Renart Walker, the cobbler's son, tilted his head up and breathed in the scent of demons. There were always at least a couple in this town—passing through, hunting, going about their business. Today, though, they crowded into the streets, rubbing shoulders and other parts (not all of them even had shoulders) with the humans around them.

Hrahez, the Demon Prince who ruled the fiefdom of which Potfeld was a part, held grand events twice a year. Of these, the humans were only invited to one, and the demons brought the party to them.

This year it was a parade, though as always, some kind of celebration had formed around it. Fresh food was being hawked to curious onlookers, and demons turned out to mingle with the crowds, joining in the revelry as it passed through the fief. The purpose, as Renart understood it, was for the prince to show himself off to his fiefdom—to remind them of his presence.

The previous year, it had been a festival and market, though Renart hadn't seen much of it. Right at the start, he'd hooked up with a demon and missed most of the day's events. It wouldn't be the first festival he'd missed like that, though—and he rather hoped it wouldn't be the last.

He wondered vaguely if Tarigan were around this year and what Renart would say to them if so. He didn't think it'd be something he'd have to deal with, even if they were somehow still in Potfeld, Tari probably wouldn't look anything like Renart remembered.

Tari was a cubant—a sex demon. Renart had met incubi and succubi before, cubants manifesting male or female, but Tari was the first intercubus he'd seen. He'd known all cubants could change their bodies' entire appearance at whim, and swapped terms when they did, but wasn't sure if that changed how they thought of themselves.

"Well," Tari had said when Renart had asked, "we're all cubants however we look. That's how we identify, kiddo. Pronouns, terms... for some people, demons and humans alike, they definitely matter! But for cubants—and a lot of shapeshifters—they're just descriptions for people who want to put words to others. And they help us get what we want." They had paused then, and grinned at Renart. "And I do like getting what I want from you. But we're everything, and we flow back and forth over that range. Male, female, both, in between, outside. We change what we look like and call ourselves to reflect how we feel at the time, though of course some of us have our preferences. But if I start feeling like I want to wear a different shape, I'll use different words."

So that had answered that, and Tari spent a lot of time answering other things besides, some without words entirely. It had been an enjoyable and educational few months, but after that they'd started coming to his window a lot less. When asked, they'd outright admitted they were getting bored of Potfeld, and ruffled his hair as if to take the sting away. Renart had taken that silent apology to mean that they were also bored of Renart, and wasn't terribly shocked when one day, Tari just stopped coming around. The two of them hadn't had many interests in common, and Renart's eagerness to learn only got them so far.

Besides, newly of age as he had been, Renart was curious about meeting a lot of types of demons at that time, and the way Tari drained his energy made it difficult to play around.

The break-up had set his friends' minds at ease, at least, though Renart carefully avoided telling them that it wasn't stopping him from seeing other demons. Most people worried quite a bit about anyone who wanted to hang around with demons. Demons were predators, after all—and humans just their prey, the cities their herds.

Demons didn't hunt humans to death in Hrahez's fiefdom—at least, not so often that it was notable, not if they stayed safely within the cities. Hrahez was rare in that he managed to maintain some sort of balance between giving demons the run of the place and keeping humans relatively safe. He allowed humans to live their lives with minimal interference besides what people brought on themselves—unlike most demon-run fiefdoms, which tended toward tyrannical slavery at best. For the people in those, there was never any safety. Fleeing to the few remaining human-run cities wasn't an option either. They rarely let in outsiders, and as he'd heard it, they spent all their time under constant vigilance to keep their cities demon-free, with citizens reporting each other for interrogation at the slightest hint of anything that could have been attributed to demonic influence.

Of course, people complained about Hrahez anyway, but it didn't sound to Renart like things were terribly different overall from the centuries before the demons had appeared. One way or another there'd be an aristocracy with a common class to serve their needs. Whether it was humans preying on humans or demons doing it instead, Renart couldn't see the point in trying to draw a distinction.

At least the demons were interesting.

Music rang out suddenly, signaling the start of the procession. Renart was torn from his thoughts by his excitement, pushing himself up on the balls of his feet to try to see over the crowd.

He knew Hrahez would be leading the way, but even if he hadn't known, there would have been no doubt which one of the demons was the prince. He was riding a black horse that didn't quite move like a horse, limbs flowing too smoothly, eyes so shadowed in its dark face that Renart couldn't really say for sure that it even had them. Hrahez's robes were draped over both himself and his horse so that he seemed to become part of the creature, sleek black hair so long that it melded in as well, flowing behind him like a cape. His curled horns weighed his head back so his chin was held high.

Renart's breath caught.

He had known Hrahez was an incubus, but hadn't anticipated the sheer aura he had. He exuded charisma, charm, desire. It washed over Renart with such intensity that he thought he might die, wanted to be crushed by that sensation more than he'd ever wanted anything. He sighed with an involuntary, sudden longing and heard the rest of the crowd do so as well, a loud exhalation from all around.

There was no reason for Renart to stand out in that mass of meaningless faces and sounds, he knew. He was near the front but not quite at it, and wasn't tall enough to catch anyone's attention in a crowd.

Despite that, their eyes met.

A memory washed over Renart, visceral, of being a child, lying on his back in the fields outside the dubious protection of Potfeld's walls. He'd been staring up at the wide black sky with its million points of light, breathing in the cool fall air, shivering and waiting. At the time, he'd felt very small and alone in the darkness, and liked it that way. He stayed out very late, as late as he could without starting to drowse, and wondered if a monster might come and eat him. When one didn't, he finally went back home, disappointed. He'd climbed up to his window to sneak back in, his mother none the wiser, and felt a little lonely, lacking something he couldn't name.

The bright flecks of gold in Hrahez's forest-green eyes were like stars. Looking into them made Renart long for it again—that sky, that hypothetical monster. He wanted to be devoured, and to fight back from the inside. As an adult, it sank into him in a new way.

They didn't speak to each other. They couldn't have even if they'd wanted to, separated by the crowd, Hrahez leading a procession that wouldn't stop. Their gaze held as Hrahez rode past, and was broken only when the prince would have to crane his neck to keep it.

Renart watched Hrahez's back until it too was out of sight, and then couldn't seem to focus on the parade itself. The crowd was shifting and talking, excitement and fear, and he felt a rush of sudden irritation.

The person next to him nudged him. "Did you see him look at the crowd? Gave me chills. I swear he was looking right at me!"

No question who the girl meant, though he felt a little offended at her assumption. "I saw," he said. "I wanted…" He didn't know how he could end that, and didn't bother trying. Not much of a point telling a stranger about that feeling, that desire to throw himself to the wolves just to see if they'd want to eat him.

The girl made a face. "Of course you wanted him! He's an incubus. I want him too… Oh, I swear my legs are weak…"

Renart's stomach twisted with his annoyance. He couldn't enjoy the parade, not any more. After Hrahez, everything else seemed like a cheap performance.

"I have to go," he said.

*~*~*

When Renart returned home that night, his mother seized him by the ear and began dragging him over to her work desk. "I cannot believe you," she sighed. "Going out to the yearly festival like you're some kind of damn child? You're a man of nineteen, and it's high time you acted it!"

"Ow, ow! Mum, you know these festivals aren't for chil—"

"You've work to do, lad," she said, and took her seat again, handing him her cobbler's last and an insole. He obligingly began to press the last down against the insole, taking the sections of leather as she passed them over and placing them so she could tack the parts together. "Yes, argue back, certainly. Oh, you're clever all right, but what good is that when you can't help in the shop on a day like today? Do you know how much business we've been getting?"

He managed to keep from rolling his eyes through force of will. Obviously, it had been a hectic day for her. "I'm helping right now, mum."

She eyed him dourly, but accepted that. "Not a thought of duty in your mind," she muttered, pressing a tack down and hammering it into place. "Always chasing your dreams. You should count yourself lucky, you know. If we lived in any other fiefdom, you wouldn't get to go out and play with those demons. They'd have you out working in the quarries or the fields—"

"Or the mines," he agreed affably. "Toiling away in misery at a job I didn't choose nor wished anything to do with. What a fate that would be!"

Her hammer landed heavily on her bench. "Now listen here, Renart. You should be the future cobbler one day, but you don't act like you intend for that to happen. Nor do you look into any other work—you just faff around all day! It's time for you to focus, because I'm not getting any younger. I don't want to hire myself an apprentice, not when you already have this kind of skill."

"I've been learning from the best, mum," he said with a winning smile and an utter lack of interest. He'd been watching his mother day in and day out since he was a child. She could pour her wants into the leather, shape it and change it and be satisfied when the end result was a boot. But leather was a tool, and it would only ever change as it was forced to. There was no challenge in it for him.

"Hold it steady, Renart!"

"Yes, mum," he said, and let his mind wander as she continued to grumble.

Now, Prince Hrahez… that'd be a challenge. Completely out of his reach, of course. Most of the time when he went after a demon, he'd just walk up and introduce himself—but there was no way he'd just see Hrahez passing by casually on the town's streets like he did any other demon. He couldn't just go looking for him, either. There was no way for him to know where Hrahez was at any given time beyond the events he held.

Waiting a full year to catch a glimpse of him again would be agonizing.

Even if he got lucky and did, somehow, just happen to see Hrahez around, it wouldn't work out. He was sure of that. It was already difficult to make it so he was treated seriously by any of the demons he'd approached, but a prince? Renart needed to do something to get his attention, or he'd be beneath his notice. At best, he'd be used and thrown away. At worst, he'd be used right up. That had its own appeal, but sounded awfully temporary.

There had to be something he could do. Some way to be acknowledged.

But he couldn't think of anything.

*~*~*

Months passed, and it felt like his mind was always working. Whenever he wasn't distracted, he was thinking of opportunities. Making plans, discarding them, and starting all over again. His mother praised him for how devoted he was to business these days, but it was just easier to think when his hands were busy.

Renart was mulling it over one late summer day, sitting out front of the shop and working some leather, and almost scraped himself with his tool when he was hit by a wave of desire. He looked up, knowing he'd see a cubant, hoping absurdly that it might actually be Prince Hrahez.

It was a succubus, and she was beautiful. Voluptuous and fleshy, she was entirely made out of curves: round thighs and round hips, round waist and round breasts, curly hair bouncing with every step she took. She was tall too, he noticed. Her horns—two slick things that pointed up like reflective crescent moons—only made her taller. There was just a lot of her.

The succubus glanced his way as his head jerked up toward her, and she smirked as their eyes met. Arousal washed over him again, but along with it—with finally seeing a demon around again who'd bothered to even look his way—came an idea. It was a half-formed plan, poorly-thought-out at best, but he didn't have the time to think it through properly. She was on her way somewhere, and if he didn't say anything, she'd continue on. He smiled back, knowing that what he was about to do was probably pure suicide. The risk was heady. A little excited, he rose to his feet.

"Lady demon," he said. "A moment of your time?"

For a moment, he thought she'd consider him beneath her regard—that she'd keep walking on without hesitation. Her gold-flecked green eyes returned to the road briefly before meeting his again, but she did stop, and spread her arms with a shrug. You got my attention; now what? her posture said. "I hope it will take more than a moment," she said aloud, lips still curved.

His heart was beating fast, heat flushing his body, the weight of arousal growing in him. It settled heavily around his throat, his chest, his groin. She was affecting him, and even without the vague plan slowly coming together, he wanted her. He flashed her a grin, running fingers through his hair. "I'm counting on it," he said.

The succubus lifted a brow at the surety, smiling back, then offered a hand to him. "Well, then?"

Renart took it, and led her from the porch around the building, taking the back way into the shop. He needed to get the succubus up to his room on the second floor, but his mother would be on the shop floor, working and selling. There was no way he wanted to cross her line of sight, not while sneaking a demon inside. Sure enough, the path was clear from the back door, and he grasped the demon's hand in his own slightly sweaty one, almost dragging her up the steps to his room.

She let out a laugh, amused and startled. "Eager, aren't we?"

"You have no idea," he said. She could smell and taste the arousal rolling off him, he knew that much. Tari had described it to him once. It was, they'd said, similar to how smelling food made you hungrier, and sometimes even made you start to taste it already.

The succubus probably had some idea how eager he was, he thought ruefully. Even if she herself weren't so appealing, the danger of his plan would have got his blood pumping.

They didn't waste any time going about it, barely undressing. He was already hard, and she was ready for him. As soon as the door was shut she was on him, slamming him back against it hard enough that he saw stars. His feet scrabbled on the ground to brace himself as she sank down to her knees, unfastened his pants, and drew his cock out.

Her eyes glittered up at him and her mouth opened, small fangs outlining a broad wet tongue. Eager, wanting, elated, he grabbed her horns to hold on as she swallowed him down.

The horns didn't give him any control, for better or worse—they were just something to ground himself to. She was stronger than he was, and nothing he could do would affect her movements. Her head bobbed as she took him in over and over, mouth working, tongue lashing, one hand squeezing his balls, her other one stroking down her own body to settle between her legs. At least by holding her horns he could find himself again in that whirlwind of pleasure, have a sense that he still existed. He gripped them, white-knuckled as he ground his hips forward to push himself into the hungry warmth of her mouth, thrusting hard and fast. No need to worry about her throat. Cubants designed their bodies around things like this and he felt no resistance, no strain, as she moved on him.

Renart reached the edge fast, but she didn't let him come easily, grabbing tight around the base and leaning away from him to draw in a breath. It almost hurt when her mouth left him. He was so close, so eager, wanted it so badly. He ached for that moment when he could feel her drink a fragment of his spirit down, swallowing his life out of himself and leaving him a little emptier than before. It was absolutely addictive. The risk was the best part of sleeping with demons, he'd found, especially with cubants.

Before he could do more than voice a whine, she grinned up at him, licked her lips, and carefully tossed him across the room from his door to the bed. His own breath went out in a rush, the shock of slamming into his bed pushing him away from the edge of orgasm slightly, though he nearly came anyway when she began crawling over him. Her breasts had spilled from the straps of her shirt and her skirt was hiked up to her waist, leaving her clothes framing her body rather than covering it. He reached up to pull her down, wrapped his arms around her and held on as she sank down on top of him, pulling him inside her.

Renart couldn't hear anything beyond his gasps, his struggles to breathe, the wet sounds of their bodies moving against each other. He couldn't focus at all. If she wanted to kill him, she could. The pleasure was too hot, her insides pulling at him, and all through it, her eyes stayed on his, staring as she sucked at his life force, pulling him in, pulling him in, pulling him in—

He came with a shocking intensity, shuddering through the pleasure as it peaked nearly to pain. It lasted just a moment too long, agonizing, then slowly ebbed, leaving him panting as he sank back against the bed. The room swam in front of him but he was still awake, at least, and he had his own mind about him. Good; he hadn't been sure he would.

That was always a risk.

The demon had begun to pull away. Hastily, he grabbed the strap of her outfit under her arm before she could go far. "Wait," he managed, tongue thick in his mouth. "Please."

"Hm?" She settled back on the bed, leaning over him. "Not enough? You're playing a dangerous game, boy."

"Not that," he said, and smiled at her with enough genuine fondness—if not for her specifically, for her kind—that she seemed taken aback. He hadn't even begun to play his dangerous game yet. "I want to talk about something. Make… a deal."

"A deal?" She lifted her brows, pulling her strappy outfit back into something resembling the right place. The playfulness had vanished from her eyes, leaving behind a curiosity and hardness. The hair on his arms raised in a sudden chill as she considered his request. "What sort of thing are you looking for? You know I won't go easy on you just because we've had a moment."

"I'm not expecting you to," he assured her quickly. He could slowly feel his wits coming together properly again, mind recovering in the aftermath of his lust, starting to get back what felt like proper control over human speech. He smiled again, half to test out how his mouth felt. "I'll set proper terms, don't worry."

The demon reclined beside him on the bed, tail curling over one leg. She reached over to push Renart's floppy hair out of his eyes with too-long fingers. The brush of fingers on his forehead almost seemed to burn, a vague spike of arousal starting to stir again. The act was playful but the look in her eyes was thoughtful and a little scornful, and he tried not to show that he'd noticed. "What do you want, then?" she asked.

He took the time to breathe deeply and focus. He couldn't afford to mess this up, or he'd really be the fool she clearly thought he was. "I want to meet Prince Hrahez," he said. "And for that, I'll give you all the soul I have in my possession right now."

She blinked, her horizontal pupils narrowing as they focused on him, and then let out a startled laugh. "What sort of turn of phrase is that? Do you think maybe I'd just take part of your soul, perhaps your passion for life or your love of dancing? Or have you perhaps sold off part of your soul, or loaned it out?"

"No," he said, and willed his heart to calm down and beat steadily. "I just wanted to be specific."

She watched him for a moment, inscrutable, then exhaled, her smile curving again into something almost fond, a little reluctant. "You really shouldn't bother making a deal like this," she said gently. "You don't know Prince Hrahez, and anyway, he's an incubus. Even if you became the prince's lover, you'll hardly have his sole attention. Humans often want that, right? But it's not possible. You know we steal the life-force of our lovers; if the prince agreed to monogamy, you'd die quickly enough."

Renart shook his head, sitting up properly next to her, legs crossed. It wasn't the most dignified position, naked as he was, but he figured she'd seen it all before. He leaned over and grinned at her. "I don't care," he said. "I've dated a cubant before and haven't minded. He can have as many lovers on the side as he wants if he's mine regardless."

That drew another laugh from her. "The prince yours, rather than you the prince's? I can get you to meet him, but I can't promise that."

"I know," he said. "Anyway, you're right that I don't know him. But I know he's fair. I've seen how he's been running his fiefdom and I know what the other options are like. He's even said before that if people think he leads them poorly, they're welcome to try to overthrow him."

"A threat or a challenge, not a kindness," she countered.

There wasn't much point arguing it. She knew Hrahez, and Renart didn't. "Could be one," he agreed. "I've heard that the prince loves a good challenge. That he loves to play games and toy with people." It felt risky, like he was pushing too hard, but he met her eyes again.

Adrenaline hummed through him, and he couldn't keep from smiling from the thrill. The expression felt a bit weird, not quite right on his face. "But I do too," he continued. "If he meant that as a challenge, then he still wants someone to try him. He's above threatening for the sake of it, but he dared them regardless. I want to challenge him back—though of course I don't want to overthrow him. But I don't know how I would meet him. I can't get into any of the events where I actually could talk to him. You know that humans aren't allowed to those."

Her own smile had faded slowly as she watched him, listened to him talk. More than anything, she looked intrigued. "It's to protect them. The demons at those parties would eat any wandering humans right up."

"I'm sure!" Renart said, nodding, his tone light. "If a human's not invited, nothing to stop a demon from taking advantage of that intrusion. See, what a nice guy, protecting his people from his own kind!" Her arguments didn't matter to him, and he wished she'd stop making them. He didn't care what the reason was. It was just one more barrier to him actually getting there—and that was all that mattered. "Why do you care so much? You're not going to lose out if this deal goes badly for me. You'll have what you want either way. That's what's important, right? So don't hesitate." He stuck out a hand.

His heart was in his throat. If she refused this, if she thought he was trying to play her, it'd all be for nothing. If she got the best of him… I'd never get to meet Hrahez, he thought wistfully, and looked at her hand instead of her face, afraid she could read it in him.

Finally she sighed again, almost put-upon. "Oh, very well," she said, and took his hand. "I'll get you an invitation to meet the prince at one of his soirees, as you wish, for all the soul you have in your possession."

He shook it, feeling the heady rush of elation, of victory—and then reached down, leaning over the edge of the bed, picking up his shoes. He snagged a prying tool from nearby with a quick sweep of his hand, then sat up with both. His heart was pounding so hard that he thought it might come right out, giddy.

I've done it.

It took barely any effort at all to hook the edge of the sole and begin to work it free.

She made an audible choking noise. "—Really?"

"Verbal agreement. I was really going to be in trouble if you wrote it down, but I thought if I put my hand out first," he explained as the first sole came off, "it might work." Relief had made him almost shaky, voice trembling.

Renart was fairly sure, from her initial amused disbelief, that he wasn't going to be in trouble. He knew he had her when her slitted eyes narrowed, head falling back as she let out a genuine guffaw.

"Fine, you're right," she said, wiping a tear away with one finger. "I shouldn't have made a verbal bargain! I ignored the basics—mistaking you for an illiterate fool was my mistake. I'll take these, then."

He finished prying off the second sole and handed them both to her. "You can't have any of the other soles in the building," he told her. "The ones that have sold belong to their buyers, and the ones that haven't are still my mother's. She's the cobbler; I'm only her son."

"Fair enough." She took the pair of shoe soles, dangling them between her fingertips, and her pupils dilated again. Her smile tightened and her voice dropped. "Don't think you can get out of this so easily by just offering me two strips of leather, however."

Renart nodded. He'd accepted that she'd do some form of push back when he came up with the idea. There was nothing to do but accept it. "What is it, then?"

Her gaze felt like it was boring into him; he couldn't blink even if he wanted to, his dry eyes stinging. Power had gathered around her. She said softly, "You have two more soles in your possession. The bottoms of your feet belong to me now as well. But rather than cutting those off you, I'm setting conditions."

Even trying to answer, his voice wouldn't come.

She held up a finger and his eyes jerked to it. "You've given away your soles, so the bottoms of your feet aren't yours to clothe any longer. You will never be able to wear shoes that have a sole to them. The moment you put them on, they'll fall apart. You'll be the cobbler's soleless son. Eventually, you may become the soleless cobbler, and I wonder how you'll sell shoes at all if you're apparently unwilling to wear them."

He found his voice again in a rush as she released the pressure on him just a little. His eyes were watering from his need to blink, sending tears down his cheek. "That's fine," he managed.

"Is it? I wonder," she said, and sighed. Suddenly, the tension broke as she looked down and away. He blinked rapidly, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. When he'd managed to clear them enough to look up, she was holding a card out to him.

"This is—"

"The invitation you wanted," she said, and suddenly she was smiling again, almost pleased with herself. "Prince Hrahez is throwing a grand party for demons, as you expected. No humans are allowed, but with this, you'll be an exception. It's two months away, so I hope you'll be prepared by then."

Swallowing, Renart reached out and took it. The invitation felt soft in his hands, more silk than paper. He opened it and looked it over, trying to confirm that everything was in order, but the writing in it wasn't readable, a foreign script crawling across the page as he tried to focus on it. For all he knew, it was like that old wives' tale of demons who sent human messengers to each other as prey. This is the last one for today. Eat up. All he could do was trust her, though, and the deal she made with him—as much as he'd taken advantage of it.

"Be careful," she told him, and then reached over and patted his head. "You're right that he's put out edicts for us to live in harmony with his human citizens, but you'll find it's different being a human out of the city, in our territory."

And with that, she was gone. He didn't see her leave, but she was no longer there. The window was open, and his curtain blew softly in the afternoon breeze. From below, he could hear his mother calling for him.

He ignored her. He had to experiment.

He searched around, found a shoe that he'd been working on for an order, and put it on. His foot pushed right through like the whole thing was made of paper, the sole falling off, tacks sliding out of place and landing on the wood floor, rolling and bouncing around. He'd likely be finding those the hard way.

Slowly, he bent down and picked the shoe sole up, looking at it curiously.

"Huh," he said.

*~*~*

Two months was a long time to wait, and it wasn't as if Renart could hide his new situation from his mother. He tried acting as if he wasn't wearing shoes because he was, as he'd told her lightly, "rebellious". For a while, he'd thought it was going to work—might even work right up until the party.

But after a week and a half, she shut him in the kitchen while he was eating breakfast. "I've had enough of you going around barefoot," she said sharply. "You're making a mockery of our work, and the whole town's talking about it. I'm putting shoes on you whether you like it or not."

There was no dodging it any longer. He shrugged and said, "I think that won't work." Sitting passively, he let her wrestle the shoe onto his foot. As he'd expected, the nails pinged to the ground without any hesitation, the sole peeling away and falling after.

Another shoe, and another, and she was swearing with increasing inventiveness before she finally glared at him, his ankle firmly in her grip. "Renart Walker, what have you done?"

"It's no big deal," he protested, then winced as she gave him the most exasperated, disgusted look he thought he'd ever received in his life. "Look, it's for a good cause."

She groaned, turning her gaze to the heavens as if they could somehow help her. "You've gotten your feet cursed. You've gone and made trouble with a demon and gotten your feet cursed."

He put on a bright and appeasing smile, holding both hands up to her. It was probably better that she believe it to be a curse rather than something he'd done of his own free will. "Something like that," he said agreeably. "I'll figure something out, don't you mind it."

"You're a walking advertisement!" she told him, somewhere between astonishment and outrage. "We both are! The shoes we wear have to stand out. If we wear anything shoddy, we'll lose our clientele, and if we don't wear anything at all… Renart, how come you never think!"

"I think," he protested. "I'm always thinking. Give me three days and I'll come up with something to fix this problem. It'll be grand. Even you won't be able to complain about it, Mum."

She shook her head, sighing. "Three days, and you're not to leave the house until you do."

"Mum."

"My final word!"

That was fair enough, all things considered. He pouted regardless, sweeping a dismal bow to her, then was forced to dart up the stairs to his room as she aimed a swat with the sole of one of the shoes she'd tried to put on him.

It took him half a day to come up with the plan of what he could wear instead of shoes and the full two and a half remaining to get it completed. He worked long hours, wearing his fingers raw with awl and knife, with hot water and dye. He bled as he worked as well, just a little, raw edges of skin pressed to the leather, but that was important as well. He was no magician, but every creator had some essence of magic around them, since magic itself was the ability to transform a concept into a reality. Even if the execution was through hard work only, he pushed what power he could into enchanting the leather, sleeping only when he needed it and taking his dinner in his room.

When he was done, he sat back and looked at it proudly. It really was something impressive, he thought.

Renart had made himself anklets; they wound down the top and sides of his feet and left his soles, by necessity, bare. Soft spirals and patterns wound all over them, mimicking the lacing that would tie them on; those held the core of the magic he'd worked into them, the little he could manage. They were magicked to draw the eye, draw attention, draw admiration. If he'd done it well, people would appreciate the craftsmanship even if they thought he was foolish to go around barefoot, they would think, if the cobbler's son can make that look good with the underside of his damn feet uncovered, what could the cobbler herself make for us in proper boots?

His mother looked less than pleased when he showed them off with an exhausted pride. "I thought you wanted those three days to find a way to break the curse," she said mournfully and somehow resigned, as if she hadn't really expected anything more. "But they'll have to do." As she bent and examined them on him, she relented a little. "They're not half bad, are they? You even put enough of yourself into them to give them a touch of enchantment. If only you put that much effort into all your work, Renart, you'd be in a fine state to take over after me! Where would I even find someone else as talented as you?"

"You'd train them into it, of course," he said, pleased with himself. "Better to have someone with motivation than mere talent, right mum?"

"Get on with you," she said, exasperated, and he was more than happy to immediately comply. It felt like the first time he'd been free in weeks, even if it had only been three days, and he popped out the door without bothering to say farewell.

It was good to be out and about with the anklets strapped to his feet. Certainly, his feet still felt nearly as raw as they had since he'd started going barefoot, with stones biting in and grass catching at his soles. But the fresh air felt nice, and he saw people glancing at his legs and whispering. The magic of the anklets was indeed working on more than just his mother. Well, he reminded himself, they could be just reacting to his bare feet by themselves, but he didn't think so. He'd received enough confused looks over those in his first week that he hoped he could tell the difference.

Time went on, and his feet hardened. Not too much, perhaps not really enough for a trip, but walking outdoors had become much more endurable. That was important by itself. He wouldn't like to show up at a dance hobbling, after all.

So he went about, training his feet until he was sure he'd be fine on the journey to the manor where the event was to be held.

*~*~*

When the time came, he told his friends that he might be away for a bit on a chore for his mum, and told his mum that he was going out with his friends for a while. There was a good chance that things would go unsuccessfully out there, and if it did she'd be better off not knowing what had happened to him. If things went well, he could follow up with her at his leisure.

So long as he lived, he was sure he'd find a way to let her know what had happened to him.

The party was to be held at a place not far out of town, a country manor that at other times of the year lay empty. Everyone in the city knew about the event, and everyone knew, too, that they were forbidden to travel there without an invitation. A few would probably go regardless: gossips, storytellers and black market sellers who'd try to get some evidence of the demons' activities one way or another. They'd try to spy in windows—if they got that far—or search the grounds after the fact for any remnants of the demons. Renart had heard from the town's hedge-wizards that scales or horn sheddings were perfectly good spell components, and had occasionally thought of searching his room for some to sell them. He'd never quite bothered, though he was sure he could at least find a hair or two somewhere on his pillow.

Renart put on his best clothes, though he knew they weren't terribly fancy—loose white shirt, violet vest, plain tan culottes and a matching jabot—and fastened his anklets. They didn't quite match and made his bare knees stand out. But still, he thought as he considered himself in front of the mirror, he didn't look half bad. His floppy brown hair was neatly washed and brushed, his dusky skin clean. The time spent on the road would doubtlessly ruin some of the tidiness of his appearance, but there was no point in second-guessing himself now.

He set out, climbing the simple low gate leading out of the city rather than going through the bother of finding someone to unlock it, and walked off down the gravel road. It was immediately uncomfortable, especially compared to the cobbled streets of the city. Sharp stones dug in when he walked on the street itself, but edged grass at the roadside caught at his feet when he tried to walk there instead. Not as bad as it would have been if he hadn't been practicing, he told himself firmly, and continued doggedly onward.

Still, although he was right about how the exercise and heat would make him sweat, he hadn't really anticipated how dirty his feet would get on such a long walk. Dust and mud and dirt clung to them, not something he could just scrape off at the door, not with them bare. It stuck between his toes, caked on and built up as he kept walking. By the time he arrived two hours later, the sun setting and casting his shadow long behind him, he was more than half-tempted to turn right back around. He doubted he'd make a good impression, looking like he meant to bring half the road in with him.

But a bad impression was, he thought, still better than no impression at all. Stealing himself, Renart went up to the door and knocked.

It was opened by a demonic footman, an incubus with long, molten gold hair. Heavy pale lashes half-covered green eyes with light flecks that matched his hair. His horns curved backward like a ram's, wrapping around his head and keeping his hair off his face. Their eyes met, and Renart's heart thudded hard as the footman's aura of desire wrapped around him.

"My goodness," the footman said, in a soft voice. "What have we here?"

Renart drew a sharp breath to center himself, almost undone by the honey scent of the demon in the doorway. With his grip on it a little too tight, he thrust the invitation forward. "I've been invited to this event," he said, mouth dry. "Is there a problem?"

The footman took the invitation, plucking it from Renart's hands with fingers that seemed to have too many joints. He looked it over in a perfunctory way, not even truly bothering to read it, and handed it back. "No problem at all, sir," he said, and curled his lips in a smile. "Except the state of your feet. You'll get mud all over our floors."

"Floors can be cleaned," Renart said, breathless but trying to keep his voice firm. He wasn't sure how hard he'd need to argue to get in, not with the invitation to back him up, but he was determined not to budge.

To his surprise, the footman laughed, shaking his head. "They can, and so can feet," he said, and, unexpectedly, knelt in front of Renart. He ran his fingers down the bare skin of Renart's leg from knee to where the anklets began, then lifted one of Renart's feet, unbalancing him. Suddenly worried he'd fall, Renart braced himself on the wall. "It wouldn't do to show your feet this way in front of the prince."

The touch of those long, unnatural fingers was, Renart was sure, deliberately arousing. Sometimes cubants were so unfair. He swallowed hard. "Wouldn't it?" he managed.

"Of course," the footman said. He ran a fingertip over the anklet he was holding. "But my word, you've made something interesting of this embarrassment."

Renart closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. He had to focus. "Then, am I permitted to wash my feet?"

The footman released his leg. "Yes," he said, smiling warmly as he rose again. "Come with me." He took one of Renart's hands, disallowing any argument, then led Renart around the corner of the building.

A large and elaborate garden maze spread out in that direction, and Renart couldn't quite stop his sudden fear. His mind began to run a mile a minute. Perhaps he was being brought out there to be lost in it, left behind so that even his invitation had no value. He'd let himself be taken away from the doorway even when he'd reminded himself to stay firm—he'd put himself at risk. The invitation would hypothetically keep him safe inside the party as a fellow guest, but outside it…

To his relief, the footman released him before they made it to the maze's entrance. He stopped in the small alcove just before the maze proper and began to draw water from a pump.

"Sit," the footman ordered gently. Renart sat on the stone bench, watching the line of the footman's back, the fall of his hair, as he filled a bucket. His admiration didn't go unnoticed, he was sure, and when the footman returned, his horizontally-slitted pupils flicked down the length of Renart's body toward his anklets.

"Take those off," the footman said with a purr, as if he meant more than the anklets. "You wouldn't like them to get wet, I'm sure."

It was impossible to resist. Renart licked his dry lips, leaning down obligingly. His forehead almost brushed the kneeling footman's, their faces close. He breathed in the footman's exhaled breath, a sweet flavor, and unbuckled his anklets.

"Better," the footman murmured. He pulled a cloth out of the bucket and began to run it over Renart's feet. It was almost gentle enough to tickle, but not quite. Instead, it just left him feeling almost agonizingly sensitive, the slow passes of the cloth quickening his breath and hardening his cock.

Renart licked his lips, fingers curling against the bench. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to blink. There shouldn't have been anything erotic about it—wiping his foot, ringing the cloth, soaking it again—but that didn't seem to matter to his body. When one foot was clean and the footman was picking up the other, he couldn't stay silent any more. "Do you give each of your guests this much personal attention?" His voice sounded hoarser than he'd intended, and he felt his cheeks burn.

The footman glanced up at him again, expression warm. "Is that a complaint I hear?" he asked softly, cleaning the other foot.

"No, just…"

"Just nothing, then."

Renart shuddered at the next pass of the footman's fingers. "Just… if you're going to work me up this much… is that the only thing you want to do?"

He was an incubus, after all. There's no way he hadn't noticed Renart's interest.

"Hm." The footman's gaze was still heated, lips curved. He dropped the rag back in the bucket, and slid his fingers up Renart's thighs, making Renart arch with a shock of pleasure.

The footman's fingers caressed slowly up the inside of his legs, then pushed them open. The sudden lack of balance made Renart fall back against the wall behind the bench, breath hitching with lust. He felt shockingly exposed for how clothed he was, and shuddered as the footman passed a hand over his groin.

"I do see you're quite worked up," the footman breathed.

"Yes…"

"But I've duties to attend to," the footman said. His expression shifted, warm smile becoming a sudden sharp-edged cruel thing, the pointed tip of his tongue sticking out between his parted lips. "More's the shame. You might as well go in and dance just like that."

"I'll get eaten alive," Renart protested, squirming, trying to sit up properly.

The footman shrugged, keeping him back with a hand on his chest. "It's a risk."

"Won't you help me?" It came out pleadingly, his tone embarrassing, but he couldn't seem to stop it.

"I will not," the footman breathed, his eyes glittering. Despite that, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Renart's tented pants, hot breath riling him up more. "Though I do wish you luck in resolving your dilemma."

And with that, the footman rose, drying his hands off perfunctorily on his own black pant legs, and headed back around the side of the house.

Sprawled ungracefully on the bench, Renart let out a soft whine. He'd told the truth, and knew it. I'm already a lamb to the slaughter just by being a human attending this party. Going in dazed and aroused was tantamount to suicide.

Wet feet cooling in the evening air, he licked his lips and unbuttoned his pants.

This was a bad idea too. Even if he was alone in the garden for now, there was no guarantee it would stay that way. Plenty of demons fed on sex, and if any were close enough to sense him, he'd be inviting them, and wouldn't necessarily have the liberty of picking his partner. He'd be lucky if it were a cubant, too; there were plenty of other kinds of demons who fed on flesh and fear and pain.

He squirmed in place and sighed, throwing his concerns away. Worrying about it was pointless. Going inside like this was a bigger risk, and waiting for demon-touched arousal to go away on its own might cost him his chance to meet the prince. The only other option was to head home, and there was no way he'd do that. He'd taken all these chances so far in order to meet Hrahez—what were a few more?

He'd just have to be quick about it.

Renart closed his eyes, licked his hand, and then curled it around himself. He jacked himself quickly, almost relentlessly, shoving a hand up inside his shirt to tweak a nipple into a hard point. He couldn't stop thinking about how something about this—the scent, the energy of it, whatever—might draw attention, and if anything, that made him harder.

Good, he thought. Go fast. I'll meet Prince Hrahez.

He rubbed his wet feet against each other. He remembered the feeling of the footman's hands there, the slow pass of his cloth, and let himself get lost in the visceral memory. He thought of the footman's eyes, the gold shifting in their depths, the way he'd kept gazing up at him. Renart shuddered hard, shoving his hips up as he thrust into his own grip, his shoulders grinding back into the wall behind him.

It didn't take much more than that. He came quickly and a bit perfunctorily, not very satisfying. He was getting too used to sleeping with demons, he thought wryly, hardly able to hear his own thoughts past the pounding of his heart. Anything less than that inhuman high was starting to feel a bit disappointing.

He couldn't find it in himself to regret that.

Renart wiped himself down with the cloth that the footman had left behind, then cleaned his hands, tucked his cock away and refastened his anklets.

Finally he got up again. His rear was a little cold from being pressed to the stone bench, but he felt good—better than he had before meeting the footman. More confident and less easily distracted by his own excitement and anticipation.

At least he'd managed to take the edge off.

Keeping his head up, he turned the corner of the building again to the entrance. The previous footman was gone, which struck him as a bit odd. Still, even with a new demon to greet him there, he didn't have any trouble. The footman's replacement, a red-skinned and bald-headed giant of a demon, simply read over his invitation and gestured him in.

The ambiance washed over him immediately. Music was playing, though nobody was dancing, as though they were waiting for something. The prince's arrival, perhaps? Nobody was showing any particular obsequiences to any one person, so Hrahez likely wasn't here yet, rather than here and in a shape Renart wouldn't recognize.

Looking around took his breath away, though. He felt stunned by the variety of demons mingling together and filling the room in a mass of sizes, shapes, and colors. They were all over the grand hall, standing together, walking around, flying, hovering near tables, conversing. Some were clothed, but many were not. Some weren't even in shapes that could manage clothes if they tried. A creature largely made of eyes and tentacles wandered past him as he gawked.

I could have anything here. The thought came almost unbidden. He'd seen what he'd thought was a lot of demons, those that showed up to the festival, or those who passed through Potfeld, but there were kinds of demons here he'd never laid eyes on. He wanted to know more, wanted to hear more, knew he probably wouldn't survive doing so but—

But if he got distracted he wouldn't meet Hrahez.

Suddenly the crowd seemed almost absurd, more an obstacle than an appeal. If he wanted to be around demons, becoming Demon Prince Hrahez's lover would grant that, so why get distracted now? It felt almost like a challenge that had been put down for him. Can you ignore this? Come find me.

Even as he knew the thought was absurd, he smiled a little to himself. Of course, he thought back, filling out the fantasy.

He drew in a slow breath and focused.

The safest bet in surviving to meet the prince was probably in staying near the edges, at least for now. He was already attracting attention by hovering in the doorway. Hurriedly, he walked over to one of the refreshment tables.

He nearly regretted doing so right away. The arms and legs that served for food on the table were clearly of no animal origin, and he averted his eyes, starting to retreat. With a jolt, he ran into someone, and jerked away again, bumping into yet another solid figure in his failed retreat.

"Careful, son." The demon he'd backed into put a hand on Renart's shoulder to steady him. They were a tall individual of several sexes, and a sort of demon Renart vaguely recalled liked fear. Curling green hair was rolling down to cover their chest, solid-black eyes turned in Renart's direction. "This isn't the safest place for a live one of you."

Renart managed a smile. "I'm starting to realize that," he said. He knew demons, he reminded himself, even if he was no longer sure he knew enough demons. He certainly wasn't used to being the only human. "I'll find a better place to mingle. I wouldn't want to be mistaken for another round of refreshments."

The demon laughed, the sound rolling over itself like waves, and snapped a finger off the food, tapping their mouth with it. "Oh, son, I'm sure you'll find people who'll think that regardless."

"I'm sure I will," he said, mouth a little dry again. "Well, it'll make for an exciting party."

"It will, it will," the demon agreed. They narrowed those black eyes. Lacking sclera or iris, it was impossible to tell exactly where they were looking, but Renart felt the pressure of their gaze regardless. "I'm sure I could arrange some protection for a pretty boy like you. Would you like my company?"

"Thanks," Renart said, and smiled nicely. "But I'm waiting to meet someone."

"Is that so? More's the shame," the demon said, lips turning down in a slight frown. "You might regret it before the night's out. Do take care," they added coolly, and bit into the fingertip.

Renart left at a pace he hoped wouldn't be too obviously one of escape, more excited by the encounter than terrified by it. He managed to shoulder his way across to a part of the room far from the refreshment tables, tucked in between a potted plant and some hanging curtains.

Isolating himself still didn't mean he was left alone. Plenty of the partygoers had seen him, and he found himself fielding conversation after conversation, proposition after proposition, threat after threat. He kept the invitation clutched in his hand like a sweaty ward, a promise that he belonged here, was a guest. That he couldn't be harmed unless he permitted himself to be.

He did know demons well enough to know that, if at any point he let his guard down, said or did anything that might constitute permission… invitation or no invitation, he wouldn't have a chance.

"Excuse me," he murmured, dodging around a mass of limbs and eyes as it approached him, as if he had somewhere to be on the other side of the room.

Then, shortly, "No, thank you," he said politely, shifting behind a large ornamental vase to get out of the direct shadow of a tall man.

Repeatedly, he moved to new hiding places, avoided glances, ducked out of the way of approaching demons. He didn't think he'd ever watched his mouth so thoroughly, forced himself to be so affably neutral constantly, turned down so many offers and shrugged off so much intimidation. He'd never had the need to, and, more to the point, had never wanted to.

Finally, when he thought he might not be able to handle it any more, the prince arrived.

Hrahez looked almost exactly as Renart had seen him before—surprising, given that cubants were shapeshifters. If Renart could change form whenever he wanted, he didn't think he'd be the same way twice. But Hrahez was completely recognizable: long black hair, heavy curled horns lifting his chin high, draped robes. Perhaps it was one of the requirements of rank to be so easily known. A veil covered his face, which served to keep him distant from the others in some strange way.

The room fell silent when Hrahez entered. A hush spreading like the force of his presence had stolen their collective breath. It felt that way to Renart, at least, leaving his throat tight, his eyes wide. Hrahez was as beautiful as Renart had remembered. He thought that the demons surrounding him could probably hear how hard his heart was pounding. It almost felt like this had all been worth it even if he only just caught sight of him again.

No, he reminded himself. It's not nearly enough.

Glancing around the room, Hrahez's gaze fell on a petite demon—a beautiful creature, smooth all over as if carved from obsidian—and bowed with a smile, offering a hand. The obsidian demon took it, and the silence was abruptly broken as music sprang up from the orchestra pit.

Immediately, the room was awhirl with dancing. As Renart had suspected, everyone had only been waiting until Hrahez arrived before they could begin. Heart still hammering, Renart pressed himself back against the wall as demons split into pairs, trios, more, shapes gyrating and spinning throughout the room. He forced himself to breathe in deeply, ignoring the strange perfumes and unusual smells hanging in the air, and tried to calm down.

Hrahez was here. This was his chance—perhaps his only chance—but it was useless if Renart didn't find a way to approach him. He wasn't going to be the only one doing so, either. He was sure of that. Even if his motivations were different than theirs, plenty of the demons here would be trying to curry favor and get attention.

An introduction would be best, but there was no one to speak for him. He cast another gaze around the room in the hopes that the footman would reappear and Renart could convince him to help, but the demon was nowhere in sight. There was nobody else he even knew in passing, nobody who could introduce him.

In the moment of that realization, he felt himself grow calm. It was a weird type of focus, more adrenaline than actual peace, but it gave him room to think.

He had to do this entirely by himself.

Renart steeled himself, waiting for the ideal moment, watching the musicians and listening to the tune, trying to see how far along Hrahez's dance was. He ignored the dancers, other than to track Hrahez's position in the room. When it seemed like the song would end soon, he began pushing through the crowd. He didn't dare wait for the end, but starting too early was dangerous—there were plenty here who would run him over in their merriment, knock him to the ground, and crush him.

As if dancing himself, he dodged and wove through the spinning dancers. He was knocked back and forth with bruising strength whenever he misjudged and got clipped, but he refused to fall. He couldn't afford to fall. He kept an eye on the constantly-moving pair of Hrahez and the smooth-skinned demon, trying at all turns to angle himself towards them.

The music stopped. Frantic, Renart shoved through the remaining few guests between himself and Hrahez, stepping forward just as Hrahez bowed and let go of the demon's hand. Renart's aggression caused a small commotion, hissed threats and muttered offense. It probably wasn't worse only because the prince's attention was now fixed his way.

He drew a breath and held a hand out. "May I have the next dance?" he asked, and heard his voice come out in a strained wheeze.

Horrified, he met the prince's eyes as best as he could through the distortion of his veil. Hrahez didn't seem startled, but the polite wall of his shaded expression shifted into something more genuine, corners of his eyes crinkling, amusement washing over his features. He laughed a moment later, ducking his head, then let the weight of his horns draw it back up and said, "So you're the human at my party."

"Y—"

"I'll dance with you," Hrahez agreed before Renart could even finish speaking, and took his hand.

The music started again, but Renart could hardly hear it over the rush of white noise in his head.

Tari'd had a noticeable aura of desire, but a soft one, a gentle one. The succubus in the village and the footman here were more so. Both had a strong appeal, a sense of restrained power that left arousal burning behind every brush of their fingers.

Touching Hrahez was like that, but taken to the extreme.

It wasn't as if it was different from his two recent encounters, not exactly. The feeling of their auras was nearly the same, but Hrahez's was more. If the others had seemed to have that power muted, in comparison, it rolled off Hrahez in waves. His hands touching Hrahez's made him ache to get closer, and when Hrahez pulled him in for the dance his breath hitched, body tight and flushed all over.

It felt like he was struck by lightning; the hair on his arms was standing up, nerves aching, and his skin over-sensitive. The scent of Hrahez surrounded Renart; he could smell him, taste him, feel him with every breath in. His mind reeled, almost in shock—hyper-focusing on small details, slow and laggy to process anything. It was like being underwater, like drowning. Desperate, he made himself look at the bottom of the veil Hrahez wore, watching the way it drifted as they moved, trying slowly to bring his wits back about himself again so he wouldn't waste his chance. But it was almost impossible, the air between them hazy and warm, this strong and familiar scent in his nostrils—

—and then Prince Hrahez stepped on his foot.

It hurt, and only the anklet he was wearing protected him at all from the sharp-edged hoof. As it was, the sudden weight and pressure jarred him out of his daze. He was still attracted, he was still aroused, but he wasn't lost in it.

"Sorry about that," Hrahez said cheerily. His voice wasn't at all apologetic, light but soft and smooth as honey, and he clipped Renart's foot again with his next step. "I'm not actually that good a dancer, but it's obligatory that I do a dance or two at this sort of thing."

Somehow, Renart managed to find his own voice. Shock faded into disbelief—was there anyone who'd believe that a demon prince, who'd lived for hundreds of years and was famous for his grand events, couldn't dance?

But then, Renart supposed, who would teach him if he didn't already know? He tried to keep that from his tone, as warmly neutral as he could manage. "Well, good thing I made the anklets, then. I wouldn't give up this chance for the world."

"Is that so? Good thing you don't have the world to give," Hrahez said with a grin and a quirked brow. He swept him around, hoof clipping Renart's shin. It stung, and Renart tried unsuccessfully to swallow a yelp, but Hrahez didn't seem to notice. "So you made these? It's just as well that you've got them. They're nicely made, too."

"I'm the local cobbler's son," Renart answered, voice a little strained. Then, daringly, "If you want new footwear, I could make you a pair of anything you like."

"Do you think you could? I haven't found many nice shoes for hooves."

Renart grinned up at him. "I'm inventive," he said, and wiggled a foot on his next step. "Just look at these. I can't wear anything on the bottom of my feet, but I'm pretty proud of my ability to work with what I've got."

"It is pretty clever," Hrahez admitted. "So your bare soles are unprotected?"

The conversation was so simple, so easy, that Renart felt his spirits lifting. The pain of Hrahez's wayward hooves aside, it was like walking on air.

He was finally here. Not just held close, not just dancing, but talking with Hrahez like one normal person to another. As if they weren't demon and human, prince and cobbler. Getting to do so, he found that Hrahez wasn't just interesting.

Renart liked him.

It was partially Hrahez's natural charisma, certainly, but there was a familiar comfort to him, an easy-going tone to the way he talked, affably affectionate, that made him want to respond in kind.

He swallowed and made himself find the conversation again. Soles. Right. "That's the agreement I made, so that's how it is." He shrugged a little against Hrahez's grip, trying to seem nonchalant, and managed not to flinch as a hoof pinched the unprotected edge of his foot to the floor. "I already pushed my luck far enough twisting this verbal agreement from one kind of 'soul' to another—I wasn't going to try to break my word to a demon on top of that!"

"Wise of you," Hrahez said with amusement. "In fact—"

The music came to a stop.

Hrahez stopped dancing along with it and fell silent, still holding Renart close to him. Renart's stomach suddenly clenched, knowing that there were only seconds now before Hrahez would pull away, find another partner. It was too fast, he thought desperately. Too soon. He came all this way and it was wonderful, sure, but it couldn't be over yet...!

As he scrambled to find something to say, something to do, something that could keep this from ending, Hrahez leaned down, veiled lips brushing against his jaw.

"In exactly an hour," Hrahez breathed into his ear, veil gusting against his cheek, "leave the party and come to my room." He murmured directions, and Renart forced himself to focus on them and not how hard he'd gotten at the closeness of Hrahez's body, at the murmur directly against him. Out the door Hrahez had entered by, down the hall, the third door to the left, down another hall, take a right, up a stairway, a hall to a door at the end, another stairway, a hall to another door.

He shuddered roughly, licking his lips. "Yes," he breathed back.

And at that, Hrahez dropped his hand and pulled away, leaving him almost staggering. The prince whirled back into the party with good cheer and apparent lack of interest in Renart himself.

It suited Renart perfectly. He stumbled across the room, leaning against a wall near the door out, and watched the clock. It separated him somewhat from the throng of demons clamoring for Hrahez's attention, though he noticed that he was getting no small amount of glowering and irritated looks.

No wonder, he thought. Hrahez had spent a few precious minutes on him and not on any of them.

*~*~*

A little over fifty minutes after the whispered message, Hrahez announced that he was retiring, and told the rest of the gathered throng to enjoy the party for him. He breezed past Renart without even a look as he headed out the door. Renart didn't let it discourage him. He knew what he'd been invited to. Out. Down the hall. Third door, left. Hall. Right. Up, hall, up, door—

Soon.

He tried not to be too overt about it, tried not to give himself completely away, tried not to stare at the clock. But with less than ten minutes left, he didn't feel like he could risk losing any time. Even as the demons gathered around him again, he just shook his head. It didn't matter anymore if they were inviting or threatening him. Either way, he played dumb. Acted like he was star-struck, overcome by being held by an incubus of that much power. It seemed to work.

He couldn't leave at one hour on the dot, since he had to wait until it seemed nobody was looking. Those few minutes past his deadline were agonizing, but finally he slipped away and darted out the door Hrahez had left through.

The feel of the manor was immediately different. While the main hall of the mansion was lavish and opulent, it was immediately clear to him that the rest hadn't been cared for in the slightest since its abandonment. The back halls were dusty and dark, with broken tile and cobwebs filling them. If the echoing music weren't floating down the hallway behind him, he would have started to imagine himself totally alone. Renart found himself wondering if even that main room and the gardens he'd seen had truly been so luxurious, or if there had been some kind of magic involved.

Still, even if he suddenly felt a little like he was trespassing, it wasn't like that was off-putting. If anything, it was exciting—under normal circumstances, he'd never be able to be here, but he'd managed to not only come but do so legitimately. Was invited not just to the party but to Hrahez's bedroom. Out of all the people in that room, Hrahez had picked him to spend time with.

Renart took a deep breath, and forced himself to focus on the path in front of him, winding around as he followed the directions to the first stairway. If he worked himself up to the point he forgot where to go, he wouldn't be ending up in anyone's bedroom.

He took the stairs two at a time, half out of eagerness and half because they didn't seem entirely stable—the wood rotted, the carpet moth-eaten. Going up them quickly got it over with faster, though despite his initial concerns, they didn't seem about ready to give away. The wood shifted uneasily under his feet, but didn't feel mushy or anything too dangerous.

The hallway at the next landing was another story. He brought himself up short, drawing a sharp breath in.

It had once been lined with glass-covered paintings and mirrors; some devastation had occurred here, and most had fallen. Some, still on the walls, were simply smashed. A chandelier, too, had fallen in the middle of the hallway, and while the candles on it were unlit and there was no risk of fire, the whole situation had left the entire hall covered in glass.

His stomach clenched, then sank, and then he sighed. Of course, he thought, demons weren't known for making things easy, and Hrahez was infamous for playing games, for testing people. And Hrahez had shown great interest in his uncovered feet.

"So this is how it is," he said aloud, and shuffled a foot forward cautiously.

His feet had toughened a little during his time without shoes, but not that much, and he knew it. All he could do was brace himself for the pain and do his best to nudge aside the glass with the sides of his feet. As he moved forward, he did so at a snail's pace, shuffling each foot as lightly as he could to clear a small swept path before cautiously putting his weight down on it.

Even so, he cut them. They split and bled, cut into by small glass fragments he wasn't able to move aside. The pain was a dull, throbbing mess that made him clench his jaw and his fists to keep from crying out. The rush of adrenaline that came with the pain made it hard to move at an even pace—his mind kept telling him that if he ran it'd be over with faster, just like on the stairs, and he had to force himself to pick his way across slowly regardless.

He lost track of time, completely absorbed in the task. He wasn't able to pay attention to anything beyond his deliberate, careful sweeping motions, doing his best to ignore the pain. The throb of agony felt like an inverted image of the shocks of arousal he'd felt when they were dancing. This was a test of his stubbornness, he was sure of that.

But that was one thing he'd never been lacking in.

When he realized there was no more glass in front of him he stood dumbly for a few moments, as if waiting for the trap, then crumpled forward with a groan. He must have spent hours, he thought, though maybe that was just how it had felt. Even so, he let himself lose some more time by sitting on the desiccated carpet, gently squeezing glass splinters out of his feet, watching his blood drip down. He couldn't even bind his feet, he thought sadly. It wasn't even the lack of anything to bind with—he'd cut up his vest if he thought it would work. But he'd tried before back when his feet were newly bare, and the bandages wouldn't stay on. His curse affected them as well.

Well, that was just how things were, he thought firmly. He was through now, and one hallway closer to the prince. Besides, what could he do—turn around to leave and walk back through the glass? No thank you. He wasn't giving up now, not when he was this close.

Renart got to his feet again, brushed his hands carefully off on his trousers, and continued along the path with as jaunty a step as he could manage, trailing bloody footprints behind himself until he reached the end of the hall, with a door at the end and one to either side.

He paused.

Suddenly, he was no longer so sure that he remembered the path. It was through the door at the end, not the right again? Then a stairway. It was up two floors total—wasn't it? The pain had distracted him.

But he didn't have time to hesitate.

He took the door at the end, took the stairs on the other side up, and was weirdly relieved when he opened the door at the top onto a hallway liberally covered in salt.

"Really?" he asked aloud, laughing. "Is this necessary?"

At least it proved he was on the right path.

There was no way to keep the salt from his cuts, and he didn't try, just shrugged and strode forward, still laughing softly to himself. That took him no time at all, and when he reached the door at the end, his feet were stinging and aflame, his entire body aching with both anticipation and agony. He could hardly tell which was which anymore.

He stood in the salt at the end of the hall and knocked on the door. It opened after the second knock, the still-veiled prince glancing him over. Behind the cloth, his features seemed almost surprised.

"Even with bare soles you did it," he said, tone taken aback. "Are you an overeager fool?"

"I am," Renart said, a little giddy.

Hrahez shook his head and drew him inside with one hand. With the other, he pushed the veil up, revealing his warm green eyes that seemed to hold glittering stars inside them, a strong nose, curved lips. Renart's heart leaped in a triumphant sense of realization, and he leaned up to kiss Hrahez.

He was, in that moment, completely confident that Hrahez wouldn't reject him.

There wasn't even a moment of delay. Hrahez's mouth curved against his in a smile, and Renart was pulled into the kiss. It was firm and warm and absolutely radiated genuine affection.

Renart had a moment to think, I thought so, before he melted into it, kneading his fingers where they pressed against Hrahez's shoulders.

The kiss deepened, a pointed tongue winding its way into his mouth, too long and too agile. He met it with his own, letting Hrahez explore, finally managing to loosen his grip enough to allow his hands to start to wander. They moved over Hrahez's chest, down his sides, hungrily touching.

Hrahez stepped back toward the bed, pulling Renart with him. Renart advanced eagerly—and then put his weight down on a cut section of his foot, hissing with pain into the kiss.

Abruptly, Hrahez pulled back, twisting and scooping Renart up to carry him. "Little fool," he said, his tone not unkind, "I can't believe you really did it."

"Of course you can," Renart managed, as Hrahez brought him the few steps over to the bed and put him down on it with only a little jolt. "You're the one who set this all up."

"Walking across glass to get fucked is a little unnecessary." Hrahez knelt beside the bed, taking hold of one of Renart's feet behind the heel and lifting it to take a look. "But you're the one who's willing to do such undesirable things." He didn't sound scornful, despite his words. He sounded eager, Renart thought.

Renart let out a breath as Hrahez found a shard of glass in there he'd missed and squeezed it free. "If you don't want me to do it, don't put glass on the floor. You just wanted to know I'd do it for you."

"Yes, I did, but—"

"Are you lonely?" Renart murmured. "I'm sure plenty of people want you, but you don't go looking for them. You're the prince, after all. Our eyes met, you know, at one of your parades. I can't be the only one who was looking just at you… no, the whole crowd was. There was no reason for you to meet my eyes in particular. You certainly wouldn't seek me out, I'd thought, so I'd look for you instead. Oh, you made me feel…"

How to describe it? That moment of hunger, the desire to challenge him like he'd challenged the whole world as a child. Snap me up. Devour me. I dare you.

Hrahez's eyes flicked up to his again and held his gaze for a moment, hard to read. Then, without responding otherwise, he lifted Renart's foot higher, kissing the arch.

There was a rush of warmth and Renart shuddered as arousal hit him. Even through that feeling, he could feel another strange sensation, a tightness on his foot, a tingling, a relief from how much it hurt—It's healing, he thought, a bit surprised. He's healing me.

Lowering his foot to the bed, Hrahez picked up the other and did it again: checked it over for any remaining glass, kissed it, healed it. Renart supported himself on his elbows, watching that heavy-horned head bowed over his foot, and tried to breathe evenly. Part of the effect was just Hrahez's nature as an incubus, the arousing aura that his entire breed had. But the rest…

The rest, he thought a little hazily, was just the moment. Finally being here with Hrahez after all his planning, all his efforts. Keeping him company. Talking to him so comfortably.

The healing came in a rush, the cessation of pain so complete that the space it left behind could only be filled with his desperate desire.

This foot, Hrahez didn't lower—he kept it raised, mouth slowly kissing across the sole, lips lingering on the toes. Renart drew a slow, sharp breath at the deliberate intention in that motion, shuddered as Hrahez's mouth closed around his big toe, tongue winding between them. Must taste bad, he thought briefly, and choked on a sound that was as much laugh as moan.

"Hm?" Hrahez murmured, and he could feel that against his foot, the warm rush of air, the vibration of his mouth.

I can meet that invitation halfway, he thought. He shifted, running his other foot down Hrahez's stomach, resting it just over his groin. "The salt," he said, in explanation.

Hrahez snorted inelegantly, and his long tongue slid down over the sole of Renart's foot like he meant to lick the salt right up. Hrahez clearly didn't care, eager and heated. Hrahez might not have cared, Renart thought dazedly, even if there had been any glass left.

Renart shifted against the bed, grinding his other foot down on Hrahez's groin, trying to nudge his robes aside. He didn't feel like he was getting anywhere with that, but didn't much mind. One way or another, he could feel his foot rolling against the hard length of Hrahez's cock, feel himself pushing and pressing against it—it felt good, amazing, knowing that he was turning Hrahez on in return.

Hrahez exhaled softly as his tongue pulled at Renart's toes. Hrahez's hands were busy unbuckling the anklet on the foot he was holding, but once he'd finished with that, he let go almost at once and pulled his robes up and apart around his waist, letting Renart touch him directly.

That made Renart's heart beat faster—not just the shifting, firm warmth under his foot, but the idea that Hrahez was this hungry for his touch as well. Renart rubbed his foot up against Hrahez's cock, pushing it up to his stomach, toes catching and pulling at the head. The angle wasn't the best, but it gave him room to grind his heel in at the base just above Hrahez's balls.

He was going to check in, ask if it was good, but his eyes met Hrahez's again and he found he didn't need to. Those green eyes were heated, so intense they'd turned almost gold, with the sideways pupils flared wide. His mouth was hot against Renart's other foot, sucking and pulling at his toes, tongue sliding down across the near-ticklish underside of his foot to wrap around his ankle and back up. Renart shuddered helplessly at the sight, hips rocking up against nothing, skin feeling almost too-tight with his need. He was overheated, overwhelmed in his good clothes and tight breeches.

But he didn't try to ask for more, not yet, and didn't try to touch himself. He wanted to, but there was something too good about the moment to want to interrupt, about Hrahez playing with one foot, his other foot toying with Hrahez. He ground his foot hard for a moment, almost roughly, and then shifted to push Hrahez's cock back down to his thigh, dragging his sole along it from heel to toes.

Hrahez moaned.

The sound rocked through Renart as if it had physical force, stroking along every nerve in his body like fingers raking through hair. He shuddered, arching a bit, his one foot slipping in Hrahez's grasp, his other grinding roughly against his cock.

Hrahez seemed, for a moment, like he wasn't going to act—then shifted abruptly, wrapping his free hand around Renart's foot on his cock and began thrusting, rocking up against it, jerking himself off against the sole. Renart's thighs ached from his attempt to find balance with his other foot still lifted high in the air, but before he could do anything but open his mouth to ask for help, Hrahez was already letting go and letting it slide back to the bed.

Hrahez looked up at Renart while rocking against him, grinned, and came against his foot.

It was fast, Renart thought through his half-dazed confusion. The waves of Hrahez's pleasure were a tangible presence in the room that made breathing difficult. Deliberately fast, he thought a moment later, as if Hrahez, being an incubus, had just chosen release to calm himself down and draw the whole experience out. That was the look in the demon's eyes, anyway, a heavy determination.

"My Lord—"

"Enough of that," Hrahez murmured. "You came here to find me, didn't you? Use my name."

"Hrahez," Renart croaked, shuddering. He was too turned on. He almost couldn't think, almost envied the demon's ability to regain control like that. If he just let himself come now—and it was a tempting thought, even untouched—he'd just be tired, he thought.

Though with Hrahez in front of him, real, able to be touched, maybe not too tired to go on.

Hrahez barely gave him a moment to think regardless, slowly lowering Renart's foot to the bed. Thick come stuck to his sole, sliding down; Hrahez didn't bother to clean him off at all, just let him drip onto the sheets and went for his breeches.

Renart groaned again, reaching for him, finding the heavy curve of Hrahez's horns. As he grasped them and curled his fingers around them as best he could, Hrahez's eyes flicked up to meet him again, as though he were actually asking permission.

The softness in his eyes, the consideration in the gesture after the pain and the salt and all the rest, was almost overwhelming. He couldn't remember having been with a demon who had asked a second time once they were already into the thick of things. Renart nodded, helpless. "Yes," he said.

Hrahez smiled briefly, then swallowed him down with no hesitation, Renart's cock sliding deep into his throat, long winding tongue wrapping around the base. It was blindingly hot, tight, and he felt pinned by Hrahez's gaze. He couldn't look away, entranced, rocking into Hrahez's mouth as he pulled and sucked and wound his tongue against him all at once.

It was too much.

"I won't last," he croaked, urgent. "I'm sorry, but—"

With a laugh, Hrahez pulled back, pointed tongue stroking through the slit. "I'll keep you going," he promised, his tone low and warm. Although Renart knew he should probably read some threat into it—he knew demons—he didn't feel a sense of danger at all.

"All right," Renart managed thickly, more than a little distracted, and let Hrahez swallow him down again.

He came twice like that. The first time was soon after his words, hands white-knuckled with tension on Hrahez's horns. The second time was slow, Hrahez's mouth working him into hardness again, taking his time with him. Hrahez teased him for such an agonizingly long time that he couldn't handle it any more, came almost more for relief than pleasure, sobbing out and gripping tightly to his horns.

After, Renart barely had a chance to catch his breath before Hrahez surged up, shoving him down into the bed. He leaned over Renart, forcing arousal back into his body again with a surge of demonic energy.

It was more than Renart could handle, and everything he wanted. He'd only dreamed of this, to be overcome completely and brought back over and over again. He let out an involuntary sob, arching. It was amazing and painful, perfect torture. He felt wrecked, brain in tatters, completely unable to do more than grasp onto the form over him, holding tight, feeling him.

He would have accepted anything, taken anything, but Hrahez seemed to realize he was falling apart and was almost gentle, rutting against him with their cocks held tight together in one hand. Hrahez braced himself on one elbow, hair falling around them, and worked them in a steady, quick pace, murmuring to him.

It took a moment for him to make out words through the exhausted shocks of pleasure. They were praises—soft, light praises. He writhed at the sound as he was pulled closer to orgasm again with every pass of Hrahez's hand, with the sensation of his cock squeezed against Hrahez's. Hrahez kept complimenting him in soft murmurs: good, sweet, lovely. All the while seeming as eager as Renart felt, holding him and rolling against him.

Renart pushed himself up, grinding frantically, moving over and over again, and tried to give as good as he got. Tried to make Hrahez feel as good as he did.

He groaned as he came again, shuddering hard through the force of it. Hrahez let out a moan at the sudden slickness in his hand, and followed a moment later, head dropping forward heavily, semen spattering up across Renart's stomach. The pleasure tore through Renart, leaving him feeling raw and shaken and sated. Tired and warm, pushed supernaturally beyond his body's limits, but not drained. Not like he usually was with cubants. If Hrahez had been drinking from him at all, it had been subtly only, tasting and not taking energy any faster than could be restored.

Even though he could barely focus, that drove the last nail into the metaphorical coffin. Renart's suspicions might not be confirmed, but they were awfully, delightfully plausible.

They lay there gasping for a long few moments. Renart shivered through the aftershocks of pleasure, indulging in the long moment of listening to Hrahez's breath slowly get back under his control.

"Mm. We done?" Renart asked finally, his tongue heavy and disobedient. His limbs were even weightier, and he'd sunk back against the bed in an enormous sprawl. The wetness on his feet had cooled in the air and he was starting to feel chilly as the pleasure ebbed, but he couldn't bring himself to move. To his delighted surprise, Hrahez tucked himself warmly against Renart's side, curled against him so closely that he started to suspect they were actually cuddling.

Hrahez laughed. "Oh, now, I don't know," he said. "If I were done with you, I'd feel obliged to throw you out."

"Hmm." Now was the time to say it, if ever. Renart tried to shake his brain back into some semblance of order. "Well," he said, sitting up and running his fingers through his hair, catching immediately on snags, "'f you're gonna throw m'out, c'n I…" He worked his mouth, tried to enunciate more clearly. "Can I have one last look at my soles first?" Then, with exhausted humor, "I didn't get to say a proper goodbye, and you people know the importance of a man's sole."

Beside him, Hrahez had gone very still. Renart stole a glance, finding Hrahez's eyes wide and surprised, his mouth open. The overall expression on his face was strangely vulnerable as a result.

Renart found he really, really liked that.

"What…?" Hrahez asked finally, his voice extremely tentative.

Despite his certainty, Renart's stomach clenched a little. He could be wrong. If he were, this would be a terrible insult. But he thought he'd realized, and he needed to know for sure. Needed Hrahez to know he knew. "Well, you're the demoness who took them?" Then, even less certain but not willing to second-guess himself, "I think you're the footman as well. The one who lavished such attention on my feet before I got into the ball."

For a moment, no reaction showed on Hrahez's face. He stared at Renart with that strange, open, curious expression, like Renart were suddenly speaking in tongues. Slowly, horribly, Renart's heart dropped.

And then Hrahez let out a breath, starting to laugh giddily. "How did you know?"

The rush of relief hit Renart so hard that he was abruptly grateful he was already sitting down. "Your eyes." Renart tapped his own cheekbone, then felt a little silly about it. "Our eyes met when you were riding that one day and I don't think I'd ever forget how they looked. You changed everything else completely but your eyes were the same all three times." That deep, gold-flecked green. He watched Hrahez's horizontally-slitted pupils contract, then dilate again slowly as he reacted to what he was hearing.

He licked his lips shakily, and went on before Hrahez could answer him. "I didn't know until I saw your eyes without the veil. I think—I don't understand why, but—I think, you were as interested in me as I was in you, back during that parade."

Hrahez laughed again, the sound sudden and light-hearted. He flopped across the bed, reaching down to rummage underneath it. The long line of his back trailing into his tail seemed relaxed; Renart wanted to reach out and run his fingers along it, but resisted for now. Everything felt too uncertain.

"Awfully smelly things," Hrahez said, coming up with a small box and opening it. He plucked one of Renart's old shoe soles out with his fingertips. "But a bit of a trophy, regardless. I admit they charm me."

"Like I do?" Renart asked, and let himself indulge a little, running his fingers along Hrahez's side. "I can't believe you came to me three times. Why?"

Hrahez snorted and dropped them back into the box. "Yes, you incorrigible thing, just like you charm me." He turned his face away a little as he put the box down on the bed between them, slowly and with care.

"It was just interest," Hrahez said after a moment, sounding almost hesitant. "I wouldn't read too much into it, if I were you. The entire crowd was hungry, passively wanting me, but you wanted me in a different way. A discordant note in all that mess. I thought for a moment you might shove your way through the crowd and throw yourself under my horse. To my ability to sense desire, it was like you were screaming, 'Come and get me'. It made it difficult to forget about you. I kept wanting to know more. So, yes, I walked past your door deliberately that day."

Was that actually a spot of color on Hrahez's cheeks?

Renart beamed, holding his arms open. His heart sang. All this time, all these months, all that agonizing about how to go to him, and Hrahez had been doing the same. Triumph and genuine happiness mingled together so fully that they became a feeling he couldn't begin to describe, tears in his eyes, relief shaking him.

"Come here, then," Renart said. "You aren't ever throwing me out, are you?" No focus, his mum had said. Always faffing about. Chasing his dreams. And why, he thought, was that ever a sign I couldn't focus?

He'd just needed to find what he wanted to focus on.

Hrahez sighed. "I suppose I'm not," he said, a sullen fondness on his face. He pushed the box aside, dragged Renart down, and pulled the blankets up over them both.

Pulled them up too far, Renart realized. Probably didn't even notice it with his hooves.

"My feet are out," he said.

Hrahez propped himself up on an elbow. "And?"

Renart gave him a wide-eyed look. Tried to say it with his face: Shouldn't you know already? "They're cold. Since they belong to you, treat them nicely."

Hrahez snorted. "Like you can complain about that after everything you've done to them," he said.

But he leaned down and tucked Renart in anyway.

Fin