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The Child of Bhaal slept well for the first time. Since the Astral Prism had fallen into her possession, the Emperor had known her rests to be fitful and brief. Now, swaddled in the warm embrace of her sister’s blood, her fractured mind felt closer than ever.
It observed her bare, sleeping form with a hungry golden gaze. Hawk-like, drifting from above. Once, it would have felt revulsion at what she had done. Some echo of itself tried to manufacture the emotion. It let the feeling slip as the human stirred. Instead, its thoughts turned to a prior meeting, here, on this jagged piece of rock trapped in a timeless expanse.
She opened her eyes and sat up. It suddenly yearned to reach out, to feel that warm, human skin against its own, cool and purplish-grey. But this was not the purpose, it reminded itself. Only a means.
So you have recovered your memories, it intoned. Good. But do not lose focus.
Anger simmered off her—the astral space was cold and empty, the rock jagged and painful. She had been cruelly ripped from Bhaal’s embrace. The illithid did not flinch.
You came here of your own volition.
“You let me in.”
So I did.
She stood, then, staring up at the Emperor. Mentally, it traced the curves of the her breasts, the softest touch passing over one nipple. She trembled, briefly shutting her eyes.
You could be perfect, you know. You need only take what you have been offered.
The words, silky and tempting, did not have the effect the Emperor predicted. She opened her eyes—and now it did shrink back from what it saw. Loathing and adoration, rage and euphoria. She smiled.
“I am already perfect,” she said. It saw the divine presence rooted in her flesh desecrate her, cover her in glory. Bones stretched, flesh warped, blood turned to black—
The Slayer regarded the Emperor, black eyes level with its own. She shifted closer, long tail held in a sinuous arch. Two powerful pairs of arms twitched, impulse just barely restrained. In her human form she had never been comfortable in her skin; but this slick, red-gray hide fit her perfectly.
It could not tear its eyes away as the Slayer advanced with silent, graceful steps. It only felt a pounding want low in its abdomen. A need. She stopped when she was close enough to gouge out its innards, but the Emperor could not bear to move away.
The Slayer pinned its body down against the rock. This was not how illithids were meant to take their pleasure, it thought numbly. It should be the one in control. It should dominate her, enthrall her, make her subservient. But it could not move. It could not think about lashing out. All it could think about was how easily those jagged claws could rip it apart, and the burning hunger that enveloped its mind. She climbed over it easily, and this time, there was very little gentleness as she gripped its arms. She would not break the Emperor—she needed its protection, even if she hated to admit that. Yet there was some small part of it that feared she would rend its flesh anyway. She shifted lower, pressing the softer, silvery skin of her belly against its hips.
It barely suppressed a moan at the friction. It should not be so easy for the Slayer to bend an illithid, its mind protested—and then she slid one clawed finger along its entrance. Teasing, light. Despite its best efforts, its hips bucked upwards under an instinct it thought forgotten. The Slayer opened its many-fanged jaws, and licked a stripe up the Emperor’s collarbone. It felt enamel graze against its skin, the pulsing, silvery blood of an artery just below. Her claw slipped with a jolt of sharp pain.
It seized the Slayer’s horns with its tentacles, pulling hard. The sensation of the rough bone was almost painful against the sensitive tendrils. Even more painful was how easily her mind broke free from the bindings it tried to wrap her with. She writhed under its grasp, and it winced as it felt her mind clamp onto its own in turn. There would be no submission from her. Not yet, at least.
The Slayer growled, and the sound thrummed through its whole body. With her second set of arms, she pried its tentacles off—gently, this time. It allowed her: it knew better than to resist. Then, tenderly, she ran her long, pointed tongue over the shallow gash she’d opened—then lower, down its chest, its ribs. The closest thing to a kiss she could manage in this form. It shuddered in anticipation. The growl changed to a purr. Shame and arousal fought to claim it: illithids did not bow. Illithids did not bend. That thought faded as she stroked its tentacles in her hands, gentle yet insistently firm. Hot, electric pleasure shot through both of them. It shivered under her again. Involuntarily, it twitched its hips upwards. Its hearts beat frantically, pulsing blood into its wound.
It felt her desire and its own, reflected back, and it reached out with its mind. A deep rumble rose in the Slayer’s throat; she allowed their minds to entwine. It knew exactly which synapses to touch, which nerves would bring her the greatest pleasure, and it watched smugly as the Slayer relaxed. She straddled it, motionless, jaws slightly open. This was its chance—
She reacted first. The warm, pleasurable embrace suddenly turned suffocating. The Emperor was pinned down, squeezed, pleasure and pain in equal measure. A realization finally struck it: the Emperor had made a grave mistake in thinking it could control her .
That thought belonged to the Slayer, but she forced it down its nerves and into its brain. It could only accept. Then her tongue slid between its thighs, and it no longer cared about anything but feeling that slick, wet heat where it needed it. She pressed her tongue into the folds of a slit between its legs. Hot pleasure flooded its body and mind, coaxing the thick, prehensile hectocotylus out of its abdomen. The human memories it held still called it a cock—its purpose and function were different, but the warm, wet heat engulfing it felt very familiar. It groaned aloud as she lapped at the sensitive, spade-shaped tip.
The Slayer let it fall from her jaws, and the Emperor hissed in disappointment.
I did not ask you to stop, it told her. If it still spoke with a voice, it knew it would be shaking.
The Slayer rasped a cold, dry laugh. It tried to wriggle out of her mental grip again, but before it could summon its strength, she dropped onto its cock.
Tight, wet heat enveloped it, and the Emperor’s words devolved into a senseless jumble of emotion. Desire and pleasure in equal measure dominated it, and all it could do was buck its hips. Feel her riding it, clenching around it, pinning it down so hard it feared she might snap it in two. It felt each rock of her hips as if they were its own. She took two of the tentacles around its face into her mouth as she moved, lapping and tugging at them with just enough pressure. When it recovered from that shock of pleasure, it remembered to reach out with its free ones—exploring the softer, more delicate skin of her underside. She whimpered as the dexterous tentacles stroked down her body, curling around her thighs.
She was close—it could feel it. She commanded it to press a tentacle to her clit, and it did so eagerly, stroking and teasing her. Illithids experienced orgasm differently to humans: rather than a sudden rush of ecstasy, its pleasure was drawn out and steady. But with their minds intertwined, it felt her climax too—and climax again, and again, until finally exhaustion wore them both into a haze.
The Slayer did not move. She rested on top of it, crushing its narrow frame against the hard stone. Dim shame trickled into its thoughts. It had never been in control, it realized. It had tried to put a leash around a metaphorical displacer beast, and instead the beast had leashed the Emperor. Weakly, the Emperor tried to shift its arms. The Slayer, still panting, lifted her head to stare it down with her dark, deadly eyes. She did not need to speak: it knew that it belonged to her, now.
The Slayer purred. She stood up and stalked away, leaving the Emperor alone and bare, with only its own thoughts to occupy the Prism.