Psamtik's Mother--The Sorcerer Gaumata

The work done for the day, Matwa went to Psamtik, the pharaoh-to-be’s quarters. The wretch’s mother had called him. Psamtik was asleep in his mother’s arms. He slept naked and his mother looked fondly at his skinny, angular body. His shiny shaved head showed off many bumps and irregularities. He had had an erection in his sleep and she stroked it down gently. Matwa stood a while and finally cleared his throat, causing Psamtik to stir and grit his teeth, making an awful grinding sound. The woman looked up and smiled proudly as she slipped out of the bed.

“Matwa, how are the arrangements for his ascension progressing? I feel that the priesthood is not very enthusiastic about my son’s coronation, and I want to know that the army will be loyal.” She paced silently. “At least we have you, Matwa. I’m sure you can control the other priests.”
Matwa nodded, “Yes Your Grace, I will do my best. Every thing is going as planned.”

http://www.extasybooks.com/the-sorcerers-secret-5/

{WARNING} Contains scenes of extreme violence that may be offensive to some readers. Fire—dreams of Fire—visions of Fire. Where do they come from? Aryazate doesn’t know why, but he fears the power secretly growing in him. Am I a demon, or a sorcerer? Kavada, the blacksmith, seems to be the only one he can trust, but even he doesn’t know the extent of Aryazate’s secrets. What would he say if he found out that the beautiful maiden Aryazate, is really a young man forced by circumstances to conceal this truth, which day by day becomes more evident? Just when he thinks Kavada is ready to hear the truth, Aryazate’s worst nightmares become reality. The Head-Mage Monushir accuses him of sorcery and has him imprisoned. What will this trial reveal? Is the truth so horrible that Aryazate will welcome torture and death by fire—by the same fire that haunts his dreams?

Massacre of the Massagetae--The Sorcerer Gaumata's Journal

By this time, Cyrus the Great was getting a reputation for being a bit zany—ha! After all, I was in his head. When he called his army together to move against the Massagetae, his advisors, especially the now adult Mihr, were against the campaign. It would be a disaster, they told him, but he cared not. So they left for the long journey. 

I have told you that Cyrus wanted to keep up the fantasy of his being god-like. People believed that he never defecated or even passed urine. Now, as the trip dragged on, he found it harder and harder to arrange a situation where he could relieve himself unseen. He became very constipated. This was my plan, of course.

The day arrived when we were very close to our destination. Our scouts reported that in the absence of the Queen, who had gone to secure allies, the foolish prince had tried to usurp the kingdom. Now the army of the Massagetae was in disarray. Cyrus ordered an attack, and most of the army was destroyed. This was very good, he thought, but he had not considered Queen Apuyani, who was to return with her allies.

The night after the massacre of the Massagetae army there was feasting and merriment in the Persian camp. By the time the soldiers had retired for the night, they were quite drunk.
The dawn was just breaking when Cyrus heard the war cries and lunged from his bed. He dressed hurriedly, for there was no way that he would appear in disarray. His guards would hold them off. He needed to urinate, but there was nothing that could be done about that now. His headache throbbed and he thought about his comfortable garden Quiet Room where he could sit in peace and silence.

His charger was saddled and pawing the ground when Cyrus appeared from his tent. The soldier holding the reins looked pale and panicky.

“It’s the Massagetae, Your Highness, and they have allies, their kin, the Paralatae Scythians. Our army is much larger, but they have attacked without warning,” the soldier’s voice broke as if he were a teenaged boy.

Cyrus was annoyed, but he felt a twang of sympathy for the young man, who could be among the dead when this was over. Taking the reins, he reassured him, “they are only barbarians without the slightest idea of how to conduct an attack. Let’s send them to their barbarian afterworld without delay so they can enjoy their reward!”

http://www.extasybooks.com/banner-of-fire-9/

A Horrible Nightmare--The Sorcerer Gaumata

It was my misfortune that the King of Kings had a mind that was very mysterious. I chose an hour just after midnight to enter his mind. He was fast asleep, and I knew there would be little resistance. Yet, at the very moment I entered, the king was dreaming. Somehow, this was an inopportune time, for I found myself drawn into his dream as if it were actually happening. I had never entered into a dreaming mind, and I will be cautious not to do so in the future. Cyrus lay deeply asleep.  His right hand twitched slightly as a dream began.  Mandane, his mother, is lying asleep on a fluffy mound of blankets.  He sees the Median king, Astyages, watching her as she sleeps, quite naked.  Cyrus sees something slowly pushing its way out of her vagina.  I am both aware of Cyrus and his horror, as well as my own. I sense that my fear is greater than his, for I cannot bear the sight of her naked vagina. The thing that emerges seems soft at first, but as it materializes, it becomes more solid.  The growing goes on with increased cracking and popping sounds as a great tree forms.  It continues to grow out of her until it seems to cover the entire earth.  Looking from above, we see that Astyages has been skewered by one of the huge branches.  His limp body hangs there as the tree continues to grow.
Cyrus and I watch in shock as the tree hardens and sets its branches.  It seems to me that its branches have spread out into every corner of the world.  There are two major branches coming from the main trunk; however, there are many other strong branches.  As we watch, one of the two big branches seems to twist itself around the other, which seemed to be trying to push it aside.  Red blood pours from the branch and it appears to decay rapidly, turning brown and mushy before our eyes.  The remaining large branch begins to writhe in all directions.  Some of its minor branches break off.  Finally, with a great spasm, it too, begins to rot.

http://www.extasybooks.com/calor-del-amor-6/

Night Terrors Part I

Trace slid back into consciousness and was aware of pain.  Like a knife in his back, radiating out to the rest of his body.  His mouth tasted like blood.  He moved his head, but the pain was so bad that he lay still for a time.  The sound of his own breath scared him.  And there was another sound too, like the dripping of a faucet, except thicker.  His jeans were slick with his blood.  The light from the streetlamp shone on the denim fabric. 

He rested with his forehead on the steering wheel, eyes open, watching the blood trickle over his jeans.

He raised his head again, slower this time.  The lonely country road was deserted.  He thought about the cell phone he kept in his pocket.  Retrieving it seemed like a monumental task.  If he could get the cell phone out, he could call for help.  But what for?  This was his fault.  Seeing him covered in blood would only excite the killer instinct inside them.    

He knew they’d be happy to see him like this.  Bleeding and broken, whimpering like a run over dog. 

He didn’t have the strength to reach into his pocket, but he wanted to so badly that he thought it was in his hands.  But then he opened his eyes and he was in the same position as before.  Drool gathered in his mouth.  He knew he was about to vomit.  When it came it sprayed out forcefully, and he began to mewl like the cat his brothers had set on fire when they were kids.  He tried to reach for his cell phone again, but he still couldn’t get himself to move. 

“Hello?  Can you hear me?”

There was a woman tapping on the window.  Trace stared at her.  She looked worried for some reason.  Trace tried to talk, but his words came out as a slurred mess. 

She pulled at the door, but it had been crushed. 

He watched her put her fists in front of her mouth.  She turned away and scurried up the side of the road.  Distant headlights outlined her figure.  He saw her turn away from the light, with her cell phone pressed to her ear.  She was gesticulating wildly, and behind her the headlights were growing brighter. 

When the truck finally arrived, her back was still turned.  He watched her body explode.  Blood spattered the windshield and the top half of her body landed forcefully on the hood of his car. 

Smoke began to fill the interior of the car.  Dimly, Trace saw a man standing in the place where the unfortunate Samaritan had stood.  Flames began to lick the dashboard, coming closer to him. 

Trace screamed as terror unlike anything he’d ever known overcame him.  He clawed at the windows, making hand prints on the soot that clouded him.  The burning smoke made him gag and cough, but he could still feel the flames charring his skin.  He smelled his own flesh roasting.  In his panic, he broke the small bones in his hands in his desperate attempt to escape.    

Eventually, he stopped struggling and submitted to the pain.  When they opened the car to remove the remains, there was a moment of silence as they saw the charred body, curled in on itself.  Then the older patrolman recovered himself first.

“Look at that.  This one crashes, and this lady gets herself killed trying to save him.  No good deed goes unpunished,” he joked. 

The newer cop went into the bushes and vomited.