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The Hall of Epiphany. Desmond had been here before, but not in the flesh. The voice of the Dreaming God, Tchernobog - it commanded him firmly yet with what Desmond could interpret only as a godly love to come, and in his dreams he saw glimpses of the place. The reality bore out his dream-visions.

Bring your body to me had spoken Tchernobog, The One that Binds. I await you, Desmond had spoken Tchernobog, the Dreaming God.

And so Desmond had gone. He was not of the Cabal, but he passed untouched by their ranks and their abominations, never helped forward, never hindered. He journeyed during the days and he slept at night. The nearer the great temple loomed on his horizon, the more emphatic His words became in the dreams.

You are close now said the Sleeping God. You will bring your body to me. And I will reward you.

Desmond had eked out only a meager existence. He kept out of the way of the Cabal, away from the bloodshed. When Tchernobog spoke to him, it was as if his life suddenly gained a purpose. And his purpose was to obey his new god. The more he saw of the Cabal and their might, the more certain he became that his choice was the right one.

Desmond passed through an ancient temple high in the mountains, its stygian heights breaking the clouds. He passed by the hooded figures of cultists and the mutated eyes of monsters, most looking at him with envy, for he had been selected, this outsider. None would dare stand in his path.

Beyond the dizzying heights of the mountains, beyond the ganglion depths of the temple of flesh, Desmond found himself at the Hall of Epiphany. He stepped through its vaulted passages with a mortar-fire thud in his chest. His feet were calloused, even blistered in places from his scorching walk, but here he was at the place where old lives ended and new began. Here he was to see Him and lay claim to his reward.

"I have awaited you," He spoke, His voice echoing in the hall, words seeming to come from all directions from parched and ancient stone and bone.

Energy crackled in the air. The pungent stench of ozone and the dusty, dry odor of timeless stone. Desmond laid eyes upon a throne fit for a giant, its structure made of pillars and platforms of bone. In the seat waited Tchernobog, the Dreaming God, but something was wrong. Desmond hesitated at the sight of the god.

"Kneel before me," He demanded, leveling His gaze upon Desmond.

The fox felt his flesh grow hot, his fur beginning to singe and stink of burning hair. He batted at his arms, gasping, shrieking, reeling from terror without yet acknowledging the betrayal.

"Kneel!" Tchernobog bellowed, but not without wicked humor.

Desmond was dragged near, frigid fingers of invisible energy pulling him so swiftly that his dragging toes blistered and lacerated against the stony floor. He tumbled to his knees and then his paws. His body smoldered, his blood seeming to boil. He gazed up into the vacuous white glow of the Dreaming God's eyes.

"Please," he bleated, with no idea what he was pleading for.

The wicked god rose from His throne. His great bare bones crackled. Rotten muscle and desiccated sinew dangled from their columns in haphazard dressings. His face was skeletal yet vital, His grin great and smug, eye sockets alight with an otherworldly energy.

"I have anticipated your flesh," Tchernobog uttered, and again Desmond was lifted by invisible forces, hoisted to his knees, then his feet. The sensation of boiling alive had tapered back, but Desmond wobbled on his feet, woozy as if from heatstroke.

Tchernobog touched Desmond with long bony claws. He fondled the fox, caressed him, claw tips capering on the fine young vulpine form which had brought itself to His throne.

"I will give you pleasure, Desmond," boomed the god, claws curling around the fox's shoulders. So tall was Tchernobog that His loins, with genitals intact if not devoid of flesh, were near the fox's face.

Desmond, his mind reeling still, gazed at the thickly knotted penis between Tchernobog's skeletal thighs and felt only a sense of disbelief. He whispered, "Let me go. Please."

But the Dreaming God had no desire to let Desmond go. To spend so much effort captivating him from so far away, and then to manifest in this admittedly incomplete form for the sake of physical pleasure - no, He would not let Desmond escape. Already the fox had felt the power of His smoldering gaze, and still the fox dared to show reluctance. Tchernobog had never intended for Desmond to survive their encounter. But now, it had taken on a personal cant. Now the fox was not simply a victim, but an ungrateful mortal in dire need of punishment.

"So be it," said Tchernobog, His sneering teeth coming together in a cruel grin. His claws slipped into Desmond's shoulders like so many knives, tips breaking skin as subtly as needles, widening shafts splitting flesh and rending cartilage. The earsplitting scream of the fox echoed in the Hall of Epiphany as so many other screams had. Tchernobog was growing hard. His imposing, raw penis dribbled foul-smelling preseminal fluid, weeping like an abscess as it plumped into its orifice-ruining fullness.

The god tugged back His claws and gripped the back of Desmond's head. His claws raked again, scraping through hair and scalp, digging against the bone of the skull. The fox's muzzle mashed into Tchernobog's loins, penis tip grinding along the cheek, sliding through velvet-soft fur.

Cruelty and depravity came as naturally to Tchernobog as breathing came to the mortal Desmond. He plunged a thumb claw deep into Desmond's eye socket and the shriek His victim emitted was exquisite. Such fine pleasures had eluded Tchernobog for so many decades; cultists who willingly mutilated and immolated themselves for His favor lacked the sublime charm of the truly hapless victim. The blubbering; the screaming; the smell of piss as the fox wet himself. All wonderful to the Sleeping God.

He twisted His claw. The crushed eyeball liquefied around its bony stalk like gelatinized fat, offwhite viscera and fresh red blood oozing down the cheek like pus-filled tears. He plucked back the claw and stabbed His penis into the wailing fox's vacated socket. Its tip slammed against the thin plate of bone separating the orbital socket from the brainpan; Tchernobog was delicate to avoid plowing through. It would simply not do for the ungrateful mortal to die so quickly.

"Suffer for me, Desmond!" implored the god, booming laughter following, every braying laugh quaking the walls of the Hall of Epiphany. He fucked Desmond's eye socket - but with just the tip. Fetid liquid oozed into the fox's ruined eye. The screams, the wails were shrill and unending, but it was the babbling, the begging which Tchernobog now enjoyed. Tchernobog was a fine god in that He enjoyed respect from His followers, even fresh new believers such as Desmond.

He threw the fox to the stone floor. Bones crackling, eyes simmering, He clambered over Desmond and He dragged the great, moldered stalk of His tongue along the fox's neck, over his face, dipping the tip into the cratered socket. The flavor of blood had never ceased to titillate Him.

Desmond shrilled a horrible cry and pushed against Tchernobog, soft paws bracing and shoving on the god's skeletal snout. Tchernobog laughed, delighted by this show of initiative. He was eager to show Desmond the futility of fighting back. His jaws parted and Desmond's resisting paw slipped into the god's mouth. For one intimate moment, barely a second, Tchernobog gazed into Desmond's eye. He saw the delicate terror, the remorse as Desmond realized what he had done, and then the god chomped down, teeth gnashing together, snapping Desmond's bone off, ripping muscle and flesh apart as casually as tearing paper.

Tchernobog threw back His head as Desmond wailed and shot blood from his new stump of a wrist. The demon god chewed indulgently - flesh and blood, a fine treat even for this incomplete body. He would want more of the fox now. As He swallowed the paw down into His half-complete digestive tract, He grabbed Desmond in savage claws, digging open flesh, filling the soft pelt of fur with a gummy red. His penis He stabbed into the fox's anus, gouging apart the anal passage and dragging from Desmond's jaws a shriek of agony.

The demon god, His knot against but not inside of Desmond, gazed down at the heaving and blubbering wreckage of the fox. A thousand pleasures raced in His wicked mind; a thousand agonies for the mortal who could have had true pleasure had he shown respect.

As Tchernobog raped the squealing, bleeding fox, He bellowed,"Give your flesh to me!" Like a shovel into dirt, His claws plunged into Desmond's stomach. The fox's shrill wails grew deep and strained, the hideous new pain putting recent mutilation into perspective. His intestines snaked merrily out of his splayed gut like party favors.

"Such blood," Tchernobog marveled, gazing hungrily at the crimson pooling in Desmond's opened abdomen, at the blood spreading across the floor. His fucking of the fox came on swift and hateful. The wide protuberance of His knot plowed its way past Desmond's anus; the god's penis showed in Desmond's ruined gut where the bowel had been ripped apart by His claws.

Tchernobog laughed, howling, delighted sadistically by the suffering of the fox. He knew the fox would not be long for this world, He had gone too far too fast, but the Dreaming God had pleasures yet to take from Desmond. His claws cinched around a thigh, so supple and taut, and wrenched upon it with all of the strength His grotesque body had to offer. Deep inside of the limb, He felt a wet crunch like waterlogged timber snapping.

With the casual snapping of his femur, Desmond was thrust into a state of delirious pain, and with it, he was left sucking in hitching, hyperventilating gasps of air. His screams, driven by ragged bone digging into neighboring flesh, were soon supplanted by a soft and irregular whine. The noise was thrilling to the god who knew it for what it was: a death rattle. Desmond could handle no more of this torture. His wounds exsanguinated him and the agony pushed him into shock. Tchernobog felt it in Desmond's tattered anal cavity, the seizing throb of the heart as it suffered arrest.

The timing was perfect. As Desmond expired, softly bleating and whining, Tchernobog roared with otherworldly dominance. Into Desmond's destroyed body He shot a powerful load of His cum, a foul-smelling substance reeking like decomposition. It jetted from His buried cock, rebounded off of the remodeled interior of Desmond's gut, and splattered the floor in a mess not unlike the wide smattering of blood which Desmond had left in his flailing and suffering.

"You have served me well," said the Dreaming God, not with smugness but satisfaction, forgiving the fox, whose punishment had been meted out.

Tchernobog relinquished His body to nothingness again. And He waited for another like Desmond.