This is an NC-17 P/Q story, seventh (yes, I am officially obsessed
now) in a series:  "From Q, With Love," and "Live and Let Q" and "Q
is Forever," and "You Only Live Q," and "Q-raker," and "On Her
Majesty's Secret Q," all of which are archived (or are soon to be
archived) at The Star Trek Slash Archive.  You can also ask me for
the earlier stories if you like.  This story is decidedly lacking
in BDSM (though those are lovely stories, no question).  No one
under 18 or who dislikes sex between two men (kinda) or lots (and
lots) of love-talk should read any further.

And the time has more than come for a special thanks to the people
who've been helping me.  There's the Enabless, who got me started,
Ruth, the offical treasure of P/Q fans, and all the others, like
Devika and Jeanita and others I'd name except this is starting to
sound like an Oscar speech, who've given me such great feedback
that writing has become my number one activity (well, except for
breathing and things like that).  

And speaking of feedback, I can't get enough and appreciate it
greatly -- please please please!! -- at Varoneeka@aol.com

Paramount owns everything, and so shouldn't be mad at me for
playing around with such irresistible toys.  I'm not doing this to
make money -- though I sure wish I could!

The poem is "On Monsieur's Departure," by Elizabeth I.

*For Q's Eyes Only*
by Varoneeka

     "A present?"  Picard looked carefully at the box:  small,
wrapped in blue and gold paper and adorned with a little gold bow. 
It had appeared while they were both asleep and it was obvious just
from looking at it (though Picard didn't know why) that it came
from a Q, though not his Q.
     The Continuum were supposed to be leaving them alone now, but
Q didn't look annoyed.  In fact, the dark eyes were amused, and met
his over the table with a sort of rueful smirk.
     "The little dear."
     "Amanda?"  Picard began to understand.  Amanda-cum-Q was an
advocate of theirs in the Continuum, and had been there when he and
Q had fulfilled the requirements of the Continuum's experiment,
earning the right to be left alone to enjoy each other in peace. 
If she sent them a present then it was kindly meant..
     "Now, what do you suppose she's up to?"  Q's eyes sparkled and
Picard became aware of an absurd rush of warmth and joy.  What was
it about the entity that compelled such control of his emotions?
     He had almost gotten to the point where he could believe the
sex.  He no longer caught himself in the middle of duty shift
checking to see if his muscles were truly sore to prove that the
night before wasn't some sort of hysteria-induced hallucination. 
He was beginning to let himself believe that he could actually
count on being brought to ecstasy and complete fulfillment whenever
he wanted, whenever he asked for it, or just even *acknowledged*
that he wanted it.
     Moreover, he was beginning to glow steadily in the knowledge
that he could do the same to Q, that his lover needed what only he
could provide, and that whatever power the entity had over him was
matched by his over Q.  He was finding himself comfortable with
bliss, eager to be overwhelmed and to overwhelm.  He no longer
resisted the urge to spend hours planning things to do for Q, or
with Q, or to Q.  His hard-won and yet instinctive discipline was
still in place regarding his command, but sheer and almost brutal
happiness was urging him to drop his resistance to what he felt for
his lover, and he was almost starting to get comfortable with that
as well.
     But this...this instant happiness caused simply by the
knowledge that Q was with him, that Q smiled or laughed or was
pleased by something.  This was still raw and unsettling in the
extreme.  It was only made bearable, in fact, by evidence that Q
felt the same way when something pleased *him.*
     So he made himself smile back, genuinely intrigued by what a
young female Q would consider to be an appropriate gift.
     There was no need to ask the occasion.  It was a year ago
today that he and Q had gotten together, relatively speaking.  The
Continuum was evidently still keeping an eye on them, but as long
as it was from a distance, Picard found he didn't care much.  It
*was* their anniversary, and only another Q could appreciate that,
just as in six months it would also by their anniversary, and only
another human would be able to appreciate that.
     *Good Lord.  You don't think any of the crew will....*
     Q's eyes went wide, then he laughed.
     *Might be worth it if you agreed to pop out of the cake.*
     Picard winced at the thought, catching squarely the campy
image Q sent, complete with "Happy Anniversary" sash.  He
retaliated in kind, and then suddenly the two of them were staring
at each other, and the temperature had risen several degrees.
     *This is ridiculous.  I refuse to become aroused by this.*
     Q smiled slowly and sent him another image, similar to the
first, but much more...crowded in the cake.
     And so Picard sent back not an image, but an expression:  his
eyes carefully half-closed, his mouth slightly open, as though he
were just about to moan.
     And so it was over an hour later that they remembered the
present.
     "What do you suppose it is?" Q said, looking at it from
Jean-Luc's side as they lay on the bed.
     "Don't you *know?*"  
     Q looked ready to be insulted, then dropped it.  "It is from
a Q, my love.  She wants it to be a surprise.  I suppose, if you
really want me to force the knowledge from her..."
     "That's all right."  Picard said quickly.
     Q, sensing his thoughts easily, smiled and looked over
Picard's body stretched out alongside his own.  It was amazing that
while he held knowledge of every particle of this form with his Q
memory, he simply could not stare long enough at this slightly
pale, lightly downy, technically flawed yet uniquely perfect
endothermic layer.  Even now, still a little short of breath and
light-headed, he felt mesmerized by the sight, and couldn't help
lowering his lips to the shoulder pressed against his chest.
     Warm, always so warm and soft and firm and responsive.  He
could feel the connection to Jean-Luc this simple touch created. 
Any second now, that incredible voice would say his name.
     "Q..."
     Q smiled and kept up the light contact, not moving from the
shoulder, not pressing hard or doing much but making those little
kisses.
     "Q..."  The rich voice was just a little more insistent.
     Q drew his left hand up now, unerringly finding Picard's left
nipple and tracing the faint outline of the aureole.  He felt the
nub grow hard under his fingertips and listened to the deeper
breaths his lover was drawing in.  Q wondered, if he kept this up
long enough, if he could get Jean-Luc to come just from doing this.

     And for once he had the time, real time.  Picard wasn't going
to ask him to stop, or talk about going to the bridge.  He had
granted the crew -- including himself -- shoreleave on Haven. The
ship was enjoying a safe and standard orbit, and Q himself had
quietly checked out the sector for signs of trouble.  Considering
that this was a realm of mortal humanoids, all was quiet.  He and
Picard had thought about spending the day in bed, or on a beach
somewhere down below.  Q didn't much care, as long as they spent it
in each other.
     Picard's hands were moving over him now, and his own skin was
starting to --
     "Damnit!" Q announced, shuddering unpleasantly.
     "What?"  Picard's voice was command and concern.
     Q shook his head and disengaged himself, wanting to cuss more,
in several languages, wanting to stay.
     "I'm needed, Jean-Luc."  The dark eyes apologized.  "I'll
explain later..."  And with a flash he was gone.
     Picard could still feel his lover's mind, his anxiety, and yet
something faded, as though there were an extraordinary distance
between them:  spacial, dimensional, temporal.  Frowning, the man
sat up in bed.  Q felt concerned and was concentrating fiercely on
his task, but he wasn't frightened.  With a shrug, Jean-Luc got out
of bed and into civilian clothes before getting something to eat: 
coffee and sweet rolls, reflecting his indulgent mood.
     He thought about reading, but soon found himself practicing
his flute.  Q never said a word, or even sent a thought, but Picard
did not feet comfortable practicing in front of his omnipotent
lover.  Besides, the flute matched his solitude better.
     The sweet notes of the familiar Ressikan folk tune loosened up
his fingers and got his breathing set.  Then he shifted into
Schubert, the melancholia taking him deep into his own thoughts.
     How odd his life had become.  Wonderful, no question, but odd. 
He was growing increasingly comfortable living in two different
understandings of time.  In fact, there was a growing duality to
all his thinking:  the Human perspective and -- not a Q
perspective.  He never wanted one of those.  But he was developing
a view of the universe of someone who was mated to a Q.
     God.  Was he ever going to get used to thinking *that?*
     He stopped playing and set the flute down in his lap.  Mated. 
To Q.
     No.  Didn't sink in. Try once more.
     Mated to Q.
     Hmm.  Perhaps a different phrasing.
     *Married* to Q.
     No.  Meaningless in its way, considering.
     *Q is my husband.*
     There, that got a jiggle.  Something definitely reacted.
     *I am Q's husband.*
     No.  He was back to getting nothing again.
     Picard sighed.  The problem was that he had little idea what
it meant to be mated to Q.  They weren't going to turn into an old
couple on a park bench.  They weren't going to have or adopt
children.  They weren't going to fix up a home together.  They
weren't even noted in Starfleet records as a legally joined couple,
nor were they ever likely to be.
     And yet they did share something recognizable as a
relationship.  They had work schedules to juggle.  They were
supportive of each other's responsibilities and interests.  They
had to work at understandings and at remembering to be considerate. 
And they both considered the relationship permanent.
     And now...an anniversary.  Picard shook his head and fitted
the flute again to his lips.  It was so satisfying to produce
beautiful things, and while he knew no one else would find his
playing beautiful, when he was alone he could pretend that he was
the creator of something quite lovely.
     Thinking of Q, he began to improvise, pouring into the long
cool notes all his feelings for his lover.  He thought of those
dark eyes that danced with light, the full lips that needed to make
only the lightest contact with his body to inflame him, those warm
hands that practiced on his body like his own fingers on this
flute, the long torso that pressed against him, that voice that
could suggest so much and still be velvet as it entered his mind,
and that mind...Q's beautiful mind, that held his own even as he
held Q's inside...that paradox that was wholly and uniquely Q.
     How had this happened?  When had half of himself become the
thing that captured his ship at Farpoint?  When did he know that he
would do anything to please the Continuum ex-outcast?  He had once
disliked Q beyond reason.  When had he begun to love him beyond
imagining instead?
     There.  The tune was taking the right shape now:  wistful and
a little mysterious.  He smiled all to himself, able to enjoy in
privacy his flight of fancy.  It was almost like making love to Q
in absentia.  He was even starting to feel a little warm.
     When had the moment started?  When had his heart gotten
involved?
     There was, of course, the moment in the white room when he
realized he wanted Q, with Q's body wrapping itself around his
while he kissed Picard's chest and said things that made his groin
ache.
     But love...well, he'd realized that consciously right before
Q was inside him that first time.  Surely, though, it had started
before then?
     The shuttlecraft.  Six hours of waiting with Q, watching him
sit back and whistle, bounce that silly ball on the wall...he had
been intrigued then, but not affectionate.
     Starbase Earhart.  That was it:  Q giving his personal
guarantee that he wouldn't change history.  Picard hadn't trusted
him, hadn't believed him, not then.  But he'd started to feel that
Q cared, that he was serious.  That's what had really started it.
     And then...there were always those eyes, from the beginning,
the way Q moved, his little theatrical gestures that sometimes had
dangerous, if not horrifying consequences but somehow worked out
for some greater good in the end.
     Of course, it didn't hurt that Q had helped him save humanity
more than once, or that he had helped Picard realize so many things
about himself.
     But none of that really explained it, and into his melody went
that everlasting question:  *How have I become so fortunate?  Why
did I, of all people, get this?
     And do I really get to keep it?  Will my command, my humanity,
my limitations, my ego somehow not destroy this in time?*  He
thought of not touching Q again, of not being touched.  He thought
of not having that mind to challenge him in conversation, that
voice to tease and comfort him.  He thought of being without that
presence in his life.
     And so his song changed now, wishing he could be with Q,
helping his lover with whatever it was that worried him.  But he
had no place in the realms in which Q moved.  The imbalance was
painful.  Q had been there for him with the Alstriad ruler and the
peace conference and...
     And he wasn't being fair to himself.  Q didn't sit at his side
on the bridge.  Q didn't do his job.  Q's presence was here, in his
quarters, or *out there.*  What was the white room if not Q's
"realm?"  Q gave him support, and Picard could support Q when his
omnipotent work was finished.  He could soothe his lover after a
hard day just as anyone could.
     But was that enough?  He probably wouldn't be able to
understand what Q was doing right now, not fully, even after Q
tried to explain.  He couldn't offer advice.  He couldn't...help.
     He could only love Q.  And he thought of what that meant as he
poured his wishes into the wandering melody of his consciousness. 
He thought of what it meant to him that Q loved him.  And he knew
that he did.  He had been one person with Q often enough to be
certain of what Q felt.
     And yet, how much of what he knew did he understand?  And how
much did he have to understand?  Q's love for him was as
overwhelming as it was beautiful as it was wholly unbelievable.
     *Well, make yourself believe it, Jean-Luc,* he thought, the
melody he was only half aware of growing a bit more determined. 
*Supporting someone else isn't aided by self-doubt.  Q loves you. 
He's loved you for a while now.*
     But why was it so hard to believe?
     Because Picard was human.  He was mortal.  He was limited
and...
     And Data's "pet" analogy bothered him, even now.  What did Q
get from him?  Was the essence of an entity, Q or human or
otherwise, really so inviolate, so transcendent that the vast
difference in their abilities and in their composition didn't
ultimately matter?  Or was Q slumming?
     Picard kept himself from pushing this worry away.  He should
face it.  He'd had the thought more than once.
     Q hadn't exactly been important in the Continuum when they
first met.  True, his status had grown with the war, but even
now...Did Q feel better being with someone so much...less than he
was himself?
     Then Picard's ego fortunately intervened.  He wasn't actually
"less" than Q, just different.
     *Giant ugly bags of mostly water.*  He almost ruined his song
through chuckling.  It hadn't been funny at the time, but it was a
memorable line from those crystalline entities.  That lifeform was
tiny, non-organic, photosynthetic...none of that made it less than
he, just different.  Picard knew he had qualities, admirable
qualities, that Q lacked, just as Q had qualities -- separate from
his abilities -- that Picard valued and knew he lacked in himself.
     No, he didn't want to flagellate himself with the idea that Q
was slumming.  He *knew* he and Q had something Q hadn't found
before.  One didn't find something one had wanted for five billion
years and call it slumming.
     But that didn't mean that Q might not have needs Picard
couldn't fill.  Not simply needs of identity and "Qness" that he
didn't expect Picard to fill, but needs a lover should be able to
meet.  
     And there was the heart of it, and as plain to him as the
tension in his stomach and the aching wish of his song.  He wanted
to give Q everything Q needed.  He wanted to fill up every empty
space.  He wanted his love to be enough.  More than anything, he
wanted that.  It was hubris, but he wanted it.
     His song ended soon after.  His jaw was tired and he felt a
little light-headed.  He cleaned his flute and put it in its case,
thinking of the wife and children he had had and then lost so
completely.  It didn't hurt anymore.  He could even be selfishly
glad they weren't real, since he had gotten Q instead.  Come what
might, he would never have to have the doctor in to see Q, never
have to listen to the last words of his beloved, never have to be
told he was a presumptuous human only one final time as he felt the
center of his life leave...
     Picard shook himself out of it.  Enough.  As long as Q didn't
go irritating the Continuum again, his lover was immortal.
     And what about himself?  He'd never delayed having a
conversation this important for this long in his life.  But he knew
Q wasn't ready.  He even knew he wasn't ready himself.  He hoped it
wasn't cowardice.  It was just that they had so many other things
to work out before they tackled the issue of...eternity.  Picard
assumed from the beginning that Q wasn't going to let him die in a
human lifetime.  Q also knew Picard was not ever going to become a
Q.  Somewhere in the middle they would work things out.
     After all, Picard knew that Q himself wasn't certain what
their effect upon each other would be.  
     And a horrible thought occurred, driving him to sit heavily in
the nearest chair.
     What if Q had been affected in some human way that weakened
him?  What if Q were so worried because he wasn't certain in
himself?  What if Picard had *contaminated* him by --
     "That's enough of that!"
     With relief flooding him, Picard looked up at Q, standing
there in his captain's uniform, looking exactly as he should.
     They didn't move for a long minute, staring at each other, not
smiling, not thinking anything to one another.  Just looking.
     Then, *Are you all right?*
     Q shook his head, but it didn't mean "no."  He seemed
unwilling to believe something.  "You have no idea, do you?"
     Picard frowned at him.  "Idea of what?"
     *Come here, please.*  Q held out his hands and Picard was up
on his feet and walking to Q instantly.
     And then they were kissing, inexorably, and in Q's arms Picard
found...music.  His improvised, winding melody was humming through
his lover's body like an electrical charge.  
     Something desperate was coming through the music, and though
he was both breathless with kisses and a little embarrassed with
the sound of his own playing, Picard asked only, *How long?*
     "Weeks," Q groaned into his mouth.  "Please, you've got to be
inside me. Right now."
     For an answer, Picard growled and let his knees give, staying
with Q all the way down to the floor.  They were naked, Q was
incredibly hard, and Picard was getting there as he covered him,
running hands over that flushed skin and deepening the kiss until
Q broke it.
     "Now, please, love."
     Picard had to shift a bit as Q's legs came up and back,
pressing his erection against his lover's on the way down and
making them both groan.  Q's arms held him tight and didn't want to
let go, and he could feel every bit of Q's desire for Picard simply
to melt into him.  He tried to get into position, pulling back and
then pressing forward as the music got louder and Q began to moan
deeply, sounding almost in pain.
     *Almost there, love...wait...lubricant, Q, unless you want me
to go to the repli...there, I'm there...Oh, yes...You feel
so...God...so good...oh, my love...I'm so sorry you were...so
far...I can feel it...so far from me...there....I'm in you
completely now...we're not apart...together...we were so
lonely...and now we are together...yes, each note a part of
us...yes...harder...this is perfect, so perfect the way we
feel...harder...more...now, now, now!*
     And neither of them thought much of anything for several
moments.
     When Q came back into focus he realized Picard was still
inside him, the captain's body sprawled out over him between his
legs, a few breaths away from consciousness.  
     He would never get used to this.  
     Well, perhaps after an eternity or two.
     No.  Not even then.
     *Not even then what?*
     *Fuck me some more.  I want to be filled with your music and
your cum.*
     Picard tilted up his head to lock his eyes onto Q's, drinking
in his warm gaze as he grew hard again inside his lover.  It
occurred to him that Q could ask anything of his body and he would
find *some* way to do it.  He could still feel those weeks apart
inside the body he caressed with feather-light kisses.  Q pulled
his legs up higher and Picard reached his mouth again, plundering
the warmth inside.
     *"I am and am not...I freeze and yet am burned...Since from
myself another self I turned."*
     *Music and poetry and being kissed and fucked up the ass by
Jean-Luc Picard."
     *Give me a moment and I'll juggle steak knives.*
     "Oh!  I love you!  Jean-Luc!"  Q groaned loudly, pulling his
legs back, arching to get more of his lover inside him.  His arms
and legs were pressing around the strong body atop him, pressing
him to his very center.  "Love this!  Love you!  Need you! 
Must...have you!"
     "You do have me!  I'm all yours!  Whatever you want!"  The man
helped his lover's arms press them together as he thrust harder and
harder inside the body that contained his own soul.  The pleasure
was a fire beyond flame, beyond heat, and he growled with the
near-pain and pure ecstasy of it:  "Mine!  You are all mine!"
     "Yours!  Completely!  There's nothing you don't own!  No part
of me you can't claim!"
     "Then you're not...slumming?"
     When Q's embrace clenched around the man's body, arms and legs
like steel bands, it was no longer possible for Picard to thrust,
difficult indeed for him to move at all.  They stared at each
other:  Q in shock, Picard wincing at having produced such an
unbidden question.  He'd thought he had more control of himself
than that.
     "What did you say?"
     It was a demand for more than information, but Picard answered
only verbally, gasping through the words more than a bit.  "It's
not important.  Let me --"
     "Not important?  'Slumming!'  Did you actually say 'slumming'
to me?"
     The man's face had flushed a deep red and he actually began to
squirm a bit between the strong legs and inside the arms which only
tightened in response.  "I didn't mean --"
     "SLUMMING?"
     "Well, for God's sake, Q, it's a fair question."
     Q was about to order Picard out of his body, or just snap
himself to the other side of the cosmos, when he finally caught his
lover's eyes and saw something there he felt ridiculous for not
having realized *would* be there.
     "My love," Q whispered, too many emotions at once drawing him
close to tears.  "How can you be so foolish?"
     Picard's hot protest was cut off with a sudden vision
of...something.  This wasn't light, or thought, or matter.  He
couldn't tell what it was.  But it was beautiful beyond light,
beyond words.  He felt himself shudder with the loveliness of it.
     *What..?*
     *It's you, my beloved.  Don't you know?*
     Picard felt the strain of his mind in trying to process what
he saw.  *This is how you see me?*
     Q laughed, and they were so close that Picard was awash in the
tender humor of it.  *It is how you are to be seen.*
     *And you?  What do you look like?*
     Q winced, and Picard felt the longing behind it.  *I don't...I
can't see myself like this.*
     Q felt Picard's sorrow.  *I can't do this for you.  I can't
show you how I see you.*
     The entity somehow managed to hold him closer.  *You do that
all the time.  You show me a better vision of myself than I have
ever known.*
     *But I can't do --*
     "Shhhhhh.  My love, what you do for me..."  And Q's embrace
loosened just enough to give Picard his leverage back.  The man
realized his head had come to rest on Q's sweat-slicked chest with
his eyes closed.  "You are all I need.  This is all I need."  He
clenched his muscles around the hard cock inside him and shuddered
with pleasure.  "Don't you realize that?  This..."  Picard
responded automatically, lifting his body up and thrusting into
that tight heat, almost unheeding of his own pleasure as he watched
Q's face reflect the physical shock of sex.  "This, any way we do
it, with our bodies, our minds...I think...Yes!  There!...I think
I could...be happy just...fucking you somehow...with our
fingers...or...Oh!  Yes!  Please, harder!...Jean-Luc...No!"  He
pulled Picard's hand away from his erection.  "Don't make me come
yet.  Just fuck me."
     "Like this?"  Picard thrust harder, feeling the strain all
along his body as he put his hands flat on the floor, using every
bit of leverage now, his eyes locked on Q's face.  The entity's
eyes were closed tight, his forehead sweating, his mouth open and
gasping between shouts and groans, his neck corded with tendons,
his skin flushed.  Picard thought it the most erotic thing he'd
ever seen, and seemed to get even harder inside his lover's body as
he thrust again and again.
     And then suddenly Q was showing him what the flute's song had
meant to him, how he had heard the musical expression of Picard's
heart across the boundaries of time and space and how it had
comforted him, strengthened him.  Through all those long weeks
Picard's music had entered him and filled him with their bond, and
even the other Q had taken solace in the comfort Q had found. 
Picard reveled in the heady feeling of having helped Q after all,
and thrust harder, gasping out words of love.
     "Yes!  Yes!  Perfect!"  Q shouted.  *So perfect.  Perfect and
all I want, all I need.*
     *You're so beautiful.  God, Q.  So beautiful.  My...my
husband.*
     With a deep scream, Q came then, convulsing over and over, his
cum splashing them both as Picard emptied himself inside his lover,
keeping himself up on his elbow-locked arms to watch Q's eyes roll
back in his head before the entity made a half-gasp-half-pant and
went limp.  
     Gently, he withdrew from Q's body, then explored carefully
with his fingertips, feeling the swollen entrance with concern. 
That must have hurt towards the end.  And Q had probably given
himself a severe friction burn on his back.  It didn't matter that
Q could heal himself the moment he awoke, or even that Q was never
completely insensible, even now.  Picard hated to think that he had
hurt Q, although it was true that Q liked mild pain during sex.  
     *You can't promise to do anything for him, obey, and then hate
yourself for it,* Picard snarled at himself, still reeling from the
beatific vision Q had sent, still feeling the pain at being unable
to do the same for Q.  A Q could show him how he looked, truly, in
his essence, in his soul, beloved and treasured.
     And how he did love Q, he thought, half-dopey with the
aftermath of sex and yet still so tense.  Sitting now on the floor
beside his lover's body, his right leg over the tops of Q's thighs,
he slid his hands along Q's stomach and chest, even now hearing
faintly his own flutesong.  Loving Q wasn't the problem.
     A moment later those dark eyes opened to find him, and through
his hands Picard felt sadness and regret.  His lover sighed and
spoke:
     "Amanda is dead."

     "We will try to retrieve her, of course, but..."  It was much
later, and Q was watching Picard eat some lentil soup across the
table.  They were both wearing robes, and both skirting around what
still needed to be said.
     "But?"
     Q sighed without theatrics.  "She's gone so far from us.  It
might well just be too difficult, even for the Continuum."
     Picard nodded.  Q had already explained in detail the rift in
the fabric of the universe which had needed the combined effort of
all the Q to repair.  Not one of them knew what had caused it. 
They only knew it had been growing, unnoticed, for centuries, and
then simply split wide.  Amanda, the weakest of them, had simply
disintegrated under the strain.
     "How will you begin to look for her?"
     "It's a question of having a link, some sign of what happened
to her, where she was...taken by the forces we were attempting to
constrain."  Q sighed again, and Picard heard the weariness of it. 
"If only we'd had some sort of warning.  We'd have made some sort
of link to each other, something to follow."
     "Is there no chance you didn't?"  Picard's eyes went to the
small blue and gold gift near his bowl of soup.
     Q looked startled, then smiled.  "Don't I have a clever
husband?"
     Picard's face grew hot.
     Q's smile eventually grew serious.  "But I don't know what
sort of connection to her this...whatever it is, might form."
     "You have no idea what it is?"
     "Well, it's not china or flatware.  She meant it for both of
us to enjoy.  I can see from the energy coming off it we're dealing
with an interactive reality."
     "Sherwood Forest?"
     Q smiled again now, enjoying memories.  "A bit more complex
than that, actually.  She really put some effort into this. 
And..."  He looked concerned again.  "I'm not sure I can promise it
won't be in time, real time.  And I know how you dislike temporal
loops...."
     Picard smiled with purpose, pushing away the last of his
dinner.  Q understood his human prejudice which had eventually
accepted the idea that time could be stopped without harm, but not
reset.  It was a question of preventing, rather than undoing.  He
keyed his combadge.
     "Picard to Riker."
     There was a pause, then a somewhat startled voice.  "Riker
here, sir."
     "When you find it convenient, Will, I'd appreciate it if you
could see me in my quarters."
     "Aye, sir."
     It was about twenty minutes before the first officer keyed the
chime at Picard's door, and it took another ten for Picard, dressed
like Q now in uniform, to explain the situation which required his
presence off the ship.
     "If we're not back before the end of the Enterprise's week at
Haven, then proceed with the mission at Starbase 18."
     "Understood, sir."
     Picard nodded and went to his desk to deal with the
authorizations and check over a few status reports to ensure that
Riker would have all that he needed.  The first officer, standing
stiffly in his civilian clothes, turned to make deliberate eye
contact with Q.
     "You can't guarantee he won't be hurt, can you?"
     "He'll make it out just fine as long as I do, and I have no
intention of getting stuck in Q's little world."
     "But you don't *know,* do you?"
     "Will..."
     "No, it's all right, Jean-Luc.  Number Two and I have had this
one coming for awhile."
     "Have you even considered the danger you're putting him in?"
     "Will!"
     "I can't believe you're objecting to a rescue mission. I
thought that was the Star Fleet speciality."
     "This is a Q you're rescuing!"
     "Still mad that the little dear put you in that unbecoming
outfit?  You should have felt flattered by her interest!"
     "This has nothing to do with me!  You're asking me to sanction
my captain's risking his life in a situation dangerous to the point
of threatening a Q.  That may well constitute an unacceptable level
of risk, particularly considering that his presence may not be
required."
     Picard kept his mouth shut with difficulty.
     "First of all," Q ticked off on his fingers, "his presence is
necessary.  Both of us have to open the gift.  That's how it's
made.  Secondly, I may not be able to control the situation, but
I'm just as good at watching someone's back as the next guy. 
Third, Jean-Luc is quite capable of looking out for himself, you
know, and has been doing so in and out of the captain's chair for
a bit longer than certain first officers I could name.  Fourth,
this has everything to do with you.  You don't trust me, Riker."
     "It's not your intentions I distrust, Q, it's your ability to
do what you say.  Can you at least assure me that if you get into
real trouble you'll contact the Continuum?"
     "If my brothers and sisters of the Continuum could reach into
Q's gift with us, I wouldn't be going in alone with Jean-Luc in the
first place.  This isn't a game.  We're talking about the life of
a Q here.  Or doesn't her welfare mean anything to you?"
     "I suppose I'm just not used to seeing your heroic side."
     "Well, get used to it!  I should think that someone who
idolizes Picard as much as you do would recognize the necessity of
his husband to keep up."
     Riker didn't quite manage to keep the wince off his face.
     Noting that Q's posture had reached Pissed Off Level Four,
Picard wanted to help both his lover and his first officer, but had
no idea what to do.  More then anyone else, Riker had struggled
with accepting Q's place in Picard's life.  He had considered over
the past year everything from ordering Riker to seek Troi's help to
asking Q to somehow keep their relationship from him as much as
possible.  In the end, he had done nothing but allow Riker to deal
with the matter on his own.  He had thought it was the best he
could do, the most respect for his first officer he could show.
     And so he turned around and walked into the other room,
finishing up the last of the reports while giving them at least a
token show of privacy.
     "Can you at least tell me what it means to you?" Riker asked
Q quietly, trying not to feel too deeply what it meant to him that
Picard would recognize his need to talk to Q alone.
     Q considering getting Riker to elaborate, then shrugged. "I
don't know yet.  Neither of us knows.  No Q has ever mated with a
human before.  I can tell you that he's more important to me than
myself, and that I would die before I would let anything hurt him. 
Would you be able to promise more to your spouse than that?"
     Riker could think of no response.
     "What is it you want from me?" Q asked finally.
     "I want to be able to trust you," the first officer managed.
     "How far?"
     "What do you mean?"
     Q sighed.  What did Jean-Luc see in this man?  
     "Do you want to trust me so far that you can relax and not
have to worry about him ever again?  Do you want me to swear that
no harm will come to him no matter what?  I can't do that, not if
it's to mean anything.  I don't care if that's what you think he
deserves.  I don't care if you don't think I deserve *him.*"
     "What does any of this matter then to you, Q?"
     "It matters because he worries about you.  I care that *he*
cares."  Q's tone shifted into a cajoling sing-song Riker knew only
too well.  "So how about we make a bargain?  I'll try to be
considerate of you for your captain's sake, and you recognize that
the man you trust trusts me.  Okay?"
     Riker looked at him a long minute, then sighed angrily.  "I
think there's a bit more to it than that."
     "If you've got something on your chest besides your chin,
let's hear it."
     "Why me, Q?  Why offer the power of the Q to me?"
     "You were ambitious and well-meaning, and your defection would
have been important to Picard."    
     Riker frowned deeply.  "That was it?  That was all?"
     "You were arrogant enough to believe deep down that you could
handle that sort of power, but then, most humans are.  Otherwise,
I mean, if you're asking whether I saw some sort of deep flaw in
you, something that couldn't be trusted, something that was prone
to being accessed...No, I didn't."
     Something he had only dimly realized was tight loosened in
Riker's chest, and the relief was almost painful.  For years he had
been carrying this tension around.  He waited for Q to make some
sort of remark, but the brown eyes on him didn't show anything but
polite curiosity.
     Picard's influence? he wondered.  Had his captain truly been
good for this creature?
     "It would help," the man said finally, "if you would at least
make clear what type of danger you're bringing him into."
     Q shrugged, and for the first time ever Riker recognized
discomfort under the theatrical gesture.  "If I knew where Q --
Amanda -- was now, I wouldn't have to go into her little gift at
all.  If the Q had known what we were fighting, she wouldn't have
been lost to us in the first place.
     "And there may be no danger at all.  This may tell us nothing
of Q.  We may simply go in, play through her scenario, and then
leave with nothing gained."
     "Or you may be trapped forever?"
     Q was ready to scoff at the notion.  The danger was not in
being "trapped."  The danger was that Picard might simply be hurt,
physically, mentally, in this simulation.  Since the creator was
for all intents and purposes "dead," the Q version of the
"safeties" were off.  Q could always repair damage to Picard, but,
if he and Q were to remain "equal" in the relationship, Q could not
erase Picard's memory of experiences they shared.  For all their
love, their relationship was a difficult and delicate one. 
Subjecting it to this unknown filled Q was dread.  However, he
wasn't about to tell Beardboy that.  
     Then he had an idea.  If Riker needed to feel in control here,
Q could oblige him, at least somewhat.
     A combadge flashed into Q's hand, and with a minimal flourish
he handed it to Riker.
     "What is it?" the commander took it with overt suspicion.
     "Just what it looks like.  If we're not back in two weeks, you
can contact us with it, wherever we are and whatever we're doing. 
Don't use it before two weeks, though, as it will disrupt the
boundaries of Q's gift-world."
     "Understood."
     Q nodded.  Amanda-Q had respect for Picard's human authority
-- a holdover from her own time as a human.  If they were stuck in
the gift for more than two weeks "real" time, then something would
have gone wrong.
     "Captain?" Riker called out, not moving his eyes from Q.
     "Will?"  The voice, then the captain himself came into the
room.  Now Riker turned to him and nodded.
     "Good luck, sir."
     "Thank you.  Enjoy Haven, encourage the crew to relax."
     "Aye, sir."
     With another nod exchanged, Riker left, the combadge held
firmly in his hand.
     Q looked at Picard.  Picard looked back.
     "You handled him well."
     "He cares about you.  He can't be all bad."
     They smiled.
     *I love you.*
     Q allowed the warm words to linger in his consciousness like
the overtaste of wine, then held out his hands to grasp his lover's
and pull him slowly to his body.  He shuddered at the feel of that
firm shape against him.
     *I have to be inside you.*
     Picard nodded and went to open his uniform, but Q's feelings
surged to the surface with the force of those lost weeks, and they
were naked as Q pushed Picard back over his own desk, sweeping the
man's feet from the floor as his eyes widened in surprise, the feel
of the cool surface not unpleasant against his back.  A soft pillow
under his hips lifted up his ass as he wrapped his legs around Q's
back.  A long finger teased him briefly, sliding in warm lubricant.
     *Hurry.*  Picard was awash instantly in need as great as Q's,
his body achingly empty, his breaths short and irregular.  He saw
himself suddenly as nothing but a receptacle for his lover to fuck,
nothing but a haven of sex and adoration for Q's penis and hands
and dark, flashing eyes.  *I am nothing without you.  Come inside
me and make me myself.*
     *Look at you.*  Q pressed just the tip of himself to Picard's
opening, then paused, feeling nothing but pleasure in anticipation
radiating out from that one small connection with the most
sensitive spot on his human body.  *Perfection spread out and
offered up.*  Picard's pale skin seemed paler and his hazel eyes
filled with brown overtones against the dark surface of the desk. 
Even though he was on his back, the muscles across his chest seemed
sculpted, as did each line and curve of his arms, thrown out wide
now along the hard plane.  So close to Q's own trembling body, the
man's erection rose up straight and red and dancing gently with
each heartbeat.  Q thought about stroking it, about watching it
release the captain's cum.
     In this position it was easy to reach Picard's mouth and then
fondle his pale pink nipples with his kiss-wet fingertips. 
Picard's back arched as his legs tightened, but Q held back and
told him, *I'm going to wait sixty seconds.  I'm going to stand
here and stare at you while you ache for me, because this is all I
want.  You are all I want.  You're hot and tight and perfect and
for fifty more seconds I'm going to wait and watch you want me
back.*
     Picard moaned, rock-hard and so empty inside.  There was
nothing now but the waiting, trembling in his legs around Q's
beloved body, shivering on the cold surface of the desk, needing
warmth, needing the pressure of Q's cock inside him, needing and
needing...made greedy and driven insane by his perfect mate.
     *You want me so bad, it shines off your skin.  You belong to
me.*
     Q nodded.  *And you belong to me, Mon Capitaine. And I'm going
to fuck you senseless to prove it.  Fifteen seconds now.*
     *Fuck me for a long time.*
     *Yes.*
     *Don't let me come until...that moment you always know.*
     *Five seconds.*
     Picard braced himself for ecstasy, counting off the seconds
and then screaming as he was stretched and entered and filled with
fire.
     For Q, his hands under Picard's hips, his body wrapped by
those extraordinary legs, his penis enveloped by perfect pressure
and warmth, it seemed he was fucking Picard's entire being, the
man, his body, his soul all wrapped around Q's erection and
stroking him, entering him even as he entered.  It was like making
love to a sun, a mystery, an artwork that should shatter under his
touch and yet somehow grew more beautiful with every thrust.
     *I'm fucking you now, my beloved.  My cock is deep inside you. 
Do you feel it?*
     *There's nothing else.  Nothing but you.*
     Q looked down at himself and sent the image of his cock
thrusting in and out of Picard' body into his lover's mind.  Had
not Q moved already to prevent it, taking firm control of Picard's
discipline even as Picard took hold of his, the man would have
come.
     *Look at your ass!*  The vision continued, and Picard was
moaning now, losing more and more of himself.  *Look at me going
into you again and again and *again.**
     *Don't stop.  Please. Q.  Never stop.  I was only made for you
to fuck.*
     "Yes!"  Q threw back his head with a roar, still seeing his
cock thrusting into Picard even as his eyes rolled back.  "Yes! 
You were...made for me...to...fuck!"  Q was shuddering with deep
breaths, his legs trembling and threatening to falter.  But he
wouldn't stop this.  Nothing could get him to stop.  Picard was a
feast and he was a starving man.  Picard was shelter and his soul
was battered by storm and fire.  Picard was a benediction of love
and he had known the torment of an atheist's despair for millennia. 
Somehow he had found this paradise, and he pushed himself deeper
and deeper into all his lover was.  They did not unite.  They both
needed to feel The Other inside, to become less, not more, to be
overwhelmed and yet still to batter against the pleasure.
     Picard sent the vision of his penetrated body back now,
changing the meaning with his conscious thoughts, and Q *saw* his
lover's self-image of being only a vessel, a receptacle, a being
born and bred to pleasure him, and now it was Picard who kept Q
from coming.
     Q changed the angle of his thrusts slightly, and Picard began
a scream that didn't end, pausing only to gather breath, loosening
all control, wanting, *needing,* screaming to come.  Q wanted to
let him, but remembered Picard's request.  So rarely did his spouse
ask for something specific from sex that Q needed to ensure that he
got it.  The man almost couldn't take any more.
     Almost, but not quite.
     Gripping those narrow hips hard now and bearing down with the
leverage of his position, hampered only slightly by the shaking of
his legs, Q thrust hard against Picard's' tiny gland over and over
and watched the reactions rocket through his whole body.
     *Let me...come, please...oh, yes, never....stop...come...have
to come or I'll die...destroy me...love you.  Oh, God...love
you...I am nothing but...yours to fuck.  My whole being...all that
I am...made for you.*
     Q was screaming now, howls of pleasure, primal cries of
possession and being possessed.  In desperation, feeling his legs
give, he released his hold on Picard's control and felt him let go
of Q's own resistance as the man came in a scalding rush beyond
pleasure, beyond relief.
     For Picard, it was as if he had simply exploded.  Every
particle of him joined into the heat and release, and with Q inside
his mind he battered back the unconsciousness that threatened and
rode through onslaughts of wrenching bliss.  He knew he was
convulsing on the desk, spurting cum, screaming, clinching Q's cock
with his buttocks, slamming his hands on the cool desk top, bucking
and crying and still spreading his legs to get a bit more of Q
inside him.  But these things were nothing, side-effects of the
eruptions within himself.
     When Q came inside Picard he felt obliterated.  It was as if
his consciousness traveled out his cock and then through Picard's
body into the cosmos.  Yet the universe was only sensation, only
the feeling of being in Picard.  The human physical responses of
his ejaculating semen and thrusting hips were simply a ritual, the
symbols of his transformation into rapture.
     And then they did unite, and there was nothing, absolutely
nothing but wonderfully tactile and intertwined euphoria. 
     *We are love, my own.*

     When Picard woke up he was hurting, cold, and alone.
     Only the last one bothered him, and it took several minutes to
realize where Q had gone.
     The man's legs dangled over the side of the desk.  Q must have
collapsed to the floor.
     Groaning weakly, yet savoring the pain inside his ass where Q
had been, delighting in the burn of lactic acid in his strained
muscles, Picard slithered from the desk and curled down to the
floor where Q lay senseless.  He managed to snag the little pillow
from the desk on his way down, and, turning the semen-covered side
to the floor, rested his head near Q's shoulder before pulling his
lover gently into his arms.  He wished he could do more to make Q
comfortable.  He wished so many things, but he was so tired, and
the floor, with Q on it, so inviting.  
     It was a long time before they awoke again.  And they said
little before they were back in uniform, clean and dry -- though
their muscles had been treated to a hot soak.  
     *Ready?* Q asked simply as he held Amanda-Q's gift in his
hands.  Picard only undid the gold bow in response, and lifted the
lid.

     The castle had stood firm against the Scourge for seven
generations.  
     It was a source of pride for Qualen, since it was his father,
and his father's mother, and her mother, and her father, and his
father, on back through the tight twistings of time, who had aided
the Keepers against the Scourge.
     But it was still awful to be summoned to the king like this,
in the middle of the cold night.  He could start a fire with a
little spell, but then when he returned to his bed he would be
certain to find some sort of creatures in it:  rats, cats, or
servants.  At least he had wool socks on his feet that did not need
darning, and at least the king's messenger was good enough to help
him into a heavy purple robe and hand him his pointed purple hat.
     Shivering, the Wizard Qualen followed the little man and his
candle through the dark halls of the castle, up the stairs, through
the Great Chamber where the Treasure of the Scourge hummed at him
seductively, then up more stairs to the king's private chambers.
     *Oh, no,* Qualen thought.  *Not again.*
     But, indeed, the messenger stopped outside the thick wooden
door of the king's bedroom and knocked before opening it partway
and then retreating.
     *Coward,* Qualen thought at the man, then sighed and entered
the room.
     His Knobbiness was sitting by his the roaring blaze in his
fireplace, and Qualen couldn't help welcoming the warmth of the
room.
     King Mortaline looked up at him.
     "Qualen," the old voice grumbled, his sunken face a death
mask.  "We cannot sleep."
     *I was sleeping just fine,* Qualen thought sourly.  He'd even
been dreaming his favorite dream, the one where he was with his
lover in a ship that sailed between the lights in the sky.  The
face of his lover was a blank, as always, but he remembered strong,
beautiful legs and delicious pale nipples.
     Qualen was dimly aware as he stood before the king that his
lover was real and *this* the fantasy, but it were as if "Q" were
wrapped in layers of thin gauze, gently hidden from him.  In fact,
instinct warned him not to think about Q, as though the boundaries
of this world would not tolerate that sort of resistance well.  No,
he was the Wizard Qualen, this was his king, and he knew what was
coming.
     A bony hand trembled and gestured for Qualen to sit down in
the opposite chair.  The wizard complied, looking into that face
which had once been boyishly attractive, with blonde hair and blue
eyes, a snub nose and a gamin smile.  Traces of that hair clung to
his bleached-white scalp.  A tremor of humor sometimes twisted the
thin dry lips.  His father had served this man faithfully.  Qualen
had thought he would serve his son.
     But the king's son had not been seen in ten years, and pretty
much everyone believed now that he was dead.  The dynasty would die
out with the creature who huddled under his woolen covers in this
chair by the fire, and there would doubtlessly be another war for
supremacy, another bloody conflict before a victor was named. 
Qualen's father had warned the king to have more than one child. 
But, no.  He hadn't liked his wife.  And there had been an end.
     "How can you help Us?" the king asked.
     "I have many spells to help you sleep."
     "We cannot sleep.  We do not wish to sleep."
     "What does Your Majesty wish?"
     "Touch my penis."
     "I have explained to Your Majesty that I cannot."
     The pale eyes glittered dangerously and the thin, cracked lips
pouted.  "It's the only thing that feels good anymore."
     "You have several servants who enjoy doing that for you."
     "But you're a wizard."
     "I don't have that kind of magic.  We could bring someone in
who's skilled in such ways."
     "But you're like me," the king insisted.  "You have no one. 
People fear you."
     And Qualen was awash in memories now of his life, isolated in
the castle, surrounded by those who either hated him for his magic,
or wished to use his powers for their own plans.  People did fear
him.  He was not liked.  There were few who even bothered to talk
to him, and no one had ever gotten to know him, not really, not the
person he was inside.
     His lover had helped, though he was only a dream.  Strong arms
and legs, strong and firm and beautiful body, with a beautiful
cock, not at all like the withered tube the king was pulling from
his robes.
     Qualen made a small sound of protest, and the king smiled at
him unkindly.
     "Touch it."
     "I will not, Sire.  It is not my place.  Let me fetch one of
your servants."
     But the king just shook his head slowly and began to stroke
himself, his eyes on Qualen's face.  The wizard met those pale orbs
with a suppressed sigh.
     "Look at my penis," the king ordered.  "Look at how hard I'm
getting."
     Qualen kept looking into the king's face, thinking not for the
first time that he would be glad when the old man died, even if it
would start a war.
     "Look at me, so big and hard.  I could fuck a horse with my
cock."
     Qualen simply began to think of other things.  His frogs were
running low, and he needed more baby dragon blood.  He also needed
to find a better book of spells for knowing the weather.
     The king came, shouting obscenities, and then sank deeply into
the chair.  His breathing quieted, and then he slumped completely,
his genitals still exposed, his eyes closed.  Qualen waited several
minutes, making sure the king was really asleep, then went to a
side table to fetch a cloth and wet it in the basin.  Carefully, he
cleaned the king as he would an infant, slipped him out of his
heavy robes, and then laid him on the bed and pulled the covers up
to his chin.
     Quietly, holding a candle, he left the room, nodding at a
servant who had been poised the whole time to enter the room at the
king's call.
     What did the palace staff think he did for the king?  By now
it must be widely assumed that he was His Majesty's...what word
*would* he call it?
     It didn't matter, Qualen told himself, walking the long cold
hall back to his colder room.
     In his bed, shivering, he thought of his dream lover, wanting
to hold him close, wanting him to be real.

     Sir John of LaBarre rode through the last of the trees with
some relief.  The path through the forest had been twisted and
dark, a perfect hiding place for highwaymen.  The valley through
which they now rode was quiet, muffled with the thick grasses
underfoot, and the mountains through which he had passed where now
only blue-grey outlines in the azure sky behind them.
     He would not have been so concerned about robbers had his
squire been of more use,.  As it was, he was about to send the
puling boy home to his mother.  He had a brain, but no chin, nor
stoutness to go with it.
     "Sir John?" the boy asked now.
     "Wester?"
     "It grows late.  Should we not stop soon?"
     "There's at least light for two hours' riding."
     "Aye, sir."  The voice held disappointment.
     Sir John fought down his irritation just as the boy cried out
loud enough to make their horses start.
     "Dragon!"
     Sir John reigned in his horse, drew his sword and scanned the
ground, then the sky, before Wester could finally get out, "There,
sir!  Above us!"
     The knight looked up and saw the dragon pass overhead.  It was
a good-sized beast, twice as large as his horse, and her belly
looked full.  He would hate to harm a pregnant mother with no hint
of the Scourge about her, but, fortunately for them all, she flew
on without stopping.
     Sir John made careful note of her tracking.  The blood of the
babies could be gathered without much harm to the creatures, and he
had sold more than a pouchful to a wizard or two in his time, when
there was no battle to be fought, no court to sit in, no treasure
to pillage, and no well-kept woman to shower him with gifts.
     Sir John smiled to himself at the memories of the lovely women
whom he had serenaded in his life.  Lovely and graceful and kind,
and still occassionally interested in him, yet not a one had
touched his heart.  Wester's own mother had been a good friend for
many years now -- the only reason he tolerated the brat at all, in
fact -- but she would never be more than that.
     The dragon disappeared from sight over the Achard Mountains,
and Sir John put away his sword and signaled his horse forward
again.
     Just before nightfall they made camp, Wester taking up his
small bedroll right to the fire before falling into fitful sleep. 
Sir John regarded him sadly.  He would do better at a trade,
perhaps as a shopkeeper.  
     The night was a cold one, and Sir John felt all his years in
the saddle as he sat looking into the firelight.
     He was tired of riding out to battle with nothing to call his
own.  His older brother ruled well over their lands, and he wished
Sir Roland well.  He had even visited his home more than once in
the past few years, and enjoyed his brother's thriving family.  He
did not need a brood himself -- he did not even like children much
-- but he was wishing more and more for a home...or better yet,
simply someone besides a disappointing spire to share his campfire. 
If he were going to continue being the Knight Errant, he wanted
something tangible to protect, or at least a warm body in his bed
at night.
     A warm body...
     Of late his nights had been plagued by dreams of such a body,
and the fact that it wasn't a woman's body had surprised him
unpleasantly at first.  He had been called upon to pleasure his
master when he was a squire, and he had hated it.  The moment he
was out of his apprenticeship he had sought women with a vengeance
as though they could clean him of those unwanted attentions.  And
yet now, after so many years, he dreamed of a man.  
     Yet the body in his dreams was more than simply the long,
strong form of a man.  There was something else, a person inside
that body, a voice that called to him, and eyes that burned like a
dragon's fierce gaze and yet made him feel frightened only when he
awoke so full of longing.
     The part of him that was Picard tried to tell him something,
but a sense of great danger kept him from heeding.  He knew there
was destruction in that part of himself and stayed away, even as he
laid down on the hard, cold ground, hoping with resignation that
his dreams would be full of warmth and soft company once again.

     The hall was larger than Sir John had expected.  He had never
been in the Kingdom of Unverse before, though he had heard of it
often enough.  The ride across these lands had been long and hard,
and he was still uncertain of the honor of its king.  He had seen
signs of administrative neglect, and heard tales of injustices
performed by the barons without retribution.  Such things did not
always bother him as much as now, but he was, he admitted, looking
at lands with different eyes, asking each new place, "Could this be
what I am looking for?"
     "Sir John of LaBarre?" 
     He turned to see the king's herald standing not three feet
from him.  The hall was noisy and crowded with the knights who had
responded to King Mortaline's challenge against the Scourge.  They
all knew why the challenge had been issued, of course, and so many
here would not usually come simply to fight the frenzied horde of
the black dragons.  After all, the dragons swarmed against every
keep in the land.  Unverse had no more than its fair share of
raids, and no one knew why the dragons -- such peaceful creatures,
really, when found in small groups -- would suddenly mass themseves
into an onslaught and attack without warning.  Into such frenzy did
they stir themselves that they would even attack other dragons. 
The Scourge was a plague and a pestilence, but there was no
preparing for them, no vanquishing them.
     No, this was really about showing one's strength and setting
up sides for the struggle for the throne which would come with the
king's death. 
     Sir John nodded to his squire talking with other youths in the
corner, and the young man came to his side quickly.  With a nod now
to the messenger, he followed the man with the boy at his side,
acknowledging that at least Wester had learned his manners.
     The throne room was another vast chamber, with a raised
platform for the red-velvet throne.
     *My God, who is that?*
     A tall man with dark hair and glittering dark eyes, dressed in
a thick purple robe studded with metal that flashed like stars, was
standing near the king.  Atop his head rested a tall, purple,
pointed hat.
     *The wizard. It must be the court wizard.*
     "Sir John?" the king's querulous voice called, and the knight
bowed.
     Qualen was certain his lust had caught the attention of
everyone in the throne room.  He knew his labored breathing could
be heard from across the room, and the heat from his eyes must be
sending out beams of revealing light.  At least his heavy robes hid
the erection which had sprung into existence the moment the man had
entered the chamber.
     Dark hose and brown leather jerkin, studded in the pattern of
an Easterner.  His jeweled sword hung on a belt low on his narrow
hips, and his dark brown boots had been polished for the royal
court.  He had almost no hair, but he seemed only more powerful and
beautiful without it.  His features were strong and full of
character and his eyes burned with authority and intelligence.
     Was this the lover of his many dreams?  Did he stand a chance
with this man?  Sir John had straightened now, standing there, his
body radiating power even at ease.  Qualen was drowning in the
thought of touching this man, in thoughts of kissing him.
     Well, at least the next time the king masturbated in front of
him, he would have something besides frogs to think about.
     "Your Majesty," Sir John said, and Qualen bit his lip at the
sound of that voice.
     "Come closer," the king ordered, and Sir John walked to the
bottom step before the throne, quite close to Qualen, who was
trying to make himself not stare.  Sir John seemed hardly to notice
him.
     "Have you come to fight the Scourge?"
     "Such was the nature of Your Majesty's call to arms."
     The king stood suddenly, causing a half-dozen startled
servants to swarm to his side while the guards tensed all around
the room.  Conversation amongst the other applicants ceased.
     His Highness ignored them all and gestured for Qualen and Sir
John to follow before he turned from his throne to toddle through
a door behind his raised platform.
     Qualen was extremely proud of the calmly raised eyebrow he
managed to throw Sir John before falling into place behind him.  He
had no idea what the king was up to, and at the moment he didn't
much care.  Sir John's body was as perfect from the back as it had
been from the front and side.
     Then Qualen realized where they were going and frowned.  What
was His Majesty up to now?
     Sir John told himself it was impossible to feel another man's
eyes actually caressing his skin. The wizard had done nothing more
certain than look at him.  
     He should be thinking of his squire.  He had left no
instructions for the boy, and Wester would doubtlessly get into
trouble on his own.
     They arrived at a small room lit with a hundred candles where
the king gestured to a painting on the wall.  Sir John looked at
the face of a young man with a kind smile and a straight nose.  His
eyes were strangely light, and his skin pale, but there was
intelligence in those eyes, and diffident confidence his relaxed
posture.
     "My son," the King said, "David."
     Sir John nodded, sorry for this man to have lost such a child.
     "I have heard of your loss," he said quietly.  "The Kingdom of
Unverse has been the poorer for it since."
     "He's not dead," the king said angrily.  "And I cannot wait
any longer for his return."
     Qualen was staring at his king in disbelief.  When had this
started?  Was there to be no end to the man's mania?
     "He has been ten years in the Land of the Ferin, held captive
by forces not even a father's love can withstand."  The king's pale
blue eyes turned to the knight in demand.  "Bring him back to me,
and I will give you everything in my power to give."
     "The Land of the Ferin is vast and uncharted..." Sir John
began, trailing off as the king produced a small, strange box from
his robes.
     "This will lead you to him."  He opens the box and strange
lights glowed inside.  It all meant nothing to him, but the Wizard
Qualen gasped and turned pale.
     The king smiled, and Sir John did not like the look of it. 
"You thought it had been destroyed in the raid, didn't you, my old
friend?"  A look Sir John could not read passed over Qualen's face. 
He thought it might be grief.
     "Have you had it all these years, Sire?"
     The king chuckled.  "How else could I know my son was alive?"
     The king closed the box with a snap and handed it to his
wizard.  "Together you will find him.  There will be no end to my
gratitude when he is with me again."
     And then the old man left them alone in the alcove, and Sir
John watched Qualen drop heavily into the nearest chair.  He took
the other for himself, trying to say something to this man he
hardly knew who looked so shattered, so lost and betrayed.
     So warm and inviting and *real.*
     But for a long time they simply sat there together, and in the
candlelight the box was turned over and over in Qualen's hand.
     "It's my Making Box," the wizard said finally.  "I lost it was
lost ten years ago, in the raid that took Prince David."
     "Making Box?"
     "As an apprentice, every wizard creates one of the these, and
then is to keep it their whole life.  I had my father's help making
this.  All my first spells were done with it.  It's the most
powerful piece of magic I have.  I don't understand why the king
kept it.  It could have meant nothing to him.  If he had given it
back, I could have told him much more about his son from it than he
ever could."
     "Why *would* he have kept it?"
     Qualen sighed.  "To keep me from it, I suppose."
     "Has he reason to hate you that much?"
     Qualen trembled with the knowledge that Sir John understand
what it had meant to the wizard to have been without his Making
Box.  The knight did not understand the charm, but he understood
what it meant to *him.*  It was more empathy than he had ever
gotten from another.
     And so, because of it, Qualen found himself saying almost
easily, "He blames me for many things which have hurt him.  Since
the Ferin raid he has been hurting me back in...many little
ways...including pressing me with his...attentions."
     Sir John was appalled, and could not help thinking of his own
master and the dark times of his youth.  The thoughts he had been
more than idly entertaining since laying eyes on Qualen were
crushed by the knowledge that Qualen would doubtlessly not welcome
his "attentions" either, and then he was appalled at his own
thoughts.
     "I will not bring the boy," Sir John said, then explained: 
"My squire.  The land will be too dangerous for him.  I'll send him
home to his mother."
     "I saw your Wester.  He has the Gift, you know."
     "What gift?"
     Qualen smiled, and though it was a sad smile Sir John couldn't
help thinking it was sensual and warm.  "The Gift.  If you like,
when we return I will train him."  Qualen shrugged.  "I have no
son."
     Sir John was overwhelmed, but then chuckled.  "Yes.  That
would be perfect for him.  If he wants it, that would be perfect."
     "He wants it," Qualen said, thinking of the way, even while he
had been staring at Sir John, he had noticed the avarice in the
young man's eyes for Qualen's robes and the power they denoted. 
"So it is settled."
     Sir John nodded, impressed at such decisiveness, the
responsibility to his fellow wizards Qualen was displaying, then
turned to look at the painting of the prince.  "So you can tell
from your charm where he is?"
     Starting a bit out of his thoughts, Qualen opened the box
again to see the blinking lights inside.  "To the north, almost
directly.  Yes, I can find him with this."
     "Then we should leave in the morning.  The king must realize
he hasn't long left to live, and there will be chaos the moment he
is dead if the prince is not returned before then."
     "Of course, yes, you are right."
     Qualen stood, and let himself toy with the idea of inviting
Sir John to his rooms, bribing him with mulled wine or talk of his
squire.
     "In the morning then."  Qualen turned to go, then looked back. 
"I can ride, you know."
     Sir John was smiling, standing now himself.  "Good. 
And...goodnight."
     Qualen nodded and left.  It had grown quite late, and he would
need his rest.
     Despite the emotional turmoil caused by his king's cruelty and
his delight in getting back his Making Box, the wizard was aware of
an intense excitement.  He had not been on a proper excursion for
years, and he would greatly love to see Prince David again.  The
boy had been kind and strong.  He, more than Mortaline could ever
be, was the king he wanted to stand as wizard.  He would be proud
to hold sway in David's court.
     So great was the pleasure of anticipation that he did not lose
it even as he stepped into his cold room.  For tonight, he would
treat himself with a fire, especially as his Making Box could help
him keep out the vermin even as he slept.  Soon, a blaze popped and
danced its light into the room, and for once the place looked
cheerful.  Qualen shed his robes and washed himself at the basin,
then dried at the fireside before sliding under his thick blankets.
     And his bed was so empty.  His whole body yearned now for the
touch of a lover...for Sir John's touch...upon any part of him.
     How could the man fit his dream lover so exactly?  Were they
destined?  Was it magic?  It was unlike any spell he had ever
known.
     Sleep would not come.  Despite his need for rest, he could
barely keep his eyes closed, and he had grown hard with wanting.
     His hand strayed down to himself and he cupped his own balls,
trying hard not to think of the many nights he had watched His
Majesty touch himself.  Was he no better now than Mortaline?  Was
this all he had to offer to himself?  
     Well, he had brought himself off this way often enough before
in his lonely life.  But it was worse now that he had seen the
object of his desire in the flesh.
     And what flesh it was...
     If he could only sleep, perhaps he could dream of Sir John. 
Dream of kissing that strong mouth as that incredible voice asked
him to touch him in places he had not dared to touch anyone.
     Oh, Qualen had had partners.  Clumsy fumbling touches, quick
penetrations, experiments drained of emotions, times he had given
himself away to another and been used and tossed back for his
trouble.
     Oh! To be used by Sir John!  Even for an hour's pleasure! 
Slowly, he began to stroke along the soft side of himself,
imagining another's hand in his hand's place.
     Perhaps, in their adventure together, alone, looking for the
Prince, they could...
     Perhaps.
     Someone knocked on the door.
     *Not tonight, cold stars, not tonight.*  Qualen groaned softly
into his fire lit room as he stayed in bed, hoping irrationally the
knock was a mistake.  He could not face the king and his wrinkled
genitals tonight.
     But the knock was repeated, and Qualen rose from the bed,
struggled into a robe, and staggered to the door.
     Sir John was standing in the hall.
     Qualen stared.
     "May I come in?"
     "Of course..."  Qualen stood back from the door and watched as
the man entered, stepped to the center of the room and turned.
     "I am sorry to disturb your rest."
     "I was not asleep."
     Sir John smiled.  "I could not sleep either."  He stepped
almost awkwardly to the fire, and Qualen wondered if he were hiding
bad news.  "You may be pleased to know that Wester is beside
himself with joy at the thought of being your apprentice.  I have
warned him that the studies are difficult..."  Qualen nodded. 
"...but this only seems to have made him keener."
     "I will give him a book to study before we go.  Nothing of
magic.  A primer on concentration and control.  He can read?"
     Sir John nodded.  "His mother is a midwife.  She saw to it
that he could."  He seemed suddenly to shiver.  With something like
an apology, he smiled again rather ruefully.  "It's a cold night,
though your fire is very warm."
     "I...don't usually have one going.  I'm celebrating the return
of my Making Box."
     "It was cruel, very cruel for him to keep it like that."
     The wizard realized he was shivering now as well.  So much
tenderness in this man, so much compassion.  "It's kind of you to
say so."
     "Qualen," said that voice.
     "Sir John?"
     The man chuckled, and Qualen almost believed it was a shaky
sound.  "We are going to be traveling closely together for some
time.  Please, it's just 'John.'"
     "John."  Inspiration struck.  "Have they given you a place to
sleep?"
     "Yes."  The word was full of amusement and Qualen hated the
thought of how obvious he had been, but then Sir John continued, "A
sort of stall of a room where Wester is currently snoring away."
     The words tumbled together:  "You may sleep here if you like. 
The bed is very big and the fire is warm."
     Sir John looked at him.  "I think it would be important for
both of us to realize just what that would mean."
     The wizard swallowed loudly.  "What?"
     Sir John smiled, and the kindness he had displayed before was
at full force. Qualen wanted to fall to his knees in gratitude, and
when uncertainty made its way into those hazel eyes, the wizard's
heart seemed to stop.  "It has been a long time for me."
     "And...and for me."
     Neither of them could move, neither seemed capable of breath
or speech.
     "I have dreamed of you," Qualen said at last.  "Dreamed of
your kindness, of your warmth, of how you would feel against
me...."
     "Dreamed of your kisses," Sir John said to Qualen's
astonishment, "of your soft skin and strong hands..."
     Qualen wanted to swoop to him, to strip him and be consumed,
but his steps forward were uncertain.  By the heavens, it was good
that Sir John met him halfway.
     They began with a simple embrace, such as good friends might
share.  For several long, long minutes they held each other,
sighing with the pleasure of it.  Then Sir John pulled back
slightly and moved to take off the wizard's long, heavy robe.
     Qualen felt overcome with shyness.  His body was not a
soldier's.  His eyes slid to the bed covers and the man spoke:
     "I want to see you, please."
     Qualen shuddered with the intensity of it.  How could he deny
this man anything in return for his company?  To be alone in his
bed again would be torture beyond bearing.
     And so he let himself be undressed completely, his pale body
shining in the firelight, worried that Sir John would not like what
he saw.
     But the man was touching him as he stood there, still fully
clothed, trailing fingers along his exposed sides, over his chest
and stomach.
     "Perfect," the baritone murmured.  "You're perfect."
     Qualen was unable to hold back a gasp.  It was not something
anyone had ever said to the wizard before.
     "Please," Qualen whispered.  "I must see you."
     Sir John nodded, drawing in an unsteady breath, and Qualen
dropped to one knee and carefully removed his boots, smelling the
oil of the polish Wester had applied early that morning.  Next he
stood and pulled off the jerkin, then down again for the hose,
unable to keep from caressing those gorgeous legs, then up for the
final layer of underclothes.
     Undressed, Sir John was a god, and Qualen felt so hard and
full of need it was torture.  He gaped at the man's beautiful
erection, then asked shyly:
     "For me?" 
     For an answer John smiled and stepped directly against
Qualen's body and their erections were brought into deliberate
contact.  As Qualen groaned, John planted a gentle series of kisses
on the shoulder which reached up to his chin.  Pressing an arm
around John's waist, Qualen took that face into his other hand and
turned it up for a kiss.
     "Tell me how I may touch you."  It was Sir John speaking,
though Qualen thought the words as well.  "Tell me what you will
like."
     "Anything," Qualen groaned.  "Anything you want."  And then he
pulled away and dragged John to his bed before tumbling into it
with him.  No more loneliness.  No more cold sheets and aching,
empty nothing.
     Thoughts of what his master had done to his squire threatened
to pull him from this moment, but Sir John knew how to banish those
memories.  Laying himself down all along Qualen's erotic warmth, he
lowered his head for a kiss that seemed to have no ending.  His
master had never kissed him.  Nor was this the coquette nibblings
of courtly ladies.  It was all sweetness and heat and giving and
being blessed.  
     It was also impossible to take it slow.
     Qualen's large hands grabbed him at the buttocks and simply
pushed him close.  They both groaned, pressing rhythmically
together, thrusting at each other, needing nothing more than to be
in contact.
     They came together with the deep longing of their lonely
years, and for both the wizard and the knight it was magic.

     The morning came swiftly, greeting them with only a hint of
fog under the blue sky, a fire-warmed room, and their lover's body
filling up the bed.  They opened their eyes to see each other, and
smiled foolish tender smiles, and kissed.
     "I knew you were real," Qualen whispered, though it made the
walls of the universe tremble ever-so-slightly.  Sir John only
nodded in response, and smiled more broadly.
     "Tell me of your magic," he asked.
     Qualen tried a quiet leer, uncertain of success.  "Tell me of
yours."
     Sir John laughed and almost casually reached out a hand to
caress his lover between his legs.  Qualen gasped and groaned and
grew instantly hard, and Sir John's smile disappeared with his own
rising lust.  He had never noticed the softness of another man's
erection with his master.
     Qualen saw the cloud pass over the man's face and murmured as
gently as he could, "What is it?"
     Sir John did not want to say, but he did not want to deny
Qualen anything either.  Finally, he forced out the words:
     "I wish you were my first."
     Qualen bit his lip.  "You loved another before you...met me?"
     The smile returned to John's lips, and warmth radiated from
his gaze.  "I have never loved another like this before you."
     Qualen felt he would cry, or scream.  "Then...others...?"
     John shrugged, an obvious mask.  "There were ladies I courted,
in the style of our times.  They were pleasant flowers who wished
to be enjoyed.  We parted with smiles.  But...my master, when I was
a squire...wanted me to do things, and I could not refuse him."
     Anger pumped into the wizard's body.  "I will kill him."
     But the man shook his head and leaned forward to press gentle
kisses along Qualen's shoulder.  "He is long dead.."
     "Who was he?"
     "Sir Borogin of Delat."
     Qualen looked ready to spit.  "I knew of him.  A swine not fit
to wield a sword."
     "He is dead," Sir John repeated.  "Only my memories hurt me
now, and you..."  He leaned in for a long kiss, gasping in surprise
as Qualen's tongue gently entered his mouth and caressed his own. 
The man sucked on that smooth warm organ and felt awe at the
pleasure of it.  When the kiss ended, he said quietly, "Now you and
your magic are washing the pain of it away.  I would have gone
through a hundred such masters if it meant still finding you."
     Qualen's tears spilled out now.  He could not help it.  "There
were others for me," he whispered, keeping the sobs out of his
voice with difficulty.  "But there was no love.  I was looking for
you, but there were only strangers.  There was even...as I said,
His Majesty has tried, but I kept him from me.  But that wasn't
about love.  It wasn't even about caring or even about lust."
     Sir John, his own eyes bright with unshed grief, went to kiss
Qualen again when the wizard asked, "What did Sir Borogin do to
you?"
     The knight looked at him in suspicion, then could not help but
trust the expression on his lover's face.  "He had me take him...in
my mouth and...in my body."
     Qualen ran the lightest of touches over Sir John's lips with
his long fingers, then asked, "Did he never take you in himself?"
     The man snorted at the thought of it, then frowned
without...quite...resisting as Qualen gently, carefully rolled him
onto his back and pressed a passionate kiss onto his lips.  Again
he breached him with his tongue, and they kissed a long while,
running gentle touches along each other's sides.
     When Sir John again began to thrust against Qualen's body, the
wizard broke the kiss and moved swiftly down the bed.  The man's
protest came out as a simple cry of pleasure when soft, warm lips
began to touch all around the head of his penis.  Those long
fingers caressed his sac and patch of hair, and then the mouth
opened and engulfed him.
     Sir John felt the hot rush through his body, dimly aware of
regret that he could not resist his climax with the power of such
erotic bliss.
     And then he *was* resisting.  Dazed, he realized Qualen's hand
had wrapped him tightly at the base of his cock, keeping off his
orgasm.
     "Sorcery," he groaned.  "This is some sort of spell."
     "'Tis an old spell I read in a book, and now you know of my
decadent youth."  Qualen began to ease the pressure, and then used
that rough-smooth tongue to coil around him as his hands pressed
down on the man's hips, holding him still.  "Do you want more?"
     "Please, Qualen."
     "Then you must share your magic with me as well.  Tell me
again that you love me."
     "I love you.  I have always...Oh!  God!...loved you."
     His lover had him in deep now, deeper than he thought he could
be taken.  Thank the Lord Sir Borogin had not known this was
possible, Sir John thought, and it was actually a thought without
pain.  In fact, he couldn't help laughing.  What a disgusting
pervert his master had been.  An old man no one would take
willingly who had to force himself upon the weak in an attempt to
make them weaker.  Qualen's touches made him feel strong and
complete.
     Qualen...
     "Wait, please, love," Sir John called out, and Qualen, puzzled
and concerned, raised his head to meet the man's eyes.
     "Can you...move yourself closer?  I want to touch you."
     Passion flared up again instantly and Qualen groaned and
shuddered before complying, again feeling awkward as he turned his
body around on the bed to place himself within Sir John's reach.
     And the man's magic must have told him this, for Sir John
rumbled in near-awe, "You're so beautiful."
     "Do you really think so?"
     "How could I not?  My seed is wet on your lips.  You have the
fine pale skin of a nobleman, yet you flush under my touch.  There
is love and magic in your eyes.  I've never seen so much beauty."
     "I can believe you," Qualen said, pure awe in his tone.  "You
make me beautiful."
     "Then you will always be so, for I will never leave you."
     More tears spilled as Qualen, unable to say what he felt
anymore, turned back to his loving task, taking the hot and slick
erection in his mouth deeply and sucking hard.
     Sir John touched Qualen then, stroking his soft strength with
no thought of anyone who had been with him before.  He thought of
taking Qualen into his own mouth, and into his body without fear. 
And then he thought of being inside Qualen and he came, with force,
while only briefly stopping his strokes along his lover's own hot
and slick erection before, even in his daze of pleasure, he sped
his hand and increased the pressure.  Qualen came with a cry, and
fell to the bed beside him, his head lying along the inside of Sir
John's thigh, his hip catching the man's hand under his body.
     And they lay that way for a timeless time.
     "The king will not appreciate any delay from us," Sir John
said finally.
     "You're right."  Qualen lifted himself reluctantly, grimacing
a bit at the drying sticky semen around his groin.  He walked
quickly to the basin and washed himself, quite proud of having
licked Sir John clean, and then dressed in his traveling robes.
     After they were outfitted and had taken breakfast in the
kitchen, it was an easy matter to leave Wester with the housekeeper
with strict instructions to write his mother about his change in
fortunes.  To Qualen's relief, the king seemed to feel no further
discussion was called for and did not call them to his rooms.  The
stables gave them all their gear and a strong mare for Qualen, and
they were on their way.
     They had traveled several miles in companionable silence and
were walking their horses when Sir John finally asked, "You said
the king tried to get at you.  What did he do?"
     Qualen was silent a long time, knowing why they had to talk of
these things, and yet, it was so hard.  "Ever since the loss of his
son, he has been punishing me.  The Ferin raid was my idea."
     "It was a noble crusade."
     Qualen smiled sadly.  "I should have thought things through
more.  But Prince David would not wait, and the king could not bear
to see his son's impatience.  We were off before we had prepared,
and when it was over, the faults of the crusade were suddenly all
mine.  The Coven shunned me for a time, until the truth came to
them, and even now we are estranged.  And the king has punished me
in a thousand small ways, the greatest of which, the keeping of my
most powerful charm, I only just learned, as you saw.  He has also
kept me at home almost constantly.  And at night, sometimes, he
calls me to his room and tells me to...touch him.  I always
refuse...but then he masturbates in front of me."
     "What pleasure can that give him?"  Sir John's voice was
choked on rage, but he needed to understand this.
     "He does not do it for his own pleasure, but to remind me of
what I am, and what I lack...or, what I lacked."  Qualen's voice
and face metamorphosed as he truly realized he was speaking of the
past.  "All my life I have had nothing to offer others but base
service to the Kingdom of Unverse, my skills as an agitator in the
Coven, and nothing to gain from others but the knowledge of my own
separation.  To touch another without love was torture for me, a
torture even greater than being alone.  He knew this.  And if he
knew that you have saved me, he would try to keep you from me as
well."
     Sir John snarled.  "He would not succeed."  The knight turned
to his lover and the rage died.  "Is this...really how you feel?" 
The walls of the world quivered.
     But Qualen only nodded.  "It is as I have always felt, my
love."
     Sir John moved in almost a blur of speed, tying off the horses
and then shoving Qualen against the nearest tree before dropping to
his knees, freeing his lover's growing erection, and then taking
Qualen into his mouth.  His only thought of Sir Borogin was to
marvel at how completely different this was, and then his heart
almost burst with love and joy, feeling Qualen's pleasure,
listening to the music of his cries, drinking in the warm semen his
movements drew forth, and then rising to share the taste of his
lover with those full, sensual lips.
     "Beautiful," the knight murmured into his kisses.  "Mine."
     "Yours."  Qualen interrupted the kiss to trail the his lips
over each arched brow.  "Mine?"
     Sir John chuckled.  "Yours."

     In the Valley of the Ferin King, a high tower had withstood
the winds for seven generations.  A steel lattice work supported
the stone of the thick walls, and the walls themselves had been
planted deeply into the ground.  
     A thick oak door at the base was the only entrance or exit,
this door was only opened once a day, to bring in food and take out
waste, and allow the prisoner to walk twenty times around the base
of the tower.
     Then the prisoner would go back into the world without light,
seeing nothing and no one until the Ferin slaves returned, hurling
insults, spitting in the prisoner's food, cuffing the weakened form
with cruel laughter.  In time, these visits became the high point
for the prisoner of each day.

     "We've put in a good day's ride," Sir John noted with
satisfaction as they rubbed down their horses.  A rabbit was
cooking over the fire, and they had found a small stream with clear
water.  
     "You sound so surprised."  Qualen smiled at the peace in his
heart. 
     The knight shrugged.  "There's not many a wizard who can
handle a horse worth much.  Why did you learn?"
     Qualen shrugged.  "I don't like depending on others.  Someone
who can't ride is a liability and a burden.
     "Couldn't you just whip up a magic carpet?"
     Qualen had never been teased before, not with love, and so
didn't know how to respond at first.  It was an act of trust, he
realized, to believe he was not being cruelly mocked, to risk
teasing this man back.
     "Well, they're so...impractical.  Really quite worthless in a
battle."
     "Really?"
     "Hm.  One swipe from someone's sword, and you're trying to
bestride a pile of rags."
     Sir John laughed and grabbed Qualen close, pressing a loving
kiss on his lips before turning to the fire the wizard had gotten
going so quickly.  But the jovial words he'd been about to speak
halted as hands came to his waist.  He could feel his lover's
hesitant desire in that warmth behind him, and spoke his heart:
     "I am yours to touch anytime you wish, Qualen.  Do you still
doubt it?"
     In response the arms enfolded him and held him close a long,
long time, then a mouth softly nibbled along the back of his neck.
     "John, do you want to...be inside me?"
     "No."  The mouth stilled, and Sir John could not help a
playful smile his lover could not see.  "Well, yes, of course, I
do.  But I want you to take me first."
     Qualen's breath caught.  "Why?"
     "I remember...the pain of being taken against my will.  If I
take you, I will be haunted by those memories, fearful that I could
not be bringing you pleasure.  I know that nothing you could do to
me would be less than wonderful, but I need you to *show* me. 
Prove to me that it feels as good as I think it will, and then I
can take you without fear."
     Qualen was panting with need at those simple words.  "What
if...I wanted to take you right now? right here?"
     In answer, Sir John reached for his jerkin, but the wizard
muttered, "Wait, wait," and ran to his supplies.  The rabbit was
only beginning to cook, and the bedrolls were still bundled. 
Quickly, he spread out the thick covers near the fire and then drew
his Making Box from his robes and set it to signal them if there
were any intruders approaching.  The man watched his haste with
loving amusement, and felt his fear dissipate as Qualen fumbled
further with the supplies.  Finally, smiling triumphantly, the
wizard turned with a small clay jar in his hands.
     "What's that?" Sir John asked, striding towards the bedding.
     "A mixture of aloe, lard and rose oil."
     "For what?"
     Tears came to Qualen's eyes.  He would find Sir Borogin's
grave and spit on it.  "You don't know?"
     Sir John shifted uncomfortably.  "No."  It smelled vaguely
like something a woman might use.
     "It's to help...to make it easier for you...for me to be
inside you."
     The man's brows shot up, then he smiled.  "There would seem to
be definite advantages to having a wizard for a lover."
     Qualen laughed and felt drunk.  The knight was no wizard, but
there was true magic in his words.  He then set down the jar and
shed his heavy outer robe.  The fire's heat reached them, but the
cool evening had settled as well.  He could not help smiling at the
thought of how he would stay warm this night.
     But Sir John trusted him to do this right, and so he laid a
cloth upon the bedding he could easily wash in the stream before he
turned to the knight and helped him off with his clothes.  They
were easier with each other now, though both seemed a little clumsy
with the thought of what they were doing.  Finally, Qualen simply
asked, "Are you sure you don't want me to go first?'
     The man seemed to want to speak, but instead shook his head
and then laid himself down naked on his stomach on the bedclothes,
and it took all Qualen's discipline not to gasp.
     "My love," he murmured, kneeling down at Sir John's side, "who
did this to you?"  With the gentlest of touches, he traced one of
the deep scars upon the knight's back.
     The man's compact body shivered.  "It was years ago."
     "Not so many years," Qualen said sadly.  The scars were still
dark.
     "It was a battle.  I was caught by the Cadasseens.  They
wanted to know what I knew of our captain's forces."
     "I'm so sorry."  He traced another scar.  "If I were a better
wizard I could take these away."
     Sir John actually chuckled, though the edge in it tore at
Qualen's heart.  "Do you find them so ugly?"
     "Ohhh," Qualen breathed, stung and hating himself.  "Never." 
He bent down so that his breath caressed the man's back.  "A
soldier must have his battle scars.  Each line is a mark of your
courage."  And then he traced a line of kisses down one scar, then
up another, gently, carefully, not missing a centimeter of the dark
pink lines.  The wind shifted slightly, and the sharp smell of the
burning wood filled their lungs as they began to breathe deeply in
rising passion.
     "You did not ask me if I talked," Sir John said quietly.
     "I do not care what you told them.  I only care that you were
hurt."  Qualen began again at the first scar, using now the tip of
his tongue.  He paused at the end of one line.  "If they could be
resisted, I'm sure that you did.  I know that many would not have
survived, and that you did.  And for that I am only grateful."  He
applied himself to his task once more.
     That gentle touch on his back and those simple words were
driving all but desire from the man's mind, and the walls of the
world shivered in protest as the buried part of himself insisted
that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.  Fiercely,
knowing it was vital, he concentrated on his life in this world and
felt the universe steady around him.  He had never before wanted
what he wanted now.
     "Please, Qualen.  Don't make me wait any longer."
     It was getting rather cool, and so the wizard drew up the
bedding as he sat naked next to Sir John.  Again the beauty of this
enfolded him, making him feel safe and complete.  With shifting, he
brought Sir John over on his side and stroked his right hand over
the man's chest.  Slowly, he made his way down, and chuckled.
     "You're more than ready, aren't you?"  Gently he grasped the
hardness he found there, using his thumb to spread the drop of
precum over the velveteen head.  His lover groaned.
     Meanwhile, his other hand was digging out a scoop of the balm
from the clay pot, and then he slowly brought it to Sir John's
cleft, rubbing the soft lubricant every-so-gently around his
opening, and then using the minimal pressure needed to push a
little inside.
     "That feels good," Sir John said, then seemed to cut himself
off. 
     Qualen steadied himself with a deep breath.  So many scars. 
"Did that...pig tell you to be quiet?  Have you trained yourself to
endure all in silence?"  Sir John shuddered and Qualen knew he was
right.  "Please, if you love me, speak to me.  Tell me how I feel,
what you want, anything you want.  I love your voice.  I love you. 
I want to know I'm making you feel the way you want."  Qualen
punctuated that last request by sliding a long finger deep inside
and stroking that special spot, and Sir John groaned so loudly the
wizard felt awash in triumph.
     *How can there be such a difference?* Sir John wondered,
groaning again and again.  How could this be so like being raped
and yet nothing like it at all?  How could he give himself so
completely to this wizard when he had fought all his life not to be
taken, not to be assimilated, not to be broken?
     *Could* he give himself completely?  He knew that he desired
it.  But was he capable?
     "What can I do for you?"
     Qualen stilled at the question.
     "Love, you're *doing* it.  You're letting me make love with
you."
     "It's not enough.  I was...taken before, connected and
absorbed and made One against my will."  The walls of the world
threatened to buckle, but Sir John was crying Picard's tears now,
and couldn't stop.  "I am scarred and flawed and covered in others'
dirty handprints, no part of me unused by another before I could
give it to you."
     "My love, my love."  Qualen leaned down and buried his face
against Sir John's neck, Q's tears trickling down to mingle with
Jean-Luc's.  "How can you think that?  How can you..."  But the
world would collapse now, and Amanda lost, if they did not both
reenter this fantasy immediately.
     Yet Q could not let this evil delusion of Picard's continue.
     And then, still crying, he smiled and rolled the man on his
stomach.
     "I'm going to enter you now."
     Gently, but with force, he pressed his lubricated erection to
that tight opening and pushed inside.
     "Ughhh," Sir John breathed out, amazed at the lack of pain. 
A wave of warmth radiated from that smooth friction.  "Ohhh. 
More."
     "You like this?"  For Qualen it was bliss.  He had never felt
anything so right, but he forced himself to speak as though he were
not completely overcome.
     "Yes."
     "You want me deep inside you?"
     "Yes."
     "Because you love me?"
     "Yes."
     "And have you ever given *that* to another?  Has your love
been used by others?  Is your heart covered in dirty handprints, or
do not the people you have loved and whom you still love only keep
you clean and strong inside?  Did they not help make room for me?" 
As though in illustration, Qualen was moving now inside the
embracing heat of his lover, closing his eyes and shuddering with
the bliss of it.  "Do they, being worthy because you love them, not
make me fit company?  You have been used, you have been taken, but
you did not give to those who came to take.  They could not make
you want to give."
     Sir John had his legs spread wide, pressing himself into the
bedding, feeling nothing but his lover body inside him, thinking of
nothing but his lover's words.
     "I gave...no one my heart...no one myself...before you."
     "And so it was...and is pristine and pure...and perfect. 
Like...you."
     "I would do...*anything* for you."
     "Then believe what I say.  Do that for me."
     "But...I cannot do...magic."
     "Thank the stars.  We must have...something which is
separate...something which...we need in the other.  The more...we
are...different...the greater we...become together.  I could not be
a knight."
     And Sir John laughed, feeling something deep inside, in the
"real" part of himself, relax at long, long last, and then he was
incapable of speech, overwhelmed in a rush by what they were doing,
what *he* was doing:  face-down in the horse-smell of the bedding
by the campfire over which a wild rabbit was turning crispy as he
was feeling now fucked and fucked and *fucked* by the wondrous
lover he had found.  There was still so much to be thought through,
but for right now there was only Qualen's penis inside him, heat
radiating out to his fingers and toes as though it would burn
Qualen's identity onto and into his every nerve, Qualen's hands at
his sides, Qualen's frantic cries of pleasure, Qualen's love,
dancing in that sweet firelight all through his body...
     And now he himself was groaning constantly, pushing back as
best he could, spreading his legs wider and arching his back and
forcing out little half-words of love and pleasure.
     "Yes!" he shouted, meaning it in a thousand ways, and came. 
Dimly, he knew a final pulse of heat and pressure as Qualen thrust
deep and poured himself in even deeper.
     *I can hold it all,* the man thought before he fell into the
warm darkness.  *All of his love, his need, his desire.  He cannot
fill me too full.  I can never have enough.*  

     The prisoner had only completed the fifth circuit around the
tower's base when the Scourge came.
     An army, a hoarde, they fell from the skies upon the guards,
who, though they were being torn to shreds, managed to throw the
prisoner back into the tower.
     After that, there was nothing but the battering of the
dragon's bodies against the stones, the cries of the prisoner, and
the dying screams of the Ferin guards.

     Sir John slid into his saddle and winced.
     "Are you all right?"
     The knight looked a bit shy.  "Just a little sore."
     "I'm sorry."
     "I'm not."
     "I love you."
     "And I you."
     "Perhaps...tomorrow...I could be sore?"
     Sir John actually blushed, and his lover beamed.  "As sore as
you like."
     "I'll hold you to that."
     The man thought simply of spreading that rose cream along
Qualen's cleft and quivered inside.  Now that he had been in a
saddle awhile the soreness was diminishing, but his hose were
getting rather tight.  He shook his head slightly.  He was hardly
acting like a knight on a mission to save the prince was supposed
to be acting.  But then, how many knights got to find out how
wonderful it was to make love with Qualen?
     "What's so funny?"
     "I'm thinking of what a distraction you are."
     Qualen was content with that for several miles, then began to
chat of inconsequential things:  bits and pieces of his life as a
court wizard.  He made the amazing discovery that things which had
been awkward and even painful when they occurred became funny when
he told them to Sir John.  He found himself getting more detailed,
mimicing the voice of King Mortaline:   "'Your magic won't be
enough for the Ferin this day.'
     "'But, sire,'" Qualen said, somehow managing to exaggerate his
own voice.  "'The Ferin have already retreated.'
     "'Not by your doing, I'm sure.'"
     Or the time a visiting princess of ten broke into his workshop
and splattered what she thought was red ink on her dress and then
vomitted when she realized what it really was.
     "'Grand Wizard,'" Qualen said in a perfect imitation of the
housekeeper's shrill tones, "'I do not believe you have ever called
upon the servants to clean your rooms before.  It is refreshing to
realize that there are some things beyond even your magics.'"
     Or the time he first realized he was attracted to men as well
as women.
     "'What are ye looking at?'" Qualen growled, placing his hand
at the hilt of an imaginary sword.  "'Is that a spell yer makin'?'"
     Sir John wiped tears from bright eyes and laughed until his
stomach ached, privately very sad for his lover's past and yet
pleased with knowing Qualen realized he could share his life like
this.  Later, he would give his lover a kiss for every sad word, a
caress for every lonely minute.
     Sir John told stories as well, though their humor was often
tinged with tragic adventures.  He told of his times in the Court
of the Star Gazers, where the duke had fallen, calling for Sir John
to take his place in battle.  Though he had led the people to
victory, there had been no celebrations, only the people's grief
for their kind leige.
     And of the time he was asked to help settle the dispute over
which two warrior princes would rule in the Cingon Realm.  He
described the scheming sister princesses who courted him with
seductive promises of power and sex.  He told of the battle the
princes had waged, and how his own squire -- who was now Sir Wolf,
a brave knight in his own right -- had revealed enough personal
honor to help bring the best man to power.
     And Qualen told him a story of the time there had been a
division in the Coven, and of a queen of a small kingdom with no
magic who had helped them resolve the dispute.
     And Sir John found himself relating a strange dream he had
once had of living a whole different life with a wife and children
who had all seemed so real that he wept with loss upon waking.
     And Qualen told him of a little dragon girl he had once helped
to return to her own lands.  Her eyes were flame and she could
spread out her wings to fly so close to the sun it had burned the
color from her hair.  She was a creature full of untapped power who
had been cruelly spearated from her parents as a babe.
     And Sir John told of the time he had gone to Wester's mother
to tell her the news of her husband's death, and the admiration he
had had for the woman as she took over the managing of the family's
lands and raised her son on her own.
     And only the realization that the day was ending brought a
close to the stories, as they turned their energies to making camp,
with another fire and a rabbit to cook over it, the bedding to
arrange, the horses to tend to, and some unexpected wine Qualen
pulled from a bag with a smile.
     "You know," Sir John said as he sipped the wine from his
goblet, legs spread towards the fire and his body pleasantly full
from the meal and tired from the day's ride, "you did not answer me
before, when I asked about your magic.  Is it something of which
you cannot speak?"
     From the other side of the fire, his legs stretched out as
well, his boots almost touching Sir John's, Qualen thought hard. 
"I can speak of it.  It is simply not easy.  I have studied my
whole life to be what I am, and I am still exploring, still trying
to figure things out, especially now that I have met you."
     "What have I to do with your magic?"
     Qualen shrugged helplessly.  "Loving you has changed me
completely.  How could it help but affect my magic?"
     "How?"
     "I don't *know,* my love.  I know that it will be for the
good, but I don't know how."
     "Then it could weaken you?"
     Qualen laughed, and there was nothing forced about it.  "No. 
How could you make me anything but stronger and better, being what
you are?"  Qualen looked suddenly ashamed.  "Though perhaps my
influence will leave you weaker."
     Sir John didn't laugh.  He felt insulted.  "I'm stronger now
than I have ever been!"
     Qualen started laughing again.  "We're ridiculous, the two of
us.  So worried for the other, so certain we are unfairly getting
too much from our joining."
     Sir John's rage evaporated into good humor, and soon he was
laughing as well.
     "Just as long as *I* never become magical."
     Qualen stopped laughing.
     After a second, so did Sir John.
     The walls of the world shimmered.
     "You will never be a wizard," Qualen said at last, "but you
are becoming...a part of me, and I'm a wizard."
     Sir John gripped his wine goblet hard.  "What does that...? 
Yes, I know.  You don't know what it means.  But you must have a
guess."
     "I know only that what applies to me must apply to you as
well."
     "Qualen..."  Lord, this was so dangerous.  He could feel the
fragility all around him, but he had to know.  The conversation he
had put off for so long now simply must be made.  His eyes fell to
the purple robe.  "Qualen, I have heard that wizards are made of
star stuff."
     Qualen frowned before his expressive eyes flashed in
understanding.  "We are.  But so are all...people.  We just...have
more of it."
     "And so being with you will give me more as well?"
     "Inevitably.  But it will be...my star stuff.  We will...share
it.  In time we will be equal owners of it."
     "And so it will sustain us both?"
     Qualen looked at him, his earnestness almost painful.  "I knew
a wizard once who wanted to lose his magic.  He couldn't.  It is a
part of us, a part of our star stuff.  We can do...so much with
magic, but we cannot be other than what we are."
     "So you're saying that in our union, you cannot control the
nature of how I will be changed?"
     "It's not too late."  Qualen pronounced it like a death
sentence.  "You can...reject me, reject whatever changes may
perhaps have been caused.  I cannot help..."  The world shimmered
like a soap bubble.  One wrong word and they would be back on that
ship between the stars.  One other wrong word, and Disaster.  The
end of everything.
     Locked inside Sir John, Picard forced himself, as quietly as
possible, to think of what his death would mean to Q, to imagine
Q's life after Q had *allowed* him to die.  He thought of Q facing
eternity without him, and then he made himself to go further and
think of himself facing eternity without Q.
     Picard had always believed that humans had a personal role in
eternity, that somehow sentience...continued.  But he had been
comfortable with ambiguity, looking ahead without fear to the
adventure beyond death.  Now that adventure would be...not lost. 
He did not believe even Q was capable of such a thing.  No. 
     But it would be greatly postponed.  Who was to say what he
would be after an enternity with Q?  His mortality had defined him. 
But so had his loneliness.  To give up what he was seemed vital if
he were to join with Q.  And yet he would still be himself, just a
greatly prolonged version of himself who would face all nature of
changes and challenges beyond him imagining.  Prolonged by an
eternity.
     An eternity with Q.  Mated to Q.  That was what *married* to
Q meant.  That was the true nature of the promise he wanted to
make.
     But it was only opposed, he thought, to an eternity without
him.  If Picard forced Q to let him go where the entity could not
follow, death meant, if nothing else, no Q.
     So instead he would spend eternity with Q, and be glad to have
the choice.  
     Unaware of the agony Sir John's blank expression was causing
his lover, Picard admitted to himself that he was glad Q did *not*
know where this shared immortality would lead them.  Eternity, like
all time, had to be taken second by second.  He realized with
pleasure the depth of their new adventure.  
     The world shivered and slid back into its place, and Sir John
smiled at Qualen with pure and pristine joy.  *This* was certainly
something Picard could give Q that he had never given before.
     "Sir John," Qualen spoke an instant before the man could open
his mouth.  "If you would rather...I could call upon the Coven
to...take away my magic.  We could...I would..."
     Urgently, Sir John held up a hand, and smiled tenderly, his
heart full and his head light.  
     "I would rather we shared your star stuff."
     Whatever horrors of immortality might await him, the man
thought in full solemnity, they were worth seeing now the
expression on his lover's face.  Sir John sat there an endless
moment, drinking in the warmth of those dark eyes, before setting
down his wine and moving as quickly as he could to Qualen's side.
     "I love you," Sir John said before leaning in for a gentle
kiss.  "I'm sorry to have worried you."
     "I...*cannot* be without you again."
     "I told you I would never leave you."
     "You could have meant those words many different ways."
     "I did.  I do.  I mean them in every way.  Nothing can rid you
of me."
     "Kiss me some more."
     Deeply the man plunged his tongue into Qualen's mouth,
caressing the roof with just the tip, curling around his lover's
tongue, thrusting in and out as he felt his whole body respond.  
     It had to be a wizard who could do so much to him, the man
thought dreamily.  There was white and white-hot magic in each look
and sensation.  It set him afire, and he found his hands stripping
off his lover's clothes.  Part of him expected Qualen to object to
his roughness, but part of him knew he would not.  A third and
larger part was too busy thinking about fucking him to care.
     "Where is it?" the man muttered.
     Qualen groaned and reached into the bedding for the small clay
jar, then shuddered, his groans continuing steadily as Sir John set
down the jar and rolled his lover over.  He would have pushed
Qualen to his stomach, but the wizard quickly set himself on knees
and elbows, arching his back.  And at the sight of that naked body
and smooth ass offered with such eloquent urgency, Sir John quickly
got a generous portion of the lubricant into his hand and began
working it inside that tight space he wanted so desperately to
enter..
     Qualen spoke so softly he almost couldn't hear him.
     "Please, be...just...all at once.  Please.  Just take me all
at once."
     Desire twisted through him as Sir John rose on his knees, only
then quite noticing that he was still fully dressed.  His dry hand
fumbled with his hose and petard, and his painfully trapped
erection was freed, the fluid from the tip falling in one thick
teardrop even as he placed himself within that cleft.  Oh, this was
going to feel good.
     Clamping his hands on Qualen's hips firmly, forcing his eyes
to stay open even though the blood rushing through him made the dim
evening light seem like night, the man held a shallow breath and
plunged in to the base of his cock with one forceful stroke before
holding quite still to keep from coming.
     Qualen howled and did come.  He didn't mean to, but it was too
much.  He was being filled with the man he loved who by some spell
beyond his reasoning loved him back.  Sir John's cock had been big
in his mouth, and now stretched him with sharp pleasure tinged with
just enough pain to feel it all.  The thrust itself had been
perfect in force and angle, and the heat in his body had not built
up but exploded, crashing out from his center to his fingers and
toes and to each barrier of his consciousness in one instant.  Only
in the aftermath, curled back against his legs, still impaled on
his hard lover, could he realize what had happened.  He was going
to apologize when Sir John, rather than being annoyed, chuckled.
     "Oh, I've got to see that happen again."
     And then the man began to move, long powerful thrusts that
felt so good Qualen's post-coital haze was ripped away with the
return of the knife-sharp pleasure.  He arched his back again and
spread his knees a bit wider, moaning into the bedclothes.
     "Yes," Sir John was saying, finding a driving, pounding
rhythm, jerking back with his arms and thrusting with his hips and
feeling this the way he had never felt being inside anyone before. 
It wasn't just the rougher noise and tighter heat than from being
inside a woman.  In fact, that was the least of it.  It was being
inside someone he loved, someone whose pleasure, in meaning so much
more than his own, added so much more *to* his own.  Each jerk of
Qualen's long pale body, each gasp and groan and plea by that
incredibly expressive voice, each time he felt Qualen's buttocks
and passage clench around his hard cock, each thrust against the
tops of his thighs and down to the base of his erection, each drop
of sweat he felt within his grip or saw reflecting the firelight,
each toss of the wizard's dark head, everything and anything that
was his lover seemed to multiply his pleasure, an upwards spiral
that forced everything but heavy bliss from his existence.
     And somehow on top of all that, there was the vivid memory of
watching Qualen come when he had first thrust inside.  He hadn't
been expecting it, but, he suspected, neither had his more
experienced lover.  It had been incredible, watching his whole body
tense up and then convulse.  He had actually heard Qualen's cum
splatter on the fine tight weave of the outer layer of the bedding. 
It was wonderful to know that he had done that for him.  It was
wonderful to think that now he could do it again.
     Wanting to go harder and deeper so fiercely it almost
frightened him, Sir John became worried his thrusts were too much,
and eased them slightly.  He would not hurt Qualen for the wide
world.
     But Qualen whimpered immediately, "No, please.  Don't stop. 
More.  Harder."
     "I love...you...I love doing...what makes you feel...good."
     "Then you should...ughhhh...yes...more...Yes!...be....very
happy."
     "I...*am.*"
     "Oh!  I don't want...to come...yet!"
     "Think of...ugly things."
     Qualen actually laughed, gasping and groaning so much it was
hard for Sir John to recognize the new noises at first.  "I
should...think of...the king...touching...himself."
     Sir John sped up his rythm to drive that image out of his
lover's head, then found to his surprise that he was speaking.  "I
sometimes...think of battles...fallen bodies...burnt
villages...ohhhhh"
     Qualen had clenched down hard inside his ass, releasing and
clenching again in perfect rhythm, grunting in triumph when Sir
John's words ended with that long moan.
     The wizard forced out the words, concentrating on forming each
careful sound.  "I have to...keep away from...thoughts of
being...here.  Naked.  With you...dressed...behind me."  Sir John
groaned some more.  "For the rest of my life...whenever you
want...you can strip me...and fuck me just as...you are,
wherever...we are...whoever...whatever...just lift up...my robe
and...fuck me...I'll stop wearing...underclothes and just...be
naked underneath...for you and...you can...just push me down...over
a chair or...on the ground and...stick your beautiful cock inside
me...hard and deep and...fuck me and fuck me and fuck me and *fuck
me!*"
     Sir John came.  Screaming, shooting himself deep inside the
wizard's perfect body, pressing ten small bruises onto his hips and
pounding one last time deep inside before everything went dark, he
collapsed on his lover even as Qualen was screaming and shooting
again onto the bedding.  With the man's weight to speed him, Qualen
dropped completely to the padded ground.
     When the man awoke, he cleaned them off with that cloth they
had used the night before, loaded the fire with more wood, shivered
in the night air, and then with great relish snuggled down into the
Qualen-warmed bedding to dream of a ship that flew between the
stars.

     The Ferin King looked through the Making Cyllander at the two
men sleeping by the small fire under the dawn light and muttered
curses.  *These* were the champions of Mortaline?  Newlyweds on a
honeymoon, more like.  The king picked his sharp teeth and listened
to the wind, then turned to the eight thousand Ferin soldiers
behind him.
     "Parle."
     The Ferin Queen, who was standing proudly and nude by his
side, nodded simple agreement.  The soldiers silently waved their
swords, the sunlight flashing off the metal as brightly as the
greed shone in their eyes.

     "John!" Qualen called, shaking his lover on the shoulder.  
     "What?" the knight snapped instantly awake, his right hand
reaching for rhis sword.  
     "My Making Box is picking something up.  I don't know what."
     The soldier and the wizard scrambled into their clothes and
had their gear packed on their horses before whatever it was got
close enough to see.  
     They did not, however, have time to mount.
     The first blow came from behind Qualen.  The wizard twirled to
confront the enemy, only to be confronted in return with over a
thousand of the heavily armed trolls.  With no thought to how this
army might interpret the movement, he turned back to Sir John, and
found the knight surrounded by drawn swords.
     Their horses were slaughtered, screaming with pain and falling
to the dirt as blood poured from multiple wounds.
     "You cannot think --" Sir John began when the dust had
settled.
     "You will be silent!" commanded one of the trolls, a better
dressed figure than the others, his elaborate headgear sparkling
with jewels and his sharp teeth revaled in a ferile leer.  "None of
Unverse may walk our lands without punishment, and yet you come as
though you had personal leave."
     "We're not --" Qualen began imperiously, only to be silenced
as a sword jabbed him in the ribs.  Where had all these little
creatures come from?  His Making Box hadn't suggested such power,
and yet now they covered the valley, their hairless heads like
obscene mushrooms, turning the land into a festering pit of unclean
parasites.  Qualen thought of at least a dozen spells he could use
to turn these little men into swine or vermin...but several of them
were a little too close to Sir John.  
     "You will speak when we have made it clear that we wish to
hear you," said the one who had spoken before.  "And that will not
be for some time, I think."
     The other trolls seemed to like this idea, and muttered with
approval.
     Sir John met Qualen's eyes, and suddenly the wizard felt his
anger dissipate.  This fantasy realm was not enough to fill him
with true terror.  Inside he knew he was safe, and yet there was
concern.  He and Sir John could be hurt here, even if the damage
were phsyically temporary.  Human bodies were so frail.  
     And so it was fairly easy to submit as the Ferin tied Qualen
at his hands and feet, shoved a thick black bag over his head, and
shoved him onto one of their little carts.  It was harder to watch
them first shove Sir John into another cart, but it was clear he
wasn't being hurt.  There was a great deal of movement and dust,
and it was terribly uncomfortable here at the bottom of the cart as
they began the long journey back to the Ferin's keep.  His hands
lost blood and grew numb, and there was a horrible cramp which
began in his side not long after he had been dumped like a sack of
potatoes into the wooden box on wheels.
     And it was hard not to resent Amanda as he knew that Sir John
was as bad in his cart off as Qualen was in his.  Unfortunately,
there was little the wizard could do.  He had hidden away his
Marking Box before the Ferin came, and he had several others
spell-making accoutrements about his person, but not so much that
he could just wave the Ferin out of existence.
     And so for hours he lay there, making the journey from
discomfort to pain to simply not caring about himself any more. 
With the heat and the uncertainty came a strange desire simply not
to think about his surroundings.  He found himself instead thinking
of things he wanted to tell Sir John, things he wanted to do to Sir
John's body, expressions he wanted to see on Sir John's face, words
he wanted to hear spoken in Sir John's voice.
     Was Sir John thinking about him?  He wished desperately there
were some way to know.
     When the cart eventually stopped its jolts and kicks and was
drawn along a smooth path, Qualen tried to listen carefully.  They
were definitely in some sort of town, and the voices around them
became a chorus.  He could hear the echoes off the city walls, and
eventually he felt the loss of the hot sunlight on his body.  His
face, overheated and slick with sweat, felt the loss of the heat
through the thick black cloth.
     Finally the movement of the cart stopped, and he stifled
groans of discomfort as hands dragged him from the wooden surface. 
He was shoved onto his feet, and the bag was ripped from his head. 
There was some sort of bright light -- a fire -- and then he was
staring at treasure.
     Mountains of  gold, jewels, silver, more jewels, shining
goblets and ancient filigreed armor and swords and more gold and
jewels and all of it jumbled together in a massive heap.
     And all of it unclean.
     Qualen recoiled from the black magic stench of it.  The whole
mess had come fresh from some infected dragon's lair.  It was as if
he could see the black blood of the Scourge on each shiny surface.
     Flinching from it, he made eyes contact with the Ferin leader
-- doubtlessly the king -- who had captured them.
     Them.  
     Qualen jerked his gaze from those gleaming eyes and searched
the room.  No sign of Sir John.
     "You are the Grand Wizard Qualen," said the Ferin leader. 
"You will cleanse this for us."
     "I most certainly will not.  An army of wizard couldn't clean
that junk up."
     "You will cleanse this for us or we will cause you pain beyond
your dreaming."
     Qualen rolled his eyes.  "Do you really think you can hurt me? 
I am a wizard.  Nothing happens to me that I don't allow."
     The troll sneered at him.  "I did not say how we would cause
you pain."
     "I noticed.  Didn't exactly make your threat seem weighty."
     "We will chop off the knight's bow finger and give it to you."
     Qualen almost smiled.  If this fantasy world thought for one
moment that he was going to let Jean-Luc be that hurt, it could
take what humans used to call a flying fuck.  Amanda's rescue
wasn't *that* important.
     But then...would Picard agree?  How much would the man blame
him for balking?  The treasure stank of the filth of the universe,
the Scourge had premeated each molecule unbearably.  But he had
enough magic hear to clean it sufficiently, given time, for Ferin
standards.  Would Picard forgive him for sacrificing Amanda?  Of
course, they could still try to find her. This world was their best
hope, but not their only chance...
     Oh, but the world's boundaries were shimmering now, the ground
seeming less solid every moment he stood here, thinking of what he
would and would not do.
     "It's night," Qualen said, grasping at his detailed knowledge
of the spells at his command.  "I could not begin until the
morning."
     The Ferin leader scowled at him.  "We have heard the Scourge's
stench is worse at night, but..."
     "It's more than just a question of aroma," Qualen sniffed. 
"My magic is white, and the magic of your amassed trinkets is
black.  It feeds from the night.  Trying to cleanse things now
would involve primarily wasted effort.
     The Ferin leader nodded once, then, without warning, slapped
Qualen across the face hard enough to knock him down.
     Qualen's rage was almost overcome by Q's fury.  The world
quavered as he kept himself down on the floor by sheer will.
     "You will address me as His Majesty!" the Ferin king spat. 
"And you will speak in more respectful tones, or I will hang your
knight up by his balls and feed his eyes to my dogs!"
     "Yes...sir," Qualen somehow managed to get out, keeping his
eyes on the ground.  When he got his hands on Amanda...
     The Ferin king laughed, his earhairs wiggling at the sight of
the Grand Wizard sprawled on his floor.  However, he knew better
than to push the wizard too far...yet.  Snapping his fingers, the
king summoned up three guards who grabed Qualen by his shoulders,
and half-pushed, half-dragged him down a long series of dark,
narrow halls.  Oh, the torments he was going to unleash on these
Ferin as soon as he knew John was safe!
     But as the rough journey continued Qualen became most
unwelcomingly aware that he was tired.  The long, difficult ride in
the cart, the simple lateness of the hour, the worrying about his
lover -- his real, flesh-and-blood lover -- even in the midst of
all this the knowledge of Sir John's reality made his body sing --
it was all piling up, and now his steps grew heavy and he felt a
longing for rest quite unknown to him.
     "In here," one of the Ferin guards snarled, shoving him
through a doorway whiuch instantly shut behind him, leaving him in
total darkness.  Qualen stood still a long moment, listening to the
Ferin feet walk off, then whispered, "Igne conclavum," and watch a
faint light rise in the room.
     He was alone, and that hurt worse than anything so far.  How
could they lock him up without Sir John?  How was he supposed to
bear this?
     Frowning at the tremmor in his hands, he drew forth his Making
Box and opened it, adjusting the settings until it gave him the
first welcome news in some time.  Sir John was in the cell adjacent
to his own, and seemed unharmed.
     In fact, Qualen actually smiled, and made his way to the wall
which connected their cells before kneeling down to find the small
chink in the bricks.  With a bit of scrabbling, he loosened and dug
out enough to break through the wall just a bit.
     "Qualen?" Sir John's voice called through the opening, and
Qualen felt his heart skip a beat in response to that beautiful
sound.
     "John," he murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead
against the cold stones in relief.  "You're all right?"
     "Yes, I'm fine.  What did they do to you?  Are you hurt?  What
do they want?"
     Qualen smiled, and put his hand back into the small opening,
trying to force some more of the crumbling stone aside.  If only
the wall itself weren't a foot thick.  Slowly, he was able to push
his hand forward a little bit, and then he encountered something
new.  It was softer than the stone, but he didn't...
     With a laugh, Qualen realized what he was touching and worked
his hand around a bit more, unminding that it was getting roughened
up by the freezing cold stone.
     Finally, they had enough space worked out between them that
that they could actually work the tip of Sir John's finger between
two of Qualen's, and the wizard held that awkward grasp a long,
long moment.  He felt his heart stop pounding and a level of
tension he hadn't even known was present in his body begin to
relax.  Eventually, he heard the sound of more scraping through the
wall, and released his lover's fingertip and withdrew his hand to
work the small opening wider on his side.
     The problem was that the stone really wasn't all that decayed. 
Once he had worked through the initial fault in the rock, there
wasn't really more he could do without something to dig with
properly.  His hands were feeling quite raw now, and, with a sigh,
he told Sir John he'd made the hole as wide as he could.
     "They took my sword and dagger," Sir John said quietly.  "I
don't seem to be making much more progress either."
     "Did they feed you something at least?"  Qualen had his eyes
closed, imagining the sight of his lover sitting on the floor,
leaning against the stones, talking through this chink in the wall.
     "I'm not hungry."
     Smiling sadly now, Qualen licked the sides of his hand and
slid it as deeply as he could into the wall's opening.  Sir John
reciprocated, and they could just barely slip some of their fingers
together.
     "It's cruel of them to separate us," Qualen remarked.  "Do you
suppose that's why they did it?"
     "I can see no other reason for it.  What do they want from us? 
Do you know?"
     "They want me to clean some treasure for them.  I'd say
they've been on a raid or two into Dragonlands."
     "I'm surprised they dare face the Scourge," the knight
remarked.  It was one thing to fight the odd dragon or steal a
kit's blood, quite another to forray into the Scourge's own lands. 
"Are they in such need of treasure?"
     Qualen hadn't thought of that.  It would take desperation to
be so foolhardy, even for the Ferin.
     "They must be wanting me to clean it in preparation for
selling it.  Why would the Ferin need money?  If they have an army
well-equipped enough for attacking the Scourge, they can attack
anyone else they have in mind.  And I've never known a hungry
Ferin."
     "Theirs is the wealthiest kingdom in all the land," Sir John
agreed.   "It is difficult to see why they would want Dragon's gold
and jewels when they could simply use their wealth to buy all the
trinkets they like.  Of course, the Ferin claim they can never
acquire enough wealth, but to risk the Scourge...it doesn't make
sense."
     The knight sighed heavily and realized there was just a bit
more space then he had thought.  Perhaps his hand was shrinking
from the cold.  He used the space to rub the tip of his index
finger over the soft skin of Q's middle finger, and it seemed as if
he could feel the wizard quiver in response.
     "Have you enough light over there?" Qualen said.
     "They left me a lamp.  It's enough.  Are you very cold?"
     "My robes help.  You must be freezing."
     "It's all right.  Did they hurt you at all?"
     "No."
     "No?"
     *Sigh.*  "The king slapped me.  Wounded my dignity mostly. 
And they...threatened you."
     "Don't worry about me."
     "Is that some sort of joke?"
     "Qualen..."
     "Yes?"
     "I love you."
     The wizard shuddered that time.  Sir John was certain of it. 

     "Oh, say that again."  He worked his fingers forward just a
bit farther and felt his middle fingertip reach the thin skin
joining Sir John's middle and third finger, and when the knight
clenched his fingers together slightly, Qualen seemed to fit into
the space and be held there.
     "I said I love you.  I can't imagine not loving you.  I've
loved you since I was created, and I'll love you when we've left
this world and all others behind us."
     "I love you," Qualen said back urgently, needing so
desperately to be close he was ready to embrace the cold stones. 
Words he did not expect came from his lips.  "I tried so hard to
love before, and it never worked.  I gave up on it.  I settled for
familiarity.  I tried...before..."  Qualen gasped and wanted to
scream.
     "We have all night, I believe."  Sir John's voice was an
extraordinary blend of humor and tenderness.  "Take what time you
need to choose your words."
     Qualen sighed.  This was not something he had told another. 
It was not something Q had ever told another.
     "When I was young, very young, when the Coven was first
getting started, I was the one who was always coming up with...ways
to...interfere.  They were raids, tests, trials.  I argued that it
was wrong only to...observe distant lands.  I wanted so much more,
and there were many others like me in the Coven.  I thought that
meant something.  I saw others forming...bonds.  I leapt to this as
I had to everything else.  And there was one, a sorcoress.  It took
me billions...such a long tome to realize that we would never
be...what so many others, even in the Coven, managed.  There are
always problems with...mixing star stuff, but there was love there. 
Love among all of them, but with every passing...day, I knew I was
not a part of that."
     Qualen paused a long time, and Sir John could do nothing but
hold tight the fingers of his lover's right hand, and remember to
breathe.
     "In time, lack of love grew to dislike.  I told myself I
enjoyed being unpopular.  I told myself I did not need love.  I
told myself it was for the weak.  I prided myself on the
relationships I had formed, and enjoyed feeling less...connected
than the others in the Coven.  My freedom from
such...connections..."
     Qualen actually panted in frustration.  
     "My love," Sir John murmured.  "I do know what it means to
think of your loneliness as an advantage.  To count it as an asset. 
And then to realize it has become a part of your identity, and then
to hate it, and hate yourself for having made it a part of you."
     Qualen shuddered and felt tears stings his eyes.  "Yes, oh,
that's it exactly.  So I used it, my lack of connections made me
valuable for the -- for scouting, for studying, for judging and it
took me so long to realize I had become the...wizard who did the
jobs others simply didn't want.  I became the agitator and the
outcast long before they actually...told me not to count myself as
part of the Coven any more.  Even later, when I had redeemed myself
in their eyes, it didn't matter."
     Qualen closed his eyes to get through the last of it. 
"Because even when I made an impression on them, even when they
acknowledged a...position of status...it wasn't enough.  It was
never...love."
     Sir John held back a hundred questions and just continued to
hold on as best he could through the wall.  Every now and then, as
if unconsciously, Qualen pulled slightly on his hand, as though
testing to see whether Sir John would let him go.
     Finally, the wizard's low voice began again:  "And so I would
turn to watch those who held me in even more scorn than the Coven,
because their scorn counted for so much less."
     Qualen was silent for so long that Sir John gently prodded. 
"You mean non-wizards now, don't you?"
     Qualen sighed.  "In all forms and shapes and sizes, my love." 
Qualen sighed again, but it was a completely different sort of
sound.  "My love."
     Sir John squeezed Qualen's fingers tightly, and rumbled, "My
love.  My lover.  My beautiful lover with eyes that make eternity
an adventure."
     "Do they?"
     The knight chuckled, so easy to say such things in the dim
light from the sputtering lamp.  "Well, that piece of art between
your legs helps make the universe more exciting as well."
     Qualen laughed.  "Do you think of me as art?"
     "I think of you as a masterpiece."
     Qualen found closing his eyes wasn't enough.  With a whisper
he doused the light in the room, and stared into the cold dark held
at bay by the touch of a man's warm hand on his own.  And as his
thoughts were so heavy and difficult, he decided he was content to
stay silent the rest of the long night.
     "And when you watched non-wizards play with their power and
their bodies," Sir John said quietly, "abusing and being abused,
loving and hating each other as though it were a personal torment
for you, a taunting reminder of everything you didn't have..."
     "Oh!"  Qualen actually shouted the sound, echoing in the
chamber as a plea.  "I knew better than to think it was really
aimed at me...but...everything seemed a mirror...I had
nothing...nothing to give...but what wasn't to be
permitted...nothing to offer but harm and a furtherance of the
perversion to want my help in the first place..."
     "It's not perversion, my love," Sir John choked out, crying
now at the pain that went to his very core at each word from the
wizard's mouth.  "Not perversion -- infatuation, intoxication,
people wanting what you have...too foolish to want you as well."
     "Not foolish..."
     "Too weak then.  Listen to me, Q-ualen."  The knight spoke
suddenly with the authority of a king.  "You always had something
to give, something to offer:  yourself.  But you are a gift that
cannot be given or received casually.  You offer too much for those
you would have given yourself to, not too little.  You overwhelm,
you encompass, you hold up in your hands everything and more, and
most people simply don't want that, can't stand up to it.  You are
a treasure beyond all treasures, and so you require a keep beyond
all keeps to hold you.  When those you would have bestowed yourself
upon with love and understanding saw what was required to hold your
gifts, they balked at their own inabilities, their own failings,
their own..."  Sir John had to stop a moment and get his breath
back.  "Their own lack of joy and faith and beauty.  And so they
scorned you and turned to the paler, shallower, lesser offerings of
others because they were easier to take.  Easier to keep.  They
were even cheap and easily lost without risk or pain.
     "And I ache for you, my love, that you were not cherished as
you should have been.  But now I've found you and I'm never letting
you go.  Give yourself to me completely, without fear or
reservation.  I will keep you as the treasure you are.  I will
adore you, accept you, envelop all your offerings with both hands
and hold them close.  I am not perfect.  I cannot promise to give
you all I would -- which is everything upon everything.  But I can
promise I will never balk, never reject the gift of your love. 
Tell me to kiss you for centuries, to fuck you until my body snaps
into pieces, to gaze at you until I am blinded, to be at your side
though the universe would separate us, and to my death...to beyond
my death I will do what you ask."
     And then Sir John got to the hard part.  "And more than that. 
Hold me for eternity tightly in your arms, shower me with gifts,
spoil me, humor me, pander to me shamelessly, if that is what your
love desires, I will never say no.  No gift you offer will be left
unopened or unenjoyed.  Make me come until I exist only as joy, I
will still open my body to you and beg you to be inside me.  Show
me the delights of the universe, and I will strip through them with
you in whatever frenzy you prefer.  Tell me you love me one time
each for every molecule of my body, for every star in the heavens,
for every time you draw breath, and I will receive the words with
the bliss and awe they deserve.  My hunger for you cannot be sated,
prepare whatever feasts you like."
     For several long, long minutes there was only the sound a
ragged breathing.  Qualen was so hard it hurt and that was the
least of it.  His was crying, blood roared in his ears, his chest
was going to burst, he was going to explode.  His whole life he'd
wanted someone -- anyone -- to say that.  That it should be someone
he already loved more than himself, more than anything...it was too
much.  Simply too much.
     *No,* he told himself, *it's not too much.*
     "Sir John?" he managed finally.  "...same here."
     The knight chuckled, and Qualen almost came from that low
velvet noise.  But his body held back.  It was, after all, very
cold and dark and forbidding in here.
     "I've got to touch myself," the wizard said.  "I've got to
come."
     "Good.  I hate the thought of doing this alone."
     Not letting go through the wall, they used their other hands
and reached climax, their harsh breathing letting the other know
just where they were, letting them come together.  It took less
than a minute.
     Not long after that, still touching, they curled up as best
they could against the stones and tried to sleep, dreaming of
dragons and treasure and a ship that flew between the lights in the
sky.

     Qualen regarded the Ferin's spoils with a grimace.  All day he
had been working on this junk, and he had cleaned five goblets,
seventeen pieces of gold, and three heavily jeweled necklaces of
the type old queens wore.  Hundreds of dirty objects still lay
before him, reeking of the Scourge.
     "You must work faster," the Ferin King hissed.
     "I told you, Your Highnessness, that I *would* work faster if
you would let me have access to sunlight and if you would bring Sir
John up here while I work."
     The king was about to snarl something Qualen suspected would
be less than intelligent, when there was a sudden cry outside the
treasure room.
     "Your Majesty!" screamed a Ferin herald as he rushed into the
room and skidded to a stop on one knee.  "The Scourge approaches!"
     Chaos was breaking out all through the keep as two Ferin
guards dragged Qualen back to his cell.  The wizard waited until
they were out of the sight from the others, then drew a Making Tube
from his robe and pressed it quickly into the trolls' sides.  After
getting the keys from the shorter one, and leaving the Ferin on the
floor in a heap, it was easy to make his way back to Sir John's
cell.
     Oh, but there was nothing easy about opening the door to see
Sir John sitting in one corner, squinting in the sudden light of
the room.
     "My love..."
     But the knight was up in an instant, and rushing towards the
door.  They could not stop to touch one another, but hurried up the
long stairs to the ground floor of the keep.  The noises of battle
were growing into frenzied screams, and orders to stand and fight,
to retreat, to surrender, and simply to "watch out" echoed all
around them.  
     "My sword," Sir John muttered as they neared the top of the
stone steps and the end of the darkness.
     "No time for that," Qualen grunted, tired of the stairs and
the stench of Ferin.  "We have to get out of here."
     "But Prince David..."
     "I had a chance to have a proper look about with my Making
Box, and it says he's farther north.  Whatever the Scourge and the
Ferin are fighting about, it has nothing to do with us."
     They burst then into the hallway, turned left, and then
quickly turned around to run the other way.  It wasn't very
dignified, particularly as the wizard's robes weren't made for
running, but there were about thirty panicked and heavily armed
Ferin soldiers running quickly towards them, and so haste was
called for.  After a turn in the corridor, they dashed into a open
doorway and then slammed the wooden doors shut behind them, waiting
quietly while the horde passed.
     Breathing in relief, they looked at each other.
     "Are you here for me?" a young woman's voice asked.
     They twirled to confront -- not a girl, but a dragon, locked
inside a three-storey pewter cage.  The head of the dragon was
pressed painfully down, her legs were curled under her messive
body, and her tail was wrapped around her shoulders and haunches
like a tight band.  And yet still there were burn marks all over
her scales from the pewter.  Her sapphire eyes were bright with
long-restrained tears and she was shivering slightly -- an
overwhelming sight in a creature the size of a house.
     "Ardrel?" Qualen asked.
     The dragon frowned at him, and carefully brought her face
close to the bars.  "Wizard Qualen?" she asked back.
     "The dragon girl you rescued?" Sir John asked, his eyes not
moving from the pathetic sight before him.  "I thought you had
returned her to her family."
     "I thought I had as well."  Qualen took a few steps forward,
shuddering at the spells burning in the pewter bars.  "Ardrel,
what's happened to you?"
     Only then did Sir John see the blond hair directly atop her
thinly scaled head, like a tuft of pompass grass.  In fact, there
was an air of humanity all about the creature, from the diamond
tear (the size of man's fist) which at last fell from the corner of
her right eye, to the hunched quality of her shoulders, to the soft
quality of her voice as she spoke.  Picard knew what was going on,
of course, but tamped down his reactions as best he could.
     "They lured me here with the treasure.  I could not tell until
too late that it had the stench of the Scourge."
     "But why were you here at all?  Why have you left your
family?"
     "I was looking for Prince David," she said.
     "Why?" the knight and wizard asked together.
     Another tear escaped just as the first one slid off the final
scale on her head and splashed to the ground, sizzling where it
spattered on the pewter bars.
     "He did not come to the field as he promised."
     They nodded.  Finally, well aware that several thousand Ferin
and a horde of frenzied dragons were screaming for blood outside,
Qualen pressed:
     "And?"
     The second tear splashed and sizzled.  "He promised!"
     "Which field?" Sir John attempted.
     "The primrose field, by the waterfall."
     The soldier saw the wizard shrug slightly at his side, then
felt understanding flood him.  "You and he were...seeeing each
other, in a personal relationship?"
     Qualen stared at him fiercely, but the dragon girl nodded. 
"We have been friends since he was taken by the Ferin and I brought
him to the Terprisans."
     Sir John's eyebrows rose and Qualen whistled softly.  The
Terprisans were a small, select community of scholars.  For David
to have been accepted by them spoke well of the prince indeed. 
Since the community was also high in the mountains to the north, it
would have explained why he had not been able to return home.
     Except for the fact that he was evidently on good terms with
a dragon who could have flown him back to Unverse whenever he
liked.
     "Madam," Sir John said, uncertain how to speak to a dragon. 
He had certainly never spoken to one before.  "We will do what we
can to help you, but do you know why Prince David has not returned
to Unverth in ten years?"
     She snorted, a delicate gesture which drew little balls of
blue flame from her nostrils.  "His father is a monster who would
kill him if he could!"
     "His father is an old man about to die," Qualen said.  "The
kingdom will fall into chaos without a clear order of succession."
     "David has always planned to return before that happens,"
Ardrel told them haughtily.
     "But it's happening now," Qualen told her in exasperation. 
"He's got only a month of life left at the most."
     Ardrel looked at them with urgency, then seemed to slump
inside herself.  "I would help you, gentle knight and grand wizard,
if I could.  But as you can see..."
     "If we get you out of here," Qualen offered, his voice gently
persuasive, "will you help us find David?"
     "I would," the dragon girl sniffled, "but I know not where he
is."
     "I can tell you that," Qualen said quickly.  "We must go
north, but we need transportation."
     Ardrel looked at them a long moment, listening with them to
the sounds of battle outside.  The Scourge had descended in force,
and the Ferin were fighting back with all they had.  
     "I do not think we will survive them long enough to worry
about David," Ardrel offered finally.  "But if we do, I will help
you all I can."
     Qualen nodded and immediately rummaged in his robes for his
Making Knife.  He set it to cut the pewter, showed Sir John the
simple controls, and then got out his Making Box.  
     "She raises a good point," the knight said quietly as he went
to his task.  "How are you thinking we will get past the Scourge?"
     "I think I can set up a sort of field," Qualen said as he made
complex calculations with his Making Box, "which should discourage
them from noticing us."
     "You will make us invisible?" Ardrel asked, watching Sir John
as he used the hot light from the Making Knife -- which looked
nothing like a knife at all -- to cut through the bars of her cage
as though it were a proper knife and they were made of soft wood. 
One, two, three, four, five, bars he cut, then more and more.
     "No," Qualen said, "not invisible.  Sort of...cloaked."
     Ardrel raised a single dragon brow and was silent.  The
screams and calls and crashes from outside were getting even
louder.  Another bar was cut, and another, and another, and
suddenly Sir John had reached the end of the cage.  He now cut
several of the bars above his head and entered the cage.
     "Madam," he said with a respectful nod that left Ardele
feeling quite warm inside.  "I'm afraid if this is to free you, you
must lift me to the top of the cage."
     "Of course, Sir Knight," she responded, carefully reaching out
a forleg and drawing in her talons.
     "I am Sir John of LaBarre," he said with a little bow. 
"Lately in service to the Kingdom of Unverse."
     "And you are Qualen's friend?"
     The knight was now standing on her front paw, and she slowly
raised him up over even her own head so that he could reach the
bars.  "Something more than friends," he said easily, and she could
see the wide smile on Qualen's face as he closed his Making Box and
stepped inside the cage with them.
     Sir John cut the first bar and then kicked it with his boot. 
It fell like a tall tree with a deafening clang on the hard floor. 
If it were not for the battle going on outside, they would have
feared that the noise would rouse an army.  Another bar, another
kick, another resounding clamor, and then another, and then
another.
     There was a deafening crash outside.  Half the stones of the
keep must be piled as rubble by now.  Sir John cut through the last
bars of the cage's side and kicked them out with a shout of triumph
before turning inside the dragon girl's claws.  Qualen had already
made his way to the dip in her neck before it joined her shoulders,
and now she lifted up the knight to join him.  They straddled her
neck as though riding together on a horse -- Qualen was unable to
avoid closing his eyes at the sensation of having Sir John pressed
up against the inside of his thighs.  Together they curled their
legs around the fine scales of her skin and ducked through heads as
she burst from the cage, rising up on her back legs to claw at the
stones of the walls and create an opening large enough for her to
force her way through.
     Outside, Qualen's "cloak" was put to instant test, and passed. 
No one looked towards them as Ardrel spread her wings, arched her
back, and then flapped down hard, raising herself instantly from
the ground.  Another few flaps, and she was high above the
conflict, and she turned to the right and directly north.
     Both Sir John and Qualen fought the urge to scream something
along the lines of "Yahoo!"  This was incredible, flying along on
a dragon's back through the cloudless sky, the wind fiercely
whipping back Qualen's robes as though he were a dragon himself.
     Over the next two hours, the lands rolled below them in a
patchwork of blues and greens.  Forests, lakes, hills, farmlands,
all became part of a quilt Sir John had to work to remember was
actually the earth on which he had lived his whole life.  
     Finally, still flying, Ardrel craned her head back around,
twisting her long neck until she could bring her right ear close to
Qualen.  Consulting his Making Box, he shouted out directions and
estimated only another half-hour's flight would bring them to
Prince David's location.  Somehow she managed a nod, and then
turned back into the strong wind.
     A mountain range loomed ahead of them, and Ardrel pumped
furiously to take them higher.  Sir John felt the cold wind bite
him and shivered.  Qualen's arms, wrapped securely all this time
about his waist, tightened slightly, and seemed to radiate heat,
keeping his whole body warm.
     Once they were past the mountains, it was easy to recognize
the lands of Terprisia:  well-organized fields, well-planned
communities, all overlooked by a circular castle atop a high hill. 
Ardrel headed for the vast courtyard before the castle. 
Delicately, she dropped to the ground, lowering her head to let off
her passengers.
     A man ran out from the castle's high doors, his eyes covered
by a strange sort of fine metalwork.
     "Sir George!" Ardrel called.  "Is David here?"
     Sir George, a knight whose markings Sir John recognized as
those of the House of Gineering -- one of the few houses of
Terprisia -- stopped before the dragon girl and spoke in low tones. 
Another knight, tall and dard-bearded, stood in the doorway. At his
side was a beautiful woman in the tight robes of a Betawizard.
     And the walls of the world shimmered.
     Sir John and Qualen turned to each other.
     "I didn't do that," Qualen said.
     "Nor I.  What could be..?"
     "If 'she,'" Qualen said the word with a wealth of delicacy,
"is connected to this place, then perhaps..."  The wizard scowled. 
"Or it may simply be time running out.  Such a...non-star-stuff
concept."
     Sir John couldn't help his smile, though it was quickly
clouded over by his concern.  "If this...land is connected to
'her,' then could 'her'...peril be pulling at it?"
     Qualen's voice lowered to almost a whisper.  "I have been able
to see that this..land was originally made to be entered and exited
multiple times.  The fragility was not part of the original
design."
     And they felt it again.  A pull at the reality around them
from something other than themselves.  They were both suddenly
certain they did not have long.
     "We're obviously supposed to hook up with the Terprisians,"
Sir John rumbled.  "And then to return David to Unverse and then,
doubtlessly, to fight with the Scourge and restore some sort of
peace and order, but we haven't the time."
     Qualen realized this wouldn't have been long after he'd first
helped Ardrel to return to her family.  She hadn't managed to stay
out of trouble long.  He looked over Sir John's shoulder and saw
Sir George turning to the tall knight as he approached.  In the
sky, he could also see the outline of some sort of wall, a gray,
smooth surface with some sort of window looking into a completely
different sort of sky.
     "What is it we're missing?" Sir John asked.  "What are we not
seeing?"
     "Oh, that's terrible!" cried Ardrel.  Her head turned on its
long neck to stare at them.  "Sir George says Prince David has
fallen into a deep sleep and will not awaken."
     "Ardrel would seem to be relevant," Sir John murmured, his
eyes sliding to the creature's blonde hair.  But Amanda wasn't a
dragon.  Amanda would be a member of the Coven.
     "Ardrel," Qualen said urgently.  "Have any of the Coven been
taken into dragon lands?"
     "I don't think you heard her," Sir George said, his voice
amiable but his manner stiff.  "Prince David cannot be awoken." 
Before either of them could answer, however, a new voice spoke over
his shoulder:
     "Aren't you Sir John of LaBarre?"
     The night turned to this tall, bearded man.  "Yes."
     "Sir Rikon of Laska.  This is Tron," he added of the woman at
his side.
     "I've heard of your victory at the Jousts."
     "And I've heard quite often of you as well."  Rikon smiled,
and there was genuine friendship there.  Qualen felt a twinge of
jealousy and stomped on it.  "I don't know about someone from the
Coven, but *something* has been upsetting the Scourge.  We've
gotten reports of them attacking almost every kingdom.  They even
took a pass at us a few days ago."
     "We could tell you more if Prince David were able to speak,"
Sir George said.  "He's been monitoring the Scourge's activities."
     It took only a few minutes to be led inside the castle to
Prince David, another moment to examine him with Qualen's Making
Box, and only a second for the wizard to reach around to the
prince's back, press firmly on the spot undert his shoulder blade,
and awaken him.
     The prince's eyes opened and he sat up in the bed.
     "What has happened?"
     Qualen and Sir John listened to Sir Rikon and Sir George fill
the prince in on the events of the last few days.  Ardrel revealed
that she was standing outside so that her head was near the
prince's window, and the prince went out on his balcony to speak to
her.
     "She is enchanted," Thon explained quietly, her dark eyes full
of compassion.  "She and the prince we to be wed ten years ago,
when he first came to Terprisia, but half of her spirit was turned
into a dragon."
     "Pieces," Sir John said, turning to the wizard.  "You said she
was torn to pieces by the anomaly."
     Qualen stared at him several long seconds, grinning broadly,
then swooped in to kiss his lover with pride.  He then turned to a
slightly surprised-looking Tron and announced firmly, "We have to
reunite Adrel with her other half."
     "We do realize that," Sir Rikon scowled.
     "No," Sir John said with authority, "he means that we have to
do it immediately."
     "We don't have the time right now," the knight responded.  "We
have to deal with the Scourge."
     "What's happened to Ardrel is what's agitating the Scourge,"
Qualen argued, turning to Sir John.  "There's only one thing the
Ferin could have wanted with all that rancid dragon treasure:  to
resell it to the Scourge.  Setting up the plot to have me cleanse
it and then having the Scourge attack makes little sense."
     "Yes, of course," Sir John murmured.  "The Scourge weren't
supposed to become a factor until later, until after we got back
with Prince David.  That's why King Mortaline was gathering his
forces."
     "What *are* the dragons?  The dangers of the universe?"
     "The unknown.  The perils which confront the travelers."
     "But not all of them are dangerous."
     The knight nodded, ignoring the puzzled stares of the others. 
"Yes, of course.  The unknown is often benign.  Many an anomaly is
simply another phenomenon of the universe, even something from
which one can profit, with care.  But get them together in a
hoarde, introduce a frenzy, an -- an unstable element, and they
become dangerous, irrational --"
     "-- and since we know they like to flock," Qualen continued,
"we know they would be drawn to another anomaly, another unstable
element."
     Sir John nodded sharply.  "The Ferin wound up with part of
her, with Ardrel.  Could they have the other part as well?"
     Qualen looked frustrated, and then something glinted in his
eyes, and with something of a sly smile he turned to Sir Rikon. 
"How did Ardrel get enchanted in the first place, sir knight?"
     Sir Rikon looked uncomfortable, his eyes sliding to Tron.
     The Betawizard's gaze turned inward.  "She wanted to...explore
knowledge for which she was ill suited.  She should have gone to
the Coven."
     "Yes, that's right!" Sir John said as Qualen nodded
vigorously.
     Tron blinked at them a moment, then continued, "She got into
my spells.  When we found her she was...as you see."  Tron motioned
gently towards the window, where Prince David was still talking
with the dragon girl.
     "But where did the other half of her go?" Qualen demanded
impatiently.
     "Other half?" Rikon asked.
     "Yes," Sir John's hands gestured with the difficulty of
explaining in terms this world would accept.  "You see, the dragon
parts of her reflect what is missing within her.  Her...soul has
been taken partly from her, and is being kept somewhere, some place
the Scourge could attack without success, at least at first."
     "Such a place as the one you are describing would be difficult
to keep hidden," Prince David said, easily entering the
conversation as he walked back inside the room.  "We have been in
the contact with all the keeps long before Ardrel was enchanted,
and we have heard no word of her 'other half.'"
     "But surely..." Sir John searched his own memories of this
world.  "The towers," he announed.
     "Yes," Qualen said, "the towers of the Ferin.  If the Scourge
have been attacking the towers, that might explain that treasure. 
Perhaps they've been trying to pay some sort of tribute to keep the
Scourge away."
     "The Ferin towers have all been diserted for years," Prince
David said.
     "Sir Rikon said you've been watching the Scourge," Sir John
told him.  "Have you noticed any usual activity in the Ferin
Kingdom?"
     Prince David thought a moment, his head tilting slightly to
the left and then back into place.  Sir John was assaulted by a
wave of homesickness.
     "Not that I have observed," he said at last, "but I have not
been at my post for the past several days.  If such attacks were
taking place, however, they would only be able to escape notice by
another observer if they were beyond the Grand Treasury Mountains."
     "No one has reported any sort of usual attacks in the Ferin
Kingdom," said Rikon was a frown.
     "No," Sir John said, a half-smile giving his words the flavor
of wry celebration, "the attacks would be beyond the Grand Treasury
Mountains."
     "We have to get there immediately," Qualen said.  "Ardrel must
take us."
     "But surely you should rest, and eat," Tron objected.
     "We have no time," Qualen insisted, barely remembering to be
civil as he realized he was now feeling the fragility of this world
in a constant tremmor.
     Sir Rikon's eyes went to his fellow knight as a matter of
course, but Sir John could only agree.  "Time is crucial.  We need
to leave now."
     And in short order, they were again on Ardrel's neck, riding
through the darkening sky.  The joy of the earlier flight was
somewhat lost now, as the sky seemed somehow thinner, the land less
intricate and lovely, the air thin, and dragon herself rather
similar to some incomplete idea of a dragon.  Her scales felt
somehow false, her roaring fire breaths were strangely lacking in
heat, and the whole thing felt, Picard thought very quietly, like
some sort of holodeck simulation.
     They passed over the light-gilded peaks of the Grand Treasury
Mountains and found the abandonned towers of the Ferin.  Ardrel
swooped low over each one, and then heard Qualen and Sir John shout
as the last one came into view.  The high walls of the tower were
charred and scored with deep marks, as though a hoarde of dragons
had clawed and clawed the stones.
     They landed just as the sun was lowering itself upon the crook
of land and sky, sinking heavily, as though some sort of hidden
gears were creaking through their final motions.  Both knight and
wizard doubted that sun would manage to climb that sky ever again.
     Qualen had out his Making Box.
     "She's in here!" he called out almost gaily.
     Ardrel screamed, and it was a noise worthy of a dragon.  Her
companions did not need to turn to know that the Scourge was
coming.
     Qualen did turn to Sir John, however, winking at the knight
even as his hand went inside his robes to pull out a strangely
shaped disc.  He placed his thumb on the disc, and it made a
stronge little clicking noise.
     "Tell me again the you love me," the wizard murmured.
     Sir John shrugged.  "I love you, Qualen."
     Adrel went to scream again, her sapphire eyes transfixed on
the black dragon cloud in the dark sky, but the noise was cut off
into astonishment as Ardrel began to sparkle and fade into nothing
while a humming whine filled the air.
     More sparkles, more whining, and then nothing for a
half-second, and then a new conglomeration of shimmering lights
which resolved itself into a large dragon of dark eyes and a young
woman with blonde hair.
     The dragon and the girl reacted together, the former rasing
herself up on her hind legs, flapping once to lift from the ground,
and then again and agian to rise up into the night sky on a direct
course to the Scourge, a battle cry spewing with fire from her
mouth.  The latter turned to the wizard and the knight and said the
word which made dragon and sky and scream and stars all collapse
into nothing:
     "Q!"

     "Amanda," Picard said as they stood staring across his table
at each other.  The empty box of the present lay on that table,
blue and gold wrapping slightly torn.
     "Q," Q added.
     "Q, Captain Picard," Amanda/Q replied with a slow nod, her
eyes large.  "I think...I need to sit down."
     Q helped her sit, pretending not to notice her surprise at his
kind manner, while Picard asked the replicator for tea, his mind
still racing through everything that had happened.
     He tried not to stare at Amanda/Q as he approached her, but
her dishevelled appearance was as much a clue to her personal
welfare as was the wildness in her eyes and the cut on her cheek. 
She looked up to meet Q's eyes, and Picard knew information was
passing between them.  He guessed Q was giving her the gist of
their adventure in the world she had made (hopefully, a carefully
edited gist).  Abruptly, Amanda/Q looked away, somewhat calmer, her
eyes focusing on the steaming cup in Picard's hand.  Silently, he
handed it to her and she sipped while he and Q drew up chairs and
sat down.  Picard felt still the soreness in his muscles from where
he had clung to the dragon's back, and his lips were a little
chapped with dry whipping of the high, cold winds.
     "I tried to hang on," she said finally.  "When we were sealing
the rift, I tried so hard to stay with you."  Her eyes sought Q's
again, and he nodded, and she turned to Picard.  "Your music,
Captain.  It helped us, all of us, and I was trying to hold on to
that, so when I started coming apart, when I could feel...something
like dying, I thought of you and then...there was my little world
I'd made for you both, and then..."  She shook her head and sipped
the tea.  "I can't remember how it all happened."
     "You will," Q assured her.  "In time, with the Continuum to
help you, you'll figure it all out."
     Amanda/Q shook her head, but it wasn't to disagree.  "I
remember it all in bits and pieces.  I was...a dragon girl -- I was
supposed to be that.  I mean, I made that character for you.  You
were supposed to ride on her back to Terprisia and gather up your
forces and then restore David to the throne."  She blinked and
spent some time finishing some tea.  Picard was about to ask her if
she wanted another when the cup filled up again.  "But I was also
the girl in the tower and...she wasn't in the original
scenario...David wasn't supposed to be in love with anyone.  I
don't understand...I did leave many options, so much for the two of
you to invent on your own."
     "Such as?" Picard asked.
     "Well, the Ferin king was supposed to be nice to you.  He was
supposed to offer to help you in return for cleaning the treasure. 
And the Scourge...they weren't supposed to keep attacking like
that.  I realize the dragon horde was representing the rift, and
that I must have brought some of that destructive, chaotic energy
with me, but still..."
     "So you left the narrative parameters open to just me and
Jean-Luc, or any user?"
     Amanda/Q's eyes widened.  "But how could the rift affect the
narrative?"
     "It didn't," Q said gently enough to make Picard feel proud of
him.  "You did.  You were directing us, hurrying us to your rescue. 
So you made David love you and you sent the Scourge to get us out
of Ferinland ASAP."
     Amanda/Q blinked, looked down at her tea, and smiled.  She
grew calmer as she smiled, and Picard realized she was relieved to
realize that ultimately, she hadn't been as helpless as she had
felt.  The captain sympathized with those feelings, and put a hand
on her arm to say as much.
     Her blue eyes and full mouth joined in smiling at him.  Then
she lokoed at Q.  "But what was that you did with the combadge and
the transporter?"
     "You mean my Making Disc?" Q asked archly, then shrugged.  "A
trick Kathy learned when she was splitting up Tuvix, but sort of in
reverse."
     "Is that an explanation, Q?" Picard growled.
     "Well."  Q couldn't help preening a bit for his fellow Q.  "I
had already figured out what you were trying to say by making all
my 'magic' things Starfleet equipment, although your sense of
evolution, technology and power being quite so linear is a little
simplistic, my dear."
     "Is this an explanation or a lecture?" 
     "Complain, complain," Q groused, turning to his husband.  "If
you think you can explain it better, give it a try."
     Theman's hazel gaze moved easily back to Amanda.  "Q locked on
to your two forms, the girl-dragon and the dragon-girl, then united
them in the pattern buffer, then got the buffer to remove all
traces of the dragon pattern, and then rematerialized you as a
single being."
     "You left out the part where I had to the hold the last of her
reality together to get enough time for the transport to complete."
     "Yes, yes, my dear."  Picard's face was serious, but his voice
rolled its eyes.  "You were wonderfully heroic."
     Amanda/Q giggled, drawing their eyes back to her.  She looked
much better, and it seemed to Picard that the cut on her face was
beginning to heal.  Her tea cup flashed out and she smoothed her
hair with her much steadier hands.  "Thank you.  I don't know how
to say it better than that."
     "You mean, as long as you have to use such a primitive form of
communication," Q mocked.
     "Do you have any idea of the colors in this room?" she bluntly
asked Picard.  "Stretched out in a tapestry between the two of you,
like corded rainbows."
     The captain surprised himself by leaning forward and giving
her a kiss on the cheek.  "I'm glad to see you're going to be all
right."
     "May I visit again...sometime?"
     Picard smiled deeply.  "You're always welcome."
     "Just knock first," Q added wryly.
     She nodded and stood up, the others rising with her. "I think
it's time I returned to the Continuum."  They nodded, and she
brought up her hand to make the gesture that was all her own, and
in a somewhat subdued flash of light, she was gone.
     Q turned immediately to Picard and raised his own hand to snap
it.
     "Wait," the man said quietly, feeling the comfort of his
uniform against his skin, the familiar reasssurance of his
quarters, the *rightness* of this existence.  "What are you going
to do?"
     Q raised his eyebrows and did not lower his hand.  "Well,
first I'm going lay you out naked on the bed and kiss every inch of
your skin, and then I'm going to fuck you until you say you want to
sleep, and then when you wake up I'm going to whip up something for
breakfast that will knock your socks off, and then I'm going to
suck on your cock until you scream really, really loud, and then
--"
     "Sounds delightful," Picard said, and though he'd taken a deep
breath before the words, they still quavered.  Q smiled, brows and
hand still raised, poised, waiting.  "I would just like to tell
Will first that I'm back."
     Q's brows came down.  "I hate to tell you this, Johnny, but
he's a little busy right now.  You might just want to leave him a
message."
     Picard contacted the computer and did that, adding that there
was no need for Riker to call him back.
     "How long have we been gone?" Picard asked, turning back to Q,
who was now leaning against the wall, arms folded, a peaceful
expression on his face that didn't fool the captain for an instant.
     "Relatively speaking, about five hours."
     "And...Amanda will be all right?"
     "The Q will strengthen her and help her recover."
     "And her interactive reality?"
     "Destroyed, with no harm done to anyone."
     Picard nodded.
     "Anything else?"
     The captain thought a moment.  "Yes."
     Q sighed.  "What?"
     "I meant every word I said in that Ferin dungeon."
     Though he moved very slightly, Q slumped in on himself, his
pose lost, and his eyes filled with desperation.  "It's almost more
than I can do.  It's the hardest thing I've ever done."  Then
before Picard could ask him what he meant, Q was rushing at him,
and they were both naked on the bed.
     But Jean-Luc wasn't about to be distracted so easily.  "What's
hard?"
     "I am, my love," Q growled, pushing himself against the man's
thigh to prove it.  His hand went to his lover's penis and stroked. 
"And you're getting there."
     "Q, please, tell me, what's --"  The words were lost in Q's
mouth in a kiss that went on and on.  Q's hands were gliding over
him, filling him with warmth, and the man was losing the ability to
think.
     And yet he could still ask when Q finally moved along to
nibble at his jaw, "Loving me, is that it?"
     "Loving you is hardly an effort," Q managed to say, groaning
through the words as his fingers found the man's nipples.  Not once
as Qualen had he a chance to touch them properly.  "I could no more
stop loving you than I could call a halt to my exitence."
     "Then...what?"
     Q stilled, burying his face in Picard's neck, his fingers
resting where they were.  "Accepting that you love me.  Acepting
that you're real.  Q really knew what she was doing when she put
together that scenario, though I think most of the particulars were
actually directed by us, drawn from what we wanted, whether we knew
it or not.  The Ferin and the Terprisians, that was she.  But the
dungeon, what we said and how we felt, Sir Borogin and King
Mortaline, that was you and I.  I could barely stand to hear your
words in the dark, couched in allegory, barely touching you.  Now
here you are naked beneath me, and in a minute I'm going to be
inside you, and I can claim you and call you mine and you won't
*ever* push me away, will you?"
     "No, I won't ever push you away."
     Q shuddered, wrapping his arms around Jean-Luc and pressing in
close.  Picard waited several minutes, then asked as gently as he
could, "Why, Q?  Why is it so difficult for you to believe me?"
     "Oh, I believe you.  You've seen to that.  It's wanting to
believe you.  It's resisting the desire to stop this, to push *you*
away from *me.*"
     Picard tried not to feel pain at that, telling himself to hear
Q out first, but the entity felt the change in his breathing, and
rushed to explain, "Not that I want this to end, ever!  But..."  Q
growled in frustration.  "But it's just so difficult not to want
it.  My instincts, five billion years of survival training warn me
I'll be destroyed if I need someone else too much.  Don't you
understand, Jean-Luc, if you really love me that much, then I have
no more excuses for not giving you all of myself, or at least
whatever parts of me you want available for your use."
     "I want all of you, Q," Picard grated out.
     "And I'm giving all that I have, and then I'll be...you'll
have such...the more you love me the more I need you, the less
there will be left of me if you ever--"
     "But I won't!"
     "I *know!*"  Q sighed into the crook of the man's neck and
shoulder.  "I know.  But it's just so hard."
     "It is...difficult for me as well," Jean-Luc said quietly,
feeling his erection's fluid seep down between himself and the soft
skin of Q's hip.  "But I think of how impossible it is now to do
otherwise, and I continue."
     "For a Q, nothing is impossible."
     "Ah, none of that," the man smiled.  "Remember, I'm sharing
your star stuff.  You can never be rid of me."
     Q went still and quiet as he considered that.  "I'm not sure
that's true."
     "But you're not sure it's not either, are you?"
     Q shuddered again, and Jean-Luc knew this was going to be all
right.
     "No, I'm not sure."
     "And you won't be putting it to the test either, will you?"
     "No, I won't."
     "So there you are.  You're stuck with me."
     Q laughed, gently at first, then deeply, closing his eyes to
savor it as he slid his body up the bed to reach the very top of
his lover's head.  At the exact center of his scalp, Q planted the
first kiss.  
     "I love you."
     He moved slightly to the right.  
     "I love you."
     He moved slightly down and to the left.  
     "I love you."
     It took over an hour to reach the captain's feet, placing the
final kisses along the toes of his left foot.
     "I love you."
     "One last kiss on the tip of his smaller toe.
     "And I'll always love you."
     Knowing that Q had reached his first goal, Picard, whose eyes
had long been shut against his own urgency, kept his eyes shut and
drew up his legs, sighing as he was finally entered.  Q pushed in
slowly, savoring the intial tension against and then around the
blunt head, then the continued pressure all down the length of his
penis until it reached the base, pressing against his human body's
testicles and pumping pleasure throughout his body.  He gathered
himself slowly, not wanting to come for a long, long time, when
suddenly the man spoke.
     "Look at me."
     Q *had* been looking at Picard, but he raised his eyes to lock
unto his lover's, and then...
     Saw himself, standing before the ravaged tower with a combadge
in his hand, his purple robes blown about by the winds, a gleam of
humor in his eyes for this simple solution, a declaration of
triumph in the set of his shoulders, the evening sky showing the
faint hint of the stars which were reflected in his robes, his
eyes, and the light of the love Jean-Luc saw in every shining image
of that moment.  Q was a portrait of ironically expressed good will
and compassion, strong and tall and everything Jean-Luc Picard
wanted.
     Q gasped.  "Is this how you saw me?"
     Picard chuckled.  "This is how you are to be seen."
     Rearing back, Q thrust into his lover so hard and deep that
Picard came.
     And didn't come.
     No fluids.  No release.  Just ecstasy, a mind-blowing orgasm
that left him almost unable to breathe.
     Q thrust again, and again the man under him came.
     Another thrust, and Picard was screaming now without being
aware of it, convulsing and feeling nothing but the pressure of Q's
cock in his ass and bliss throughout his entire being.
     Another thrust, and twenty more, and an orgasm for each.
     "Q," Picard whimpered before yet another thrust brought forth
a howl from a throat almost raw from the howls which preceded it.
     "You said you could take it all," Q gritted out, using just
enough of his powers to bear the pleasure of this without coming. 
He thrust deeply, roughly, and Picard came again, back arching as
though it would snap.  "You said you would never have enough."
     Picard heard the words, and understood them, but wasn't sure
how he did, for there was nothing in his whole existence now but
pleasure.  He couldn't remember a moment that wasn't being fucked
and coming while Q watched.
     "You said I could shower you with gifts," that sensual,
twining voice said right before another thrust and the orgasm that
came with it.  Picard screamed and screamed and then hic-coughed,
tears from simple emotional overload streaming now freely from his
eyes.  "You said..."  Q hesitated, staring those tears.
     "Don't stop," Picard whispered, pulling his legs back a little
farther, though the sensations ripping through him had made him
numb to simple things such as the motions of his legs, and he
wasn't sure how far back he managed to bring them, what with his
eyes closed and his world so dazzlingly bright.  "Please don't
stop."
     Crying now himself, his lips pulled back from his teeth as he
bent himself to his task again, hesitations removed, he prepared
himself as Jean-Luc screamed through a dozen more climaxes and
finally crossed the line between pleasure and pain.
     Q caught the unwanted unpleasant stimulation of Picard's own
system shutting down, keeping him from everything but pleasure that
built and built until at long last Q had his lover in a state of
true and complete oblivion to all but euphoria.  It was not a
stupor, but it was completely focused on joy.  Gently the entity
came, bathing in the clean water of that pool of light, then
cleaned off their physical bodies and warpped his arms around
Picard's warmth.  Into the sensation of his lover's consciousness
Q became the taste and shape and color of his love for this man and
slid his identity within that Picard-warmed bliss to snuggle close.

     It was two days before they awoke for breakfast.  
     Q made omeletes.

THE END

Picard and Q will return in "License to Q."