Torenson fired the .45 at the distant black figures and saw one fall.  The monks had been after him since sunrise.  They lacked firearms and so Torenson had been able to keep just far enough ahead of them to gain access to the mountain temple of Khang Tsu.  He checked the magazine on the pistol and realized he had only three shells left.  He'd have to hurry.  The gnawing pain in his left side spoke of an even more urgent danger.
 
He was almost there.  He knew this by looking up at the peak of the mountain.  Another set of boulders and he should be at the summit.  How many of the Leng Ti still followed?  Would they dare to climb to that most holy of places, the Seat of Khang Tsu, the Goddess of All Earthly Pleasures?
 
Torenson waited to see what the priests below him would do.  They had pulled their fallen comrade from the icy boulder where red droplets marked his fate.  Seconds later the corpse and the others disappeared. They had finally given up.  I must be almost there, realized the gunman.
 
Forgetting about his pursuers and the pain deep inside him, the climber pocketed his pistol, checked his pack one last time, making sure that his copy of the Khang Dhu Vli was intact.  The ancient book predated the Kama Sutra by a thousand years and included sexual practices unknown even to the East Indians.  Practiced in temples like the one at the top of this mountain.
 
Torenson scrambled up and around the outcropping of huge boulders, placed as a final barrier by the ancient Tibetans.  Once above the rock wall, he saw the small snow-covered shrine.  The sides were worked in small carvings, each depicting an Earthly Pleasure: eating, drinking,
gaming, smoking, narcotics, sport, and of course, sex.  Every imaginable and unimaginable sexual position, practice or pleasure.
 
The climber dumped his pack, retrieved the moldering tome from his sack.  He quickly re-read a passage marked in red pen.  The ancient ritual called for him to strip, rub his naked body with scented oils and to chant a magical mantra.  Torenson checked the skies.  Yes, there was Venus in its desired position. And there was the full moon.  This exact coordination of the Heavens would not exist again for six months, something he would not be alive to see.  He was not too late.  The purple-robed priests had not delayed him long enough.
 
The gunman slowly stripped of his many layers.  He discarded the clothing for he would never need them again.  He rubbed the oil into his shivering body as the arctic winds tore at him mercilessly.  The oil contained camphor and gradually warmed his pale body.  The cancer deep inside his stomach and liver tore at him like a vulture.  He ignored the pain and finished the preparations.
 
That done, Torenson took his mount on the single seat of the small shrine.  He lit the recessed skull-shaped candles, anointed the altar with myrrh and the vaginal blood of a virgin girl.  Then the chanting.  The mantra rose up from his throat with a dull, nasal ring.  "Khang Tsu
Vli, habir-kleh. . ."
 
At first nothing happened.  Had he prepared everything properly?  Had he recited the mantra long enough?  Torenson was about to try again when he noticed a stream of cloud breaking away from cumulus strata above him. The small funnel puffed slowly toward the mountain's peak.  Torenson wanted to stand, to reach up to the approaching coil but the fierce winds would not allow it.  Instead he lay back and waited.
 
The coil of smoke coalesced into a more solid form, like a ghostly body seen through a curtain of wind.  The man lay quietly, ignoring the biting cold.  The little cloud body drew closer and he saw at last that he had succeeded.
 
A beautiful face looked down from the wrappings of cloud.  She had gorgeous almond eyes and a lusty mouth.  Her face was full, raven-haired, not the starved skeleton face of a model, but the joyous, healthy countenance of one who ate, drank and played.  Torenson stared into her jade green eyes and raised his hands to her.  His fingers made contact with the misty form of her clothing.  Droplets of dew ran down his wrists as the searching hands dug into the cloud.  The mist was warm and wet.  Finally his fingers found what they sought, two ample pointed breasts.  His finger-tips played with the tender nipples, squeezed the soft curves, cupping them.
 
The cloud-woman, Khang Tsu, moaned a childish sigh, sank closer to her warm-blooded lover.  Torenson sat up with the help of one hand, placed a brown nipple in his mouth.  He sucked gently, getting a mouthful of golden sweet liquid.  He drank from her body like the flower does the rain.
 
Khang Tsu giggled like a virgin and drew herself farther from her foggy garment.  Torenson could see her legs now, long, fleshy.  And between them rested a wonderful pocket of velvety fur, which ringed a perfect oval of pleasure.  He reached for her but Khang Tsu pulled back coquettishly.  He wanted to place his fingers inside, to explore but she would not let him.  For an instant he was confused, but his lover removed that consternation when she raised her own pink, curled tongue.
 
Now he understood.  She came closer and he took her with his mouth.  His face slid gently into the delicious moisture of her folds.  He could feel her legs wrap about his head but unlike his earthly experiences he did not find it suffocating.  He explored the edge of her lips with cautious exploration, tasting her.  She was like rain on a spring day, a green lake and a snow covered mountain.
 
Pressing closer he stabbed her with his mouth-piece.  His tongue sought her deepest recesses.  She moaned loudly, reflexively lurching her legs in pleasure.  He repeated the motion several time then used her body motion to find the delicate pearl of her clitoris, wrapped in its
oyster-flesh.  He grasped it his lips, sucking then licking and then sucking again. Khang Tsu writhed in mid-air as Torenson brought her to climax.
 
The legs let go.  Torenson lay down on the cold stone of the shrine.  He drew one breath before he felt his body rise, a million whispering fingers carrying him into the air.  Giggling came to him from every direction.  Khang Tsu was not alone.  The man could perceive the forms of young maidens all about him, their efforts causing him to become airborne.
 
He didn't look down.  The terror of that height was of no interest to him, only Khang Tsu and her hand-maidens.  Torenson wondered where the mistress of this multitude of aerial beings was.  Khang Tsu had retreated into her cloudy bower, leaving him to her able assistants.  He could feel their fingers touching him all over.  Their lips kissed his eyes, his ears, the back of his neck, his nipples.  Then they began a rotation of visits, their tiny mouths gripping his penis, caressing his scrotum, for only a second then releasing.  The teasing became agonizing as he became fully hard.  Would they continue to taunt him, to tempt him with their airy tongues?
 
The answer came in the form of Khang Tsu.  He descended upon him from a great height. He watched as her perfect Celestial body fell effortlessly down and then passed him.  The sprites drew Torenson up, flipping him over.  Miles below him was the Earth, but he gave the drop no notice.  For down there was Khang Tsu, dressed in cloud and wind, her legs spread, her breasts waiting, her mouth, her anus, any part of her was his.
 
Torenson descended, now it seemed by his own will.  He felt her arms wrap about his neck, her legs curl to his back.  His hard penis inserted itself into her glowing, welcoming vagina.  He pulled back, then pushed into her.  He repeated the stroke, again and again and again. . .  He could feel them moving, both by his power and hers.  The winds rushed about them as they made love on a bed of wind.  The roaring of air was the same as her orgasmic whines, the chill the same as her clawing nails in his back.  Faster and faster they fell; faster and faster they pumped.  Torenson's last reserve of strength went into driving his member deeper and deeper into her softest tissues.  Faster and
faster. . .
 
Their final ecstasy came as they hit the ground.

They found Torenson's dead, frozen body two months later in the wilds of Northern Labrador.  The doctors and scientists could not figure out how he had come to be there, why his injuries indicated a drop from a great height, or where the fresh Tibet lichens under his finger nails
had come from.  And most of all, they could not explain the intense smile of pleasure frozen deep into his face. . .

About the Author:

Will Parker is a computer programmer by day, Gothic band drummer by night.  His work has appeared in 69 Flavors of Paranoia.  He has seventeen cats, all named "Shithead".
 

About the Artist:

Sean Simmans is the Cover Illustrator of DEAD END STREET PUBLICATIONS LLC and the Creator of THE BELIEVABLE TRUTH @ Scowlzine and VIBE Nation (UK). In addition he illustrates for UMM Magazine (Canada) and is staff illustrator for Blood Moon zine.