Thuringwethil sang of all these things of ages long past, of her first yielding, of their first coupling, of the forbidden pleasures and first sins experienced upon the Isle of Almaren. She could not help but sing of her sadness, for she knew that often Sauron spread His love among many spirits.

Then when she had sung her heart out to Him, He allowed her to come closer and she lay her head upon His bare chest. She felt Him tremble beneath her and soon He was ridding her of her thin gown. She twisted and entwined about His hands, charming Him, bewitching Him, bedazzling Him with her ethereal beauty.

He held His head back, baring His neck to her. "Taste My blood and drink of My power," He said, inviting. She looked into His glowing eyes and smiled sensuously, her crimson tongue flicking out over rosy lips. Her soft face hovered over His neck, her dark tresses drifting down and tickling His skin. Sharp little teeth pierced the skin of the Dark Lord's neck as He moaned and writhed beneath her. Her tongue played and splashed in the rising pool of sable liquid, caressing the stinging flesh to equalize the delicate balance between pleasure and pain. Several small rivulets escaped from her kissing lips and trickled down Sauron's throat. She sucked His black blood slowly, each precious droplet rippling through her body, touching her secret places. Raging fires of hunger coursed within her middle, and the threshold of passion swelled with her mounting urgency.

One hand caught in His mane, the other clawing His neck, she drank deeply, her Master's life-force kindling her rising fires to a flaming inferno. Her back arched as she greedily drew the blood from His veins, the dark ambrosia filling both body and spirit with sublime ecstasy and power. Then she trembled, gasping at the force of the pulsing storm inside her, as the gates of her need were rent asunder, and her dewy thighs dripped with the rain of her own nectar.

"Enough!" Sauron hissed and pushed her clinging, quivering fingers from His neck. Then He rolled over on her, holding her fast, as she closed her smoldering eyes. She felt a piercing jab in her neck as He sank His teeth, like fire-driven steel, into the flowing springs that watered her being. His incisors, like the iron spikes of a portcullis, held fast the blood-drenched tissue as her heart pumped torrents to answer His need. Murmuring dark words of obscene beauty, He pawed the rosy peaks of her breasts as He sucked and licked her neck, her life-force flowing into His mouth.

Soaring once again to the heights of passion, Thuringwethil floated among clouds of bliss. Though her body was pinned down by the massive form of her Lord, she felt her weak frame swaying in the winds, nigh to the point of swooning. Then His teeth slid from her throbbing neck and she cried out, begging Him to let her linger in forgetful ecstasy, the moonless darkness of sensual rapture.

Her body giving in to the frailties of temporal flesh and her mind besotted with her own passion, she longed for Him to drain her life from her and leave her in sweet oblivion. He glared at her as He slapped her into unwilling sensibility, buffeting her face with mighty blows. She weakly recoiled from Him, but His mouth was quickly upon hers, savagely forcing her lips open with His piercing tongue. She swooned, her arms falling back, as she felt her mouth filling when He spat their mingled essence back into her throat.

Her life trembled, close to extinction, like the fluttering wings of a dying ebony butterfly. "Master!" she gasped as she felt strength returning to her. They lay there, entwined, their bloodied lips caressing. Her hips arching upward, she ground her body in gyrating, rolling circles against His, moving beneath Him in a stationary dance of primal hunger, of surging need and aching anticipation.

His face shadowed by the veil of His long, black mane, His eyes two glowing coals within a cavern of darkness, He growled His impending intent into her face. Sharp claws dug into her hips as He rose to His knees and pulled her quivering thighs around His middle. She screamed when His piercing lance tore through the pink petals of her secret flower, moistened by a glistening dew.

He drove into her slowly, tantalizing her inner fires. She moaned loudly as her thighs locked around His waist and she moved to meet Him in pulsing collisions. It was not enough for Him, though. He scowled at her, His disappointment showing as His thrusts halted. She wailed her protest, and as she reached up to punish Him with her claws, He backhanded her viciously, sending her head flying to the side, blood erupting from her split lips.

"You are unworthy of Me!" He snarled down at her. "None are worthy of the Flame!"

"Master!" she hissed, her teeth bared and her eyes wild. "I am in agony!"

"Your agony is nothing to Me," He laughed scornfully, "but I do have My appetites, and I will be sated! Please Me! Let the wildness of the wind ignite the Flame and howl out its fierce desire!"

Grabbing her under the knees, He hoisted her legs around His shoulders and, drawing back, plummeted the innermost depths of her tender flesh. As the wind met the Fire, their bodies and spirits blazed into a raging inferno borne upon the zephyrs. He consumed her as she consumed Him, each adding to the other's passion and strength, their spirits and bodies joining, combining in a rhythm of lust. The jeweled walls undulated and moved with them, an ever-changing vista, a panorama of moving shapes, forms, and visions. She knew the wild frenzy of His lovemaking, and it was like a whirlwind of fire boiling into a raging inferno.

Thuringwethil felt that He would destroy her with His fiery power and beauty. His spear drove into the warm, secret place of her desires, until she could bear no more and convulsed about Him as He bludgeoned her again and again. The bejeweled walls hummed with Sauron's unsated passion as the wind fell back, moaning and whimpering. The Fire, now fully aroused, stormed in its lust and grew with the sweet zephyrs that fueled it.

Sauron held onto her tightly as He reached the heights of His aching torment. Then the Fire ignited, combusting in sparks borne aloft, raging and howling. With a great sigh, He erupted inside her, searing her with spurts of His liquid fire. Then with one last, great cataclysmic thrust, He fell back, exhausted, onto His dark bed. Thuringwethil sang as His rushing fire filled her, and her song was a whimpering wail, like the dying moans of the wind after a storm. She lay under Him and kissed His black lips, sighing, "I love You, my Lord."

His uncaring laughter rang in her mind. "You have satisfied Me, but did not please!"

How He delighted in her pain! But she was long used to the biting sting of His rejection, and so she bore it, not allowing it to pierce her heart fully. "Nothing ever changes," she thought bitterly. "He is as arrogant as ever!"

Slumber overtook Thuringwethil and she lay there in the cooling moisture of the sheets, sleeping lightly, one arm draped across her Master's great chest. She was aware of nothing until the sound of a door sliding open interrupted her rest, and she sensed that one of her own kind approached. Frowning, she raised her head and looked up, wondering what was the meaning of this intrusion.

The room was suddenly awash in light, and the myriad of charmed jewels which covered the walls and ceiling burst forth into visions that pulsed with the flames of a thousand flaring volcanoes. Into the room flowed a sparkling creature of ethereal loveliness, a spirit of living fire clad in the body of a woman, voluptuous and buxom of shape. Her hair was as burnished copper, long and flowing in tumbling waves and curling tendrils which swung across her golden raiment with every sway of her delectable body. Lust-filled green eyes burnt like the flames of heated copper as they gazed upon the dark figure reclining on the couch, and flickered with jealousy as they lighted upon the pallid form of a scowling Thuringwethil.

The Dark Lord never stirred at the approach of the stunning radiance who neared His bed. The sultry creature knelt before the King of Men and Lord of Middle-earth, her head pressing against the couch, slender fingers of alabaster and pale rose digging into the coverings.

"What comfort do you bring Me?" Sauron asked, not bothering to open His eyes.

"The raging fires of the forge of love," she purred seductively, "the heat of my body, which burn ever for You, my Lord. Master," she whimpered, "I bring You the boldness of the blazing fire... even Arien dims in the light of my passion! There are no limits to my ardor or desire, and only You can quench the fire that rages inside me!"

"Why should I bother with you?" He stretched languidly upon the couch. "I am enough in Myself!"

"Master," she sighed breathlessly, "I am a Maia of fire, far lesser than You, but of the same spirit. Let our essences combine and burn together!"

He yawned and opened His eyes. "Then stoke My fires," He said listlessly.

"One touch, Master, and You will know!"

"Then let Me know."

The woman of fire reached up across His form, her hand surrounding the slumbering ember.

"You are a shameless whore," He sighed in the pleasure of her fondling hand.

"I know," she laughed as her deft fingers stroked the fires into life.

Sauron turned to the dark beauty beside Him and chuckled, "I need much comfort tonight."

"Should I leave, Master?" Thuringwethil asked, hurt, her spirit sinking into abysmal depths.

"Nay, stay," He said. "I need two shameless whores... My hunger is insatiable."

"Master," a full, rich voice entreated, "shall I come to You?"

"Nároméra, Spirit of Fire, yes, I will allow it."

"But what about her?" A resentful, sullen glance was cast to Thuringwethil, who returned the bitter look with a spiteful glare of jealousy and hatred.

"I would obtain some comfort tonight... if either of you could provide it," He laughed devilishly.

"I am more than happy to try, Master!" Nároméra smiled wickedly.

"There is no solace in false promises," Sauron said, looking to Thuringwethil, whose heart felt the withering blight of rejection.

"Mine is not a false promise, Master," the fire spirit replied with obvious eagerness as she rose upon graceful feet and stripped the golden gown from her body, letting it fall shimmering upon the floor. She moved to the Dark Lord in rippling waves, clasping her ample breasts with her hands and pushing them together. "Do they please You, Master?" she asked, slowly rolling her bosom in wanton fashion.

"Of mild interest," He yawned, "though they could be larger."

"Master, please give me leave to go!" Thuringwethil wailed.

"Nay, My sorrow is very deep. Stay, perhaps you can be of some use!"

Then with a low moan through pouting lips, Nároméra flowed into the bed, her warm, heated body brazenly straddling the Dark Lord's loins. She bent over Him, her burnished tresses hiding His face and her taut nipples dragging over His chest. Purring like a cat in heat, she laved His lips with moist, fiery kisses as He lay unaroused beneath her.

"Is Master displeased?" she sulked as she leaned back on her knees, resting her hands on His great thighs, her breasts thrust forward.

"No, uninspired."

Shamed, Nároméra bent her head down, an unhappy tear splashing on His chest. Thuringwethil beheld the fire spirit through narrowed eyes, smirking in contemptuous glee at her pain.

"Thuringwethil... inspire Me," the Dark Lord said impassively.

"You need my song, Master, to whip Your fires into white hot passion," she boasted arrogantly, sneering at Nároméra.

Thuringwethil slithered onto her knees and sensually crawled to the crown of the Dark Lord's head. Bending down, she graced His lips with a long, lingering passionate kiss which she was slow to break. Then with a searing glare at Nároméra, she flippantly spun around, arrogantly turning her back to her rival. Shifting her position, she moved back until she hung suspended over Sauron's face, sighing in pleasure as she felt the stirrings of His breath just beneath her mound of delights.

Sauron pulled the dark shadow of the night closer and grasped one of her firm, round hips in His hand. He moaned His kisses into her dark depths as the fire spirit slowly lowered herself, teasing His flickering flames. His other hand idly caressed over Nároméra's quivering stomach. The tapestries of fire and shadow upon the walls reflected them in a pale golden light.

He gasped in surprise as Nároméra suddenly engulfed Him in her flaming pit of desire. His face convulsed in regained lust, tensing into a mass of desire, Sauron rekindled the passion of the Wind with lips, tongue and teeth as she sighed and moaned. His strong, hot fingers grasped Thuringwethil's rump as she hovered over His face. The Flame was whipped into a howling fury, a maelstrom of desire, as the Wind teased Him into a cauldron of heated lust. The flames joined together as the wind ignited them into a flaming orb of energy and vitality.

Mists of lust formed about them, rising about them, covering them all in a thunderous crescendo of fire and raging wind. The jewels on the walls reflected their heat and whipped into visions of thrusting, undulating bodies. The Flame caressed both, giving to them His potency. The three ignited, combusting, their joining spirits transfused, permeating each one with raging, hot flames which rose up into the ceiling, blending and merging, twisting and transcending, joining in ethereal ecstasy.

Then they coalesced in spiritual beauty, pale flames rushing about them, and hung quivering, trembling, convulsing as violent contractions whipped them, driving them into melting fires. The Dark Lord thundered out in furious fulfillment as His burning essence like liquid fire poured into Nároméra, who shrieked and hissed in her ecstasy. Thuringwethil howled like a storm at sea and splashed waves of sated pleasure over her Lord's mouth.

At last spent, their forms once more appearing, the three lay panting upon the bed, their ardor extinguished, each one satisfied. They lay exhausted, the moaning wind sprawled across His chest on one side and the now quieted Nároméra on His other. Claiming dominion of both the wind and the lesser fire, Sauron first threw one great heated leg over Nároméra's calf, and then threw the other over that of Thuringwethil. Both lay alongside Him, nuzzling and kissing His neck.

"There was some comfort in that," He smiled lazily, "but it could have been better."

The Lord of Flame closed His eyes, sated for the time, as Nároméra purred beside Him. For Thuringwethil, there was only suppressed rage towards yet another rival for her Master's attentions. The wind sighed softly and wept great tears in the deep places of her heart. Why had she even bothered to answer Sauron's summons and make the long journey west? 'Twould have been far better had she stayed in the East, where she was both worshipped and feared, than to dwell in the tower of a petty Maia as just another of His many mistresses!