He let go of her nipple, knelt beside the chair. Reaching between her thighs, he dug his middle finger into her vagina; it was so swollen and tight he almost mistook it for another orifice. A shudder passed through her. He put in a second finger and third, worked them in and out, wiped juice on her belly and thighs; he pinched her clitoris, twisted it, spanked it with two fingers, heard her juice splashing faintly. Then he knelt between her knees and pressed his face against her mound, kissing and licking it before he began biting her clitoris. Bucking against his face, she came with a groan, the chair coming off the floor; it was a few moments before he realized she was digging her fingers into the back of his scalp. He almost congratulated her for freeing her hands, but decided to let her press his face ever more tightly against her mons. Eventually she bruised his upper lip a bit; licking it, he leaned back, sitting on his heels.

Eyes slitted, she dug a finger into herself, sucked her honey off of it, then took the knife from her hair once more and sliced the bonds restraining her ankles. Then she stood up, bucked against his mouth once more, and seized one of his arms, pulling him up, leading him over to the bed and thrusting him down on it. Putting his hands behind his head, he saw her crawling forward over him, wondered where she was going to stop; she brushed her nipples across his mouth briefly, then continued forward, one breast trailing over his brow, leaving a tiny warm trail of milk. Her stomach passed overhead---he could make out the dark line---then the neat dark stripe of hair on her mound. She almost overshot his face, backed up, and settled on his mouth, grinding that superb warm wet flesh against his tongue. He reached up, kneading her buttocks, drinking her, hardly even working with his tongue; he only had to offer the tip, and she did the rest, grinding furiously. Orgasm after orgasm shook her. After a time he thought she must be spent, but then she retreated over him and tried to settle across his hips, only to discover that he was still wearing his trousers, a fact that they had both forgotten.

"Sorry," he said, as she rolled impatiently aside. His pants were off in a shot, and she climbed back on, enveloping him, gripping him with those practiced professional muscles of hers, which she had gotten back into fighting kemper---bless her---within weeks of delivering. "I am very fond of you," he said, and laughed.

Saying nothing, looking intensely serious, she seized one of his hands and put it on her breast, riding him furiously; with a pointed nail, she began to pluck at the tip of her clitoris. He found himself remembering the festival of Tsa Terrathu, the man she had killed in much this same way at the temple; there was the same frenzy in her movements now. But he knew beyond doubt that he had nothing to fear, that this, despite its ferocity, was an act of love, a proper celebration between husband and wife, the very antithesis of the ritual in the temple.

But, just as properly, he decided to put such weighty thoughts aside before he lost his erection, which she seemed to be enjoying immensely.

At length she leaned forward, taking one of her breasts in her hand and rubbing the nipple across his lips, then forcing it into his mouth. He took it between his teeth, pulling on it, turning his head to one side; she groaned and slid off him, onto her stomach. But he didn't think she was quite finished; he climbed onto her back, spread her thighs with his, and entered her from behind, biting her on the ear; reaching underneath her, he fingered her until she was spent, then allowed himself to come at last.

"Umm," he said, rolling off.

"Umm," she answered, turning her face towards him, smiling. Afterwards, he dreamed of the Lamb for the final time. He was standing in a clearing in the midst of a huge forest of thorns. Some lined the branches of huge dark leafless trees, others studded vines that were twisted around the branches and trunks; everything was writhing and rustling, growing and snaking before his eyes. But as the spiky profusion thickened, it seemed unable to invade the clearing; branches and vines knotted and multiplied until there was a solid wall outside, which spread upwards and overarched the clearing like a dome, without a speck of blue sky showing through. Nevertheless, there was light; turning, he saw that it was coming from the Lamb, who he could barely make out through the glow. "Am I hurting your eyes?" it asked.

Zancharthus nodded.

The light faded a bit.

"Better?" the Lamb asked.

"Better," Zancharthus said.

"There's something I'd like you to help me with," it said, rising from the grass and going over to a huge steel trap with yawning spiked jaws.

"Shall I bring the baby?" Zancharthus asked.

"I'm afraid you must," the Lamb replied. Zancharthus went over to the trap.

"Do you see that thing in the middle?" the Lamb asked.

"The trigger-plate?"

"And those little handles on it?"

"What of them?"

"If you step into the trap and lift them very carefully, you'll open my trap."

"This isn't yours?" Zancharthus asked.

"Mine is inside."

"Why can't you open it yourself?" he asked. "Because you don't have hands?"

The Lamb shook its head. "I haven't been born yet."

"Ah," Zancharthus said. For some reason this made sense to him, and went to lift the handles. But he paused at the last moment. "I won't set the other trap off?"

"No. They can only trip each other. But neither will be tripped if you don't arm mine, so---"

Zancharthus put the baby down and leaned forward. Taking the handles in the trigger-plate, he pried them upwards.

There was a click, then a whirring sound. A bewilderingly involved mechanism unfolded from beneath the trigger-plate, all curving arms and gears and hooks. It grew by the second, the first trap growing to accommodate it; Zancharthus snatched the baby back up, retreating, terrified.There was something about the movement of the thing, and its awful complexity, that unnerved him profoundly; the thorns outside, for all their writhing, seemed a mere show of bluster in comparison. As he withdrew, the Lamb followed, looking unconcerned. Zancharthus said:

"I wouldn't turn my back on that thing, if I were you." "But you're not me," said the Lamb. "You only prefigure me, and that dimly."

"What do you mean?"

"A true King will die for his people," said the Lamb, coming steadily forward.

"Will I save them?" The Lamb shook its head. "Being a King isn't enough. Your foe is an angel, and you're not his match. But I will honor you, for the gift of your son; and all will be well."

Zancharthus shook his head, puzzled. "Gift of my son?"

"My father will give His son, and you must give yours."

Zancharthus looked behind the Lamb; the inner trap had stopped expanding, even though it nearly filled the clearing now, its workings fallen motionless and silent; his back was practically to the thorns. "Now," said the Lamb. "Put him on the trigger-plate." "How can you ask this of me?" Zancharthus said.

The Lamb replied: "I will ask what I please, that all might be well. If you love me, do it."

Crueller than Tchernobog, Zancharthus thought.

"Not crueller," said the Lamb. "But more terrible. Because I have the right, and you know it in your bones."

Excrutiatingly, Zancharthus did know it; bowing to logic (as Jagutai might have said) he carried his child forward, past the Lamb, into the trap. At each step, the workings, densely interlocked as they were, made way for him, clicking and whirring out of his path; at last he stood before the trigger-plate, which had grown considerably, plainly to accommodate his son---

"And me," said the Lamb, stepping onto it.

Zancharthus asked: "Is this truly the only way?"

"This cup will not pass from us," the Lamb said, and lay down.

Zancharthus almost laid his son beside it; then he paused.

"You said you'd honor me," he said.

"Count on it," said the Lamb.

"What about my son? I've been told such terrible things about him---"

"What does his name mean?" asked the Lamb.

"He who is saved."

"You named him well," said the Lamb.

Zancharthus was powerfully comforted to hear it. Emboldened, he asked:

"What about my wife? My friends?"

The lamb looked at him sidelong. "Are you bargaining with me?"

"Are you unreasonable?"

The lamb shrugged. "I can be moved. Particularly by my friends. And I will save yours, for your sake."

"And my wife?"

"Yes," said the Lamb. "Now. Give me your son."

Slowly Zancharthus laid Zorachus down. The Lamb nuzzled the child, then told Zancharthus:

"You must go now."

Zancharthus remained where he was, surrounded by the machinery. He looked round at the spinning, churning parts, then back at the Lamb. Its head had sprouted horns---he counted seven---and five more eyes.

"You're scaring me," Zancharthus said.

"Take comfort in your fright," The Lamb replied. "Who do you fear more? Me? Or the Great Fool?"

"You," Zancharthus said.

"Who will win in the end? Me, or him?"

"You."

The Lamb nodded. "I will win, and I am here with your son, even in the midst of my trap. That is all you need to know. Now go."

Zancharthus cast a last lingering glance upon Zorachus, then wiped his eyes and turned, striding out of the terrible device. The instant he was clear of it, he heard a loud snap, and the whirring intensified violently; a great gust of wind struck him in the back.

He whirled. The traps were gone, and all around the clearing, the vines were crackling, withering, falling to bits. An opening appeared at the center of the dome; dust and fragments crawled down from the peak, as though along the surface of an invisible shell. Beyond, clouds scurried aside on a mighty wind; light broke through, bursting through the hole in the thorns and into the clearing, flooding over Zancharthus, fierce and painful. He raised his hand against the glare, trying to squint between his fingers at the sun---

And woke.