Applied Mathematics

The street lay much too far below the window for Berlan to make out faces, but he didn’t need to. The predominant colors in the procession below were orange and black, the colors of the Guild Protectorate; they undoubtedly escorted the leaders in the latest failed uprising. This one had gotten further than most—it’d been spoken of openly for weeks, and had managed to hold two well-publicized rallies the Protectorate hadn’t heard of until after the fact.

The young cat sighed, returning his attention to his duties. He knew enough about life outside Guildtown, about the lot of most of his countrymen, to appreciate his fortune in being an apprentice. It might make him part of the ruling wizard class—or at the very least destined to be part of it—but it meant not living in abject poverty. And as much as he’d like to help ease their plight, the little he might be able to do as one wizard among hundreds was more than he could do as one peasant among hundreds of thousands.

Berlan sat back at his desk, twirling a lock of hair absently. That long hair, so his mother insisted, was one of his best attributes. Given the lack of interest everyone else exhibited toward him, she might well be right.

A few inches shy of six feet high, Berlan sported a slim but muscular build, dark blue eyes set in mottled grey and white fur, and the straight black mane characteristic of males in his family. Hardly imposing, but not unattractive, even in dull brown apprentice robes. Unfortunately, to both wizards and apprentices, power proved more of an aphrodisiac than appearance.

In his five years in Guildtown he’d had perhaps three dates, none of which developed in a relationship longer than, well, one evening. The last one had been with a cute younger man, following Berlan’s observation that the few passes being made at him seemed to be by other males—albeit usually males so unattractive that a cockatrice couldn’t bear to look at them. That date did establish to Berlan that he found some males attractive. It didn’t get him a second date, though, which didn’t surprise him. His companion had been more concerned with career than Berlan, and High Mages considered open signs of homosexuality to be offensive.

The cat flipped through the book on his desk without reading it. “Most of them consider open signs of any sexuality offensive,” he said aloud. “I suppose they feel if they’re not having fun, no one else should be, either.”

“‘Fun’ is a distraction,” a stern, thin voice said from behind him.

Berlan winced as the elderly Master Mage walked up to the desk. He so wished the man would use the door.

“Furthermore, Apprentice Berlan,” he continued, dropping another book on the desk with a flourish, “you know why I and my colleagues don’t actively pursue that kind of ‘fun.’ It is offensive only insofar as concentration on matters of the flesh makes concentration on magery very difficult.” The graying fox poked the cat ‘morph in the nose with a clawtip. “Tend to your spells rather than idle speculation on whether or not I happen to be getting laid in my off hours.”

“Yes, Master Laurin.” Berlan’s ears colored.

“Now. We are going to be, how should I say, making an example of the two raccoons just brought in. Your responsibility will be to assemble the spell we’ll be using.” He flipped to one page in the book, the first of several marked with green ribbons. “As I don’t trust your research, I’ve already found and marked the appropriate pages. Your only actual part in this will be transcription.”

Berlan tried to hide his distaste. “What kind of ‘example’ will this be, sir?” The use of peasants for experiments had been increasing—it violated old canons of wizardry, but the wizards had long stopped paying anything but lip service to their own laws.

The fox shrugged, waving a hand. “I only have responsibility for the male. Neyar has the female. We’re both going to use them to test one or two spell ideas, then dispose of them in,” he spun the hand in a circular motion, “some public spectacle. Assuming the spells don’t kill them, of course.”

“Of course.”

“My ritual is scheduled for an hour past noon. That gives you almost two hours for the transcription. I trust that is sufficient?”

“Yes, more than enough, Master Laurin.”

The fox nodded, then abruptly disappeared in a puff of blue smoke.

“Lord, I hate him,” Berlan said, tone cheerful.

He left the ribbon on that page, then flipped to the second, scanning it. This combination seemed familiar. He repeated the scan for the remaining three pages, the sense of recognition slowly joined by both interest and anger.

Laurin’s ritual was for shrinking a living being, a feat whose success had remained elusive for centuries. Inanimate objects, yes—but the standard spells tended to render once animate objects inanimate upon completion. The subject interested Berlan; he’d written a thesis on it two years before. It had been an easy choice for a paper, of course: one of the lesser classics in sorcerous problems.

But this “new” spell of Laurin’s was Berlan’s thesis.

Instead of just pointing out why the old rituals didn’t work, Berlan had proposed solutions to the problem. He’d gotten above average marks for his work; Master Laurin approved of the theory, but pointed out (admittedly correctly) that in practice Berlan’s solutions carried a new set of potentially fatal problems.

This new ritual had minor differences, presumably to address those flaws. And they were differences Berlan wouldn’t have thought of on his own. But the spell’s core leaned heavily on Berlan’s work—and the scribing he was about to do would likely be the only recognition he received for it in this lifetime.

“You old coot,” Berlan grumbled, beginning the transcription. The contracts stated that work done in apprenticeship belonged to the master; it might feel like plagiarism, but legally it wasn’t.

Of course, legally it was acceptable to test a spell like this on a prisoner, something that struck him as substantially more inhumane than stealing credit. Berlan grimaced, trying not to think of the myriad ways in which a three-inch-high raccoon ‘morph might be “disposed of in some public spectacle,” and concentrated on his task.

Scribing took more thought than Laurin’s dismissive words indicated: the pieces of unrelated rituals needed to be blended smoothly together. Berlan had only modest talent at his own rituals, but he was acknowledged (unofficially) to be as good a scribe as any master mage in Guildtown.

True to his word, he finished in under an hour. Tucking the book and the new manuscript under his arm, he left his room, walking to the short landing and descending the long spiral staircase, a full ten flights.

Even with the windows along the hall’s length letting in the early afternoon sun, the stone corridor managed to maintain a dark and somber air. All of Guildtown had dark grey and brown colors, all stone, brick and cobble. Berlan supposed the founding wizards had thought it lent a mysterious, foreboding air to the university, before their inheritors had decided wizards should be ruling, not merely teaching. Now no one saw the halls except wizards and students—no commoners walked this path to be duly impressed and intimidated. To those who saw it day in and day out, it was just deathly dreary.

This hall lead into another, wider one, imaginatively dubbed the Grand Hall. The Grand Hall had a constant level of traffic at all hours; Berlan wound his way unerringly through the crowd, to the broad, short staircase that lead to yet another hall—this one ending at the Thaumaturgy Chamber, a wooden dome some four stories high.

The Chamber had been designed for elaborate rituals, but at various times served as a lecture hall, amphitheater and even a banquet room. This time, though, half the wizard council was gathered—along with guards, and presumably the prisoner.

Yes, there he was, bound to a chair against one wall. As he entered the room, Berlan could see him more clearly. The raccoon ‘morph would stand equal to Berlan’s own five-eight, he guessed, but was built more solidly—a broad chest, noticeably muscular even under the luxurious white fur. He was no older than Berlan, either; with rich brown fur, milk chocolate eyes set over a strong muzzle, and straight shoulder-length brown hair, he was also startlingly handsome. The fact that he was dressed only in ragged, tight breeches, barely longer than his thighs, didn’t make it less easy to stare at him.

The prisoner glanced in Berlan’s direction, the brown eyes in the fur “mask” meeting his a moment, and Berlan realized he knew him. This raccoon, the still-popular rebel leader, was Arctyv, a childhood friend the apprentice hadn’t seen since they were both ten.

Arctyv’s eyes narrowed searchingly. Berlan shivered, biting his lip, and hurried past, ducking through a curtain into the cluttered preparation room, dropping the book and scroll.

When he came back out, the raccoon’s eyes remained focused on him. “That is you, Berlan, isn’t it?” Arctyv said, very softly.

Berlan glanced around nervously. No one seemed to be paying attention. He nodded once, as minutely as he could manage.

Arctyv’s tail swished from side to side. Up close, Berlan could see the raccoon’s raggedness more clearly, make out small cuts on his chest; even so, the tail was even more glorious than Berlan remembered. He’d always been fascinated by it when they were children.

“What are they going to do?” the raccoon whispered, snapping Berlan back to the present.

“I…” He looked away. “I don’t know.”

“You do. And you’re going to help them, aren’t you?”

“If I show sympathy for you, I’ll follow you,” Berlan said tightly.

“Many others followed me,” Arctyv said. “I’d have thought, were you still yourself, you would have as well.” He looked away.

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Do what you think is right.” Arctyv didn’t glance back as he spoke.

“Five minutes,” a moderator’s voice rang out.

Berlan stiffened, walking away again. When he sat down, he buried his face in his hands.

What could he do? Excusing himself from the proceedings would… well, do nothing. Arctyv would still die, either from the spell or the later punishment. Yet Berlan could hardly challenge the legitimacy of the proceedings, let alone mount an attack on the wizards to free the prisoner.

And it was too late to avoid complicity, to simply wash his hands of the matter, try to forget it all—he had scribed the ritual. This would be the first time he’d known a ritual he’d worked on would be used to aid in murder. That was bad enough. But murdering an old friend?

Berlan frowned to himself. He glanced around again, then made his way back to the preparation room, studiously ignoring Arctyv.

Once there, he approached the scroll again, withdrawing a pen from his robes. No, he couldn’t act directly—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t act. Berlan’s own reputation as a perfect scribe would nearly remove him from suspicion, and the fact that the scroll itself would be consumed during the ritual made sabotage even less traceable.

He scanned the document. What could he do to change it? Any change of a variable would cause the spell to fail, but he didn’t want to risk any more harm to Arctyv than the ritual would already present.

Berlan paused, shaking his head as an idea flashed into his mind. That would just make the spell fail outright—it would violate… no, that was taken care of already, wasn’t it? It would violate only common sense—hardly a consideration for magic.

But the implications were—

He shook his head again. Philosophical implications were moot now, and he hardly had time to think of short-term considerations. If the spell did fail outright, it would make Laurin look like a fool, and at least delay things. If it didn’t, Laurin would still look like a fool, and the chamber would get more than a bit of a shakeup.

With a quick dash, Berlan added two lines to one symbol. “You say you want a revolution,” he muttered.

Returning the pen to his robe, he walked back out of the room. Arctyv’s eyes were on him again; he passed behind the raccoon, daring to squeeze the prisoner’s bound hand in reassurance. The raccoon’s expression changed from sullen resentment to confusion for a moment.

He hurried back to his seat, folding his hands in front of him.

As he glanced once more at Arctyv, the bell signalling the start of the ceremony began to toll. The raccoon’s attention was on the black-robed wizards, Laurin in the lead, approaching a small chalk circle, about two feet across, at the room’s center.

After the wizards took their place, two guards grabbed the raccoon’s shoulders, cutting his bonds free and pulling him to his feet. Both guards stood a head taller than Arctyv, yet his bearing seemed to make him larger than they. He glanced from one guard to the other, then flexed his arm muscles, moving both of them toward him a moment, looking fleetingly satisfied at their startled expressions.

“Even in the face of death, you’re a showoff,” Berlan whispered, grinning. In early youth the raccoon might not have possessed a noble streak, but obviously adulthood had done little to temper his boyish pride in himself.

The two Protectorate guards pushed the raccoon forward roughly, marching him to the circle’s edge.

“Prepare the binding!” Laurin called.

The rest of the mages struck up a low, thrumming chant; the chalk on the ground began to glow a dull blue. The guards pushed the raccoon forward, hard, into the circle; the line flared, and Arctyv bounced off an invisible wall. He straightened up, looking around wildly; it was as if the circle formed the bottom of a glass cylinder, trapping him inside.

Laurin disappeared briefly into the preparation room, returning with the scroll. He resumed his place, and began to read.

Berlan sucked in his breath.

Two-thirds of the way through the scroll, the circle flared with white and purple, the dull blue now bright and angry. The temperature in the room seemed to drop; it felt to Berlan like he stood in the eye of a hurricane.

Then Laurin finished the spell. The scroll he held flared red, and drifted away as cold ashes. All the wizards stepped back.

The circle’s blue light died down in a glowing shower of sparks. Then, with the roar of a strong wind, white and purple beams shot toward the ceiling, obscuring the raccoon’s form entirely. The beams merged, and smaller arcs began shooting in all directions.

A murmur broke out from the wizards; several stepped back further, while a few stepped closer to the shimmering beam. Several began addressing Laurin in agitated tones. Berlan couldn’t make out the words. but he could guess what it was about. There should be a buildup and dispersal of energy, according to the spell’s theory, but not that size—not that much energy.

The column of light abruptly rushed out like a tsunami, doubling in diameter, tripling, quadrupling. The roof overhead shattered. Scholarly analysis broke off as wizards began diving for the sides of the rooms.

Then, the energy dispersal they’d been waiting for happened: a lightning flash right in the room’s center, a deafening thunderclap, a blast of desert hot wind.

Berlan heard the startled cries, even a few screams, before his vision cleared.

Arctyv still stood in the room’s center. Taking up more than the entire space he’d been, though, was one foot—the raccoon’s left foot, nearly seventeen feet long heel to toe. The right foot, just as massive, was planted some ten feet away.

The apprentice looked up. The “high” dome ceiling, now mostly gone, wouldn’t have reached Arctyv’s hips.

A collection of wizards stood around the room’s perimeter, alternately gaping at one another, at the feet, and arguing furiously. Berlan grinned to himself. It’d actually worked? Why, the theses that could be—

The sound in the room was stilled by another sound, high overhead, of deep, rich laughter.

One foot moved, lifting up. Berlan watched, galvanized, taking in the curve of the foreleg, the all-too-clear view of the pawpads as the foot rose some twenty feet into the air, drew back—and kicked, sending pieces of dome spraying. Then the foot came back down, toward a table, occupied by a wizard and apprentice, some twenty feet from Berlan’s. The occupants had just enough time to look up, their last sight only a descending black pad.

Berlan sat dumbly, looking at the foot and the splinters around it.

The other foot drew back and kicked, barely lifting off the ground. It plowed through a thickly-occupied section of the room, the foot swinging high up into the air. Berlan watched tables, ceiling pieces, and a good half-dozen wizards sail through the air in a graceful arc.

When another, similar kick followed with the other foot, the first foot coming down in another occupied area again, survival battered its way past Berlan’s perverse fascination. He bolted down the hallway behind him, roughly pushing past slower, older wizards, fleeing toward the outside. What have I done?

Some wizards had followed the same path he had, gathering in the street, pointing. Arctyv stood nearly as tall as the tower Berlan roomed in—the raccoon was, he guessed, just under a hundred feet high.

The giant finished shaking the remains of the dome off his foot, and began to stride forward. After a few moments, he stopped, hands on his hips, looking down. When he glanced Berlan’s way, the crowd around the apprentice abruptly broke, running toward various buildings or simply down the street away from the raccoon.

Arctyv smiled, running his tongue over his lips. Berlan’s heart nearly stopped, and he shuddered, caught between fear and a sudden renewal of the attraction he’d felt when first seeing the adult his friend had become.

Then Arctyv began to stroll forward, casually, feet pounding down the street toward Berlan.

The apprentice hurriedly backed out of the way. Some four seconds later a foot thudded into the ground where he had stood. After Arctyv’s great tail passed, too, Berlan stepped out of the shadows and stood in the pawprint, eyes wide.

“Not so quick with the whips now,” Arctyv rumbled. “Eh?” He spun to one side quickly, looking down at a building halfway to his knee. His tail swung around, too, crashing into a smaller tower, which crumbled under it.

“What are you staring at?” Berlan said, looking at the top of the building. An archer? Yes.

“Fire at this target,” Arctyv said, raising his foot high into the air.

Berlan’s eyes widened again. As the giant brought his foot down, through all three stories, he just watched the muscles on the huge frame moving, the careless grace with which the raccoon leveled the building the way a child might stomp on a flower. The cat shivered, chagrined at the realization he enjoyed watching the playful destruction. Whatever he should be doing, standing awestruck—maybe even lovestruck—in the middle of the street definitely wasn’t it.

“Berlan!” Arctyv’s voice rumbled.

The apprentice looked up, ears folding flat against his head. The giant had turned to face him, walking forward.

“Uh…” Berlan started scrambling back, but the raccoon’s strides were far greater than his, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Arctyv’s body. When the raccoon’s foot came down a scant three feet from him, he just stared at it, paralyzed until he realized fingers had closed about his waist and back.

He stiffened, trying unsuccessfully not to kick as the raccoon lifted him into the air, holding the cat in front of his muzzle.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” the raccoon rumbled softly.

Berlan barely processed the words. His vision was filled with the cavern of Arctyv’s mouth, flashes of white teeth and dark red tongue, as the raccoon spoke, followed by the view of his lips, the nose bigger than the cat’s head, and—in the distance—huge, beautiful eyes set in the expanse of the black fur mask.

“Uh,” Berlan finally managed to get out. That was it. He’d had only one syllable left, and he’d blown it. He just nodded.

“Well.” The raccoon stood up. “I’m going to put you on my shoulder to keep you a little safer.” He did so, and resumed walking forward, back down the street, more quickly, toward the crowd of a few minutes ago, many of whom had stopped fleeing—those now promptly resumed doing so.

Berlan looked down, and immediately regretted it, grasping tightly onto Arctyv’s thick fur. “S-safer than… what?” he muttered.

Arctyv chuckled. “Than them.” He had almost overtaken the crowd. “You’ve forced us to support you for centuries,” he said to the people scattering from his feet, letting his voice boom. “Let’s see if you can support me.”

Berlan blanched. “You’re not—”

But Arctyv already had, slowing down just enough to be a fraction faster than the tightly-packed crowd, by robe color almost exclusively junior mages, and his foot had come down in their midst even before Berlan had spoken.

“You don’t… have to be… cruel,” Berlan managed to get out, his breathing shakier. He looked down again, which proved a mistake—this time he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene, a shot straight down Arctyv’s beautiful body at upward-turned, screaming faces, then the top of the raccoon’s foot as it swung forward and down.

“They have not had to be cruel to us,” Arctyv said, keeping up his slow, terrible stroll. “Have you forgotten? Or are you too much with them now?”

“No!” Berlan said, almost squeaking.

Arctyv chuckled. “Are you saying that because I frighten you?”

“No,” Berlan repeated, more weakly.

“And do I frighten you now?”

“Uh… y-yes.” He looked down again; they were past the bulk of the crowd. Berlan didn’t dare look backward.

Arctyv laughed. “You and I are going off to talk now, I think, Berlan,” he rumbled, beginning to pick up his pace. “What’s the building ahead of me?”

“Uh… the l-library.”

The giant approached it, then crouched down, putting his hands on the building’s top. It was six stories high; Berlan could see startled faces inside staring back. A female human mage ran up to the window, gaping out.

Arctyv grinned. “Am I a handsome sight?” he said to her, his muzzle darting toward the window. Berlan hung on more tightly. “Give me a kiss.”

The woman started to back away quickly, but the raccoon opened his mouth and got his tongue around her just enough to flip her head between his teeth. Berlan gaped, seeing the woman almost completely disappear into the muzzle, just one kicking leg visible as Arctyv backed away from the building.

“You’re not going to… to….” Berlan said, stuttering. “You can’t eat her.”

Arctyv turned toward Berlan slightly, making a questioning noise. The woman’s leg abruptly disappeared into the mouth. Berlan saw the muscles work, the throat tense, and the thick white fur on his neck ruff ripple with the act of swallowing. The raccoon swallowed again, clearing his throat, and licked his lips quickly. “Yes, it appears I can,” he said, tone cheerful. “Anything else you think I can’t do?”

Berlan sat down weakly, sinking into the thick fur.

“Now, I think this library is in my way.” The raccoon rose gracefully to his feet.

“Please,” Berlan forced out. “Please… don’t destroy the library.”

“Hmm.” Arctyv stepped toward the building to the right, a low one-story structure. “What’s this?” he said, nudging it with a toe.

“I don’t know. A gymnasium.”

“And,” Arctyv said with exaggerated politeness, “Can I destroy that?”

“Probably with one stomp.”

The raccoon raised his foot high, and brought it down hard. The rubble cloud nearly reached his knees.

“You’re right,” he said delightedly, walking on toward the city wall.

Berlan turned around, watching Arctyv’s huge tail sway behind as they walked on. On each side pass, when the view was clear, he could see the trail marked by great pawprints, many with disquieting stains in their midst. He realized that they’d walked over—on top of—other smaller structures without him even noticing. Maybe Arctyv wasn’t noticing, either. There a smashed hut, there a crushed carriage—

“Hang on.” With a small vault up they were over the city wall, barely waist-high to the raccoon.

“All right,” Arctyv said as they headed into the wilderness, heading toward the direction of a dense forest rather than toward the nearest town. The trees looked like high grass, although in the distance trees that might be—well, almost shoulder height—could be seen. “Tell me about what you’ve you done to me.”

“Well.” Berlan gulped. “Uh… they test spells on prisoners, you know.”

The raccoon nodded, once.

“The spell they were going to test was a s-shrinking spell. If it’d worked, Lord only knows what they’d have done to you next. Master Laurin only said it would be a ‘public spectacle.’”

The raccoon growled softly. “Go on.”

“W-well, that’s it. I mean, you can guess the rest. I kind of… uh… c-changed the spell slightly.”

He laughed. “Slightly?”

“Yes. I mean, you’d almost need to be a scribe, like me, to notice it. You could compare it to changing a division symbol into a multiplication one.”

“Is there a way to change me back?”

“With the shrinking spell they were going to cast originally, I imagine.”

“You can’t cast that yourself.”

“Uh… I can’t really c-cast anything, Arctyv. Scribes aren’t wizards.”

The raccoon changed his path, threading through trees thick and high enough to make going difficult even for him, then abruptly broke through to a large clearing. He sat down, and moved Berlan to his hand, holding the cat at about chest level. “So only they can change me back.”

The cat sat back, taking in the raccoon’s form again, and sighed. “Yes. I’m s-sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Arctyv stretched. “At the very least, you’ve already given me both freedom and a means to strike back.”

Berlan’s tail flicked back and forth, eyes wide, watching the stretch.

“Berlan?” Arctyv said after a moment, poking him lightly in the side with a finger.

The cat nearly fell over, hoping he wasn’t blushing. “Uh.”

Suddenly he found himself much closer to Arctyv’s muzzle, the nose close to his chest, then bumping against it. He sucked in his breath, freezing.

The hand moved back far enough that the raccoon’s huge eyes could look into the cat’s. “Attracted not only to another man, but to a giant. One you’ve seen trampling and eating helpless wizards, even. My, my.”

Berlan began to blush furiously. “I—uh—”

“Take off your robe,” the raccoon said softly, grinning.

The cat gaped. “I really—uh, Arctyv, that’s not—we don’t have time for—”

The raccoon touched an ebon clawtip to Berlan’s chest, the size of a small dagger. “That wasn’t a request, Berlan,” he said, still smiling. “Take off your robe.”

After a moment, Berlan did so. All he wore under it was a pair of briefs, smaller even than what the raccoon wore.

Arctyv smiled, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. Berlan’s knees grew weak, and he shivered visibly.

The raccoon grinned, bringing his muzzle closer. “Give me a kiss.”

“You can’t… uh… e-eat…”

“Careful,” Arctyv whispered, huge brown eyes glinting mischievously. “Don’t dare me to do anything you don’t want me to put to the test.” He brought his muzzle closer to the cat, fingers curling up slightly. “Do you want to give me a kiss, or not?”

Berlan trembled, then leaned forward, putting his hands on the giant’s moist lower lip. Lord, he felt small. He brought his muzzle forward, kissing the big upper lip lightly.

Arctyv parted his lips very slightly, warm breath ruffling Berlan’s fur, and he kissed the cat back, lower lip against the apprentice’s chest, upper lip against the top of his head, his tonguetip caressing under Berlan’s chin a moment. Then he drew back.

Berlan shuddered violently, letting himself fall back in the hand, gasping.

The raccoon smiled, pressing his muzzle down against the cat’s chest, vibrating him as he whispered. “You’re pretty handsome yourself, Berlan.” He dipped his head down, licking at Berlan’s feet.

The cat kicked a little, arching his back and gasping. He hoped he wasn’t beginning to look as aroused as he was becoming.

“You’re a little small to be my lover, though.” He kissed the cat’s legs. “How about being my toy instead?” The muzzle kissed again, over Berlan’s thighs. “Would you like that?”

Berlan’s shuddering had resumed, and he placed both hands on the big nose above him, whimpering. “Uh… n-no… I mean, yes, b-but—no—”

Arctyv parted his jaws again, the tongue coming back out and swiping the cat slowly, heavily, from knees to chest.

With a whimper, Berlan curled up tightly, eyes getting huge. “A-Arctyv,” he stammered. “You d-don’t have time to… uh… p-play with me. We have to figure out what to do.”

The raccoon’s tail curled around slowly; Berlan couldn’t see it, but he could hear it brush over the trees, could hear—feel—the giant’s breathing. He looked at the expanse of the lush white chest fur, watching it slowly rise and fall, and whimpered softly.

After a moment, Arctyv grinned, shaking out his mane. “I know, Berlan. But what I can do now is… it’s so different from what I could do yesterday. This kind of physical power is…” He shook his head, and focused back on the cat. “I can barely describe it. It’s like being drunk, yet completely clear-headed.”

He lowered the cat down, resting his hand on his thigh. Berlan gulped, looking at the taut stomach in front of him, and the breeches slightly lower. He adjusted his own scrap of clothing uncomfortably.

“Now,” Arctyv smiled. “There will be time to plan, won’t there? Hmm?”

Berlan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Arctyv stroked a finger down Berlan’s chest; the cat arched his back, shuddering as he gathered his voice. “What…” He flicked his tail wildly, feeling it brush against the fingers behind him. “What will you do with me?”

“Hmm.” A thumb curled around, pressing his chest back against the fingers; two fingers of the raccoon’s other hand gently gripped his hips, pulling his briefs off. Before Berlan could form a protest, a fingerpad pressed squarely between his legs.

The cat arched his back, letting out a soft yowl. “Arctyv! You c-can’t—”

He was cut off abruptly when the raccoon’s hand closed completely around him. “I can’t what, Berlan? Tell me what you want me to do with you.” He could sense the raccoon’s grin.

Berlan remained silent, other than panting. His entire body tingled. He wanted to say something obvious, like “Let me go,” but didn’t trust himself not to say, “Put me in your mouth,” or “rub me against your chest,” or something equally embarrassing.

He felt himself moving. Then Arctyv’s huge nose poked into the still closed hand, and the raccoon began licking him, lapping between his legs.

Berlan squeaked, kicking, trying to twist away, but there was no escaping the tongue’s attention. He shuddered violently, his arousal slowly building to a nearly painful point. “P-please,” he gasped. “If you k-keep… doing that… I’ll….”

The lapping continued, and he shuddered again. Then the hand opened, and Arctyv drew back, grinning. “You’ll taste even better then.” He closed his lips around Berlan’s feet, and began to slowly suck the cat into his mouth.

“Oh!” Berlan squealed, twisting from side to side, scrabbling at the raccoon’s palm—all to no avail. He began panting heavily, still squirming, as his knees entered the warm, wet mouth; he could feel the tongue around his legs, under his feet, the lips slipping up to his thighs, then the teeth pricking against the back of his hips, his erection passing under the tightness of the raccoon’s upper lip, rubbing—

His navel had just entered the raccoon’s mouth when he spasmed, letting out a sharp cry, trying to curl up as his body exploded, seemingly in about a dozen directions at once. He was barely aware of being let back out onto Arctyv’s palm a moment later, still in the grip of his climax.

As his vision cleared, his breath still short, he realized the giant held him by his thigh again—and Arctyv’s own arousal was quite visible, not quite contained by the breeches. Berlan whined, unable to look away.

“I’ve had that off and on since I took my first kick at a building,” Arctyv said, his voice husky. “Let’s see if we can release it… hmm?” The hand holding the cat moved forward.

Berlan found enough energy to start trying to scrabble away, which only caused the raccoon’s nimble fingers to close around him. “No, no,” the giant rumbled. “I… pleased you. My turn.” And with that Berlan found himself shoved into the breeches, snug between the cloth and the—

Berlan blushed profusely.

He started trying to push back out, but he was wedged too tightly—and he could make no movement without rubbing Arctyv’s stiff flesh, which twitched each time the cat struggled.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed himself tightly to the flesh and scrambled up, hands reaching over his head, pawing for surface on the slick tip. Using all his strength he pulled himself up, trying to ignore the sensations of the raccoon’s arousal as his fur and flesh rubbed over it, and the mounting certainty the giant was going to climax any moment now.

He worked his head out, and struggled up. He could hear and feel the raccoon’s labored breathing. The giant rumbled, his hand stroking along his own breeches and mashing the cat against him—which caused both of them to moan.

Berlan licked his lips, looking up the length of the giant’s body, then at the tip right in front of him, his hand resting on it.

After a moment of indecision, he leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around the shaft, then his legs. He touched his muzzle to the tip, which shuddered, and continued to shudder as he ran his nose up to the slit at its head. He licked away the moisture there, hearing a loud whimper from above, then pressed his muzzle right to the slit and began lapping roughly inside.

The climax a second later snapped his head back, pushing him up almost a half-foot.

Another tongue-washing later, Arctyv lay on his stomach, Berlan in his hand, the giant smiling down at the cat. “That’s a very interesting way of putting up a struggle you showed at the end,” he said softly.

The cat blushed, and leaned forward to kiss one of the giant’s fingerpads. “Maybe, Arctyv, I really did want to be your toy.” He smiled up, expression sheepish, but bright.

“I wouldn’t have teased you so mercilessly if I hadn’t known that,” the giant replied, stroking a finger along the cat’s side with a mischief-filled grin. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me in the chamber back when I was normal-sized… or how you studied me when I was walking.”

Berlan blushed again.

“Admit it,” the raccoon said, poking him lightly with a clawtip. “You were getting almost as much of a thrill in seeing me crush things as I was crushing them.”

“Is… that a thrill?” Berlan said, voice cautious.

Arctyv laughed. “As loathe as I am to put it into words, it’s almost sexual, Berlan.” Then he sighed, grin becoming wry. “Unfortunately, I can’t devote myself to becoming the land’s largest hedonist. I have a revolution to resurrect—and a mate to rescue.”

Berlan blinked. “Um, mate?”

The giant nodded. “Rakelle. She’s beautiful—” Arctyv stopped, then winced. “And she’s your size.”

“Another toy now?”

Arctyv snorted. “We’ll deal with that when we can. Getting me back to normal is your responsibility.”

“Um…” Berlan swallowed. “That will require wizards, and I doubt they’ll be too amenable to the idea.”

“We’ll have to go convince them, then.”

Berlan just looked up into Arctyv’s eyes. “Look—”

“I’m going to go back for Rakelle, Berlan.”

The apprentice nodded after a few moments, sighing. “All right. We’ll have to split up.”

Arctyv’s eyes narrowed.

“Look, after the performance at your escape, any wizard who’s seen with you in a form more mobile than a grease spot is going to be assumed in league with you. I’ve already gone out on a limb saving your life today. You’re going to have to keep trusting me.”

The raccoon smiled after a moment, then nodded, setting the cat down again and standing up.

“Lord, you’re beautiful,” Berlan said, stroking one of the raccoon’s feet. “All right… I’ll go in and try to locate Rakelle, and then take you to her.”

“Where should we meet?”

“If you walk into Guildtown, Arctyv, it’s not as if I’ll be able to miss you. Just head to where the dome, uh, used to be.”

The raccoon laughed. “True enough. I’ll wait here about an hour.”

Berlan hadn’t realized how far they’d come—or how fast the raccoon actually moved when taking into account the length of his stride. It took almost an hour simply to reach Guildtown’s gate.

Beyond the wall, the level of chaos befit a natural disaster. Watching the wizards and the paltry few medics run about, the apprentice realized that for all the concentrated power the magicians had, they had no concept of an emergency situation. Over the years fewer and fewer students went into healing; such magic would never be used on the commoners outside, and no one had dared attack Guildtown in a hundred-fifty years. Had anyone other than that solitary, brave archer even attacked Arctyv?

That solitary, brave, flat archer, Berlan amended, and grinned in spite of himself. The arrow likely hadn’t even gotten through the fur. All right, were he a soldier, he wouldn’t have quite been chafing at the bit to get in a shot at the raccoon.

Picking his way toward the dungeons proved easy; few of the Protectorate stations around the building had been left manned. Berlan frowned, walking into the main hall unchallenged.

Finally, at the archway leading to the dungeon stairs, a mouse wearing the Protectorate colors stood, glancing around furtively. “Halt,” the mouse said, voice shaky.

“At ease,” Berlan said. “I’m here to check on the prisoner.”

The mouse blinked, looking confused.

“The female raccoon, brought in today.” He nearly gave her name, but realized the guard might not know it—she might not have given it.

“Why?”

“For the experiment tomorrow. I need to check on her condition now for—” He nearly faltered. Who had the girl? “Master Neyar.”

“Ah.” He paused. “What’s going on out there?”

“Hmm? Out where?”

“You know,” the mouse said, his voice a bit more whining, “outside. I heard… thunder. Booms.”

“Like footsteps? Giant footsteps?”

The mouse nodded, eyes widening.

“Ah, yes. Well, it was some…” He waved his hand upward in a vague motion. “Disturbance. You know how experimental spells can be. So finicky.”

The guard nodded again, looking more terrified.

“But there’s nothing to worry about now.”

He relaxed, and motioned Berlan through.

“Oh, I mean right now,” Berlan called over his shoulder. “There might be more trouble later. You know how spells can be. Boom! Boom! Always keep your guard up.”

The guard gripped his sword, turning noticeably white under his gray fur.

“Good fellow.” Berlan saluted, then hurried down the corridor.

Without reason to be in the dungeons until now, the sight around the first bend was one Berlan had never seen. Both sides of the hall consisted solely of floor-to-ceiling bars; the entire area stank of urine. The stone of the floor and roof was crumbling, almost sandlike.

He slowed to a walk, studying the prisoners. Some looked dead. Few showed any awareness of his presence.

Then, two-thirds of the way to the back, on the left: a raccoon female. The cells held no furniture; she sat on the dirt floor, staring at him with an expression of burning hatred. Standing she would be of equal height to him. Her fur was grey, eyes of cold water blue, hair shoulder-length and of a curious salt-and-pepper color mix. She had been left with less intact dress than Arctyv; her underwear and bra were intact and worn, but whatever else she had been wearing was in tatters in her hands, the constant, slow kneading of her fingers in the cloth the only betrayal of her nervousness.

Berlan stepped up to her cell’s bars.

Her eyes narrowed. “If you are here to try to remove any more of my clothing,” she said in a low voice, “it will come at a dearer price than what the last group of flunkies paid to remove these.” She tossed the scraps she held at him.

“Uh… no.” He shook his head, trying not to stare. Her figure was as beautiful as Arctyv’s was handsome, well-muscled yet still curved, a moderate bustline that he suspected would still have commanded his attention even if it wasn’t prominently displayed now. “You are Rakelle?”

The raccoon woman froze. “How did you learn my name?” she said after a moment, voice dropping to an even lower register.

“I’m a friend of Arctyv’s.”

Her eyes narrowed again, and she sprang to the bars. Berlan jumped back just in time to avoid a clawing hand as she threw herself against them. “What have you monsters done to him?” she hissed.

“Please!” he said, holding up his hands. “He and I were childhood friends, and I….” He shook his head. “I did what I could to help. He’s free.”

“How could you have done that?”

“They were going to shrink him and I kind of changed things to make him a giant.”

Rakelle’s eyes narrowed. “What nonsense—”

“Look, I can’t explain now, I don’t have time.” He stepped forward, putting himself within reach of her hand. “I just came here to try to find out where you were so we—he, really—can try and get you out. If they find out I’m helping you—uh, just say I’m in a lot of danger, and it gets worse the longer we stay here and argue.”

“Why should I believe any of this?”

Berlan swallowed, tail flicking. “I don’t know, my lady. I might not if I were in your position. But if I can, I’ll help get you out, one way or another, I swear.”

Rakelle drew back, looking nonplussed by the respect in his words and tone. After another long moment, she dropped her hand and nodded.

“I’ll be back—well, one of us will,” Berlan said, turning around.

“Wait,” she said. “Tell me your name.”

“Berlan,” he called over his shoulder, then hurried back out, up the steps and out the building. He didn’t look back at the Protectorate guard.

The feel outside had noticeably changed when he reached the street. Less despair, more… menace. Magic literally filled the air. A wide-area spell had just been cast.

Frowning to himself, Berlan hurried toward the dome—then stopped abruptly. Arctyv was there, as visible as predicted—and just as visibly trapped. Green rings shimmered around the giant form; the raccoon looked more angry than scared, but was obviously unable to break the binds.

Berlan broke into a run.

As he approached it became clear the spell took constant attention to hold. Wizards ringed the binding circle. The few wizards not holding it were engaged in a heated discussion.

“—him back,” Laurin was saying.

“Of course you want to shrink him, you just want another chance to get your damned spell right,” another wizard said.

“But he’s right,” a woman chimed in. “We can’t do anything with the wretch until he’s at a more conventional size.”

“We can just torch him!”

“The spell at that scale would require as much effort as binding him, and we don’t have the wizards here to spare.”

“We can get more.”

“We won’t be able to hold him that long!”

“We can just get a catapult, for heaven’s sake. Why waste a spell when big rocks will do?”

“Berlan!” Laurin called, suddenly turning his back on the bickering group. Then his eyes fell on the apprentice, and he snapped, “You did take your time answering my summons, didn’t you?”

The cat blinked. “Um. I got here as fast as I could, Master Laurin.” Summons?

“Your tardiness can’t be helped at this point. I’ve about finished transcribing a new version of the size reduction spell; I need you to check my work and bring the scroll here from my study.”

“Yes, Master Laurin.”

“Go. Shoo. Come back quickly.” The fox waved his hands; Berlan scurried off.

The scroll proved to be in nearly as bad shape as the dome. Sighing, Berlan began doing minor, quick cleanup on it, rendering it into something readable. “This isn’t even targeted correctly,” he muttered.

He couldn’t stop helping Arctyv now. Even if his role in the original “disaster” never came to light, he’d simply be scapegoated for it. At best, he’d be expelled and returned to the peasantry. At worst—and more likely—he’d be summarily executed, or used as an experimental target himself.

He’d known he’d have to change the spell again—but merely throwing it off wouldn’t be good enough. Saving Arctyv, Rakelle and himself could only be accomplished by breaking the wizards’ rule.

“Not targeted correctly,” he repeated.

After another moment, he finished his work and hurried up the hall. This one would be something they’d notice, and likely trace to him—but with any luck it wouldn’t matter.

“Here you are, Master Laurin,” he said, running up to the fox.

The wizard grabbed the scroll and examined it quickly. “My work was clear?”

“Crystalline, Master Laurin.”

He grunted, and stepped forward. “All right, then. You might want to be at a safer distance.”

“Don’t I know it,” Berlan said under his breath.

The spell proceeded much as it had before, with the roaring and the drop in temperature. The one difference was that at ritual’s end, absolutely nothing happened to, or around, Arctyv.

Master Laurin wasn’t as lucky, though. The woman who’d spoken earlier listened to the last line of the spell with an increasingly alarmed expression, tackling him on the last syllable in an effort to cut him off. She moved too slowly, though; the scroll disappeared on cue.

“Madam!” Laurin said, wincing as he sat up. “That was entirely uncalled for.” He looked up at the giant raccoon. “Hmm.”

“You blithering idiot!” she spat. “Where did you center that spell?”

“What? Why, on him… uh…” He squinted at the manifestly still-giant raccoon, then at his own hands.

“Then what is that?” she said, gesturing angrily in the direction of the prison. A thick column of light could be seen pouring out of the ground, arcing toward the sky, growing in width.

Laurin rose to his feet, still muttering. Then a curious expression crossed his muzzle. “Eh. Berlan.” He looked around for the apprentice. “Berlan?”

Berlan, though, had taken Laurin’s advice to be at a safer distance quite to heart. When he heard his name, he switched from a walk into a run—toward the light, already dissipating to reveal the now-giant Rakelle.

She looked around herself with a frantic expression, then spotted Arctyv. “What? No!” With one step she broke free of the dungeon, and sprinted toward her mate.

Berlan rolled out of the way, gaping. He couldn’t remember what the two-story building was between Rakelle and her destination, but she didn’t even slow down as she ran through it, passing some ten yards to his left. He watched survivors start to stream out of the broken structure, then turned around. Arctyv’s bonds had already shattered, the wizards responsible for maintaining them having their concentration understandably broken.

He made his way back toward the giants as they met one another and hugged tightly, tails curling about their legs. The wizards were in disarray, gathered to a spot about thirty feet from the giants.

“This was Berlan’s plan to help me escape?” Rakelle said, drawing back.

“No… I suspect it was his plan to help me escape when they magically bound me.” Arctyv grinned.

“I knew it!” Laurin piped up. “Where is he! I’ll tear—squeak!”

His tirade ended almost as soon as it began, as he was lifted up between two of Rakelle’s fingers. “You’ll what, little fox?”

“Uh—” The mage swallowed, obviously trying not to look at the huge teeth suddenly very close to him. “I’m sure we can arrange some kind of… amnesty for him. He obviously didn’t know any better, and—”

Rakelle growled softly. “No, I think he did.” She looked back at Arctyv. “If we wait to gather a following, they’ll have time to think of a new spell to stop us.” Her tail swished softly, nearly knocking over a group of apprentices who’d come out to stare. “If we level Guildtown now, it will be over, once and for all.”

This caused another round of argument among the wizards, a bit more agitated then before. “Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t return to normal without us,” Laurin said, managing to look officious even though he was dangling between two of Rakelle’s fingers.

Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s true,” Berlan called up, close enough now to be heard by the two giants.

“Now. If you put me down, we can talk about this and come to some kind of… equitable decision,” Laurin said, tail wagging. “A compromise.”

Rakelle’s tail swished again; she looked at Arctyv.

“My compromise,” Arctyv said after a moment, “is that the wizard ruling council be disbanded. That Guildtown go back to being a university. That the parliament we’d demanded originally be instituted—”

“Absolutely not!” the woman burst out. “We’re hardly going to give up a century of work at the threats of some—some—ruffians, even large ones. We’ll make some concessions, perhaps, but—”

Arctyv looked at Rakelle. “What do you say? Do we accept ‘concessions,’ or condemn ourselves to being effective demigods?”

“Um,” Laurin’s voice came, a bit more shakily, “there could be a large number of concessions, perhaps—”

Rakelle looked at Arctyv, nodded once, then stared down at the wizards, holding Master Laurin at arm’s length in front of her. The fox’s arms pinwheeled desperately.

“Here is my compromise,” she said, letting go. Laurin’s scream lasted only a few seconds, ending with a stomach-turning crunch.

Rakelle leaned forward, hands on her hips, enunciating the next word clearly and slowly:

“Die.”

Her foot stomped down on the wizards hard enough to knock Berlan onto his side.

By the time he sat up, she’d herded the ones she’d missed between her hands. Berlan couldn’t make out their pleading as she pushed them against the side of her foot, but he could clearly make out her response: a short, almost gleeful “No.” Followed by another stomp.

Then suddenly she turned her attention to him, closing the distance in two strides. “You’d better ride with us,” she said, scooping him up in one hand.

“Eep! Uh… y-yes…” Berlan gasped.

“Where can I put you… hmmm.”

Arctyv leaned forward and whispered in her ear. The raccoon woman grinned down at the little cat, then tucked him into her cleavage, letting him hold onto the lacy cloth of the bra. “You can hang on there?”

Berlan glanced from side to side at the thick white fur, then back up at her, trying to focus on her face—suddenly an extraordinarily difficult act. “Uh… y-yes… what are you going to do?”

She chuckled. “We’re going to go for a walk.” And she began walking. In two steps, she’d planted a foot in a building, the first of a long row between two streets.

Rakelle faced the row, and began to walk, slow, measured steps.

In about five seconds the cloud of rubble was as high as her knees. Berlan gaped down. People began streaming out of the ruined buildings, out of the ones just ahead of her feet, trying to avoid the oncoming destruction. He could see bodies tossed by the seemingly gentle movement of her feet; each step seemed to catch at least one person who wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way, only able to gaze up at the descending pad.

“Doesn’t… doesn’t that hurt?” he said hoarsely.

“Honestly, yes,” she said, her voice a bit tight. “It’s like walking on sharp rocks.”

Berlan glanced to the left, then to the right, spying Arctyv. The giant’s destruction wasn’t as deliberately paced as that of his mate, but it was just as effective—he danced around the buildings, giving them great kicks, sending sprays of rocks and hapless occupants into the air.

“Oh, come on,” Arctyv said, suddenly grabbing Rakelle’s arm and pulling on her. “Dance with me!”

She laughed, bowing slightly as he tugged on her. The motion gave Berlan a nausea-inducing ride, a quick view of intact buildings, rubble and increasingly panicked crowds in the street.

Arctyv grabbed his mate’s shoulders, and began spinning her around, dancing with her. The dust cloud got bigger as they danced through the buildings, and the screams increased dramatically. Berlan looked down, realizing they were dancing equally through buildings and packed streets. The crowds tried to dash away as they twirled, but to no avail. Berlan got glimpses of a four-second-long tragicomedy, a half-dozen Protectorate guards clambering into a wagon barely designed for four and managing to maneuver it just into the right position to be completely covered by Rakelle’s left foot on a downstep.

Suddenly Berlan was squished hard into the fur around him. He twisted around, realizing Arctyv had just pulled his mate against him.

“Careful of your friend,” Rakelle murmured. Berlan looked up, still squirming; his view was almost entirely white chest fur mingling, the undersides of two great muzzles, and flashes of the sky.

“He loves it.” Arctyv drew back enough for Berlan to see his grin. “You liked being my toy, didn’t you, Berlan? Now you can be Rakelle’s, too.” Arctyv’s finger abruptly pushed Berlan completely in the bra.

It took him almost thirty seconds to climb back to where he had been, the time made longer by the giggling Rakelle launched into any time he hit a sensitive spot. By the time his head poked back out he was quite disheveled, and rather aroused again, although he resolved to not bother being embarrassed.

“Arctyv,” Rakelle chrred softly, “the town is our toy tonight.” She jumped to one side, and the tower Berlan lived in came into view.

Rakelle crouched, wrapping her hands around the tower, then strained, trying to lift it.

“Wow,” Berlan breathed, looking around. The muscles in her legs and arms stood out as she strained, fur rippling—then the tower broke free. Or more accurately, broke, snapping below her lower hand.

Rakelle straightened, holding about six stories worth of the tower between her two hands, and staggered slightly. Furniture, and a few unlucky apprentices, fell out the ragged hole in the bottom.

She stepped over to another line of buildings, panting a little, then drew back and heaved the tower at them. The resulting collision nearly deafened Berlan.

“We seem,” Arctyv said, “to finally have gotten the Protectorate’s attention.” He gestured down, through the cloud of rising smoke; Berlan squinted, making out the form of a squadron.

“What kind of weapons do they have?” Rakelle said, poking Berlan lightly with a clawtip.

“Oof! Uh… uh… bows and arrows, crossbows… I think they own a catapult.”

“And?”

“And, uh, a lot of swords.”

Rakelle remained still a few moments, then began laughing. “What would you fools have done in the face of an army?”

“Cast spells from a distance. The th-thought was that no army would ever reach Guildtown.”

Arctyv shook his head, stepping forward. Rakelle followed; Arctyv stood on the street, stopping a few dozen yards from the several hundred massed defenders.

“Now!” Berlan heard a voice cry clearly. A hail of arrows appeared; Berlan ducked into the bra.

“Did any hit?” he said, realizing Rakelle was still walking around slowly.

“Oh, I’d say almost all of them. About a third might have hit me,” she replied softly.

Berlan scooted up again looked down. The archers still fired; Arctyv was moving, too, just as slowly. Neither giant nor giantess stepped toward the soldiers. They just circled, slowly, eyes on the mass of archers, feet trodding over buildings and rubble, pounding it into progressively smaller pieces with each pass, ignoring the arrows beating against their fur.

Suddenly one of the soldiers broke for it. Rakelle reached down smoothly, plucking him up in two fingers, and tossed him into her mouth.

All the arrows stopped, a hundred pairs of eyes on Rakelle as she looked down, crunching her victim once and swallowing visibly. Then she put her hands on her knees and leaned forward, licking her lips, looking at the crowd in a way which made each person feel her eyes were right on them.

“I want more.”

The formation immediately crumbled. Most of the soldiers tried to stand their ground, but dozens began to try to fight their way to the sides, fleeing her gaze.

Rakelle laughed, and literally fell on them, stepping forward and dropping to her knees, dozens crushed under her forelegs. She took a huge, playful swipe through the thick of the crowd with one hand, fingers outstretched, catching only two new victims but hurling dozens more into the air.

“I’m stuffed in the bra of a madwoman,” Berlan said aloud. He glanced up at Arctyv, who was gazing down at Rakelle with an odd mixture of amusement, nervousness and admiration.

“Have some,” Rakelle said, holding out her wriggling captives to her mate.

Arctyv laughed, shaking his head, then crouched down, took her wrist in his hand and brought her fingers to his mouth. He parted his jaws wide and flicked his tongue against the soldiers, letting both drop into his maw, then closed his muzzle.

Berlan whimpered softly, eyes locked onto Rakelle’s fingers as she pulled another soldier out of the crowd, dangling him over her muzzle by one leg. He’d thought Arctyv made the act of consuming his—prey—erotic, but Rakelle evidently wanted to do him one better, parting her jaws and lowering the screaming man onto her tongue, then closing her lips around her fingers and withdrawing them slowly—then swallowing. That time Berlan knew the slight movement in her throat wasn’t his imagination.

Arctyv grinned, scooping up another soldier, and setting it on her left breast, not that far from Berlan. The man clung to her fur, looking around wildly, then began scrabbling as the raccoon’s muzzle bent down, jaws opening. “No—please—” he began, cut off abruptly as Arctyv’s nose pressed into Rakelle’s fur, over the victim’s head, and licked the fox into his mouth.

Berlan whimpered again, and this time Arctyv heard it. He grinned, bringing his muzzle right up to the apprentice, and bared his teeth. Berlan pulled back the few inches he could, seeing the screaming man on the raccoon’s tongue, sliding back toward Arctyv’s gullet.

Then Arctyv closed his mouth, tilted his head up, and leaned forward. Berlan found himself pressed into the raccoon’s neck ruff, borne back against one of Rakelle’s breasts. He felt the muscles above him tense as the giant swallowed; unable to resist the temptation, he placed his hands on Arctyv’s throat, feeling the struggling fox go down.

Arctyv drew back, chuckling, then went down with a ‘whff’ as Rakelle placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed. Berlan gasped, hearing a sudden loud rise of screams cut off abruptly.

The giantess straddled Arctyv, scooping up a handful of survivors, and dropped them right on his breeches. As they began to scatter, she bent down and started licking them off. It took about three seconds of the show for both Arctyv and Berlan to find their breeches uncomfortably tight.

Growling softly, Arctyv rolled Rakelle onto her side; a nearly-intact, five-story dormitory crumbled under her weight. Berlan looked down the length of her body, watching her kick away another smaller structure to make room.

“Uh…” The apprentice swallowed hard. “You c-can’t just… uh. There’s no time—the palace is still intact, and they’re undoubtedly—”

Arctyv grinned, stroking a hand along Rakelle’s stomach. “Berlan and I,” he said to her, “have an understanding. If he tells me something that’s obviously untrue, I demonstrate why he’s incorrect.”

Berlan watched the hand on the female raccoon’s stomach snake down between her legs, pushing the panties down, and Arctyv’s other hand appear clutching a handful of squirming soldiers. Deliberately, he picked up one soldier between two fingers, gave the man a lick, and brought him between Rakelle’s legs.

The giantess stiffened, arching her back. Berlan hung on tightly as he bounced, trying to see.

Arctyv’s fingers reappeared, empty, and picked up another man, repeating the motion with much the same effect on Rakelle.

“Hmm. I wonder how many you can hold,” the giant said, grinning and producing a third one. “That’s three. I can see them kicking. That’s cute.”

“Ohhhh,” Rakelle said, gasping. “This is evil.”

“Want me to stop?”

“No.”

Arctyv grinned. “Four.”

Rakelle shuddered.

“Five.”

Berlan looked back at the giantess’s face. Her head was thrown back; the chest around him rose and fell in a shallower pattern then before.

“Six.”

Rakelle clutched at a handful of soldiers reflexively, then let go. Berlan winced at the crumpled bodies that slid back to the ground.

“Seven.”

“Mmmmm….” Rakelle brushed her hand over her breasts, and over Berlan. Her fingers paused, then shoved him up against the left breast.

“Hey!” Berlan started struggling, which made her shudder. “Arctyv!” he squealed desperately.

“If I were you, I’d go where she wants,” Arctyv said with a grin. “Better to be in her bra than down her throat… or down with her little friends here, who I don’t think are going to survive the coming quake.” He said this peering at one soldier, who froze, then kicked frantically as he followed his companions. “Eight.”

Rakelle arched her back again, whimpering. Berlan found himself shoved up against a nipple, only able to listen to the conversation now.

“Nine. Getting tight.” Berlan nodded; he could barely move between the fabric and the skin, and each movement only increased his own arousal.

“Oh, Lord, yes,” she said. “Can’t… uh….”

“Fit in any more? Of course we can. Ten.”

Rakelle shuddered violently.

“Eleven. Hmmm.”

The raccoon’s chest began heaving raggedly now; Berlan wrapped his hands around the nipple desperately. The chest shuddered again as he did so.

“Twelve.”

“Ohh— ohh—” Her hand brushed along her breast, working Berlan up, the hard nipple poking along his stomach, moving down, dampening his fur. He whimpered, tail twitching.

Arctyv started to say “Thirteen,” but Rakelle’s scream drowned out the word. Berlan nearly blacked out as she arched her back hard, the nipple catching him right between his legs. He shuddered.

After long moments, he managed to crawl back out, looking around. The ‘ground’ of her chest was highly unstable as she tried to catch her breath; her head was thrown back, hair in a disarrayed tangle on the ground.

The surviving soldiers had predictably scattered. Rakelle sat up, and Berlan found himself in her fingers, then in her palm, held before her muzzle. “You are all right?” she said softly.

Berlan nodded weakly, focusing on her eyes rather than her teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”

She grinned. “You seem to be rather excited yourself as well.”

Berlan colored. “Yes, ma’am,” he repeated.

“Few people call me that.”

“As a general rule, ma’am, I try to be extraordinarily respectful of anyone I’m ankle-high to.”

Rakelle laughed, brushing back her hair with her free hand. “Sensible enough.” She looked in the direction Arctyv had walked; he was crouching down by the wall, apparently talking to people on the other side. “We have attracted a friendly audience, I think.” The giantess pulled her panties into place and rose to her feet.

As she approached Arctyv, he looked up and grinned at her. “Should we take down the wall, love?”

She chuckled. “Go ahead, Arctyv.” She gestured around at the rubble. “Just make sure our friends stay out from underfoot. We still have some stomping left to do.”

The crowd outside the wall met this observation with a mixture of gasps and cheers.

“Stand back,” Arctyv said, reaching out for the wall. A tug, and a ten-yard section of it pulled free and collapsed inward. The crowd outside, hundreds strong, surged forward.

Rakelle tucked Berlan back into her bra, looked around, then stepped toward the largest remaining intact building—the palace.

“They’re planning a counterattack from inside,” Berlan said.

“Oh? And what do you think they can do?”

“Fire spells. Binding. Any number of things.”

Suddenly she jumped. Berlan hung on, the world a blur. “What?”

“Or, they might hide a catapult behind it. Ow.” Rakelle growled softly, and sat down on the palace, leaning over the catapult.

As her weight settled, the building creaked, seeming to sink slightly. Berlan could hear crumbling, but the structure seemed to hold.

Berlan saw soldiers scatter as she picked up the catapult with both hands. “Evidently,” she said calmly, “a big rock won’t do it.” She chuckled, turning the machine over. It was about chest-level with Berlan, and he could make out three soldiers, all wolves, desperately hanging onto the structure.

She licked her lips, watching them. One soldier saw this, and whined loudly. “Please don’t eat us!” he yelled.

Rakelle tilted her head. “All right,” she said. “I won’t.” The raccoon lifted the catapult in front of her, over her head, and tossed it to Arctyv as he approached. “Catch!”

Arctyv stepped to one side, letting the catapult land at his feet. “Whoops,” he said.

“Clumsy.”

“I know,” he said, stomping his foot down on the machine’s remains. “I’ve never been very agile.” He grinned, and moved to stand over his mate, then lowered himself onto her lap.

As the two raccoons embraced, an explosive crack sounded from beneath them. The drop was abrupt, rattling Berlan’s bones and tumbling him under Rakelle’s left breast.

He crawled up, gasping, to find the two raccoons kissing overhead, Arctyv’s chest close to Rakelle’s and moving closer. “You two are… exceedingly evil,” he gasped.

Arctyv looked down, then fished Berlan out. “You, little cat, are asking for it.” He dangled the apprentice before Rakelle’s lips.

“Uh—wait—” As Rakelle ran her tongue around her teeth, its tip brushing the cat’s tail, his words dissolved into squeaking.

“Mmmm,” Rakelle said. She flipped her tongue under him and closed her lips around his legs.

“I’m sorry!” Berlan squeaked.

Arctyv grinned at him, teeth very close. “Oh, you won’t be, I imagine.” He opened his mouth slightly, and pressed it to Rakelle’s in a kiss, the cat’s head and torso sliding between his lips.

Berlan whined, finding himself completely surrounded by two sets of teeth, two great tongues that slid over him as the kiss deepened. The raccoons explored him as they explored one another’s mouths, soft cooing noises from both of them vibrating him.

After a few moments he gave up futilely fighting, and let the sensations overwhelm him. The kiss lasted a full minute, the tongues repeatedly passing over all parts of his body, bringing him to another climax at its end.

Then Arctyv gently pulled him out, to a few audible titters from the audience that had gathered. The giant held him loosely between two fingers, wrapping his other arm around Rakelle, and kissed her again—this time lowering her back onto the palace rubble and straddling her.

“Where do you want to be?” Arctyv said to Berlan, holding him between the two giant muzzles once more.

“Uh…” Berlan’s mind blanked momentarily. He looked down at Rakelle, now on her back, chest rising and falling heavily, surrounded by the destruction they’d caused—he could still see wizards struggling to get out from under the rubble, could make out two who’d become entangled in her hair. It was one of the most bizarrely beautiful scenes he could imagine. “Wherever she wants me.”

Rakelle smiled, closing her fingers about Berlan as her mate let him go, and brought him down to her thigh. The smell of the nearby thicker fur was thick, shifting to dizzying as he was gently pushed into it—then gently pushed inside her.

As the body around him began to move, Berlan flailed at the thicker fur, trying to hang on. He finally got a grip, kicking slightly—which caused her to shake more. The view overhead was entirely of Arctyv’s taut stomach, with flashes of his thighs and—as the giant undid his breeches—the raccoon’s own massive sign of arousal.

Then Arctyv lowered himself fully onto Rakelle.

Berlan’s eyes got wide as the raccoon’s tip came toward him, hit him—and pushed him down far inside Rakelle, who immediately bucked, muscles squeezing tightly around him.

“Oh, Lord,” Berlan gasped, and hung on tightly to the only obvious anchor he could grasp—Arctyv. At that, combined with his kicking, both raccoons shuddered, and the lovemaking began in earnest, the cat’s own erection increasing with each motion of the bodies around him.

Berlan’s grip tightened desperately as the pressure and heat increased, but as it did, the slickness around him increased, too. His hands slid off, and he was left in complete darkness, wedged tightly in Rakelle’s muscles, Arctyv pushing him in further.

He struggled furiously a moment, launching himself forward, just in time to meet one of Arctyv’s forward thrusts head-on, the heavy, slick tip bashing against his chest and thighs. Berlan yelped, clasping around the tip, climaxing once again—immediately met by the sensation of an earthquake around him, and a spurting flood from in front, driving him back further.

Berlan opened his eyes again to find himself in Rakelle’s palm, two giant noses over him. He realized, groggily, that he’d blacked out.

“I told you he’d survive,” Arctyv said, his voice betraying a slight sense of relief.

Rakelle laughed softly, leaning down to give Berlan a chest-wide kiss.

Berlan smiled weakly, kissing her upper lip in return, and passed out again.

When he woke up, he lay on a blanket, a cool morning breeze blowing over his fur. Someone had thought to toss a sheet over him during the night.

The light of dawn illuminated Guildtown—or what had been Guildtown. About half the wall remained. Inside, only the library building remained standing. Everything else was rubble. No army had gotten close to the stronghold in two centuries, but Rakelle and Arctyv had not only taken the town in a night, they had leveled it.

“Good morning.”

Berlan looked up to see a grizzled old badger, leaning over and grinning at him. “Uh, hello,” Berlan said.

The badger grinned more. “You seem to be quite the chosen one in the eyes of the King and Queen.”

“The who?” Berlan blinked. “I… suppose they are that now, aren’t they?”

“Damn tootin’ they are.”

Berlan rubbed his eyes. “Well, I suppose they certainly won’t be any worse rulers than the wizards.”

The badger laughed wheezily. “They’re already setting up a parliament to do the ruling. It’ll be an interesting country, that it will.”

“What will they do, then?” Berlan said, furrowing his brow. The badger was looking over his shoulder, though; Berlan followed his gaze to see Rakelle approaching.

The giantess kneeled, and placed her hands by Berlan, leaning over. “Good morning,” she said, grinning.

Both the badger and Berlan whimpered slightly.

“I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who finds a hundred-foot-tall woman attractive,” Berlan whispered.

“Kiddo, I’d have killed to have been in your position yesterday,” the badger whispered back.

“So… what will you do with your kingdom now, Lady Rakelle?” Berlan said, gazing up at her eyes.

She laughed softly. “The parliament will rule. Our goal was always to have the people govern themselves, not to replace one set of despots with another. Arctyv and I will have deciding votes in parliament if there is a deadlock; beyond that, I think we will be figureheads.”

“That’s enough for you?”

She picked him up, laughing again. “Berlan, we will require a place to live, clothes and,” she grinned toothily, “since we’ll be out of surviving wizards in a few days, I think, adequate food. Asking the people to provide that for two people our size will be hard enough. Beyond that, we only require free run of the kingdom with an understanding that, as long as we do no serious harm, we should not be interfered with.”

“Free run, hmm?”

“We’d like to do some traveling,” Arctyv’s voice came as he walked up behind his mate. “Starting now, I think, since it will take some time for a shelter for us to be constructed.”

Rakelle stood up, hugging Arctyv gently. Berlan’s view temporarily shifted to the giant’s back fur.

Berlan squirmed in Rakelle’s hand; she opened it slightly and peered at him. “Uh… you can’t carry me off with you,” he said hopefully.

Both raccoons laughed. Rakelle tucked Berlan back into her bra and took Arctyv’s hand. “Shall we?”

“Certainly, my queen.” He grinned, and led her out of the remains of Guildtown, in the direction of the rising sun.