She ran through the forest at a steady trot, conserving her strength. The sun hung low and red in the sky. Already, pools of inky black gathered between the trees. Soon it would be nearly impossible to see. There would be no dronelights to guide her, just the feeble glow of the two moons to light her way. The darkness was a double-edged sword: it would hide her from her pursuers, but it would also force her to move more slowly.

She caught the thin white robe that floated behind her with a practiced motion. The robe, made of a nearly indestructible fabric so light it was almost weightless, had a habit of snagging on bushes whenever she stopped paying attention to it.

The trees here grew thick and claustrophobically close. Gnarly bushes sent long, craggy roots along the ground, lurking in the darkness to trip her. Ivy covered the trees. She’d learned the hard way that its broad leaves concealed long, wicked thorns.

She scanned for escape routes. She had made a bad turn some ways back, and now found herself in a dense part of the forest with no obvious path. If she couldn’t find a way through, she would be forced to turn back toward her pursuers, who were no doubt already gaining ground on her.

Her muscular body spoke of ceaseless dedication to training. Her skin, glossy with sweat, was covered with scratches. She had a bruise on one knee where she’d fallen against a rock.

She wore a harness of thin straps that both supported and exposed her compact breasts, which she’d had firmed up and reduced in size to make running easier. She also wore a short skirt of a white pleated material so shiny it almost glowed in the deepening gloom, and that damnable robe, always floating out behind her as if searching for things to catch on. Her feet were shod with an elaborate pair of closed-toed sandals, held in place with a bewilderingly complex set of straps. Exactly what she would be wearing on the night of the Hunt, when she would be running through these woods for real, pursued by people with serious intent.

She swerved toward a gap between two trees. She had to turn sideways to squeeze through. The rough bark scratched her skin. It would be different when she made this run for real. She would be panicking, out of her mind with fear. It would be harder to plan ahead. She needed to know the land by instinct before then.

Her hunch played out. The trees thinned on the other side of the gap. She ran faster, sprinting across the relatively open space toward another dense cluster of trees ahead. When she reached it, she held her breath, straining for the sounds of pursuit.

Nothing.

She sighed, grateful for the brief reprieve. Her throat burned, reminding her that she’d had nothing to drink since she’d crossed a small stream half an hour ago.

She heard a crash behind her. Her heart leaped. She headed off again, pushing through a cluster of bramble that rose almost to her knees. Something snagged her foot and sent her tumbling hard to the ground. She scrambled back up and set off once more.

She increased her speed, keeping a pace that would not leave her too winded in case she had to fight. As she ran, she recited the mantra that would help guide her when the madness was upon her.

I must keep running.
They are fast. I must be faster.
They are strong. I must be stronger.
I will move like the wind.
I will evade my pursuers.
Running is an act of worship.
In my flight, there is service.
My body belongs to the Hunt.
I must keep running.

Sex in the world of the Passionate Pantheon is a ritual of worship and connection. The residents of the City have sex to honor their gods and each other. The sex you’ll find within these pages is unusual, and includes themes of: