I apologize for any confusion caused by the unfinished nature of the last chapter. The mistake has been fixed, and I suggest you look at the added page or so before reading this. I hop that you find a little of the characterization you have asked about, and be assured there will be more. This looks to be quite a long story.
The Deceiver
A hot, scathing wind hit him. Michael staggered, and sunbaked sand infiltrated his cheap dress shoes. The black cambric shirt was quickly soaked almost to the cuffs with sweat. He gasped, and it felt as though half of what he sucked in was sand. Every inch of his exposed skin was being sandpapered by the stinging, airbourne particles.
He narrowed his eyes in defense against the sand, but tears still ran freely down his face. The grains of sand felt like red-hot needles in his eyes. He felt like he was in an oven. An oven, he thought grimly, That is probably on fire. God help me. Through his mostly closed eyes he could see only steep dunes. The sand was a queer, rose-orange colour.
Michael, partly bent over from the howling winds, began to walk in an attempt at a straight line. Had he looked back, he would have seen a lonely, wriggling line of footprints that began in the middle of nowhere. After a few minutes, it was still a depressingly short wriggly line.
He fumbled at his neck, sliding the white collar of priesthood to the side and practically ripping the first few buttons undone. The effort of walking in this heat was causing him to pant. It was all he could do to keep his tongue from lolling animalisticly. It is hard to remember dignity in hardship. He concentrated on the mercurial surface he was walking on.
A tiny figure struggled through sand in a startlingly perfect image in the crystal sphere. Jareth's eyes were fixed intently on Fr. Michael. The expression on his face kept the goblins quiet as they moved through the throne room. And so the castle beyond the Goblin City was tense and almost silent while Michael walked on, oblivious to surveillance.
Jareth closed his eyes and frowned pensively, elegantly gloved fingers stroking his cheekbones thoughtfully. Then his hand stilled. Mismatched eyes snapped open and a wide, wicked smile spread to match the glint contained within them. "Ah, memories," he crooned enigmatically. Then he vanished, leaving the goblins to exchange furtive looks of bewilderment.
The wind billowed the loose shirt of the Goblin King, but the sand did not strike him. It wouldn't dare. The heat did not abate, but it did not seem to bother Jareth. The violent gusts seemed to take pleasure in teasing out the long strands of blonde hair, and a small smile creased his cheek at the antics of the desert wind.
He made a small gesture, and a small patch of sand rose up and heaved. Finally, it solidified into an elegant gazebo of rose-orange stone. In the centre was a dry fountain. Jareth's boots clicked inaudibly on the stone floor. With a twist of his wrist, he produced a crystal. After weighing the bright bauble in his palm for a moment, he tossed it into the air. It fell slowly, as if it were full of some lighter than air substance.
Without a sound it touched the top of the dry fountain. On contact, it turned into a gush of clear liquid. The fountain sparkled and gleamed in the slightly pink light. It was, though Jareth said it himself, a perfect temptation. With a last smile at his handiwork, the Goblin King vanished.
Michael almost literally stumbled on the small gazebo a short time later. He opened his eyes in surprise when his foot came down on solid stone instead of shifting sand. He regretted it immediately when sand lodged in his eyes, but he had seen the fountain. Thank God! He thought fervently. He felt half dead from dehydration.
He forgot caution. Using both hands as a cup, he gulped the amazingly cold and clean stuff. Once his thirst had abated, he splashed the soothing liquid on his painfully red skin. As a precaution, he drank more of it and then soaked his black shirt in the fountain. Feeling well again, the priest set out across the sands again.
Michael moved through the crowd of revelers with contented aimlessness. He'd pause at various knots of colourful acquaintances, talk, and then move on like a butterfly sampling different flowers. An apt simili: Everyone was vividly costumed. Michael couldn't quite recall what the occasion was; he assumed that had somethin to do with the half-full champagne glass in his hand. It was probably the most recent in an impressive line.
He was suddenly arrested by the sight of a striking man with an elaborately careless haircut laughing halfway across the ballroom. He ad the disturbing feeling he had seen the fellow somewhere before. Suddenly he laughed aloud, drawing amused and indulgent glances from the other party-goers. How ridiculous to be so drunk as to forget one's own host! Still chuckling a little, he drained the glass and began in Jareth's direction.
Good guy, Jareth, Michael mused. His mind was pleasantly afuzz with champagne. And for the life of me, I can't remember what the celebration's about! But that was perfectly permitable in such company... Everyone was at least partly drunk. The music started up and Michael was swept away by a woman in a golden mask. The slightly macabre nature of the costumes did not perturb Michael in the slightest. Jareth had a queer whim.
Jareth watched him dance out of the corner of one tip-tilted and made-up eye. He had seen Michael's eye catch on him, and observed the perturbed expression that clouded the other man's features. He made a slight gesture, and the disturbed look disappeared with a laugh.
Another slight gesture, and the musicians began to play. With a small smile, Jareth watched as the revelers swept the once-priest up. He was enjoying himself in Michael's fantasy. The dream was surprisingly well formed and elaborate, and stretched farther than most. It would be easy to be caught up in it, even for an experienced dreamer such as the Goblin King. Michael was obviously enraptured by it, more than willing to let it carry him away.
And Jareth was quite willing to oblige him.