"You see, the gods are really nothing more than an abstraction. Fortunately, humanity has matured beyond the age of adolescence, when all nonsense is taken for granted. Notice I do not say "infantile". Children are far from being so naive. Contrariwise, they are the ones who see the world as it really is. Without filters. Without... Without..." the inebriated orator waved his hand expressively in front of his face, imitating something like a waving curtain. "Without all this rubbish, this static noise, this cultural fallout. But when a human specimen begins to grow up, the very muddy suspension of other people's beliefs begins to settle on him, sticking like a burr here and there, digging into his very bowels..."

Erkial smothered a yawn and lazily dipped a slice of bitter orange into her chalice of vintage Samian wine, quite good, but certainly not "as old as Rome", because then it would be almost three thousand years old. According to their contract, it was she who was supposed to entertain the landlord with conversation. However, the famous Celtae skald, known throughout the Gallo-Roman Empire as Noedes Bel, was getting outrageously carried away, especially after his second keg of beer, as he'd apparently finished the first one before her arrival.

"Well, in this case, how would you explain why it is exactly the youth who have such a strong addiction to rebellion?" she inquired.

Noedes choked on the dark northern brew and coughed, laughing.

"Do not joke like that! What rebellion? It's nothing but a pitiful farce! They are noisily overturning the postulates that the older generation has hammered into their empty heads, blowing hot air and pretending to discover some other, brand-new truth, but inside, under the layer of their fancy rags and garish make-up, they are wearing the same old morals. They are ashamed of it, they deny it, they raise a hue and cry at every turn, and then they huddle themselves up in a secluded nook, nursing the plague they have caught long ago. For they have already unlearned to perceive reality with an unadulterated eye, yet are not accustomed to grinding the grain of knowledge with the millstones of the mind. It’s much easier to keep chewing the same old semolina porridge and spit out how unpalatable it is."

He moved his mug aside and inhaled the vanilla-sweet smoke that tickled Erkial's nose, swallowing it directly from the thin bone pipe. It was a Germanic custom that Erkial had never learnt, although, posing as a northerner, she probably should have. But how else could she justify the milky hue of her skin and the opalescent whiteness of her hair?

"Do you mean to tell me," she flirtatiously licked the orange juice from her long, marble-cut fingers, adorned with filigree silver claws, "that people have already passed that stage of pointless denial? And now they deny things consciously, with competence? That they are not simply substituting one false concept for another, as they have been doing since the times of the lost civilisations of antiquity? I am afraid to disappoint you, but I think you are mistaken. And you yourself, like a bashful adolescent, cover your nudity, and your believing in the gods with a fig leaf."

Noedes hummed and leaned back on the velvet cushions, resting his bare feet on the edge of a low table laden with refreshing desserts and iced wine. The middle of the Quintilius in Aquileia was extraordinarily hot and stuffy, especially for Erkial, who was much more accustomed to the coolness of the karst caves of the Caucasus. She even started to wonder whether she had been wrong to have persuaded her husband to make her appointment with this subject here and at this time of the year. But as a donor he was exceptionally good, almost perfect, despite the fact that he was wasting his incredible potential.

"But you are discerning, I see," her interlocutor nodded approvingly. "And if I were to deny your accusations now, I would fall into the trap of my own logic, proving once again that I have not strayed too far from blind juvenile nihilism. But still, no, I am not covering anything up, and if you want to look under my kilt, I shall not object. And when I sing from the orchestra about the horns of Zagreus, the paps of Anu or the bosom of Ishtar, I am but an inspired atheist. I worship these allegorical representations as much as I blaspheme them. It is that part of the symbols generated by human culture through which I can poetically express my connection to certain primary principles and, so to speak, my attraction to a certain specific fabula. But nothing more than that. I do not masturbate all night in front of the idol of Astarte, that decrepit old hag who is at least ten thousand years old. I have other fish to fry."

Erkial smiled invitingly and carefully patted her intricate, pearl-laced hairdo.

"I bet that old hag would have made you."

The skald nodded indifferently and emptied another mug.

"Definitely. If only she were ever to exist."

The gilded incensories on thin chains swung slowly despite the dead calm. Waves of intoxicating smoke rose above them, swaying from side to side. Erkial knew why this was happening, and hoped with all her heart that her drunken patron would not notice. At the end of the day, in her presence, he should not even notice a gorilla pounding on its chest if it walked openly behind her back.

"Do you know what the funniest thing is?" she suddenly could not help retorting. "That the gods are far from suffering when people do not believe in them. Even, on the contrary: it unties their hands. For the gods, as you surely understand, are not some omni-benevolent entities who are solely concerned with the welfare of the human race."

Noedes blinked tensely and dropped his heavy head to his chest for a moment.

"Sorry, did you say something?" he muttered. It seems to be knocking me out. Something about entities and bene... benevo-something..."

That's a dear. Erkial favoured him with another radiant smile of the living deity.

"It was just a dream. A hallucination. Thanks to cannabis. I was only complaining about the heat."

"But it doesn't seem to affect you," he finally realised in a daze.

Naturally, it does not. However, Erkial deemed it prudent not to get into the matter and shamelessly changed the subject:

"Seems like it is time for bed."

The red-haired skald nodded obediently, tried to get to his feet, and failed most cruelly in this daring endeavour.

"Could you… kinda help me… get to bed?" he asked, already struggling with his tongue.

In fact, anything beyond the living room was beyond the standard functions of a touring hetaera. Except that Erkial was far from being a hetaera. She was not interested in money.

She was not even a human being.

Noedes' flaccid carcass turned out to be quite hefty, presumably his worldwide fame and concomitant wealth did him no favours in this regard, and his proud Celtic ancestors would, at the very least, have ridiculed him harshly for the belt that did not meet round his waist. Nevertheless, the fragile-looking Erkial handled the task effortlessly; it was harder to pretend that the burden was terribly heavy for her. The sweltering heat, however, contributed to the realism of her performance.

Puffing, Erkial dropped the semi-conscious body onto the spacious bower bed, neatly lined with delicate beige silk. In a few hours, this silk will turn to dark crimson... With a sigh, she set to work. There was no need to be concerned about the donor himself, he would not escape anyway in this condition. However, there was certainly no need for any outsiders here. Erkial diligently locked the heavy door of the bower, casting blocking spells on all the locks. She proceeded to do the same with the huge bulletproof windows and lowered the dense brocade blinds as far as they would go, enchanting them with the burden of a thousand mountains. Afterwards, she cautiously cut the wiring and, temporarily immersing herself in an observer's trance, scanned the room for any alarm systems, hidden intercommunication devices and weapons, methodically disintegrating everything she found. All clear. It is time to move on to the main part of the programme.

However, with this was emerging a problem that had not been obvious at first: her donor was shamelessly sleeping. Without further ceremony, Erkial simply untied the belt of his leather kilt and the weighty cloth slipped off his thighs on its own. Noedes murmured something in his sleep and spread out in a picturesque manner like a starfish. After briefly admiring this feast for the eyes, Erkial scooped a handful of pure almond oil from a wide porcelain bowl, mixed it with a few drops of jasmine and sandalwood perfume, anointed her own naked bosom generously, and, mounting her prey, turned to stroking and nibbling, rubbing and tugging, tickling him with her sharp, serpentine tongue, bouncing and dipping her hips, sliding her erect nipples over his tattooed skin, spurring him on with her heels and teasing him with her body odours mixed with aphrodisiacs.

The subject did not respond. Erkial became even more persistent, using not only her teeth, but also her sharp claws, ice cubes, hot melted wax, and finally resorting to simple aqua ammonia.

"Hark! May the horn of the Bull of Heaven assail thee! Wilt thou awaken at long last, or shalt slumber still?"

All in vain. The inebriated skald remained dead to the world. Such a turn of events Erkial had certainly not foreseen. All her endeavours, all her art and her undeniable attractiveness proved unclaimed! Nothing came out of the skald's throat but a loud snore. In despair, Erkial went to slapping his cheeks mercilessly, considering that he could not call for help anyway: the soundproofing in the room was perfect, she and her Ghialtaru had taken good care of that in advance; as for his securities, they would not be able to force open the enchanted door. Alas, Noedes only waved her away as if she were an annoying fly, and buried his head deeper in the pillow.

Erkial felt a sudden strong desire just to wring his neck, to slaughter the dumb pig that he certainly was. She had never encountered this obscure phenomenon of intoxication before, nor had she imagined that it was capable of such catastrophic proportions. The Lamashtu never get drunk, their enhanced metabolism allows them to split a molecule of ethanol instantly, completely neutralising any toxins. It is much the same with cannabis: to her, it is nothing more than an odd incense – not to her taste, but she could tolerate it for the sake of an image. Nor had she ever had any serious experience in seducing a human. O Progenitrix, why on earth do they kill themselves with all those substances if their lifespan is so short even without it? A feeble-minded race indeed...

Erkial moved away from the drunken and useless body, about to burst into tears. It should not be like this! How would she explain to her relatives that she had achieved nothing from an ordinary human male? And what was the point of disguising herself in this golden harness of a hetaera, learning their languages, delving into the nuances of their culture and religion, memorising whole volumes of alliterative poetry? Certainly, it is possible to choose another donor, but Ghial used his best endeavours, he negotiated the terms of her temporary engagement in Aquileia with the local council for two interlunations, he crept into the favour of this Skaldic star to persuade him to invite only her and her alone for tonight... And finally, she had promised Ghial his material! He was perfect!

Besides, how humiliating it was! Perhaps just disembowelling him in the end of the procedure would be too mild. Perhaps she would think of something worse for him...

“Canis matrem tuam subagiget!”

The awakened skald at her back unexpectedly swore in Latin.

Erkial raised his eyes to see the incandescent face of the midday sun peeking through the narrow gap above the olivine curtain. Did you mean my mother, you bastard?

“Potes meos suaviari clunes, cacator!” she snapped angrily, turning to him. “Scrofa stercorata et pedicosa! Immanissimum ac foedissimum monstrum!”

Noedes gulped involuntarily.

“Screw me dead! How ornate it was, I have to write it down.”

He rubbed his unshaven snout with the palm of his hand, scratching his groin, still glossy from the abundant spillage of the aromatic oil.

"And what the Dipater are you still doing here? Are you so eager to fuck with me?"

The skald swore again, this time presumably in some dialect of Gaelic Erkial barely knew; then he bent over the edge of his bed and spewed with relish on the expensive oriental carpet.

"You know, doe kid," he wheezed, finally raising his head, "what I really want to do right now is just to die, and as soon as possible."

Erkial brushed away a heavy strand of hair that had escaped from her three-tiered iceberg and glared at him with an icy stare.

“You cannot even imagine how close to fulfillment of your desire you are!”

Noedes smirked sarcastically.

“Such a fearsome doe kid!” he folded his fingers in a stupid old-fashioned gesture, jutting his index and little fingers forward, “Horn-mad!”

He swept his eyes over the room vacantly and added drearily,

"Listen, since you are not going to piss off of here, why don't you at least bring me some booze, eh?"

Erkial flattered with her long, gilded lashes.

"Are you not up to the gills yet? Or do you want to get completely shitfaced?"

Noedes grinned.

"You know, goatlet, there are only two things in this fucking world that could quench my thirst and overwhelm the taste of my disgust for living: waters of Lethe and a strong brew."

"I suppose I would provide you with the first one," the thought flashed through Erkial's mind once again.

She strode proudly to the sink, poured tap water into a glass and splashed it in Noedes' face upon her return.

The skald shook his head in irritation.

"What the crap? The only thing worse than water is dog piss! I said beer! Bring me some beer, you outlandish whore!"

He declaimed pathetically:

"Bring me a bowl of your beer, oh my bride and my mistress,

Fill you my breast to the brim with its bitterness sweetly!"

“Belly,” Erkial snorted.

“That's not poetic," he grimaced. “No one will buy it. And an entertainer, you know, is worse than a prostitute. He sells his whole body, his feelings, his talent, his inspiration, everything that can be bought. But nobody buys such a thing as integrity. No one takes it for free. It is just a dead stock. Stale. A total waste of money, not worth a red sestertius. All of us are the sellers of lies!”

He grabbed a miniature statue of the snake-legged Serapis that had accidentally appeared near his hand, and hurled it against the wall. The fragile terracotta shattered in a hail of shards. “Hmm, his relationship with the gods is definitely strained,” Erkial remarked to herself. Surprisingly, she realised that her anger was gradually subsiding. Well, she still ached to tie him to the headboard and whip him until he bled, and that fantasy was turning her on like nothing else. But at the same time, a strange tickling sensation crept up inside her, making her throat scratchy for some reason.

Noedes mindlessly scraped the crust of wax off his chest.

"So you are not going to bring me my beer and you do not want to clear off durante bene placito? Well, I can call my security guards, you know?"

“You cannot,” she thought. “But it would be better if you do not know about it yet.”

"And what the Larvae do you really need me for?" he continued, irritated. "Are you one of those collectors or what? You want to put the replica of my erect phallus on your shelf and add the badge 'Noedes Bel' to it, don't you? Or do you really like my songs that much?"

"I have never even heard them!" Erkial sniffed again and licked her lips ravenously. "I like your genotype."

The skald rolled his eyes.

"So old-fashioned. A decade ago, every other whore imitated a Lamashta. So sexy. The bloodsucker," he gave her a dirty chuckle. "Or just a... sucker..."

A new tidal wave of rage overwhelmed Erkial. Her fingers instinctively began to transform, stretching and curving into the sickles. She leapt up like a bird, and a moment later she was on the stunned skald's chest, bending his arms behind his head. The habitual serpentine hiss erupted from her throat. Noedes' eyes rounded, and his previously alcohol-fogged gaze cleared at once.

"Stercus accidit! The Lamashta indeed!" he winced. "Or have I just drunk myself into delirium tremens?"

Erkial slowly raised her left hand, which now looked more like a kite's paw, and demonstratively swept her steel talons across his face, from his cheek to his neck, then across his chest to his armpit, ripping his skin not too deeply, but painfully. The incensories were already not only swinging, but swaying back and forth like rabid pendulums.

Noedes swallowed hard.

"So this is what you need. My blood and my seed, aye?"

Erkial grinned in a bestial grimace.

"I shall certainly have no problem with the first. As for the second, it is your choice. You can die right now, leaving me without the substance I need, or you can enjoy the unparalleled luxury of sex with the Lamashta before dying. The very same Lamashta that, by your own words, all your brainless females blindly mimic. And keep in mind, there is no point in screaming or calling for help. But if you do try, I shall rip your head off. Only because I am already full to the throat with you and your blathering. And also because I cannot stand the sharp sounds."

To her surprise, Noedes' face took on the most serene expression, and even something resembling a smile slipped to his lips.

“I am not going to scream. The second scenario seems much more attractive to me. After all, life is just a huge stinking cloaca, and therefore... Tits of Beira! Probably it would be better for me to keep my mouth shut, lest you change your mind, aye?”

Erkial remained silent. In fact, and for some reason, she enjoyed his voice. Its echo flowed down into the depths of her body in sweet and feverish trickles, like fermented grape juice into the gloomy entrails of an amphora. On his cheek, slashed by her claws, were quivering crimson droplets, like pomegranate seeds...

She was not a bloodsucker. It did not attract her at all. She liked the taste of Sicilian oranges and bitter heather honey, of green olives and loose goat cheese. Like any other Lamashta, she needed human blood, only for successful ovulation. As for human seed, she needed it for subsequent genetic correction of the offspring she would have with Ghialtaru. Without the third set of genes, the human one, all the Lamashtu infants were born exactly such ugly monsters the ancient Akkadian legends told about. Or they were simply stillborn. So, she certainly wanted to get the best substance available. And Ghial wanted the same. That's why they had chosen this human male six interlunations ago. Now she had to copulate with him and drink blood from his heart. He is nothing but a cattle, a food, a generator of genes and haemoglobin, needed for her impregnation, a dumb greasy pig, and he deserves nothing better.

The skald drew a nervous breath, smiled a taut smile, and narrowed his eyes.

"How ironic! You have never even heard my songs. Somehow I always thought I would be killed exactly for them. As for my genes... It is funny. My mother hated me with a fierce hatred for them. She said they were mostly my father's. Well, I guess she had her reasons, but... Though why should you give a damn about any of that?"

"I do not," Erkial replied icily. "And for me, they do fit."

"That's good."

He fell silent for a second, biting his lips.

"Will it be very painful? Or maybe you have some kind of anaesthetic?"

She smiled beatifically.

"I have it. Your anaesthesia will be produced by my body at the moment of orgasm. So if I get satisfaction from sex with you, you will feel no pain."

"That is a good motivation," he nodded again. "What should I even call you?"

Erkial smiled mockingly.

"But I named myself."

"Fariđwail?" Noedes raised his eyebrow. "As in 'farewell'? Do not take me for an idiot, please! I know the Nordic languages."

She suddenly remembered that he had reacted with exactly the same expression the first time he had heard her phoney name: "So fast?" She really thought he was more stupid.

"Erkial," she surrendered. "It is something like your Domina."

"Sounds beautiful," he sighed. "I would like to write poems about you!"

Erkial sniffed in displeasure again.

"I have had enough of your poetry! I have discovered so many new things about myself!"

Noedes screwed up his face.

"No second chance?"

"What second chance are you talking about?" Erkial got mad. "You are food, see? F-O-O-D."

"All right, all right, I see!" he agreed hastily. Yet a second later he mumbled pleadingly again, "You don't like music at all? I'm not talking about mine, but any music?”

“I do," Erkial said, feeling pity for him.

Noedes immediately cheered up.

“And what about poetry? You see, a poem just began to cross my mind... and it is about you. May I? Well, are you a woman or not? If you don't like it, I promise I'll be as dumb as a fish until it's all over.”

“If you count on stalling like this...” Erkial began.

“I'm not counting on anything!” he waved it off. "Just... look, but no one will ever hear it anymore. Meanwhile, this might be my best song. Please! Think, it is almost like a child doomed to perish unborn."

Erkial sighed and reluctantly got off the bed. If he only tried to escape or reach for a weapon… well, she would laugh.

Noedes rose slowly, his dark amber eyes glued to her face.

"I know what you think," he said.

And he certainly missed.

"‘Look how the fool changed when he felt the draught,’ eh? Sorry about 'goatlet' and all the rest." He scanned the room indecisively. "Can I go to the toilet? Just for a minute! My bladder is about to explode, dig? Can I? I swear I will be a good boy and not do anything naughty."

You can be as naughty as you like, it will not help you. Erkial slowly retracted her claws.

"Go."

He came back before Erkial had successfully completed her reverse transformation. Certainly, the Transformation of Pacification takes much longer than the Transformation of Fury, and besides, these short-living creatures measured time in such unimaginably small intervals that Erkial still could not get used to it. For example, as far as she knew, three Empyrean cycles of her actual age were equivalent to the human two hundred and thirty-three years.

Noedes looked much nicer, fresher and cleaner, and his eyes blazed with a wild glow. Had he taken something for courage?

"Erkial," he smiled, rolling her name around in his mouth with obvious pleasure. "Perhaps I will not attempt to alliterate your name, lest I descend into vulgarity. No, please, do not misunderstand me: your name is magnificent, but I am afraid that our meager language simply does not have a word to match it."

Erkial smiled in her mind. Sly fellow.

"Come on, Homer, get to the point!"

The skald rubbed his chin nervously.

"Look, my wheel fiddle was left in the hall..."

Erkial knitted her brows.

"Dream on. Such a cheap trick."

Noedes waved it away:

"But I am not even asking you to let me go there! You are a magess, aren’t you? Could you transfer it here?"

What is he getting at? Erkial shrugged angrily, but still created the required arcanum of interdimensional transportation. The cumbersome vintage instrument, stuffed with modern electronics, lay heavily, or rather almost fell to the floor. Noedes groaned, as if he had been hit himself, but said nothing, just hurriedly picked up his wooden girlfriend, laid it carefully on his lap, touched it gently, tightened the strings, ran his fingers over the keys, and finally turned the handle leisurely. The fiddle began to hum and moan longingly. The skald took a deep breath and followed the tune:

Bairn blithely begotten of gloom,

Glint glimmering ghostly on waking.

Wail wistfully, verseman, who’s wasting his breath!

Bairn bestowed with bounty flew down to your funeral faring.

Bless bleeding and breeding at night,

Nail nebulous nexus of whispers.

Wail watching her wings, briny blood them bepaints.

Blood balefully binds you till dawn in the depth of the dolmen.

The song rang on, weaving the intricate lace of rhymes. The skald's voice was deep and rich, drawing her into a treacherous vortex. When he fell silent, Erkial shuddered.

"How do they fit inside you?"

"Who are they?"

"An animal and a god."

Noedes smiled.

"Well, that often happens to poets."

"Do not even think this will change anything!" Erkial warned him sternly.

"Not a thing?" he squinted his eyes cunningly. "But I think it already has."

"You are mistaken."

"Hardly. Now I shall not be so disgusting to you. I shall not be a lousy, stinking pig, or how did you say it? Which means," his smile filled with irony, "I have a chance for the anaesthesia."

Erkial's fingers ran over his scratched, slightly swollen cheek, dipping into the gingerness of his hair, so provocatively long and so irreverently uncombed. Her breathing became uneven.

"Perhaps..."

Noedes put aside his wheel-fiddle and sat the Lamashta on his lap.

"You weigh less of her!" he nodded astoundingly at the fiddle.

Erkial pushed him lightly, causing him to fall backward.

"But I can roll you into the thin sheet like a thousand-tonne train if I need to!"

The incensories began to spin, tearing down the thin chains; the dying embers within them burst in fountains of sparks, threatening to devour the suburban villa along with its inhabitants. A fearsome gale, spawn by the supernatural power of the unholy goddess of ancient Sumer and Akkad, blew out candles and toppled chandeliers, smashed vases and amphoras, shattered alabaster and crystal glass into tiny shards.

The delightful lingering dance lasted almost until the lavender dusk. Erkial took her time, and Noedes worked hard as if it were the last chance of his life. As a matter of fact, it was. And when the ritual was over, and Erkial gazed through the muzzy haze as an overwhelming wave of ecstasy smashed him over again and again, and when she listened to his heart pounding feverishly, and it was so close, and it was boiling with the precious liquid...

"Go ahead!” Noedes moaned. "Do it right now!"

Erkial's claws began to grow again, this time much slower than in the moment of anger. Her fingers laid down on his ribcage, accurately and unerringly, as she had been taught. Noedes could not take his insane eyes off her, his lips trembled mildly.

"You know," he sighed in demivoice, "but I lied to you."

"'Wherein?" Erkial grew suspicious.

"That song. I composed it years ago."

Erkial felt the strange pain that accompanied the inexplicable anger. But well, actually it meant nothing, it was just a song, nothing more...

"For whom?"

The joints of her deforming fingers creaked menacingly.

"For you," he replied without hesitation.

"Do not lie!" Erkial screwed up her face in disgust.

"I do not," Noedes shook his head firmly. "But there is something else I have told you a lie about. I never thought I would be killed for my songs. For what? All I sing about is beer and wenches. Do I fight with kings or overthrow idols? I always knew it was you who would kill me. The Lamashta. I have been waiting for you."

Erkial averted her eyes.

"I deceived you too. I mean, about the anaesthetic," she looked him intently in the eyes. "There is none."

Noedes turned pale and made several nervous, convulsive gasps.

"So the Larvae with the anaesthetic! It was worth it." He squeezed his eyes shut, vainly concealing shivers. "S-so?"

Erkial's steel claws turned into the silver lace.

"Shall we do it once more?" she suggested suddenly, not knowing why. "Just to be sure."

Noedes opened his eyes in astonishment. Then the ghost of a smile flitted across his face.

"Just to be sure."

And their bodies entwined again in the tight Celtic knot, without beginning or end.

"Do you still wish to watch my wings bepainted with briny blood?" Erkial whispered and could not help but give him a sly smile.

"Oh yeah!"

Her thin arms rose, this time stretching and extending from her shoulders to her wrists, covered with snow-white down and broad feathers. Noedes stared at them, breathless.

“I have to rewrite my song,” he finally said, touching her silky down gently with his fingers. “They... they... I am afraid I cannot find similes. They are whiter of whiteness!”

At dawn, Erkial rose, licked the last drops of briny moisture from her silver lips, removed the spells from all the locks and drapes, swung open the window, unfolded her wings and looked back one last time at the red-haired Gaelic skald sprawled lifeless on the crumpled and torn to rags, delicate beige silk.

"Noedes?"

"Erkial?" he replied.

"It will be not I."

She caught his uncomprehending gaze. In the depths of her heart, she felt as if the steel teeth of some unknowable deity were gnawing at her. But this time, she knew why.

"This Lamashta who will kill you. It won’t be me. And... when she comes to you, do not sing her my song."

Noedes slowly nodded.

"I will not."

Erkial leapt out of the open window, and her white — whiter of whiteness — owl wings carried her into the hazily glowing predawn sky.