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absentmindedly began to crease one of the corners of this precious horrible book just along its tiny delicate flower border. And yet he could not allow himself not to look. And thus he was subjected to the image of the Pleasure of Honey and Navel on the next page, in which the male was suspended over the receptive female who lay on her back, his body parallel with hers to cover her, standing up by the force of his arms, and using muscle control of his lower torso alone to trace precise arcs of flower petals with the tip of his erect member around the center of her navel filled with honey, into which he dipped.
    Dirvan was such a honey navel, a Hole of Gold. Women and men there flirted with Preinad mercilessly, touched by the novelty and the sweet challenge of tainting the severe priest. Corrupting, after all, was such a satisfying manner of testing one’s mettle.
    Admirers flocked regularly to the Shrine of the Order of the Bright Vision on such days when he was to lead the Ceremony. They came to hear his hypnotic baritone, to see his sensitive lips shape words of Sacrament. They drank in with their eyes the sight of the young priest raising sculptured hands in supplication before the Deity. And when he turned to them to pass on the Blessing, his expression shocked them with its purity, if only to elicit a pang of arousal.
    Truth appeared to them in that instant seductive and potent. And they worshiped him.
    But the young priest would permit no one to approach him after the Ceremony. He accepted no personal gifts of flowers or jewels or handkerchiefs soaked with sweet oil of roses and love sweat, that were showered upon him under the pretence of gifts to the Order. He allowed no hastily passed perfumed notes to touch his hands.
    And it became apparent to all that not only was the stern name of Olvan to remain impeccable, but the young priest himself was above all temptation.
    Yes, there had even been suicides afterwards. Indeed, of all things, Dirvan best loved melodramatic passion, especially such that involved pain or death.
    Cyanolis Vaeste may have been like the others, secretly drawn to his aura of unattainable intensity. And she too may have been hypnotized by his charisma.
    But unlike the others, Cyanolis did not show it.
    Preinad noticed the novelty of indifference where he could easily ignore attention—pronounced indifference stood out. There it was, upon every chance encounter, and it began to be a guessing game of sorts for him. The priest knew that some used this one oldest guile to seduce, and it had failed to affect him, in all cases. Was this her subtle motive? Very likely it was, and yet he remained unsure. Thus, curiosity would not dissipate.
    She was, of all ironies, not even beautiful. Diminutive fine-boned fleshiness. Somewhat like this female drawn in ink on parchment, with lewdly exaggerated portions of her female form.
    But Cyanolis was real.
    Real as warm flesh and soft skin. There was a sheen of softness about her that could never be conveyed in a figure traced on parchment. And her face was almost that of a child.
    Cyanolis was young, with an unusually beautiful singing voice, as Preinad had a chance to discover for himself, for she had been invited to sing before the Regents, and made quite an impression.
    When she sang, it seemed there was no emotion that her voice did not convey, if only for an instant. And quite possibly, it was the voice that had first affected Preinad. That, and the knowledge that this virgin sound of purity—purity he could never resist—issued out of a body of an already renowned Dirvan whore.
    For, Cyanolis Vaeste had, as they called it, the “madness of the womb.” An insatiable sexual urge.
    But with Cyanolis this passion did not at all correlate with the presence of natural sympathies. It was rumored that she could fulfill herself only with those toward whom she was indifferent. Those she held dear she could never envision in sexual terms.
    And maybe that is what