Ten Transformations
by Cobalt Jade (cobaltjade@aol.com)
Number One: Let Them Eat Cake
In another plane much like this one, on a world where a giant meteor
scored the earth and created a continent-sized gash, there lived a
Witch-Queen of inordinate power. Friends and foes alike called her the
White Queen, both for her personal coloration and the many peoples she
conquered; for white as you know absorbs all other colors and keeps them
inside it, as any experimentation with a prism will attest.
The Queen was and beautiful, firm of body and fair of face, and
utterly corrupt. Magic made her cunning and lazy, not to mention cruel.
The bulk of her magic lay in transformation spells and she chose to employ
them on her subjects. For amusement or expedience, sometimes both. Often
she used it for punishment. All knew of her and feared her accordingly.
She was a woman of far-ranging appetites, and foremost among them was
for entertainments of the carnal sort. In her chambers erotic statues were
placed, former lovers, some said, whom she had tired of, or slaves who
displeased her, their writhing forms all frozen at the apex of their
pleasure. Some figures served as footstools and cloakracks, while others
were bent over at the waist to stand with legs wide apart, arms linked,
their smooth, naked backs forming tables at which she played at dice or
cards. The sheer, decadent depth of her vision dazzled those who had the
fortune to see it, all that petrified flesh used as rare woods or marbles
would be in more wholesome environs. Hers was a great sorcery indeed, very
rare, very powerful, and I confess I envied her greatly.
One day the Queen told her kitchen slaves to concoct a special feast for
a visiting dignitary. Her lead pastry chef, called Petal-Blush, was
ordered to create a soign-berry gingercake for the dessert. But too late
the slave discovered there were no soign-berries to be found in the palace.
Panic-stricken, she considered her options. If she went to market to
buy some she would certainly be punished, as kitchen slaves were under
strict orders to keep to the kitchen. On the other hand there were plenty
of flossberries, but they were underipe and still green about the edges.
What should she do? Either directly or indirectly she might anger the
Queen, and her skin would pay.
But ultimately Petal-Blush was practical rather than enterprising.
Self-delusional, rather. She used what was available, telling herself the
flossberries were a serviceable substitute if not an inspired one, and that
the Queen would surely understand. Unfortunately, her Mistress did not.
Why did the Queen choose that moment to visit the kitchen? I don't
know, and neither did Petal-Blush. In retrospect, you could say she was
looking for disobedience, to punish a slave in some cruel and novel way.
At any rate, she strode in imperiously and immediately sighted, on a
tea-towel on the counter, the freshly cooled and frosted pastry. But it
not covered with the sweet, claret-colored soign-berries as she ordered.
"What is this?" the Queen said coldly. The slaves shrank back from her,
their spoons trembling in their hands. "I specifically asked for a
soign-berry gingercake. Who made this mistake?"
No slave lived long in the palace by ignoring the Queen. As one the
staff pushed poor Petal-Blush to the front. She had been originally
trained as a pleasure slave and still bore the endowments, and she was to
be a most spectacular recipient of the Queen's magic.
The Queen looked the cowering slave up and down. "Why were they not
used?
"They...they were not available, Mistress," Petal-Blush stammered.
"Do you not know unripe flossberries upset my stomach?" the Queen
thundered.
"Mistress, I..." the slave babbled as her friends shrank away from her.
When you are a slave, it doesn't take much to displease a mistress who
wants some amusement. "When I say soign-berries, I mean soign-berries,"
the Queen said. "I think a spell or two will make you more pliable to my
orders."
Poor Petal-Blush begged for mercy, groveling on the floor, flinging
herself at the Queen's boots. But the Queen would have none of it.
"Stand up," she commanded. "Since you have been lax, I will enspell you
to serve more faithfully, to the best of your abilities, so you will never
make such a mistake again." She raised her right hand. A white beam of
light shot from her snow-white palm, all the colors of the rainbow and
none. It struck the fear-stricken slave and froze her in place. "Yes," the
Queen smiled. "I know exactly what to do with you."
With a curl of her wrist the frightened slave began to shrink. Her
clothing fell away from her as she assumed the height of a child, though
not its proportions. Panic roiled behind her paralyzed features, and a
fevered, silent plea: *Please don't do this to me, please don't!* But the
Queen, as everyone knew, was merciless, and the kitchen staff could only
watch in horrified silence as Petal-Blush continued to diminish in size,
her glossy ivory skin now taking on a bright coppery hue. At the same time
she flattened as if fed between two rollers of an invisible press, curling
in on herself as if she was a sheet of metal being shaped over a mold. In
another second she took on the gleam of newly mint copper fresh from the
forge.
Suddenly the shrinking stopped. Petal-Blush was now twelve inches high.
She remained poised on the tips of her toes for a second, then fell over on
the tiles with a clatter. She had become a cake pan. A most voluptuous
cake pan.
One or two of the slaves wailed in fright, which the Queen chose to
ignore.
"Take your former coworker and see that she produces finer cakes than
the one she made," the Queen said. "I expect to see them on the table at
every major feast."
With trembling hands, the assistant pastry chef bowed and took up the
copper mold which had been her friend, and barked orders for the
preparation of the dough. No slave in the Queen's kitchen could afford to
waste time on tears.
The dessert proved wildly popular with the court. The former
Petal-Blush was henceforth kept very busy popping out fresh, steaming
replicas of herself, which were frosted in marzipan with chocolate shavings
for hair and candied cherries for lips, with pink sugar at her nipples and
loins; the filling, I have heard, was most creamy and delicious, with a
certain flavor reminiscent of... well, never mind, but it put lascivious
thoughts into the minds of the diners. Indeed, it was as if the former
pleasure-slave was still being used for the purpose she was originally
created for. Not that she had much of a choice, of course.
The Queen furthermore instructed that the cake pan hang from a hook on
the wall when not in use, so that all everyone should see the evidence of
their Mistress's displeasure. The slaves say they see it move sometimes,
as if the slave trapped in the mold is struggling to get free, but that's
probably only the nonsense of slaves. As this whole may be.
______________________________________________________________________
*What kind of is that?* Aurena protested. *There is no heroism,
no quest, no romance. Only defeat from the very beginning.*
*I found it entertaining,* the Basilisk hissed, giving her a slim, stony
torso a squeeze to remind her of his strength.
Aurena was silent. Though the story's exoticism had momentarily taken
her mind off her troubles in the end it had unpleasant parallels to her own
plight. The thought of the poor slave continually turning out edible
replicas of herself made her depressed. *Was she ever set free?* she said.
The Basilisk chuckled. *Do you think I would tell you if she was?*
*You torture me,* the warrioress said in resignation.
*As I said, it is my meat and drink.* He slithered over her cold, stony
shoulder to look her in the face. *How do you think she feels, Aurena,
when she is thrust into a flaming oven, her transformed flesh brimming over
with sticky batter? Knowing that every cake that is made of her takes away
some of her vitality for uncaring others to consume? In time even a
magical copper will become blackened and greasy and dented with use... an
eyesore to hang on the wall, forgotten and unused.* He flicked his tongue
over her unresponsive eyes. *Do you feel her despair? Her lack of hope?
Her complete and utter helplessness?
Aurena refused to give the creature the negative emotions it sought. If
she controlled her reactions, it might grow frustrated with her
noncompliance and set her free. *The only thing I feel right now is
hunger,* she said flippantly.
*Bah,* the Basilisk said, and slid off of her like a wave.
*You think to destroy me with these stories,* Aurena said. *But they
are only stories.*
*Think again,* the Basilisk gloated, and continued.
This work is copyrighted 2001 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). This
work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is
charged for its use. Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without
author credit or this notice violates my copyright.
|
|
