While the Gods Slumber Series Bundle

By Yancy Ball

Two women from very different worlds wrestle with the weight of their pasts, bedding and battling friend and foe on their journey to discover themselves and a powerful love for another. Seven stories from the steamy forests, vast savannahs, and lustrous cities of Jarra, where demons lurk and the power of Ancestry looms over all.

This fantasy erotica series contains explicit sexual situations, including f/f, f/m, ffm, f+, f+/m+ scenes, sex with gender-switching beings, and some (non-sexual) violence. Each story ranges from 16,000 to 50,000 words, with most being novella length. Seven books for one special price!

WHILE THE GODS SLUMBER
When a sensual and mysterious witch comes to claim her, the orphan Zhura and her dearest friends flee their forest village for refuge in the fabled coastal city of Namu.

BLOSSOM
Keya, daughter of House Oko, leads an expedition into the Ijon River swamp to rescue her brother from the cult of a seductive demon.
"A dark, sexy must-read title." - Recipient of the All The Filthy Details podcast's Star Recommendation!
TALES OF FABULOUS NAMU
Zhura and her companions duel against the intrigues of House San while protecting a brothel from a vicious gang of thieves.

DESCENT
Chafing at the binds of duty to her House, Keya Oko relies upon her secret demon and a new ally to make a bid for freedom.

NIGHT OF THE FORGOTTEN
Zhura and Keya run afoul of the Ancestors one holiday night, discovering their budding attraction to one another.

THE BITTER FRUIT OF HOME
Zhura, Keya, and their companions venture across the savanna towards the city where Zhura was born, exploring a mysterious village along the way.

CONVERGENCE
Zhura and her lovers come to the aid of her father, Yende, who faces the forces of the witch Ntoza in a battle for his throne.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yancy Ball
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215553626

Yancy Ball

As an amateur writer with a vastly overactive imagination, Yancy Ball has been writing sexy heroines into African-inspired fantasy realms for many years. During the day, Yancy enjoys cycling, martial arts, and conspiring to build a brighter future. Read Yancy’s Smashwords interview at https://www.smashwords.com/interview/yibala.

Book preview

In what order do I read this series, and how are these stories connected?

I try to be kind to readers.

Unfortunately, due to a number of factors in how these stories were conceived and published, the connections and chronological order of the stories of the While the Gods Slumber series is not readily logical or clear. Here is an overview of the order and timing of the events of the series.

While the Gods Slumber is the name of the first book and the name of a series of seven books. In general, readers can discern the order of the stories by their publication dates. However, there are a couple of exceptions to this rule.

The series stories are, in the chronological order in which they take place:

While the Gods Slumber

Blossom

Tales of Fabulous Namu

Descent

Night of the Forgotten

The Bitter Fruit of Home

Convergence

Sisterhood of the Brass Mask is not included in this bundle, as it is essentially a standalone story (although it will explain what happened to a particular sanju between the third and fourth book.

Legacy, also not included here, is a companion prequel to the series, taking place some fifty years before the series starts and telling the story of Zhura’s grandmother, Nandi. Legacy, While the Gods Slumber, and Blossom are all potential entry points to the series. Any of them should be understandable without one’s having read other stories.

A few words will serve to explain the Ummran calendar and months of the year. The calendar is an artifact of the ancient Ummran civilization, which is the origin of some of the mythology and iconography of the lands of While the Gods Slumber. Though Ummra is located on the same continent (Jarra), it is found on a desert river delta. The names of the months originate in that climate, and do not necessarily describe weather patterns in the lands of the stories. In parentheses in the list below, I indicate some common weather trends in the lands described in these stories (Ikanje State, the Nubic (Hill) Kingdoms, and Sung Valley).

There are twelve months of the calendar year:

Small Harvest

Forebears

Red Dust

Praise (some rains)

Abundance (rains)

Black Soil (rains)

Sowing (cool)

Rebirth

Great Harvest

Burning

Storms (rains)

Hot Wind (hot)

In most of the places visited in stories thus far, there are two rainy seasons (one greater, one lesser) and at least two harvest seasons (one greater, one lesser). Each month lasts thirty days. Weeks are seven days. The days of the week are named, although the names vary from state to state. (Day names come up only in Fabulous Namu so far – the days in Ikanje State match the IRL Swahili days of the week.) Holidays, such as the Night of the Forgotten, vary from state to state.

While the Gods Slumber begins in the Month of Praise, 3024. (Although this year may sound futuristic, consider that recorded history in our world is at least 5000 years old, only bifurcated in our calendar by the RL Julian and Gregorian calendars’ use of B.C and A.D.) The Ummran calendar begins with about 1300 years of that civilization, followed by Ummra’s collapse and a dark age, after which other continental civilizations began to expand. In the contemporary era, Ummra is largely ruined and the remnants of its cities dominated by neighboring realms.

Writing is rare on the continent of Jarra, and few people know or use the Ummran script. The scholars of Namu translate Ummran writing into their own script. There are a few other pockets of literacy on Jarra. However, oral history is quite common, and some traditions of oral history around the continent are extremely well-developed.

The stories that follow Zhura’s first story all take place nearly a year later, starting early in 3025. The six stories from Blossom to Bitter Fruit fit into an approximate three-month time span.

Thanks to those who have read my stories. I hope you enjoy and continue to enjoy them. Feedback from readers and other authors has made me a better writer, so I always welcome comments and thoughts. I hope that these explanations make the whys and whens a bit clearer!

May the Ancestors bless,

-Y.B.

Feb 23, 2021

Prologue

First came gods, and their power was unbound

They shaped demons in their image

Gods dreamed, that they might know limits.

Next came demons, though they numbered few

They bred with beast and tree

Demons lusted, that they might be gods.

Then came Woman, and her brood was plentiful,

It covered the earth like stalks of grass

Men built, that they might conquer death.

While the gods slumbered.

-Transcribed from oral histories in the manuscript of Jabari San, scribe to the Golden Magisters of Namu, c. 3117 by the Ummran calendar.

Witch

Village of Boma, Sung Valley. Year 3124, Month of Praise

Zhura walked the muddy trail that wound through the forest from the village to the Little Mongoose River. It was early in the day, so only a few young girls passed by, carrying heavy water jugs atop their heads to market. The girls chatted and giggled with each other, sparing not even a glance in the direction of the young herb-witch.

Zhura sighed. She and the crone birthed babies, cured fevers, and healed wounds. But when the villagers were not ailing, they shunned the healers because herb-witches trafficked in the magical secrets of life and death.

She hiked up her skirt, baring muscled calves, to step carefully along the great flat rocks that banked the lazy channel of the river. Morning sun shone through the trees, dappling the water like gold, twinkling upon dew-spotted leaves like so many diamonds. The air smelled of mud and orchid blossoms, and the faint smell of cook-fires.

Zhura was used to being alone, much as it pained her. She was an orphan, who had never known her ancestors. Menga, the ironsmith, had raised her with his own sons and apprenticed her to the old herb-witch as a small girl. He used to say Zhura had distant cousins in one of the villages in the north. But he might have made it all up. Her kinsmen might live in Namu-on-the-sea for all she knew.

Now that she was fully grown – a woman of nineteen rains – her forbears might never know her, never bless her life’s path. How could she even know her path without knowing where she began?

She left the area where washerwomen spread their laundry on sun-drenched rocks, venturing along a stretch of the Little Mongoose where bush and trees grew thick and wild along the water.

Normally, Zhura wouldn’t come this far upriver. Predators often lurked along the edges of the village of Boma, coming to the river to drink or to find a straying chicken or dog. If she found a good specimen of iboga root, she would pull it to plant in the crone’s garden, so she wouldn’t have to venture as far the next time hunters wanted a stimulant.

She was picking her way far upstream, looking for the copses where she knew the shrub grew, when the cries came from behind her.

Help! Anyone! Please!

Zhura clutched her staff and pack tightly as she rushed back along the bank the way she’d come, careful that her sandals wouldn’t slip on wet stone.

A woman lay upon one of the rocks beside the water. Her ankle was wedged between two flat boulders.

Thank the Merciful Mother! the woman said, spotting Zhura. Can you help me?

Yes. Zhura hurried over. She set down her gear and laid on her belly, peering between the rocks where the woman was stuck. The skin was unbroken, but it would probably bruise.

Don’t try to pull your leg straight out, Zhura said. Ease it along the length of the crack.

As the woman obeyed, Zhura couldn’t help noticing how unusual she was, and how scantily clad. The green skirt she wore was slit to her hip, high enough to reveal the line of her pelvic bone. Her bright yellow halter bared her navel and the upper halves of an impressive pair of breasts. The brightness of her clothing contrasted with her smooth mahogany skin, a shade not unlike Zhura’s own.

Though the woman was at least ten rains older than Zhura, her skin was unwrinkled and unblemished. She wore a dark mass of tight braids – almost as thin as single strands of hair – that fell over her breasts in heavy black tresses.

Her neck, wrists, and ankles hung with charms of bone, shell, and horn. Apart from the exotic materials, they were much like the beaded charms most people wore as wards against demons. From ear to collarbone, the woman was marked with tiny ritual scars, darkened flesh that spotted her like a leopard, but was mainly hidden by her thick hair.

The woman winced as she swung her leg free. Zhura examined the scrapes around the ankle, and then went to her pack. She came back with gumwood bark, a dollop of coconut oil and a small mortar and pestle.

I’m an herb-witch, Zhura explained.

Then the Mother is indeed merciful.

As she worked, she eyed the woman’s drinking gourd. Wash the ankle, she said. This will take but a moment. Zhura glanced at the jungle around them. What were you doing this far upriver?

I’m not from Boma, the woman said, pouring water over her wound.

Zhura resisted the urge to snort. That much was obvious from her southern drawl and dress. Besides, Zhura would have recognized a local as striking as she was.

I was just looking for a place to wash, the woman said.

Zhura frowned as she ground the paste, trying to conceal her disbelief. Outsiders rarely came to Boma, except for trade and weddings.

Here, Zhura said. She came closer, scooping the pungent paste and rubbing it into the woman’s flesh, shifting aside an anklet of hide and cowrie shells. Her skin was almost hot to the touch. It smelled of shea butter, which was normal, and faintly of a strange spice, which was not.

Zhura’s pulse quickened. She wasn’t normally attracted to women. At least she didn’t think she was.

You are quite beautiful. The older woman leaned back on her elbows. Zhura realized that the woman had been studying her intently for some time.

Zhura glanced away shyly. You are kind. Definitely not a local. She scooped out more paste. Let’s finish, then we will see if you can walk on it.

My name is Ntoza, the woman said. What is yours?

Zhura.

How old are you, Zhura?

Zhura gazed into the woman’s eyes, almost tumbling into the deep wells of black. Nineteen. The flush of heat within her was spreading now. She fought the sudden urge to squeeze her thighs together.

And your family? Ntoza asked. Do they live in Boma?

I am an orphan.

The gods are cruel in their slumber, Ntoza recited. What befell your parents?

I- Zhura faltered. Why was she telling a stranger this? I was too young to know.

Ntoza reached up, pushing thick braids away from Zhura’s face. Are you happy here, Zhura?

Zhura couldn’t look away. She wanted to draw back. But then, she didn’t.

Yes.

Are the villagers kind to those of unknown ancestry? Ntoza arched an eyebrow. Do they call upon their own forebears to watch over you and guide your steps?

No. W-why do you…?

The older woman leaned forward, and her full lips closed over Zhura’s.

Ntoza was gentle but insistent, her lips molding to Zhura’s and nibbling them open. The foreign woman rose to her knees, a hand slipping to Zhura’s waist and drawing her down delicately to lay on the stone.

Ntoza moved easily for someone with a twisted ankle. That vexing thought was soon forgotten as the woman’s clever tongue darted between her lips. The herb-witch placed her hand on Ntoza’s chest, at first to hold her at bay. Then Zhura’s hand relaxed, molding to the shape of the older woman’s soft flesh.

Zhura whimpered slightly as their tongues danced, and Ntoza’s explored her mouth.

Ntoza wasted little time, sliding strong fingers up under Zhura’s tunic and halter to knead her breasts. She heaved the clothing up, rucking it above Zhura’s nipples and exposing them to the open air. Ntoza flicked the nubs that already stood proud, sparking jolts of pleasure.

You are quite beautiful, Ntoza murmured. I didn’t expect this.

While one hand played with Zhura’s nipples, another hand deftly loosened the younger woman’s wrap skirt. Zhura’s weak protests were smothered in kisses. Soon the hand plunged under Zhura’s loincloth and into the trimmed hair that covered her mound, touching nether lips already moist with desire.

As Zhura writhed on the rock, Ntoza’s skilled fingers began to work, dipping lightly along her slit while palming the hood of Zhura’s clit. Within seconds, Zhura’s will melted completely and her juices flowed as easily as the river.

The rush of euphoria was too much. Zhura’s orgasm came sudden and strong, like a summer rain. She shuddered on the unforgiving stone. Waves of pleasure washed through her, from her belly to her toes.

Only as she tried to rise did Zhura realize that Ntoza had completely untied her wrap skirt, and it lay spread and flat beneath her legs. The woman was tugging Zhura’s loincloth over her broad thighs.

Why are you doing this? Zhura moaned, still feeling the shivers of her climax. Who are you? She tried to pull away, even though it helped the other woman strip her.

The blue paint around your eyes, Ntoza asked, as she freed the scrap of cloth from Zhura’s right leg, taking a sandal with it. What does it signify?

It marks me as an herb-witch, Zhura pulled her knees up under her, eyeing the other woman warily.

It marks you as an outcast, Ntoza’s smile was tainted with pity.

Tell me who you are!

"Who I am is unimportant. It is who you are that matters." Ntoza held up Zhura’s sandal, offering it.

Zhura reached for the shoe. The other woman grabbed her hand. Do you want to know who you are? Or would you rather remain ignorant of your ancestors?

Who are my ancestors? Who am I?

This time, Zhura did tumble into those black wells. She did not move away as Ntoza closed the small distance between them. Again, their lips locked in a kiss, and the older woman pressed her down upon the rock.

The foreigner was intoxicating. Her kiss was earthy but had the fresh coolness of an herb Zhura did not know. Her bare flesh was almost like a hot iron where it touched Zhura’s skin, exciting and soothing the younger woman at once.

Ntoza slowly broke the kiss, drawing her body down and spreading Zhura’s legs to kneel between them.

No-

This is not your home, Ntoza said. She pushed away Zhura’s feeble attempt to cover her sex with her hand. She slipped a finger easily into Zhura’s weeping yoni. Do you feel that?

Zhura gasped, not knowing if the woman referred to her probing finger or the knowledge of home. Without thought, her hips began to rock back against that finger. The first finger was joined by another.

The essence of our being is like a dance, Zhura. I can tell you everything there is to know, but the moment you feel it, you will understand infinitely more.

Ntoza’s fingertips twisted and began to rub a spot inside her that Zhura didn’t even know existed. She groaned, thrusting her hips up even more against Ntoza’s hand.

Your maidenhead is already broken, Ntoza observed. At least you have not denied yourself the pleasures of a woman.

Zhura had lain with a young hunter, less than a year ago. She had been curious. He had been clumsy and avoided her afterwards – like most everyone else. She had, of course, brought herself to climax many times before.

But never like this.

A pressure began to build, like a stream swelling up against a dam, causing Zhura to feel as if she had to pee. What started as a pleasant itch grew to a desperate need, stronger than anything she had ever felt.

Who do you choose to be, Zhura? Ntoza asked. A humble herb-witch, shunned by villagers? Or something more?

Ntoza bent her head and began to flick her tongue upon Zhura’s clit, even as her fingers curled deep within, caressing the same point from underneath. The rush of sensations made Zhura’s eyes roll. The dam was about to burst. She shook her head helplessly, fearing release even as she arched her body, offering herself completely to the older woman.

Ntoza paused, raising her head. Zhura shuddered, teetering on the brink, slowly opening her eyes. She glanced down to see Ntoza’s glistening lips.

Do you want to know who you are? Come to my home. It is upstream on the far bank, where this little river runs clean over a fall of water. Come alone, no later than tomorrow night, or I will be gone.

Zhura was unable to speak. Her body trembled.

She couldn’t say how long they had lain upon the rock. It seemed like hours. She heard the washerwomen in the distance singing as they worked. She didn’t care. All she cared about was what Ntoza was doing to her.

Now, Ntoza’s fingers steadily plunged deep into Zhura’s yoni, making wet, wicked sounds. The older woman stoked the embers, not allowing them burst into flame, tending Zhura’s exquisite agony. Do you want me to finish you?

Zhura nodded in shame. Please… she begged.

Ntoza flashed a triumphant smile. Her fingers curled upward. The moment Zhura felt the woman’s tongue again, she exploded in a powerful orgasm.

White waves of bliss lashed Zhura’s tortured mind. Fluid gushed from her core, spattering rocks like a hard rain. Ntoza continued to fiddle Zhura’s little bud, prolonging the climax, until Zhura screamed and shook uncontrollably, pleasure almost turning to pain.

Still in the throes of orgasm, Zhura was barely aware of Ntoza crawling upwards until the women were face to face. The older woman kissed Zhura again, this time sharing her mouthful of Zhura’s juices.

The taste was bitter, but not unpleasant. The herb-witch swallowed it down as their tongues danced. When the kiss ended, Zhura lay still, aware only of her throbbing flesh and the sun’s gentle warmth.

When she opened her eyes again, she realized she must have drifted off to sleep. She felt refreshed.

Better than refreshed, even. Zhura felt as if she had drunk her fill of redroot tea and chewed kola nut, both at once. Vitality coursed through her veins.

She squinted against the sun. It was still morning at least. Then, as she sat up, she froze.

Not ten paces away, a leopard gazed at her.

The beast was large enough to kill her easily. Leopards rarely attacked adults, but it did happen. Zhura’s staff was out of reach. It was not the right weapon anyway. Only a spear would do, and she did not have one.

Still, somehow, Zhura felt stronger than ever. She slowly rose to her feet, holding the leopard’s amber stare, showing the predator she was not weak.

The cat watched, motionless. It padded to the water and lowered its head to drink. Despite herself, Zhura admired the leopard’s power and grace. When it finished, the cat slunk lazily towards her. To her shock, it rubbed its flank against her and butted a head under her hand. With one glance back, it trotted off into the bush. Zhura released a breath she had been holding for longer than she could remember.

This had been a morning of unbelievable events.

Still on unsteady feet, she slowly gathered her belongings. Zhura reeked of her own sex. The bright colors of her skirt had darkened with her juices, but she tied the damp thing around her waist anyway. She stuffed her loincloth into her pack and found her sandals.

As she headed back downriver, she cut a wide swath around the washerwomen. She felt their eyes on her back. Once she was on the village trail, she heard them snicker behind her.

Companions

Zhura feinted, pretending a thrust with her staff, and then blocked Kajimani’s swing. She crouched under the block, reversing her staff smoothly over the shoulder to counter with her own swing. Kaj skipped back. Zhura advanced, jabbing again.

Menga the ironsmith had taught her the staff, training her since childhood alongside his sons. The staff was an ideal weapon for a village woman, he said. In skilled hands it could break a wrist, ruin an eye, or crush a windpipe. Yet it was light of weight and could easily pass for a walking stick.

Made of well-crafted hardwood, the weapon could turn a sword or even an axe if the angle was right. Zhura circled. She wove an imaginary shield around herself with her weapon, batting aside a flurry of strikes from an increasingly frustrated Kaj.

She had always believed Menga trained her to fight because he thought of her as his third son. But now she wondered if there was another reason.

Where did I come from?

The morning’s encounter with Ntoza had consumed Zhura’s thoughts the entire day. Ntoza had taken advantage of her, shamed her even. But Zhura had allowed it to happen. She yearned to be something more than an orphan of unknown ancestry.

Two years older than Zhura, Menga’s eldest son was quicker and much stronger than her. She hadn’t bested Kaj in sparring since he was twelve. Now, sweat glistened on his corded muscles as he tried desperately to finish her. On this night, Zhura’s body was awash with energy. The staff came alive in her hands, the wooden tip weaving unbroken lines in the air. She kept one step ahead of him.

When she returned from the river, Zhura had helped the crone to prepare remedies and make a stew. Once the old herb-witch had retired to her bed for the evening, Zhura came to Menga’s compound as she often did, to spend the remainder of the night with the only friends she possessed in all the world.

Beware, my love, Amina quipped as she watched them from the edge of the yard. The merchant’s daughter tended a pot of millet beer as it warmed over the fire. I think Zhura is still angry about being ravished by a stranger.

Zhura felt anger, but it wasn’t emotion that gave her such boundless energy. She stepped offline, deflecting another attack and countering. The staff danced in her hands. Menga would often teach them to feel where the weapon wanted to go and let that happen. The swings became effortless. Kaj struggled to block.

If anger makes her so quick, Kaj panted, Hand her spear and shield and make her a warrior instead of an herb-witch.

Zhura rapped his knuckles with the shaft. He bent at the knee, absorbing the blow. An instant later, she held the point of her staff poised at his throat. Kaj dropped his weapon.

It’s been a long day, he gasped.

Zhura set her staff aside and clasped his hand. Thank you, Kaj. It has been a long day. I know you were already weary.

Kaj showed her a genuine smile. Both of them were dripping with sweat, he in only a training breechclout and she with breechclout and halter. They ambled across the grass-lined yard to join Amina. She already had stools and beer ready for them.

Amina, still dressed in her colorful wrap skirt and halter from working in the market, grunted hungrily at her man. They made a provocative couple. She with a heart-shaped face and deceptively innocent dark eyes. He with long limbs shaped by the hammer and bellows, and a scruffy-bearded boyish face. They were secretly pledged to marry. Aside from certain obstacles, they would have already been married.

You must try this millet beer from the south. Mama has been selling it at market for the last few days and it is all the frenzy! Amina handed each of them a clay cup. "It is good for your yoni and popo."

Zhura guffawed into her cup at her randy friend. The flavor was sharp, with whispers of honey and ginger.

Kaj took a sip. Father says he hasn’t seen his friends for days because they are off trying to make babies with their wives, he grinned. He says it’s the southern beer.

As they all sat, Amina dried her lover languidly with a heavy cloth. Maybe that explains your encounter this morning, she said to Zhura. The woman was drunk on this brew.

Zhura pursed her lips in thought. It doesn’t make sense that she would have been so far upriver. She was there for me.

How did you get your hands on all this beer, ‘Mina? Kaj asked. It is so much in demand, your mother can turn a profit with whatever she can sell.

Amina shrugged. The jugs were just laying around.

Kaj groaned in realization, covering his face in his hands.

Zhura laughed. You know, you have a reputation, Amina.

That was long ago! Amina shot back. When I used to get caught, and Mama threatened to leave me in the forest for the demons! I don’t do that anymore.

She means she doesn’t get caught anymore, Kaj clarified. Just don’t steal from me, he admonished, looking up to her.

Never, my love. Amina’s kiss lingered on his lips. Her hand played lightly, wandering down his chest.

Zhura shifted uncomfortably on her stool. She cleared her throat. Ntoza told me to come to her, but I am afraid to go alone.

Don’t worry, Amina said, breaking the kiss. I’m not about to let you get royally rutted again by yourself, she said. I want to watch at least.

Zhura snorted. If the strange woman presented any threat, Amina could at least go for help. Amina knew much about foreigners from working in the market. She might notice some useful detail. But there was no question that Zhura would go to Ntoza. She couldn’t miss the chance that the southern woman had some link to her past.

Zhura knew little about the south. Only what Menga told her when he spoke of fighting in the Impi War before Zhura was born. Boma was one of a cluster of Sung-speaking villages in a forest valley bordered in the south by a range of hills. The trade route from Boma ran downstream along the Little Mongoose to kingdoms that nestled in those hills. Morore, where Menga had once soldiered, was the nearest and youngest of the kingdoms.

South of the hill kingdoms lay a vast savanna, ruled by the Sizwe Empire. The Impi War had been fought to stop the Sizwe expansion northward. Zhura had no idea where in the south Ntoza might have come from, or who her own parents were. Were they killed in the war? Did Menga bring her back with him? If so, why would he say she had kin in the north?

Amina shamelessly fondled Kaj. She bent and kneeled before him, kissing his chest while her slim hand explored the inside of his breechclout.

Menga would never have approved, but he was away for the night, drinking with other old men. Because of him, the two lovers rarely had time together. Obviously, they were determined to make the most of it.

Zhura felt a twitch of lust between her legs, even stronger than her envy. They had each other.

Zhura watches us, Amina murmured. She knelt and drew Kaj off his stool momentarily so that she could slide his only garment down and off his legs.

Zhura had never seen Kaj fully naked before – at least not since they were children. She’d certainly never seen that thick cock, jutting out, proudly erect, from his lap.

Let her watch, he said, as Amina planted kisses and licked sweat from his taut belly.

Zhura struggled with the scene before her. She and Amina had kissed and caressed each other as girls… but Kaj was her adopted brother. Their unreserved hunger for each other was infectious.

If her mind struggled with virtue, her body did not. Her hands drifted down and under her breechclout, where her furred slit was already moist. She still felt a delicious ache from the morning, and it only intensified her desire. Maybe there was something to that southern beer.

She wants to join us, Amina turned to watch Zhura fondling herself.

She’s already had her fun, Kaj gently turned Amina’s head back to the task at hand, which bobbed insistently in front of her face.

Amina began to kiss and suck the head of his cock, with one hand fondling his balls. The wet, sucking sounds drove Zhura mad. She pushed the breechclout off her waist so that she could better access her slit. She began to play with her tender folds. She stuck two, then three fingers into her yoni, delving deep, creating sucking sounds of her own.

Kaj groaned in pleasure as his lover took his cock into her mouth. She bobbed on it, taking it deeper with each stroke, until Zhura heard it reach her friend’s throat. His fingers plunged into the frizzy dark cloud of Amina’s hair. She paused, raising her arms to allow him to pull her halter off, completely baring her slender, dark back.

Zhura reached into her own halter, fingering her nipples as she continued to rut her increasingly sloppy yoni with the other hand. She looked over to the dry grass on the ground. Standing, she let the breechclout fall off her wide hips and to her feet. Then she spread out on the grass to watch her friends.

Kaj leaned back, driving his hips forward to thrust into Amina’s mouth. As she kneeled before him, she slipped a hand under her skirt to rub herself. He groaned as she released him, her lips making a pop as he sprang free. He kicked off his sandals and went over to lay on his back on the strewn grass, fisting his glistening shaft.

Amina stood, untied the knot of her skirt, and let it drop to the ground. She wore nothing underneath, not even a loincloth, and her slit was shaven smooth. But for her cowrie charm bracelet and sandals, she was naked. Amina smiled at Zhura and Kaj as they both stroked themselves.

Do you want to join us? Amina asked Zhura.

You’re… my friend, Zhura found it hard to form words while plunging fingers into her yoni. Kaj is like my brother.

"Kaj is not your brother," Amina laughed. She sauntered over to her lover, fingering her own slit.

Zhura, burning with anticipation, drew her fingers out and tasted her own wetness. It seemed such a deliciously wicked thing to do, but it reminded her of her morning encounter. She felt another taste of lively power, weaker but similar to what she had felt before.

Amina spread her nether lips as she squatted down on Kaj’s thick cock. She slid slowly down him until her butt rested fully on his thighs. She sighed, rolling her hips to swirl him around inside of her. Then she began to ride him, bouncing slowly up and down his shaft.

Kaj held her butt, kneading and spreading her cheeks as she rutted him. Amina was a beauty to watch, her skin the shade of eggplant. She said her grandmother was born in the north, in the Shanga Empire. The contrast between her complexion and Kaj’s nutty brown was enthralling, like a polished wood sculpture come to life.

Zhura had met Amina several years before, when Amina came to the crone looking for medicine to avoid pregnancy. Blood-seed, the crone had taught her, was a secret amongst herb-witches to be kept only for themselves. Zhura, eager for a friend, gave Amina blood-seed tea for her menses, and kept giving it to her from that day on.

Amina increased her pace, arching her back as she danced on Kaj’s shaft. Zhura fingers matched their rhythm. She imagined herself suckling her friend’s stiff nipples as Amina bounced up and down.

Then she remembered the morning again, and the spot Ntoza’s fingers had found. Zhura lay back, and reached up inside herself, on a quest for the same spot. Her other hand rubbed her clit. She felt giddy with abandon, exploring her body in the presence of her friends. Zhura moaned, sensing that she was about to come, hard. She held off, waiting for the others to reach their own peaks.

Yes! Amina cried. Rut! Yes! She shuddered atop Kaj. As she slowed, he rolled her over in the straw, spreading her legs as she lay panting on her back. Then he plunged back into her sheath, driving into her with increased vigor.

Zhura couldn’t hold back any longer. She rubbed furiously at her secret spot. The dam within her burst. As Zhura climaxed, clear fluid spattered out over her palm.

Kaj growled as he plowed Amina’s yoni, holding her leg up in the air. Her sandal flopped off her jerking foot, and she shuddered, mouth gaping open as if she were still in the throes of orgasm. Finally, he pulled out, spurting creamy seed across her belly and perky breasts.

Zhura lay her head back, still breathing hard, basking in the afterglow of her climax. She licked her dripping hand, her tongue curling in the crevice between her fingers and around her wrist. She hoped her friends didn’t see.

But what if they were? They were as excited to make love in front of her as she was to watch.

Kaj collapsed by Amina’s side. By my sacred ancestors, he swore, as he lay, completely spent.

After some moments, Amina propped herself on an elbow. She swirled Kaj’s white seed on the dark surface of her belly and rubbed it into her skin. Zhura watched, captivated. On some dark impulse, she wished she could lick her friend clean.

So, she said to Zhura, Were we as good as this morning?

Zhura grinned. Better. Fresh vigor pulsed through her veins. She had never felt so alive. She began to laugh. I love you both of you more than life. That will never change, Amina.

Kin

Boma slept. Only a couple of hours after sundown, on the eve of a market day, the village was cloaked in darkness. Fevers and newborns thrived at night, so Zhura was used to picking her way through the lightless village, especially when the crone’s joints were tormenting her.

She and Amina crossed the market clearing, stepping over rotting fruit and offal. Zhura carried her staff and a burning brand, passing by empty, grass-roofed stalls.

They walked the short trail to the river and crossed a path of worn rocks along the shallows of the bank. When the rains came, the stones would fully submerge, and the Little Mongoose would flood the rice fields and the northeastern edge of Boma. The only crossing would be by boat.

Amina carried her own brand, but she hadn’t lit it. I’ll stay behind, at the edge of your light, she said, once they reached the east bank. If you need me, I’ll be there.

Zhura nodded and set off upstream, ducking under hanging branches and picking her way over thick buttress roots. The sultry air buzzed with the high-pitched whir of insects. She glanced back occasionally but couldn’t see or hear Amina beyond the torch glare.

Every few minutes, Zhura passed an ancestor stone that had been driven into the reddish, clay-like soil. The stones stood taller than she was, their rough surfaces etched with pictographs that warded away demons. They were carefully maintained, ringing the village. Once she was beyond them, leaving the perimeter of Boma behind, Zhura’s heart pounded that much faster.

Demons were the stuff of nightmares. An infernal plague left behind by uncaring gods. They had roamed the earth since before the time of the First Woman. They sought only the rape, destruction, and enslavement of men. Because of that threat, every person wore charms blessed by the ancestors – bangles around wrists, ankles, and throats – to ward away infernal evil. And every human settlement, from the tiniest village to great cities, was ringed with ancestral stones.

Finally, the low rumble of the falls signaled that she was close. She slowed, carefully climbing the rise until a thatched dome appeared ahead, glowing with the light of an internal fire. A hanging hide covered its entryway.

Zhura paused. It felt as if a hundred eyes watched her. But she knew this was only her nervousness. She scanned the forest surrounding the hut. Clay obelisks - like the ancestral stones but much smaller - stood planted in the ground, scattered in the bush.

She crouched, examining one. It was shaped like a long, thick, very lifelike phallus, and covered with symbols. Zhura spotted more within her torchlight.

The antelope skin hanging in the doorway swished aside. Ntoza peered out. Her braids were piled high on her head and cascaded down to cover her shoulders. Behind her, the interior was brightly lit.

Did you come alone?

Yes, Zhura lied.

Come inside.

Zhura left the clay obelisk and approached the hut. She thrust her torch into the ground and stooped to enter.

Soft animal pelts and raffia rugs lined the floor, apart from the center, where a small firepit burned, ringed by rocks. The smoke wafted through a little hole in the roof. Baskets and jugs lined the wall.

Ntoza was barefoot. Her garb revealed even more than the day before. Her yellow skirt - if it could be called that - was simply two panels that hung in front and behind her, baring both sculpted legs. The brown halter didn’t even hide Ntoza’s breasts completely. The nubs of her nipples visibly poked through the cloth.

Zhura swallowed. She hadn’t come here to be seduced again. How are you safe here? Any sort of beast or demon could attack you while you slept.

You’ve come all this way, Ntoza reclined on the floor near the fire. Sit.

I came for answers.

And you will have them.

Zhura sighed. She slipped off her sandals, but kept her staff near, sitting down in front of Ntoza. The woman’s thighs strayed open as she shifted. Zhura resisted the urge to glance between them.

Ntoza smiled. You saw the summoning stones outside. They each summon and bind a minor demon that watches this place. Even one such being is sufficient to frighten off wild beasts. I banished all but one because I expected you.

Zhura shifted uncomfortably. Demons. Instinctively, she glanced down at the cowrie charm at her wrist. Amina was out there with demons.

Is something wrong? Ntoza asked.

You consort with demons?

Ntoza grinned again. Yes. But these are under my control. You have nothing to fear.

Tell me who I am.

Ntoza nodded. She stretched her legs out and crossed them. Her gold toe ring gleamed in the firelight.

I knew of your mother, but I was only a girl when she died. I know her kin. Your kin. Ntoza said. They have been searching for you since you were an infant.

Where are they?

In Morore. That is my home too. I came to Boma because of a rumor that you could be found here.

Zhura’s eyes narrowed. Why didn’t they come themselves?

I am a trader, Ntoza shrugged. I speak the Sung language.

Zhura looked to the jugs against the wall. She had noticed the aroma before, but not recognized it. The beer. You brought it with you.

Ntoza only smiled.

Did you come here to take me back to my kin?

If you choose. Her gaze dropped to the staff that lay at Zhura’s side. I would not force you.

Zhura stared at the woman, waiting for her to say more. She willed herself to relax. Tell me about my mother.

Ntoza shook her head. That is not my place. It is for your kin to tell you of her.

Did you know my father?

No. Ntoza’s eyes twinkled. How did you feel, after we met yesterday?

I… I felt alive. Powerful.

Yes.

What happened to me?

Ntoza sat up. She swiveled to sit on her knees. Shall I show you?

Zhura tensed. Just… tell me.

Ntoza shook her head. It is in your blood, Zhura, she crept forward on hands and knees, coming close enough that Zhura could smell her scent – the musk of her arousal, coupled with that strange, sharp spice. You have to feel it to understand.

The older woman unbound her hair, letting it all fall over her shoulders. She gently took Zhura’s trembling hand and brought it to her lips. She kissed the fingers and then began to softly suck on each one.

I have… felt it. Zhura’s breath caught. But what is it? Did you drug me? Is it the beer?

It is not the beer. It is you, Zhura.

She tried to quell her growing desire, tried not to look into Ntoza’s eyes as she suckled each finger with loving care.

Zhura started as she heard a thrashing of brush outside. What was that?

Just an animal.

The demon. Will it kill animals?

It is not in a demon’s nature to wantonly kill. Ntoza held Zhura’s glistening fingers to her skin, wielding them like a brush, painting a moist line down her throat, between her breasts, between her legs. Demons only wish to rut. She shifted the brief skirt aside, revealing a scrap of a loincloth that barely covered her plump slit. Do you know why?

Zhura shook her head. She felt as if the little chamber was beginning to spin.

"What demons crave most is to breed with the best of humans, to create offspring greater than themselves. They believe their descendants can one day become gods.

Villagers are ignorant, the older woman said. They fear what they do not understand. That is why you must wear the blue paint. That is why they fear demons.

Ntoza traced her fingers lightly along the edge of blue dye around Zhura’s eyes. My people respect beauty. Ntoza’s fingers fell to Zhura’s chin, and she raised it. We respect power. The older woman drew her close for a kiss.

The heat of Ntoza’s lips melted away the last of Zhura’s resistance. The two stretched out on the plush floor, tongues dancing. The older woman’s flavor was a piquant blend of honey and salt.

Zhura whimpered with need. On her own, she dipped her hand into Ntoza’s loincloth, feeling the liquid warmth that awaited.

She hadn’t come here for this. She just wanted to talk. But Ntoza was as intoxicating as the beer she traded.

What was the harm?

She rolled atop the older woman and traced kisses down her collarbone, the globes of her inner breasts, her belly, and navel. Ntoza’s skin had the tautness of a younger girl. Giving in to her hunger, Zhura grasped the sides of Ntoza’s trifle of a loincloth. She tugged it down her legs and off.

Zhura admired the puffy, trimmed lips of Ntoza’s yoni, and the dew that glistened there. Without a thought, she dipped her head and began to nuzzle the older woman’s soft nether lips. She reveled in the pungent scent and salty flavor. Zhura imagined how it would feel on her own yoni, lapping up and down along the edge of the lips, opening them to explore every pink fold and crevice. The throaty moans Ntoza made only egged Zhura on. Soon she was tonguing deep within Ntoza’s sodden trench. Ntoza lifted her hips, drawing Zhura even deeper. Zhura’s nose dipped into the older woman’s humid slot. She felt as if she were drowning.

When Zhura began to softly nibble on the hooded button atop Ntoza’s slit, the older woman almost immediately trembled, tumbling into a sudden orgasm. Zhura finished by licking the outer lips clean, while Ntoza caught her breath.

This vigor I feel, Zhura said. It comes from drinking the… juices of a woman?

Ntoza lay silent for a moment. Then she sat up, raising Zhura up to kiss her on the lips. The living fluids of the body have great magical power. Blood, semen, a woman’s secretions. Even tears, she said. Your power comes the fluids of both men and women. The elixirs of creation.

Zhura shook her head in disbelief, looking askance at the older woman. How?

Zhura, even the people of Boma know you have power, yet you doubt it. Do you not believe there is magic in your herbs, in your skill to heal? You have an instinctive understanding of the root, the essence of life.

But why am I this way?

Because of your ancestry.

What can I do with this power?

Once you have learned how to use it? Ntoza asked. Anything.

Do you have this… ability, too?

Not like you. There is so much potential in you. The older woman looked upon Zhura with unconcealed admiration. If only you knew.

Zhura brushed Ntoza's mane of hair aside, baring the ritual scarring on her neck and upper shoulder. Your spots, she said. What is their meaning?

They are the markings of a Thandi woman, Ntoza said. Not all of us wear them, but I do so proudly.

Thandi? That is your tribe?

Yes.

Was my mother Thandi?

Yes, Ntoza chuckled, but her expression was hungry. No more questions for now! There will be more time later.

She pressed Zhura down to lie on her back on the pelts. The older woman bent to begin kissing Zhura’s feet, ankles, calves, the undersides of her knees. Zhura moaned with desire.

Come south with me, Ntoza murmured. Come home, Zhura.

She found herself nodding even before she thought to answer. My kin are searching for me. I can finally know them!

Yes…

She looked up eagerly as Ntoza lifted a leg over her face and settled down atop her, her sopping slit and shapely ass beckoning just in front of Zhura’s face. Within moments, they were locked in a writhing knot of need, each supping from the other’s fount, until each cried out in release.

Afterwards, Zhura wanted nothing more than to sleep in Ntoza’s arms, warmed by the ashes of the fire. But Amina would still be outside.

She eased out from under the foreign woman’s arm, reaching for her skirt.

Ntoza looked up sleepily. You will return. It was not a question.

Zhura nodded. She grabbed her staff and hurried out into the night. Outside, she relit the brand with her flint and a rag soaked in palm oil. She started back downriver. When she was out of sight of the grass dome, she stopped, looking for some sign of her friend.

She began to worry. But finally, she spotted movement ahead. Amina waved to her and hurried on, with her own torch lit. They joined up again only when they had crossed over the river.

Twigs and bits of dirt stuck in Amina’s frizzy hair, and her skirt and blouse were mud-stained. Zhura recalled that her friend had had to pick her way through the forest mostly in the dark.

Are you well? Zhura asked. Ntoza said she had a demon guardian.

I saw it, Amina nodded. But I escaped unharmed.

I’m sorry. They passed through the empty market again. She said they wouldn’t hurt a human.

What did you learn?

Much, Zhura replied. I must talk to Menga.

A dog barked at them from a stall, but no one stirred.

You rutted her again, didn’t you? Amina asked. I can smell her on you.

Zhura flushed. She turned to her friend in the torchlight. Amina looked scared. Her dark eyes shifted nervously and she glanced behind them, as if she were afraid they had been followed.

Zhura felt both giddy and self-conscious. She yearned to share her feelings and what she had learned with Amina. But as much as it excited Zhura, these wondrous secrets also set her apart from her friend, making her even more lonesome than she had been before.

Ntoza knows of my mother.

Amina frowned. Can you trust this woman, Zhura?

I don’t think she wants to harm me.

In truth, her heart raced when she thought of Ntoza. Since leaving the hut, she’d thought of little else. She tingled with the adventure of it, imagining how her life could change.

I see that this is important to you, Amina said. I will speak to Menga too.

Zhura groaned, inwardly. Her adopted father hated Amina. This would not go well.

Fathers

Menga the ironsmith sat on a massive stool in the fold of his compound where he did his metalwork. Three bloomeries, each the height of a tall man, were built upon the reddish clay of the yard. The beehive-shaped furnaces were the birthplace of the plows, blades, hooks, and hammerheads that kept the village of Boma working.

This morning at dawn, none of the bloomeries were fired up. When they rested cold, Menga was not happy.

The pot-bellied smith listened with a frown to what Zhura told him. While she spoke, he rubbed a balding pate and his eyes took on a faraway gaze.

You’re going to Morore because of the words of this woman?

Zhura, sitting across from him, nodded. It wasn’t just the words. There was no other explanation for the vitality she felt, even now. Ntoza had to be speaking truth. She said my mother’s kin were looking for me.

Mmm.

Zhura waited for him to say more. Her eyes wandered across the yard to the place where he taught her to swing a staff, where he played with her and his sons, and where he recounted stories of ancestral heroes and vile demons.

Let me share some words with you, her adopted father said. Nineteen rains ago, I went south with my brother in arms to fight in the Impi War. We fought in battle after battle, alongside a motley gathering of warriors, cowards, mercenaries and refugees. We lost every time. We were always in retreat.

He wrung his forearms and hands as he spoke, great meaty slabs of flesh on a body as squat as a hippo. Zhura could almost imagine him as a young warrior.

"Until the final battle, at Bandiri Slopes. Men - and many women - came from all of the Hill Kingdoms, and as far away as Ikanje, to make a last stand against the Sizwe advance. And that day, we won.

"The hero of that battle was my brother in arms, a man named Yende, from Ngofama village, right here in this valley. He forged a new kingdom at Bandiri Slopes, ruling from the same town your Ntoza comes from, Morore.

I stayed with Yende for several months after the battle, but I always knew I would come back home to the Valley to marry and make babies. It was in the days that I was preparing to leave that Yende came to me in secret, he eyed Zhura. "With an infant.

You see, Yende was already betrothed to a woman from the noble ancestral lines of the Hill Kingdoms, to strengthen his royal claim. He told me the infant was his bastard daughter from another lover. The child’s mother had died and entrusted the child to him. And he was entrusting that child to me.

I am the daughter of a king!

It was like a story out of legend.

The illegitimate daughter of a king.

That does not matter to me, she said.

It should. It matters to others, Menga scolded. Yende’s position was delicate then. It is still precarious today. The Sizwe may have lost to the Hill Kingdoms on the battlefield, but in the eighteen rains that followed, the empire won - with intrigue, trade deals, and knives in the shadows. Most of the Hill Kingdoms now pay tribute to the Empire and would like nothing more than to overthrow your father and take his kingdom for themselves.

I just want to see my mother’s kin, Zhura protested.

This woman is lying to you. She surely knows who your father is and seeks to use you in some power scheme. Think, Zhura! If your mother’s kin could be trusted, she would have left you to them, instead of an absent father. Yende would have given you to them instead of me.

Zhura shook her head, unwilling to believe it. Ntoza said she didn’t know her father. That could have been true.

Someone spoke when they shouldn’t have, Menga said, thinking aloud. Some drunken old warrior, someone who overheard a secret eighteen years ago. The rumor got out, and this woman came here to see if it was true, to see what advantage her faction could gain from it. Did Ntoza say how she learned you were here?

She said there was a rumor.

Ahh. You may be threatened by Yende himself - or his wife - to protect the claim of his younger heirs, Menga said. Don’t you see?

You don’t want me to go to Morore, Zhura said. What else can I do?

Menga glanced up. The iron gate to the yard, usually open so that villagers could watch him work, had been closed this morning for privacy. Now it swung wide, and Kaj entered with Amina in tow. The ironsmith’s scowl, if it were possible, deepened even more.

Morning o’, Father, Kaj said, pulling up stools.

Menga only grunted.

We have an announcement, Kaj said.

Zhura gaped in disbelief. Why were they doing this now?

What do you mean, Menga growled, "by we?"

Amina and I are to be married. Father, you must give us your blessing.

I will not. You will not marry Aminazakwa Tong. He spoke as if Amina was not standing there before him.

Can’t this wait? Zhura said. This was not the right time.

Zhura, you can’t go with this woman just because she rutted you, Amina said. She can’t be trusted.

Menga’s eyes widened, and he turned to Zhura. Is this true? Why would someone sent by your mother’s kin seek to seduce you? Can’t you see that she intends to use you?

For once, Kaj said softly, a stranger was kind to you. It is nothing to be ashamed of.

Zhura looked at each of them helplessly, feeling tears well up. They didn’t understand. Ntoza knew how Zhura felt.

If honey does not draw you, Menga said. Those who come for you will use other means to bring you under their control. Killers. Demons. Witchcraft. No one in Boma can protect you from kingmakers, Zhura. Not even me.

This isn’t fair! All of you have been blessed by your ancestors! All of you can trace your lines back for generations. This is my chance to know my own past! Why can’t you just let me have it?

Your father is the king, Menga said. If you go with that woman, your life will be put at risk. That she chose not to tell you that simple fact is proof that she cannot be trusted.

Go with us instead, Kaj said, holding Amina beside him.

No, Menga snapped. He pointed at Amina. That girl’s own mother calls her a thief! How foolish are you to think that you are a better judge?

Amina began to retort, but Kaj silenced her with a look.

Where would we go? Zhura asked.

Namu-on-the-sea, Kaj said. The Ikanje State is far from here. Its greatest city would be a place for us to start anew, away from the petty squabbles and hatreds of this place, he narrowed his eyes as he stared at his father.

Menga glared at them all, "By the First Woman’s sodden tits! Babes, all of you! Following your yoni and your popo, instead of the wisdom of your elders."

It pained Zhura to see her family – as close as she came to having one – fighting. I imagine that your elders said the same to you, when you and my father went marching off to war.

Menga opened his mouth in surprise, but the words seemed to fail him. He stared at Zhura. Madness, he scoffed. But the fight was fading from his eyes, yielding to resignation. He had told Zhura to run but offered her nowhere to run to.

Zhura is my sister in all but blood, Kaj said. I will not abandon her now.

Nor will I, said Amina.

My brother can take over the smithy in my place, Kaj added.

He had so much to lose, leaving Boma. His generous personality endeared him to most, and he was the obvious heir to his father’s trade. He would only have chosen to go if Amina had already made up her mind.

But Zhura did not expect that Amina would flee with her, even if it meant losing her closest friend. Somehow, they had come to the decision to join Zhura on their own. As much as she was relieved not to lose them, there was something here she was missing.

Zhura looked at her friends, wiping a teary eye. Her fingers came away smudged with blue. I will gladly go with you.

Menga glowered at them all for a long time. Finally, he threw up his hands. Make haste then. The route to Ikanje will take you south towards Morore. The faster you move, the safer you will be. Take whatever you need.

Kaj nodded. He rose from his stool, taking Amina to begin packing gear.

What about the crone? Zhura asked. I cannot leave without telling her.

The more people you speak to, the easier it will be to track you. Menga shook his head. Do not worry. I will help her find a girl from one of the other Sung villages.

When they were alone, Menga eyed Zhura. There is something else.

The grizzled smith got up and ducked into a hut he used for storage. He came out again, carrying a dark piece of cloth over his arm, as well as three sheathed blades. He motioned Zhura over to a rough-hewn wooden table.

When Yende gave this to me, the smith said, spreading the cloth on the table, you were bundled in it.

Zhura recognized it as a simple kanga wrapper, one that a woman would tie around her waist. To carry her child, a mother would simply pull the skirt up over her back, creating a pouch. The material was smooth and slightly iridescent, like a soft snakeskin,