Climacteric
by Avram Davidson
They had driven up, just the two of them, to a place in the mountains he had spoken of—store, garage, hotel, all in one—it was a rare day, a vintage day, with no one to bother them while they ate lunch and shared a bottle of wine. She spoke most; the things she said were silly, really, but she was young and she was lovely and this lent a shimmer of beauty to her words.
His eyes fed upon her—the golden corona of her hair, the green topazes of her eyes, exquisitely fresh skin, creamy column of neck, her bosom (O twin orbs of sweet delight!)—
"But never mind that," she said, ceasing what she had been saying. "I want to forget all that. You: What were you like as a boy? What did you dream of?"
He smiled. "Of a million beautiful girls—all like you," he added, as she made a pretty pout with her red little mouth—"and how I would rescue them from a hideous dragon, piercing through its ugly scales with my lance," he said, "while its filthy claws scrabbled on the rocks in a death agony . . . And the girl and I lived happily ever after, amid chaste kisses, nothing more."
She smiled, touched him. "Lovely," she said. "But—chaste kisses? Now, I used to dream—but never mind. It's funny how our dreams change, and yet, not so much, isn't it?" They looked swiftly about, saw nothing but a distant bird, speck-small in the sky; then they kissed.
Very soon afterward, they drove up a side road to the end, then climbed a path. "You're quite sure no one can see us here?" she asked.
"Quite sure," he said. He stepped back. There was a noise of great rushing, then a short scream, then—other noises. After a while he drew nearer and ran his hands lovingly over the sparkling and iridescent scales. The beautiful creature hissed appreciatively, and continued to clean its gorgeous and glittering claws with its shining black bifurcated tongue.