non-existent. Lyric might have been distressed by that possibility if he didn’t like his current state of being. But he did.
He felt… good.
Shivaun had been musing about how strange it was to create by thinking. The unbidden thought flitted across her consciousness that perhaps fallible creatures shouldn’t have such power, but she wasn’t really in the mood for fathoms-deep reflection.
“Many people would say bein’ able to think things into bein’ is evil.”
Lyric pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “And yet they’d jump at the chance to do what you can do.”
After a brief pause, she said, “Could any demon find this place? And make changes?”
“I don’t know about finding. Seems unlikely, but I can’t say for sure. But nobody can make changes unless you give them permission.”
“I do no’ think I gave you permission to add this beautiful bed.”
He smiled. “Maybe not consciously, but if it hadn’t been okay with you, the bed wouldn’t be here. I assure you. This place is your lair. You designed and decorated it and changes are only possible if you approve.”
She raised up and leaned on an elbow, looking down into Lyric’s face, which seemed changed. Not so much in form as in relaxed. Happy.
“My lair?” She smirked. “Have I become a wild animal?”
He shrugged. “Call it what you want. Home. Residence. Pad. Crib. Lair.”
She looked around. “This is my home?”
“If you want. You’re free to recreate as often as you want. Or redecorate.”
“Redecorate?”
“Hmmm.”
“You have somethin’ in mind?”
Looking at her with a small smile, he said, “I do.”
With a sweeping wave, she said, “Be my guest, demon. I’m curious to see how you’d change my vision.”
With grace and movement that would have been too fast for the human eye to track, Lyric swung out of bed. Shivaun appreciated the view of his retreating naked form as he walked to the edge of the pavilion and looked out.
He wished himself a pair of drawstring linen pants that rode low on his hips, but remained shoeless and shirtless. Shivaun rose and wished herself into a flowy linen shift that matched.
Lyric reached out to the water and it calmed so that it looked as still and glassy as an Austrian lake in winter. He then padded down the steps to the edge of the water. Shivaun remained on the stone landing above, waiting with eager anticipation to see what the demon had in his complicated and unpredictable mind.
Two dozen shadowy figures appeared on the water as blurry images just before they took shape as a herd of magnificent black swans.
Without monitoring her tone or dignity, Shivaun squealed with delight like a little girl and Lyric laughed quietly, thrilled to have pleased her with his gift.
A silver tray then appeared in his hand. It was stacked high with tiny yellow cakes the size of cheese cubes. He twisted his torso to smile up at her.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Swan treats. You want to help?”
When he squatted at the water’s edge, the swans swam close and behaved like pets.
Not wanting to miss out on a minute of the fun, Shivaun hurried down the steps, raked half the treats into the pouch she’d improvised by gathering up her skirt, and began distributing.
The two demons quietly enjoyed handing out swan treats for some time.
“You like to feed things,” she said.
“Hmmm?”
“Cotton candy for dragons. Little orangey bits for swans. It gives you pleasure to please and nourish at the same time.”
He laughed. “Cotton candy isn’t really nourishment.”
“’Tis nourishment for the soul,” she argued. “More yours than the dragons’. It feeds the part of spirit that makes livin’ worthwhile.”
“A romantic and a poet, Shivaun. You’re a continual surprise. In the best way.”
“So what is it you find gratifyin’ in feedin’ things?”
After rolling that question over in his mind three times, he concluded that there could be a correlation to his divine purpose.
“When you talk about feeding in terms that transcend food, it could be said that music ‘feeds’. Some people need it as much as physical sustenance. It creates a stable chain of context for life. Imagine a celebration, of any kind, without music. Rites, like weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs. Courtship.” He turned toward her and treated her to his sexy, lopsided smile. “Seduction.”
She shook her head. “No’ true. No music accompanied my seduction.”
“You’re so wrong. You provided the sound drop without even realizing it.” She looked blank. “The windchimes.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “’Tis a stretch.”
“Not at all. The chimes are the instrument. The wind is the musician.” She laughed