(Day 92 – Day 103 of the Final War)
Rewritten and expanded in full – 5,127 words
Day 92 – Hour 00:00:00
The sky of Muspelheim did not merely crack. It was violated.
A vaginal wound three thousand kilometres long and eight hundred wide ripped open the burning crimson vault with a wet, tearing shriek that reverberated across every realm simultaneously. From the bleeding slit poured the single, unbroken orgasmic moan of one hundred and twenty million purple-fire hybrids, a sound so saturated with raw lust that distant volcanic chains liquefied on the spot. Their peaks ejaculated upward in million-metre columns of purple-black lava-semen that crashed back down as spasming, vulva-shaped crater lakes forever clenching and unclenching in endless aftershock.
Surtrhild stepped through the wound first.
Thirty-eight metres of living apocalypse made flesh. Skin blazing crimson threaded with glossy obsidian-purple veins that pulsed like aroused arteries at twelve thousand degrees Celsius. Hair a waterfall of living purple flame that reached her heels, every strand shaped like a rigid, ejaculating phallus dripping molten seed that hissed into boiling pools wherever it touched the ground. Her breasts, each heavier than a continental plate, swayed with slow, deliberate menace; nine-metre nipples stood rigid, purple-black, leaking lava-milk that detonated into screaming fire-lakes on impact.
Between her thighs throbbed her primary weapon: a sixty-two-metre lava-cock thicker than Valhalla's central pillar, veined in glowing runes of ancient lust-magic, glans flared like a hellflower in permanent bloom, urethral mouth gaping and drooling rivers of ten-thousand-degree semen that carved hundred-metre craters wherever a single drop landed.
She planted her feet on a plateau of obsidian glass, hands on hips, and laughed, a sound like a volcano achieving climax.
"Father… your wayward daughter has come to drag you home in chains of semen and fire."
Opposite her, atop Hrímnir, the tallest volcano in the nine realms, Surtr rose.
One hundred and fifty metres of primordial fury. Skin red as iron left in the forge since the birth of time, beard and mane living white plasma that roared instead of flickered. Eyes twin roaring suns. His ninety-metre fire-cock pointed at the bleeding sky, glans a boiling sphere of white plasma; every heartbeat fired kilometre-long streams of white-hot semen that fell as eternal plasma lakes.
At his feet, eighty million fire giants had already formed the Eternal Ring of Fire, an unbroken circle eight hundred kilometres in diameter. Each giant stood between eighteen and twenty-five metres tall, wielding flaming greatswords in one hand and their own monstrous plasma-cocks in the other. As one they slammed the heads of their cocks together; the simultaneous eruption formed a white-hot plasma dome two kilometres thick that sealed the entire battlefield like the lid of hell's cauldron.
Surtr raised Hrungnir, a two-hundred-metre sword forged from the first flame that ever burned, and his roar drowned every volcano on the planet:
"BASTARD SPAWN OF THAT TRAITOR WHORE FREYA!
TODAY I WILL BURN YOUR FILTHY LUST TO CINDERS, THEN FUCK YOUR MOTHER RAW IN FRONT OF YOUR CHARRED CORPSE!"
Hour 00:00:07 – The First Exchange
Surtr struck first.
Hrungnir carved a downward arc that birthed a wall of white fire five hundred kilometres wide and ten kilometres tall, moving at 99.997 % of light speed, one million degrees hot. The air flash-vaporised into a plasma shock-front that shattered entire mountain ranges before the flame even arrived.
Surtrhild did not dodge. She spread her legs until her hip joints creaked like continental plates grinding, seized the root of her lava-cock with both hands, and stroked once, one single, deliberate stroke from base to blooming glans.
"LUST-FLAME SECRET ART – GREAT HEAVEN-BURNING EJACULATION!"
Her cock doubled in length in a microsecond. The glans blossomed wider, petals of purple meat unfurling like a hell-lotus in full bloom. A solid column of purple-black semen three hundred metres thick and carrying trillions of glowing lust-runes shot forward faster than thought itself.
White fire met purple lust head-on.
There was no explosion at first, only a moment of perfect, obscene silence as the two primordial forces tried to rape each other into submission. Then the white wall shattered like glass struck by a diamond cannon, fragmenting into countless cock-shaped shards that instantly turned purple, sprouted glans, and began ejaculating endlessly in every direction.
The beam punched straight through the centre of Surtr's attack and kept going, carving a canyon of molten obsidian three hundred kilometres long and five wide straight toward Hrímnir's peak.
Surtr's furnace-eyes widened a fraction. For the first time in ten millennia the Fire God felt something colder than his own flame: the icy finger of genuine terror.
Hour 00:02:30 – The Eternal Ring Activates
Eighty million fire giants roared in unison and triggered the grand formation.
The plasma dome inverted, collapsing inward into a cage of white fire twenty-five kilometres high and eight hundred across. Temperature inside spiked to 25,000 °C. The ground turned to liquid glass. Even space itself began to crack like overheating metal, leaking raw chaos.
Surtrhild licked purple lava-blood from her lips and smiled with far too many sharp teeth.
"Using your own children as kindling to burn me, father? How very patriarchal."
She raised her right hand, fingers splayed like the petals of a burning flower.
Behind her, one hundred and twenty million purple-fire hybrids climaxed as one organism. The sound was a single, endless moan that cracked the planet's crust along fault lines never mapped. Their combined ejaculation formed a purple lava ocean five hundred metres deep that rose in thousand-metre tsunamis and slammed into the collapsing cage.
White met purple.
Seventeen million fire giants dissolved instantly, their bodies flash-converted into clouds of white-purple semen that rained upward into the burning sky, screaming in ecstasy as they died.
Hour 00:08:15 – Eighteen Lust-Flame Tentacles – First Movement
Surtrhild's patience ended.
From her raised palm erupted eighteen primary tentacles, each 1,200 metres long, eighty metres thick, covered in backward-facing purple meat barbs sharp enough to slice souls in half. The tip of every tentacle bloomed into a 150-metre fleshy flower-mouth lined with thirty thousand writhing flame-tongues that drooled acidic lava-slime capable of dissolving divine armour.
The tentacles moved faster than sound, each one singing its own obscene aria of moaning lust.
Surtr met them with Hrungnir. Every swing of the plasma sword severed hundreds of thousands of lesser tentacles that sprouted from the main bodies like hydra heads, but the eighteen mothers were immortal. Cut them and they grew back hotter, thicker, angrier, dripping with fresh lust-runes.
The first tentacle punched clean through Surtr's right thigh, emerging out the back dragging a ten-kilometre ribbon of white fire-blood that ignited the atmosphere.
The second speared his left shoulder, ripping out a million-ton chunk of muscle that detonated mid-air into a miniature sun.
The third coiled his neck and squeezed until vertebrae cracked like breaking glaciers.
The fourth stopped three metres from his heart, tip kissing the flaming organ, tasting its rhythm, injecting microscopic lust-parasites that began rewriting his divine essence.
The fifth through seventeenth raped every orifice, eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, lungs, intestines, bladder, anus, flame-tongues licking, sucking, drinking his divinity, pumping him full of purple seed that burned colder than absolute zero inside his immortal veins.
The eighteenth wrapped the root of his ninety-metre cock and began milking with slow, deliberate pulses, forcing involuntary eruptions that weakened his flame with every spasm.
Surtr's roar became a broken scream of agony and unbearable pleasure. His cock betrayed him, erupting uncontrollably in white geysers that the tentacles drank greedily, growing fatter and stronger.
Hour 00:18:88 – Eternal Self-Immolation – First White Blaze
Surtr triggered his first desperation technique.
His entire body detonated into a miniature sun of white fire fifty thousand degrees hot with a radius of one thousand kilometres. The eighteen tentacles charred, shrivelled, and fell away like burnt paper, screaming as they died.
The blast took a quarter of Surtrhild's body with it. Her left side sloughed off in molten sheets; ribs of gray-white bone glowed through missing flesh; one breast charred to coal, its massive nipple falling away to explode far below into a lake of purple lava-milk. Half her cock's glans flaked off in burning petals, exposing raw urethral meat that bled molten semen in rivers.
For the first time she screamed, a sound of raw, astonished pain that cracked the planet's remaining crust.
Surtr floated in the heart of his sun, voice ragged with interrupted climax:
"Die, lust-whore!"
Surtrhild spat a glob of purple lava-blood that sizzled through the plasma.
"You forgot, father… I was forged inside mother's cunt from pure lust.
Fire does not kill lust. It only makes it burn hotter."
She bit off the tip of her own tongue and spat the burning flesh skyward. The blood formed Freya's ancient rune of unbound desire, then detonated into a purple-black lust-storm that began eating Surtr's white sun from the edges inward, turning white fire violet centimetre by centimetre.
Hour 00:25:00 – Phase Two: Aerial Melee – The First Thousand Blows
Surtrhild regenerated in fifteen seconds, flesh hotter, darker, cock ten metres longer from the sheer thrill of agony. She launched herself upward, hands morphing into three-hundred-metre purple flame scythes that sang with lust-magic.
Surtr met her with Hrungnir.
Blade met scythe with a sound like two gods fucking mid-explosion. Purple-white sparks shot thousands of kilometres, each spark birthing a new volcano on the ruined plain below.
They fought for twenty straight minutes without touching the ground.
Surtrhild spun, tail lashing, a five-hundred-metre whip of purple flame that struck Surtr's flank and hurled him through three volcanoes in a row. Lava plumes rose like blood from ruptured arteries.
Surtr answered with a fist the size of an island. It struck her abdomen dead centre, punched straight through her back, and emerged dragging intestines of living fire that tried to strangle him even as they left her body. She flew backward a hundred kilometres, vomiting purple lava-blood in a red-black comet trail.
They collided again above the clouds of plasma.
Knee to jaw, his mandible cracked open a hundred-metre fissure that bled white plasma.
Elbow to temple, her vision went white, skull ringing like a cracked bell.
Bite to shoulder, his teeth sank into her trapezius and drank a tonne of lava-blood, growing stronger.
Claw to chest, her nails carved four flaming trenches across his pectorals deep enough to expose the beating heart of pure white fire.
Every blow birthed a new plasma storm that swept the battlefield below, erasing millions of lesser beings by the millions.
Hour 00:45:00 – Phase Three: Descent Into the Core
Surtr wrapped one massive hand around her throat and dove.
Ten thousand metres straight down, punching through crust, mantle, outer core, until they breached into Muspelheim's inner ocean of white lava at eight hundred thousand degrees and pressure that could crush neutron stars.
Here, time dilated. A second on the surface was ten minutes inside the hell-sea.
Surtr released "Second White Blaze – Purgatory Sea."
The entire ocean detonated upward in trillions of white-hot spears like inverted volcanic rain, each spear a kilometre long and hot enough to vaporise souls.
Surtrhild answered with "Endless Sea of Lust – Violet Genesis."
Every pore on her body opened; her skin ejaculated an ocean of purple-black semen that met the white spears head-on.
The collision compressed both seas into a single sphere of purple-white plasma two thousand kilometres wide. For one heartbeat the sphere held, then it detonated with the force of a hypernova.
The blast wave punched a hole clean through the planet's core and out the other side, exposing raw vacuum to the realm's heart for the first time in history.
Surtrhild took the brunt. Her body cracked in millions of places; lava-blood geysered from every fracture. Her heart flickered like a candle in a hurricane. One lung collapsed entirely. Her cock snapped at the midpoint, the upper half spinning away into the void trailing molten semen.
Hour 01:30:00 – Phase Four: At Death's Door
Surtr dragged her broken body back to the surface and hurled her down like refuse.
She lay in a crater fifty kilometres wide, one breast torn open and leaking rivers of lava-milk, cock snapped in half and oozing, lungs collapsed, heart beating once every ten seconds, vision tunnelling to black.
Surtr stood over her, Hrungnir raised, voice trembling with exhausted triumph.
"It's over, whore."
But in that moment the surviving one hundred and six million purple-fire hybrids climaxed for the third time. Their combined ejaculation formed a purple tsunami fifteen thousand metres high that struck Surtr from behind and sent even the Fire God tumbling hundreds of kilometres, buying his daughter thirty precious seconds.
Surtrhild forced her ruined jaw open, bit off what remained of her tongue, swallowed the burning meat, and triggered the forbidden technique she had sworn never to use.
"LUST REBIRTH – BLACK PHOENIX ASCENDANT!"
Her broken body detonated into a phoenix of purple-black lust-flame, wings four thousand metres wide, beak a burning vagina that screamed Freya's name, new cock one hundred and twenty metres long with an eighteen-petaled glans like a blooming obsidian lotus dripping acid semen.
She rose from her own ashes literally on the verge of final death, every feather a tongue of lust-flame that moaned in agony.
Hour 02:00:00 – The Hundred and One Fatal Strikes
Surtrhild hovered above the broken Fire God, her reborn phoenix form blazing with violet-black lust-flame that drank every photon of light and gave nothing back. The air around her screamed in continuous orgasm. Her wings, four thousand metres from tip to tip, beat once every seven seconds, each down-stroke birthing a hurricane of purple semen-mist that scoured the continent below clean of all remaining life.
Surtr lay on his back in a lake-sized pool of his own cooling plasma-blood, chest heaving, Hrungnir shattered into a hundred thousand glowing fragments orbiting him like dying stars. His once-white beard was streaked with violet, his eyes no longer twin suns but flickering embers drowning in lust.
Surtrhild descended slowly, deliberately, talons clicking against obsidian glass that instantly melted and re-solidified into moaning, cock-shaped stalagmites beneath her weight. She landed between his spreadeagled thighs, the heat of her body alone forcing the last pure flames on his skin to bend toward her like flowers seeking the sun.
Then she began.
Strikes 1–20: The Twenty Heart-Stabs of Cold Desire
She raised her right arm. The feathers there melted away, revealing a lance of living purple flame two hundred metres long that grew straight out of her wrist, its tip shaped like the glans of her cock, drooling acid semen that hissed through the air.
She drove it into Surtr's chest, dead centre, exactly one metre deep.
The first stab.
Surtr roared, back arching off the ground a kilometre high. White fire tried to push the lance out; instead the lance drank it, turning another layer of his heart violet. A sound like a thousand choirs being throat-fucked at once tore from his throat.
She withdrew slowly, letting him feel every barb on the shaft rake his divine flesh, then stabbed again, two metres deep this time, twisting at the bottom so the glans kissed the inner wall of his heart.
Second stab.
By the fifth stab Surtr was no longer roaring. He was whimpering, a sound no creature in creation had ever heard from the Fire God before. His cock, still ninety metres and rigid, began to leak violet-tinged semen in involuntary pulses.
Tenth stab, she left the lance inside for ten full seconds, rotating it slowly, carving her personal rune of ownership into the muscle of his heart.
Fifteenth stab, she leaned in close, breasts dragging across his ruined chest, and whispered against his burning ear, "Feel it, father. Feel the cold burn. This is what mortals feel when they beg for me."
Twentieth stab, she drove the lance clean through his heart and out his back, pinning him to the planet like a butterfly to cork. Then she snapped the lance off inside him and let the wound seal around it, trapping her lust inside his core forever.
Strikes 21–40: The Twenty Severances
Her wings folded forward, every feather sharpening into a violet flaming blade. She rose above him, a dark angel of violation, and began the slow, surgical dismantling of his combat ability.
Strike 21: a downward slash that severed the primary tendon of living flame anchoring his right arm. Hrungnir's fragments fell from the sky like rain as his sword-arm lost half its strength.
Strike 25: a horizontal cut across both thighs, parting the arteries that fed his legs with primordial fire. White plasma gushed out in rivers that turned purple the moment they touched the ground.
Strike 30: she carved a perfect circle around his left shoulder joint, then twisted. The entire arm, still clutching a fragment of Hrungnir, tore free with a sound like a continent screaming. She caught the severed limb, pressed the burning palm against her breast, and moaned as the heat made her nipple ejaculate a fountain of lava-milk.
Strike 35: she knelt between his legs, spread his thighs wider than physics allowed, and with one delicate slice severed the flaming tendons that controlled his cock. It flopped sideways, still rigid, still erupting, but no longer under his command, now just a helpless fountain of seed.
Strike 40: she stood atop his chest, raised both wing-blades high, and brought them down in a scissor motion that severed every remaining tendon of fire in his torso. Surtr's body went rigid, then limp, only his heart and cock still moving, one in agony, one in unwanted ecstasy.
Strikes 41–70: The Thirty Violation-Strikes of Forced Climax
Surtrhild's phoenix beak opened, revealing a second, smaller vagina lined with flaming teeth. Her cock, now one hundred and thirty metres long and thicker than a mountain, throbbed visibly. Eighteen new tentacles sprouted from her back, each one different: some ridged, some knotted, some covered in sucking mouths, some ending in blooming cock-heads.
She began the rape of a god.
Strike 41: the first tentacle forced its way into his left eye socket, burrowing through the orbit and into the brain, pumping lust-fire directly into his thoughts. Surtr convulsed, memories of the first flame he ever ignited flashing violet.
Strike 45: her own cock thrust into his mouth, down his throat, bulging his neck grotesquely as the glans pushed past his heart from above and kissed the lance still embedded there. She held it deep for thirty seconds, letting him choke on her pulse.
Strike 50: two tentacles, one into each ear, twisting like augers, fucking his mind from both sides while whispering Freya's name in endless echo.
Strike 55: her tail, now a burning scorpion stinger dripping semen, punched through his navel and into his stomach, injecting a litre of pure lust-venom that made his intestines orgasm in waves.
Strike 60: she rolled him onto his stomach despite his size, spread his molten cheeks with clawed hands, and drove her cock into his anus in one brutal thrust. The entire length, all one hundred and thirty metres, disappeared inside him. His spine bowed; a sound like every volcano on Muspelheim erupting at once tore from his throat as his prostate ignited in violet fire.
Strike 65: while still buried inside him, she grew secondary cocks from her knees and elbows and forced those into whatever orifices she could reach, his severed arm socket, the wound where his arm had been, even the cracks in his fracturing ribs.
Strike 70: the final violation, she pulled out of his anus with a wet, obscene slurp that echoed for hundreds of kilometres, then forced every single tentacle and secondary cock into him at once, through mouth, anus, wounds, nostrils, urethra, until Surtr's body was less a giant and more a writhing mass of purple penetration. His own cock erupted continuously now, no longer in bursts but in one endless stream, painting the ground white-purple in a lake fifty kilometres wide.
Strikes 71–99: The Twenty-Nine Flayings of Divinity
Now came the slowest, most intimate part.
Surtrhild shifted back to a more humanoid phoenix form, wings folding into burning cape-like membranes. She produced a small, delicate knife made from Freya's own frozen tears, no longer than a metre, glowing with soft pink light that somehow hurt Surtr more than any plasma blade.
She began to skin his divinity.
Strike 71–80: ten paper-thin slices across his chest, each one peeling away a layer of the original white flame that had existed before time. With every layer removed, Surtr's screams grew higher, younger, as if millennia were being stripped from him.
Strike 81–90: she carved runes of submission into the exposed raw divinity, runes that glowed violet and forced the ancient fire to spell her name in burning letters across his ribs.
Strike 91–98: eight slow circles around his cock, flaying the outer layer of pure primordial plasma, exposing the sensitive violet core beneath. Each circle made him buck and sob, his erection no longer proud but desperate, leaking tears of semen.
Strike 99: the final cut, a single line from the root of his cock to the centre of his forehead, splitting his divinity open like a blooming flower. From the wound poured not blood, but the memory of every fire he had ever started, now turning purple and kneeling before her.
Strike 100: The Canyon Slam
Surtrhild stood, grabbed her phoenix tail, now a burning whip of violet flame five hundred metres long, and wrapped it around Surtr's throat three times.
She took flight.
Straight up fifty kilometres, dragging the broken Fire God behind her like a rag doll. At the apex she spun once, twice, three times, building centrifugal force, then hurled him downward with all the strength of her reborn body.
Surtr hit the ground at thirty times the speed of sound.
The impact created a canyon five hundred kilometres long, ninety wide, and eight deep. Shockwaves levelled what few mountains still stood. The sound alone shattered the remaining atmosphere into permanent plasma storms.
Strike 101: The Throat-Fuck That Killed a God
Surtrhild landed astride his chest in the centre of the new canyon, knees pinning his shoulders, talons digging into the wounds she had carved.
She reached down with both clawed hands, forced his broken jaws apart until the hinges shattered, and looked into his one remaining eye.
"Open wide, father. One last drink."
Her cock, now one hundred and fifty metres long, thicker than redwood ancients, glans bloomed into a two-hundred-petaled lotus of purple meat, each petal dripping venomous lust-semen, descended.
She thrust.
Slowly.
The first fifty metres slid down his throat, bulging his neck into a grotesque, obscene silhouette.
One hundred metres, the glans pushed past his heart, kissing the embedded lance from the first twenty strikes.
One hundred and thirty metres, the petals unfurled inside his chest cavity, spreading like a deadly flower, each petal latching onto a different organ and beginning to suck.
One hundred and fifty metres, the root of her cock sealed his mouth completely. There was no space left inside him that was not her.
She held it there for one full minute, letting him feel what it was to be utterly, completely filled by his daughter's desire.
Then she began to drink.
Not with her mouth, with her cock.
The urethral mouth opened wide, lamprey-like, ringed with backward-facing teeth of violet flame, and latched directly onto the core of his heart.
And it sucked.
One pulse.
A thousand years of fire torn out.
Second pulse.
Ten thousand years.
Third pulse.
A hundred thousand.
With every pulse Surtr convulsed, his own cock erupting in sympathy, painting the canyon walls in endless arcs of white-purple seed.
On the thirty-third pulse his heart turned fully violet.
On the sixty-sixth pulse his screams turned to moans.
On the ninety-ninth pulse his remaining eye rolled back white.
On the hundred-and-first pulse he came one final time, a geyser so powerful it reached low orbit, and whispered a single word that sealed his fate forever:
"Mistress…"
Surtrhild held the final suck for a full minute, draining the very last ember of resistance.
Then, gently, almost lovingly, she withdrew, inch by inch, letting him feel every ridge and vein as it left his body.
When the glans popped free from his mouth with a wet, echoing slurp that silenced the planet, Surtr collapsed, chest no longer rising, cock finally limp, divinity nothing but a hollow violet shell waiting to be refilled.
The Hundred and One Fatal Strikes were complete.
Only rebirth remained.
Hour 02:45:00 – The Last Ejaculation Into the Heart
Surtrhild withdrew her cock from his throat with a wet, obscene pop that echoed across the ruined realm like the death-knell of an age.
She stood, placed one taloned foot on his chest, and caressed his ruined face almost tenderly with fingers still dripping his own stolen fire.
"Father… you promised to burn me to ash.
Allow your daughter to return the favour."
She aimed her cock, now one hundred and fifty metres from battle-arousal, glans bloomed into a two-hundred-petaled fire-lotus dripping venomous purple semen, directly at the gaping wound in his chest.
And she came.
Not a single burst. A continuous, merciless, six-minute-long ejaculation. Trillions of litres of twenty-two-thousand-degree purple-black lust-semen pumped straight into his heart in rhythmic pulses that matched the dying beat of his divinity.
His heart detonated. Reformed purple. Detonated again. Each explosion birthed a new moan of unbearable ecstasy from Surtr's broken throat.
Three hundred and sixty explosions in six minutes, one for every degree of the circle of submission.
On the final detonation his body could no longer hold its shape. White fire turned purple, collapsed inward, then burst outward in a final phoenix form, wings of purple-black flame spanning ten thousand metres, eyes molten gold, a one-hundred-and-fifty-metre cock standing eternally rigid between his legs, dripping purple semen that would never cool.
Surtr, what remained of the ancient Fire God, knelt.
Voice hoarse with absolute, shattered submission:
"Daughter… Mistress… I yield.
Muspelheim is yours.
I am yours.
Burn me, fuck me, remake me forever."
Surtrhild placed one hand atop his burning head, talons gentle for the first time.
"Rise, my slave."
Days 93–102 – The Eleven-Day Orgy of Conquest
For eleven days and nights the combined armies, one hundred twenty million purple-fire hybrids and the seventy-nine million fire giants now converted into lust-phoenixes, fought, fucked, and converted every corner of Muspelheim.
Each day another layer of the realm fell: volcanoes turned into throbbing cock-mountains that ejaculated rivers of violet lava, lava rivers into semen oceans that moaned with the voices of the drowned, basalt plains into fields of eternally ejaculating flame-flowers that seeded the ground with new hybrids.
Each night the sky itself moaned with the orgasms of hundreds of millions, auroras of purple and white semen painting the heavens in endless climax.
On Day 103, Surtr, reborn, winged, cock dripping purple seed in a continuous stream, personally led his remaining legions to the border gate Freya had opened. They knelt as one before the Goddess of Love and War clad in a robe woven from living purple-black semen that writhed like a million tiny tongues.
Freya stroked the dripping glans of the kneeling Surtr with one lazy finger, drawing a broken moan from the former god.
"One realm down.
Eight still burn with foolish resistance."
She raised her hand.
A new gate tore open reality, this one leading to Vanaheim, realm of the Vanir gods, smelling of fertile earth and flowering meadows soon to be violated.
Surtrhild stepped forward, wings of lust-flame spreading wide, cock already hardening again at the promise of fresh conquest.
The war continued.
And the flame of desire burned hotter than the fires of Muspelheim ever had.