It Always Rains On Beltane  M/F, Romance, Rated NC-17. Caution: this
story contains a spoiler for ATQH. And for those who don't like The Dragon
Lady--stop reading right now! Thank you kindly. We all know that in the
ordinary course of events Constable Fraser and Inspector Thatcher would
never violate RCMP regulations by becoming romantically involved. But when
extraordinary occasions arise, sometimes taking great risks can bring
great rewards... It Always Rains on Beltane 

 by Diana Read	Four o'clock. Inspector Meg Thatcher, Royal Canadian
Mounted Police Liaison Officer, looked up from her computer screen as her
secretary placed a cup of tea on her desk and discreetly withdrew. She
pushed her chair away from the desk, picked up the teacup, and went to
look out her office window while she drank it. The sky that glowered over
the building rooftops of the busy Chicago street threatened rain. And this
was the last day of April. Rain at Samhain was one thing--it even rather
enhanced the atmosphere on an autumn evening--but surely, even in
Illinois, one could have hoped for decent weather at this time of year.
Damn, she thought. Why does it always rain on Beltane? For one thing,
cloaks would be required tonight in the circle; for another, the fire
might go out. How maddening the weather was, as maddening as the Celts
themselves: why couldn't they pronounce words the way they were spelled,
instead of pronouncing Samhain as Saw-en and Beltane as B'yal-tin? It was
just another example of the Celtic propensity for making things appear
other than they actually were...as in the case of her subordinate,
Constable Fraser. She had treated him severely when she first took up her
post at the Canadian Consulate, watching him closely and disciplining him
for even minor infractions of RCMP regulations. But while he appeared
respectful of her authority, there was something in those blue
eyes--inherited from some Scots ancestor, no doubt--that eluded her;
something in him that refused to bend or break despite her harsh
treatment. The Celts had historically resisted domination, and Fraser
resisted hers. There was something wild in Fraser. Not in behavior or
appearance, but something in his spirit: something as wild and free as the
Inuit tribes who roamed the Northwest Territories that had shaped his
upbringing and early career. Meg set down her teacup, then stopped before
the mirror to make sure her hair was tidy before she sat down at the
computer again to deal with those interminable statistics. She studied the
reflected image with satisfaction, noting her controlled features and the
remote expression in her eyes. Who would ever be able to guess what she
really was beneath that controlled surface? Who could guess that tonight,
in the woods beneath the full moon, she would preside over the Beltane
fire as high priestess, calling on both Goddess and God to bless the earth
and ensure its fertility during the coming season? She enjoyed the
contrast between her outer and inner lives, knowing that no one in her
workaday life knew the real Meg Thatcher. Only the reddish cast to her
dark hair hinted at her true nature, like a banked fire smoldering
steadily beneath cold altar stone. At five minutes to six she shut down
her computer, gathered handbag and raincoat, and turned out the light in
her office as she left. Nothing special was happening tomorrow or Sunday
at the Consulate; Constable Turnbull could be relied on to fulfill the few
requirements of an ordinary weekend. In an unusually good humor earlier in
the week, she'd given Fraser the weekend off and wondered why he'd
permitted a slight smile to cross his normally impassive features. Oh,
well, it was none of her business how he chose to spend his free time.
Occasionally, since that incident on top of the moving train three months
ago, when he'd kissed her for a good two minutes (part of her meticulous
brain had been unable to resist timing it to the second), she'd wished it
were her business how he spent his free time. But of course,
fraternization between herself and a subordinate was out of the question:
she'd made that quite clear. The nature preserve in which she and the
other twelve members of the coven would conduct their Beltane ceremony lay
a few miles outside the city. When she arrived there at nine, Meg glanced
disconsolately upward as she locked her car door. Rain clouds still raced
across the night sky, shedding a few drops from time to time as they
passed. Tiger Eye, the next most senior member of the coven, was waiting
for her at the parking lot. He threw back the hood of his cloak as she
approached, and bowed. "Dark Lady," he greeted her. "Merry meet. Careful,
the path is a little slippery with the drizzle." He indicated the path
through the woods with his flashlight. "The parking lot seemed awfully
full," Meg said as they walked through the woods. "We're not going to be
disturbed by crowds of beer-swilling teenagers, are we?" "In this weather?
I think not." Tiger Eye sounded unconcerned. "But it's true that we're not
the only ones here tonight. There's a large contingent of Lakota holding a
sweat lodge at the other end of the woods, but they'll stay out of our
way. Not to worry." Meg could hear the soft, insistent drumming even
before she saw the light of the balefire in the clearing. Her pulse
quickened: she loved the beginning of a Sabbat ritual, when the drums
called. The worshippers were gathering, the energy was rising: within
minutes she would cast the circle to begin the ritual. The half-ritual,
she reminded herself. For one thing would be missing from tonight's
celebration of the life force: her other half, the high priest. She was
the thirteenth member of the coven, elected high priestess by consensus
last Samhain, but...she ruled alone. Because she was unattached, and the
other members of the coven were all paired-- either handfasted or
dating--there would be no man to represent the God to her Goddess tonight.
There would be no one to help her enact the Great Rite. And without the
Great Rite, Beltane would not be the same. She would not be able to lead
by example, she would only be able to inspire. She would have to stand
watch, alone by the Beltane fire, while others reenacted the Sacred
Marriage of Goddess and God. And because she, the instrument of the
Goddess, was only half as powerful without her partner, perhaps the crops
would not grow this year. Perhaps the apple trees would blossom, but no
fruit would follow. Perhaps the corn would rise, but only half as tall.
All the worshippers standing in the circle around the balefire turned
toward Meg as she entered the clearing and bowed in unison. "Merry meet,
Dark Lady." "Merry meet, friends," she answered, marveling as always at
the respect her fellow coveners showed her. ("Why me?" she had asked them
at Samhain, the day that ended the old year in the Goddess religion and
began the new. "I'm a newcomer to this circle, a newcomer to Chicago, in
fact. Why do you choose me as high priestess?" The others, holding hands
as they swayed around the Samhain fire, murmured together. Finally, Tiger
Eye spoke. "We chose you because we have never seen a woman as powerful as
you, Dark Lady. Your magic is stronger than all of ours together.") Now
she watched as Earth Dancer added another armful of apple logs to the
Beltane fire and Moon Spinner, the strongest drummer in the coven, began
her soft, insistent drumming once more. If they thought her magic was so
strong, then she should use it. She made a swift decision. "Friends,
before we begin, I would like to ask your help. You know we have no high
priest to take the role of the God tonight. I would like..." she looked
around at the faces in the firelight, "...to summon the God to come to us
in person. Here and now. We'll be taking an enormous risk, because if our
combined powers are not strong enough to summon him, the energy might
dissipate too fast for us to use it in the Sacred Marriage. But I'd like
to try it, if you all agree." In fact the risk was largely hers. For if
she failed to summon the God, the coveners would know her magic was not as
powerful as they had thought. They would lose respect for her. But if she
succeeded...great risks could result in great rewards. A susurration of
yeses arose. "Yes, Dark Lady. Yes. We support you in this. Yes." "Very
well," Meg said. "We begin." She drew her athame, the black-handled ritual
knife whose dull blade ensured that it could never cause harm, from the
pocket of her cloak and held it high. Her voice rang through the clearing
as she began to call the four quarters. "Guardians of the Watchtowers of
the East...spirits of the air that is Her breath, be with us now!" After
invoking the quarters, she walked around the outside of the balefire,
cutting her athame through the air to cast the circle. She liked to
visualize it as a ring of pale purple fire, pulsing with energy. "By the
earth that is Her body, By the air that is Her breath, by the fire of Her
bright spirit, by the waters of Her living womb, by all that is above and
all that is below, the circle is cast. We are Between the Worlds." And as
always, her very blood seemed to leap with excitement as she felt the
Goddess enter her mortal self. Now that they were enclosed in sacred
space, she led them through the beginning of the ritual. "Ground," Meg
directed. The coveners set their feet firmly on the soft moss of the
forest floor, releasing a smell of damp earth and leaf mold. Through her
sandals Meg could feel the earth-energy pulsing up from the dark heart of
the Mother through her feet, up her legs, through her sex, into her trunk,
up to her heart and brain. "Center." The worshippers stood still and
breathed deeply, collecting their energy into one place, as the rushing
waters of a stream find a deeper place in the stream bed to collect in a
pool. "Visualize. See the Horned God, lord of field and forest and stream,
among us. Visualize his strength, his power, the wild spirit that drives
all creatures of hoof and horn and paw. Summon him, ask Him to bless us
with his presence." The apple-logs crackled, releasing a shower of sparks
and a fragrant cloud of smoke. Meg went deep into trance, visualizing her
own totem, the owl. She was wise, free, a creature of the night woods. She
could fly; she could range over the world, looking down, seeking her mate.
Where would she find him? And still Moon Spinner's expert hands drummed
softly. Once, deftly slapping the drumskin in a rhythm that echoed in
Meg's blood, Moon had shown her how the voice of the drum sang beneath the
surface beat. "Hear it?" she'd asked Meg, smiling. "To me that rhythm is
saying: Go-ing all the pla-ces/Go-ing all the way. It's Her voice, the
voice of this drum." That voice was joined now by the voices of other
drums. The worshippers, entranced, began to dance slowly around the fire
and the energy rose higher. Meg took a deep breath of the rain-washed air,
feeling two or three raindrops burst their coolness against her face. The
woodsmoke swirling around her began to coalesce into a vision. She saw a
wolf--hard-muscled, wild and alone--racing toward her in her mind's eye.
It was as free as she: she flew above, he ran below, a glorious creature
of strength and grace. Faster and faster the wolf ran toward her until...
...until he came to a stop just outside the circle. His fur looked
ghost-white in the firelight. She stared at him. For a wild creature, this
animal looked remarkably well fed. The wolf looked back at her, yelped,
and retreated from the fire. Entranced though she was, this gave Meg
pause. Vision-wolves did not yelp. And anyway, this wolf looked
disturbingly familiar. In fact, she was pretty sure she knew his name.
"Diefenbaker?" The wolf wagged his tail. And then, through the woodsmoke,
Meg saw that Benton Fraser stood beside Dief. He was hatless, his plaid
shirt unbuttoned, revealing a bare chest on which sweat gleamed faintly in
the reddish light of the balefire. The expression on his face--the look of
tranquillity in his eyes, the wideness of the pupil--told her that he was
in trance also. "Lord!" she exclaimed involuntarily. Then, recovering
quickly, "....of the fields and forests." He spoke as if his thoughts were
coming from far away. "Lady...of all things living." She understood. He
had been at the Lakota sweat lodge at the other end of the woods, and had
come at her--no, the whole coven's-- bidding. They had summoned him to be
the God, and here he was. For some time--how long, she was never able to
remember afterward-- they simply stared at each other. She could sense his
unspoken question: What am I doing here? 

 She spoke in a low voice. "Will you perform the Great Rite with me?" He
nodded. Meg's priestess instincts told her that the spiritual cleansing
Fraser had just undergone in the sweat lodge made him the ideal candidate
for tonight's purpose. Their gazes locked as she said, "Take off your
clothes before I cut the doorway." She let her cloak fall away from her a
little so he could see that she wore nothing underneath, and watched as he
slipped off his moccasins, stepped out of his jeans, shrugged off his
shirt. He moved toward her. Swiftly, Meg cut a doorway through the
pulsating energies of the circle to let him enter, then pasted the opening
shut again with the tip of her athame. She took Fraser's hand and drew him
close to the fire. They stood facing each other. "Watch me," she said in a
low voice. "Memorize what I do, because you're going to do it to me when
I've finished." She knelt on the ground and looked up at him as she said
clearly, "Blessed are thy feet, which have brought Thee in these ways."
She kissed each of his feet. Raising herself, she looked at him again.
"Blessed are thy knees, which kneel at the sacred altar." She kissed each
of his knees. She placed her hands on his thighs. "Blessed is thy sex,
without which we would not be." She kissed the tip of his sex, which
sprang dutifully to attention at her touch. Meg stood up. "Blessed are thy
breasts, formed in beauty and in strength." She kissed each of his
nipples. Why did his skin taste faintly of salt? Ah, yes. Dried sweat from
the sweat lodge. Meg put her hands on his shoulders. How smoothly muscled
they were, how strong. She looked into his eyes. "Blessed are thy lips,
which shall utter the sacred names." How warm his lips were, warm and
firm. She would have liked to let her mouth linger on his, but there would
be time for that presently. Finally, she stepped back. He looked as if he
didn't know what to do next. She had to help him out. Again her voice rang
through the clearing: "Cernunnos, Lugh, Tammuz..." The other coveners
echoed her, above the voice of the drums. "Cernunnos, Lugh, Tammuz..."
"Now you do the same to me," she whispered. Fraser dropped to his knees
before her and looked up. "Blessed are thy feet..." He did it perfectly,
as she had known he would. After he kissed her lips, lightly, he too spoke
in a ringing voice. "Cerridwen, Astarte, Diana..." And the worshippers
echoed, "Cerridwen, Astarte, Diana..." "Okay," she whispered. "Now we
consummate the marriage. That's the Great Rite." The firelight cast a
reddish light on his face, revealing an expression in his eyes that she
had never seen before. He took her upturned face in his hands and looked
at her for a long moment. Then his lips curved in a smile of singular
sweetness. She felt his arms go around her and his mouth come down on
hers. The drums sang: Go-ing all the PLA-ces/Go-ing all the WAY.  The last
time he'd kissed her like this, his tongue had tasted like snow melt. Now
it tasted like the wild mint that grew by the fast-running stream that
wound through the wood, and with each delicious thrust inside her mouth
she felt her psychic defenses against him crumbling like the wood of the
Beltane fire. Gently he pushed her to her knees, kneeling himself, facing
her. The drums sang louder still: GO-ing all the PLA-ces/GO-ing all the
WAY.  Meg sank back onto her fallen cloak and wound her arms and legs
around him as he entered her. She tightened her powerful internal muscles
around him, wanting to draw him deeper and deeper, but even in this Fraser
resisted her. He took charge of their joining, advancing an inch at a
time, retreating half an inch at a time--advance, retreat, advance again,
retreat again--and with each slow, exquisite thrust, the spirit of the
Beltane fire consumed them until finally the cry of the owl blended with
the howl of the wolf, and the echoes died away into the night. Soft, rich
earth, soaking up sweet rain, transforming it into fruit and grain. Soft,
powerful woman-flesh, soaking up the sweet, fertilizing rain of the male
principle, transforming it into new life. Meg realized with a shock that
Fraser's magic was as powerful as her own. He had awakened the fire
beneath the altar stone. She knew now why it always rained on Beltane. The
End  *********************************************************** Copyright
May 1996 by Diana Read on all original story content. Not meant to
infringe on copyrights held by CBS, Alliance, CTV, or any other copyright
holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for anything other than
personal reading use without written consent of the author. Comments
welcome at scribe@his.com. GLOSSARY Beltane--April 30/May 1. In the Old
Religion, days are reckoned from sunset to sunset, not midnight to
midnight. Beltane is one of the four fire festivals and one of the eight
Sabbats in the Wheel of the Year. Samhain--October 31/November 1. The most
powerful day of the year, when the spirits of the dead return. One of the
four fire festivals and one of the eight Sabbats. Coven--a community
varying in number from 13 to 200. Fewer than 13 is called a circle.
Balefire--an outdoor fire, often used as a signal fire.
Handfasted--married, in the Old Religion. Horned God--the male consort of
the Goddess in the Old Religion. Great Rite--ritual consummation of the
Sacred Marriage of Goddess and God. Athame--pronounced AHH-tha-may.
Black-handled, blunt-bladed ritual knife, often used to cast the circle.
Quarters--the four directions. Circle--sacred space in which ritual takes
place. Lakota--Tribe native to the North American continent. Sweat
lodge--in North American earth religions, a ritual in which heat is
produced in an enclosed space, as an aid to meditation and spiritual
cleansing.   Return to the Due South Fiction Archive