She senses it is coming before the first of the little birds begins to sing of its impending arrival: the time when she must once more leave her beloved husband and return to the world above. She is his dread queen no more, but Kore revived, fresh and new.
They say their goodbyes ardently, and when her mother comes to claim her, his rough, dark hand clutches hers so affectionately until the very last moment that she thinks that her heart will break. She looks back; there is no such restriction for her, the dark queen Persephone, and she would memorize his face, the angles and planes of his narrow countenance, before they are parted, and the underworld seems to swallow him up like a mouth.
The world is still barren beneath her feet, and a chill clings, ice trembling on the tender new leaves. She walks among them, pale as they, a specter of spring. They remind her of her beloved, for people think he too is cold, but he is beautiful like a jewel to her, and made of fire. She carries that fire even now within her, and when she sits in the sprouting grass and slides her simple dress over her thighs, she thinks of his touch, smooth and reverent.
She thinks of the hard line of his mouth as her fingers slip between her thighs, she thinks of his warm, thin lips, and imagines them wandering there, where her fingers now play, smoothing along the petals of her sex until the nectar began to seep from her.
Her clitoris is like a freshly blooming rose, the bud peeking redly from the new stem, burgeoning, and she gasps when she touches it as he would. As his long fingers would play there, as his tongue and lips would strum.
She slides a finger inside, and it's his hot tongue that she's imagining now as she gasps, as her cheeks turn rosy, her skin flushing like the world turns warm and bright. How he drinks as if she is the sweetest draught he has ever tasted, as if she is ambrosia itself; how he tells her so as he laps at her, how he doesn't stop when she is writhing and begging for more, begging to stop, to gods have mercy!
And when she slides another slim finger inside, it is his manhood she is thinking of, proud and thick, shorter than she might have expected, but fitted perfectly to her, like a sheath made to fit a blade. She imagines the glide of his hips, and how he becomes more and more frenzied with each one, with each thrust, with each lunge, filling her again and again as she clings to him, fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades, feeling bone and tight, hard, slender muscle through his dusky skin.
She's moving her fingers to the knuckle, sliding them in and out, flexing them within, thinking of his delicious cock, thinking of the primal, feral noises he makes as he pleasures her. How he always pushes her to her own fulfillment first, and then groans as he spills his seed inside, pumping it into her until it overflows, sticky on her thighs. Their passion reaching its climax.
As it does for her now, her silken sheath tightening around her fingers, wetness gushing between them, juice cascading down her knuckles, onto the grass below like dew.
And from there the world begins to renew itself, from the seed that he has planted inside of her during the winter, and that she now shares with it in the springtime. He will feel it, down in his cold bedchamber, he will feel the shift in the world, and know that it is her. And she will do this again and again, she will give the world its green, its summer. And in the winter, it will be only his once more. The thought makes her smile as she watches a nearby tree sprout the first tender leaves of spring. It is a pomegranate tree, not coincidentally.