Archive-name: dance.of.snow.and.fire
From: ed@stauff.UUCP (Edward L. Stauff)
Subject: STORY (repost): The Dance of Snow and Fire
Newsgroups: alt.sex
This is a short one that I wrote several years ago, long before I
started reading net.erotica. It was also, I found to my amusement,
written before I became a pagan.
Note: the Iceland referred to in this story is on a different world.
-- The Dance of Snow and Fire --
[Copyright (c) Edward L. Stauff 1985. The author grants permission to
copy and distribute this story for personal, non-profit use, provided
that it is copied without modification and includes this notice.]
I was born in Iceland, where my father was a high priest for the
Srigni, my people. When I had seen but ten winters, I was captured in a
battle with a tribe from Sintiria, but this tale begins when I returned,
after ten winters of separation from my homeland. A minstrel I had
become, and a minstrel I remain, but that winter I returned to the place
of my birth.
My people worship foremost in their pantheon the fire-god, and with
good reason: we count the years of our lives by the number of winters we
have survived. On the shortest day of winter we perform the Dance of
Snow and Fire, to remind us of the importance of the fire which we
revere, and to celebrate the fire that burns within our bodies.
My return was greeted with much festivity. I was honored by being
chosen as the consort of the high priestess in the Dance of Snow and
Fire. I will tell you now the story of that Dance, which few strangers
have witnessed.
It is sunset on the snow covered plain before the Sacred Hill. In
ages past, the Hill kept my ancestors through the winter before we
learned to make shelters of ice and stone. There are hundreds of people
on the plain, their backs to the Sacred Hill as they watch the sun dip
towards the sea. I can hear the dull murmur, like the sea itself, of
hundreds of soft voices. I stand by the high priestess behind them,
waiting. The sun touches the horizon and a soft, high pitched wail like
a seagull's cry drifts over the throng from the top of the Sacred Hill
behind us, where a priest is sounding a horn of whalebone. At once the
multitude turns to face us, and the high priestess and I remove out heavy
cloaks of fur. We do not cease unrobing, but continue until we must stop
or remove our very skins. The wind is gentle, but its coldness cuts
across my skin like a whip. It was not uncomfortable to be out in the
evening air with a cloak, but now that I am naked it feels bitterly
cold. We keep only our boots on, lest the snow bite our toes off. As
soon as the high priestess and myself stand naked, the rest of our people
emulate us. They form with their clothing a great circle about the high
priestess, and form a circle within that with their naked bodies. The
Dance of Snow begins.
It is more of a milling about than a dance, with everyone rubbing
against one another in an effort to keep warm. Those on the edge of the
crowd press towards the center to escape the wind which gnaws at their
backs. The touch of a warm human body is near to ecstasy in the frigid
evening air. In the center of the Dance, the high priestess and I wrap
ourselves around each other, pressed on all sides by the milling crowd.
We are no longer shaking. But the Dance of Snow does not go on for
long. As the last sliver of the sun disappears below the sea, the
whale-horn sounds again. Out of the caves of the Sacred Hill come a
score of priests and priestesses, also naked, and barefoot as well. Each
one is carrying a blazing torch of wood, a precious thing as far north as
Iceland. The Dance now takes the shape of a great open circle which
opens up to let the torch bearers pass. When they reach the center of
the circle they thrust their torches deep into the snow. There is a
great hissing and crackling, and some of the torches go out. But beneath
a thin dusting of snow, in a great basin hewn out of the frozen earth, is
a pile of branches, old skins, broken tools and weapons, anything that
can burn. All is saturated in whale oil. As if by sorcery, the snow
itself seems to catch fire, and the crowd leaps up as the flames leap up,
chanting and yelling and pressing towards the heat. The Dance of Fire
has begun.
Those on the outer edge of the circle run for their clothes and put
them on, others nearer the fire kick off their boots. But the high
priestess and I turn away, and walk slowly towards the Sacred Hill. It
is colder now; we both shiver violently. We enter the Hill and are met
by a group of naked priests and priestesses who, chanting, escort us deep
into the caves. The air grows steadily warmer until we reach an inner
chamber.
This is the Chamber of Fire. The entire perimeter is one great
inferno, except for the doorway. The heat is tremendous, it makes my
eyes water. We enter, and we are no longer shivering. Everything is
colored by the flames in shades of red and orange, and there is a strong
sweet smell of oil. The odor comes from a bronze vat in the center of
the room. We march to the vat and separate into two groups, male and
female, on either side of the vat. The priests dip their hands in the
hot oil, turn to me, and begin to massage me. Their hands are many; in
an instant I am covered with oil. Two priests work just on my hands,
pressing their thumbs into my palms and bending my fingers back and
forth. Another rubs my neck and shoulders, kneading me until my head is
so loose that I fear it will fall off. My arms have lost their strength
beneath the ceaseless squeezing, pinching and rubbing. Soon my legs are
gone, too, and I collapse. Many hands bear me gently to the ground;
there is oily fur between my back and the stone. The priestesses have
been attending to the high priestess, and her entire body shines with an
oily gleam. The smell of fresh sweat has combined with the odors already
in the air; it excites me. The high priestess collapses and is laid down
next to me. The priests now begin to massage each other, and the
priestesses minister to themselves in the same manner. A hand touches me
where my thighs come together and the high priestess takes over where the
priests had stopped. I begin to massage her in the same place, her
fingers sliding up and down as mine slide in and out. I take a deep
draught of the heavy air and a wave of lust sweeps over me. Turning, I
begin to rub my body against the hot, slippery skin of my companion.
Suddenly our hands are everywhere, stroking, poking, squeezing, rubbing,
entering. We swarm over each other, reveling in heat and friction.
Rubbing my face over her, I feel her breasts flowing like a thick liquid
beneath my nose and lips. She moves, and my face slides into the oily
hair between her shining thighs, and the smell of woman fills my
nostrils. Her legs pull my head into her, and I bathe my face in the
wetness I find there. I feel her teeth scrape across the shaft of my
organ; she takes it into her mouth. Then she moves again and it slides
between her breasts, which she presses together with her hands. We turn
about and are suddenly joined face to face, thrusting madly against each
other. Our passion is fully in control now, and it knows no patience.
Too soon it reaches its frantic peak, and we fall apart, panting.
As we rest I look about the cavern. The fires are lower, and I see
a dozen or more oily bodies writhing about, shining red in the
flamelight. I sigh deeply, and the heavy air, now frought with the smell
of spent lust, once more arouses me. I turn to the high priestess and
the fire is still in her eyes. Jumping upon her, I rub the tool of my
passion all over her, pressing and thrusting and looking for her oily
cavern. Pressing against her sleek buttocks, my organ finds a different
entrance. Dripping with oil, sweat and our own liquids, it slides in
halfway before we realize our mistake. The high priestess gasps in
surprise and pain, and I withdraw. But the tighness of her darker canyon
has given me intense pleasure, so I rub more oil on us and press against
her again, more gently. She does not pull away, but pushes against me,
slowly taking me inside until I am completely within her. Pulling out,
just as slowly, she squeezes tightly and my joy almost peaks, it is so
good. Another slow, gentle movement brings me once more into her burning
depths, and the torrent comes again. This time, when we fall to rest, we
do not move for a long time. The fires around us and the fires within us
die slowly away to nothing.
Last modified (10/10/96 15:03:57) by
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