Demon of the Black Gate

Rovinkar started leafing through the book, the pages gilt-edged and margins framed with lavish illustrations of women in the most exotic and diminuitive costumes and inviting poses and men in rampant readiness or artfully engaged.

The Story of Jahara - A Cautionary Tale

Set back in one of the valleys of the Jimals, in a minor satrapy, lived a very handsome young man anointed with the name Dalil Mamond. He was charming, and thoughtful, and delighted both in the art of swords and music. His education was blessed by having an equally inquisitive father who could, if nothing else, afford to employ excellent tutors and trainers, not only for his son, but his daughters and servants as well. An unusual approach but the senior Dalil was an unusual man. The general population, therefore, well tended and appreciated, lived in productive harmony.

In the caliph’s city lived a young princess, who some said, was the most beautiful girl in the land. Her name was Jahara, which means ‘juicy peach’.

Rovinkar scanned the pages quickly, searching for the passage that would make sense of this all.

The final undoing was on the occasion of the princesses’ Spring Address from the balcony of her chambers. She offered prayers to the people and the lands. But Dalil had encouraged her with a wild daring. While she invoked the gods of the fields to accept the seeds of their livelihood, Dalil was in her compartment, beneath the sill, and servicing her most privately with his tongue. Her prayer was heartfelt, and Dalil teased her mightily as she progressed.

“My rose, I bury my nose in your sweet petals, your scent is heavenly, your nectar divine.” He murmured. His hands held pressed to the round globes of her rump.

“Oh my ginger, my spice, my love.” she said softly as she grasped the balcony rail in the throes of her enjoyments.

Rovinkar snorted at the thought. There would be hell to pay. It came soon enough the lovers fate sealed by treachery.

But a woman of luxury has maids, and the escapade was shared by one maid to another. The dalliances of the women and their maids were ignored, even expected. Most of what transpired in those chambers remained there, but this story reached the caliph’s ears. His daughter’s chastity and virginity were in question, and the lad had gone too far.

Rovinkar was about to toss the book aside, but kept reading. The erotic and sometimes graphic illustrations were distracting and for the moment there was nothing else to do. Within a few pages, the illustrations became more sinister and dark.

There was no exile. Only death. He consulted his vizier, one known for his arcane talents.

“The prince will disappear, even his memory, for the spell will be so complete. His essences will be captured forever, a willing and monstrous servant to whomever can name him and call him forth.” claimed the mage.

The caliph didn’t care what the vizier did, so long as the young man was gone, and his daughter freed of her enamor.

Rovinkar raced forward, past the pages of the planning and the wanton revel that ensued. He didn’t stop thumbing pages until the man’s capture was imminent

The engagement feast was a wanton revel and Dalil fell into its excesses. One of the women attending his pleasure, at the behest of the vizier, drew him into a cushioned pallet and secretly administered a milk of poppy nightcap. The elixir and the womans secret touches sent him into an orgasmic dream from which he never recovered. The young lad was carried naked and erect from the seduction chamber and upwards into the tower of the vizier, who laid out the doomed prince. The slaves that aided the kidnapping would die before the night was over, and Dalil’s disappearance would be complete.

Rovinkar shivered as he read on.

One by one the elements of fire, water, earth and air were applied to the inanimate prince, and as each were withdrawn, less of the body could be seen. The essence that finally remained on the table was at once vapour and fire and water and earth, each struggling for dominance, the shape vaguely human, a sightless face with smoldering coals where the eyes had been.

Taphane had been born.

Taphane. Rovinkar’s heartbeat raced.

The last chant, the chant to reverse in calling the demon forth, was intoned, and the miasma fell, collapsed and evaporated into the obsidian, a blackness as deep and dead as a starless sky.

The rest of the tale recounted the pinings and anguish of the forlorn princess, who withered and died on the vine. Rovinkar saw nothing further. He had the name he needed. The name of the demon.