They came wearily through the woods, Tara the War Maid and Evalla, the young and lissom girl-child she had rescued from her vile captivity to the horde of Hunza, and who had become her lover. For two days and two nights had they made their way through the Perilous Wood, ever alert for prowling monsters or savage men, but the luck of Xargo seemed to have been with them, for naught had occurred to trouble them on the way hither.

They walked like the lovers they were, arms about each other’s waist, and from time to time the little girl nuzzled amorously against Tara’s supple nakedness. Yestereve they had loved in a soft bed of moist moss like velvet: Evalla, usually the passive partner, had for once played the aggressor. Tara had lain back, permitting her little lover to take her hungrily, as she wished. For hours had they loved, finally slumbering, satiated, in close embrace.

Now they entered upon a glade in the Perilous Wood, and paused to inspect it. For a long, low house stood before them; builded all of rough gray stone it was, and roofed with slate, with diamond-paned windows of varicolored glass nestled under overhanging eaves, like half-lidded eyes.

No smoke arose from the two chimneys, no fowl scratched in the fenced henyard; no milk-cattle lowed or ambled in the larger enclosure: yet, somehow, the steading did not seem uninhabited. Tara still bore with her, after many tribulations, her long knife scabbarded against her thigh. She drew it now, gestured Evalla to walk behind her, and approached the structure. Mayhap they could secure bedding for the night ahead, once Dimming came.

And Dimming was almost fallen.

They approached the house. The little garden had become a weed-patch through neglect; dust scummed the small window-panes. No reply came to her call, and when Tara tested the door, it swung open easily, invitingly.

They entered, Tara in the lead, the long knife naked in her hand. The main room was large and low-ceilinged. Cut wood was stacked on the stone hearth; an old trestle table stood beneath one window. Dust lay thick on every surface, and the rafters had long since become the dominion of spiders.

For all its obvious air of neglect, curiously, the house seemed inhabited. So strong did this feeling grow, that Tara lit a candle and searched every room. Behind the main room were pantry and larder; a wooden stair led to the second storey, where she discovered a large bedroom with a capacious four-poster, and a smaller room with a cot where, perhaps, a servant had slept. There was no one in the house, but still Tara sensed an indefinable presence lurking.

Darkness was upon them. Tara lit a fire on the grate; they found a huge wheel of dried cheese in the pantry; its inner core was still soft, moist, edible. There were rotten apples in a barrel, but those at the bottom were still sound enough to be eaten. A cupboard held an age-crusted bottle of excellent wine. The two girls feasted by firelight and retired to share the great bed.

But at the door, Evalla paused and turned pale, her huge, lustrous eyes wide and frightened.

“What is it, darling? Come, the bed awaits.”

The child shook her head. “I can’t go in there,” she whispered. “I don’t know why; I just can’t!”

Tara stared at her. “But . . . where will you sleep?”

“On the little cot in the second room,” Evalla breathed.

Tara lay down on the coverlet and left the child to her own devices. She had become too sleepy to discuss the matter; lassitude seeped into her flesh. Perhaps it was the wine . . .

Later, she woke, or seemed to wake. It was like dreaming that you have awakened. For a moment, Tara could not recall what had aroused her from her rest. And then it came again, that touch of an impalpable hand, combing through her fiery mane. It was oddly soothing, and strangely, she could not actually feel the brush of invisible fingers combing through her curls. It was like the insubstantial caress of the breeze, combing long meadowgrass . . .

Something was lying atop her, a ghost of weight: cool, moist, softer than any softness she had ever known. Now those incorporeal fingers were at her bare breasts, fondling, fingering . . . she looked down in vague wonder to see the tender flesh of her breasts indented by the grasp of hands she could not quite actually feel. . . . Then a cool moistness caressed her breasts and captured her thrusting nipples like a ghostly mouth. The warmth of desire flickered through her loins; her thighs parted.

The strangest element in this uncanny visitation was that Tara felt neither fear nor alarm, still deep in the spell of that dreamy lassitude. Something like cool fingers entered the core of her being, then an eager moistness like a phantom tongue. She gasped, moaned, yielded ...

Some sense of strangeness had roused Evalla from her rest, too. She went to the doorway of the room that would not permit her to enter in, and cried out faintly, for a pale shadowy shape lay atop Tara’s naked body, like a wraith of cool mist. Tara turned her head sleepily to observe the child cringing in the doorway.

“Do not . . . come in . . . darling,” she whispered. “Everything is . . . all right ... go ... to sleep ...”

Evalla shrank back, shuddering, then returned to her little room to crouch in a corner fearfully, helpless to intervene. From the other chamber there came to her hearing panting moans, soft cries of pleasure, as Tara’s passion mounted under the moving moistness of that pale shadow that made phantasmal love to her body.

With Lambence they woke and rose, both oddly listless. Something seemed to have drained Tara’s vitality, feeding hungrily on her vigor. They broke their fast as if famished, finishing the wine, the apples, and the cheese. Both avoided any mention of the weird events of the dark hours of Dimming. But both were eager to leave this strange house of shadows.

They descended to the main room, and saw for the first time a great painting hung upon the wall. Yestereve the light had been too faint for them to observe it.

It was the portrait of a woman, with cold white skin, sleek ink-black hair, a red voluptuous mouth, and dark, avid eyes. They stared at it, intuitively knowing that the picture was a portrait of the owner of the house.

Evalla shuddered faintly. “She is . . . very beautiful,” whispered the child almost jealously. Tara smiled dreamily, then slid her arm around Evalla’s slender shoulders.

“Perhaps, but her love is a pale shadow of yours,” smiled Tara of the Twilight.