In May, when the flowers bloomed, and the animals rutted in the fields, Shalka started looking for a maiden. The flight had been high and wild, her mate's hot, free-flowing blood had tasted of cherry blossoms and smoke, and now her diamond-scaled gut swelled with new, precious life.
A maiden was necessary.
For days, as her body changed and grew heavier, Shalka winged, searching, over her scattered kingdoms. She flew over richly ornamented palaces, over sheepfolds and pig pens, through dark unsettled forests and past untroubled mountain lakes. In each area she found girls, dryads, nymphs, the young, unbonded females of each humanoid species.
Each of these she scrutinized. Each she left behind.
Finally, in a large village, in a house filled to the bursting with children, parents, and grandparents, she found her maiden.
She was sitting in the center of the largest room, younglings of every size gathered round her skirts, and as Shalka pressed her glowing golden eye up to the window pane, she did not flinch or flee. Instead she set the smallest ones behind her and stood, defiant, to meet her ruler's gaze. A fireplace poker seemed to leap to her hand, and her expression, though fearful, was protective.
This one, thought Shalka. This one knows how to love children, how to be responsible.
And so she chose.
"This one," growled Shalka, stretching a claw out towards her maiden. "And in exchange, no tithe of livestock, nor of gold, for one year's turning."
The headman of the village sweated, twisting his fingers in intricate knots, licking his lips with a dry tongue as he gazed around at his prosperous people. Their faces were grim, but he knew well his duty.
"She's yours, in place of the year's taxes."
The people would thank him, Shalka knew, in their deepest hearts, when the months grew cold and bitter, and food and gold were scarce. Only the girl's family might miss her. Such strength of love did not grow in barren soil.
Still, such things mattered little. The maiden was hers by right, by bond. Any more was mere formality.
Shalka scooped her up in one strong claw, ignoring the howling of the surrounding children. She had no time for childish tears. The trip home would be long and painful, burdened by the double load of girl and eggs. Nor would she rest till she reached her cave.
There was simply not enough time to do so.
"Don't squirm," she told the girl.
And flew.
The pace she set herself was a fast one, and in less than two days she saw the peak which housed her home in front of her. With creaking, frost-tipped wings she dragged herself forward through the cold, mountain air. One desperate, weary flap. Another. Then home, into the chill, dank splendour of her cavern.
She dropped the girl gently on one side of her landing shelf, proud of remembering, even in her fatigue, the need for restraint.
Then she slept.
When Shalka awoke, she knew the laying time was almost upon her. Shudders of intense sensation ran through her, disturbing the small figure huddled against one wall.
Shalka raised a gem encrusted brow ridge, startled almost out of her pain. "You dared enter my cavern?"
The girl's voice was calm. "The cavern grew warm as you slept. The shelf outside was cold, and I needed your heat both to live, and to dry my clothing."
The wave of discomfort passed, and Shalka found herself free to study the girl more carefully. Her dress, which had become fouled during their long flight, now hung in clean, if damp, folds, molding itself to the girl's body. A large golden cauldron, part of Shalka's hoard, stood bottom side up, near the crystal stream which ran through the cavern.
"Fastidious. Good." Shalka's words turned to a roar as pain hit again, then subsided.
A thought occurred to her. "What name do you bear, maiden?"
The girl had set her back against the wall, her own weariness apparent. "What use could you have for my name?"
Shalka smiled, her jaw twisting in amusement. "Perhaps none. What reason do you find to hide it from me?" Long, damp brown hair (newly washed?) swung as Shalka's maiden shook her head. "None. But then, I've even less reason to understand why I'm here. My people have always honored the tithe, giving even more than is asked, in exchange for the right to live in peace. Why did you take me, bring me to this dark hole? What crime have I committed?"
Pain, sharp and brittle as fine crystal, then dull and blinding as rage. "Wait," Shalka gasped, struggling to breath. "Wait, and learn."
She writhed, tormented, and the first egg lay glistening amidst her golden treasure. Light filled the room, and a soft, warm, bell-like tone.
When she could see more than brightness, Shalka turned her gaze to her maiden.
She was kneeling in a pile of golden coins, her face only inches from the soft shell, her eyes glowing with an almost greater brilliance.
Slowly, as though compelled, she turned her face toward Shalka. "My name is Gulwyne." Her arms reached to encircle the egg, protectively.
Then the pain hit again, and Shalka ceased caring.
*
It was many hours later that Shalka dragged herself to her feet. Clustered together, at one end of the cavern, was a group of three softly glowing eggs. In her head she heard her children laughing, singing, waiting for their freedom.
Gulwyne also heard them. Her face was still full of joy, and wonder. She raised her eyes to Shalka's. "They sing."
Shalka nodded. "They do. And feel, and love in the manner of children." She turned, working her way towards the cave's mouth, then paused, glancing back. "And, in the manner of children they require love in return. And protection. And warmth. I have little time for such things. I go to collect my taxes, to feed. You will find a few human-type provisions in the black chest." She gestured at it with one long claw, then leapt from the cavern's shelf into the cool, refreshing air.
When she returned, the cavern was cold. Gulwyne slept, naked, her clothing and limbs twined to cover as large a portion of the eggs as possible.
Shalka smiled.
*
In the months that followed, the girl proved her worth. When Shalka travelled, seeking out food and gold, doing the things which her kind knew to be important, Gulwyne cared for the eggs. When spring passed to summer, and summer to fall, she learned to make fires, warming the cavern in Shalka's absence. When the ice wolves, shimmering with heat-hunger, crept down from their homes on the highest peaks, Gulwyne fought them off with determination and a golden spear.
With each voyage that Shalka took, with each return to her home, the loving, nurturing atmosphere within the cavern seemed to increase.
And the eggs grew, and hardened.
Fall turned to winter. It was cruelly cold on the mountaintop, and flying from it's heights grew treacherous. More and more often, Shalka stayed within her cavern, warming it with her own heat, listening, through the depth of sleep, to the howling winds outside.
And then, one night, as a gale battered the icy entrance to the cave, the first egg hatched.
A small, diamond shaped head emerged, locking eyes briefly with Shalka, and then, for a longer time, with Gulwyne. A feeling of love, of warmth, of need, filled the cavern.
A feeling of hunger.
Gulwyne crept, dazed, towards the rocking eggs, towards the small, keening creature. Her arms reached out, then clasped in front of her, straining with a need to love, to comfort and caress. "She loves me."
Shalka nodded, knowing that Gulwyne was too entranced to see. "She does."
Gulwyne's voice was rapturous, awed. "She needs me."
Again Shalka nodded. "She does."
Another shell cracked. Another head poked its way out into the warm cavern.
Gulwyne stumbled forward another step. "They...they..." her voice changed slightly, a touch of horror creeping in. "They hunger."
Once more, Shalka's head dipped forward in agreement. "They do."
Gulwyne turned, her eyes darting round the cavern, searching, whether for some source of food, or some escape, Shalka could not be sure. Finally, her eyes rested on the third egg, rocking, cracking.
"I...?" her voice was cracking now, desperate, tortured.
"Yes," said Shalka.
A tiny head, smaller than the others, broke free of the last egg. Jewel-like, glowing eyes met Gulwyne's. The child keened softly. Sweetly.
"I see." Tears poured down the maiden's cheeks as she stretched her hand out towards that last tiny head. Towards the mouth.
Lovingly.
Shalka watched her children feed, warm in the contentment of motherhood. Humanoids were well know for feeding children tenderly from their own body's reserves.
In this human maiden, she'd made a good choice.
Marcie Lynn Tentchoff lives in the small town of Gibsons, BC, Canada, with numerous animals and the rest of her rather odd family. Her work (fiction, non-fiction and poetry) has sold to Horizons SF, On Spec, Dreams of Decadence, Shadis, Pulp Eternity, Altair, as well as to various other print and web-based magazines. She is also a poetry editor for the Eggplant Productions.