Divine Burdens

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.

She heard another crash behind her, closer now. She forced herself to maintain her pace, shepherding her strength. The sun sent streamers of red and gold through the trees. When full darkness fell, stealth and caution would count for more than speed.

She changed direction, curving around to her right. Her brilliant robe made a beacon in the gloom, easy to see against the dark forest. If one of her pursuers had caught a glimpse of it, he would expect her to continue straight, to make for the ruins as quickly as she could. By taking a more indirect route, she might throw him off. The risk was that one or more of her pursuers would reach the ruins ahead of her. Its crumbling walls and twisty passageways made perfect territory for ambush.

I must keep running.
They are fast. I must be faster.

The forest thinned around her. The ground rose, telling her the ruins were near.

This was the most dangerous part of the run. Less thoughtful pursuers would come after her, tracking her by the traces she left in the forest, the broken branches and footprints in her wake. More thoughtful pursuers would try to anticipate her, maybe beat her to the ruins. She had a twenty-minute head start, which helped. But she had to move carefully, without making too much noise. The people pursuing her had no such concerns. They could plow straight toward the temple without fear.

There was a balance to the chase. Move quickly enough to outrun the thoughtful ones, but carefully enough to evade the less thoughtful ones. Strategy, that was the name of the game.

Running is an act of worship.
In my flight, there is service.

She scrambled upward. As she crested the hill, she paused, panting. She straightened her shoulders, shifting the harness of thin straps that both supported and exposed her compact breasts. She’d had them firmed up and reduced in size to make running easier. The elaborate pair of closed-toed sandals on her feet, held in place with a bewilderingly complex set of straps, were as comfortable and perfectly fitted as always, though she looked forward to being able to kick them off. She stifled another curse at her short skirt, the 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. 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.

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: