Midwinter

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Sensual goings-on in the dead of midwinter.
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The world, cold and harsh, spread out below the peak. Mountaintops like blades of ice-covered stone, endlessly deep valleys where the sun had never shone. The sky above was dark and threatening grey, and the cold wind was a harsh as a knife through Apprentice Aversham's body. Aversham drew his robes around him, thankful for once that the academy required such a heavy and elaborate uniform from its junior warlocks, and trudged a few more steps through the icy snow.

In the lands below, where homes and temples were buried in drifts of snow, the people were huddled around their fireplaces acting out the midwinter festivals. Some of them feasted, some told stories, most of them prayed. It was easy to assume that the festivals had grown up simply because winter was so harsh and long there had to be some celebration just to make it bearable until spring. But the mages of the Hallowed Academy knew otherwise. The festivals had at their root the most crucial of rituals, ones upon which the cycle of life depended.

The mages said that every winter, the world died. And if it was not woken, then there would never be another spring. The mages had come to the mountain to wake up the spring, but they were old men. It was Aversham who had made the final climb to the shadow of the mountain's peak.

'Bastards,' hissed Aversham and he dragged himself into the lee of the peak, where the wind bit a little less. 'What do you expect me to do here? I'm just an apprentice, I don't know what the hell this damn ritual even is...'

He hauled the pack off his back. It was full of books, candles, sacred bowls and magic trinkets. Presumably in one of the books was buried the ritual he was supposed to enact. The elderly mages, huddled in their camp on the slope far below, had told him that Aversham carried everything he needed for the ritual with him, but there wasn't even enough light in the stormy twilight to read by.

The horizon was black with a dense, swirling blizzard. It slowly began to dawn on Aversham that he was probably going to die up there.

There was a crevice in the rock of the peak that looked like it might offer some shelter from the storm. More likely it would just become full up with snow and suffocate him, but in truth Aversham just wanted somewhere he could lie down and sleep while whatever happened, happened. He struggled into the darkness of the crevice, but there was no cold stone touching the hand he reached out. He fell, tumbling down a slick slope of rock, until he came to a rest.

It was soft beneath him. Soft and warm. The light was dim but Aversham thought he could see dark foliage like a forest around him, deep and green. It was fanciful thought, since he was at the top of a mountain in midwinter, but it was a good thought to fall asleep with.

Just as sleep overtook him, Aversham imagined that he laid his hand on smooth, warm skin, the flank of someone sleeping beside him. Then, he didn't imagine anything at all.

When Aversham awoke, he wasn't dead. He forced his eyes open and even the weak light around him was almost too much. He didn't know how long he had been asleep, and he didn't know where he was. He knew that he had been in the freezing cold, thinking about his own death – but it seemed he was very far away from that now.

There was grass beneath him, deep and mossy, as soft as a mattress. He was aware of heavy boughs hanging over him, laden with leaves. The air tasted fresh, like a forest after the rain, and he was warm beneath the many layers of travelling robes he had slept in.

Aversham turned onto his side, and his fingers brushed someone sleeping beside him. He froze in surprise. There was someone in there with him. He turned his head and saw the other person was lying on their side with their back to him, curled up on the soft grass. It was a woman. Aversham's eye followed from her shoulder to the curve of her waist and the gentle rounding of her hips. She was naked. Her skin was pale and flawless, like sapwood, and her hair was green-black and feathery like fern leaves.

Aversham reached up and touched her hair. It was as soft as down. He stroked it and leaned forward – her hair smelled like virgin ground, deep and earthy. He rested his hand on the elegant curve of her shoulder and stroked down the long slope to her waist, then ran it up the rise of her rump.

She made a sound, little more than a breath. She was just waking up. Aversham withdrew his hand, but the woman didn't seem alarmed to be waking up next to him. Slowly she turned her head and Aversham saw her face. She was quite astonishingly beautiful. Her skin was perfect and her face long and sorrowful, with delicate pouting lips and high cheekbones and brow. When she opened her eyes, she was complete. They were of the most brilliant green, and they seemed to light her up.

Her lips parted, as if in recognition. In spite of himself, Aversham touched her cheek. Her eyes closed and she took a short, sighing breath.

Aversham's throat was dry and he was hard beneath his layers of robes. There had been experiences before – though the Academy kept its boy and girl students separate, they still found ways to meet up and engage in breathy fumbling to relieve the tensions and educate themselves about one another. Aversham knew what a woman's skin felt like against his own but it had always been brief and stolen, and he had never seen a creature as beautiful as the woman who shivered so slightly at his touch. Her hand touched his hair, which was normally short but which had grown long during the weeks of the expedition to the mountains. She was looking at him the way he must be looking at her, with a mixture of wonderment and curiosity. Her eyes settled on the heavy dark robes he wore and something like disappointment came over her brilliant eyes.

She turned her eyes to the ceiling of the cave and rolled onto her back, stretching out her body. Aversham knew he should look away, but he couldn't. She breathed in deeply and her breasts rose, not large but firm and shapely, topped with small dark nipples that contrasted with her pale skin. Aversham's eyes were drawn down over her flat belly to the curve of her hips – she was slim but healthy, her body a wonderful smooth hourglass. Aversham couldn't help glancing at the delicate, hairless fold of flesh between her thighs.

The woman stretched her arms over her head, waking up from her long sleep. Aversham saw the cave in more detail now, as if her waking had brought more light to the place. It was more a clearing than a cave, carpeted in deep mossy grass with the green, willowy trunks of trees forming the walls. Branches, pendulous with foliage, hung over them, closing so the ceiling could not be seen. The greenery had a lush, elaborate feel to it, like life run riot.

The woman rolled so she was facing Aversham. Her face was close to his now, and he could barely look away from the light of her eyes. Her hand touched his face, stroking down over his jaw to his neck. She deftly untied the leather thong that fastened his cloak at his throat. The cloak slipped away and she used both hands this time, undoing the buttons on the first layer of travelling robes. Aversham did the same, fumbling with the buttons and fastenings. The brutal midwinter on the mountain had required countless layers, and it was with great frustration that he struggled to get out of them.

Finally, the woman's hand touched his skin. He flinched at it, but she did not pull away. She drew the many layers open so his chest and stomach were bare, and then pulled herself close. Aversham felt her breasts against his chest, her firm nipples, the rising and falling as she breathed. He put an arm round her and bathed in the scent of her hair. Her lips brushed against his cheek, then against his lips – gently, as if she was afraid of scaring him. He ran his hand through her hair and pulled her close, her lips against his. She opened her mouth slightly and they lay there for a long moment.

Her hand reached down to his loins. Aversham thought for a moment that she would recoil at how hard he was, but her hand closed around his cock, stroking him. His lips came away from hers and he gasped at her touch.

She kissed him again, lightly, like an echo. Then he was looking into the brilliant green of her eyes as she stroked him. He put his arms around her and held her close as he felt the heat rising in his loins.

He hadn't realised how close he was. It happened almost by accident. Before he could pull away from her it was too late and he was climaxing, the hot, sweet release too strong to hold back. He moaned as her hand flitted over the crown of his cock and back down, and his seed pulsed out over her hand.

She didn't stop, until every drop was squeezed from him. Aversham's long, sighing breaths had left his throat dry and he swallowed as he looked at her, thinking he should apologise for being unable to hold back. But she smiled gently at him and kissed him again on the forehead, rolling away onto her back again.

Aversham had never seen anything as beautiful as she was then, her fernlike hair mingling with the deep grass. He shrugged his travelling robes off his shoulders and pulled himself out of them, wishing he could just make them dissolve away. He wanted to be close to her, forever, to feel her skin against his as if there was nothing else in the world.

He knelt beside her and placed a hand on her breast. Her nipple was firm, like a berry beneath his palm. He kissed the place between her breasts and heard her take a tiny breath. He kissed her lower, down towards her taut belly. He ran his hand down her side, and it rested on her thigh. He felt her tremble, very slightly. He was already hard again, the feel of her skin almost too much for him to bear. Aversham had never wanted anything as much as he wanted her that moment.

Her thighs parted for him as he kissed her below her navel. She pulled up her legs so she was exposed. She was smooth between her legs, and Aversham was filled with the scent of her. It was dark and earthy, the smell of life itself, pure and deep. He kissed the delicate lips and she sighed again, then again as he ran his tongue along the soft petals of flesh.

She tasted wonderful. He began to lick her, gently, running his tongue between her petals along the tenderness inside. He delicately parted her with one hand, opening her up to him, and he slid his tongue further between her lips.

She was trembling now beneath him, her fingers touching his hair. She was making tiny, secret sounds, her breath catching. Aversham slid his tongue up to the tiny, firm nub nestled among her petals, lapping his tongue over it. He felt her shudder at that and tense up very slightly, her most secret place suddenly vulnerable. But the moment passed and she yielded beneath him, and he sunk deeper into her.

He tongued her for a long time, drowning in her taste. She was wet now, and his tongue glided over her. She was groaning gently, arching her back off the grass as, moment by moment, her control ebbed away. Aversham slid a finger between her lips and began to move it in a rhythm as he flicked the tip of his tongue over that tiny firm point. She moaned louder, unable to stifle the sound as Aversham took her past some point of control and she writhed beneath him suddenly. Aversham kept up the rhythm, slower and then faster, marvelling as she gasped in time with him. The scent and the taste were wonderful.

She cried out loud now, her sex tightening around Aversham's fingers. She bucked where she lay as control left her. Her hand drew Aversham down into her so his tongue was pressed hard against her sex and he was buried in her as she finally gave herself up. Her breath caught in a sob as she climaxed.

Her cries died down to moans. Aversham withdrew his fingers and licked at her again, the delicate flesh slick under his tongue now. The tension left her and she lay back again, Aversham kissing her sex and the insides of her thighs, tasting her again.

He was hard again, and he couldn't keep himself away from her. He slid up her body, feeling her firm nipples slide across his chest. He kissed her neck, feeling her moan gently as she angled her hips to let him enter her. With one hand he guided himself in, and she tensed very slightly as the crown of his cock pushed past her wet lips. She put her arms around him, and kissed him, making tiny secret sounds as he began to slide himself in and out of her. He couldn't have held back if he had wanted to. The only thing he wanted was to be inside her, closer than close, the taste of her still on his lips as she rocked her hips in time with him.

He felt himself building up again, the hotness in his loins too much to bear. He kissed her cheeks and throat as he sped up, wishing he could sink into her so they could become one. She held him close and gasped as he pushed ever deeper, ever faster, his back tensing as the hot itch ran down his cock and he reached the point where he couldn't pull back.

His passion released itself inside her. Aversham moaned out loud as the heat flooded out of him. He felt her thighs tighten around him as he thrust into her, a final dozen strokes. He had never felt so close to anyone, he had never felt so perfect as when she pulled him tight against her as he gasped out the last few moment of climax.

They lay there in each others' arms for a long time. Aversham bathed in the smell and the taste of her as she lay back. He loved the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed, the beat of her heart as he lay his head on her chest. Her fingers stroked his back gently and slowly, they fell asleep like that.

It was movement that awoke Aversham, and he lifted his head from her to catch a glimpse of what had moved overhead.

Aversham could see the boughs of the plants around them becoming dark and heavy. The cave was dimming as well, the light becoming a dark green glow. Foliage curled outwards, weighing the branches down, as the grass became lusher and deeper beneath Aversham.

The growth was rampant. The woman stirred as the grass curled over her, white flowers unfurling around her, the grass mingling with her long, ferny hair. She spread herself out, stalks wrapping around her fingers, leaves uncurling over her beautiful pale body. She looked back at him as she sunk into the lush green carpet, her eyes flashing one last time as she smiled at him, and was gone.

Aversham reached into the grass but he couldn't find her. The cave was becoming dark around him almost too dark to see. He rummaged through the grass and found his clothes, struggling into them as flower stems twined themselves around his legs. The branches above him were hanging low enough to brush his head. He felt around until he found his bag of books and trinkets, and struggled against the enclosing foliage as it threatened to engulf him. He pushed through the branches and leaves until they gave way, revealing the entrance to the cave. He tore at the stems as they thickened, forcing his way out. He ducked out of the cave just as the dark greenery closed completely, and the cold winter air struck him again.

When Aversham emerged from the shelter of the mountain's peak, the storm had gone and the sun was shining, almost blindingly bright on the mountaintops.

'Clever,' said Aversham to himself. 'You clever old bastards.' The wizards had told him he carried everything he needed with him. Of course, they hadn't meant mouldy old books or magical trinkets. They were all old men, far too old to complete the ceremony that the beautiful young woman in the mountain required. So they had sent Aversham, knowing that he could do what they could not.

So for another year, it was done. The following year the life would die again, and someone would have to come to the cave to wake it up and help bring the new year into being. Aversham knew better than to hope it would be him again.

As Aversham prepared for the long hike back down to the camp, he heard a distant sound, like thunder over the mountains. But he knew it wasn't thunder, because the storm had passed.

All along the mountain range, the winter ice was thawing.

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