The summer heat was inescapable. Even in the stone depths of the temple, where the acolytes were housed, the muggy air, the harbinger of rain that yet refused to fall, was all around; merely being away from the sun wasn’t enough to give proper relief.

It was high time for summer to wane; and Kallen remembered that from the instant a hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

“It’s time,” murmured the sub-priest who’d woken him. “They’ll be starting the ceremony soon.” And with that, the man moved on to another pallet, another body lying uncomfortably under a thin blanket.

Kallen put aside his own blanket. There would be time to fold it later; for now, he needed to help prepare. He tied his loincloth in place, and over that he drew on a simple brown robe, knotting the belt with care. Once he’d done that and slid his feet into sandals, he hurried out of the quarters and into the temple antechamber.

The priest glanced at him, then nodded him through into the temple proper. Pausing for a short bow, Kallen then went in to take up his usual duties – adding incense to the braziers, first off; once that was done, though, he took up a pair of rosewood claves and stood at his point at the edge of the circle on the floor. Usually it was a sub-priest at the least who would have such an active role in the ceremony, and at eighteen summers Kallen was already older than some who’d attained that rank; but he knew the steps, he knew the lore and doctrine, and he’d lived an active, productive life, more in tune with the God of Earth than those who spent all their days studying and worshipping in the temple.

Not that he was a storied hunter, no – not like Jeron, who was being adorned with the silver-and-gemstone ornaments proper to the celebrant of this rite, the one being offered as a vessel for Krellosh of the Earth. Jeron was muscular, scarred, the veteran of many successful hunts both for food and to deal with encroaching predators; it had surprised nobody that he was to be this year’s offering. Kallen’s mentor in the hunt had once said that Jeron was too proud, that he enjoyed the fight too much; but on this day, pride was his just due. Whatever flaws he might have – and they were not Kallen’s to speculate on – he had been found most worthy.

The high priest took his place a few paces back from the circle and held up his arms, looking around. All about him he saw readiness; with a nod, he began to chant.

Kallen fell into step, cradling one of the claves on his left hand, clapping the other against it in a rhythm that was at first slow, almost cautious. This was the first stage of the invocation, echoing the search for prey – slow, methodical. There was a brief moment of greater speed and excitement, and then the dance grew slower still – Kallen crept around the circle, tapping the claves only lightly together. The high priest’s voice was little more than a whisper now, but speak on he did, beseeching the attention and favour of Krellosh, and His aid in bringing this too-long, too-hot summer to a proper close before the trees grew dry and the eventual autumn storms set them all ablaze.

Then, a flurry of excitement – done was the careful stalk, now was time for the final chase. From near-stillness, the dancers burst into a frenzy, the clap of wood on wood ringing out loud. Kallen danced until his lungs burned, and the high priest proclaimed praises to Krellosh; gave thanks for His bounties in field, forest, and stream; pleaded for His assistance in placating Azhari of the Fire and convincing Her to let summer end.

The tension rose higher still, becoming a palpable force in the air, and then – then the world changed.

There was a ringing in the air, as though an unseen bell had tolled and left its echoes to linger. Every breath in the room was clearly audible to him, as the dance stumbled to a confused halt, off balance.

Gradually, memories came to him – memories of things he’d never seen, thought’s he’d never had. And along with them came a sense of wellness, of strength, of power.

Krellosh had accepted the ceremony, and He had chosen his vessel – but that vessel wasn’t Jeron. That man looked just as he had before, bedecked with jewellery that glimmered on his tanned skin, standing in the middle of the circle – if slightly more stunned.

Looking down at himself, though, Kallen could see golden fur blanketing his arms, dappled with clusters of dark spots. A tail twitched about the hem of his robe; keen feline ears panned about the room, listening intently as the rite came to its end.

Such a thing as this had not happened recently, but it wasn’t without precedent, either; the high priest recovered after only a moment’s pause, clapping his hands sharply. Two other acolytes bolted upright at his signal; he gestured them toward Kallen. Two sub-priests, meanwhile, urged another knot of acolytes toward Jeron, and had them hold the silver and jewels as the priests themselves gently relieved the older hunter of them.

“We give thanks to the Earth-father for hearing our pleas,” the high priest intoned, as the acolytes stripped off Kallen’s robe. “We give thanks again for His leniency and crave His pardon that the one we offered was not to His tastes, and pray that His chosen vessel is suitably pleasing to Him.”

A sudden Presence loomed in Kallen’s mind, those foreign memories growing a bit stronger. He looked down at himself again, now free of his clothing, and found that, fur aside, he had changed remarkably little. He was not muscular, but lithe; not scarred, but unblemished. He was no different in build than he had been before; from his ankles to his neck, save for the addition of that sinuous tail, he was himself, under the fur.

“This will do very well,” the Presence said with his voice, and then it faded once more into the back of his mind. He held up his arm for one of the priests with the jewellery. First a silver, citrine-studded torc was slid up past his elbow – strange, he thought; to fit on Jeron’s arm at all, it should have been too big for him, yet it rested snug a bit below his shoulder – and then a heavier, hinged bracelet, this one set with green jaspers, was closed around his wrist; this, too, fit superbly. His right arm received a finger-wide band by the shoulder, bearing a plaque marked with crossed spears, and another three-fingers-wide bracelet to match that on his left arm. Beyond that, he stopped keeping track; he just moved this way and that to accommodate them as they added more ornamentation.

Despite the transformation of his face, apparently he’d retained his hair, still in its simple tail; raven-black, now, instead of a more common dark brown, but still the same length and style. Now that tail was undone, his hair brushed out straight, down to mid-back, then carefully worked into tiny braids, woven through with beads and jewels.

The sudden change did consume some time; all told, it took about half an hour for him to be completely adorned, as opposed to the few minutes that Jeron had needed for the last few pieces. With a beaded wrap around his waist and a similar shawl over his shoulders, fine anklets by his feet, and all the rest, some part of him thought he ought to make a mighty din when he walked; yet the first step he took was smooth enough that he issued no more than a very slight rattle.

He was ushered through the Temple of Earth and toward the central core of the Grand Temple – the Temple of the Seasons, where Azhari’s avatar had held court for some months now. Where many offerings to her had been laid, and though they hadn’t been so poor as to incur her wrath, neither had she accepted them and departed.

Thus, as happened every now and then, two gods walked the temple in human vessels, not only one as was usual. Oh, well; some part of him, that part he hadn’t known before, had been down this course in the past.

Priests bowed him into the Temple of the Seasons, solemnly closing the doors behind him. There, for a moment, he stood, taking in the sights. A feast had been laid on fine tables, and so far gone untouched; there were loaves of fresh bread, finely-roasted meats, bowls of fruit, jugs of beer and wine. And at the focus of all this lavishness was a grand wooden chair. Sprawled across it as much as sitting in it, he saw Azhari.

She was much like him in aspect, though where his fur was gold and marked with black, hers was all over tawny, save some delicate markings on her face and the tip of her tail, which were dark. She too was ornamented; a few necklaces and beaded cloths, but in her case most of her decoration was in fine silks, wound about her smoothly feminine form, draped over her here and there.

Emerald eyes slid over to meet his amber ones, and she lifted one hand in a lazy sort of greeting. “Ah, and here comes my old consort once again,” she drawled. “What do you have in mind for me this time, hmm?”

Kallen shouldn’t have known what to do, what to say, how to act. But that Presence was still in his mind; and though the will to act was, he thought, still his own, that Presence showed him the way. He sauntered over toward the throne, taking a cup from the tables on the way – a wooden cup, its outer surface inlaid with agates set in sun-disc patterns. “What I have to offer is what you’re always given,” he replied, taking a jug of wine and filling the cup, even as he kept walking. Metal jingled softly as he strode on toward the high seat with his burdens.

“More of what our faithful have given us? It’s already been set there once, you dear fool.”

“Set there, yes,” Kallen granted, leaning down far enough to set the jug down, then setting the hand thus freed on the arm of her chair and grinning. “But how many of them made a proper offering of it?” And to demonstrate, he leaned in closer still, bringing his hand up to seize her muzzle, his other hand tilting the cup against her lips.

She was, for the moment, stunned by his audacity; she blinked, sitting up a bit straighter, but accepted the first mouthful of wine without a complaint or wasted drop. Once the cup was empty, she seized his arm. “So you bring it right to me. That’s a start,” she hissed. “But you can’t possibly think that will be enough to satisfy.”

“Of course not,” he purred, reclaiming the jug with his free hand and refilling the cup even as she kept it in place. “It’s only the first taste.” And once the jug was safely down again, he swung himself in behind her – the wine sloshed about in the cup, but did not spill – and wound his free arm around, splaying over her stomach. Her breath caught; she was enough off her guard that she hadn’t started to struggle by the time he got the cup to her lips again, and his free hand edged under the silks and pressed against her mound.

She drank more slowly this time, a low sound of pleasure rising in her throat as his fingers crept lower, stroking her folds. One hand trailed along his arm, the one holding the cup; the other of her hands pawed about behind her, feeling along the edge of his wrap in turn, tugging at the end where it was tucked in. The garment came undone and fell onto the chair with a soft clatter of beads.

Once the cup was again empty, she twisted against him, pulling his arm around her, low enough that his fingers brushed against her breast; her muzzle sought out his for a hot, fierce kiss. It was far from submission – if he let her, she could twist his arm in some rather unpleasant ways, and she did still hld it tight – but neither was she pulling away from his touch; she writhed against him, rough tongue stroking over his lips, while his fingers slid over her sex and stroked its warm bud.

As he slipped a curled finger into her, she gasped, her grip on his wrist tightening. “I wonder,” she hissed, “is your new body strong enough? You’d have found it easier to subdue me as the one they were preparing…”

“I’m plenty strong enough,” he replied, half for his own sake, half at the will of the spirit inhabiting him. And he pulled up a bit closer still, letting her feel the heat and firmness of his bare manhood against her hip, with only her own winding of silk in the way.

She tore away from him, then – not entirely, but far enough to gain some leverage of her own. As she lunged in from the side, he brought his hand up to grab her wrist in turn. So they struggled back and forth, half-wrestling, half-embracing, sometimes pressing in close, sometimes so close that his sex pressed up against hers.

It didn’t really matter who won, some part of him knew – so long as Azhari was satisfied with the offerings and retired to her halls beyond. But she wouldn’t be satisfied with a poor contest, with anything less than his best – so that was what he gave.

For one precarious moment, she almost had him, but then he saw the building tension as she made ready to exploit that advantage; he saw where it would come from. And he yielded to it, and the pair of them rolled across the stone floor in a tumble of silk. The wooden cup, kept in his hand all this time, finally fell free and clattered onto the stone.

He crouched atop her, each of his hands holding one of her wrists, his legs planted between hers with a stray fold of emerald silk draped over the lot from the knees down. His hair was in disarray, some of the gem-braided locks tumbled over his shoulders, some hanging down past his jaw; her own mane of long, unbound hair spilled out over the floor under her head. She stared fiery-eyed up at him, panting hard; defiance was in that gaze still. He grinned down at her for a few moments, letting the knowledge sink in that this time, he had won; and then he moved.

That part of him which was still Kallen was amazed at how easy it was. There was no fumbling, no uncertainty; he brought the head of his manhood against her folds with one fluid motion, and with one smooth thrust he sunk it into her waiting heat. And then he drew his hips back, only to push in again.

She arched under him, the softness of her breasts pushing against his chest. As her head tilted back, he dipped his own down, nipping at the base of her neck, one last almost-formal gesture in connection with their little contest; then, confident that she’d not fight him, he planted his hands squarely on the stone by her shoulders and thrust into her some more.

Shuddering, she wrapped one arm around his shoulders and both legs around his waist. Her muzzle met his for another hot, wine-scented kiss, and this one went on for quite some time; breaking now and then for breath, but always renewed, only to grow deeper still. Her free hand slid in between them, and she shivered under him, around him, as she added her own touch to her pleasure.

Once, twice, thrice she tensed and shivered under him, each wave a little more intense than the one before. The fourth time was stronger by far – she muffled a cry against the side of his neck, clutching tight enough to him to strain a man’s ribs, and her teeth pricked at the point where his head met his shoulder. Still he kept driving himself in and out of her clutching sex, but this time, he felt his own peak rising inexorably inside him.

He made no effort to hold it at bay. Even as her pleasure was fading, he felt his own explode through him and shoved in deep, throwing his head back and giving breath to a heavy moan. She held him close atop her, lapping at his outstretched throat with surprising tenderness, as his manhood jerked in her sex, as his warm seed rushed out of him and deep into her.

Then his climax receded, and he sagged a little atop her, breathing hard – not from exertion, for he still felt as though he might run up a mountain, but from the fading vestiges of excitement and passion.

She let out a soft sigh, pressing a hand to his cheek. “Very well, my lover, my rival. You chose your body well. I am well-pleased… this year. The land is yours.”

He shifted his weight on to one hand that he might mirror her gesture with the other. “I always fulfil my duties,” he reminded her, and touched his nose to hers. “No less so for them being pleasant.” He drew himself out of her with a sigh of his own and rose onto his knees, stretching out somewhat; the human part of him marvelled that his manhood remained at rigid attention.

Laughing, she drew her fingertips along that firm heat. “How fortunate you are,” she rumbled. “You never lack for willing consorts.”

“You could try asking, next year,” he pointed out with a grin. “If they only knew it would please you, I’m sure our people would oblige, but they’d not risk your wrath otherwise.”

Another laugh. “And for all the fury you can show, somehow they still trust you to be gentle?” She shook her head, reaching out to reclaim the fallen cup, and then she rose to her feet, drawing him along after her. She saw him settled in the chair, poured him a cup of wine, placed that cup in his hand, and guided it to his lips. He drank it down; she claimed one last kiss, one last fond caress to his naked flesh. And then she draped one silk scarf over his midsection, covering, if not exactly concealing, his arousal; winding the bulk of her silks around herself again, she sauntered out of the Temple of the Seasons with an echoing peal of laughter.

Kallen, suddenly feeling a little more like himself again, sat back in the chair and stared at the feast all around him, bemused. He’d been so caught up in the moment, he hadn’t even considered the usual events of the harvest festival; the many women who sought the favour of Krellosh by pleasing His worldly avatar; a few men, too, sometimes… for one of his youth, who’d spent so much time away from others, it was a bit daunting.

But the Presence knew he was adequate to the task. And if that was not the manner of blessing he wished to give, well, it would hardly be the first time that had been the case, either. But he might as well enjoy whatever he could… and he’d certainly not lack for offers once the season was gone, either.

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes – almost sleeping, but not quite. Even as he did, that Presence took over once again; as Krellosh acted, so Kallen dreamed, though there wasn’t much of either to be had now, as the body they now shared rested in its seat, fingers idly caressing stiff flesh through the thin layer of red silk.

In the distance, muted by stone but still clear enough for feline ears, a peal of thunder announced the first of the autumn rains.