Finding Destiny by Jean Johnson

again. If the wine hadn’t dulled some of the pain at that thought, if her beautiful but very, very different face hadn’t thwarted thoughts of anything a paler golden shade, if it hadn’t been far from either wrinkled or petulant, he might have shuddered at that thought. As it was, the village vintner, or whatever it was they called the person who made the local wine, knew how to craft a very potent brew from the fruit of all those date palm trees. Eduor was drunk enough that such considerations were few and mild and faded quickly from his thoughts.
    In fact, if he hadn’t been so comfortably drunk, the tiny remaining sober corner of his mind knew he would never have done what he did next. Picking up his glazed cup, Eduor drank some more of the sweet-spicy wine, then licked the near edge of the rim with his tongue, catching the stray droplet that tried to slither down. Her eyes glazed over a little bit more, following the sinuous flicks of his tongue as if entranced. He wasn’t even displaying half of it this time, either.
    Definitely getting me into trouble, he repeated silently, finishing off the dregs in his cup. At least it’s just with words ...
    “Doesn’t it get in the way?” Chanson blurted out, chin sliding off her hand so that she could gesture vaguely with her fingers.
    “Mmm?” Mouth buried behind the solid safety of ceramic, Eduor gave her a questioning look.
    She glanced around quickly, making sure they were more or less alone. While there were still several other villagers about, laughing and chatting and celebrating the odd but cheerful Festival of Mid-Dry, held twice a year during the middle of what passed for winter and summer each ... no one was within easy hearing distance. It helped that three of the original seven musicians were still playing quietly off to one side, though their music was more for listening now, and not the long, wild, exuberant dancing tunes from earlier.
    Apparently believing they were almost alone enough, but not quite, she scooted around the edge of the trestle table, one of many set up in the temple courtyard. Slipping onto the chunk of palm tree trunk that served as a seat for the end of the table, she leaned over the corner separating them and whispered, “ You know. Your tongue? I’ve tried, but I just can’t stop thinking about it.”
    This close, Eduor could smell the spicy-sweet perfume she had bathed in before donning her elaborately brocaded blue thawa and jewel-pinned turban for the festival. This close, he could see how her own pink tongue snaked out to moisten her lips, full and soft-looking. This close, he could see she was nothing like the last two women to get this close to him ... except that she, too, was fascinated with his tongue.
    Sort of. Her next words disillusioned him as to why, thankfully.
    “Doesn’t it get in the way when you talk? Or when you eat, or swallow?” she asked under her breath, propping her cheek on her palm. “And what about when you kiss? You have such lovely diction, how can a tongue that big not interfere with things like eating and speaking and such?”
    Ah. Lovely. Rather than thinking of me as a sexual novelty, she’s thinking of me as a freak, a demonic aberration from a Netherhell. Thankfully, the date wine in his system did a good job of blunting any possible sting accompanying that thought. Eduor shrugged. “It’s just ... there. It’s always been there. I’m used to it.”
    “Yes, but it’s in your mouth, where you’re used to it. If you put it in a woman’s mouth, wouldn’t it get in her way?”
    “No, I’m usually careful with it. A good ... kiss isn’t about trying to shove it down someone else’s throat.”
    Her free hand came up, the edge of her finger brushing the underside of his chin. He liked the feel of her hand, warm, dry, and slightly calloused from the occasional non-priestly bit of labor. Chanson, like all the residents of Oba’s Well, was not afraid to get her hands dirty. Like that