Free Obsession: Tales of Irresistible Desire by Paula Guran

foreign goddess. She came to us from the east, a hot land of desert and endless skies. She is born of the fire and will warm us, if we observe her rituals correctly. I had no intention of being burned. My brush flew over the canvas and I became unaware of the passing of time. When the steward, Medoth, came to me, mentioning politely that my dinner awaited me, I ordered him to bring the meal to the studio. I could not stop work.
    I ate with one hand, food dropping from my fork to the floor, where Simew composed herself neatly and sifted through the morsels with a precise tongue. Medoth lit all my lamps and the candles, and even murmured some congratulatory phrase as he appraised my work. He made Pu-ryah’s sign with two fingers, tapping either side of his mouth. “The Lady of the Hearth will be pleased by this work,” he said.
    I turned to wipe my brush. “Medoth, I had not taken you for a worshipper of Pu-ryah.”
    He smiled respectfully. “It comes from my mother’s side of the family.”
    I laughed. “Of course. She is primarily a goddess of women, Medoth, but perhaps because she knows the ways of her daughters so intimately, she makes a sympathetic deity for those who suffer at their hands.”
    Medoth cleared his throat. “Would you care for a glass of wine now, my lord?”
    I worked until dawn, given energy by the fire of she whose portrait I made. Simew lay on some tangled rags by my feet, her tail gently resting across my toes. Sometimes, when I looked down at her, she would wake and roll on her back to display her dark golden belly, her front paws held sweetly beneath her chin. She seemed to me, in lamplight, more lovely than any woman I had known, more generous, more yielding. If I were a cat, I would lie beside her and lick her supple fur with my hooked tongue, or I would seize the back of her neck in my jaws and mount her with furious lust. This latter, inappropriate thought made me shyer. Perhaps I had drunk too much wine after my meal.
    As the pale, magical light of dawn stole through the diaphanous drapes at the long windows, I appraised my work. Fine detail still needed to be added, but the picture was mostly complete. Pu-ryah sat upon a golden throne that was encrusted with lapis lazuli. She was haughty, yet serene, and her eyes held the wisdom of all the spheres, the gassy heart of the firmament itself. She gazed out at me, and I felt that I had not created her at all, but that the pigment had taken on a life of its own, and my own heart had imbued it with soul. I had depicted her with bared breasts, her voluptuous hips swathed in veils of turquoise silk. Her skin was delicately furred and brindled with faint coppery stripes. Her attenuated, highcheekboned face had a black muzzle, fading to tawny around the ruff, then white beneath the chin. Her eyes were topaz. Around her neck, I had painted a splendid collar of faience and gold, and rings adorned her slender fingers. Her claws were extended, lightly scraping the arms of the gilded chair. Behind her, dark drapery was drawn back to reveal a simmering summer night. I fancied I could hear the call of peacocks in the darkness beyond her scented temple, and the soft music she loved so much. Her taloned feet were laid upon flowers, thousands of flowers, and their exotic perfume invaded my studio, eclipsing the tart reeks of pigment and solvent. She was beautiful, monstrous, and compliant. If I closed my eyes, I could feel her strong arms around me, her claws upon my back. No woman of this earth could compare.
    Weary but content, I went out into my garden to sample the new day. Dew had conjured scent from the shrubs and gauzed the thick foliage of the evergreens. Simew trotted before me along the curling pathways, pausing every so often to look back and make sure I was following. I felt at peace with myself, at the brink of some profound change in my life or my heart. Delphina Corcos seemed nothing more than a thin ghost; I could barely recall her face. Let