By the Sweat of the Succubus' Brow

Z'mbutu leaned forward in his chair, obviously disbelieving and suspicious. If what he'd just heard was true, which seemed unlikely in the extreme, why would the man admit it so readily to a stranger. It couldn't be simply from gratitude, of helping to carry him up from the basement. "How old are you?"

"I was born in Khachos, more than eight thousand years ago, well before the Great Plague burned across the world. Every seventy years or so I arrange my death and a relative comes to take the house. I'm always the relative, of course."

The alchemist lifted a skeptical brow. "And no one ever catches on?"

"On to what? A family with a penchant for reclusiveness? I'm generous to the charities and support the popular causes and, thus, I'm left alone."

Z'mbutu nodded. Not entirely convinced the tale was true, but the reality of the thing in the cellar was hard to ignore.

Chenei emptied half his glass before speaking again. "Do you know of Khachos?"

"One of the ancient desert kingdoms," Z'mbutu answered, he looked off into space as he searched his memory. "It was on one of the far eastern Sand Islands, if I remember aright."

"Actually, at her height, Khachos was an empire. Her influence was felt across half the world. Our armies invoked rightful fear and respect in our enemies hearts. We were a glorious people. Tell me, Professor, have you ever had occasion to kill someone?"

"Yes," Z'mbutu answered, honestly. "On more occasions than I'm comfortable remembering."

"Ah. Ever kill in war?"

"No."

"Ah. I've killed men in war," he said, his gaze growing softer, somewhat unfocused. "It's a gruesome matter, nothing more than mutual wholesale slaughter. Nothing like the slaying from personal passion or honor. War is the only true sin I know. I was a priest then. A true-believer. A fool." Chenei paused, flexing his injured hand.

Z'mbutu could see that the scratches had already begun to scab over. He tried not to shudder. "Why a fool?"

"Because," Chenei said, in the tone of a man stating the patently obvious, "there are no independent gods. No self-realized devils, but those what we create for ourselves. A priest is ultimately a parasite."

"If that's true, then how do you explain the thing dwelling in your dungeon?"

Chenei shrugged, a slight frown on his face. "How should I explain the fall of a dust-mote on a rose petal or the devastating ground quake. What is the why of a Spring shower or the typhoon's fierce tempest, the surf suds sizzling into beach sand or the horrific pounding of the destructive harbor wave? Surely, I don't have to remind you, a man of letters and learning, that Nature oscillates between the extraordinarily fragile and the adamantine powerful. All of Existence is merely the territory stretched twix the two. The Succubus is no god nor demon. She's merely of a race stronger than Man, as Humanity is stronger than the common ape. How is the port?"

It took Z'mbutu a moment to make sense of the question. "It's good. Excellent, in truth."

The master of the house nodded. "The finest to be had in this miserable city. A pity to drink it, really. But, if not drunk, Time itself will ruin it, cast it into tasteless waste. It is said that the Society of Alchemists are responsible for ending the Plague. Is that true?"

"Aye."

It was historical fact that alchemists had come up with the cure for the disease which had swept over the world more than five hundred years in the past. Z'mbutu had read the contemporary accounts directly from the archives of the Society. The solution to the scourge was called the Scratch-Cure. Exposed victims would have their sores scratched, and a diluted solution of the pus scratched onto the skin of those as yet unstricken. It had worked and because of that accomplishment, for centuries, until just recently, alchemists had been welcome wherever they went across the land.

Chenei stood from the couch, testing his leg. He limped a bit when he walked to a shuttered window but was plainly in no great physical distress.

"As I said, I was a fool. Fool enough to become Chief Priest, in the fullness of time. It was because of that position, when the awesome empire of Kumbia was sacked, that I gained knowledge of the Succubus. It was in their great temple. Another cult of fools. Among their priest-class they worshipped a god they didn't share with the general populace. They worshipped She Who Ever Lived. The myth intrigued me from the first I heard it. Then I began to believe, after so many of the tortured priests said the same thing.

"I sought out the demoness, through years and trials beyond the imagining of normal men. How to reduce the search for the miraculous into woefully inadequate words? You and I might sit for a thousand days and nights and you'd not hear half the tale, not know the high adventures and heartbreaking defeats I encountered. Suffice to say that I did unravel the riddle. I finally found her in a crumbling and forgotten Kumbian pyramid and have possessed her since.

"She was the guardian of the Elixir, which has extended my life magnitudes beyond its natural portion of years. I believe she was the one who made it. But the slut doesn't speak and I can't confirm the conjecture." He sipped his drink. "She's insane, of course. She was so when we found her beneath the pyramid and down through the millennia her madness has only deepened. She comes into heat with the light of the full moon, each full moon, and that is when I...when I collect the scent."

Z'mbutu kept an expression of disgust from his lips, but the alchemist swallowed hard, and chased the image from his mind of Chenei mating with the thing down in the cellar. "Why do you tell me this? Why reveal so much?"

He turned from the shuttered window and once more Chenei's gaze sharpened in intensity. "I want you to give me life."

He arched an eyebrow at that. "Come again?"

"The Elixir, its formula is long lost. I want you to re-discover it."

Z'mbutu's left eyebrow rose.

Chenei saw it. "You misbelieve me, eh? Even after what you've seen?"

"The existence of the Succubus does not necessitate the existence of the Elixir of Life. It's a myth."

"Perhaps the Elixir is a myth now. But, I'm living proof that a such elixir did once exist. As is Belarthor."

"Your manservant is an Immortal, as well?"

"Aye. Belarthor, a junior priest and ever the faithful servant, volunteered to take the first sip, there under the pyramid, lest it prove to be poison."

Chenei refilled their glasses, his strength obviously returned. "I'm proof that the elixir does exist. Or did. In the hidden crypt, where we finally tracked it down. The distressing irony is, unless you find me a cure, Belarthor will most likely survive me."

"Surely, the thought distresses him as well," the alchemist said, dryly.

"No doubt," Chenei agreed, without a trace of sarcasm.

"Leave us get to the heart of the matter, Lord Chenei. How is it you expect that I can restore your immortality?"

"Because I have no great magic at my command, my only hope lies with alchemy. Cure me and you will never know want again. You'll be richer than a Ghilan senator. Succeed and you'll be allowed to research my library and I promise to a man like you that will be better than gold."

"And if I can't cure you?"

"Come now, Master Alchemist. Let's not be pessimists." Chenei smiled and pressed several protrusions along a bookshelf. A hidden desktop unfolded and he opened a recessed drawer, taking out a iron strong box. "Suffice it to say that I'm willing to extend the hospitality of my home to you for as long as it takes. Now, let me show you the scrolls I believe most pertinent to the Elixir's formula." :. Chenei took three hours showing Z'mbutu the scrolls. It was just reaching the second hour after midnight, when the alchemist returned to bed.

He had come to the mansion seeking the answer to one riddle only to be presented with a more vexing one. Oh, not the problem of Chenei's declining health. The cause of his malady was plain enough. He should kill the Succubus before she sapped him completely. Obvious, except to Chenei. Whom, Z'mbutu suspected, had grown to love the mating of the demoness overmuch.

A man sees what he wishes to see and ignores the rest of the world thereafter, Z'mbutu thought, remembering the folk saying. Add to that, the master of the house obvious insanity. Z'mbutu was in danger, he knew that, but as long as he had access to his satchel he wasn't overly concerned of being held against his will. But he'd have to remind Belarthor to retrieve his knife-stick from the succubus' cell.

With his dark brow creased in thought, he undressed once more and climbed back into bed with the sleeping Hana. :. Once more he heard the heartbeat of the house.

"Z'mbutu? What is it?" A sleepy voice came from the darkness.

"I think it's your master's pet making her presence known again."

"Umm," she muttered, heavy with sleep and unconcerned. Having grown accustomed to the sound through the years, Hana turned over under the blankets and finding a more comfortable position she dozed back off.

Z'mbutu, too, was also about to go back to sleep, it'd been an extremely long night, when the muffled heartbeat of the succubus pounding produced a more shattering sound. The was the distant sound of cold metal flexing, squealing and complaining, then a reverberating boom he could feel through the featherbed.

The alchemist sat up, the maid grumbling on the other side of the bed, then stood and quickly redressed. Stamping into his boots he grabbed an unlit lamp and went to the door. Once in the hallway he lit the lamp with a sulphurhead. A secondary pounding began as he moved down the shadow shifting corridor, the flame of the lamp dancing. This new pounding was less resounding than the previous, but no less insistent.

He reached the kitchen, there, by the cellar door, which rocked inward by the monster's blows, lie Chenei. A great gash opened his belly, his shiny innards were exposed. They seemed to crawl like fat greasy serpents within the gash beneath his hand. Z'mbutu's walking stick was on the floor nearby, fresh blood on the shiny blade. Obviously, Chenei had been stabbed with it.

When Chenei saw Z'mbutu, the dying lord spoke, but his words were lost to the blood which welled in his open mouth then drained down the sides of his jaw. He slumped in his servant's embrace. The immortal was dead.

The succubus banged at the cellar door again.

"We have to go," Z'mbutu shouted. "That door won't hold much longer."

Belarthor shook his bald head. "No. I'll not run from the great whore. She killed my master. Killed him with your cane knife when he went to quiet her. She used the blade to break her shackles open. I barely was able to slam the door shut, then I dragged Master up here. I'll have her head or she mine, I swear it." The servant lovingly lie his master to the kitchen floor before he picked up and hefted a two-headed axe in his meaty hands.

The alchemist didn't stay to argue the point. He snatched up his cane and ran, knowing it was for his life. Briefly, he thought of Chenei's library and the wealth of knowledge laying there under dust. But the room was at the other end of the house from his bedchamber. Despite his lust for knowledge he had to warn Hana, and at all costs he had to retrieve his satchel. :. Z'mbutu shouted as he slammed open the door of the bedchamber. "On your very life, woman, quit your bed this instant. We must flee." The pounding at the cellar door sent a maddening percussion banging throughout the house.

"Eh?" Hana threw the covers from her face, her hair tossed and wild about her head. Her expression quizzical in the lamp light. "What's amiss?"

Just then, off in the mansion there was the shattering sound of splintering wood-timbers and immediately thereafter followed by a bellowing, agonized scream from Belarthor.

"The monster is loose." Z'mbutu snarled as he rammed home the bedroom door's bolt, feeling cold sweat tickle suddenly at the back of his neck. He put on the mask containing the antidote, hoping enough essence was left to render him immune to the demoness' scent.

Although the door would provide at least a momentary defense against the Succubus, it also meant he and Hana were trapped in the room. A decidedly unappetizing circumstance. Hurriedly, he located his bag in the flickering light of the lamp. Unstrapping and unlacing it, he began to search through the satchel's inner-pockets.

Better move with alacrity, a part of his mind urgently prompted Z'mbutu. "Eeh," he said, aloud, wholeheartedly agreeing with himself. His hands quickly searched for the items he sought.

Hana, after hearing Belarthor's scream, had jumped from the bed, standing naked in the middle of the room, sleep-tossed, scared, and confused. "What is it?"

"I've told you," Z'mbutu responded without looking from his satchel. "The monster is loose. It's already killed your master, and Belarthor too, from the sound of things. Dress, woman. We haven't much time."

But the housekeeper stood, scowling, as she watched him search.

Then they both heard a keening, shrill exclamation of celebration. The Succubus happy and exalting in her freedom. Both of them slapped their hands to their ears, the screech seeming to conduct across the bone of their skulls. It painfully affected their inner-ears. As they grimaced against the sharp cry, it grew closer.

Hurry, Z'mbutu told himself again. Hurry. Hurry. His fingers, normally as nimble as a magician's, fumbled around in the pockets of the satchel, his nerves keen on edge.

Suddenly, the door to the room was battered. Both Z'mbutu and the panic-stricken Hana felt the brutal strength of the blow as a violent concussion which whumped the air in the chamber. He heard Hana scream as his hand closed over the object of his frantic search. A small leather drawstring sack, containing black powder, a concoction of distant Cathay, embedded within a flammable tree-gum. Quickly, he went to the stone wall opposite the wall with the door, and began to pack the powdered gum into the cracks of the masonry.

Another blow at the door, another pressure wave rolled through the room.

Z'mbutu heard Hana scream again as the middle of the door began to bow inward with a loud splintering sound. The panel had been breached. It was only a matter of seconds now. He stuffed a shred of cloth to one end of the gummed powder and lit it with a sulphurhead wooden match. The alchemist then moved across the room, grabbed the crying Hana and drew about them both his cloak, with its lining of cloth-o-mesh. While the fine-mail wouldn't be very effective on a battlefield, it was more than adequate to turning a mugger's knife or jealous husband's rapier. He hoped it would also provide them some protection from shards of flying masonry.

The door groaned and cracked down the middle and was holed. Again the succubus gave forth a victory cry, her hideous features livid in the light of the lamp sat on a low table. The creature quickly glanced around the room as it pushed through the remains of the door. It spotted the trembling double lump under Z'mbutu's cloak and a demented grin split its face. It took another step into the room, bringing up its clawed hands.

The explosion, from such close range, was deafening. But Z'mbutu had been expecting the resulting noise, rumble, and violent shaking of the chamber. While he was rocked onto his side and felt a dull pain to the right side of his head, he was able to recover quickly enough. He threw back the cloak and saw the hole blown into the bedroom wall, revealing the star-strewn sky of night. A cool wind blew into the chamber. He also saw that the whole wall was in danger of collapsing at any moment. With a grunt he couldn't hear, he pushed the naked Hana into the hole. His other hand was on his satchel and cloak as he followed at her heels through the sifting dust.

Unlike the alchemist, the creature had been taken completely by surprise by the explosion. Never in its entire existence had it felt anything so powerful. The concussion of the explosion had knocked it back out into the hallway and against the opposite wall. Stunned, but only momentarily, it was now more enraged than ever. Shaking it gray head, the demoness let loose another banshee wail and on thin legs stalked back into the bedroom. With crimson eyes it could see by the light of the Moon that its prey was escaping. With another scream it dived for the hole, and the boots of Z'mbutu.

The alchemist had begun to think that after this night of horror, Fortune was once more smiling on him. Hana had been pushed clear of the foot thick wall and he was nearly out himself. He could hear the distinctive sound of stone block rubbing against stone block, and actually feel chips and larger pieces of the masonry falling down on the back of his neck. But he was almost clear and then it was just a matter of running across the lawn to safety and escape.

The talons of the creature reached out and grabbed the ankle of Z'mbutu's boot. It gave another cry of joy as it jerked hard, pulling him back into the hole toward it. The alchemist yelled, frantic, feeling the pull on his boot. Caught, his mind screamed, the anguish of captured prey. Caught. He kicked out, feeling his heel stomp against bone as tempered as steel.

Then he heard the clatter of rock as the stone wall gave way. :. The wall came down. It fell outward from the top, scattering blocks across the lawn and into the side garden, blowing down against the side fencing. It was only the bottom quarter or so of the wall which fell directly down. But even so small a portion of the wall was still a good deal of dead weight. One thing saved Z'mbutu's life, the monster itself. The Succubus had managed to pull him toward it and thrust itself into the hole deep enough to cover most of its hapless victim's body. Its intent was to snap the alchemist's neck as it raped him. But such was not to be. The wall came down. The body of the monster absorbing the impact of the blocks.

Still, Z'mbutu had to struggle to push himself clear of the pile of rubble. He shoved the last brick from his leg and saw the gray hand of the monster still clutching at his trousers, a ring on one of its thin fingers. With an expression of extreme disgust he jerked his leg free of the death-grip. The antique silver of the Succubus' ornate ring dully bounced back the pewter light of the Moon.

Hana saw the hand, and with a silent scream distorting her features, she pushed up off the wet of the dead lawn and moved up the high fence with panic-stricken ease, a naked and pale ape in the frosty moonlight. She ran down the street, a hysteric, her loose hair trailing off her shoulders. Z'mbutu, rolling clear of the mound which had only seconds before been a wall, hoped the feisty cook would avoid the city-guard and the hangman's noose.

Z'mbutu used the hem of his cloak as protection when he tugged the ring from the dead demon's finger, before dropping it in his satchel. For a brief moment his mind played over the mass of accumulated knowledge in the late Chenei's library. Even an armful of volumes would prove priceless. But, as he hesitated, catching his breath, he saw flames climbing between the stones of the crumbled walls, crackling at the timbers and other flammables. The fire would spread quicker than he'd be able to get to the library. And so, it was with some regret that Z'mbutu turned from the mansion of Chenei.

He broke into the house's covered jetty and took the deceased lord's gondola, using the long wooden guide-pole to shove off down the center of the Isane River. And, Z'mbutu couldn't help but constantly cast an anxious glance over his shoulder as the current carried him away over the glassy moonlit black water.