Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Un-Veiled (Patreon)

They waited in the alleyway. He had told them to wait in the alleyway.

“Fine,” said Barbarian, her voice low and rough through the glamer. “But I’m still not calling you ‘Harold.’”

They’d stared at her for a moment then. All except for Oracle, whose mustachioed gaze drifted slightly to the left of center. Discomfited by their scrutiny, Barbarian shrugged more deeply into her furs, one whiskered cheek catching uncomfortably against the bear skin. “All I’m saying is ‘Harold’ doesn't feel setting-appropriate.”

The Divine Herald of Lady Celestial smiled. It was brighter than any other lantern burning that Devil’s Night. “Trust me, friends,” he said. “You still have your negative levels from the res. Just keep your eyes open. Listen for any screams or battle sounds. Signal at the first sign of trouble.”

“Signal how?” The half-elven beauty in the fire-bright doublet pouted. It was, after all, a very convincing sort of glamer.

“I’m certain you have a scroll for the occasion,” said the creature that had once been Paladin. “Just don’t let your guard down, whatever you do.”

“And were are you going?” rumbled Barbarian.

“Aloft." His figured pointed skward. "I’m going aloft to look around.” And  without further discussion, the being of golden feathers and quintessence took a double-move action straight up into twilight.

That had been an hour past. It was full dark now, and Sorcerer huddled close against the leeward wall of the alley's mouth. It was incredible, he reflected, that he could feel so cold. The fiery pit wasn’t so long ago. He’d thought to never feel cold again, and by rights he ought to have relished the sensation. Yet the small pressure behind the eyes that came with concentration — especially hours-long concentration — now threatened to bloom into a fully fledged headache. The cold was not helping, nor was the resurrection sickness, nor was the dark and unreal hair falling across his eyes.

“There, there lass,” Oracle said. “One good night’s sleep and I’ll have the heals. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

At least the head in question was pretty. The scroll’s magic had done its work well, and Sorcerer relished the chance to cast again. Like Oracle, he had depleted his reserves in the lower planes. The emptiness of a spent arcane reservoir had been almost worse than the brimstone and the despair. The flow of magic had been like clean air back into empty lungs. So as Sorcerer crossed and recrossed her arms, trying to avoid the distracting prominence of his own illusory chest, the false sensations of the spell felt very real indeed… and not altogether unpleasant.

“Come here,” said Barbarian. She had moved quietly behind the mage, standing just a five-foot-step deeper in the alleyway. It was like the best part of Hell all over again. One strong human arm wrapped around a slender half-elven shoulder.

“Shade in the summer, warmth in the winter,” said Sorcerer.

“I don’t follow,” said Barbarian, but her lips curled up in a smile. Her breath was warm against Sorcerer’s neck, and the other arm draped across Sorcerer’s other shoulder, and the mage's head fit comfortably in the curve between chin and collarbone. “I do know one thing though. It is good to be alive again.”

“It is that,” said Sorcerer. They stood that way for a time, her hands wrapped around his front, both feeling vital, and corporeal, and thoroughly mortal. Neither remarked upon the strangeness of the magic. There was a loose and wanting sensation beneath Sorcerer’s belt. Barbarian found herself pulling the semblance of an elf maid more firmly against her front. Their breath caught: twin gouts of steam rising from the dim of the night-dark alley.

“You guys want me to keep watch for a while?” said Oracle.

“Yes please,” said her partymates in unison. And Oracle turned her back, grinning through her mustaches. Her gaze remained slightly off-center.