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heightening the achy sensations roaming over her flesh like a thousand anxious fingers, spreading through her sex like ripples in a pond when a pebble disturbs the smooth, still surface.
    Rhiannon sank down in the water and flipped over on her back, smoothing the rest of the silky lather from her breasts and belly. Twirling through the ripples, disturbing rising steam and spindrift, she swam to the fall and floated underneath it, spreading her legs to the pulsating flow crashing down. It beat upon her sex, upon her clitoris as she floated there, calling her hands to her breasts and her fingers to her nipples. Strumming the hard buds, she groaned as the cascade took her, as the creaming froth of falling water found her sexual stream and took her like an overzealous lover.
    The climax was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She’d touched herself in the dark, in the bath, and her touch had brought release, but never this. It was as if she had mated with the waterfall, and it was a passionate lover, indeed.
    The very air around her seemed to sigh as she lay beneath the flow, her legs spread wide, savoring every last shuddering contraction of her release until the orgasm drained her weak and breathless. Once the palpitations began to subside and she could bear no more of the excruciating ecstasy, she swam away from the cascade, for her hard, distended clitoris was swollen, as were her nether lips, and pleasure quickly turned to pain in that tender, virgin flesh.
    Her pale skin rouged with the blush of climax, she swam to the marble edge of the pool and climbed out of the water. Leaving her tattered shift where she’d dropped it, she padded around the perimeter, looking for something to dry herself with. Where there was soap, there had to be towels. She’d traveled halfway around to the waterfall without finding anything, but she did notice a little alcove carved in the jutting rock behind the fall that seemed warm and dry. It was fairly deep, but narrow, a low fissure Nature had provided, scarcely wide enough for her to squeeze through. Stepping inside, her breath caught at the spectacular sight looking through the falling water from behind it. It was like seeing the dimly lit pool of dark water through a beautiful lace curtain, and the sound it made amplified by the acoustics in the cave was soothing to the ear.
    There were no towels here, and she moved on following the edge of the pool almost to the point where she’d begun, when she spied another alcove, where many towels were stored. They seemed to have been woven of spun lemongrass judging from the scent as she lifted one to her nose. A satisfied moan escaped her as the citrus fragrance filled her nostrils; she quickly scooped an armful, snatched the borrowed kirtle she’d left at the edge of the pool earlier, and padded back to the little alcove behind the waterfall. It seemed as good a place to rest as any. If whoever lived in the cave were to return, she would be safer there than if she curled up in the sumptuous bed she’d seen in one of the chambers earlier.
    Safely inside behind the cascade, she dried herself and slipped on the kirtle. It fitted her as if it had been made to order. Then arranging the rest of the towels to cushion her on the floor, she curled up in the warm, fragrant womb of her waterfall lover and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

4
    T he storm raged on all day before the wind finally died, and it was on the verge of a spent and breathless twilight that Gideon returned to the cave exhausted. He and the other guardians had done what they always do in such emergencies. They’d worked tirelessly to carry the stranded to safety, rescue those who could be saved, and reverence the dead consigned to the deep on their passage to the afterlife.
    Gideon felt not a little responsible for the many ships the sirens’ songs had run aground. If he hadn’t been responsible for Muriel’s rage, the casualties might have been lighter. Would there