This is one of a series of shorter stories featuring characters from Nine-Tenths, in this case Brecht and Dranguille. At some point there might be a longer story dealing with the rest of their mission on the unnamed feral world, but for now this taster will have to do. It's for mature readers only because, well... Slaanesh. That pretty much sums it up. :)

Fever

I can feel so much…

Too much. The cool air blown from the air conditioning vent rasps across my skin in glorious waves of aching.

I can feel.

My hands rove across my body, their touch arousing. Incendiary.

My skin is burning. Such sweet beautiful fire.

I can feel.

Not think.

Don't want to think.

Just feel…

Brecht slid aside the viewing port set into the steel door and watched the naked figure writhe and undulate in the little cell.

"Emperor," he breathed. "How long has he been like this?"

Behind him, Interrogator Vivienne Dranguille's cultured tones replied. "Since he stumbled in from the jungle this morning, my Lord. He's got worse in the last couple of hours."

Brecht's face was impassive. The cell's occupant was in constant motion, scraping his skin against the floor, the walls. A streak of blood glittered on his thigh. It was hard to believe that twenty-four hours ago this naked, debased creature had been an adept in the Adeptus Administratum and one of his retinue.

"Have you questioned him?"

The Interrogator grimaced. "It's proven difficult. We've lowered the temperature in the cell as you can see, but it doesn't seem to have made much difference."

At the mention of temperature, Brecht mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief that was already soiled with sweat. He put it away, aware that beads of perspiration were already beginning to form on the skin he had just wiped clean.

"Let's try a different tack, then."

I'm bleeding.

Oh, I'm bleeding. To feel the life-giving fluid wet against my skin is… wonderful. I scratch at the wound – just a tiny scrape, but soon the blood is flowing more freely. The sensation of penetration as my fingernails pierce my flesh and tear the tiny flap of skin wider and wider is overwhelming.

Perhaps I pass out with the sheer pleasure of it, for one moment I am alone in this tiny room and the next a man is standing over me, his face stern.

I ignore him, gazing instead at the woman behind him. She is beautiful, red hair scraped away from her face, grey blouse plastered to her torso. She stinks of sweat. I imagine the slickness of it upon her skin. I think of what I could do to her if we were alone.

Cutyourutyoucutyourutyou.

"I don't think so."

I am not aware of having given voice to my desire, but I must have done, for the man slaps me. Sensation erupts in my cheek and tears of unutterable pleasure spring from my eyes. I imagine my face bruising, a beautiful purple flower unfurling upon my cheek.

"Thank you," I say and I am compelled to fling myself at him, hands scrabbling at his legs. "Again! Again!"

Savagely, he kicks me aside and I moan in ecstasy. The skin across my ribs is stretched taut like that of a drum; I reverberate with pain. My chest sings with it. Such beautiful, glorious agony.

"Let's do this quickly."

Hands are on me and I shiver with delight. Something enters my flesh. Metal pierces skin; the pain is a concentrated shot of pure pleasure. My limbs jerk. I can feel –

No.

No. The brightness fades. Sensation dulls. The colours become muted and my skin is an awkward shroud that suffocates my desire.

What's… what's happening to me? My fingers. So cold. I can't…

Brecht watched the young man's eyes, saw the clouded pleasure leak from them slowly to be replaced by an uncomprehending horror.

"Keller," said Brecht sharply. "Keller, listen to me." The former adept's eyes screamed his fear. Brecht reached out with his mind, tendrils of psychic influence questing, probing, trying to find a way in. A thin patina of frost suddenly crystallized on the patch of floor where the Inquisitor was standing. He ignored it, focused entirely on his former servant. "Listen. To. Me."

Keller blinked once. And again.

"M… my Lord?" He was shivering, hugging his body with numbed hands.

His expression grim, Brecht let out a controlled sigh. "Good. Now, tell me what happened…"

Drums. Drums in the night.

I can barely hear them, but I know they're there. They've been there ever since I first set foot on this stinking feral world.

Drums. Calling to me. Pounding in my gut like the blood in my veins. Over and over and over.

Calling.

I get out of bed. My wrist-chron tells me it's the middle of the night, but I can hear them. Emperor, I can hear them so clearly.

I get dressed carelessly, the clothing awkward and cumbersome against my skin. The night air is cool, but there's a fever in my flesh, a burning hunger that scrapes against my stomach like a stone.

I've got to…

I leave the compound. I know the patrol routes. It's easy to avoid them. I'm in the forest, lurching, tripping, stumbling. The drums. I'm following the drums.

Close. Closer. Branches brush their fleshy leaves against my face. It feels… good. My pleasure at their softness swells warmly. Insects sting my arms and legs, their bites tiny flares of pain on my skin. I don't care.

I've got to…

I break through into… a place. The branches of the tall trees form a canopy overhead. I can't see the stars. Just a smoky blackness hanging suspended above the…

There are people. Natives. Their eyes are wild and their bodies daubed with symbols that are both seductive and obscene. They are naked and moving. Always moving. Things twist and writhe in the shadows between the trees. Bodies slither, touching. Joining. Merging.

I watch. Emperor, forgive me. Emperor, please forgive me!

I should run. I know I should run. But the drums and the people…

Flesh. So much flesh…

Sweat glistens on painted skin, trickles onto full lips, a lolling tongue, a hardened nipple. I want to touch… want to feel.

She is sitting in the centre. Perfectly still while all around her the flesh of her people is in constant motion. She looks at me with eyes of purest green. Her breasts are full, a thin yellow liquid dribbling from her distended teats. I stumble towards her, dimly aware of the flesh parting before me, of eyes that gleam with the same desire that I feel uncoiling in my gut. The drums pound. The hunger grows.

And I am so hungry.

I kneel. She places her hand on my head as if in benediction. Gently, insistently, she pulls me towards her body. My mouth opens and…

Brecht straightened up, his breath foggy in the freezing air. He glanced down at Keller's lifeless body and then across to Dranguille. The interrogator's face was hard; her eyes gleamed like steel.

"Now we know what we're facing."

Wordlessly, Brecht nodded and moved past her out into the sweat bath of the corridor. His face, too, was hard and unyielding but a fierce hunger for vengeance burned coldly in his eyes. He was, after all, a representative of His Holy Emperor's Inquisition.

And he had work to do.