Lyrics from "One Night in Bangkok" from the musical "Chess."

"Where is he?" Janette flinched at the wrath in her master's voice, and shrank back in her chair as he took a pace around the room. It was, perhaps surprisingly, a cozy room, with its carpets and hangings, its painted walls and low furniture, all bathed in a golden glow by the oil lamps. LaCroix's mood sliced through the warm ambiance like a dagger of ice. "He is young yet," she said, "and easily distracted. I'm sure he will be here soon."

Nicholas was drunk, or so it seemed to him. Not deeply drunk, but the blood of the woman he'd killed earlier surged through his veins, making each nerve ending vibrate deliciously and expanding his vampiric senses even more. The only sensation he knew to compare it with was the sweet headiness of wine.

The sky above the crowded streets of Constantinople seemed deep and glowing, every pinprick star a precious jewel. A life, he thought, wondering. If each star is a life, do they look down on us and see--stars? He took a deep breath to taste the rich air--incense and cookfires, perfumed bodies and unwashed ones, spice and sweat and the dust of centuries. He laughed with the sheer joy of it, and leaned against the nearest wall. It must have been a government building or a church: the façade was covered with an intricate mosaic, thousands of tiny tesserae joined with artistry. He traced the stone tiles, his face only inches away. These faces, how they seemed to breathe with ruddy life! And--wings. He looked closer. How could these simple stones create such a vivid picture of great golden wings?

A hand tucked itself under his arm. "Have a little too much tonight?" a sympathetic male voice asked. He shook the hand off, impatiently, without looking at the man. The hand came back. "Shall I see you to your door?"

Something snapped in him, then, some blackness he'd been barely aware of leaped up his throat and out through his eyes, his fangs. In an instant he'd dragged the man deep into the shadows and drained him. The extra influx of blood on top of what he'd already drank made him giddy. He barely remembered to slit the man's throat with his dagger and take his purse to make it look like a robbery before he hurried away. He kept to the narrow alleys and dark passages on the way home; his brief life as a vampire had not yet subdued the panicky feeling he felt after a kill, as though he expected any minute to hear "Stop! Murderer!" following after him.

"He tries my patience, Janette," LaCroix told his daughter, who was relieved that he was at least sitting down now, a glass close to hand. "Have I not given him whatever he needs, whatever he wishes? Have I not taught him well? And where is my recompense?"

"I think," she said carefully, "he does not know what you want."

LaCroix glared at her.

"He is from a different world than you, cher maitre. He was raised to believe it was a sin for there to be desire between two men."

An eyebrow quirked higher. "And why should this matter to him now? He is beyond all the superstitions of mortals."

She shrugged. "Perhaps not yet. And then, too, perhaps he simply cannot see your desire."

"And perhaps he's just obstinate. If he will not give, Janette. . .I can always take."

She came to him and knelt by his side. "Do not hurt him, please. You know that you do not need to do that, to get what you want." He raised a hand to caress her dark locks. Such creatures of beauty and grace, these children of his. He had not always been so fortunate . . . "Retire if you wish, my dear, and do not fear for your brother. If he does not come soon, I shall go and bring him home. And I will not hurt him, tonight."

LaCroix watched her walk away in a rustle of crimson that matched almost exactly the blood in his glass. He tilted the bowl of the glass over the flame of a nearby lamp to warm it. No, he would not hurt Nicholas--not yet. Rape had its pleasures, but not when you had to live with the victim afterwards. Besides, that was not what he wanted. Nicholas had a sensuous nature, that had been clear from the start. He wanted to enjoy that sensuality to its fullest.

A frantic banging on the entry door interrupted his musings. "It's me, Nicholas! Let me in!" His newest child nearly fell into the room when LaCroix opened the door. He groped for a chair and stumbled into it.

"Where have you been? And whatever is the matter with you?"

"I drank too much." Nicholas leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes and -- now that he was safely home -- laughed softly.

"How many?"

"Two at first. Whores. Beautiful. But then I was coming home and a man . . ." He frowned and stopped. There was something there he didn't want to talk about, not with LaCroix, in any event. But his master prompted him: "A man?"

Nicholas slid his eyes away from the commanding figure towering over him. "He thought I was drunk. He said he'd see me home. He wouldn't leave me alone."

Ah, now, this is interesting, thought the Roman. He laid his cool palm deliberately against Nicholas' flushed cheek and tilted his face upward. "And did you enjoy him, mon protégé?"

Nicholas couldn't find words. He remembered the lust he'd drunk in the man's veins, mingled with another emotion he did not know the word for: the man had been in awe of Nicholas' beauty, had wanted to touch it, worship it . . . "Yes," he whispered.

Good, LaCroix thought. Very good. He removed his hand and helped Nicholas to his feet. "A bath, first, then bed."

"A bath?" Nicholas protested. "But I took a bath just a few days ago."

"And since then you've been wandering the streets, drinking in the delights of the city, and now you need another one. Besides, Nicholas, bathing is a pleasurable thing."

"Well, yes," he admitted.

One of their servant's last duties before being sent home for the evening was to stoke the boiler for the hypocaust. Here in this ancient city one could still find houses with such things, and LaCroix appreciated the convenience of having his bathwater hot, without waiting for it to boil. He filled the deep stone tub for his child, who dropped his clothes absently and stood stroking the wall, shivering at the sensation of the plaster under his fingertips, until LaCroix said, "In with you now."

Nicholas slipped into the water and sighed with contentment. Oils of frankincense and cedar floated shimmering on the surface; he breathed deeply of the aromatic steam. Now that his panic had faded he barely remembered the man he'd killed, or why. His master picked up the sponge floating on the water and started to bathe him. Nicholas chuckled a little. "I can bathe myself, LaCroix; I'm not a child."

"You're my child," the other responded with a smile, and went on. Nicholas lay back, languid, and watched the sponge moving over his flesh, and the hand that held it. Strange, he thought. Such strong hands and yet so gentle. He raised his eyes to look at LaCroix's face. Yes, the one who had made him was strong, he had felt it when first they met. That strength had drawn him as a needle to a lodestone. So often in his life what had seemed eternal, unchanging, had fallen away from him. His father, Gwynneth, God's holy war. . .ideas, only ideas. But LaCroix was real. LaCroix wasn't going anywhere.

The face he looked at was serene, the piercing eyes half-lowered to his task. Nicholas felt as if he had been in the tub forever. The gentle swaying of the warm water lulled him; the rhythmic motion of the sponge along his limbs--"Lean forward. I'll do your back." He obeyed, bracing his hands on the tub's rim and dropping his head. The sponge moved in long strokes up his back. He gasped, and clutched the rim tighter. The sensation was almost unbearable--and then the sponge moved over his shoulders, and up the back of his neck. He felt as though he were drowning. "LaCroix," he managed. "I think that's enough."

"Yes, I think so," his master said calmly. "You do smell better. Can you get out by yourself?"

"Yes." He clambered over the side and went to stand over the grate in the floor where LaCroix poured a jug of clear rinse water over him. "Dry yourself off. I'll go get you a clean chemise."

He toweled off. The man he'd killed tonight. . . LaCroix . . . the way LaCroix touched him, so casually. . . Somewhere a voice locked deep in his mind was hammering to get out, but he couldn't trace it. Maybe he didn't want to.

Nicholas settled on his bed with a deeply contented sigh. At least one mortal pleasure had not been altered for him by his vampire nature: the sheer bliss of relaxing totally into clean crisp sheets.

"Better?" He opened his eyes to find LaCroix leaning over him. The incongruity of his imperious master acting like the nursemaid of his babyhood made him chuckle.

"Yes, Papa," he said in an attempt at babytalk. "All better now."

LaCroix smiled back at him and, sitting on the edge of the bed, smoothed a stray golden lock back from Nicholas' forehead. The hint of a frown creased his son's forehead. "LaCroix," he asked seriously, "are you angry at me? For killing so many?"

"Did you hide your kills properly, as I taught you to do?"

"Yes. I was careful."

"Then, no, I'm not angry at you. But you must learn to keep your wits about you at all times, Nicholas. We are powerful, our kind, but we are not invincible."

His hand was still stroking Nicholas' hair. It felt good. Soothing, like a cool rain. Nicholas nestled his head against it. It stilled for the briefest moment, then brushed against his cheek and slid under his hair to cup the back of his neck. He sighed as the strong agile fingers found the last remaining knots of tension in his neck. "Better?" murmured LaCroix.

He was suddenly aware of the weave of the linen under his back, the tiny heartbeat of a moth clinging to the windowframe, the hushed voice of a woman singing somewhere deep in the maze of passages and courtyards. Acutely, intensely aware of the face only inches from his own--the full, almost sulky, lips; the moonsmooth lids half-veiling the blue eyes.

" . . . Yes . . ." he managed, aware that he was agreeing to something more, but not sure what it was.

Then he was being kissed. So simple, at first: a firm press of the lips like he would have received from any male friend in that other life, so long ago. But the pressure eased and the lips lingered, caressing, sucking softly. His own lips parted in response, without any conscious will on his part, and the tip of a cool tongue snaked between them, tracing the sensitive inner rim of his lower lip. He moaned softly, and pulled away. "Shh, mon fils." LaCroix stroked his face.

"I--I don't--what are you doing?" He couldn't think straight, not with those hands moving on him, that powerful body so close to him. LaCroix gave him no answer, but for the return of his mouth on Nicholas'. This time that tongue worked its way deeper, like the questing tendrils of a grapevine. He found his own twining with it, his mouth opening hungrily under LaCroix's, his arms reaching up to wrap around the column of his master's neck. He drank deeply, not of LaCroix's blood, but of a stronger, more elusive essence. It was only the sound of cloth ripping underneath his nails that brought him back to his senses.

He broke free from the embrace, pressing himself against the headboard, staring wide-eyed at his companion. LaCroix's chemise hung from his shoulders, but his eyes were calm. "What is the trouble, then?" he asked.

"I'm a man," Nicholas declared flatly. LaCroix permitted himself the ghost of a smile. "I had noticed." He waited. He was good at waiting.

"It's--it's not natural."

"As could be said of our very existence. This existence that has given you such pleasure, such sensations, this same night." One hand began an oh-so-casual journey along Nicholas' shoulder, across his collarbone . . . "To seize our pleasure from the very jaws of death and in doing so to triumph--is that not the essence of our nature, Nicholas? To stand before that mocking negation and declare ourselves *alive*--to refuse to accept the bargain death would force upon us and to take, not what we can get, but what we *will*?"

He spoke with a mesmerizing passion and Nicholas stared into his eyes, seeing not the pale blue orbs, but endless corridors of light and shadow. Possibilities, horizons, stretching out forever: his for the taking. "Yes," he breathed.

LaCroix, in a reverie of his own, had almost forgotten why he was here. Now, brought to himself, he looked at the shining countenance below him. He had intended to seduce, not to ask, but ask he did: "May I show you pleasure this morning, my beloved son?"

"I'm afraid."

"Of me?"

Nicholas hesitated, shook his head. No. He believed LaCroix capable of hurting him out of anger, but never out of a joy in cruelty. No. LaCroix would care for him. He was afraid of something, but its nature eluded him. He caught LaCroix's wandering hand in his own and pressed a kiss on his palm. "Show me, cher maitre."

With one lithe gesture the chemise was disposed of, over the side of the bed, and LaCroix took his protégé in his arms. Eros guided him with the surety of a god. His hands moved up and down the long muscles of his golden one's back as he pressed him close, their chests and bellies meeting with a shiver of joy. His lips moved over the other's face--eyes, cheeks, mouth--until Nicholas tossed his head back and groaned. Then his mouth made contact with that throat, sucking and licking in a fervor of desire.

Nicholas' legs were twined around his, his arms holding LaCroix tight. His groans deepened as LaCroix worked his throat. "Shh," LaCroix breathed against that sensitive flesh. "Easy, now."

He moved down his favorite's chest, teasing the nipples into hard buds of desire even as his hands soothed the tense body underneath him. "Easy. We have all the time in the world."

Lost. Nicholas was lost in a world of sensation, as drunk as he had been earlier. He marveled at the silky ripple of the muscles in the marble-hard flesh under his hands. His nipples warmed under the wet tongue, then contracted with pain and pleasure as needle-sharp fangs pricked at them. The hands stroking his flanks taught his muscles the languorous rhythm of tense-and-release, hinting at rhythms yet to come.

LaCroix paused to look down at his son. The sensuality he'd known was there was blossoming like some ripe and fragrant flower of the night. He ran a finger over the rosepetal mouth and was pleased when a gleaming fang pierced it. He had known before he'd begun that tonight was for Nicholas; that what rewards he would reap for himself would come from satisfying the desires he awakened in his protégé. No matter: such rewards were none the less satisfying, for all that.

Nicholas had only just become aware that he was hard, achingly hard, in fact. Now a teasing caress moved the length of his shaft, bringing his erection into painful focus. "LaCroix--" he growled. His foreskin was rolled back, cool fingers stroking the tender surface of his exposed glans. His hips jerked and his heels dug into the mattress. A hand pumped his cock, just long enough to tease, before gathering his scrotum in a firm grip.

LaCroix laughed softly, holding the struggling vampire down against the sheets. He waited until the other was still, only the gleam of an amber eye betraying impatience, before continuing his exploration. He leaned over Nicholas' erection. Pausing briefly to brush his mouth over the straining cock, he sought out the tender creases where Nicholas' thighs joined his pelvis, where his scrotum hung against his perineum. He took a deep, open-mouthed breath, savoring the rich musk of his son's arousal.

"LaCroix. . ." desperate hands clutched at his head. "Please." The old one uncoiled like an albino tomcat, stretching along his chosen one's side to purr into his ear. "But what is this, Nicholas? We've just started."

The younger man turned his head on the pillow to face his master. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he confessed.

"You're supposed to enjoy it, Nicholas. Like the bath. Like the bed. Just--enjoy." Eyes paling to the colour of marsh-gas held Nicholas'. A demon, he thought, awed: a demon of burning snow. What have I become that this demon inspires in me not horror, but a fierce joy? Ah, I am truly damned, for he is glorious, glorious, and I cannot think otherwise.

The demon bent over him again and this time wrapped its mouth around Nicholas' aching cock. So cool was it's spit, and yet so warm. He groaned, and began to rock his hips, guided by the demon's hands. His vision blurred, melding with his other senses. A ripple of drunken laughter outside pattered along his skin like raindrops; spices bloomed under his fingers as he ran them through short white hair as sharp as splinters, as soft as ash. The rhythm of his demon's mouth and of his own thrusts, the glow of the oil lamps wound themselves into a tighter knot.

The moment stopped, and stretched. This was it, this was everything. That essence he'd drunk from LaCroix's mouth, the breath of dawn, the clean sheets--call it pleasure or sensation or triumph. It was Life. And he was part of it--he was alive! He felt the vibration along the back of his throat before he realized that it was the muezzin's voice lifted across the sky, and not his own, and so he laughed out loud, fierce and exulting as he flooded LaCroix's mouth.

"Drink," whispered his demon, his saint, and he opened his mouth to the richness of eternity.

There was an old, thickwalled house deep in this city. Its latticed windows were tightly shuttered and would remain so through the day. Inside a small room off the scented courtyard two figures of ivory and alabaster lay entwined on the low bed.

Nicholas, his eyes still closed, pressed the tip of his tongue lightly against his lover's smooth chest. LaCroix stirred. His erection had subsided only slightly while he waited for his protégé to recover. A tender-rough hand moved across the arch of his ribs, traced a lazy circle around his navel. "Nicholas." He intended to point out that he had not yet achieved *his* release and would his dear child leave off teasing him, when the hand closed around his cock and began a strong, sure stroking. A groan escaped him, and Nicholas' mouth curved in a wicked grin. "I'm impressed, LaCroix," he drawled.

"I'm . . . gratified," the other said weakly, then quick as a striking snake he seized his lover and rolled. Nicholas let out a startled "ooph!" as he was flung on his back, his master leaning over him. "Oh, don't stop, Nicholas," breathed LaCroix, "I shouldn't like it at all if you stopped." Nicholas resumed his ministrations, LaCroix pumping his cock through the tight fist. For long moments they said nothing, tension building in the breath hissing between their teeth.

He licked the sensual face below him. Through their bond he felt Nicholas shiver inside, fearing his raw male power, yet drawn to him. He subtly emphasized that power, staring unyieldingly into his son's eyes, leaning over him. He savored the anticipation of the coming penetration, his cock taking possession of that virgin territory. He allowed some of that anticipation to escape down the link to the man beneath him.

Nicholas caught his breath; his hand stilled on the demanding cock. "Don't stop, mon fils, mon desir." That voice was like velvet, like darkness in his ear. God, what was he to do! He knew what LaCroix wanted, and honour demanded that he not back out now. Yet he felt acutely the ruthless strength of the being hovering over him, the unyielding power, the lust, the possessiveness. Part of him wanted--no, needed--to be wanted that strongly. It was easy with women: from childhood he was used to them smiling on him. Few men yet had ever seen him as other than a rival, certainly no one had wanted him as LaCroix wanted him, had wanted him from the beginning. There was fear in him, though: fear of being carried away to where there was no turning back.

LaCroix shifted position, sitting back on his heels while still pumping into Nicholas' hand. "That's it. Yes." He parted Nicholas' thighs, lifting them--"No, don't stop. You'll know when to stop." He noted without comment his son's growing erection, and leaned forward again, lifting the other's legs around his waist. His lips brushed the other's ear. "Do you wish to please me, Nicholas?" A pause, then "yes," half-sobbed. "Yes, I know you do."

He took Nicholas' hand from his cock, guided it to his shoulder, stroking his son's waist. Slipping his hands under to cup those sweetly rounded buttocks he lifted Nicholas' ass and leaned the head of his cock against that secret opening.

"No!" Nicholas cried out, and thrashed under him, trying to escape. LaCroix's grip tightened. "Shh. Easy. Calm yourself." The struggle subsided. "Do you now what we're going to do now, Nicholas?"

"You--you--you're going to--take me--"

"Yes. You're going to pleasure me, Nicholas, and I you."

"I can't! I can't!"

"Yes, you can. Put aside your fear. Trust me."

There was no response from the panting, trembling figure on the bed.

"Open your eyes, Nicholas. Look at me." Slowly, bravely, those celestial eyes turned on him. Childlike eyes, wanting so to trust. LaCroix put his fingers to his mouth, licking them, and wet his cock. Nicholas whimpered a little. LaCroix leaned his forehead against his son's, breathed "Open yourself to me, Nicholas. Let me in." Digging his fingertips into the pressure points at the top of Nicholas' buttocks, he eased the head of his cock just inside him.

It hurt, but not as much as he'd expected. He felt the tight ring of muscle in his ass throb around the invading cock, felt LaCroix waiting for him. "Yes, Nicholas. Let me in." Another inch or two slipped in; he experimented, tightening and releasing his inner muscles around LaCroix. "That's it. Yes. Take your time."

A bone-deep, soul-deep sense of relief rushed through him. He wrapped his legs tighter around LaCroix, drawing him in. His master pushed the entire length of his cock inside him and he moaned again, this time from pleasure. "Yes," he sighed.

LaCroix fucked him. Deep, thoroughly, taking possession of this lost golden child, claiming him. He led them surely up the steep slopes of passion, his heart swelling as he watched Nicholas' eyes flare golden, his lips curl back in the vampire rictus, exposing his fangs. "That's it, mon desir, mon plaisir, mon amant. Yessss. . ." He quickened the pace, working that tight hot passage with deep, long strokes, feeling his own Change come over him.

Vampire eyes fixed on vampire eyes. Snarls and growls rose together in the closeness of the small chamber, viciously powerful bodies slammed together in a communion of the animal and the angelic. The barriers between soul and body crumbled under the heat of a desire so strong it could defy time and death.

"Mine!" LaCroix hissed. "You are mine, forever!"

"Yes!" Nicholas screamed. "Take me, for the love of heaven and hell, take me!"

Then the fangs sank into his throat and he felt the sudden throb of his blood into LaCroix's mouth. He turned his head, guided by a strong hand, and his master's blood flooded his own mouth, all the richness of a long and complex life filling him. He came against LaCroix's belly, felt LaCroix coming inside him, felt them joined by their come and their spit and their blood.

They were one, for a moment in time. And, wrapping together in a tighter knot even as they fell away from each other, thought that moment to be eternity.

FINIS