What do the Succubi steal from me, exactly?
There were those among the earliest of mages, the likes of Ptolemy, Pythagoras, Agrippa, who believed ejaculation was a sacrifice of creative power. A mad, foolish sacrifice, considering the things of which man, created in the image of god, might be capable, if only he first became capable of self-denial.
Perhaps the founders of religions that have lasted since those days thought the same, and thus it was that monks, ascetics, made themselves worthy of communion with the divine. They stored up their power, hiding it from humanity so they could show it to God.
And thus it was that Woman became Succubus, leech of the mystical, leech of the holy power of men. She came to them in sleep in the form of dreamed temptations, and the desperate mages’ dream-selves lacked the self-denial of their waking twins, and thus they fell.
Thus have I fallen.
And I find I like it here. As far as I’m concerned, the Succubi can drain me for all I’m worth. I can make more. Because to me a Succubus, far from being the dark mirror of the Muse, is the closest thing to the Muse that I shall ever see. Isn’t love the only thing that, given away, grows? I choose not to draw the distinction between love and power and creativity. And thus so long as the demoniac ladies of the night consent to let me keep the memories of our encounters, I say let them come.