensive leather under your ass. Your pussy’s probably leaking all over it.” He waited, standing, as the bimbo positioned the towel. “That gooey shit is great for what it’s meant to do, but it isn’t meant to be smeared on fine furniture.”

She gave him a heavy-lidded, almost dismissive glance. “You’re a cocksucker, Ivan.”

“Sometimes.”

“I thought you liked my honey,” Christy said, hitching up her eyebrows.

“Not there.” Ivan sat beside her once more. “Seems Wonder Boy really turned you on.”

“Half and half.”

“What do you mean?”

“He half turned me on and half pissed me off.” Christy looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Got anything to drink?”

“In a minute. First tell me what happened.”

Christy sighed. “Well...I get there, and he answers the door in his bathrobe ‘cause he just got out of the shower, I guess, so he doesn’t give me a big welcome or anything--”

“Cut to the chase,” Ivan said, exasperated. “What did you think of him? How did he respond to you? Does it look like he’ll take the bait?”

Christy pursed her lips. Maybe she was thinking. It was hard to tell. “I gotta admit he is one gorgeous dude. Like steamy gorgeous. And those spooky eyes...” With a slight shiver she looked at Ivan. “Know what I mean?”

“No. I think he’s overrated,” Ivan muttered.

“You gotta be kidding!” Christy expelled a single incredulous laugh. “I so wanted to get my hands on that bod. And grab his hair. But that wasn’t the best.” She assumed a mysterious look, taunting Ivan.

He played along, although she certainly didn’t catch his drollery. “Gee, now what could ‘the best’ possibly be?” He tapped his lips. “Hm, let’s see. Could Mr. Spey be particularly well endowed?”

Another confused, slightly irked look. “I have no idea how much money he has.” Christy scratched at her head. “Not much,” she murmured, “considering where and how he lives.”

Doubling over, Ivan blurted out laughter. “Sorry,” he sputtered. “I should’ve known better.” Christy didn’t catch the drollery in that, either. “My next guess would’ve been that he’s hung like a horse.”

That she understood. “I wouldn’t say like a horse, but he does have a very impressive package. Very impressive. Nice looking, too.”

“Yeah, I suppose any big dick would look good to you.”

“You’re a big dick, and you don’t look good to me,” Christy snapped.

Ivan rounded his eyes. Coming from her, the rejoinder was as startling as an epiphany. She wasn’t known for her witticisms. “Nice one,” he said. “So I assume he wanted you to unwrap the package and play with the toy.”

Christy crossed her arms. Her leg began bobbing again. “I wouldn’t exactly say he wanted me to. I kind of went after it myself.”

“Oh shit, Christy!” Ivan threw up his arms. “The point of you going over there was to test his vulnerability, see if he’d start coming on to you.”

“I don’t think that woulda happened,” she mumbled. “He didn’t seem real pleased to have unexpected company. Dude isn’t very sociable.”

“Still,” Ivan said, “you ruined the whole setup by making a fast grab for the jewels!”

Christy got defensive. “Still, he didn’t exactly fight me off. That must prove something.”

Ivan grasped his head, wishing he knew some smart women. “Yeah, it proves that handling a man’s meat makes it hard, and once it’s hard he needs to get off, and to get off he’ll stick it into anything soft that’s available. A jar of mayonnaise, for chrissakes. A role of bubble wrap. A bedroom slipper. But that doesn’t prove his judgment is constantly overwhelmed by his sexual appetite! I’m looking for signs of a particular weakness here, one that leads to a lack of discrimination.”

Dramatically, Christy sighed. “I didn’t want to wait. Okay? I wanted to do him.” She skewered Ivan with a glare. “Hey, what do you expect when you send me to see some drop-dead hot man who answers the door in his short little half-open bathrobe? Huh? You expect me to whip out a deck of cards and play gin rummy with him? I don’t think so. I got wet as soon as I laid eyes on the guy. So, yeah, I reached for his steak. Couldn’t help myself. It was right there. And once it stood up, which it did pretty damned quick, I really, really wanted to do him. Only he didn’t want to fuck, he wanted a beej. So I gave him a beej. And he nearly choked me and then shot like buckets of baby gravy in my mouth. Then he told me to leave.” Riled now, Christy poked a finger at her chest. “And what did I get out of it?” Nearly throwing herself against the couch’s backrest, she indignantly crossed her arms again. “Nothin’. Except disrespect.”

And I got slimed furniture. Ivan propped an elbow on the couch arm and dropped his forehead to his hand. He mentally re-ran Christy’s account of her meeting with Spey. Okay, so she’d been the aggressor. That shouldn’t have surprised him. It was part of Christy’s shtick. But...but...

Ivan jerked his head up. “But Spey didn’t push you away and say, ‘What the hell are you doing? Now get out before I throw you out.’ He didn’t resist.”

Still stewing, Christy swiveled her head in his direction. “Huh?”

“As soon as you grabbed the Gila monster. He didn’t shove you away and pitch you out the door. He let you keep messing with him.”

“I told you, he didn’t exactly fight me off. He got real hard real fast then let me take care of him.”

Ivan could finally smile. Maybe this was the confirmation he was looking for. Now that he thought about it, Spey’s behavior ran contrary to everything he claimed to stand for. Where was all that spiritual refinement that gave him so much willpower? Where were his standards, his scruples? Hell, he let some slutty stranger breeze into his inner sanctum and wrap her lips around his dick. Just...like...that.

Gleefully, Ivan rubbed his hands together. “Wowie zowie. Maybe we do have us a game. Did you toss out the ‘Passion Celebration’ lure?”

“Yes. I said what I was s’posed to.” Obviously sick of waiting for her host to deliver a drink, Christy pushed herself up from the couch and headed for the kitchen.

Still seated, Ivan turned in her direction. “Did it seem to pique his interest?”

Ice cubes clunked into a glass. “It didn’t seem to do nothin’.”

Ivan considered this. Spey’s lack of reaction didn’t necessarily mean anything. He always played it close to the vest. “What about the ladies in the coven? Are you getting their appetites whetted for this event?”

He had handpicked those witches--all were under forty and single--because he usually served as their high priest. It made for a nice little harem, although a few of the women weren’t as uninhibited as he would have liked. Still, most would be enthusiastic participants in a Passion Celebration.

Christy strolled back into the living room carrying a glass of orange liquid. A screwdriver, probably. How appropriate. She resumed her seat without bothering to rearrange the towel and took a long sip of her drink. “Most of the girls are pretty excited about it,” she said. “I told them a very sexy magician would be joining us.”

“But nothing else, right?”

“No. That was it. A very sexy sorcerer.” Christy frowned and tapped her lips. “Maybe it was magician.” She shrugged. “Can’t remember which word I used. Anyway, I didn’t give a name, description, place of residence, nothing.”

“And you haven’t breathed a word about my involvement? Discretion is of paramount importance, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. They think this was all my idea. Spey does, too.” Christy giggled and shook her head. “If I’d ever seen that man before today, it would’ve been my idea.” She glanced at Ivan. “Now it’s just a matter of getting him there.”

“Indeed.”

It wasn’t crucial that Spey show up. The wizard could possibly be consigned to the Prism regardless. But it sure would help if he took a shine to one of the coveners. Or to the whole horny flock of them, for that matter. Maybe he’d get hooked on this orgiastic setup. Then Ivan could use one witch or all of them to reel Spey in. Sure wouldn’t hurt, either, to bring Spey’s sexual hunger to the fore and fuel it to the point of uncontrollable combustion. Concupiscence could lead him down some dark paths.

Well, maybe. Ivan wasn’t entirely sure what the Prism was all about, but he did know there was some fuckola jamola associated with that meticulously carved crystal. Some Adepts had come out crazy. Some hadn’t come out at all.

Ivan smiled. Such delicious debasement. Or such a desirable disappearance. In either case, after his descent into the Prism of Nezrabi, Jackson Spey would never be the same.