She dances through his dreams like a wine-soaked succubus from legends told in excess. Her femininity becomes a burning torch that engulfs every fiber of his manhood when she kneels like a concubine whose divinity is best served as a servant his Lordship. But such humility is not becoming to a Goddess. Yet Huitaca is a licentious being at heart whom fate decrees as the corrupter of youth according to Bochica who teaches his brittle morals which she delights in cracking like clay vases ready for her blow.
Upon the feel of her lip magic, his sleeping body writhes on love sheets until remorse takes hold like an anaconda that awakens him from his pillowy dreams to the urgency of his pillar when her poppy lends his piety respite.
When his closeted eyes open she stands over him like a dream within a dream and rosins his bow in the aloe heat of her palm. “The king believes wine and women will sap the strength of our warriors in a time of war.”
He grabs her by the arm and pulls her down to drape his body in the sin of her flesh. “Given unto your offering of love made in dreams woven thus the urgency of battle becomes a dull drumbeat not to be heeded in moments when pleasure is in the offing.”
“As protectress of women, I am entrusted to keep our soldiers in a chivalrous state and ready to fight for the charms of their ladies. Thus the pillagers are thwarted by our hungry legions.”
And so a plot is hatched in which womanly wiles flood the spirit of the men with sensuality so strong that even the hardness of soldiers drops like a coca leaf to be chewed on the altiplano of love. Like unbuttered bread bland morals are discarded along with loincloths and skirts. Wine and women lead the dances and parties on the high plateaux of males well in hand until Huitaca sets forth on a westerly walk to spread gaiety to friend and foe alike with the miracle of the orchid dreaming her path.