Porkum Invites Sue Storm For A Drink

The music came to a slow end, and Porkum drew apart and gave a deep bow. Sue Storm curtseyed—she couldn't remember the last time she had curtseyed—face flushed, heart beating a little faster. The great pink diamond a warm weight against her skin.

"Dinner will be served soon," Porkum told her as he rose. Sue saw a large, ornate pair of doors at the end of the hall open, revealing the banquet hall. "But please, will you join me for an apertif on the veranda?"

Sue Storm hesitated. She needed to keep a clear head. An aperitif would be a liqueur. Yet she was thirsty...and so far, she was safe. Even enjoying herself. There was something fairytale-like about the small European principality, the chateau, a Beauty-and-the-Beast quality to Porkum's porcine appearance.

"One drink," she agreed.

He took her hand and guided her to a side door, which opened to show the veranda—really, a stone-flagged porch that looked out over a cliff; down below, about fifty feet, Sue saw a small stream running. Forest rose on the other side of the stream, up a mountainside. Pine trees, or some sort of evergreen, the needles a lovely bluish-green.

A blonde waitress in a domino mask and smart pink-and-black livery brought a tray with two glasses. One was filled with something milky white, the other had a rich, amber liquid.

"I prefer Schanpps," he said. "But the other is a low-alcoholic alternative, made from milk, like koumiss. It is a local delicacy. I hope you will enjoy it."

Low-****. That was considerate. Sue lifted the glass and took a sniff. There was a sharp, almost sour odor. Not entirely unpleasant, and it didn't smell like ****. More like an overripe cheese. Porkum held out his glass, and the two pieces of crystal ting'd gently against one another.

They sipped.

The drink was sour, and dry; not sweet at all. Yet Sue's mouth didn't pucker. She held it on her tongue for a moment, and there was something inexplicably familiar about the thin white liquid, which seemed to leave a coat on her tongue and teeth. They stood quietly, the part suddenly very distant to their ears. The breeze blew from the forest, and brought with it the scent of pine and earth. Sue's blue eyes tracked a bird soaring, and then a form moving amid the base of the trees...oddly familiar...

"Wild boars," Porkum said. "They have been in this region for generations. On our family crest. The very name, Porkum, derives from the hams my ancestors sold to the Romans—or so the legends say; the manuscript evidence is a bit lacking. I still own several large pig farms to supply pork to Latveria and communities around Mt. Wundagore. But we've never tried to eliminate the feral boar population. This is their land, too."

Sue's mouth was very dry. She looked at her empty glass, a bare drop left. She wondered whether it would be acceptable to ask for a little more.

"What do you call this?" she asked.

"Sertéstej," he said, then translated: "Pig milk."