Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 01

Author's note: This is actually an older story I've been playing about with for some time. I suppose that submitting it will work to stop me tinkering with it endlessly.

Just a few quick notes: Russian names as they appear in this story have three parts: a given name, a patronymic derived from the father's name and a family name.

Likewise, the given name often has two forms. The regular form and a shortened form used amongst friends or informally. Hence Nataliya and Natasha.

Although there is the Kremlin in Moscow. The word kremlin means fortress or castle and in this story is used generically like that.

Thanks

******

Chaos.

That was all she could think as she saw the crowd packing the banqueting hall.

A maelstrom of noise and movement, a thousand different conversations all being held at the same time with absolutely no regard for their neighbours. People flowing around tables, stopping or starting seemingly at random - sitting down or standing up as whim took them. Through it all threaded masses of servants and slaves in the Stygian livery of House Azarov - black clad servitors guiding, cajoling, prompting. Even so, it was taking an age to get everyone seated - families pouring in through the great door following the backs of the people in front like sheep.

At the far end of the room, Nataliya noticed soldiers in Azarov livery discreetly positioned between the main throng and the high table. Two near a set of ebon double doors were actually wearing armour - the chitinous plates making them appear insectile and threatening. Intrigued now, Nataliya scanned the crowd. Sure enough, scattered around the periphery of the room, islands of stillness in the chaos, she spotted more soldiers - hard eyed and professional, weapons sheathed discreetly but present nevertheless. She didn't know if she was meant to feel reassured or intimidated.

Finally it seemed that the game of musical chairs was exhausting itself and Nataliya found herself sat next to her mother's slim shape and opposite the reassuring bulk of her father, his dark beard and sparkling blue eyes. They were seated close to the entrance doors - a lowly position, as befitted their status. Like most in the room, they wore uniform: the short military cut jackets in the colour of the ruling family faced with their own House insignia. Her family wore a white leaping wolf stitched to their breast but were not sufficiently senior for shoulder boards - or detailing in any colour but black. About her she picked out the insignia of myriad other families and, toward the head of the table: flashes of red, silver and, occasionally, gold as the more senior families gathered.

On the raised dais at the head of the room, the far end from her family, the high table stood empty, waiting.

Despite the chaos of the banquet it was obvious that the room could hold a far greater number than it currently accommodated - its vaulted ceilings giving the room a sense of space but also making the throng seem small, somehow insignificant. She couldn't help wondering if this was deliberate - some elaborate lesson to the Minor Families. The room was certainly a very real display of opulence: the pale ceiling richly decorated with frescoes, the walls covered with frighteningly expensive gilded carvings. As a demonstration of the wealth of House Azarov it was unsubtle but effective.

Gradually subtle changes in the timbre of the noise made Nataliya aware of rising anticipation in the room. No longer was the noise constant, it had taken on a punctured rhythm as people alternately gave their attention to the high table and to their neighbours. Her eyes drifted to the ebon doors at the far end - a new tension had entered the stance of the two armoured soldiers. Looks like waiting is coming to an end, she thought.

She was pulled back from her reverie by the feel of her mother's hand on her arm and, momentarily, looked her way - seeing her mother's mouth open to say something before events overtook them. As a result, she didn't see the ebon doors open and only realised what was happening when the massed guests rose to their feet with a roar of scraping chairs. She rose too, her mother's hand heavy on her arm.

Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch Azarov strode out at the head of his family: a tall, slim man, his hair dark and his beard neatly trimmed, his black uniform unadorned save for the golden dragon of House Azarov on his breast. On his arm was his wife, Ilsa, uniquely dressed in a white gown amidst the sea of black. And then his children led by Lord Prince Vasily Mikhailovich, the fair-haired heir apparent, and Princess Anna Mikhailovna, pretty with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Other members of the family followed them out, uniforms trimmed and striped with gold: the myriad brothers and sisters of House Azarov. But suddenly Nataliya didn't care about them.

He was walking at the back of the procession: tall, slim, skin the shade of rich honey, hair the colour of a raven's wing - just long enough to shadow his eyes and rest on his shoulders. He seemed to move with a natural grace that she found captivating - like a dancer. Chatting casually with the other Azarov family members he took a seat near the edge of the table. God, she thought, he was so beautiful.

The crowd slowly sank back into their seats and conversation resumed, but to Nataliya the room had ceased to exist - she struggled to even take her eyes from him.

"Natasha..." her mother said, her soft brown eyes touched with impatience.

"Sorry, what?" Nataliya realised she had missed something.

"Drink. Do you want wine?" her mother said.

"Um...yes, please. Sorry, I was distracted." She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way.

"Yes, I noticed," her mother gestured and the house slave filled her glass. "Nataliya Fyodorovna, pay attention, you might learn something."

"Yes, mother. I will."

"Good," she said, her eyes seeking out the source of Nataliya's distraction.

Slowly her mother's eyes narrowed. "That young man caught your eye, has he?"

Nataliya blushed, looking down. It was all the answer her mother needed.

"Do you know who he is?" her mother asked. "No, of course you don't, how could you? Nataliya... No, you don't need to know any more, just stay away from him, okay?"

"Mother, I'm eighteen - I'm not a child," she said, although she had to admit she did sound a little petulant. "Who is he?"

Her mother sighed. "I can see that if you don't know your curiosity will lead you astray. So... He is Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov. Bastard son of House Azarov and a very dangerous man indeed. He is a killer and a womaniser. Do you need to know more? Or is that enough for you to promise me you'll stay away from him?"

"Of course," she said, laughing, trying to shrug it off. "I promise."

But as soon as her mother turned to speak with the man next to her, she felt her eyes drift furtively back to the Lord Prince. He was chatting to his brother, making animated gestures with his wine glass. She noticed that he had fine hands, his fingers long and delicate where they held the glass. His face was sharply boned, his eyes exotic - a touch of an angle to them, she thought.

Then, to her horror, he lifted his head and looked straight at her - his eyes capturing her gaze. Ice blue and luminous - like a cat's - even over the length of the room the touch of his eyes on hers was shocking, intense - turning her blood to ice, goose flesh shivering over her body. Startled, and a little excited, she found that she was unable to look away, unable to do anything more than stare. It was as if the whole world had suddenly lurched around her, as if she was staring from the bottom of a deep well - the room, the crowd about her just darkness.

A smile slid across his face, something she found not altogether reassuring, and he looked away. She felt the loss of contact as a physical thing, as if he had suddenly let go of her. For a second she felt lost, her head spinning with vertigo, unsure of where she was. Then, gradually, the room came back into focus about her. She found that her heart was beating like a hammer, that her mouth was dry and, worse, that she was physically aroused - her nipples were hard and she was wet between her thighs. Utterly discomfited, she gulped her wine and hoped that nobody else had noticed.

After that she found that the meal had lost its flavour and it all passed in a blur. Despite her unease she found herself taking repeated furtive glances at Andrey but he never looked her way again - for which she was both grateful and strangely disappointed.

Following the speeches at the end, something that seemed to take forever - although she was happy to concede that Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyich was a good speaker - the guests were invited to withdraw to an adjacent hall. Slowly, attended by renewed chaos, the throng moved as it was bidden - drifting in order of rank away from the banqueting hall.

"You've been quiet, Natasha," her father said.

"I know. You know," she waved her hand vaguely, taking in the room and the crowd, "it's all a bit, you know, overwhelming."

"I suppose so," he said. "You'll get used to it."

She nodded, swallowing.

"It's a long way back to our kremlin, we won't stay too long... Just long enough to show willing," her mother added.

"Okay. I think I'll get some air. If that's alright?"

Her father looked at her closely, but nodded. "Be careful...not everyone is friendly. And stay away from you know who," he said at last, with a meaningful glance at the high table.

"I can look after myself, father," she said, although she wasn't quite so sure of that any longer. Adding quickly, "but I will."

The view from the walls of Azarov Kremlin was impressive. The inner fortress was built of black stone, standing out starkly against the red rock of the surrounding plain. It had been constructed on a prominent jut of rock poking out into the Dragon Sea, so that it was surrounded on three sides by its azure waters. On the fourth, barren plains of red sand and rock ran from the shore towards the darkness of the distant plateau, a few scrub plants the only things to break the arid surface.

Stretching between the kremlin and the plateau was the silver line of the River Kolva, its source far away on the plateau. Where the Kolva met the massive red outer walls of the Kremlin, flowing through a high arch, a city had sprung up - spiralling out along both banks of the river. Above her, the sun was just beginning to slip beneath the horizon and the air held that pleasant coolness, that reprieve from the heat of the day, that comes before the freezing cold of the night.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?"

Nataliya jumped, she hadn't heard anyone approach. But even as she spun about she knew who it was: Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov.

For a second she was entirely unable to gather her thoughts - breathing itself was difficult, like someone was sitting on her chest.

"The moons," he said. With a smile he pointed over the battlements at the massive twin moons hanging on the horizon, spectral in the dying daylight. "I find them beautiful at this time of day... At sunset."

"What? Yes, yes... Uh... I mean yes, Lord Prince... Uh... Highness," she felt herself flush with embarrassment, how the devil was he affecting her like this? "I was just thinking the same thing."

He smiled, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

"It's Nataliya Fyodorovna, isn't it?" he said.

He caught her eyes with his and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. She was tall, standing nearly five foot eight inches, and he was only a head taller than her - but it felt as if he was bigger, as if she couldn't see all of him that she could feel.

"Uh... Yes, Highness," her heart was racing again, hammering in her chest and she felt somehow sick: excited and scared at the same time. Her eyes were drawn to his face, fine boned, angular -- with just a hint of cruelty. She noticed that he had a small scar just below his left eye, no more than a ghost against his pale skin.

"Legend has it that our forefathers possessed the technology to fly to those moons," he said, although he spoke of the moons his eyes stayed on her. "I find that difficult to believe. What do you think, Nataliya Fyodorovna?"

"Um... Yes, Highness," she said.

Nataliya Fyodorovna is finding it very hard to think of anything but you, Lord Prince, she thought.

"Uh, I'd better go... My parents will be waiting for me."

She sounded silly, even to herself, and seeing the knowing smile on his face just made it worse.

"Of course. I'll walk you back in."

"Uh... There's no need, Highness," she said. Her mind raced - that would really impress her parents. "Stay and enjoy the view, it's only just inside, really."

"Nataliya Fyodorovna." Just the whisper of command but she stopped immediately.

He paused slightly then, as if thinking. His eyes drifted to the moons, but he remained facing her. "I shall do as you ask, but only in return for a favour from you. A small one, of course."

"What?" Her voice was no more than a breathless whisper.

His eyes flicked back to her - his beautiful, handsome face suddenly so close. When had that happened? She felt befuddled, confused -- aroused?

"I want a kiss," he said. His voice was quiet, soft, and so reasonable. "Just a little kiss. Would you deny me such a trophy?"

Nataliya felt like a mouse caught by a cat, unconsciously she took her lower lip between her teeth. Thing was, at that moment she could think of nothing she would like more than to be kissed by him. She leaned towards him, her eyes probing his.

"May I?" he said.

Silently, she nodded slightly.

Then his finger was on her chin, lifting her mouth to his and slowly -- oh, so slowly - his soft, soft lips were pressed to hers. The contact shivered over her skin -- tingling, as if her whole body were suddenly hypersensitive. She smelt a faint scent of some perfume - sweet, but not cloying - behind it a faint masculine scent. Her eyes closed, his lips felt so good on hers -- the kiss going on and on, delicate, chaste, electric - she never wanted it to end. Finally, he withdrew, her lips sticking to his ever so slightly. In the wake she stood there breathless, new sensations sweeping through her body -- torn between throwing herself on him like a wanton and collapsing on the floor at his feet - utterly unable to move or to think.

"Thank you," he said. With infinite grace he ghosted a bow and turned away.

Suddenly free, Nataliya felt her legs go weak and she had to grip the battlements to avoid falling. Good God, what had he done to her? She practically ran back to the drawing room, panting for breath as if she'd just run a marathon.

******

Nataliya lay back on her bed in the darkness of her room at her family kremlin. Outside she could hear the familiar night sounds: the chirrup of crickets, the low sigh of the wind about the battlements, but tonight they brought her no comfort and sleep was utterly elusive.

Her parents had retired long ago, all of them fatigued from the long journey north from the reception, and she could feel the old fortress asleep about her, contributing to her sense of isolation. No matter what she did, her mind refused to let go of the memory of Andrey: the way he looked, his scent, the heat of his body so close to her - oh God, the feel of his lips on hers.

Unconsciously she found her hand touching her chin and her lips, the places where he had touched her - her breathing heavy, rapid. She realised that her nipples were hard and felt softness between her legs - the liquid flood of arousal sweeping through her. God, just a kiss, but it had felt so good.

Her hand ran over her belly, rubbing herself through her nightdress, imagining his touch on her body. Tentatively, a little shyly, her fingers brushed her nipples, feeling their hardness through the nightdress's soft fabric.

A soft moan drifted from her.

Growing up an only child in a minor noble house was a pretty certain guarantee of a sheltered upbringing, and Nataliya knew she was no exception. At eighteen she remained a virgin, completely isolated from any male contact from beyond the family. Until tonight sex had been something she laughed and giggled over with her friends - something essentially abstract. Until tonight.

Imagining the feel of Andrey stroking her legs, she pressed her hands against her thighs: her mind full of his smile, the feel of his soft lips. Gently she pressed the fabric of her dress against her throbbing clit.

"Oh," she gasped gently, a spasm of pleasure shooting from between her legs to slide over her body.

Her hand returned to her breast with more confidence now - rubbing her nipple through her dress until it tingled - her other hand pressing harder between her legs. She moaned quietly, fearful of being overheard - pressing harder and harder - her arousal increasing.

It wasn't working! Something was in the way - it was like an itch she couldn't scratch.

Her nightdress was long and plain - simple white cotton - and quite chaste. Feeling bold beneath the concealment of her covers, she pulled her knees up, opening her legs wider. Cautiously, almost as if she stalked a nervous pet, her hands slipped between her legs. She pressed her cunt through her dress, lifting her hips to increase the sensation.

Mmmm - that was better, she thought.

Moving her hips was good, it made her feel brazen. She knew she was soaking wet, she could feel moisture oozing from her. She began pressing rhythmically against her mound, low moans slipping from her as her pleasure increased - all the while her mind picturing his face in the instant before her eyes had closed and his lips had touched hers

It felt good - it felt very good - but it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel more, she wanted to feel closer to him - to what he would feel.

Frustrated beyond comprehension, she threw the sheets from her, kicking them to the base of the bed. Nervously at her exposure, she pulled the fabric of her nightdress up about her waist, exposing her long bare legs to the dim moonlight from the window. She had nice legs, she knew - long and slim, smooth and almost hairless.

Her hands returned to caress her bare flesh, gently forcing her own thighs wider apart -- yes, that was it! She imagined him pressing between her thighs.

Fuck, she was so wet!

Her fingers brushed over her panties, pressing against her cunt again, gasping sharply at the renewed pleasure. Spread open on the bed she felt wanton, a harlot. Her hands stroked her legs, skirted her pussy. Touching herself she thought about Andrey, about losing her virginity - about him fucking her.

Fucking her. That thought made her feel strange. Strange and very excited.

She wanted to go further. Pressing herself through the soft fabric of her panties her hand circled around her clit and she moaned pleasurably, the sound sighing from her. She felt warmth spreading through her, flowing from between her thighs.

"Oh, yes," she whispered to herself - he would touch her there - her finger dancing over her cunt.

She imagined his hands lifting her nightdress, taking it from her, and she quickly made it real - pulling it over her head to leave herself naked but for her panties. He was in control now, pushing her back on the bed and she allowed herself to fall obediently, feeling his fingers in place of her own - caressing her tits, pinching her hardened nipples gently until she heard herself gasp - they were so sensitive, like never before.

"Oh, yes..." her voice little more than a breath, lost in her imaginings.

Her hands drifted down over her taut, slim belly, caressing herself as she felt he would wish to. Feeling her soft flesh, free to roam over her body at will, thrilling at her surrender.