In a routine check for my surname in erotic fantasy fiction, I stumbled across this choice passage — from the novel Gryphon Rising by Jon Jermey.
In the next chamber the walls were hung with verdant overripe greens, and the scent of tropical flowers hung in the air. “Malki Spellmaster” Eorl said quietly as they entered.
It looked as if the Elder had been homesick for a dream. Pillars here were carved into twisted organic shapes and the floor was strewn with thick rugs, piled on each other in a haphazard whirl of colours. Bright cushions were everywhere, and the chamber was warmer than the others. Khadreena caught the glint of gold and turned to examine a statue. She drew back disgusted. “By the Pit…”
"Don’t they do that in Borth?" Eorl asked, amused.
"They may do it." Khadreena said. "But they don’t make statues of it."
As they approached the centre of the chamber the greens intensified, the scents grew heavier, the ornaments costlier and more anatomically improbable. At last they were faced with what seemed to the largest sculpture of all, the bronze statue of a fat god sitting on a throne. Its hemispherical belly rolled beneath its folded hands, and its tongue protruded slightly beyond the lips of its pudgy hairless blank-eyed face. On the sides and back of the throne intricately-carved figures writhed and danced. Something about the figure made Khadreena shudder. “I don’t like Malki’s tastes.”
"He came from Far Xand." Eorl said, as if that explained everything. "But there’s no trace of him here." He looked at the statue more closely, carefully keeping his hands away from the smooth copper surface, and suddenly smiled. "He was always a trickster, Malki, as cunning as Daraban himself."