Slexia

    Managua’s new quest is to find a remedy for the world’s rapid increase in storms.  He sought it in the clouds of Caryn first, clouds that were dense enough to walk and build malleable cities on.  But soon the storms came, and he was forced to fly lower, for the delicate vapors were swept away by the dark advance of the thunderheads.  He rode his dragon alone over the astounding lands of Caryn- Candyland, and Musica, where he picked up the delirious artist Clive after an auctioneer had tried to murder him.  Then came Cape Harp, the Crystal Sea, and the vast expanse of fjords bearing the towering monoliths of crystalline mountains at the heart of the geographically haphazard continent; transparent mountains that shone with all the colors of the rainbow; the continent a progression of the electromagnetic journey of the sun’s refracting diversity through the atmosphere’s filament.  At the tint of the pinkish spectrum that was just turning red, the dragon was shot down by an idle hunter, and together Managua and Clive fell to a glowing palace on an island nestled in the heart of a fjord, a palace bright with red turrets and pink walls reflecting the crystal mountains on the shores; Slexia’s Palace.

    Upon landing on the glistening palace balcony the waft of mysterious airs dispersed through the atmosphere that blanketed the fallen survivors in volcanic red.  There came through the billowing curtains the joyous melody of chimes, perhaps a harp, and most definitely the moaning voice of what sounded to Clive like a dysphoric nypmh in heat.  Curiosity propelled them onto the pink marble floor of the interior of the palace turret, and before their eyes arose a wondrous monument of royal decor; the luxurious nest of a waterbed cradled in a large seashell atop a pedestal gleaming with rubies.  It was surrounded on all sides by steaming jacuzzis, their vapors lofty and sending aflight various origami configurations suspended from the jade ceiling.  Columns of opalescent coral weaved frescoes of mermaids, cherubs, and beady-eyed snakes around their twirling circumference.  Their shock from the crash yielded to a purifying ecstasy as the mirage of a reclined temptress emerged from the departing steam on the water-shell bed.  Managua and Clive had never been so quickly captivated by the sight of a woman.  Even Naya became a distant memory lost in the corridors of history as the sleek woman played an aria from a miniature harp, moistening her lips, calling them with her voice; the moans descending to hums, then rising again to the aching desperation of a lonely recluse, excreting a toxic aroma of sex that sent chills down their spines, tingling their bones like the chimes striking each other above, which appeared to be the random sounds of drifting metalloids hanging from the ceiling next to the origami, the music orchestrated by the rising of the steam and the excitement of arousal.  The men shared a wide-eyed stare of disbelief as the woman concluded her tantric song, drowning out their senses and revealing the silence of what was surely an isolated location on Caryn.  When she finished beads of sweat had appeared on their skin; the bedroom sauna with the riveting apparition had quickened their pulses and their breaths.  She stood to approach them, seemingly knowing that they had been there the whole time listening to her, and shrugged off her diamond-embroidered sari with the nonchalance of a wanton victim of dejection. Stepping forward with the slithery grace of a serpentine Goddess, the tasseled design of a leather corset enhanced the impossible curvature of a full bust and the tanned complexion of dangerous skin.  Wild ringlets of blonde hair coiled all about her wicked face, a face that could send rockets to a moon with its deep black eyes, fleshy cheeks, and perfectly ripe lips.  Her very being was everything that described the word orgasmic, and for any unfortunate man who lay eyes upon her they were snared by her power, the conquering force of her lust, and the poison of her flaming pizzazz.

    Slexia knows who he is; the only man alive who can solve the riddle of the storms.  So with a wink of an eye the floors disperse.  Down fall the warrior and the artist through the palace below.  Clive is able to gather the various illustrious parlors of antique baroque that made the palace so erotically famous.  Throughout the palace there stand elaborate shrines with mosaics of sexual positions which are flanked by statues of orgies, polished marble ones that could make any cabaret, strip club, or pornographic institution look like a petting zoo.  The men land in a parlor messy with the elastic buoyancy of lingerie, but they stumbled through it and out a doorway and were now on what felt like solid earth.  When they finally come to a stop Managua opens his eyes to a red cavern with glorious crystal cenotes, the walls of which are round and bulbous like the flesh of devil daughters.  Out of the water wades Slexia, saturated to the bone and dressed in ripped latex, over-indulgent earrings, and chains for masochists.

    First she approaches Managua, who, transfixed by her power, suddenly remembers Naya, and the power of their love causes the spell to break.  Slexia knows this, so she works her magic on Clive instead.  He, no slave to his heart’s true desire, becomes easily hypnotized by her demonic intrigue.  Managua, despite the sanity of his faithfulness, briefly slips, and pangs of jealousy ripple through his nervous system.  He wants to destroy Clive: his dick possesses him in a swarm of rage.  She, holding Clive by the temple, kisses him deeply, takes his arm, and leads him deeper into the crimson atmosphere of the cavern.  She knows what she’s doing: she knows that the other man will lose his mind and the storms will continue to grow, destroying the world with mighty ferocity.   She becomes lovers with the artist, and he, promising to devote grand paintings to her, makes love to her every hour of the day on beds adorned with rubies and golden drapes at the bottom of the cavern.

    He, the infatuated artist, obsesses on her every moment of his waking hour.  She needs this to feel powerful.  Managua, overcome by jealousy, loses sight of his quest to find Naya and a remedy for the storms.  They both lose their minds trying to impress Slexia, and compete against one another by constructing crystalline monuments to the demon.  Art speaks louder than words, even actions, and both men know this.  Meanwhile the clouds are getting more aggravated, and the storm of the world is spreading.

    Clive’s sculpture is the favorite of hers, and a devastated Managua, losing sight of Naya and at a loss for control, murders the glorious artist, the friend he had saved in Musica.  In time it will come to be the biggest regret of his life, but he doesn’t know this yet; the spell over him is still powerful.  Slexia, unaware that her lover is dead, tells Managua that she won’t seduce him unless he completes a work better than Clive’s.  During the second construction Managua is brought to his senses by a song reverberating through the caves.  It was a song that Naya used to sing when they were young lovers running through the fauna of the Gambrian jungle.  He finds the source of the voice, a young girl, a servant of the palace, wandering, lost in the labyrinth below.  He tries to help find her way back to the palace, but on the way they find a curious piece of ancient craftwork; a magical carpet.  When Slexia finds her beloved artist slain, she storms the caverns in search of the fool who killed him.

    High in the sky Managua flies on the magic carpet with the girl hugging his shoulders.  The storms are coagulating into great swirling truffles that leak chocolate kisses over the land.  They’re getting bigger, stronger, deadlier, and the girl is finding it difficult to hold on, so she squeezes him tighter.  There are roads in the sky, rainbow roads, and they are more pronounced when the floodgates of the heavens burst and obscure rays from the sun peek through the clouds.

    The carpet brings them to Cape Rapture and they enter Cloud City, a reconstruction of the pagan Summerland.  Buildings, homes, and towers rising to the sky are all cemented in clouds.  The are solidified so beings can walk on them.  Transportation is offered by domesticated albatross, dragons, and other magic carpets.  Thunder crashes down on the startled populace, a race consisting mostly of winged elves and tiny sprites.

    They land on an isolated cloud, one that is sheltered from the pelting rains by a building above.  On the terrace of puff there lay a peculiar lake, serenely secure in its hostile surroundings.  Managua talks with the girl in that beautiful white atmosphere while Slexia works to poison his mind through the neural strings of the girl’s soul portal.  He tells her of all his travels so far, how far he’s come; about his homeland Gambria, the sheer walls of the Limestone Mountains, seeing the golden skyline of Montezuma from a view on Mt. Skyhorn, racing Carpenter in the stadium made of spaceports and pyramids in the desert capital Orion, Capriscopo battling giant anacondas in the Boxcar Bayou, charging the Dragonmount with San Sebastian De Las Casas, Reef City, the Fiesta Moon, Mount Quetza and all the sights of the Latina Empire.  Lastly are the surreal spectacles of her own continent, Caryn.  He told her about Clive, but not about the demoness who put spells on them.  Nor did it matter, because Slexia’s poison had slowly worked its way into the girl’s bloodstream, and her consciousness was yielding to something else’s.  Managua doesn’t notice her transformation because he is telling his long story to her while gazing up at the clouds.

    A major crash of thunder alarms him.  The girl’s body mutates into a horrid goblin; not the lusty figure that Slexia had masqueraded under, but perhaps the true being beneath.  She opens her mouth to bite him in half, but through the clouds there comes a blinding flash, a shining orb, no, an emblem of light.  Managua’s head jerks up to see it, and he reaches up to grasp it as if it were a weapon.  It zaps his fingertips, enters his body, and electrocutes him into shock, sending ripples of energy outward.  The light is blinding, the sound deafening, and the power insurmountable; the demon is swallowed by its purifying light.  Managua, struck by lightning and in some demented sense of the word successful, falls from the cloud, falls long and falls gracefully, way down through the stinging rains of the maelstrom.  The carpet that brought them to Cloud City braces his fall, but the wind is too much for it, and soon they are blown away from one another.  Managua, separated from all the people he once knew, alone, lost, injured from the blast and scarred by his sins, plunges into the ocean below while the storms gain strength and the world becomes a rattling tambourine.