"Mistress?" The servant stood in the doorway of the darkened room, his misshapen figure a dark form cutting the light from the hallway, his stance that of a marionette controlled by an inexperienced puppeteer. His head, all angles, its whiteness stark against his black clothes, his black eyes, and the straying strands of black hairs, was lowered in obsequiousness.
                    "Yes, Dathor?" came a voice from the bed floating in the blackness. The voice was warm in tone, but measured, distant.
                    "The telephone, mistress." The man made a gesture with his hands, smooth and subtle as the finest prestidigitator, only made grotesque in the context of his long, fleshless hands. "You told me to awaken you."
                    "Yes," replied the voice, reassuringly. "Are they still on the line?"
                    "No, mistress. They said only to tell you that... It is set in motion."
                    A soft sigh exhaled as the bed silk whispered, soon followed by the slowly paced padding of naked feet.
                    She slowly walked into the light, and the servant averted his eyes. They stood at the same height, thought he would have been half a foot taller if he stood, if he could stand, upright. And as he was darkness, she was light, her pale, luminescent skin visible from beneath her translucent gown, her areolae light shadows contrasting with the dark shadows below. Her hair was raven black, cut sharply at the forehead and shoulders, framing her porcelain face, her delicate features and large, gray eyes, eyes looking at nothing.
                    "Now I must speak to my master," she intoned ironically and tightened her lips.
                    "Were it to not be so, if I should be so bold to say," muttered Dathor.
                    She reached out and put her hand on his cheek, slowly caressing.
                    "You may say it, for all the good it does."
                    She gently moved her beneath his chin and gently raised his head to face her. They looked into each other's eyes.
                    "I would," said continued, "instead prefer to accept what is."
                    She smiled darkly.
                    "And make the best of the situation."
                    Holding his head in her hands, she brought her mouth to his, pushing her tongue in past the uneven teeth to the warmth within, tasting him. Their bodies unmoving, they stood as a statue, some lost piece of symbolic import, transmogrifying rude passion to artistic propriety through allusions to dead gods.
                    "Now, I must go to see Orbis," she said at last, her voice hard, steeled. But then softly, "Prepare the room for my return, dearest Dathor."
                    "Yes, mistress."