1.
First the robe, cold silk slipping sensuously over skin soft with bathing and smelling of milk and honey, holding still as servants silently pulled the front shut, tying three narrow pairs of golden thread and attached bells to sleeves which dwarfed the muscular arms they contained. Next the sash, a luxurious band of scarlet and gold wrapped three times around an athletic waist, tied over the lower back with a knot that left cloth trailing like two elegant peacock feathers. Wide, paper thin beaten gold bracelets were slipped on next, a collar of similar style snapped into place on a powerful neck. Jewels and bells were hung in long red hair with the precision of a child placing ornaments in a tree.
Then move to kneel in front of a plain, low alter, breathe deeply of spicy incense and accept the quiet words of the cleric, the molten gold daubed on the forehead. Take the staves offered by an acolyte, one in each hand, clutch the familiar texture of heavily oiled wood, and proceed through the wide doorway held open by another silent attendant. Pass cat silent on bare feet through a long dark hall and out onto a high stone platform. This was all a familiar, beloved ritual.
This was his element, his place, the focal point of an entire city on his stage in the sky. And today was to be his most important performance yet, for today the Master was watching. He knelt, facing the elaborate palace that was the dwelling of the Master, imagining perhaps that the Master was looking his way, maybe smiling, and then swept his staves forward through the only other object on the stone stage, a single torch. The flames caught at the oil soaked wood and began to burn with a fierce heat.
And the dance began.
His world narrowed down to the whirling flames, courting and teasing them like a playful lover. He caressed the flames down the side of his face, across his chest, catching his scarlet robes on fire. His movements were a sinuous flurry of fire and silk, his eyes closed in his intense pleasure of the dance. He tossed the staves, pulled them across his body, embraced them, engulfing his entire form in flame. And still he danced. The heat encouraged him, pulled his pulse to a frenzied pace. At once terrifying and erotic he danced with the fire, not noticing when his robes were burned completely away, leaving just his bare, muscular body and the staves in his mesmerizing exhibition. Then, obeying a cue only he could hear, he collapsed into a position of sublime submission, pressed to the stone, his staves clattering to the ground at either side and extinguishing. Silence reigned supreme, the only sound his strained breathing and he lay panting into the granite of his stage. Not a burned marred his perfect body, not a hair on his head was singed.
A bell sounded a deep, throaty sort of chime, and the spell was broken. The crowd below broke into a murmur of appreciation and awe as he rose back to a kneeling position. Daring a glance towards the Masters palace he caught a flash of white robes, and smiled. The Master had been watching. He shivered then, cold as he ever was in the absence of the fire. Now was the time to return to the shadows, his performance over. Now was the quiet time, the dark time, full of rest until his particular skills were needed again. He allowed himself to be led from the stone stage by two silent acolytes. His time was over for now, as he walked off, quivering in exhaustion and exhilaration.
"Well, I assume the Gods were well pleased by this seasons show of erotic subservience."
"Dia!" The servant choked out, appalled. "You shouldn't speak so!"
"Oh, hush. I am some sort of avatar, correct? If my tongue displeases the Gods I am sure they will take care of it directly." Eyes bearing an uncanny likeness to smoldering coals narrowed for a moment as the corner of an almost delicate mouth lifted in a sort of disdainful sneer. Dia waited a moment, lounging back on silken pillows and smoking scented tobacco from a long, slender pipe. Only after unleashing a rather substantial lungful of haze into the dark room did he speak again. "You must be new here, correct?"
"Yes, Dia."
"Served less than a season, I take it?"
"Why, yes Dia. It honors me that you take such an interest…"
"Don't let it swell your head, boy. I am not interested so much as attempting to figure out why Kaio has not been brought to me. No one who has served over a season would make such an error as they all know I dine with him after the Dance."
"Dia! I am sorry, Master." The boy prostrated himself flat onto the marble floor of the room, shaking and awaiting the Masters displeasure.
Red eyes closed and a shadowed, silk-clad form shifted slightly, pipe set to rest. Water dripped delicately somewhere in the room, keeping track of the passing of time as the servant waited, muscles quivering. Nothing happened and finally curiosity won over terror, and the boy looked up at his master. Dia was, for all appearances, fast asleep. The servant didn't know whether to remain prostrate or settle back onto his heels and wait for the Master to awaken.
His decision was made for him as Dia spoke in a dry voice, not even bothering to open his eyes. "What are you waiting for, boy?" When the servant made to grovel and apologize Dia snapped glittering eyes open. "You are wasting time. Leave." The servant saw anger in those eyes and fled. It was generally just a descriptive phrase when eyes were said to be burning with some emotion or another, but it grew tangibly cooler as Dia shuttered red back behind languid eyelids and settled deeper into his cushions.
Time to wait for Kaio.