1963-08-23 - Strange Shores Part 2
Summary: Amora continues to find the magical artifact with Doctor Strange while continuing to try to seduce him.
Related: http://marvel1963mush.wikidot.com/log:1963-08-22-strange-shores
Theme Song: Maneater
amora strange 

He plucked at the front of his shirt and swished it in and out, getting some air-flow to his skin. Strange panted lightly as he stood in the shade of another grove of palm trees, these much shorter and with squat trunks whose roots drunk deep of the river water nearby. His intuition, that line of thought tempered with practice and Mystical Art, had led him to this section of the delta. It was an interesting area, now that he was taking a moment to observe it and not so busy tromping through underbrush and trying to keep at least an arm's length away from that…woman. His teeth flashed in a quick sneer before he composed himself and let out a sigh.

It was unfortunate that she had to come along. At first, he didn't believe her statement in the least. How could anyone have laid down wards thousands of years ago and expect them to be intact? However, there — and his steel-blue eyes focused on a small hillock of river pebbles and sand that rose from the middle of the river like a camel's hump. It made his skin crawl and left him with an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. It carried her signature, so faintly, like a wisp of steam in the middle of a sun-warmed field, amidst the eddies. Normally, the running water made for a natural magical cleanser and easily destroyed many simple spells. The fact that Strange could still run the signature down meant that these wards were old…very old. He glanced back over his shoulder, towards where he'd stomped to the base of these palm trees. Surely she'd have something to say about the sight of the lone island stranded in the midst of the river.


Amora laughed lightly as she appeared just behind the sorcerer, a grin stretching out her lips like a cheshire cat. A manicured hand stretched out to try to run over his arm and up to his shoulder in passing as she exited the underbrush and trees toward the river bank. Her hips swayed as she marched toward the river, turning on her heels to offer him a flirtatious wink and wave.

"I hope you realize how lucky you are, my dear dear Mister Strange. I set these wards when I was at full strength, and only I can unlock them." She twirled the floating crystal around by the chain and smirked. Her boots melted away into nothing as she waded into the river and splashed about playfully.

"Won't you come join me?"


He leans away as Amora saunters by, but the tips of those fingernails still ghost along his shoulder and he barely avoid shivering as if sick with fever in the heat. The far wards seem to throb in her presence, pushing against his mental defenses and with a near-sentience that appears to want to probe at his own powers. Briefly, Strange shuts his eyes and offers a mental, will-powered counter-push (more of a scything swat, actually) and the foreign wards seem to retreat. Still, they linger at a distance, like a wary predator staying just beyond the firelight.

"I'd much rather retrieve the Book of Giants and leave," he calls down the bank, content to stay in the shade of the palm trees and out of the glaring sun. "Why don't you call down your wards and we can keep on schedule?" Doesn't the woman know that crocodiles could lurk in the deeper waters not far from her splashing?


Another splash and a laugh escaped the mirthful Asgardian goddess, and she seems to revel in the magic of her wards. He could see, through his magical senses, the magic playing around her—much like a pet frolicking around a master returned. She preened, tossing her golden locks behind her shoulders as she twisted this way or that in the shallows.

"Well you'll have to come this way if you want to get to it." She grinned, winking at him again as she whispered a word or two and levitated over the water to appear as if she were dancing a top it instead. A faint sheen of emerald energy sparkled beneath her toes as she started to walk along toward the raised mound.

"But if you really don't want it then you can stay there in the shade.."


It's tempting, very tempting indeed, to just open a rift and retreat back to his Sanctum. It will be cool there, fragranced by steaming tea and coiling incense from braziers, and not full of heat, sweat, the potential for dangerous river animals, and this other magician. However, her comment goads him and his ego can't take it. Strange narrows his eyes and takes a deep breath before striding down the length of sandy beach to the water's edge. He too can wield the power of walking on water and his first step seems to touch the surface in an odd way after his whispered spell; his boot lands above the water, with about a half-inch of space, but it still ripples out in motions of disturbance. It's uncanny to look down at his path and so he glares ahead towards the mound of sandy earth.

"I suppose you'll want to call down these wards of yours before we get to dry land. Unless you want to muddy yourself?" he calls ahead. No doubt the chance existed of a dramatic revelation of something buried beneath the pebbly island. In the vein of remaining beyond range of any flying grit, he clambers easily onto a nearby boulder and stands atop it. "Well?"


Another chortle of laughter escaped her as she tossed her head back. A glanced was spared over her shoulder as she watched the other magic user grumble and mutter his way over the water. She smirked and with a shrug of her shoulders she tossed the charged crystal up into the air and muttered a few words that distinctly sounded like Old Norse—but somehow off.

A great flash of light blinded those nearby that weren't expecting it and rather than the raised pebbly island there stood a limestone looking raised, square platform. Amora swaggered toward it, stepping off the water and over the lip of the stone, shoes reappearing over her delicately shaped feet once more as she walked.

The swell of magic around the area had faded in a fog, and it became clear that she had absorbed the magic rather than dispersed it. The tang of her magic still lingered in the area, sweet and smelling of exotic spices. "Come along darling, we will get you that book soon enough." She waved toward him with one hand while her other was gesturing over the stone platform.

Slowly, and with the gritty sound of stone on stone, a doorway depressed and formed. As it opened up it revealed a staircase going down deep into the earth.


He was expecting something borderline volcanic, with sprays of water-soaked earth flying everywhere and dramatic sounds of grating rock from the deep.

The wards seem to drop like gossamer veils after the flash of light (thankfully, he'd been blinking once the radiance had appeared, though little spots still remain from the intensity of it through his eyelids) and they reveal a simple square of limestone. The air is redolent now of weedy river water and coriander, aspects of her magic weaving threads into the very reality of the atmosphere around them. It makes him want to sneeze.

Still, she motions at him and nothing bad comes of it. He steps down from the boulder, onto the water's surface once more, and slowly walks over, his hands slightly curled at his sides. He's ready to fling counter-magic at anything that strikes first. Any magic user will see the shimmering aura of Mystic power about his wrists, slowly-rotating concentric circles in thin strands of golden energy.

He pauses beside her, still beyond reach, standing on the edge of the clean white surface. "Ladies first," he says softly, not quite keeping the edge from his voice.


Amusement flitted through her eyes as she stood watching Strange approach and take a stance well out of reach. Another burst of giggles escaped her and she shook her head slowly, pale green eyes twinkling with mischief that matched the curved bow of her lips. "So happy to see that you're not too scared to come along with me.." She teased, raising a hand and bouncing a witchlight there. She threw it down the stairs, tiny lights landing at each step to light the way.

"Watch your step my darling, it goes down fairly deep." She murmured, with a sway of her hips she descended downwards.

Several minutes of stairs would pass, until they reached a passage that was surprisingly dry. More limestone—this time with colorful paintings and mosaics lined the floor in intricate titles. Many of the depictions there seemed to hold a likeness to the very woman that walked, no prowled the halls. Though there were differences if one looked closely enough.


Strange appreciates the ambient glow of the witchlights as they descend down many levels of stairs. He's beginning to wonder just how deep they are beneath the river — perhaps at least 400 feet? - when they come to an end. While the upper reaches of the hewn steps had sometimes been slick with beaded dew, a result of stray river water seeping into the ruins and then clinging to any available surface with the cool stillness of the air, the hallway that now stretched before them was dry and even…warmer? Yes, perhaps even slightly warmer than above. Strange is no archaeologist, but the concept intrigues him.

The spiderwebs of her powers are in every breath he inhales and as he glances over at the designs that adorn the high walls of the vaulting passageway, he does note that there are multiple depictions of a female goddess of sorts. The paintings are in shades of black, red, and brown with the rare splash of white and a rather vibrant egg-yolk yellow. The mosaics below could have ties to the Greeks with their honeycomb-shaped pieces. Again, no archaeologist is he, and he's quickly distracted by the far-but-nearer hum of the text.

It beckons to him with more of a siren-like lure than Amora could ever provide. He feels his cheeks and ears flush and his fingertips ripple in controlled excitement; he has not yet dispelled his defensive magics about his wrists, but they are dampened by his lack of focus. A twinkle of delight enters his steel-blue eyes, momentarily overshadowing the suspicious distrust that echoes in every line of his body, and acts as a reminder that he is, in fact, not immune to shows of delight. It gives him a much more approachable and charming look overall.

"It's not far," he murmurs to himself.


Amora glanced back to him, arching a brow at his murmur. A golden brow quirked upwards at the shift in his demeanor and she offered up a cat like grin in response. "Not far indeed, infact—" She pauses, turning to the left to face a blank space in the wall. The hallway goes on and soon takes up another corner and turns, continuing onwards.

"Here." Her voice rippled with power as she spoke, a softness that all at once belied the strength of the spells upon the door. A wave of her hand and the stone faded into nothingness. She stepped inside without a backwards glance and disappeared from his immediate sight, though the now visible doorway lingered.

Inside was no hollowed temple or even a tomb. There was no raised platform and no light shining in from some spectral window above. Nothing that the stories and tales of such places liked to describe. Rather, it looked to be a rather fabulously styled room that could be the sitting quarters of some ancient king or queen, perfectly preserved without a hint of dust or decay. Clearly, her magic had been at work.

Amora stood in the center, flicking a hand about her and lighting up the space—wall sconces lit up with a green flame that danced merrily. She made an 'ahh' sound, striding toward a wall of scrolls and wooden boxes. She reached for one, waved her hand and the woven box sprung open with a click. The Enchantress grinned, and plucked out a heavy looking stacks of bronze squares all bound together with some kind of a woven string.

A glanced was spared then, over her shoulder toward Strange briefly. "Well, here it is." She offered with a wink.


Strange isn't terribly surprised at how the text was so nearby — Amora's magic has this odd effect to him of seeming to muffle some senses and excite others. Still, both of his eyebrows rise as she steps through the dismissed hidden door and into a beautifully-preserved room. He pauses in the arched entryway, his steel-blue eyes quickly shifting about, visually appraising the safety of the room, while his heightened Mystical senses hunt down the lingering spells cast thousands of years ago. There are a few alarm spells, one that a trespasser would trip and that will alert the caster; one or two defensive spells and one with a particularly nasty hex on it. He grimaces at that one, his gaze lingering on the object it guards.

None of the watch-dog spells are tripped as he steps into the room. It's luxurious indeed, with furniture upholstered in reds and goldens, drapes and bed coverlets in royal violets, and the merry green glow of the witchlights twinkles on various metallic surfaces. He's reached out and spun an ancient globe, one that doesn't even show the continents of the Americas, when he hears her speak to him.

He straightens after he glances over his shoulder, his movements slowing to a fine-tuned freeze. There it is, in her supernaturally-clean hands. In a series of unconscious movements, he buttons up his opened shirt (but leaves the Eye of Agamotto hanging clearly in view) and rolls down his sleeves, seeming to ready himself for any attempts at deception.

"Yes, that must be it," he replies lightly as he walks over, arms loose and head held high. He can sense the eldritch power of the text from here and it shares a surprising similarity to not only Lady Amora's powers, but also those of another unusually-gift acquaintance of the good doctor. He stops within arm's length of her, his gaze slowly rising to meet her verdant eyes. "May I have it?" he asks quietly, as neutrally as possible.

Emerald eyes lift to inspect the good doctor as he approaches, noting with mild amusement how he buttons up his shirt and pulls at his sleeves uncomfortably. A fey look pulls her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief as she lifts the bronze and animal gut bound 'book' upwards with her hand, waving it well above her head. "Oh dear, you wanted this too?" Her golden brow arched upwards as she smirked wickedly.

Then she was stepping forward, reaching her free hand out to ghost over his arm, green manicured nails just brushing over the fabric of his sleeve. "How much does it matter to you? Would a night of your time spent in my bed be a price you'd be willing to pay?" Her voice was as soft as a spring's breeze and as rich as silk velvet.

"Or is that too high a price for you? A night with the most beautiful woman from all the Nine Realms? A woman of great skill.. I could summon the spirits of wind, I could be whoever you wanted.."


The scrape of her touch along his sleeve leaves the hair on Strange's neck rising and his teeth showing gritted behind a sliver of a grimace. His spine straightens further, leaning away ever so slightly, even as he watches those ruby-red lips offer something tantamount to every midnight dream known to mankind.

His heartbeat is suddenly quite loud in his ears and his fingertips and spreading to every corner of his body. The book, logic whispers in his mind, remember the book. The cool voice seems to make his vision waver and he blinks quickly to clear it. At his chest, the Eye of Agamotto thrums against his skin. It seems to wash into his chest and very bones with an icy grip and leaves him shivering. One could incorrectly guess he was reacting to nerves. Strange clears his throat and finds his voice after a moment.

"I would rather spend a night of my time in my own bed, reading the text in your hand." It's truth and a sort of painful truth that makes his ego squirm in squealing frustration. "What else can I offer in return?" Gods above and below, he hates asking, but bartering is better than just about any other option.


Amora scoffs at his words, tilting the book absentmindedly against the swell of her hips as she canted her head to the side and watched him. "I would be /more/ than happy to share your bed then, if you'd prefer.. I know this language. How familiar are you with Ancient Assyrian? It's not the corrupted version found in the Chaldean texts after the Persians got their hands on the language. And it has the issue of being magically based with references to all manner of archaic things.. I was there, my darling. I could read this to you as sweetly as a bedtime story.." She purred, her hand still ghosting over his figure though not touching.

"Think about what a lovely night we could have.. have you ever bedded a woman skilled in magic? The pull and push.. the sharing of energy?" She practically purred.


He's impressed, in some far corner of his mind, and seems to take a moment to consider his options. Strange's senses sweep the room once again and find nothing able to stifle his own magic.

"I have a hard time sharing things," he replies with an arc of one eyebrow, "including my time with someone intent on wasting it. Dead languages remain of no challenge to me, not with the information at my disposal. To decode it would be child's play." His blue eyes, now becoming hardened with frustration of many types, flicker to her teasing not-quite-touching hand and then back to her lovely face. "I ask, one last time — what else can I offer?"


A pout crosses her full lips and she cocks her hip to a side, her free hand settling back against her hip and tapping a pattern against the fabric of her pants. "You're /denying/ me?" She fluttered thick eyelashes up at him, leaning toward him.

"How cruel to call me a waste of time!" She tsked under her breath, and eased her body to align with his. The warmth of her figure could be felt as she stepped into his personal space, not touching him, but oh so close.

"This is an ancient magic, that many a sorcerer has desired. Do you think I would release this for nothing? I have taken the magic from it, aye, but there are secrets about the giants of Jotunhiem and Muspellhiem that many would desire.. Many /have/ perished upon a sword for want of my attentions and yet you scorn it.." She shook her head slowly.

"I'll be kind.. and take pity on you, my darling. Because you're handsome and such a shy boy.." She smirked wickedly as she tilted her head up.

"Kiss me, freely, deeply.. Like you mean it. With passion. No chaste kiss that a child gives. A real one.. and the book is yours.."


A short huff escapes his parted lips. He is no shy boy and certainly no child. Strange looks down his nose at the enchanting woman standing directly before him, not even a palm's width away from his body. She's got this seduction thing down to an art. The perfect tilt of her head, her lips already slanted to fit against his should he merely lean in… His throat drops and rises as he tries to force his brain into thinking of clever ideas.

"A kiss. Only a kiss? Seems…" and he stops talking to mentally thwack himself across the back of the head. Honestly, having a woman stand this close to him puts him in a dangerous position of general stupidity. Suddenly, his eyes light up and he hopes that she takes it as interest rather than the spark of ingenuity. "Yes…fine then. A kiss," he replies, his voice dropped low and soft, as if he were succumbing to her wiles. A subtle wave of power suffuses his aura in his effort to protect himself against any sort of magically-enhanced will-drawing spells.

Strange leans in now, and hovers a breath away from Amora's lips. He stays there, waiting, drawing out the tension that exists in the sacred space between them. Behind his back, a half-second before their worlds collide, he gestures and opens a door. He snakes his other hand between Amora's arm and spreads his hand across her middle back, drawing her lush frame tight against his own. Their lips crash together and he can't help the soft moan that mingles with their tangling tongues. It is elemental and beautiful and chaotic and rife with heated promises that he knows won't end well in the least.

He half-forgets about the other half of his plan, but finally, he pulls away, breathing heavily, his eyes dilated darkly. "And…I thank you," he murmurs roughly as he yanks the bronzed tome from Amora's hand. With that, the Sorcerer Supreme takes one step backwards, into the safety of his Sanctum's living room, and collapses the gate in an eye-blink.


Amora was well versed in seducing magically powerful sorcerers. Even more so when it came to suspicious sorcerers who were particularly proud of being clever and thinking they could outfit a woman like her with ease. So she was quite prepared for him to block the enchantments on her lips. In fact she put no extra magic or intent behind the kiss, than simple pleasure out of it. She was skilled and she knew it, and her body arched against his with practiced ease, as if she were simply /perfect/ for him.

The groan that echoed from him during their entangled chaos, earned a smirk of her lips against his as she played a coy game with her lips against his. Heat and friction were a natural occurrence from such a meeting, and magic sparked up around them invisible to any but a seasoned practitioner. While his was ensuring he had an escape route behind him, her's was slicing up his ambient energy and stealing it. A sneaking pocketing of his magic, not enough to merit any spell, but enough that she knew to expect another visit from him in the future.

Even as he pulled away, breathing hard and yanking the book free from her fingers—which held it loosely, a smirk pulled at her lips. "Good bye for now, dear Doctor.." She murmured to the empty air as he vanished into the portal.

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