Mud & MagicChapter 7: Growing Pains free porn video

Author’s Notes:

This chapter wouldn’t have been possible without my lady love, beta reader Thornfoote and my faithful editor bikoukumori. For your help, support, input and tireless editing passes I offer my thanks.

All participants in sexual activities are adults in their respective species.

Thick, warm mud sucked at the soles of his feet. The only noises he could hear were the cawing of the crows overhead and the wet, disgusting slurp whenever he pulled his foot from the mud for another sluggish step. The reddish-brown sludge seemed to fight his every move.

“Where are we?” Lishaka asked. The goblin sorceress trotted alongside him, wearing nothing more than a concerned expression. Her leaf-green skin was spattered with the same retch-inducing substance.

“Dunno,” Rhys muttered. He looked down. He was naked as well, his slender body bleeding in numerous places. His right arm hung useless by his side, the forearm bent in a way it wasn’t supposed to.

Strange. It should hurt like hell, Rhys thought. He raised his gaze and finally, his surroundings came into focus. He and Lishaka were slogging through a grisly forest made up of crosses lit by an infernal orange radiance. Not quite sunset. More like a flaming inferno.

The bodies on the crosses moaned in agony as they passed them. Unlike the previous time, no wooden plaques had been hammered onto their foreheads. Rhys could clearly see who they sloshed past.

Mirrin wailed as their eyes met. “Where were you when I needed you?” she screamed, each word like a lash. Rhys stumbled, crashing into the sticky mud. The cloying smell of blood and guts threatened to swallow him.

Lishaka’s small hands were there, trying in vain to pull him up. “We can’t stay here, Rhys,” she pleaded, throwing panicked looks over her shoulder.

Rhys unsteadily came to his feet, his gaze following hers. There was nothing to see, only unending rows of crosses.

That’s not quite true. There is someone, isn’t there? But try as he might, he could not make out any details. Rhys held on to Lishaka’s small, clawed hand and pulled her along in his wake.

“That’s what you get for meddlin’ in things you have no business meddlin’ with.” Padec, gutted from chin to crotch, gloated down on him. Even near death, his face was a mask of utter disgust as he stared at Rhys. “Everyone you know will die.”

“What do you know?” Rhys snarled. “You were content to let yourself be slaughtered like cattle!” Snarling, he dragged Lishaka onwards. He had no idea where they went but he knew that getting there was of the utmost importance.

“I hope you’re happy fucking a goblin,” Jenny Billings hissed, her naked body writhing on the cross. “Instead of learning how to fight Carver, you’re wasting time sticking that dick of yours-”

Rhys sloshed on, past the gleefully cackling girl. Her blood dripped into the mud, each drop pattering onto the ground with the sound of a pebble impacting water. He could feel something close in, a malicious presence aiming straight for him. His honed senses, attuned to the flow of magic, registered it. Massive, powerful, all-consuming. And it was coming closer. Snarling, Rhys snatched Lishaka off her feet and pressed her shivering, naked body against his, carrying her. He had no idea how he managed it with his shattered arm. Lishaka hugged herself close to him, her eyes burning with a strange mixture of fear, eagerness and lust. Step by torturous step, Rhys dragged his weary body past rows and rows of crosses.

“Don’t let them fool you.” The voice, coming not from a cross, but from straight ahead, stopped him harder than any blow to the head could. Sitting in the mud, swaddled in layers of blankets and with her pipe in hand, was Gran. Her smile was radiant and her eyes sparkled like Rhys had never seen before. The horrifying dent in her skull was there too, oozing blood and brain matter. But if Gran noticed the ghastly injury or not wasn’t obvious. She took a long drag from her pipe.

“What ... what is happening?” Rhys stuttered, going to a knee. Lishaka wriggled against him, her hands caressing his scarred back.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Gran pointed with the stem of her pipe. “You’re having a nightmare.”

“I ... I don’t want to!”

Gran reached out and patted his knee. “Your subconscious is trying to cope with all the horrors you have endured. Fight the guilt, my little reed. There was nothing you could have done to prevent Dara’s death.”

“How do you know?”

“Her suffering is over, as is mine. We are both in Mercy’s arms. It was about time she and I had a serious talk.”

“Talk? What about?”

“You know I wasn’t keen on that girl but seeing how much you have changed since she bedded you...” Gran chuckled. “I need to apologize. You would have made a fine innkeep, Rhys.”

“If only that were true,” Rhys whimpered. He crawled through the mud and pressed Gran’s bony frame against his body. “I miss you so much.”

“Now, now. No more tears, Rhys. Chin up.” Gran’s hands moved along his broken arm, setting bones, knitting flesh. The sound of bone chafing on bone was stomach-turning.

“You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world,” Rhys sobbed. “Will the pain never end?”

“Losing someone you love hurts. That pain stays with you forever,” Gran said, her own eyes misting over. “Ursa ... my dear sister.” She sniffled.

Rhys remembered something. “Say, Gran ... the Witch blood...”

A sly, devious smile crept over Gran’s lips. “Ah, you finally noticed, eh? Ursa and I were twins. Of course the blood ran in both of us.” The smile was gone as quickly as it had shown up. “I had dreams, Rhys. Much like you are having now. Visions. And when I dreamed what would happen to Ursa, I hid my gift deep, deep inside where even I could not find it.”

A moment later, Gran was gone. The moaning forest was gone, replaced by a single cross. Dara hung upon it. Rhys looked around. Lishaka was gone too, leaving him alone. The fearsome presence was closer than ever, a mausoleum’s icy breath upon his bare shoulders. But he could not run away.

“Oh Dara,” he moaned.

“Don’t cry, Rhys. It’s me own fault,” Dara said, her bruised face distorted into what he hoped was a smile. “Maybe killing that black rider wasn’t that smart after all.” She sighed. “But he killed me dear brother. What was I supposed to do? Sit by and applaud?” Hot tears spilled from her eyes. “When you were gone, I didn’t care anymore.”

“Why? Don’t tell me I am responsible for your death!”

“No silly. The only one responsible for my death ... for all of this ... is me. But when you left, you took something away I didn’t know I needed.” A small sob escaped her mutilated breast. “I must have loved you after all.” She shook her head. “Never thought I’d say that. I wish you’d have stayed.”

“And you would have died like all the others,” Hilgrun snarled, towering over him. Her great sword was bloodstained and she was naked, her muscular body painted with blue and white stripes and swirls. The fetid winds whipping around the cross tossed her braid around.

“Your presence would have made no difference and without your magic, you wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway.” She bent low and yanked Rhys to his feet until she could hug him against her warm flesh. Locking eyes with the crucified Dara, she ground herself against Rhys.

“What are you doing?” the young sorcerer asked Hilgrun. His body reacted strongly to her, his member a hard and throbbing presence between them.

“You should not linger here,” she said. Her voice had a soft, heartfelt tone, like the time when they had slept together. “Grief is all well and good but, instead of wishing for things to be different, use the memory of the fallen to strengthen your resolve. Whatever you do will not bring her back.” She placed a gentle kiss on Rhys’ lips. “Run, you fool.”

She slapped his ass, hard. Rhys stumbled past Dara’s cross but when he turned for one last look it was gone. He stood in the fields surrounding Padec’s farm. A light drizzle trickled from leaden clouds but, on the horizon, brilliant rays of sunlight pierced the thick cover. The larch trees near Old Man Harrol’s barn gleamed like emerald torches.

Head spinning, Rhys looked down. He wore his old, threadbare clothes and his feet hurt, wedged into Lissy’s badly repaired clogs. He was freezing and the ominous menace tailing him seemed to be around him, cutting off every escape. Except one. Rhys trotted along the uneven path until he was back at the farm. It was just like he remembered it – before Carver’s black riders had come through. Puddles sparkled in the yard, the chickens made a racket in the hen house and the familiar aroma of manure wafted from the stables. Rhys opened the door to the farm house. His mother, Mara, stood at the hearth, stirring the large kettle. Whatever she cooked, it smelled much better than anything she usually managed.

“I’m home,” Rhys said. “This actually smells really nice.”

“Have a seat,” Mara said. He hesitated. Her voice was different. Not the soft, leaden tones he remembered.

“Come now. I’ve spared no expenses for you, my boy.” She ladled food into a wooden bowl and turned to face Rhys. As she did so, her shape shifted. Gone was the bent-over woman with the blank face his mother had been, replaced with a tall, dark-haired beauty. Gone were the shabby clothes, replaced by glistening silks, just enough fabric to afford the illusion of modesty. Triangles of midnight black accentuated the swell of firm breasts and instead of covering her mound, the long, dark strip of fabric snaking its way between her thighs drew the eyes to the Y formed by her legs and crotch. A hood covered most of her head, yet long strands of lustrous black hair framed her face. Thin golden chains jangled softly as she sashayed closer and the mouth-watering smell of the food was replaced by a dark, sensual fragrance which seemed to go straight from Rhys’s nostrils to his cock. He was achingly hard within a heartbeat.

Her eyes were of the deepest black imaginable, the lips red like fresh blood on snow and her skin was pale, with just enough of a rosy hue to dispel any ideas of her being undead. Her smile was warm and genuine as she placed the bowl in front of him. A silver spoon appeared on the table next to it.

“Who ... who are you?” Rhys asked.

“I am everything you could ever want,” she purred. Her face became indistinct. Rhys started as golden curls spilled from her hood. Elara looked at him. A moment later, the delicate elven face was replaced by Lishaka’s wide grin. Another heartbeat, and Hilgrun’s intense eyes locked gazes with him. Rhys blinked and Mirrin eyed him.

“I would never-!” he protested.

“Oh, I know better,” the strange woman rasped, now wearing the angelic face of Borna. “I know everything, Rhys.” Galdor grinned at him.

“You ... you are Desire?”

The raven-haired beauty was back, lounging on the table. “Took you long enough,” she said.

Rhys stood up and retreated, until his back connected with the rough rubble stone wall of the farm house. “What do you want?” he snarled. He balled his left fist, drawing on every energy source he could grasp until a trembling ball of force filled his palm.

“Come now, there is no need for hostility,” Desire said, pouting. “Amidst all the guilt, all the self-flagellation, I heard your cries. Your desire to end Faedal rings loud and true, a clarion call I find irresistible. So, you have succeeded. I am here for you.” She snapped her fingers and gone was the farm house, replaced with a large bed, the mattress extending to the horizon and beyond. She was naked save for the chains curled around her wrists and hips, her lips parted and her breasts heaved in anticipation. “I am here for you, Rhys.”

Desire’s long-fingered hand slithered down her body, between her breasts, over her navel, past the chains and over her hairless mound. She parted her labia.

Rhys crawled away from her and sat up. “This is all a bad nightmare.”

“It was difficult to reach you, with all the guilt piled up around you,” she whispered, gently caressing herself. “But now that I have found you, it does not have to be a nightmare. See?” Her free hand gestured and a moment later, Rhys was surrounded by naked bodies. Elara. Idunn. Galdor. Mirrin. Dara. Hilgrun. Celeste. Borna. Chassari. Even Najat, the catfolk priestess of Allura was there, meowing in heat. They all writhed against him, grasping for his rod, placing his hands on their bodies, kissing every inch of skin they could reach.

Desire was but a shadow behind the long limbs and naked bodies, her smile radiant as she fingered herself. “Name your wishes. I will do anything for you, Rhys,” Mirrin whispered in his ear with Desire’s voice.

“Stop that!” Rhys nearly choked on the words. Dara and Galdor were busy licking him, passing his throbbing hardness back and forth like a delicious treat.

“My gift not good enough for you?” Desire hissed. A moment later, the moaning, writhing bodies were gone, replaced by nothingness. Only the overpowering presence of Desire was there, an ominous glint in her eyes. “Better?” she breathed. Her tongue touched Rhys’ ear.

“What do you want from me?” Rhys snapped. He was confused but the familiar hot rush of anger gained strength by the moment. “I don’t want to be played with!”

“An understandable notion,” Desire admitted. “Let us talk then, like adults. Every fiber in your being seeks revenge for all the horrible things Faedal has done.”

Rhys growled.

“I can give you the power you need to find and defeat him.”

Even in his confusion, Rhys couldn’t help but laugh. “So? Isn’t he your champion? Why would you sacrifice him?”

Desire sighed. “Champion? Hardly. Carver is my Chosen. He thinks. He has ambition. But Faedal? You know his handiwork by now.” Images flashed past them, the blood-soaked octagonal hall under Storm Harbor. Celeste’s broken body. The burning village. “Faedal has no ambition. He is content to squander my gifts in the pursuit of self-indulgence.” She yawned, fanning herself with her fingers. “You, on the other hand, you have ambition. You want to change the world! I would be a fool not to pursue you.”

“Even if you could raise Dara from the dead, I would say no!” Rhys said.

“You want that red-haired tavern wench?” Desire gestured. Dara appeared next to them, looking in confusion down her unblemished body. “I am a goddess, Rhys. Death has no meaning for me.”

“Rhys? What is happening?” Dara asked, rushing to his side. “Why are we naked?”

Rhys gulped air into his lungs. She is toying with you, a voice in his head screamed. It’s not real! Dara held on to his shaking body for dear life, whimpering in incomprehension. If this was a dream, it felt shockingly real. The shiver running through Dara, her hard nipples pressing against his back, even the warm breath on his neck.

“You can’t stop toying with me, can you?” Rhys snarled. He pushed Dara away and locked gazes with Desire. “I told you – I don’t like to be played.”

“Your loss,” Desire said, shrugging. She reached forward and a long, midnight-black blade shot from her palm, impaling Dara through the throat. Gasping for air as her lifeblood bubbled free, Dara went to her knees, eyes flicking between Rhys and Desire as she tried to stem the crimson tide spilling through her fingers.

“I would have let you have her for free even,” Desire said. “Now you are indeed responsible for her demise.” More blades flew from the goddess’ hands, tearing large chunks out of Dara’s flesh. Only when one pierced her eye did she stop gurgling and struggling.

“If beating Faedal means more pain and suffering then so be it!” Rhys yelled. “I don’t want anything to do with you. You are the sole reason Carver can do what he does!”

Desire placed a long-fingered hand on her breast, her face a mask of aggravation. “You wound me, Rhys. But I am in a generous mood tonight. Swear allegiance to me and everything will be forgiven. You shall receive power few mortals were meant to wield. A paragon of purity like you should be able to manage whatever price I might ask, right?” She giggled softly.

“So, if I swear allegiance, you will return Dara to life, give me the power to kill Faedal and then what?” Rhys asked.

Desire’s eyes lit up. “If that’s what it takes...”

“What would be the price?” Rhys prodded.

“There is only one way to find out, dear, just Rhys.” Desire beamed widely. Rhys had seen the same smile before. On Faedal’s face, just as he slit a helpless elf girl’s throat. “But I solemnly promise that it will in no way interfere with your self-appointed mission,” Desire assured him. “I would never get in the way of you killing Faedal. Or all that delicious sex you seem to crave so much.” Another gesture. The bed was back, along with all the naked, moaning bodies yearning for him.

Rhys closed his eyes, listening into himself. He could bring Dara back from the dead. He could be more powerful than even Thurguz himself. He maybe could even do what the old, tired half-orc couldn’t do – stop Carver once and for all.

And by bending his knee to Desire, he would betray everything Gran had taught him. He would be no better than Padec, going to war for Carver, even offering his own daughter for a basket full of food. The decision was easy.

“I respectfully decline.”

“Come now,” Desire pleaded. “Are you sure? Even my patience has limits, boy.”

“Among farmers, there is this saying: ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’ But I already know that this gift horse is a broken, sick and limping nag and would only cause more grief than it is worth. No. I don’t want your help.”

“Last chance, Rhys,” Desire hissed, a dangerous note in her voice. She pulled her hand up to neck height and, at the same time, Dara’s mutilated corpse rose up as well, like a puppet hanging from its strings. “I am not in the habit of front-loading offers like yours and renouncing me might have dire consequences. Especially since I came personally to visit you.”

“I have heard enough tales of the prices you collect. Begone.”

“As you wish. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Dara’s corpse burst into flames.

A long, painful scream yanked Rhys awake. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own voice, reverberating off the walls of his room. There still was a distinct note of scorched flesh in his nose.

Trying to steady his breath, Rhys looked around. He was alone. Thankfully. The small oil lamp on his nightstand was the only illumination. Need to change that. He pulled a few strands of magic around his left hand and sent them out as flickering motes of flame. Three more lamps and the fireplace ignited.

Rhys patted his forehead. His skin was sweat-soaked, as were his sheets. He pulled the covers off and froze. His feet. They were caked in a reddish-brown sludge. Large puddles of that same stuff soiled the lower half of his sheets.

Ice-cold dread shot down his spine. That had to be a dream, right? It has to be! He dug his fingernails into his thigh. The pain was very real and it didn’t yank him from another dream. The mud on his feet was as real as the cold stone floor. Close to a panic, Rhys yanked the sheets off the bed, balled them up and tossed them into the fireplace. He then hobbled into the bathroom and scrubbed at his feet until not a single speck of dirt was on them. When he returned to his room, he noticed something else. A small figurine stood on the low table between his armchairs. He picked up the item and inspected it. Two hands forming a bowl, bound by golden chains around the wrists. Desire’s holy symbol. Disgusted, Rhys pulled his arm back to throw and shatter it in the fireplace. But then he hesitated.

The memories were crystal-clear. That was no ordinary dream. He shivered as his mind replayed what he had seen. Never! he thought in disgust as the image of naked Mirrin flashed past, grinding his hand against her sex. So ... I refused Desire’s offer. Maybe desecrating her holy symbol on top of that isn’t such a good idea. He yanked open one of the drawers of his desk and tossed the figurine in. Disgusted, he slammed the drawer shut.

I can never tell anyone about this. Not even Thurguz. Especially not him.

A knock at the door tore Rhys from his thoughts. He looked from the door to the smoking ball of burning fabric in the fireplace. Snarling, he dashed across the room and yanked the door open. Sen took a hasty step backwards, the mug and bowl on her tray rattling dangerously.

“Not a good time?” she asked. “Who’s in there now? Idunn?”

“Give it a rest already,” Rhys snarled. He took the breakfast tray and slammed the door in Sen’s face.

“Hey, is something burning in there?” he heard Sen call.

“No, just some magic trick gone awry!” Rhys lied. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Rhys entered the training room. His body felt unbelievably heavy, as if his limbs had been coated with lead. Neither cold water nor his usual oatmeal had managed to drive away the specters of the night. The nagging feeling that his dream could be more than just a phantasm, that maybe the part with Desire was anything but imaginary, was hard to dislodge too.

“You look like you had quite the night,” Idunn observed. “And please, don’t let showing up late become a habit.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Won’t happen again, I hope.”

“I hope so too.” The dwarven sorceress looked him up and down. “Can you concentrate enough? Your mastery of Thornfoote’s Paradigm is sufficient.”

“I wouldn’t mind practicing the ‘street fighting’ magics a bit more,” Rhys said.

“You can do that on your own time. I think we will move on to more advanced topics. Your pick – body alteration or conjuration magic?”

“What kind of effects will fall under the latter choice? From what I’ve seen in ‘Combat Magick Condensed’, body alteration includes self-levitation, flight, Armor spells, shape shifting, invisibility and the like.”

“In short, conjuration involves the movement of things. From summoning allies to help in battle to teleportation to conjuring weapons into your hands.” Idunn’s hand flashed through a quick motion and her burning battleaxe appeared.

Rhys scratched his chin and thought for a bit. “I think I’d rather go for alteration then,” he finally said.

“Oh?” Idunn dismissed her axe. “I thought you’d like to learn Teleport as soon as possible. To visit your sister.”

“I do. But considering my recent adventures, I’d like to improve my chances of survival a bit. I can’t learn Teleport when I’m dead.”

“That makes sense.” Idunn paced the breadth of the room. “We’ll start with defensive effects first and move on to movement-related spells later. Last will be shapechanging. A natural progression.”

“That sounds rather intimidating,” Rhys admitted.

“It’s not as bad as you may think,” Idunn said, coming to a stop in front of Rhys. “Thanks to your previous training, you already know the basics of alteration. You know how to apply magical energy to change an item’s properties.”

“Like shrinking a helmet?”

“Exactly. Only this time, you won’t work with someone else’s items. Your body will be altered.”

Rhys opened his mouth but Idunn cut him off with a gesture and a smile.

“No, the chance of a painful accident or permanent alteration is rather low, for two reasons. First, I am here. Should I realize you’re doing something dumb, I can intervene and dispel your magic. Second, and it’s the sad truth, the amount of power necessary to permanently encase yourself in armor or turn your skin to stone would probably kill you before the spell has fully manifested.”

“And what about the legends? It was said that the Elven Queen in ‘The Tales Of Orran’ had skin no blade could pierce. And all the evil mages binding enchantments to their skin?”

Idunn snorted in disgust. “Either the Elf Queen had some mystical item which shielded her or she had her Council of Mages weave an enchantment. Very few mages are able to permanently bind spells to their bodies. Months? Sure. Even I can do that. Years? I’ve heard about that. But ‘forever?’ That would cause all manner of problems, especially once the caster dies. I’ve heard tales of old mages whose spells went out of control once their will was gone. But that’s not important. Over the next few weeks, I will teach you how to alter the properties of your body, at first for a few minutes at a time then for longer. Once you have mastered the basics and I am certain you won’t kill yourself on accident, you are free to experiment.”

“What do we start with?”

Idunn’s smile turned grim. “Armor. One of the fundamental battle spells and also a good basis to expand your mastery from.” She walked over to a cabinet and pulled a metal gauntlet from it. “There is one major difference between Thornfoote’s Paradigm and what I am about to teach you though.”

“What would that be?”

“Instead of replacing a major property, you will add one. Please watch.”

Rhys focused his senses on Idunn as she began to draw power with her free hand. For an instant, her skin took on a silvery, polished sheen before returning to her normal, bronze color. She handed him the gauntlet.

“Hit me. I know you want to.”

“I would never,” Rhys said. “You have been nothing but good to me. Strict, yes, but fair.”

“Your flattery will get you nowhere with me. Hit me with the gauntlet, Rhys.”

“As you command.” He obliged, swiping the heavy piece of armor at her shoulder. Idunn didn’t even try to evade. With the only slightly muffled sound of metal against metal, the gauntlet pinged off her shoulder.

“See? I’m armor-plated for the next few minutes,” Idunn said, holding out her hand. “But had I simply replaced my body’s properties with that of the gauntlet, I’d be a pretty statue. I added the hardness.”

“Is it as difficult as you make it sound?”

“Not much different from causing knots to slip open or turning a metal helmet into a piece of wood.”

“How many properties can I add?”

“Your ability to concentrate and the amount of power you use determines that. You should probably focus on the important things like hardness instead of looks. I’ve heard of mages who craft an impressive optical component, sheathing their body in gleaming metal plates when they cast an Armor spell, but that kind of flashy showmanship will only hurt you in the end. It takes longer to cast and eats more of your concentration.”

“You gleamed for a moment too.”

“I did that mainly for your benefit. Adding such a little flourish doesn’t hurt and can be a boon for your allies. As always, sorcery is very personal.” She rapped her fingers against the gauntlet. “Enough talk. For a start, I want you to armor your right hand.”

“Little steps, huh?”

“Also, should you mess it up, you only lose a hand.”

“That’s ... not reassuring.”

“Regrowing a hand is much easier than raising the dead. As long as we have a druid like Elara with us.” Idunn clicked her fingers against each other. “I’m waiting, Rhys.”

“All right, all right.” The young sorcerer passed the gauntlet to his left hand and used the right one to draw power by the fistful. Instead of directing the energy outward to alter something away from him, he turned the power towards himself. The strands suffused his body, raising every hair and flooding his system with a tingling sensation. He laughed. This feels incredible! It’s ... it’s almost like sex! He blushed as he noticed himself growing hard. Probably not the kind of hardness Idunn wants. The gauntlet in his left hand seemed to hum and throb in time to his heartbeat, almost as if it already was a part of his body. It took him only a moment to alter his right hand until it resonated like the armor piece. He closed his right hand, keeping some of the power around him.

“I think I got it,” he panted, raising his fist.

Idunn held a wooden board between both hands. “Well, try the board then.”

Rhys threw a punch at the wood. It sounded like someone tried a mace against it. “Ow!” He looked at his fist. “That hurt.”

A sly smile played around Idunn’s mouth. “Of course it does. Your skin is as hard as steel now but you still want to be able to grasp and touch things, right? That won’t work without your tactile perception. Hitting a wooden board with full force ... that’s a tactile perception as well and I’d recommend not to remove that. It would mess with your balance and your self-preservation.”

Rhys dismissed the spell and shook out his fingers. “No bruises though. Weird.” He looked at Idunn. “I never knew magic could feel so ... nice.”

Her eyes flickered to his crotch. “That’s the ether you’re noticing. Feels good, hm?”

“Yes. Almost too good.” He blushed.

“Don’t feel bad. We all love the rush. It’s one thing to hurl a fireball at enemies, an entirely different one to use the power to change yourself. Some can get lost in the streams of power.”

“Is there such a thing as magic addiction?”

“Yes and no. It’s the sorcerers and druids who are vulnerable. Mages and clerics not so much, since they work with static formulae or what little divine energy the gods spare them. And as you very well know, it takes a certain amount of willpower to harness magic. Willpower precludes addiction most of the time. But there are cautionary tales of sorcerers lost to the magic, eternally using bigger and bigger enchantments on themselves until the Burn claims them.”