Holding the candelabra carefully ahead of me, I padded slowly, languorously, through the near-midnight room. Amid the constantly shifting chiaroscuro of flickering candle flames and shivering shadows that flitted around the huge space, I felt a thrill course through me, the sensation of wickedness that accompanies the touch of the arcane, the forbidden. I had been waiting for this night for a very long time, and I was intent upon having it fulfilled in every way that my fevered mind could conceive.

I caught sight of myself in the ornate full-length mirror. As I held the candelabra to one side, illuminating myself in the glass, my vanity demanded an inventory of what I saw: A tall, hard-muscled cougar with the appearance of perhaps some 28 years, stripped to the tawny-colored fur that covered him finely from tip to toes. The yellow-golden eyes regarded me warmly, took notice of my white muzzle, the long dark lines on either side below my cheeks, my creamy chest and belly fur, my long, expressive tail giving a satisfied swish. I smiled gently at myself, not with some arrogant smirk; I knew what I was doing and, although I had my confidence, I wasn’t about to get cocky about it. One does not consort lightly with demons.

The late hour was growing later, and I had preparations to make. I moved to take my place, kneeling on the thick oaken floor of the huge room. I focused intently upon the light of the large three-wick candle before me, letting the cabalistic meanings of three float into my mind. I breathed slowly, deeply, readying myself, commanding my ears forward, my tail to be still and wrapped around me. The invocation had to be made just so, at the right time and to the correct entity, or my soul might be forfeit prematurely; as the ancient texts dictate, the point of the bargain lay in the ability of the shrewd to come out the winner in the exchange. Distantly, I heard the sonorous command of the spire’s centuries-old bell in the village far below. The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Now.

Raising my forepaws above my head, slowly, respectfully, with my purpose clear in my mind and heart, I began chanting: “Quacumque die invocavero te, o Spiritus. Audi me oratione, nisi Canis o gehennae, in quacumque die invocavero te, et pepigisse, terrenas voluptates corporales delectationes. Fac iussus ignis metuendas Dcemonis violentias, ut faciam tibi. Audite me! Veni ad me! Ecce ego!”

Silence stretched until, finally, the sound of slow, heavy pawsteps could be heard, could be felt through the oaken floor on which I continued to kneel at my place, unmoving save for my carefully controlled breathing and the powerful thudding of my heart. Closer came the weighty trod until it paused just beyond the heavy mahogany doors which filled the nearly four-meter high archway that had been carefully carved into the ancient stone of the long-standing wall. A loud, echoing, clanking clatter — the iron latch being noisily opened — preceded the nearly noiseless swinging of the giant doors on their hinges, moving inward to reveal the gargantuan visitor who loomed now within the portal.

Fully three meters tall, his chest perhaps half as wide yet chiseled in unearthly perfection, short fur of deep burned ochre stretched tightly over an awe-inspiring flawlessness of thick, corded muscles above and below, the wolf-demon paused before entering the room, preceded by a whisper of hot wind and a susurration that might have been the last mournful cries of a hundred lost souls releasing their final grip upon hope and sliding inexorably into the vast nothingness of the damned. Atop the large head, a thick shock of long headfur, four shades darker than his pelt, fell far past the broad expanse of his shoulders. His long ears, standing erect and forward, tufted with white within, perched in front of the base of huge ram’s horns, jutting horizontally outward before curving back inward and then to points forward, forming a frame for his long, angular muzzle. His thick, grayish-white eyebrows angled upward above eyes whose irises seemed to be death’s-head white. On his left pectoral, a bright yellow marking, gleaming as if still burning, formed an inverted pentacle. Both of his large nipples were pierced through with steel rings, a captive bead made of some similarly heavy metal on each at its nadir. He stood for some moments within the entrance, his large, leathery wings mostly furled behind him, his fierce sexuality uncovered and unadorned, unashamed and unrestrained. Finally, he raised a thick-clawed forepaw slowly from his side, palm facing outward, a small rectangular object held within. He spoke in an eerily smooth, deep voice, rumbling with authority that called forth a knowledge of the infinite, as he said…

“You could have just phoned.”

I could feel my whiskers curling up to match my huge grin. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I know how you love to make a grand entrance.”

“I’ll admit to being a bit of a show-off. Perhaps more than a bit.” The wolf-demon returned the grin before closing the heavy doors behind him. He padded softly, his hindpaws now carefully velveted, toward the room’s center. “I had to dump my clothes in the hall; I hope that your servants are used to such things by now.”

“I think they’re growing accustomed to my idiosyncrasies.” I unfolded myself, gaining my hindpaws. Even at my full height and digitigrade, I had to crane my head back in order to look my visitor in his eyes. “I’ve missed you, Zaorotan. C’mere and give me a hug, would you?”

“Gladly.” The great wolf-demon wrapped me up in a powerful embrace, and I reveled in the warmth, the scent, the very aura of him. I grabbed hold of as much of him as my arms could reach and squeezed him as tightly as I could, grateful that he didn’t return the favor with as much vigor; he could easily have crushed me, poor frail feline that I am. I felt him bend down to bestow a kiss to the top of my close-cut headfur. “You know, Josef, I do worry about you making this sort of invocation. You might draw in someone other than myself.”

“I take precautions. No pentacle or sigils on the floor, much less something drawn in some herb-tainted blood or infernal tincture. Apart from candles and some extremely fake Latin, none of the ancient ritualistic trappings are present. Besides, I focus all my intention on you quite personally, including your name. I think of you in every detail.”

“Yes, I was going to ask about that.” Pulling back slightly, Zaorotan smirked at me. “Did you seriously use Canis o gehennae…? Hound of Hell?”

“Did I lie?”

“I look like a hound to you?” The demon shifted his wings a little to emphasize the point.

“Okay, a winged hound.”

“That’s ‘wolf,’ or would you like to be classified with the housecats?”

“Which will get me into more trouble?”

Zaorotan’s eyes never left mine as his tail, more lizard- and whip-like than lupine, moved swiftly through the air, curving around our bodies to snap sharply at my backside with starling accuracy. I yipped a crisp cry, jumping with the shock of having been so expertly spanked without his having to take his forepaws from my torso. I raised my own forepaw to bat, kitten-like, at one of the great demon’s nipple rings, making the huge wolf grunt briefly as well as putting a large smile on his muzzle and a quick flash of light and lust in his eye.

“Somehow,” he said, his voice roiling in my ears as well as in my heart, “I feel that the tone of our meeting has been set.”

“One may only hope.” I grinned at him, pulling gently at his arms. “Come over to the bed. The wine is poured; I have a repast for us both, waiting only for a tug of the bell to have it brought to us; and I’ve a new salve that I had made just for you. I know how rough and sore your hindpaw pads can get.”

“You spoil your favorite demon shamelessly, Josef. Remind me to be properly grateful to Someone.”

“My favorite and only demon, thank you very much.” He accepted my forepaw affectionately, pretending that he was being dragged toward the bed when we both knew what a welcome visitor to it he was. I’d had it made especially for the two of us; nothing else could possibly hold him, much less us.

“Is the salve scented?”

“Eucalyptus and spearmint; soothing and relaxing. I confess, it may clash with the wine.”

“I shall overlook such a minor faux pas.”

Making a wholly kittenish and appropriate raspberry, I climbed into the bed and made room for my companion. Providing a raspberry of his own (and, as I’m sure he knew, arousing the hell out of me, as it reminded me of just how amazingly talented that tongue really was), Zaorotan made his usual display of exceptional grace as he all but flowed onto the bed near me. Depositing his cell phone on the table near his side of the bed, he rolled back toward me, clearly delighting both in my obvious adoration of his magnificent body and being back in what he called his favorite place to sleep (when not otherwise occupied with my various attentions).

The canopied bed bore four gnarled, three-meter tall posts of well-polished buckeye, with full canopy and heavy drapes for the colder months, sheers that billowed gently in the cross-breezes of the warmer months. Set firm upon its foundations, it was fully a dozen meters square, providing space which the designer and creator no doubt had assumed would be used to hold an orgy of at least a half-dozen furs at once. Trying to create a covering, for below or above, from a single piece of cloth or fabric was too unwieldy; instead, a cleverly tufted mattress was covered in a great quilt of smooth cloth for sleeping upon, and several weights of quilts were designed and available for sleeping beneath. When Zaorotan was able to stay with me, I needed only the lightest of coverings, whatever the weather; my demon was, if nothing else, quite warm to cuddle up with.

I reached up carefully to cup my wolf’s cheeks tenderly in my forepaws, bringing his muzzle down for a proper kiss. I had taken time to learn how to be careful, as Zaorotan’s horns curved inward close to his face; it was unwise to knock them about, not only for being irritating to him but also for causing damage to my own knuckles. It was ironic how much those impressive, rough horns could injure yet, when treated gently, provided a sweet sensation both to receiver and giver. Rather like petting a hedgehog, one had to do it the right way. It also helped to have the right hedgehog.

The kiss was long, intimate, joyfully but not literally burning. I confess that I had wondered about that bit of legend — the notion that hell-born demons might actually be, for lack of a word, incendiary. Zaorotan was quite warm, and his body temperature was slightly higher than that of earthly furs, but he did not leave burn marks on the floor from his hindpaws, nor singe my fur when we touched, nor spit or breathe fire…  at least not without specifically summoning such abilities. He did, however, have an astonishingly long, prehensile tongue which could be used in a variety of intriguing ways in many bodily locations. Over time, he had trained me well, and certain aspects of his ability to manipulate the laws of so-called reality made for some astonishingly erotic encounters.

We separated slowly from the kiss, both of us reluctant to stop. I looked into Zaorotan’s eyes, seeing there a deep reflection of the love that I felt for him. The thought still amazed and amused me. Long ago, I conducted a ceremony in full, with the entirety of accoutrements that folklore deemed necessary to invoke such a spirit. Instead, I somehow managed to invoke love. I felt myself blushing a little at the thoughts, then smiled. “Pads?” I asked him.

“Please.” His voice was always soft with me; with that one word, he put forth more emotion than many could express in an entire book of poetry.

“Wine’s on the table,” I whispered back at him. “A modest sampling from a nearby region, but something I thought that you might enjoy. It’s not the sort that really needs to sit and breathe, but I poured some out for you a little earlier.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He nuzzled my muzzle tenderly, smiling at me. “I appreciate the pampering.”

“And I love giving it.” I took one more kiss from my handsome lupine’s muzzle and moved down the bed to tend to his hindpaws. I sat cross-legged so that he could prop his left heel in my lap, which allowed me to examine the huge pads up close. From this perspective, the hindpaw measured nearly up to my chin, and his thick claws bore the deep ochre color of his headfur. These, too, looked like they could use some tending to, and the black digital and metatarsal pads were rough enough to look painful. “Where have you been walking, Zaorotan? From the appearance, I’d swear you’ve been making treks over fields of broken glass, shredded machine parts, and shrapnel.”

“All of the above, and worse: New York City.”

“Heavens.”

“Hey, don’t you bless out loud at me!”

I chuckled fondly, using a soft, damp cloth to clean away any lingering debris from the pads. The retort had been a running joke between us, taken from a book that we discovered a few decades ago and had read together. We only steal from the best. Truth told, my first and biggest surprise in our relationship came from the discovery of my wolf’s sense of humor, and he enjoyed dishing it out as much as having it served back to him. When we first met, I had, like Hamlet, lost all my mirth. I was ready to give up this world entirely, ready to bargain my soul in the truest Faustian manner that I could imagine. Until Zaorotan appeared and spoke to me, I had no idea that I would instead strike a bargain that benefitted us both.

I opened the small ceramic tub and, taking a generous amount of the salve, I applied it tenderly to the metatarsal pad first, smiling at the low moan that I elicited from my great wolf.  “I take it that you approve?”

“Remind me to find a way to get more of this salve from the infernal regions.”

“Or Amazon.”

“That’s what I said.”

Chuckling in agreement, I asked, “So what was in New York?”

“The usual, sad to say.” Zaorotan shifted his upper body a little in order to reach the wine goblet that I’d prepared for him — an oversized chalice, as an ordinary mug would be the equivalent size of a thimble. “It is the lot of my kind to sow chaos into order, to shake things up, to make mortals fall into their own traps of hubris repaid, the seven sins revenged, the fall from great heights caused by the worship of self and manna. They’re doing such a good job of it themselves that I’m hardly needed.”

Bending down to kiss the thick claw of his great toe, I continued applying salve, now to the digital pads. “I need you, and for much happier reasons. You can always come here, and I’ll always have something for you.”

“I’m not such a cad as to turn that into a sexual joke, tempting though it is.” My huge wolf gazed softly at me, his gray-white eyes managing a sense of deepest affection. “It’s always good to come back to you, Josef. I wouldn’t be able to admit it to anyone else. You keep showing me so much that has been created in all these centuries. I wouldn’t have given a damn — perhaps literally — for a single sapient being who’d set hoof or hindpaw to this world, until you showed me how some few had created, just as if Someone had done it.”

“Neither would I.” With great tenderness, I used the damp cloth to take away the excess salve before transferring the huge hindpaw to one side, taking up the other. If anything, this one looked even worse for the wear. I knew that he was right-pawed, as far as his forepaws were concerned; did hindpaws reflect similar dominance? “I’d lost the ability to appreciate it myself.”

“I well remember, sweet love.” He regarded me with amazing depth of emotion. When his eyes burned (metaphorically, mind you), it was always with exceptional tenderness. “Remember, though, that even in the absolute depths of your despair, you showed to me the intricacies of Wagner’s Liebestod theme. The longing, the suspense, the need for resolution… an entire story in just that portion of music.” He flexed and curled his toes at me. “That’s part, a vital part, of what brought us together: your passion, and your need.”

Pausing the slightest bit, trying to fight down the blush that threatened to rise up from my toes, I returned my attention to his pads. “We needed each other.”

The memory was still fresh, no matter how many years had passed. I, the cougar who had become so convinced of the worthlessness of this life that he was willing even to consider a bargain with the dangerously otherworldly, and he, a demon who, according to all legend and hermetic writings, would be all too willing to twist any bargain to the advantage of an infernal Master.

After all this time, I can’t remember the exact circumstances that led to my decision to call upon a demon, to do barter with my immortal soul. What did I want? Why did I think that I would find it from purveyors of evil and damnation? For that matter, why did I think that I had a soul, immortal or otherwise, and what worth would it be in some cosmic tug of war between extremes of existence?

It wasn’t quite like that. Like all things, the mythology of the satanic barter has its origins in language, particularly in misunderstanding and manipulation of language. I had the same misconceptions as everyone else, prior to performing my conjuring. The only thing that made my invocation different from just about any work of literature or classic horror film ever made was a mental focus on the word daemon, the original Greek word, meaning a type of entity that was created as something between us mere mortal beings and deities. It became shortened to demon and used by the church to separate the “true” from the “fallen” daemons, thus angels and demons, each subject to the whims of their perceived masters, God and Satan. All mythologies began as ways to describe and understand the world; they were twisted into religions that insisted that there was an absolute Good and Evil, and you must do as we (mortal beings seeking power) tell you, or Your Immortal Soul™ is in peril of eternal torment. We know this because we got the Word directly, and no, you can’t do that for yourselves, because we know better, so there, and don’t forget that part about eternal torment.

My soul at its nadir, I had no interest in anyone else’s ideals of good or evil. I needed some form of intervention by someone or something that could wield whatever force or power was necessary in order to grant my singular desire. For that, I would indeed have given up my intangible, inscrutable soul. I sought not a deity (who could choose from so many, since even the “one” God had so many faces?) but a daemon, a being with some arcane power to make something happen. “Something,” I reasoned, was preferable to the “nothing” that I was experiencing. I had no idea who or what I was conjuring.

Finishing my attentions to Zaorotan’s hindpaw pads, I looked up and gazed happily (and more than a bit lustfully) across the body of my daemon. His eyes were closed, his face showing sweet relaxation and contentment. This tender moment was a far cry from our initial meeting…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When he appeared before me that first time, every aspect of me seemed to freeze, from my blood to my brain, from my body to my mind. It took a little time for me to realize that, if I were afraid of him killing me, then I clearly was not yet ready to die. From there, I realized that he hadn’t moved, that the summoning had in some way bound him, at least for that moment. I didn’t think that I was “safe,” but perhaps I was at least not in immediate mortal danger.

I had been kneeling during my ceremony, and from that perspective, the creature appeared to be ten meters tall, especially when combined with the image of his wings and the sense of the power that he wielded. I motioned for him to sit, and he folded himself downward with unexpected grace. He was in absolute control of his muscles, and I was fascinated by all of them, not just one of the more obvious ones. (Granted, “that one” didn’t escape even my otherwise jaded notice.) I sat in silence for some time before he rumbled, “It will be easier if you speak. Reading most minds is akin to discovering pornographic plates in books of tales meant for yowens.”

“Unsophisticated, lurid, pointless?” I offered.

He nodded slowly. “Finding your tongue?”

Smirking bitterly, I replied, “I’ve had little use for it, in any sense of the phrase.”

The moment stretched, and I began to sense a change in the dynamic between us. “Are you looking for those typical base pleasures?”

“It’s always tempting, but also always unfulfilling.”

Again, something in his manner seemed different. “Can you say what it is you seek?”

“One must avoid traps, according to the sum of the mythologies. If I become unspecific, I might forfeit any benefit to the bargain.”

“Would you care?”

That caught me off guard.

“You stink of despair, mortal.” He made the comment without rancor, merely as a fact. “Most do, when trying to strike bargains with demons. They have come to the end of their abilities to live as they do and, either as a short way through the wood or as their last hope, they consort with the infernal, to barter their souls for temporary respite.”

“I have called at the wrong door.” My voice quavered. “I sought a daemon, not a being of evil.”

As I frantically searched my mind for some memory of how to reverse the spell, to save whatever miserable life or soul I thought I had, the wolf-creature’s voice flowed softly into my twitching ears.

“You have called correctly.”

My eyes must have spoken more than my words could do.

“I heard this call and was intrigued. It was precise, ordered, and free of the usual reek of mere avarice, gluttony, and lust.” His smirk was gentle and strangely kind. “I gave the speech I did, moments ago, to ensure that my impressions were correct. You are different, mortal, and I would know why.”

“Would you?” I smirked in return, mine more bitter than his. “Do I not still stink of despair?”

“Certainly, but of a different variety.” He considered me, his wings shifting slightly. “I do not yet understand it. Explain.”

“And how do I know that you would not half-grant what I wish, tricking me into giving up myself for little or nothing?”

“Because I sense that you have done that already. Not with me, nor with my kind, but with your own.”

The observation was a blow, with its own physical sensations. I felt myself fold in upon myself, collapsing where I knelt. I made me small, looking down at the floor, clenching my fists, my fur shifting throughout, even my tail cowering around me. As my wretched past poured through me in tsunamis of self-loathing, nothing outside me happened for minutes that felt like hours. The wolf-creature knew too much of me already. In that sense, perhaps he was evil, or at least as tainted as myself. Yet he waited, unmoving, unmoved. I snapped up my head to look at him.

“And what,” I growled through clenched teeth, “is your best offer?”

“I have the ability to grant to you what you truly desire. That is, at least, what the legends claim.”

“You wax ambiguous, daemon. Are you no better than the tales told by my own kind?”

The barb struck its mark. For better or worse, I now had the being’s full attention.

“Your kind can tell no tale,” he grumbled at me, “make no song, weave no mystery more powerful than mine. Your passions are as nothing to what we, so nearer to the deities, can experience.”

“Shall we make our bargain based on that claim? Can you truly grant my deepest desire?”

“There is nothing I cannot give to you!”

I gained my hindpaws, my digitigrade height slightly taller than his seated frame. “First, daemon, look into me and see there the love, devotion, passion of a life that none I have found could bear. Look at the Self that I can give to you, and all you need do in return is to give to me what I want.”

He looked up into my eyes, and I stared into his, feeling his essence pressing into me, the eerie sense of nonphysical tentacles poking into every part of my experience, my emotion, my Self, feeling me, slithering about me, within me, tasting me. I, in turn, did what I could to see into him, to prepare to take the greatest, perhaps last, gamble of my life. Risking all, I reached out to cup his furry cheeks, mindful of his horns, feeling his own forepaws gripping me about my middle, whether to hold me or to tear me apart, I could not know. I felt more than heard the deep rumbling from within him, a growling, accompanied by the heat of him against my forepaws, against my body.

“So much,” his voice thrummed in the air, followed by a licentious snarl. I felt it inside me as much as I heard it through my ears. “So intricate. Unique. Truly singular, mortal.” He sniffed deeply, a sensation both physical as air through the nostrils and nonphysical as if he had inhaled a sampling of my very essence.

“You like what you taste, daemon?”

“Oh, yes. A feast in every sense.”

“Do you wish it for yourself?”

“I will bargain for it. Will you strike?”

“Can you give me what I want?”

“Name your deepest desire, and I will make it so.”

I leaned forward, bore my gaze deep into his strange, death’s-head white eyes. “Then give to me what none of my own kind has given. A male, a lover, a being of exceptional nature in every aspect, each of us worthy of the other, to whom I will give all of me, and who will give me all of him in return, for as long as we both shall Be.”

All sound, all movement, all time ceased. I could not even feel my own heart beating, if indeed it still did. My mind, against all sense, tried to work, churning, fearful, wondering if my life was finally over, if I had given and hazarded all I hath. The daemon had been right: I wasn’t at all sure if I cared. What I cared about, what was (literally) vital to me, was to know love made real, to find that elusive Him. I wasn’t even sure if he existed, or if this daemon could find him…

“Struck.”

The voice was soft yet powerful, and I didn’t quite understand why the daemon’s face had grown even closer to my own, why I felt his lips touch mine, why the sensation of heat came partly from the physical contact and partly from the emotions pouring into me from the wolf-being seated in front of me. The kiss lasted, lingered, stayed long after he had pulled back from me. The daemon’s lips curled up into a wry smile.

“I can only hope,” he said to me, “that I live up to your expectations.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That, I realized while coming out of my momentary reverie, had been an astonishing number of years ago. Despite appearances, I completed my second century some time ago, and I was no kitling when I found my beloved wolf. In all that time, neither of us has had reason to regret the choices we made that night.

I put the lid carefully onto the ceramic jar, set it and the cloth to one side. Tenderly moving the hindpaw to my side as well, I leaned forward to get myself on forepaws and knees, happily crawling my way between my lupine’s long legs, past (for now) his impressive nether endowments, and finishing by sprawling happily across his capacious torso. We smiled at each other, reading one another’s minds not literally but in that way that lovers do.

“Reliving the past?” he asked me.

“Only the good parts.”

“So… since you met me?”

“Exactly.”

The wolf chuckled softly. “We are quite pleased with ourselves, aren’t we?”

“Oughtn’t we be? Setting aside the whole ‘sin of pride’ thing.”

“I wouldn’t say that we’ve been stingy about it, all in all.” Zaorotan pet my back tenderly. “Being here for each other has given us both strength to do more. We have taught each other, supported each other, made each other better. We haven’t kept that to ourselves. Think of all we’ve given to others.”

He could enumerate them even better than I could. It is a daemon’s lot to sprinkle chaos into the world, thus helping mortal beings discover more about themselves. “Demons” and “angels” both shake things up. Whether invocations are called “wishes” or “prayers,” whether the response is thought of as coming from a supernal or infernal source, that which is granted always has a price attached… or, more correctly, a consequence. It doesn’t matter how you won a lottery (as an example), whether through fervent prayer or diabolical bargaining; at the end of the day, it’s what you do with it that reveals your character. It also reveals the character of those around you, and that generally provides more chaos than most mortals can handle easily.

Similarly, finding yourself with a scholarship or grant can throw your life into a swivet. Can you use the opportunity well, or will you find a way to squander it? What will you take away from your time and study, and what will you do with it afterward? The infamous “Parable of the Talents” is, taken at face value, about a whistle-blower who tells the truth on his double-dealing master and is punished for not investing his talent. As a unit of currency of the presumed time, a “talent” was worth about 20 years of laboring 6 days per week. The fellow given a single talent was expected, like the other two beneficiaries, to invest in a scheme that would end up paying the master for having done nothing to earn it (“I should have mine own with usury”). The punishment meted upon the fellow for depriving his master his percentage of profit was to have the talent (income) taken back and given freely to the richest, and thus most “worthy,” of the master’s charges. It was a great story about the Haves against the Have-Nots, and it’s been woefully misrepresented over the centuries. That was the fault of the “do-gooders” of the church, and it is a prime example in the discourse of what is truly evil in the world.

“We have done our best to sew the right forms of chaos,” I said softly. “Some successes, some failures, depending upon how you measure them.”

“Judgment isn’t our business.”

“Perhaps. I have my own scorecard, for whatever it might be worth. Keeping myself honest or, at the least, learning from my experiences.”

Zaorotan leaned his head toward me to give me a particularly sweet kiss. “You have learned well.”

“We’ve taught each other well.”

He rumbled low in his chest, his smile growing into a particularly suggestive one. “Shall we retest each other’s knowledge and skills?”

I shivered happily as I felt his tail behind me, it having curled up from beneath him to brush its tip suggestively at the base of my own. “It’s always good to make sure one hasn’t lost ones touch.” My velveted hindpaws were in precisely the right location to emphasize the word “touch” and elicit a particularly gratifying inhalation from him.

The rest of the night found us striving for ever higher scores on our tests. Records are, after all, made to be broken.