Negotiation

Pride, that old and stubborn companion, made a final, desperate stand. He was Etalcaxi. He was a warrior of the Itzotec nation. He was the negotiator here, not the tribute. Rallying a shred of his former self, he puffed out his chest, trying to look imposing despite his utter nakedness. The gesture felt hollow, a child playing at being a king.

"I am a warrior of great renown," he announced, his voice a little too loud in the quiet sanctuary. "A man of status. Name your price. Gold? I can have it sent. Jade from the mountains of Tlacaxinachyotl? The finest green stone, fit for a queen." He pressed on, falling back on the familiar language of power and wealth. "The formal protection of the Itzotec nation can be a powerful gift for a remote tribe. No one would dare trouble you."

He finished, feeling a sliver of his old confidence return. It was a magnificent offer. He had offered her wealth and security, the two pillars of mortal ambition.

The green-eyed woman simply looked at him. Her head tilted, her eyes sparkling with a light he could not decipher. Then, she threw her head back and laughed. It was a sound of pure, delighted, unrestrained amusement, like a child hearing a joke for the first time. The sound was rich and musical, and it echoed off the wet stone walls, filling the entire cenote. The sound wrapped around him, and he felt his grand offer shrink and wither under the weight of it.

"Silly warrior," she said, her laughter subsiding into a warm, breathless chuckle. She shook her head, sending droplets of water flying from her dark hair. "The sun gives me gold every morning. The mountain has more rocks than I could ever want. And your little empire," she said the word as if it were a strange and funny-tasting fruit, "is very far away." Her moss-green eyes drifted from his face, down his chest, over his tensed abdomen, and then slowly back up again, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. "I am interested in treasures that are... closer."

Her meaning was as clear as the turquoise water he floated in. The flush returned to his cheeks, a hot tide of embarrassment and a strange, new flicker of something else. Something he refused to name.

The woman's expression shifted, the open amusement replaced by a mask of feigned concern. The change was so sudden it was theatrical. She gestured to his body, to the faint shivering that had started in the cool water. "But look at you. Shivering. Hurt. You must get out and rest." She smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. "Let me help."

"I am perfectly capable of—" he began, a reflexive protest born from the tattered remnants of his pride. He would not be treated as an invalid.

He never finished the sentence. Before the words were fully formed, she moved. With a glide of her powerful body, she was beside him, her cool skin brushing against his. A strong, slender arm wrapped around his waist, the grip astonishingly firm. She pressed her body flush against his side, from his shoulder to his knee. A gasp escaped his lips, a sharp intake of breath at the sudden, shocking intimacy and the easy strength in her hold. He was a strong man, hardened by years of training, yet she moved him as easily as if he were a child's wooden toy.

She began guiding him toward the flat rock on the cenote's edge. The swim was an agonizingly slow and deliberate torture. Every movement was an intimate press of her skin against his. He could feel the firm globes of her breasts against his ribs, the smooth, powerful line of her thigh against his own, the whisper of her long hair against his shoulder. One part, the warrior, screamed at the indignity, the weakness, the shame of being manhandled. The other part, the man, was drowning in a flood of new sensations. The coolness of her skin, the surprising strength in her limbs, the wild scent of her… it was overwhelming. He was acutely aware of his own nakedness in a way that was both shameful and intensely thrilling.

With a final, strong pull, she helped hoist him onto the smooth, sun-warmed rock where his tattered loincloth lay in a sad, muddy heap. He scrambled for purchase, his feet slipping on the wet stone, and for a moment, they were frozen, standing face-to-face, inches apart. Water dripped from the ends of her dark hair onto his shoulders, each drop a tiny, cool shock against his warm skin. He was overwhelmed by her proximity. The scent of wet earth and unknown flowers filled his senses. The intensity of her moss-green gaze seemed to look straight through his skull. The sheer physical presence of this woman, was an intoxicating force.

Desperate for a shred of dignity, for anything to cover his exposed vulnerability, he reached for the ruined loincloth. Her hand darted out, quick as a striking snake, and gently covered his, stopping him. Her touch was cool and smooth. "That is broken," she said, her voice a soft murmur. "Useless." Her eyes flickered from the loincloth to his.

Her other hand, the one not holding his, came up and gently touched the deepest scratch on his ribs. He flinched at the contact, a hiss of breath escaping his lips. "This, however..." she whispered, her eyes glowing with a secret knowledge. "This I can fix."

Before he could ask what she meant, she released his hand, turned, and gracefully knelt beside a small, hidden niche in the rock wall. From its shadowy depths, she produced a small, smooth clay pot, no bigger than his palm. It was filled with a shimmering, deep green paste that seemed to move with a slow, liquid life of its own. The paste emitted a faint, verdant light and a sharp, clean scent of mint and lightning.

She returned to him, still kneeling before him as he sat on the edge of the rock. It was the posture of a supplicant, yet he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that he was the one in the subordinate position. She took a small amount of the glowing salve on her long fingertips and, without a word, began to apply it to the wound on his ribs.

Her touch was incredibly gentle, yet confident and sure. The salve was cool against his skin, and a pleasant, tingling sensation immediately began to spread from her touch, chasing away the ache of the bruise beneath. The stinging pain of the wound vanished instantly. He stared down in utter disbelief. He watched, his mind reeling, as the angry red lips of the scratch visibly faded. The skin seemed to flow back together, knitting itself into a seamless whole before his very eyes. The process took only a few moments. When she drew her fingers away, the wound was gone. Not healed over with a scar, but vanished, leaving only smooth, unbroken skin as if it had never been there at all.

He looked from his flawless ribs to her smiling face, his mind struggling to build a framework for what he had just witnessed. "What... what was that?" he stammered. "What are you? A sorceress? The healers of my people... the greatest priests... they have nothing like this..."

She chuckled softly, a low, throaty sound of pure enjoyment at his confusion. She seemed to delight in his astonishment. She gently placed a finger on his lips, silencing his frantic questions. Her touch was soft, yet it carried an undeniable command.

"So many important, noisy words," she whispered, her eyes dancing with mischief. "'Sorceress'. 'Healers'. 'People'." She leaned closer, her presence filling his world. "Shhh. None of that matters in this place. Here, there is only the water... the stone..." She paused, her finger tracing the curve of his lower lip. "...and you."

Her other hand, her free hand, came to rest with a startling, possessive intimacy high on his inner thigh. The warrior's heart, which had just begun to calm, now hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped rhythm that he was certain she could feel through the stone they both sat upon. The last remnants of his pride, his warrior's will, were in their death throes, completely overwhelmed by a rising, irresistible tide of desire. Her touch was claiming him.

"There," she purred, her gaze holding his. "You are healed. Now… about Ixtic's price. I have decided what I want first," she purred, saying her own name as if it were the most natural thing in the world, a simple thought spoken aloud. He registered the name—Ixtic—a sound as strange and beautiful as she was.

She smiled, a slow, deep curve of her lips. Her voice was a low, husky whisper that vibrated through his entire body, a promise and a command all in one.

Her gaze dropped, meaningfully, to his mouth. The air in the cenote, already thick with moisture and the scent of flowers, now crackled with a palpable tension. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, see the hunger in her beautiful eyes. He did not move. He could not.

Ixtic leaned forward, closing the final inch between them, her face blocking out the rest of the world. Her wild, dark hair brushed against his cheek. He could see every detail of her face: the faint green glow of her skin, the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes, the soft, full curve of her lips. His entire world narrowed to this single moment—a moment of complete surrender for him and utter triumph for Ixtic—the silent, charged instant just before their mouths met.