It is there, standing beside the altar, the sacrifice waits. She has the youth of a maiden: smooth, flawless ivory skin; small breasts, firm yet supple; a perfect figure unmarred by time; and a confidence of immortality only the naivety of youth can hold. Her beauty rivals the glory of the heavens, with eyes the color of blooming heather, a magnificent crown of gilded tresses fall to a pair of shapely thighs, and the aristocratic bones of her face are delicately wrought to be the supreme paradigm of femininity.
She is shivering, but not from the bitter night. It is what lies in the darkness beyond the tall stone guardians that sends tremors of terror through her soul. And yet she awaits her destiny, her courage great despite the overwhelming fear.
A faint rumble of thunder sounds, and a delayed flash of distant lightning illuminates the world beyond the circle. The dark silhouette of a man is absorbed into the rapidly fading light, and the woman knows that he has come down his mountain for her. The Crom Dubh; god of storm, and lord of eternal death.
She strains to hear his approach, but he is as silent as the death he rules; only knowing his nearness by the throb of his great magic that grows stronger with every stride. Then the gloom of beyond is broken, and, with a whispered enchantment, he steps into the Carragh S ì orruidh.
The air seems to ripple around him, and as he nears, she sees that his face is as terrifyingly magnificent as his formidable form. Smooth skin barely softens the hard angles of high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His lips are sinfully full, and when he smiles, it brings a shock of lust coursing through her. It was his eyes, though, that captivated. Silver as moonlight glinting off water, they seemed to penetrate through to her soul. He is every girl’s dream, every woman’s fantasy; a god in human form.
Remembering her duty, her life for the good of her clan, she conquers her fear, and banishes the lingering vestiges of desire. There was no longer any need for such worldly emotions. She had been born and raised for this purpose alone. Every day for the past seventeen years, she had walked the paths of her village, tended the gardens and laughed with friends, knowing that her life was meant for the gods. Her sacrifice would renew the land as her royal blood soaked into the parched soil, and she refused to shame her family for the desire of a life that would never be.
As if he had read her thoughts, his lips twists into something just shy of a sneer.
Gathering her pride around her like a cloak of indomitable strength, she stiffened her back, and held her head high. With her voice quiet but steady, Eilís spoke: “My Lord,” eyes locked with Crom Dubh, she raised her hand above her head, and a perfectly honed sickle blade flashes in the darkness, “my life for their life; my blood for your pleasure.”
The blade arcs down, the wicked point intending for her heart. Her eyes close, and she draws in a last breath of air, sweetened by heather and salt. In her mind, she calls out to the Lady for a merciful stroke, but a whisper from piercing her heart, a large hand grips her slender wrist. With a sharp jerk, it shakes loose her hold on the sickle, and it falls to the ground with a muffled thump.
“ Eilís, my child,” his low voice warms her naked body as if he had set her on fire, and her eyes flutter open. He towers above her, overpowering her will with his nearness. “It is not for my pleasure that your blood shall spill, but for yours.”
Crushing his lips down upon hers in a bruising kiss, he sears away all thought of death in the face of life. Circling her in his muscled arms, he lifts her against his body. Slowly he lets her slide down his length so that he could feel every part of her. Though she was untried and pure, this was no mere girl. Her body was that of a woman; full of seductive curves and smooth skin.
Eilís inhales in his scent of earth and sea and a dark, underlying musk, that has her body instinctively readying for him. His slippery tongue glides in and out of her mouth; invading and retreating in a hypnotic dance that has her senses reeling. Her knees buckle beneath the onslaught, and he cups her tight derrière with his strong hands to hold her up.
When she finally began giving to him -- gliding her tongue alongside his, rubbing her breasts against his chest, pressing her femininity against the steel hardness of his shaft -- their passion spins out of control.