Henry had faced a lot of things in Milforia.
Lust-cursed temples. Demon raccoons in panty vaults. Thigh-based transportation systems. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared him for what stood before him now:
The Chamber of the Council of Moans.
Twelve towering archways of shimmering silk framed a circular chamber, each glowing faintly in a different hue—from Cherry Red of Yearning to the Purple of Eternal Pillow Talk. At the center was a wide, low bed shaped like a flower in bloom, its petals velvety and somehow pulsing softly to an unseen beat.
Henry gulped.
Climaxa leaned close, her breath tickling his earlobe. "This is where diplomacy stops being verbal... and starts getting vocal."
Prudencia groaned beside him. "If you start yodeling halfway through, I'm leaving."
