Desires Sirocco

# DESIRE’S SIROCCO An Ellora’s Cave Publication, September 2004

Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc. PO Box787 Hudson,OH44236-0787

ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0034-X Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned): Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

DESIRE’S SIROCCO © 2004 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Edited byMary Moran. Cover art bySyneca.

Desire’s Sirocco Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter One

Jameela sat with her hands clenched in her lap, eyes on the floor, knees pressed tightly together. Every movement, every sound intensified the fear invading her body and renewed the trembling she could not control. With her heart beating wildly and sweat forming in her armpits, she was one shallow breath from fainting.

“You signed the consent form, did you not?” the Master’s chancellor asked. His words were spoken in a monotone, falling out of his mouth as though by memory. Without lifting her gaze from the sleek hardwood floor, Jameela nodded silently. Papers rattled. “And you brought the proper documentation from the physician?” Another slow nod came from the young woman who knew better than to make eye contact with the chancellor or speak unless given express permission to do so. The door at the far end of the sparsely furnished room opened and Jameela flinched. She desperately wanted to look up, but exercising every ounce of restraint she possessed she managed to keep her head down. Dagan had trained her well over the last few weeks. “They are ready for her now,” a man with an oddly inflected, deep, bass voice said. “Very well,” the chancellor acknowledged. His staccato words scraping like a rasp across Jameela’s nerves. Scraping his chair back from the ornate desk behind which he had been sitting, Brother Qutaybah came to stand in front of Jameela. “Rise and follow me,” he ordered. A small whimper she could not prevent escaped Jameela’s throat as she quickly came to her feet. She clutched her hands demurely at her waist as she had been instructed to do. Her gaze transferred from the plank flooring to the heels of Brother Qutaybah’s highly polished boot heels as she kept the required five-foot distance between them as she followed. From the corner of her eye, she saw the toes of another pair of dark brown boots as they passed the man with the deep voice. “The room will be dark when we enter,” Brother Qutaybah stated as he continued through the opened doorway and into the chill corridor. “You remember what is required?” Jameela knew a moment of sheer panic as she wondered if he would see her nod. Was he looking back over his shoulder or was his back still to her as he walked briskly along? She dared not risk looking up to find out. “Well?” Brother Qutaybah snapped. He stopped so suddenly she almost plowed into his thin as a rail body. Jameela jumped back, her clenched hands tightening painfully around one another. Had she accidentally touched the person of the Master’s chancellor, she would surely have fainted dead away. As it was her heart was beating so fast, she feared it would explode in her chest. “Answer me, woman!” “Yes, Sir,” she answered quickly, quaking like a leaf in the storm of his annoyance. “Yes, Sir, what?” Brother Qutaybah asked impatiently. “Yes, Sir, I know what is expected of me in the Chamber,” she said, her voice breaking. For a long moment, Brother Qutaybah stood there, staring at her. She could feel the disapproval in his

silent gaze; hear the harsh expulsion of breath before he clucked his tongue in what sounded like disgust to her ears. “I see nothing at all in you that will suit the needs of the Conclave,” Brother Qutaybah said, “but I suppose Lord Dagan is privy to attributes he feels warrant your admission.” Tears formed in Jameela’s eyes and her lower lip quivered. Though Dagan had berated her often during training he had not used insults. “Even hags have some use, I suppose,” Brother Qutaybah said with a snort. He turned around and continued down the corridor. Her throat clogging with hurt, Jameela was having a hard time keeping up with his long-legged stride. Keeping her attention locked on those shiny boot heels, she tried to ignore the fear his words had caused. With a self-esteem that was as fragile as a snowflake, she wondered if the Conclave would reject her and cast her back to the Outside world. The thought of such a thing happening sent the tears down her ashen cheeks. The corridor grew colder the farther they traversed its length. The bare floor began to slant downward and the walls to narrow, seeming to close in around her. Where there had been brightly burning torches every ten feet or so, the lights now were ranged further apart and were dimmer, sputtering in the ever-increasing cold that had set Jameela’s teeth to chattering. Growing claustrophobic in the narrowing tunnel, unnerved by the decreasing warmth and illumination, the young woman moaned when the wooden plank flooring turned to thinly crushed gravel for she was barefoot and the stones were uncomfortable—if not actually painful—beneath the soles of her feet. “Useless,” Brother Qutaybah proclaimed. “No stamina whatsoever, more timid than a mouse and far less attractive.” Jameela bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from whimpering. Her fear of the Master’s chancellor had turned her spine to jelly. Yet, had she been able to see his face, her terror would have increased threefold for the brutal gleam in his slanted eyes and the sneer on his cadaverously thin face might well have stopped her pounding heart. What seemed like an hour passed before Brother Qutaybah slacked his rapid pace. The tunnel had narrowed to a thin sliver of rock-hewn wall, glistening damply within the light cast from a lone torch. Lifting her gaze a few inches, Jameela could see a narrow wooden door banded with rusted metal framed in the fieldstone. When Brother Qutaybah knocked sharply upon the door, Jameela squeezed her eyes shut, her terror escalating with every shallow breath. From behind the door a command was barked, giving them permission to enter. Jameela opened her eyes, recognizing that authoritative voice. She did not know whether to be relieved or heartsick that Dagan would be privy to her examination by the Conclave. Brother Qutaybah turned to face her. “Look at me,” he ordered. Jameela lifted her head. Staring into the cadaverous face of the Master’s chancellor brought hot bile to the young woman’s throat. She feared the one who would purchase her—if, indeed, one of the men did—would look like this horrid, ugly man. She dared not hope he would resemble in any way her trainer, Dagan Kiel, for fear the disappointment would be more than she could bear.

Brother Qutaybah pursed his lips tightly as his hawk-like gaze roamed over Jameela’s trembling form. The look on his face gave mute evidence that he found her lacking in some important way for his eyes rolled before he spoke. “Explain to me what happens from this moment on,” he said. Jameela had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could speak. Though she held his stony stare, she longed to look away, to rid her sight of his dreadful countenance. “You will open the door,” she said, paraphrasing Dagan’s tutorial, “and I will enter alone. I am to walk straightforward fifteen standard paces into the room and stop. I will lower my hands to my sides and wait until I am bidden to remove m…my robe.” “Thank Zi Dingir I shall not be there to witness that repulsive sight,” Brother Qutaybah muttered. “What then?” The shaft of hurt his words caused brought more tears down her pale cheeks. Her chin trembled but she managed to reply, “I will do as I am bid by the members of the Conclave.” The Master’s chancellor clucked his tongue. “The only thing they will bid you do is cover your revolting nakedness and vacate the Chamber.” He shook his head. “What was Dagan thinking?” With a derisive snort, he turned and opened the door. The room beyond was pitch-black and the air from the opening was like a frigid blast of arctic wind from the frozen Northlands. It took every scrap of Jameela’s strength to enter that ebony space, feeling the chill from the stone flooring beneath her feet all the way to her calves. When the door closed quickly, sharply behind her, she jumped, terror widening her eyes though there was nothing she could see in the darkness surrounding her. Feeling lost, disoriented in the stygian space pressing in upon her, she began to breathe quickly, terrified of taking another step. She stood there quaking violently, her teeth clicking together. “Come forward.” It was Dagan who commanded her and she took comfort in the fact that the two words had been spoken in his normal, well-modulated voice and not thrown at her like a dagger. Knowing he was nearby—for his voice was just off to her right—took the edge off the fear roiling within her. Stilling the desire to turn and run back toward the place where she’d entered, she stiffened her spine, dug her fingers into the silk rope that circled her waist and served as a belt to the coarse robe covering her, and stepped forward fifteen paces, counting them off in her head. With a suddenness that brought a gasp of panic from the young woman, a bright light flared high above her. She looked up at the burning torch and blinked as another then another and still another flared to life. Within in the space of a few heartbeats, the Chamber was ringed with fierce, bright light. Blinking against the intrusion of the intense illumination, Jameela became aware of the high wooden balcony that encircled the Chamber. Twenty feet or more above her, the balcony was peopled with the dark silhouettes of robed men. The glare, making it impossible to see the features of the hooded men positioned in front of the torches, hurt her eyes and she looked away, only to find herself staring at a lone

man at the far end of the Chamber, stationed below the sweep of the balcony. Dagan stood there with arms crossed over his wide chest, booted feet planted apart. His uniform of the black silk shirt and tight leather britches of a Trainer reflected the harsh overhead light. Jameela smiled timidly at him but when he gave no indication he even knew her, she looked down at the rough stone beneath her bare feet. There was no sound within the Chamber. Though she was keenly aware of the men ranged above her along the balcony, she heard no movement, discerned no audible breaths. The Brothers were as still as statues and generating as much warmth and welcome as their stone counterparts. It was the silence, the stillness that increased Jameela’s terror and threatened to buckle her knees. It was all she could do to remember to lower her arms to her sides to await the pleasure of the Conclave. From high above her—perhaps the ceiling directly over her head—a deep gong sounded. The sound was ominous and she looked up, searching Dagan’s still face. From the distance at which he stood—fifteen feet or so—she could not see his eyes clearly but when he dipped his head in a slow nod, she knew he was giving her permission to remove her robe. The thought of disrobing before the soundless, forbidding men circled around her gave her pause. She kept her attention riveted to Dagan’s expressionless face, wishing he would come to her, take her arm and escort her from this horrid place. But Dagan continued to stare at her, making no move to comfort her in any way. Pleading with her eyes, begging him mentally to rescue her, she was devastated when he looked away, seeming to dismiss her as being of no value. Through the silence, she heard his low, aggravated release of breath. Though over the last three weeks of her training she had wished—prayed, actually—that Dagan would keep her for his own, she now knew he was but an employee of the Conclave, a Trainer whose duty it was to instruct the women of the Conclave’s seraglio. Trainers did not have women of their own for Dagan had explained to her that such men were surgically altered so they would not be tempted to taste the forbidden favors of the Conclave’s womenfolk. Learning such devastating news about the handsome man for whom she had begun to entertain lustful fantasies, had been a blow. “Men who serve as Trainers consider it an honor to be of assistance to the Conclave,” Dagan had told her when she asked how he could allow such a brutal thing done to him. “But wouldn’t you like to know the pleasure of…?” she asked only to have him rebuff her with a steely glance. “Desire is removed with the slice of the surgeon’s blade,” he stated. “You can not miss what you have never had.” Staring now at his averted profile, Jameela gave in to hurt that had been building since early morn and reached up to untie the silken rope at her waist. What good, she asked herself, did it do her to hope for comfort in the arms of a man who did not share the loving feelings for her that she had developed for him? What difference did it make which man standing above her took her to his bed if she could not have the one she wanted? With a steely resolve that made her clench her teeth, she untied the rope and flung it away. Dagan turned his gaze to her as she shrugged out of the robe and let it drop from her naked body. He regarded her with an intensity that brought chill bumps to her flesh and she realized it was only the second

time he had seen her nude, the first being when he had purchased her from the slave block at Sahar Colony. Lifting her head, she locked eyes with him, hoping he would one day regret the insanity that had allowed the Brothers to remove his manhood. Even as that thought formed in her mind, she saw a slow, evil smile form on his full lips and knew he had somehow intercepted her thought. Tearing her attention from him, she felt her face flame when she heard his low chuckle of amusement. Once more the gong sounded overhead and Jameela tensed. Now would be the inspection by the Conclave, the humiliating intrusion of strange hands upon her flesh, poking, prodding, pinching and producing shame. It was the most horrible part of the ritual in her mind and she began to tremble afresh, dreading the feel of those impersonal fingers on her body. That she might actually find pleasure in the act was a concept that puzzled her. Unless, she thought as she looked at Dagan, it was his body taking hers. If that were the case, she was sure her pleasure would know no bounds. As the gong sounded again, she jerked her mind from such hopeless thoughts. Dagan was walking toward her, his gleaming amber eyes bright as he passed her. Knowing what he was about set her heart to racing and brought with it the sheen of moisture that gathered under her arms and along her upper lip. The sound of the door opening and the squeak of wheels made her dig her nails into her palms. She squeezed her eyes shut and did not open them until she felt the cold smoothness of wood behind her knees. Before she could react, Dagan was at her side, reaching for her and she was swept up into his brawny arms and carried back to be laid upon the contraption that had sealed her fate as an Accepted One for the Conclave. The table upon which he placed her was firm but there was a light padding that did not make it uncomfortable under her back. The sheeting was cold, though, and goose bumps pebbled her flesh as Dagan firmly but gently pushed her knees down so that she was lying stretched out upon the table. He walked to the foot of the table and put his hands around her ankles. With one quick and competent motion, he pushed her ankles far apart, the lower portion of the table separating beneath her so that it then formed an inverted Y. The cold drag of metal over her ankles told her he was shackling her to the table; the snick of each lock closing around her flesh underlined that knowledge. Feeling her lower body exposed, her core open to view, Jameela instinctively reached down to cover her mound but Dagan stepped around the table and grasped her hands, pulling her arms up, anchoring them above her head. The strength in his hands never failed to impress her and having hers now placed within the cold steel of restraints at the top of the table sapped any resistance she might have offered completely away. She gazed up at him, taking in the raw male beauty that stared down at her. His sable dark hair gleamed in the light cast from the burning torches on the balcony walls. A spark of—what, interest?—brightened his tawny eyes, making them less severe, not quite as impersonal. When he blinked slowly, long, thick lashes covered those seductive eyes and fanned the high arches of his lean cheekbones. A nose that was bold yet handsomely masculine, full lips, even, straight white teeth, and a strong, determined chin completed a face that was at once alluring and frightening. But it was the look in those aureolin eyes that captured and held her motionless on the padded table. There was possessiveness, a right of ownership in that look that belied the telling words he had spoken to her last eve. “I will turn you over to the Master’s wishes in the Chamber come morning and never once look back on this time we have spent together in your training.”

Jameela licked her suddenly dry lips and saw his gaze drop to her mouth. She watched a muscle bunch in his left cheek before he turned away, moving out of her line of sight. For what seemed an eternity no sound was heard within the Chamber. No movement, no shuffling among the robed figures glaring down at her from the balcony broke the enforced stillness. She could feel their greedy eyes devouring her and she squirmed against her bonds. “Lie still!” Dagan ordered from above her head and before she could crane her neck to find him, something dark and silken was pulled over her eyes, wrapped around her head and tied at the nape of her neck. Blindfolded, trapped within darkness as deep as she had encountered upon first entering the Chamber, Jameela felt her fright return with a vengeance. She bit her lower lip and tensed against what was to come. It was the sound of shuffling feet from above that nearly stopped her heart. There were no murmurs, no comments as the robed figures made their way down what must be stairs, for she could hear the scrape of boot heels against stone. The echo of footfalls drawing closer set her blood to pounding in her ears, drowning out all else. She could feel heavy warmth surrounding her and knew the Brothers had circled the table and were staring down at her, their eyes glowing with lust, but she could smell nothing save the cinnamon oil that Dagan used as an aftershave. As the first faint pressure of flesh met her own, she tensed, going as rigid as petrified wood. His touch was tentative, a stroking of the middle portion of her left thigh. First upward, then downward, then slowly upward again, it was almost as though the Brother was testing the smoothness of her flesh. His fingers stilled then a hot, dry palm flattened on her flesh, radiating warmth before the fingers kneaded the firm muscle once, twice, a third time finally withdrawing. Almost instantly another hand spread its fingers upon her lower belly, pressing gently into the softness before sliding upward to her waist. The hand eased over her from right ribcage to left ribcage then departed. She felt a hand squeezing her right thigh, another followed to stroke her left shoulder. Fingers tickled beneath her armpit, traveled delicately from the hollow of her throat to the indention of her belly button. A palm slid firmly down her right leg from thigh to toe tips then retraced its path. Fingers drummed along her upper chest from shoulder to shoulder like a spider walking a gossamer web. Fingernails moved down the inside of her right arm then her left. Hands cupped her feet, massaging the toes, one after another. When one hand left her, another immediately took its place on a different area of her body. Never remaining long enough to heat her flesh, the fingers of the Brothers tested her flesh, stroking it, pressing lightly, and causing her to draw in a quick breath with each new quarter of her body touched. Yet there were no intimate touches upon her breasts or between her legs, no accidental grazing by the back of a firm hand or a questing finger. Long minutes passed as those searching hands experienced every portion of her anatomy save those parts that were now heavy with expectation and quivering with need. There was heaviness between her legs that she had never experienced before and a wetness there that

she could smell. Her breasts ached to be touched, the nipples straining upward as each hand grew close. She shifted her body, lifted her hips as hard, calloused fingers stroke the flesh of her inner thigh. Quickly, the fingers were removed and Jameela groaned with frustration. She heard someone chuckle and felt the stain of embarrassment heat her cheeks. She was no better than the harlots who sold themselves on the waterfront at Sahar Colony, wanting a man’s hand upon them more than bread in their bellies. The sudden possession of her right breast made her gasp with shock and pleasure for the hand that molded itself to her was hot, the fingers lightly squeezing with an authority that made her draw in her breath. The palm pressed firmly against her turgid nipple and she arched upward, pressing herself against it. Without a break in that wondrous invasion, her left breast was captured and treated much in the same way. Jameela reveled in the feel of those knowledgeable hands cupping her flesh. She gave herself up to the fingers that pulled the heavy flesh upward then released it only to draw it up again. Sinking into the rhythm of one hand pulling as the other released, she relaxed and turned her head to one side to sigh as the Brothers continued to massage her. She barely reacted as more hands stroked her thighs, her calves, massaged her toes and feet, and fingers trailed on both arms almost in tandem. Fingers threaded through her hair as a Brother used both his hands to massage her scalp. Try as hard as she could, she could not count the number of hands upon her. At one point, she thought there had to be at least six men plying her flesh but she knew at least three times that many had been standing on the balcony. Did one move back so another could take his place? How many would touch her, claim her flesh before the bidding began? That she had been accepted and not turned away as the Master’s chancellor no doubt thought would happen was both a relief and an exercise in expectation for her. Breaking into her revelry, the gong sounded once more and cool air flowed over her naked flesh as every hand left her flesh. She held her breath, wondering what would happen now. She did not have long to wonder for strong fingers grasped her left and right nipples at the same time and began to roll the pebbled flesh gently between them. Well-manicured fingernails grazed her areolas with each circuit of those commanding fingers. As the Brother—or Brothers—pulled her turgid flesh upward and twisted it gently, the young woman thought she would melt. “Ah…” Jameela sighed. The sensation was unlike anything she could have imagined. Her entire body became taut, then limp with pleasure. But the delicious consciousness that was invading her upper body was nothing compared to the intense feeling that jerked her to full awareness as a hot hand molded itself over her pubic mound, the base of its palm pressed firmly against the hot opening between her legs. “Oh!” she gasped, shuddering. She would have spoken again but that firm palm pushed harder between her legs and she could do nothing but open her mouth and pant. As strong fingers plucked at her nipples, the Brother who had taken possession of her nether region began to massage her, his fingers digging lightly into the crisp hair at the juncture of her thighs. The heat from his hand sent waves of intoxication throughout her system and she felt completely relaxed. It was as though he were drawing her strength from the core of her.

The hand between her legs turned, pivoting firmly on her mound until the Brother’s fingers were paused at her vaginal lips. Lightly, delicately, those fingers fell in succession over her flesh as he drummed a slow, fragile rhythm upon her body. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. With each successive, infinitely slow fall of those heated fingers, the pressure grew so that when his middle finger descended the fifth time, it passed slightly into the slit between her lips. “Sweet Lalartu!” Jameela breathed as she arched her hips from the table. A hand was placed on her belly, pushing her down again, anchoring her there. It was as close to a warning as she would get, the young woman thought and stilled. For her obedience, the Brother returned his fingers to her mound but this time he spread the fragile lips apart with the thumb and index finger of one hand while with the other hand he gently dragged his short nails along the inner flesh. A long sigh of pleasure pushed from Jameela’s throat. She thrilled to the stroking, the scratching of the Brother’s fingers and was so wrapped up in the pleasure such actions caused, she was caught by surprise when he touched something between her legs that made her cry out and arch upward as though struck by lightning. It wasn’t pain, she realized, that had caused her intense reaction. It wasn’t exactly pleasure, either, she thought. It was a combination of both and she wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not. When he touched the spot again, she felt the same powerful reaction. “Don’t! Please!” she said, deciding the sensation was too powerful, too concentrated to be enjoyed. Biting her lip for daring to give an order to a member of the Conclave, attempting to deny him his right to do as he pleased with her, she feared she would be dismissed now. She need not have worried. A snort was the answer to her request and the Brother’s finger hooked downward inside her for a moment then withdrew. Before Jameela could react, her nipples were pinched firmly between dull fingernails and worried as though they were corks trying to be drawn from a wine bottle, the flesh being drawn upward but not in a painful way. Truth be told, the sensation was as close to ecstasy as she had ever come. But true ecstasy was but a finger flick away for the Brother’s hand slipped lower down her mound and his finger entered her soft moistness, going in as far as flesh and bone would allow. At the same time, another hand was placed on her lower belly and firm pressure was applied. Beyond forming words, all Jameela could do was moan as the sensations began building one atop the other. She squirmed against the pressure attacking her nipples and ground her hips against the wiggle of the finger buried within her. Panting, beginning to experience a strange itch centered deep in her lower belly, she felt her womb quiver. Almost as quickly as the pleasure had begun it ceased for the Brothers withdrew their fingers at the same

moment. “No!” Jameela groaned. She lifted her hips, whimpering as she wordlessly begged for a renewal of the delicious feelings. She barely felt the hands at her wrists and ankles removing the shackles. So aroused was she that she all but ignored the hands pulling her to a sitting position. Even when strong arms went behind her back and under her knees to lift her from the table, she could not bring herself to protest. Her lower body was on fire with need, aroused to the point of actual physical pain. As her bare rump was lowered to the floor and she was pulled to her knees, she was a mass of frustration. Someone was standing before her for she could feel the heat of his flesh. When he anchored her head in his hands and brought her face forward, she knew what was expected of her for Dagan had taught her well. But what had been taught using a firm barely ripe banana had nothing in common with the reality. Obediently she did as Dagan had instructed—opening her mouth and allowing the Brother to place his organ inside. Behind the silken blindfold, her eyes opened wide for that which entered her mouth was huge! Though she relaxed her throat as she had been taught, her jaws and neck ached as she began the sucking motion that would draw the Brother’s essence from his shaft. “Move your head back and forth as you suckle him,” Dagan had ordered. “Purse your lips tightly to create the pressure he will need to know pleasure. Do this five times before reaching up to cup his warriors with your left hand while you cup the base of his sword with your right.” She was following Dagan’s instructions as she remembered them. While her own body was on fire with a need she feared would not be met, she knew it was to her advantage to please the Brother. She put her left hand on his scrotum and circled the base of his shaft with her other hand. Kneading the heavy, pendulous flesh in her left hand, gently tugging at it as she had been told to do, she used her right hand to lightly twist the Brother’s rigid member in her mouth. Easing her lips up and down his penis and occasionally thrusting her tongue into the moist slit, she found she was not adverse to the taste and feel of his essence, as she feared she would be. She found the rhythm was easy and was lost in the repetition when the Brother buried his hands in her hair and thrust himself forward against her. Jameela felt the first pulsing of his organ and relaxed her throat as Dagan had instructed. Having no preconceived notions of what was right or wrong during the sexual act, she did as Dagan had instructed and felt a moment of pride when the Brother shuddered against her and sighed with obvious pleasure. When he was finished, his essence drained, the Brother pulled free of her lips and brought her to him, turning her head so that her cheek rested against the wiry hair of his belly. He stroked her hair gently, the side of her face then knelt beside her, gathering her in his arms to place a light kiss on the top of her head. “If you win the trust of the Brother, show him you appreciate his goodwill,” Dagan had said. The man whose essence she had taken might not be a handsome warrior. He might not be young; but he had not been cruel and had not hurt her. If this was the one who would win the bid for her, she thought she could live with it. So without another thought, she wrapped her arms around him and held him to her. Beneath her cheek, she could hear the hard, rapid beat of his heart. “The Brother will not copulate with you the first time,” she remembered Dagan saying. “This is a

consideration for you as a virgin. The next time he arouses you, he will take your maidenhead so be prepared for the slight pain that will follow.” Jameela had no worries about the “slight pain”. Having been raised in a household of four brothers and an aged father who was adverse to explaining the ways of life to her, the only knowledge she had of the sex act had come from eavesdropping on her brothers or else watching the barnyard animals. From what she had learned from spying on her brothers, the act was something women enjoyed and often initiated. After watching the barnyard animals, it seemed to her the female merely tolerated the act, appearing bored by it then calmly went on its way when the male was finished. It there was pain involved, it seemed minimal to Jameela. The gong sounded and the Brother kneeling beside her pulled her to her feet with him. His strong arms went behind her back and under her knees and she was placed upon the table once more, guiding her legs to the cross arms of the table, stretching her arms out until she was spread-eagled upon the soft padding. But this time he did not shackle her wrists and ankles. Boots scraping against the stone floor confused Jameela until she felt the many hands upon her body again. Fingers stroked, palms smoothed, and nails grazed over her flesh but did not stray to the sensitive areas that longed to be touched. Two Brothers were at her feet, massaging the arches and each individual toe. Two more firmly rubbed the length of her legs, carefully working on the thigh muscles. Another gently scratched her scalp, seemingly careful not to pull her hair as he worked. Two more worked over her outstretched arms and fingers, kneading the muscles and digits until she felt as limp as an overcooked green bean. As relaxed as she was, she became as tense as a tightly coiled spring when she felt an eighth Brother put the palm of his hand over the core of her, his fingers threaded gently through the crisp curls at the juncture of her thighs. Though the manipulations of those massaging her were a delight upon which she had not counted, this last Brother’s touch was sheer pleasure. The heat of his flesh made her ache with need and when he began to rotate his palm against her, the fingers shifting back and forth over her pubic mound, her arousal grew in leaps and bounds. “The Brothers are experts at the art of copulation,” Dagan had explained. “They have had centuries of learning what is pleasurable and what will pleasure. Give yourself over to them with no reservations and you will not regret it for they will care for you as you deserve.” Only one Brother would win her in the bidding, she remembered, but he would gladly share her with his brothers, for that was the system of the Conclave. He would be her owner and she would be required to answer to only him and do whatever he required without denial or comment. No doubt the man whose hand was upon her most private and sensitive of places had won her. It would be his staff that deflowered her. “No Brother will touch you until the one who owns you has determined you are ready to accept other staffs. Until he has stretched your orifices, made you ready so that the act can be accomplished with ease, only he will lie with you. Be not afraid that you will be ill-used Jameela, for that is not their way,” Dagan had assured her. As she lay there, reveling in the feel of gentle hands firmly massaging her and that strong, hot hand rubbing slowly at her core, she thought back to the slave block and how she had stood there trembling, terrified of who and what kind of man would pay her price. Her nakedness had shamed her and she had kept her head lowered, not wishing to see the men gathering before the platform. She had tried to blot out their ribald comments but the vulgarities had stained her cheeks scarlet red and caused her such

mental anguish she thought she would pass out. For the first time she heard Dagan’s voice. It had been his voice above the bawdy jokes and lewd observations that had broken through the fog of shame and caused her to lift her head. She remembered well his words. “How is it this woman is being sold here? She is not a harlot to be auctioned.” “Nay, Milord,” the slave trader responded, “but her father has left this world and her brothers have no desire to look after her.” She had watched Dagan push his way past several men until he stood directly before her. His amber eyes were molten with anger. “Then why do they not offer her in Joining?” he demanded. The slave trader shrugged, his arms spread. “They have no dowry for her and who wants a maid with no dowry, Milord?” “You mean they drank or gambled away her dowry, do you not?” Dagan seethed. As she stared at the handsome warrior standing below the slave block, Jameela hoped he would be the one to buy her. His wide chest, strong arms and lean hips gave evidence that he would be a determined protector and if it was to his household, to his staff of servants she would be led, she would thank Lalartu every day of her life. “I bid 200 hibahs for her!” a heavily cloaked woman had shouted. “She’ll make me a good enough house pet!” Coarse comments and rude laughter met the woman’s remark and Dagan had turned to glower at the woman—her face hidden within the cowl of her robe—who was no doubt a wealthy libertine. “The only one who will take this Wench is me!” he snarled as he looked about him, challenging the other men. “Is there one amongst you who will dare gainsay me?” The men shuffled their feet, looked down at the ground and remained silent. There was authority in the challenger’s tone of voice and raw power in his stature that brooked no disagreement. “Then I claim her!” Dagan stated. Jameela’s heart soared at his words. When he turned back to look up at her, she saw determination in his tanned face. His amber eyes raked her with a possession that made her knees weak. “Your bid, Milord?” the slave trader asked, licking his lips, his fingers moving together in anticipation of the warrior’s purse. “I bid for the Conclave,” Dagan announced and shocked whispers filtered quickly through those gathered. Men moved back, putting distance between themselves and a servant of the Conclave. “Put her down for 600 hibahs.” Only the cloaked woman held her ground though she apparently had no counter bid to make. Stark terror lanced through Jameela’s soul. No one save the Brothers of the Conclave could enter the Conclave’s keep. Little was known about the secret society of warriors and few townsfolk at Sahar

Colony had had contact with the nobility who resided behind the fortified walls. The Brothers kept to themselves. Only orphans, widows and widowers—those without kith and kin, without friends and protectors—were purchased for the staff of the Great Keep at Lalssu. Once beyond the gates of the Keep, those purchased were never seen again for they were not allowed to leave. It was the rotation of the hand between her legs that brought Jameela from her memories of that day. The Brother slid a finger inside her, going deep, and withdrew it slightly before pushing it back inside her again. Sucking in her breath, she wriggled on the table as he began an in and out rhythm that made her lower body heavy with arousal. When he placed his other hand on the hood of her clitoris and gently peeled back the protective veil, she forgot all about the other hands on her and concentrated on those working the core of her. Nothing could have prepared Jameela for the sensation that followed. She felt soft, warm air on her then a stab against that most sensitive part of her anatomy. She tensed; expecting the pleasure-pain she had felt before, the irritation that had nearly driven her mad, but the feeling she began to experience was heavenly. It took her a moment to realize the contact on her clitoris was the Brother’s tongue for his warm mouth had latched onto her nether lips as his finger wiggled inside her. Sheer bliss, this wonderful feeling invading her loins! The temptation to cry out in pleasure made her bite down on her lower lip. It was all she could do to keep still and not wiggle around on the bed in wild abandon. Coupled with the touches from the unseen hands along her limbs, head and feet, she was beginning to experience an itch in her lower body that she realized must be a precursor of ecstasy to come. “Foreplay is the start of the passage, little one. Copulation is the journey and the Brother’s staff is the stallion that will take him where he wishes to go,” Dagan had told her. “Pleasure will be the destination.” As that strong, insistent finger continued its in and out motion, going deep, retreating, it found a spot within her that brought a groan of delight from Jameela’s throat and she arched her hip upward. “Aye!” she called out. Removing his mouth from the young woman’s core, the Brother chuckled as he began to manipulate that secret spot concealed within her trembling body. Such gentle, firm pressure, such complete possession by that knowing hand had conquered any shame or regret or lingering fears Jameela might have had lurking in her pulsating body. “Aye?” he asked in a gruff voice. “Aye!” Jameela replied, no longer concerned with anything save the growing pressure building within her. “Then….” he whispered and pulled his finger free of her. “No!” Jameela pleaded and jerked her arms in an attempt to pull free of the hands that stroked her but she felt strong fingers circle her wrists and her arms were pressed down against the table. Before she could protest again, that firm digit entered her from the rear and she arched off the table as though launched from a catapult. In another second the Brother’s thumb was inside her moistness, his nail flicking against that responsive button that sent her lower body into a spasm of craving. “Now,” she heard the Brother command and shouted as fingernails moved to her aching nipples and began plucking at them. Between the pressure in her anus that moved in and out like a slow piston, the manipulation of that

receptive point deep inside her vagina, the firm force on her feet and the delicate pinch of her turgid nipples, sensation burst over the young woman in a rapid succession of waves that brought a scream of release from her throat. Not even the hands bracing her head could hold her as she arched her neck and gave voice to the climax that shook her. Trembling with the force of the passion that had gripped her, she could do no more than grunt as she felt hands on her hips pulling her forward. She grunted as her legs were lifted and draped over hard shoulders slick with perspiration. Even as the stab of a hot, velvety member poked at her opening then slid unerringly home, could she do more than sigh with immense satisfaction. The minute pain that rippled through her loins was nothing, meant nothing, and was ignored as her body reacted to the penetration. Filling her completely, that powerful staff slid into the saddle of her and held there—unmoving and pulsing with the force of the Brother’s heartbeat. Such tremendous feeling, such engulfing bliss had settled over Jameela that when he stretched his upper body atop hers and his weight pressed into her, she managed to snatch her arms free of those who held her. Enveloping her unseen lover in a fierce grip, tightening her legs around his lean flanks, locking her ankles together to keep him captive, she attached herself to him like a leech. “You like that, eh?” he whispered in a thick Akhkharulian brogue. Jameela knew he expected no answer from her and, indeed, she was incapable of speech at that moment. Nothing save moans of passion and pants of desire came from her straining body. When he pressed as deeply into her as his body would allow she knew a moment of such intricate awareness, such brilliant insight into her own being as a woman, that no force on land, sea or air could have torn him from her grasp. She was sucking him into the very depths of her, meeting his increasing driving force thrust with thrust, plying his staff as though he were an animal to be milked. When the muscles of her vagina began once more to vibrate, she heard the Brother’s cry of release rising to echo her own as they soared upward together and came crashing down in tandem, spiraling like spent stars flaming to earth. Their bodies, damp with sweat, their heartbeats erratic, blood pounding in temples and throats, he collapsed atop her, his wet cheek between her breasts. She kept her legs and arms wrapped tightly around him even when his spent member shrank and oozed from her hot core. Hands stroked her sweaty forehead, easing the damp curls from her cheeks. She felt his body shift and from the noises she heard realized the legs of the table were being pushed together and his legs lifted to lie between her own. The full weight of him upon her was a delight that made her sigh. Wanting to talk to him, to tell him how wonderful had been her initiation into the world of a true woman, to thank him for his kindness she found it difficult to lie there quietly. Even more frustrating was her inability to see him. The silken blindfold was securely in place still despite the strenuousness of the copulation. “When you bind a woman, she stays bound, doesn’t she, Dagan?” she thought to herself then remembered something her Trainer had said on the first day he had brought her to the Conclave’s keep. Having ordered the slave trader to find for her a gown suitable for traveling and to have his purchase ready to leave within the hour, the tall stranger had reached up to remove a brown kerchief circling his neck. Extending his hand to Jameela, he had secured the kerchief around her right wrist as a sign of ownership. She watched him turn and stride back through the crowd. Men moved cautiously out of his

way and his progression through them had been met with respectful silence. Even when he had disappeared beyond the scope of the slave market, no further ribald remarks or lewd comments were made in regards to Jameela. The slave trader had wrapped a blanket around Jameela’s nakedness then led her wordlessly from the block. Though he snapped at those around him to find a gown for her, he did not speak to her, only bowed slightly in parting and went back to his business of selling human flesh without a backward glance. Those who helped Jameela dress were indentured servants of the slave trader and would not meet the young woman’s gaze as they provided a soft cotton chemise and pantaloons, a sturdy gown and supple kid slippers. Once she was clothed, they departed as quietly as mice running from a cat. Left standing alone, no watchful eyes to see her leave, the young woman briefly entertained the notion of fleeing but the thought of the dark Lord who had paid a knightly ransom for her running her to ground made her think again. Which, had no doubt, been the wisest decision she could have made for when he returned to find her sitting sedately behind the slave trader’s block, he almost smiled. “You’re still here,” he said, coming to stand in front of her. Jameela had shot to her feet at his approach and curtsied deeply, awaiting his order to rise. “Where else would I have gone, Milord?” she asked. He was silent a moment then she heard him draw in a deep breath before releasing it slowly. “Where else, indeed?” he asked. Another silence then he bid her rise. “When I bind a woman, she stays bound.” Jameela was tempted to look up into his beautiful eyes but she thought better of it. The nobility did not like those beneath them to make eye contact unless bidden to do so. That this dark Lord was nobility was evident in both his manner of speech and his carriage. “I am Dagan Kiel,” he told her, “and you are?” She glanced up at him then away. “Jameela Anthus, Milord.” “Jameela,” he said softly then said her name again. “That is a lovely name for a lovely woman.” Shocked at his words, she forgot herself and looked up. She found him staring at her, his bright amber eyes flicking across her face and drifting slowly down her body. His bold perusal brought crimson roses to her cheeks and she watched him laugh. “A Wench who can still blush,” he said, one thick brown brow cocked. “Such I have not experienced in all my years.” Jameela ducked her head, unsure what, if anything, she should say to his comment. “Ah, well,” he said with a sigh, “come along then. It will take us an hour or better to reach the keep and I’ve a mind to be there in time for the evening meal.” Jameela fell into step behind him, surreptitiously admiring the way his high rump and long legs fit snugly into the seat of his buckskin britches. Gazing up at his broad shoulders, she sensed the power in the warrior and knew those strong-looking hands could easily wield the sword strapped over his broad back

or ply the dagger nestled in the sheath at his thigh. His mount—a huge black stallion with a flame of white on its broad forehead—stood hitched beside a small gray mare. Lord Dagan indicated the little animal was for her use. “You do ride?” he inquired. “Aye,” Jameela replied quietly. She realized she had been looking forward to riding behind him, her arms clasped around his flat waist. “That’s good,” he said, “for it would have taken us longer if you had been forced to walk all the way to the keep.” A frown passed over Jameela’s face and settled in her pale green eyes. She glanced up at him then away. “Whoever buys you will no doubt take you riding behind him,” he said, no doubt having intercepted her disappointment. “Men like me can’t afford such a luxury.” She looked up. “Men like you?” At first he didn’t answer but then shrugged. “Trainers aren’t allowed to own women,” he stated. “They’ve no use for them anyway.” He offered to help her mount the little mare but she shook her head, proud to show him she needed no help in climbing atop the animal. His words had stung, making her feel unworthy of a man such as he appeared to be. She would not look at him as he vaulted into his own saddle and turned the stallion toward the seacoast road. For over an hour they rode in silence, the waves of the Boreal Sea crashing against the rocks below. The salt spray felt good against her face and eased the heat of the hot July day. With a gentle breeze ruffling the long black hair rippling down the young woman’s back, it was easy to slip into a calm mood that made her forget she was now the possession of an unknown male. Her first glance at the forbidding stone walls of the Conclave’s keep dissipated that relaxed mood in the blink of an eye. “This is where I will be living?” she asked, shock making her voice break. “Aye,” her escort acknowledged. The soaring stone walls were of sheer black granite, shimmering with the setting of the hot late summer sun, reflecting the light in blinding undulations of brightness. High above, the crenulations looked like fangs in the gaping mouth of some mythical beastess. A single wooden door—high enough and wide enough only for a horse the size of Lord Dagan’s to pass through—broke the sleekness of the structure. There were no windows, no arrow slits or garderobes on this side of the immense fortification. “Nor on the other two land sides,” Lord Dagan said as though he had read her thoughts. “There are openings on the seaward side but they are inaccessible to invading forces as you will see.” Lalssu Keep perched upon the high crags of the Ionarian coastline. Beneath its thick granite walls, the

rock face plummeted over four hundred feet to the deadly, thrashing waves of the Boreal Sea. It had taken hundreds of Ionarian stoneworkers five years to smooth the rock face below the keep’s foundation so that no foothold, no protrusion that would allow hand or knot of rope, could make it possible for besiegers to gain access to the formidable construction. “I won’t be allowed to leave,” Jameela whispered, shuddering. “What I bind, stays bound,” Lord Dagan reminded her. “No, you will not.” The soft cadence of the Brother’s breath intruded upon Jameela’s reminiscing. From the slow rhythm of his breaths, she knew he was asleep. One part of her longed to reach up to the blindfold but she could not be sure they were not being watched. It would be unwise to act upon an impulse that might put her into jeopardy with the Conclave. Instead, she lay still, cradling his sleeping body against her, enjoying the firmness of his flesh, the not unpleasant weight of his chest upon hers. She must have dozed for a while for she remembered nothing until she felt a sharp pinch on the back of her left hand. She flinched and would have cried out but a hard, foul-smelling hand was clamped over her mouth. “Be quiet, woman, and take your arms from around him.” the Master’s chancellor ordered. Though she hated to do so, she loosened her hold. Rough hands passed over her flesh as they lifted the body of the Brother from atop her. There was a groan of protest but Brother Qutaybah was quick to forestall any concerns of his fellow Conclave member. “It is nearing midnight, Your Grace. You must be abed,” Brother Qutaybah stated. Jameela frowned beneath the constriction of the blindfold. Could the man who had won the bidding for her be the Master, himself? She shivered. Surely not, for that would have far-ranging consequences for her that she certainly did not want. “If it is the Master who wins you—and that would be an honor of the highest magnitude—then you will have only him to satisfy. He will allow no other male to place his hands upon you. Your body will be his and his alone until the day you cease to draw breath,” Dagan had said. Though she had enjoyed the ministrations of the Brother who had deflowered her, the thought had crossed her mind that if one man could bring her such satisfaction, any man could even if that man no longer had the sexual equipment to know such wondrous delight. For it was Dagan Kiel of whom she dreamed nightly. His hands were those she wished upon and—now that she had discovered such pleasure—in her body. She longed to feel his mouth covering hers, his tongue jousting with hers as he had explained some men enjoyed. “There are those who will wish to taste every inch of you. They are as adept at using their lips as most men are with their staffs. A tongue claiming your mouth can be as erotic as a dagger slipping into your sheath.” Dagan had never given her any reason to suspect he had feelings for her but there had been times when she had caught him watching her with such a look of longing—carefully and completely erased upon her

notice—that she knew he was not immune to her charms. And charms she had ventured to extend toward the stalwart warrior who had been chosen to instruct her. So carefully did she follow his teachings, so intently did she carry out his directions, she knew she was earning high marks under his tutelage. No compliments were forthcoming from the man but he could not hide the admiration glistening in his amber eyes when she accomplished a task well. Nor had he ever laid a hand upon her except to guide her to where she should stand or to indicate how she should kneel. His fingers did not stray to her breasts or rump nor did he accidentally brush his body against hers as they passed in close quarters. He kept his distance when he spoke to her and was careful to keep his gaze impersonal. “Do you miss not having a woman?” she had once asked him. Dagan’s face had turned hard for a moment then the mask of remoteness dropped over that handsome façade as though a curtain had fallen. “You have no right to question me regarding my personal life,” he told her and had gone on to another subject. Yet Jameela had seen beneath the cover of his harsh words and had recognized the loneliness in the warrior. His appeared to be a tortured existence for she rarely saw him smile, never heard him laugh, and only on one occasion did she hear him speak wistfully. “There is great burden in being the man who wields the power,” he said when she had asked what the Master was like. “Much rests upon his shoulders and they must be broad, unflinching shoulders if he is to lead his men as he should. There are times when such men wish for the simplicity of an ordinary life.” “Do you wish for the simplicity of an ordinary life?” she asked. “Away from Lalssu Keep and the men you must serve here?” Dagan had sighed and looked down at the sleek stone floor. “Aye, Wench. I have craved it since the day I was told of my destiny.” But, he had told her—shrugging away such foolish thoughts—he had been born to serve the men of the Conclave and serving them was what he must do. There was no more escape for him than there would be for her. And the longer Jameela was with Dagan, the more her feelings grew for the handsome warrior. Her anger at what had been forced upon him grew as well. The sheer horror of his compulsory mutilation in order to serve the needs of the Brothers brought tears to her eyes and vengeance to her heart. Lying awake in her lonely bed each night, she envisioned his arms around her, her head upon his shoulder, their fingers entwined. Her dreams were of him and her waking thoughts filled with his soft voice and beautiful male eyes. When he entered the room where he instructed her in the arts of lovemaking, her world brightened even if the day was cold and gray with rain.

“You take to training like a fish to water,” he had once said, the closest thing to a compliment he had ever given. “Perhaps that is because I ache to belong to someone,” she had responded. “Can you understand that?” The warrior had nodded sagely. “Aye, Wench. I understand it all too well.” His words had melted her heart for she could hear the great sadness that he tried so hard to hide, to keep at bay. She wanted nothing more than to be with him and to ease that ache she sensed in his troubled soul. But if it was the Master who had won her! Jameela sat up slowly, sensing she was now in the Chamber alone. There were no more shuffling feet, no sounds at all save the slow drip of water somewhere within the Chamber. Reaching up, she tugged the blindfold from her eyes, not in the least surprised that the room around her was dark as pitch. “Qutaybah, you bastard,” Jameela swore beneath her breath and swung her legs from the table. She slid her feet to the floor—gasping with the chill of the stone against her bare soles—and cautiously made her way to her right, feeling ahead of her with outstretched hands. “Over here, Wench,” she heard Dagan call out and turned toward the sound of his voice. Surprised, Jameela had gasped, her heart pounding but then she was relieved Dagan had come to her. “I am afraid,” she said, unsure of which way to walk. “There is nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “Come this way.” “Keep talking,” she pleaded with him. “Do you want me to come over there?” he asked in an exasperated tone. “Aye,” she replied and heard the loud expulsion of his breath. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice getting closer, “I believe you are more trouble than you will ever be worth.” “Only sometimes?” she asked as she felt his hand touch her shoulder. “Most times,” he replied as his hand moved down her arm to grasp her fingers. She felt him tense when she gripped his hand with her free one. “Thank you,” she said as he began walking with her. “For what?” “For coming to get me.” “Someone had to,” he said and she could feel his shrug even if she could not see it. “You’d have been here all night otherwise.”

“I would have found the door eventually,” she said, her chin up. “Wouldn’t have done you any good if you had since it was locked from the outside,” he said. “I believe I despise Brother Qutaybah,” she said through clenched teeth. “You aren’t the only one,” he mumbled. Jameela shielded her eyes as the door swung open and they were met with the harsh light from the torch in the corridor. “Who told you to remove your blindfold?” he asked. “I told me,” she snapped and instantly regretted her petulant tone for he stiffened and turned to glare at her. Dagan studied her upturned face for a moment then let out a long sigh. “You’ve a mind of your own, haven’t you, Wench?” She stared into his tawny eyes, losing herself in the shimmering depths, aching to reach up and smooth away the stray curl that touched his high forehead. “Would you have me any other way?” she whispered. A faint twitching of his lips might well have become a smile had Dagan not made a conscious effort to keep the telltale humor from his expression. Instead, he shook his head. “I suppose not,” he answered and jerked gently on her hand, pulling her behind him down the narrow corridor. Jameela smiled behind his back for her hand was tucked possessively in his. Chapter Two

Sleep was a long time in coming for Jameela. She lay in her tiny cubicle and stared at the stygian ceiling, aching in parts of her body she had discovered for the first time this night. Turning to her side, she drew her knees up, hugged her pillow to her chest and let her mind drift back to the wondrous things that had been done to her. Whomever the Brother was who had taken her into womanhood crossed her thoughts as she lay there. His expertise as he had copulated with her gave evidence that he was no stranger to the sexual act; he had known what he was about. The weight of his body, the feel of his smooth skin, the sleekness of his hair told her he was no more than middle age. There had been no deep lines on his face or rubbery feel to his muscles as she had held him. He did notsmell old to her, either. “But will you be a good master to me?” she asked aloud, sighing. Shifting on the narrow cot, she flung the pillow atop her and clutched it tightly. “If only it were you I held, my champion,” she said. “And what champion would that be, Wench?”

Jameela gasped, sitting up to stare into the semidarkness. Her heart was racing for she had thought herself alone in the cubicle. “Dagan?” she asked. “Quiet, Wench!” Dagan warned as he came to the cot. His hard hip nudged hers as he took a seat beside her. “Do you want to alert the Watch?” Jameela tossed the pillow aside and reached for him. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. Her fingers clutched the silk of his shirt. A rough hand smoothed her hair, the calloused flesh snagging lightly in the silken strands. “I could not sleep,” he told her. “My thoughts were of you and the beauty of your body that was revealed to me this eve.” She laid her head against his shoulder as he continued to stroke her hair. “My thoughts were of you, as well,” she said. Dagan snorted. “Liar,” he accused. “You were thinking of the Brother who claimed your maidenhead.” Jameela slid her arms around him. “My body might have been remembering his touch but my heart replaced his body with yours.” The warrior enclosed her in his strong embrace. “Truly?” he asked. “You need not ask,” she said in a petulant tone. “I think you know my feelings.” “All I know is what I sense in your words, Wench,” he responded. She pushed back from him and looked up, seeking his face in the darkness. “That being what?” she inquired. Jameela felt him shrug. “That you like what you see when you look at me,” he answered. “And that having me make love to you—if I could—wouldn’t be so bad.” “And that’s all?” “Well that and the way you drool when you think I’m not looking,” he said with a chuckle. “You think entirely too highly of yourself,” she said and would have wiggled out of his grasp but his embrace tightened. “Do you know who claimed you this eve past?” he asked, refusing to allow her to break free. “Someone of importance I suspect,” she replied, settling down. She sighed then snuggled against his broad chest, reveling in the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. “’Twas the Master,” he informed her. “I thought as much,” she stated flatly. Dagan was quiet for a moment then commenced to stroke her hair once more. “And what are your

feelings about it?” he asked. Jameela cocked one shoulder. “Better than a sharp poke in the eye if what you say is true about him,” she answered. “What did I say?” “You said that should I be lucky enough to be won by him that no other man would be allowed to touch me.” “Such is the way with the Master,” Dagan agreed. “He will not share his Lady with another.” He dropped a light kiss on her head. “That should please you, Wench.” “Except it doesn’t,” she said through clenched teeth. Dagan flinched. “Why not?” “Because I want you!” she said. “Jameela,” he said on a long breath. “You know…” “I know I have fallen in love with you!” she declared. She waited for him to reply to her brash statement and when he did not, she felt like crying. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and full of tension. “Jameela, the Master is an exacting man. He would slice in twain any man who dared to lay hands to you now that he has claimed you as his own.” “How can you serve such monsters?” she asked. “It was my destiny to be whom I am, where I am,” he answered. “I had no choice.” “How is it you are allowed beyond the portals of this wicked place? Are all the Trainers given such freedom?” “There is but one trainer at Lalssu Keep,” he replied. “I was given permission to seek out the woman who would be the Master’s Consort and that is how I came to be at Sahar Colony.” Jameela stiffened. “You were sent to fetch…” “You ask too many questions, Wench,” he interrupted her. “Let’s see if I can’t help you find rest this night for tomorrow will begin a more stringent instruction on how you are to satisfy your Master.” “I don’t want to…” she began but drew in a harsh breath as Dagan’s hand enveloped her breast. The heat of his flesh made her moan with pleasure. “You like that?” he asked, his lips in her hair. “Aye,” she agreed.

He cupped the weight of her breast in his hand then ran the pad of his thumb over the nipple, stroking the soft bud until it became a hard nub. Gently, he plucked at the turgid point, making Jameela whimper. “Let me pleasure you,” he offered. “Um,” was all she could reply as he released her and slid from the bed. She could barely make out his silhouette in the darkness as he bid her turn over. Not daring to ask why, she obediently did as he commanded. The cot dipped beneath his weight as he climbed upon it, straddling her body as he sat on her upturned rump. His hands were firm as he placed them on her shoulders and began to knead the tense muscles. “Ah,” she sighed on a long breath. “You need to relax, milady,” he said. “I love having your hands on me,” she told him. Dagan grunted. “You liked his hands on you, too.” Jameela frowned. She did not want to think about the man who now owned her, the man whose right it was to touch her whenever and however he chose. “Please don’t remind me,” she asked. The strong hands massaging her shoulders ceased their delightful movements. “You could have done much worse than having the Master win you,” he said. “I could have done much better if it had been the man I wanted instead,” she countered. Dagan’s fingers tensed on her flesh. “And what man is that?” he snapped. Jameela smiled, recognizing jealousy when she heard it. “The one whose hands are on me even as we speak,” she replied. She felt his fingers relax and had to bite her lower lip to keep from giggling. “You are a brazen piece of baggage, Jameela Anthus,” he growled as his hands moved down her back. She gave herself up to his firm manipulation. He was very adept at massage, knowing where to concentrate the pressure, for how long and to what depth. His fingers plied her as a sculptor his clay. “Where did you learn to do that?” she asked. “Does it matter?” he returned. He pushed himself up and moved to the foot of the cot, seating himself between her parted legs as his fingers plied the muscles in her rump. “I was just…” “Be quiet and just enjoy me while you can,” he interrupted. The pleasure of his touch was lessened as the meaning of his words sank into her consciousness. No doubt the Master would not allow Dagan to be with her after the training was finished and the thought of not being able to see the handsome warrior, speak with him, cast a pall over the delight she was feeling. Despite the delicious sensations invading her body, her thoughts were dark and brooding.

“Turn over.” She obeyed automatically, her mind no longer as thrilled with his touch as her body. Even as his fingers roamed her breasts, the thought of the time when she would no longer have him near her brought misery to her heart. “Stop thinking and just enjoy, Wench,” he commanded. “How are you able to do that?’ she asked, staring into the darkness. “What?” he inquired. “You seem able to read my thoughts.” “A talent I have never used before now. It was something I was taught by the Master Who Has Passed,” he replied. “He was the Master before the one who is now?” “Aye. He has passed from this realm to the next, Wench,” Dagan explained. “Will the Grand Master want me to bear him children?” she asked. “Does that concern you?” “Not especially,” she answered. “Will he?” “He will need a son to carry on after he decides to leave this realm so, aye, he will give you a child when the time comes.” Jameela thought of having a child of her own and sighed. If it were Dagan’s son she was going to bear, she knew it would be a wonderful experience but with the Master, it would be obligation. “It is best not to speculate how things will be with you and he before you have had a chance to get to know him, Wench,” Dagan advised. She shrugged and closed her eyes as his fingers worked the muscles of her ribcage then smoothed over her belly. She smiled as he grazed the top of her public hair, wondering if he would touch her where she ached to have him. “Stop thinking such prurient thoughts,” he chuckled. “Can you not pleasure me as he did?” she boldly asked, holding her breath for his reply. He was silent a moment then she felt his fingers caressing her upper thighs. “I could but I should also tell you what would happen to a Trainer who dared do such a thing to the Master’s Consort. I’ll let you decide, then, if it would be worth the risk.” “Risk?” she echoed, opening her eyes and looking down at his dark outline.

“Should the Master find out a Trainer has stepped over the bounds of doing what I am doing at this moment—massaging you in a most chaste manner—it is well within his rights to have the Trainer punished.” Jameela reached down to grasp his hands. “Punished how?” she asked. “He would be executed,” Dagan replied, “and his death would not be an easy one, I can assure you.” Fearful of anything happening to Dagan, Jameela pushed his hands away. “Then don’t tempt me, warrior,” she said. “Leave me.” She drew her legs up and moved so that she was no longer in contact with him. “No one would need know,” he said huskily and placed his hand on her leg. “I will not take that chance!” she said, jerking her leg from his reach. “Do you fear for my safety, Wench?” “You need ask?” she countered, tears in her voice. “Go away and don’t touch me again!” “But you want me to touch you, don’t you?” he asked. “What I want doesn’t matter,” she snapped and pulled on the covers, flinging them over her nakedness. Dagan climbed off the cot. He stood there staring down at her for what seemed an unnaturally long time then she heard him sigh. “I want nothing more than to lie beside you and taste the delight between those luscious thighs of yours but if you do not want me to…” “I don’t!” she hissed. “So be it,” he said. “I will leave you to wonder what it would have been like.” She flung herself over on the cot and glared at him through the darkness. “If you have no care for your life, I do, Dagan Kiel. Through no fault of mine will I ever allow harm to befall you!” “Even if I am willing to take the chance?” he queried. “Go away!” she commanded. She saw him raise his hands in surrender then turn away. The door to her cell opened and he slipped through the opening as quietly as he had entered. When he was gone, she threw herself down and wailed as though her heart would break. ***** Dagan stood outside her cell and listened to the heartbreaking sobs coming from behind the heavy oak door. He laid his forehead on the panel and ran his fingers along the wood as though he were stroking Jameela’s silken flesh. His soul ached with the need to hold her, to be with her. Only the thought that she held his safety more important than her physical pleasure gave him any comfort at all. All his life he had known great sadness, the terrible burden of the destiny that had claimed him. His

loneliness had grown with each passing year and had now festered to a suppurating wound that leeched poison into his heart. He was as alone at Lalssu Keep as a man could be. Clenching his fists, he lightly pummeled the door, frustration and disappointment prickling his soul like cockleburs. With one last sigh, he pushed away from the portal and started down the corridor. Chapter Three

Jameela dressed slowly the next morning. She had awakened earlier than was usual but had lain there long past the peel of the first bells as they began chiming the new day. Listlessly, she had thrown aside the covers and without hurry completed her morning toilet. She felt numb inside, immune to the slight chill that always made her dress hurriedly each day. As though she was walking underwater she moved about the cell, making the bed, doing what needed to be done before she could leave the small room. Even as she stood outside her door and waited for Brother Qutaybah to escort her to the training room, she was lost in a world that seemed to hold only bleakness for her. There was no longer any expectant joy in being turned over to Dagan for the daily training, in being allowed to see his wondrously handsome face and hear his seductive voice. Now, she only feared she would be the cause of something terrible happening to him and that she could not stand. Boot heels thudding purposefully down the corridor toward her signaled the arrival of the odious man Jameela had grown to detest. His strident, sarcastic voice never failed to grate upon her nerves. “At least you are dressed appropriately and on time for once,” Brother Qutaybah snarled as he came to stand in front of her. Not once had the Master’s chancellor had to wait for her. Not once had she been dressed inappropriately. She had behaved as was expected, kept her thoughts to herself and never had she spoken back to the hateful man. But this morning was different; she was different and the implied insults struck her harder than usual and she lifted her head to glare into Brother Qutaybah’s ugly face. Brother Qutaybah arched a thin brow, his upper lip twitched and he looked down his long, beaklike nose. “You wish to make a comment, woman?” “You will call me ‘milady’,” Jameela said, stressing the title, “for I am the Master’s Consort and as such, you will afford me the respect that is my due.” The Brother’s mouth dropped open and he sputtered, his beady eyes blinking rapidly. “You…you…” “Come along, Brother Qutaybah,” she said, cutting him off. “I do not wish to be late for my session.” That said she headed down the corridor. It was a moment or two before she felt him brush past her, his wobbling walk almost comical as he took the lead, glancing back at her with vengeance stamped upon his cadaverous face before turning his back on her. The training room was empty when the Master’s chancellor ushered her inside. Normally bright with sunlight, the room was cast in shadows for rain lashed the row of tiny windows that overlooked the sea. A flash of lightning lit the windowpanes and a moment later thunder boomed overhead. “Sit,” Brother Qutaybah ordered, pointing a rigid finger at the stool upon which Jameela sat each day.

Ignoring the command, Jameela moved to the windows to look out upon the wildly tossing waves. Bad weather had always seemed to invigorate her and she liked to watch the play of lightning stitching across the heavens. “You may leave now, Brother Qutaybah,” she said over her shoulder. The Master’s chancellor was quivering with outrage. His mouth opened and closed but he seemed unable to voice the words upon which he was choking. When Jameela turned and gave him an inquiring look, he snapped his jaws closed, his teeth clicking together loudly. With a sniff, he spun around and slammed the door behind him as he left. Jameela giggled. For the first time she did not fear the hideous man and knew a moment of victory she savored as she turned back to the window. The savage display of nature beyond the panes thrilled her and she gloried in watching the spectacle. When the door opened behind her, she did not turn, expecting Dagan to join her at the windows for he, too, enjoyed the fiery display of a good sea storm. “It is unwise to stand by a window during a storm, milady,” a strange voice warned. Jameela turned around, shocked to see a woman standing in the doorway. This was the first female she had seen at Lalssu Keep. “Who are you?” she asked, taking in the beauty of the stranger. “I am called Astrid,” the woman replied. “I am here to continue your training.” Despair drove a sharp spike through Jameela’s heart and she put up a hand to clutch at her throat. “Where is Dagan?” Astrid cocked her head to one side. “I do not know the name,” she said. “He wasn’t your trainer?” Jameela asked; one part of her thankful if such was the case. The beautiful woman’s head cocked in the opposite direction—the movement reminding Jameela of a pet dog she had had as a child. “No, I belong to the Master,” Astrid replied. “It was he who trained me, as you say.” Despite the fact that she would rather be with Dagan than the one who had taken her maidenhead, Jameela knew a brief moment of jealousy that she would be sharing the Master with this lovely vision. And vision the woman was with long blonde hair to her waist, the thick tresses falling in waves to a slender waist Jameela knew she could span with her two hands. Looking at those velvet blue eyes framed with long, spiky lashes, pouting coral lips, high cheekbones, a swanlike neck and a shapely figure made Jameela feel almost masculine in comparison. Even the woman’s voice was pretty with a lilting accent that spoke of the highlands. “I have been assigned to teach you the art of self-pleasure,” Astrid informed her. Jameela blinked. “But what about Dagan?” she asked, alarm building in her chest. “A male can not teach a female how to pleasure herself,” Astrid replied. “I will be your trainer for this session.”

Somewhat relieved that the woman would not be her trainer permanently, Jameela let out a long breath. “I did not know such a thing was possible,” she said. “The Master is often away for prolonged periods of time,” Astrid explained in her soft voice. “When he is gone, he does not wish for you to grow overripe with passion.” “I doubt that will happen,” Jameela said under her breath. “Beg pardon?” “Nothing,” Jameela said. She glanced at the stool. “Do I need to sit or can you lecture me while I watch the storm?” Astrid frowned but even the frown looked attractive on her beautiful face. “I would prefer you move away from the window, milady,” she replied. “It is dangerous when the heavens are in such turmoil.” Sighing, Jameela abandoned her position at the windows and walked to the loathsome stool she had grown to hate. Seating herself, she crossed her arms and looked up at Astrid. Astrid shook her head. “You will need to disrobe, milady.” Jameela flinched. “Why?” she countered. “You can not experience the intensity of what I will teach you through the constriction of your clothing. You must disrobe.” A heated blush tinted Jameela’s cheeks. “I’ve no desire to stand naked before you,” she stated. “I would not feel comfortable doing so.” Astrid’s lovely head cocked from one side to the other as she contemplated Jameela’s statement. Her pretty features tensed for a moment then relaxed as though she was receiving a message only she could hear. She nodded slightly then turned her attention to the door. The portal opened and Jameela was relieved to see Dagan entering the room. His hair was wet; the dark locks glistened as they clung to the collar of his black shirt. His clothing was not wet so Jameela assumed he had either come fresh from his morning bath or had been out in the turbulent weather. “I am happy to see you, milord,” she said, standing. Dagan glanced at her then looked to Astrid. “I will attend this session, Wench. Be about your instructions.” Jameela drew in a harsh breath. “No!” she gasped. The black-clad warrior turned his attention to Jameela. “You object to me being here?” he asked, his tone sharp. Shaking her head, Jameela held out her hand. “No, milord, but as nice as Astrid appears to be, she is a stranger to me and I am…” Her face turned redder. “I would not feel…I would…I don’t…” Dagan waved away her objections. “So noted,” he said.

Astrid bowed her head to the look Dagan sent her way and left quietly without a backward glance, closing the door softly behind her departure. “Thank you,” Jameela said. “It is a good thing you weren’t won by one of the Brothers who would share you with his fellow warriors,” Dagan told her. Jameela lifted her chin. “I am not sure I could have survived under such conditions.” “Survived?” Dagan repeated. “Aye, you would have survived, Wench. Thrived?” He shook his head. “Most likely not.” He pointed to the stool and waited until Jameela sat down. “I take it the lesson had not started.” “No, milord.” “Then we will start with the basics,” he said. His amber eyes moved over her from head to toe then settled on her expectant face. “I want you to put your hands in your hair and drag your fingers through the curls from scalp to the nape of your neck.” Jameela did as he bid, slowing down the movement at his quick command. “Again,” he ordered, “and much slower this time. Close your eyes and continue until I tell you to stop.” The motion was soothing to Jameela and she was relaxing. In her mind, it was Dagan’s hands moving so sensuously through her heavy tresses. “Once more and stop with your hands clasped around the base of your neck,” he instructed. “Lean your head back and imagine the gentle kiss of rainwater falling on your face.” Outside, thunder rolled across the firmament so it was easy to fantasize soft raindrops peppering her flesh. “Do you feel the drops sliding down your chin?” he asked. “Aye,” Jameela agreed on a sigh. “Can you feel one raindrop making its way along your neck?” “Aye,” she whispered. “Take the first and second fingers of your right hand and follow that raindrop as it slides down your neck and to the hollow of your throat.” Unconsciously, Jameela ran her tongue across her upper lip as she slowly traced the path of the phantom raindrop. “Let your fingers rest in that soft hollow,” Dagan said. “Can you feel the pulse beating there?” “Aye.”

“Open your fingers and spread them across your breastbone. No! Do not open your eyes!” Jameela quickly closed her eyes but not before seeing Dagan standing right in front of her. So silently had he moved, so soft and low was his voice, it was almost as though his words had been coming from inside her head. “Now I want you to very slowly, very lightly lower your hand to your left breast.” A tiny frown marred the perfection of Jameela’s pretty face. Her forehead puckered with the command but she nevertheless obeyed, her cheeks reddening as she touched herself. “You have been told,” Dagan said, “that touching yourself is wrong, but that is not true. The gods gave us our bodies and the instinct for finding things that will bring us pleasure. Pleasuring ourselves is not wrong; it is our right.” Heat was forming beneath her open palm and transmitting itself to the tender globe beneath the covering of the muslin shift she wore. Her nipple was resting under her palm and was growing hard. “Move your hand so that you are cupping the mound of your breast. Now, gently lift your breast upward and hold it there until I tell you to release it.” Jameela’s breath had quickened. She could feel the acceleration of her heartbeat as she sensed Dagan walking behind her. “Bring your other hand down from your neck and cross it over your chest to cup your other breast. Good, now squeeze your breasts very gently. Again. Once more.” She felt his hands slide down her arms until he was lightly gripping her forearms. With firm pressure, he pulled her arms against her. “Ah,” Jameela sighed. The pressure was doing strange things to her body. He lifted her to her feet, careful not to put too much pressure on her constricted breasts, and pulled her against him. Lowering his lips to her right ear, he ran his tongue along the sensitive outer spiral. Jameela shuddered, a sudden heavy weight forming between her thighs. Her breathing was quicker, shallower. “Now,” he whispered in her ear, “I want you to keep your eyes closed, while you undress.” He released her arms and stepped back. Denied the strength of his strong arms, the heat of his hard body, Jameela felt bereft as he moved away from her. The clean scent of him, the warmth of his breath, combined to send pulsations of desire rippling through her body. The heaviness between her legs increased. “Take off your gown, Wench,” he commanded in a husky voice. Jameela crossed her hands and gripped the sides of her muslin shift. With one quick motion she pulled it over her head, feeling a cool draft play over her flesh. She stood with the shift clutched in one hand, her last bastion of safety until Dagan plucked it from her grip.

“Imagine the rain falling upon you,” he said and beneath her closed eyelids, Jameela sensed a burst of light as lightning speared the heavens. A moment later, thunder rolled as she experienced the make-believe cascade of rain sliding down her naked body. “The rain is gentle. It is soft against your skin. It is warm and wet.” She could feel the rain upon her and smiled. “There is a single drop falling slowly down your left shoulder and onto your nipple,” he whispered. “I want you to take your middle finger and follow that drop as it falls.” When she touched the sensitive flesh of her nipple, Jameela groaned. “Circle that aching bud with you fingertip,” he coaxed. “No, go slowly, Wench. Very, very slowly.” Sensations like electrical shocks were traveling down Jameela’s ribcage and through the lower part of her belly. Her breathing had become more erratic; tiny dots of sweat had formed on her upper lip. “Now,” he whispered, his mouth against her ear. “Flick the tip of your fingernail across the nipple, back and forth.” “Oh!” she gasped, the feeling one of pure intensity as she felt a wetness oozing from her core. “Another raindrop is making its way down your right breast. Take your other hand and followed it to the nipple.” Jameela’s head fell back against Dagan’s belly as she obeyed his directions. His hands went to her head, his fingers threading through her thick hair. “Remove your left hand and place it palm up in your lap.” She moaned, not wanting to escape the dual pleasure invading her chest but she did as she was told, laying her hand on the juncture of her thighs, feeling the wiry crispness of her nether curls along the base of her palm. “Now, listen very carefully and do exactly as I say,” he ordered. His lips were hot against her ear and his warm breath sent shivers down her spine. “Take your right hand and move it to your left breast. I want you to use the nails of your thumb and middle finger to pluck gently but quickly at the nipple.” A prolonged whimper of pleasure erupted from Jameela’s arched throat and she squirmed on the stool, grinding her rump against the wood. “Aye,” Dagan whispered in his throaty voice. “Now turn your left hand over and slip it between your legs.” Jameela hesitated, the thought of touching herselfthere , in that forbidden place, where she was never supposed to venture, giving her a moment’s pause. But the mesmerizing voice of her Trainer, the seductive growl of his encouraging voice overcame any prim reservations she had and she slipped her hand between her thighs. “Stroke the heat of your womanhood, Wench,” Dagan commanded. “Feel the silk of the hair, the

softness of your flesh, the wetness forming between the hidden folds.” By the time her hand had traversed its course the fourth time, Jameela began to pant. Her entire body was alive with pinpricks of energy rippling over the flesh of her arms. There was a delicious aching between her thighs and heaviness deep in her belly. “Let your middle finger slip between the folds and discover the wetness lurking there then quickly remove it. Venture no further until I order it.” “Um,” Jameela sighed. “Remove your right hand from your breast and slide it down your chest and belly to the crease of your right thigh.” There was an itch building in Jameela’s depths, a need that felt like a rosebud about to burst into bloom. She shifted against the wooden seat, her hips lifting, searching, seeking. “Very gently, I want you to take the index and middle finger of your left hand and slide them up to straddle your clitoris. Do you remember me explaining where that is on your body?” At her slow nod, his voice grew huskier still. “Then place your fingers there and spread them apart and a little upward so the hood will pull back and the Pearl of Passion can be exposed.” “Dagan, I…” she began but he shushed her. “Don’t speak; don’t think, Wench! Experience! Keep your eyes closed and do as I command.” Jameela’s fingers spread the hot moistness of her nether lips and she felt the slick head of her clitoris slide free of its hood. “Put the middle finger of your right hand in your mouth and wet it,” he said and his voice was only a breath of sound against the side of her face. Doing as she was told, she was then instructed to place the tip of her wet finger against the sensitive bud of her clitoris. The moment she touched herself in that responsive spot, she shuddered with pleasure. “Stroke it, Wench,” Dagan ordered, his own breathing harsh and fast in her head. “Circle it. Dip your finger into your core then stroke the Pearl of Passion until you…” “Argh!” Jameela shrieked, climaxing so fiercely her body turned rigid from spread toes to up thrust breasts. She squeezed her legs closed and shuddered. “Aye,” Dagan whispered, encircling her in his arms. He crushed her to him. “Aye, my Wench. My beautiful, vibrant Wench.” She went limp against him, every fiber of her being alive. She panted with the violence of release and knew a moment of transcending pleasure unlike any she had experience the night before. “Did you enjoy that?” he whispered.

“Aye,” she groaned and shivered again, bringing her hands up to grasp his strong arms that were crossed around her. “There was no shame in the pleasure, was there?” “No.” “Only a wondrous joy that has left you sated?” “Aye,” she sighed. “Good.” He tightened his grip. “Then I am pleased that you are pleased.” She surprised him by turning violently in his arms and throwing her arms around his lean hips. She pressed herself to him and broke into wretched sobbing. “Jameela?” he asked, shock in his tone. “Milady, what is wrong?” When she did not answer, only wailed the louder, he broke her hold on him and slipped to his knees in front of her, reaching up to take her face in his hands. “Tell me,” he ordered in a soft, pleading voice. She shook her head, terrible grief flooding her being as she strove to not meet his gaze. She tried to turn her head away but he would not allow it, bracing her face toward him, instead. “Tell me what has upset you, my love,” he begged. “Did you feel hurt? Are you…?” “I hurt, Dagan!” she sobbed. “I don’t…” “I hurt for you!” He blinked, his handsome face screwed into confusion. “For me?” “They maimed you,” she cried, tears cascading down her face. “You can not feel what I just felt and I…” “Shush,” he whispered, drawing her head to his chest. “My love, no. Do not think of such things now.” “I can’t help it! I want to give you pleasure as I just felt and I will never be able to!” Dagan closed his eyes as he cooed to her, rocking her back and forth in his arms as though she were a child. Her tears were wetting the front of his silk shirt, plastering it to his flesh. “I love you,” she whined. “I know,” he replied, “and I love you.” Jameela held her breath, lifting her head to look up at him. She searched his face and when he opened those beautiful amber eyes and locked them with hers, she felt her world tilt off center. “You do?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

“You know I do,” he said huskily. Before Jameela could express her soaring joy at his admission, the door to the room opened and there was a quick, interfering cough. She watched Dagan’s face become hard, almost frightening, before he turned to confront the intruder. “What is it?” he demanded. Brother Qutaybah took a step into the room. “It is time for the Master to inspect the troops so…” “I will be right there!” Dagan snapped. “There are things that must be done beforehand,” Brother Qutaybah continued. “I said I will be right there!” Dagan shouted, his eyes glowing red with murderous intent. Brother Qutaybah’s eyes slid accusingly to Jameela briefly. He regarded her with ill-disguised disdain, sniffed then turned to leave. “Don’t ever enter this room again without knocking,” Dagan ordered. “Is that understood?” The Master’s chancellor bowed his head then shut the door with an angry snap. “I hate him more each passing day,” Dagan said between clenched teeth. “As do I,” Jameela agreed. Dagan’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I will see about ridding us of his presence then.” “No!” she said, afraid of what might happen to Dagan if he carried through with his threat. “Leave him be. He’s the Master’s right hand.” “He can be replaced, Wench,” Dagan insisted. “Please?” she beseeched, her head tilted to one side. “Leave him be.” Dagan pursed his lips. “I’ll think on it,” he said. She watched him get to his feet. Her eyes slid possessively over his tall frame and at his snort she looked up into his face, blushing at his knowing look. “When will I see you again?” she asked, never sure when he would venture into her cell. “There will be a calling for you this eve,” he said and avoided her gaze. Jameela swallowed. “The Master will send for me?” Dagan nodded. “Bathe with the gardenia soap and use its oil to perfume yourself,” he said. “That is his favorite scent.” He glanced back at her when he reached the door. “And wear the pale green gown with the pearls on the neckline. He fancies you in that.”

Surprise flitted across Jameela’s face. “He has seen me in that gown?” “He misses nothing, Wench,” he replied and left the room. Jameela stood with her lower lip tucked between her teeth. The news that the Master would be sending for her set her heart to racing and she wasn’t all that sure it was simple nerves. The thought of experiencing the heady release he had given her in the Chamber brought a scarlet glow to her cheeks. Chapter Four

Dagan was bone-tired as he climbed the stairs to his quarters. He lifted his right arm, flexing the ache in his bruised shoulder and frowned deeply. The good whiff of his own body odor coming from beneath his arm was enough to bowl over a giant. He was a mass of dull pain from his shins to the twinge of soreness in his ribs to the throbbing agony between his eyes. All he could think of was the hot bath that awaited him and the cool drink of elixir he knew would be waiting at the water’s edge. He was alone in the bathing chamber and for that was grateful for every grunting hurt. The thought of carrying on a conversation at that moment sent shivers of protest through his brain. The water was a haven beckoning him in a muted glow from the myriad candles ranged about the room. A mist floated atop the heated pool, wafting over the rim to slither along the stone floor. Overhead, a vast variety of aromatic hanging plants trailed from the roof to within six feet of the water’s surface, lending a calming feel to the humid conditions of the chamber. Somewhere beyond the soaring granite walls off to the left, the strains of a musician strumming a stringed instrument added to the soothing atmosphere. So tired he could barely lift his hands to the buckle of his breeches, Dagan closed his eyes and undressed, shucking each item of clothing as though a serpent shedding his skin. When he was down to only his breechclout, he stood there panting with exhaustion, his hands on his hips, his head lowered to his chest. “A taxing day with the troops?” Dagan slowly lifted his head and looked up at the Brother who had entered the room so quietly he had not heard him. The Brother smiled. “You wish to be alone?” “Aye,” Dagan managed to reply and the one word cost him a grave effort. Bowing respectfully, the Brother slipped as silently from the room as he had entered. Drawing in a long breath, Dagan let it out slowly, and then stepped out of his breechclout. He padded over to the water and without giving himself time to think, dove into the hot bath, cleaving the air like a champion diver, his form perfect as he split the softly undulating waves. After several slow transits of the pool underwater, the warrior surfaced, flinging his long hair in a watery arc over his head, then shaking his head from side to side like an angry terrier. He shuddered then stretched out on his back, traversing the pool several more times as he gazed up at the draping plants, his strokes working the ache out of his battered shoulders.

It was always a chore when the Master inspected the troops. The man had to prove he was as good—if not better—than his best warrior. His demand for perfection from his troop as well as from himself left no soldier untested, no weapon unused from the arsenal. Wincing at the pain that rippled through his ribcage, Dagan flipped over in the water and lay like a dead man atop the heaving waves, his eyes open and staring at the intricate mosaics that adorned the bathing pool’s floor. Though the heat hurt, it also cleaned the grime from his eyes and when he put his feet down and sat upon the edge of the pool, he felt invigorated for the first time in hours. Taking up a bar of coarse soap lying in a china dish, he began to lather away the grime that coated his flesh. After thoroughly washing his face and hair, his soapy hands ran through the wiry pelt covering his chest, lathering the suds until he was coated from neck to belly. He moved the soap over each arm, lifted each leg in turn, then reached as far up his back and along his shoulders as he could. The last thing he bathed—the last thing he had any desire to touch—was the flaccid muscle between his thighs and he was quick to wash himself there, his mind firmly on the last tumble from his horse during the jousting. When he was finished cleansing himself, he ducked down beneath the surface and when he came up, put up his hands to wipe the moisture from his face. He dragged his fingers through his hair and wished he could crawl between clean, silk sheets. But tired as he was, sore as his body reminded him it was, he knew there would be no rest until the Master visited his new mate. There would be no bed until then, no sleep to refresh his aching limbs. His thoughts drifted like a petal on the water to Jameela and he felt anew the ache that had been in his soul since he first saw her. Closing his eyes, letting his head fall back along the pool’s rim, he allowed himself to relive that day. She had been so lovely standing there on the slave trader’s dock. Her luscious curves had garnered his attention from a hundred feet away. He had no intention of buying her—only getting a closer look—but once he was close enough to see the fear-pimples on her unmarred flesh and the humiliation in her pretty eyes, he knew he must have her for the Conclave. Who would win her was anyone’s guess and he was as amazed as the next warrior when the one who had chosen her was the Master. The musician had changed the rhythm of his music and the song was now more sensual, a staccato beat to the strings that was almost in perfect cadence to Dagan’s heartbeat. He felt that rhythm throughout his entire body and it lulled him, beckoned to him as he listened closely to the twang of the bass strings echoing across the granite chamber. He could feel his breath quickening to the beat and lost himself in the melody as the strings reverberated. So immersed in the beauty of the piece, he did not realize he was no longer alone until the clearing of a throat brought his eyes open with a snap. Brother Qutaybah was standing primly at the edge of the pool, his disapproval evident in the stiffness of his shoulders and the pursing of his lips. His hands were clasped at his waist. “I hate you,” Dagan said beneath his breath. “The Master must see to his concubine,” Brother Qutaybah sniffed. “With every ounce of my being,” Dagan mumbled as he pushed himself up from the water. The hooded eyes of the Master’s servant traveled down Dagan’s nakedness as the warrior climbed out of the pool. “I escorted the woman to the Chamber and have assembled the Conclave,” he informed

Dagan. “And every breath I take,” Dagan said between clenched teeth. He reached for a warmed towel hanging from an amber stand at the pool’s edge and began toweling himself dry. “You had best be quick or else…” Brother Qutaybah got no further for Dagan reached out, grabbed the smaller man by the arm and propelled him out into the pool. The gasp, the splash, and the gurgle of water gagging the infuriating chancellor brought a smile to Dagan’s mouth. Never bothering to turn around, Dagan wrapped the towel around his waist, tucked the end in at his hip then strolled away, whistling the refrain from the unseen musician’s serenade. ***** Jameela had never liked the dark and standing in the center of the Chamber, waiting for the Master to arrive, seemed to take forever. Her nerves were stretched thin and she was growing tired as she stood there, moving from foot to foot as the weariness claimed her. The room was as still as the grave yet she felt she was not alone. She wondered if Dagan was nearby or if the Conclave would be in attendance. There was a feeling of being watched, studied, that made the flesh ripple on her bare back. Cocking her head to one side to pick up even a faint rustle of clothing, a scraping of a boot along the balcony, or the clearing of a dry throat, she could detect nothing yet instinct told her she was not alone. She shuddered at the thought. “Are you cold?” A sigh of relief brought a fleeting, tremulous smile to her lips. Dagan was nearby and his voice had been soft, as gentle as she had ever heard it. Shaking her head for she had not been bidden to speak, she felt her heart accelerate as someone came toward her. His fingers were cool against her brow as he pushed a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. “You are being observed by the Conclave,” he whispered as he tied the blindfold across her eyes again. “Until your Joining Day, the Conclave will always be with the Master.” Once more he lifted her into his brawny arms and carried her to the table from whence she had lost her maidenhead, then she felt—rather than heard—him move away. The gong sounded and the shuffle of many feet descending the stairway from the balcony caused Jameela’s heart to beat faster. Her breathing was once more erratic, shallow, and a slight ache had begun in her temples. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth to still her nervousness. The moment the Master touched her she knew it was he. There was authority in that strong hand, a possessiveness that brooked no denial. His fingers trailed along her cheekbone, down the side of her neck and onto her breast in a lazy journey that brought a quickening to her womb. His fingernails plucked at her nipple and she moaned in anticipation of the delight she knew he would give her. He treated the other nipple to the same pleasure then ran his nails lightly down her chest and belly. Jameela began to pant the moment he threaded his fingers through her pubic curls, tugging playfully at the wiry crispness. She swallowed as he molded his palm over her mound and began rubbing in a slow

circuit, the base of his hand arcing across that most sensitive part of her anatomy to make her squirm. His low rumble of amusement at her reaction make her smile and despite the fact that she wished it were Dagan, her trainer, whose powerful hand was circling her flesh she wanted to reach up for this man who had the right to lay with her. She wanted to draw him down to her, bringing his body to hers, his sex to hers. She sucked in her breath as his hand turned and his fingers dipped briefly into her vagina and away. A slight pout of disappointment began to form on her lips but then she felt his hands on her thighs, pushing her legs—and the sectional table legs—apart. But there was little time to wonder what he would do next for she felt his lips upon her and she moaned, reveling in the delight his knowledgeable mouth elicited. When he thrust his tongue deep inside her, she arched her hips from the table and gasped for she had pulled herself free of his grip. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t….” He shushed her and she heard him snap his fingers several times as though calling a dog to heel. Hands were laid to her, on each side of her hips, on her thighs, on her belly, anchoring her to the table. The sensation added to the anticipation and she relaxed, thinking bondage had never felt so good. Though she waited for his mouth to return to her nether lips, it was his fingers that entered her—going in slowly, withdrawing, and traveling a bit deeper with the next probe. Already she was oozing, slick with arousal and when he withdrew his hand and she heard a sucking sound, she knew he had tasted her. The thought sent ripples of passion streaking through her belly. Thought, however, ceased the moment he gripped her legs and dragged them over his shoulders, positioning her for his entry. Those mysterious, cool hands were removed and were replaced with the heady weight of the Master’s body. There was no fumbling at her opening but a quick, sure thrust that impaled her fully on the length of his velvety sword. Impulse guided her and she threw her arms around his powerful shoulders and held him. She crossed her ankles behind his back, pulling him as close to her as nature would allow. His grunt of satisfaction at her brazenness emboldened her further and she lifted her head to plant a kiss along his throat. With a low growl, the Master moved so that he captured her lips with his own. The kiss was heady and commanding. His tongue raped her mouth, tasted her, lapped at the sweetness, and drove deep even as his manhood withdrew and drove into her with the same rhythm. Deep, almost painfully, his organ pushed into hers. She could feel the tip of it pressing against her womb, endeavoring to penetrate as far as her body would allow. That fleshy weapon was huge and rock-hard, giving as much pleasure as it seemed to be reaping. When it exploded inside her, she tightened her clasp around his hips and arched her lower body up to his. It was only a second or two before her orgasm commenced like tiny fingers gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing his penis repeatedly until his bellow filled the Chamber. “Mine!” he shouted. “Yours,” she dared to say. “Mine,” he whispered as he collapsed atop her.

She stroked his damp cheek as he laid his head upon her breast. Through the contact of their sweaty bodies, she could feel the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat. His breathing began to slow almost immediately and she knew he was falling asleep. Almost as soon as the thought entered her head, she felt hands insinuating themselves between the Master’s body and hers and his weight was lifted from her. A cool wash of air moved over her flesh and she sighed. “I will be back for you,” she heard Brother Qutaybah say in a petulant tone. Boot heels scraped against the stone floor as the Conclave moved away, one of their Brothers carrying the Master to his rest. She wondered if it was into Dagan’s arms they had laid him. She was not left alone for long. Qutaybah returned as he said he would and tossed her gown at her. Half asleep, she jumped as the material hit her chest and she sat up, more annoyed than fearful of the Master’s chancellor. “I don’t have all night to wait for you, woman,” Qutaybah snapped. “Where is Dagan?” she asked as she pulled the gown over her head. “That is of no concern to you,” Qutaybah sniffed. “Be quick, now. I am weary and I believe I am coming down with a cold.” It was on the tip of Jameela’s tongue to tell him she hoped he was and that he would succumb to the illness. Her world would be a much brighter place without the bad-tempered chancellor and his barely concealed dislike of her. “Why do you dislike me?” she asked as she slid down from the table, knowing he’d not offer to come to her aid. “Impertinent chit,” Qutaybah spat. “Keep your questions to yourself!” Jameela reached up and dragged the blindfold from her eyes. She would soon be the Master’s legal wife and in that position, she knew she would campaign to replace Brother Qutaybah with a Brother who exhibited a more acceptable demeanor. “I did not give you permission….” Brother Qutaybah began but Jameela cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I am the Master’s concubine but I will soon be his Lady-Wife. Perhaps it would be wise for you to show me the respect such a station deserves, Brother Qutaybah,” she said firmly. The lanky man sputtered, his beady eyes as wide as they would go at her audacity. His mouth opened and closed like an eel’s—an amphibian to which she had come to liken him—oily and slippery, and sneaky. “Have you heard of pillow talk, Brother Qutaybah?” she inquired as she headed for the doorway. “P…pillow…?”

“When a husband and wife discuss things in the secrecy of their marital bed,” she explained. “Many a job, a position…” She turned to look back at him. “Even a head, has been lost due to pillow talk.” Brother Qutaybah gaped at her. As understanding set in, he blinked several times, holding her stare as his brow crinkled with concern. “Think on it,” Jameela said and turned back around. She left the scarecrow of a man standing in the Chamber, blinking. Chapter Five

“What did you say to Brother Qutaybah last eve to make him so quiet this morn, Wench?” Dagan asked when he, instead of Brother Qutaybah, came to escort Jameela to the Hall for the breaking of their Fast. “I but reminded him that I will be the Master’s Lady-Wife and that pillow talk can be a very dangerous thing,” she said quietly. Dagan grinned and reached out to clasp her hand. He brought her knuckles to his lips and placed a light kiss. “I tossed his scrawny ass into the bathing pool yesterday. He wasn’t feeling very well after swallowing so much water else he would be here escorting you,” he chuckled. “Wasn’t the Beanpole’s day, was it?” Jameela stopped still in her tracks, her eyes going wide. “You won’t get into trouble with the Master for that, will you?” The warrior shook his head. “The Master has a sense of humor, Wench. He’d have to in order to deal with the Conclave.” Only somewhat relieved to hear there would be no repercussion for Dagan’s behavior, Jameela sighed. “I don’t know what the Master feels about Brother Qutaybah but…” “The Master detests him,” Dagan told her. “Then why keep him on?” Dagan shrugged. “There is none other among the Conclave with Brother Qutaybah’s abilities, unfortunately. I don’t suppose it would be hard to train one, but the Master tends to be lazy and…” “Shush!” Jameela gasped, spinning around to place her fingers against Dagan’s lips. “Be careful what you say about him!” Taking her hand from his mouth, Dagan brought her palm to his chest and held it there. “He’s just a man, Wench,” he said. “He is your Master!” she stressed. “Was it not your Master who had you…” She blushed. “You know.” “Castrated?” he asked.

That cruel word brought tears to Jameela’s eyes and she threw herself against Dagan, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her cheek to the spot on his chest where he had held her hand. “I can not stand the thought of what was done to you.” “Then don’t dwell on it,” he said gruffly. “I don’t.” Jameela pulled her hand free of Dagan’s grip and went to her knees. She covered her face with her hands and wept, rocking back and forth in her grief. For a moment, Dagan stood there, shock stamped on his handsome face. He seemed lost, incapable of knowing what to do. His hands opened and closed at his sides then he knelt down, putting his arm around Jameela’s shoulders. He pulled her against him and clumsily patted her head as though she were a beloved pet. “Shush, now,” he whispered, unnerved by the volume and the intensity of her weeping. “I hate what they did to you!” she cried. “I hate him!” “No!” Dagan was quick to say, knowing full well whom she meant. “Never say that!” She raised her tear-swollen eyes to him. “I love you,” she said forcefully. “With all my heart and all my being, I love you.” Dagan groaned then pushed quickly to his feet. He took her arm and helped her up none too gently. “Come,” he said and started down the corridor. “W…where are we going?” she asked but her escort did not answer. It was to her chambers he took her and though she bid him come in with her, he opened the door and pushed her inside. “Dagan…” “Stop tempting me, Wench!” he snarled. “Tomorrow is your Joining Day. Be glad for it!” “But Dagan…” she began but he closed the door on her and she heard the lock snick in place. Pounding her fists on the portal she called his name again but he did not answer. Hunger made her stomach rumble but it was the ache in her heart that controlled her. Flinging herself down upon her cot, she let the tears pour from her. So violent was her weeping, the cot shook beneath her. Though the door opened and she heard the rattle of plates upon the small table in the corner, she did not stir. She lay where she was; her hands clenched in the covers, her face buried in her pillow, and released the grief that ate at her soul. ***** Dagan lunged at his opponent, striking quickly, plunging his blade to the hilt in the man’s belly. Ripping the sword viciously to the left, he withdrew it as hot, steaming entrails poured on the rocky ground and his enemy shrieked in agony. Turning away, Dagan went after his next challenger and the next until not one foe stood against him. The

barren expanse of roadway was littered with five bodies either dead or dying and the dirt was spongy with spent blood. Overhead, the sky filled with circling vultures attracted to the hot, coppery scent. Leaning against a tall boulder, Dagan lowered his sword and hung his head, breathing raggedly from his exertion. He was covered with the sour sweat smell of bloodlust and his heart was thundering in his chest. Though expertly skilled with the blade he held loosely in his scarlet-stained hand, he had known a moment or two of fear when the robbers had dared to attack him. Even knowing the outcome of the fight was bound to be in his favor, he had worried that he would not return to Lalssu Keep. What would happen to Jameela if he were not there to protect her? He worried. Tomorrow was her Joining Day and he must be there, as she became the bride of the Master. Squatting, he hunkered down with his back to the boulder. He was bone-tired and feeling the weight of the responsibilities that weighed upon his shoulders. All he wanted to do was stretch out on the sandy ground and sleep and the midday sun was beating down brutally on his uncovered head, giving him the beginnings of a wicked headache. In the middle of nowhere, having ridden mindlessly for over an hour in an attempt to rid himself of the forbidden thoughts of Jameela, Dagan knew he was courting disaster if he remained where he was. The area was rife with robbers and murderers and as tired and weak as he was at that moment, he knew he would be hard-pressed to defend himself if attacked again. Getting wearily to his feet, he looked around him and upon spying his mount, let out a piercing whistle that brought the steed cantering over to him with a flick of its head and a snort. “Aye, you’re pissed but then so am I,” Dagan chuckled. The stallion pawed at the ground as though insisting his rider get a move on. Dagan got to his feet and thrust his blade into the sheath slung over his back. Wiping his blood-slick hands on his britches he grimaced. He glanced at the water skin hanging on the pommel of his saddle and sighed. The skin was empty. With another sigh of frustration, Dagan walked to his mount, gripped the pommel and pulled himself atop. The animal sidestepped, prancing hard for a moment until his rider took firm control. “Don’t give me any shit and I’ll see you get the best feed available when we get home,” he bargained. “Okay?” Nodding in agreement, its trappings jingling, the horse stopped its shenanigans and allowed its rider to kick it into motion. Sensing the man on its back was as anxious to get back as it was, the horse took off with long, mile-swallowing strides. ***** Brother Qutaybah was waiting in the stables when Dagan returned. The prim Chancellor stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his slit of a mouth turned down with disapproval. His foot tapped out an impatient rhythm as Dagan dismounted. “Where have you been?” Brother Qutaybah demanded.

Dagan had a great desire to plow his fist into the scrawny man’s face but chose to walk past him to the horse trough and thrust his sticky hands into the water instead. Wincing at the sight of the stains on Dagan’s britches and hands, Brother Qutaybah shook his head. “You have been fighting again.” “I assume you wanted something or you wouldn’t have been waiting out here amongst the common folk. What is it, now?” Dagan asked, accepting a coarse rag from the stableboy to dry his hands. “You can’t keep running off when things don’t suit you,” Brother Qutaybah replied. “You have obligations and…” “Does he need me?” Dagan asked. Brother Qutaybah’s thin lips pursed tightly. Dagan raised a thick brow. “Did he send you to fetch me?” “Your presence is required in the Grand Master’s chamber immediately,” Brother Qutaybah sniffed. “Smelling like a charnel house?” “He said immediately!” Brother Qutaybah snapped. Dagan shrugged. “If he doesn’t mind the stench, neither do I.” Gritting his teeth, Brother Qutaybah spun on his heel and started off, not bothering to look behind him to see if Dagan was following. With back ramrod straight, bony shoulders pulled back, the Grand Master’s Chancellor led the way into the keep. Walking through the corridors of Lalssu Keep never failed to depress Dagan. The walls adorned with lush tapestries woven by the Artisans of Silun, a community of monks who made their living weaving. Depicting hunts as well as war scenes, the twenty-foot high, ten-foot wide tapestries featured death and mutilation, savagery and brutality. There was nothing relaxing about the scenes and instead gave the viewer a glimpse into the violent world of the Conclave. Though he had grown up inside these forbidding walls, Dagan had never accustomed himself to the acts of cruelty woven into the tapestries. Not averse to shedding blood when there was call for it, he did not glory in the act. “That woman is already causing great trouble at Lalssu Keep,” Brother Qutaybah remarked as they neared the Grand Master’s chamber. “He would do well to sell her and…” One moment Brother Qutaybah was walking primly in front of Dagan, the next the snotty little man was laying in a crumpled heap on the floor in front of the Grand Master’s door, Dagan standing over him with fists doubled. “I am sick to death of hearing your complaints about Jameela!” Dagan shouted. “If you can not keep a civil tongue in your mouth, perhaps I should whittle it out of you!” Cowering in fear, Brother Qutaybah held his arms crossed over his face, trembling as he stared up

wide-eyed at Dagan. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of the Chancellor’s mouth and already a lump was swelling on his jaw from when his face had slammed into the Grand Master’s door. Flanking the Grand Master’s door were two personal guards who were hard-pressed to keep from laughing at Brother Qutaybah’s plight. Their lips twitched as they cocked an eye toward the Chancellor then resumed their steady gaze. With pikes held at their sides, their spread-leg stance had clicked into military attention at Dagan’s approach. “At ease,” Dagan mumbled. The guard on the left shifted position while the guard on the right turned to open the door for Dagan. Brother Qutaybah scuttled out of the way, fearing Dagan would trample him if he did not. Scraping his scrawny ass on the floor, he flinched when he heard the rip of fabric and knew he’d torn a hole in his robe on the rough stone floor. Ignoring the man at his feet, Dagan entered the Grand Master’s chamber, his face set in a grimace. He walked to the center of the room and stopped, waiting for the reprimand he knew was coming. He didn’t have long to wait. “Why must you always torment that poor man?” the Grand Master snapped. Dagan shrugged. “Because I detest the little fart.” The Grand Master winced at the blue language. He adjusted the covers over his legs. “Pray stop doing so, Dagan. The man is a Bishop of the Order and should be respected for his expertise on the Law. Now because you have offended him—not to mention assaulting his person for the second time this week—he will pout the remainder of the day.” “Not my problem,” Dagan mumbled under his breath. “If you would like a problem or two to occupy your time, I can give you more than you will be able to bear,” the Grand Master snapped. Dagan drew in a long breath. “My apologies. I…” “Have the arrangements been completed for the Joining Ceremony?” the Grand Master interrupted. A flash of pain traveled across the handsome planes of Dagan’s face. He lowered his head. “Aye, Milord. All is in readiness.” The Grand Master crossed his arms over his chest and settled more comfortably against the tall oak headboard of his bed. He studied the warrior standing before him for a long, silent moment then cocked his head to one side. “You would prefer I not take her to bride?” Dagan looked up. “It is not my decision to make. I would not dare to presume…” “The hell you wouldn’t!” the Grand Master snorted. “You dare more than any man in the Conclave and well you know it!”

Crimson stained Dagan’s high cheekbones. “If I have offended you in any way, you have my most profound apologies. It was not my intent to…” “Have you developed a fondness for this girl I had you train?” the Grand Master demanded. Dagan opened his mouth then closed it. His eyes shifted from side to side as though he were seeking a way out of the Grand Master’s chamber or looking for an attack that might well come at any moment. “I asked you a question!” The warrior’s eyes lifted to the Grand Master’s. “What is it you want me to say?” he asked then winced at the anger that suffused the other man’s face. Throwing back the covers, the Grand Master beckoned Dagan to assist him. “I have to go,” he snarled. Dagan hurried to the bed and bent over to scoop the Grand Master from the bed. He swung around and carried him to the garderobe placing him gently on the stone seat. “Useless legs,” the Grand Master complained, slamming his fist into his thigh several times before Dagan reached out and gently took the man’s hand. “At least you can fuck,” Dagan mumbled then snapped his head up to stare wide-eyed into the Grand Master’s face. “I’m sorry, Hagan, I should not have…” “You can walk, little brother, and I can fuck,” the Grand Master quipped. “Between us, we’re a whole man, wouldn’t you say?” Staring into a face that was like looking into a mirror, Dagan felt shame wash over him. He hung his head, his grip tightening on his older brother’s hand. “I am deeply ashamed I said such a thing. Please forgive me.” “For what?” the Grand Master queried. He eased his hand from Dagan’s hold. “You spoke the truth.” “Aye, but it sounded as though I blame you,” Dagan said. “Our father…” “Listened to the Conclave and followed their archaic rules,” the Grand Master sneered. “Neither of us had a choice in the matter. I did not ask to be thrown from my horse any more than you asked to have your manhood removed.” Dagan flinched. He stepped back, turned and walked a few feet away to give his brother privacy. “You did not answer my question,” the Grand Master said with a grunt. “Do I need to?” Dagan asked as he went to the window and opened it. “You know me as well as I know you. That is part and parcel of being identical twins.” “Not so identical when one can walk and the other can’t,” the Grand Master reminded him. Dagan looked around at him, but made no comment. The Grand Master looked about, frowning. “Where is the godsdamned paper?”

A smile twitched at Dagan’s lips as he walked over to retrieve the stack of crumpled parchment. He handed to his brother but when the Grand Master reached for it, Dagan pulled it back. “What are your feelings concerning Jameela?” he asked. Pursing his lips, the Grand Master snorted. “She’s a pretty little thing and we could both do worse for a wife and sister-in-law I imagine.” He raised a thick brown brow. “Remember the one from Creel Point?” Dagan rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. I couldn’t teach her anything save how to close that yapping mouth around a cock. She seemed to take to that quickly enough.” “Aye, but that’s all she can do, I’m told. Brother Justin complains weekly to me of how the woman talks and talks and talks yet says nothing of value.” “Then tell him to keep her mouth filled with his cock and she won’t pester him,” Dagan said in a dry tone. “Isn’t he the one who complained about his first wife who was too timid to speak? There is no satisfying that Brother.” The Grand Master laughed as he used the parchment. “Rag,” he ordered when he was finished. Dagan took a fleecy cloth, poured water over it, wrung it out then handed it to his brother. Wiping his hands on the rag, the Grand Master nodded. “I suppose I have developed a fondness for our Jameela. She will make me an obedient wife.” Dagan’s smile slipped away. “Aye, she will. I have seen to it.” “Take me to the chair by the window,” the Grand Master said and his brother scooped him from the stone seat and carried him to the chair. He pointed to the chair opposite. “Sit.” “Stay,” Dagan sighed as he took his seat. “Roll over. Fetch.” “Dagan,” the Grand Master drawled in a warning tone. “Don’t piss on the carpet,” Dagan added. “Dagan!” The name was a strong admonishment. “Don’t chew the chair legs.” The Grand Master threw his head back. “By the Prophet, if you were anyone other than my twin, I’d have you flogged for your impudence.” Companionable silence settled on the chamber. Dagan made himself comfortable in the overstuffed silken chair and the Grand Master gazed longingly out the window. Both men’s thoughts were on freedom—one to be his own man and the other to be free of his prison walls. “It has been on mind to tell her before the ceremony,” the Grand Master said. Dagan frowned. “Tell her what?”

The Grand Master shrugged. “Who you really are and why our father had you castrated.” “For what purpose, Hagan?” Dagan demanded. “I can see no difference it would make.” “She loves you,” the Grand Master stated as he stared out the window. “As surely as the sun rises and sets over yon waves.” He looked around. “And you love her just as deeply.” Dagan plowed a hand through his hair. “So?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter and even if it did, once she weds you…” “What if it is you she weds?” the Grand Master asked. Fury washed over Dagan’s face. “Don’t,” he said forcefully, getting to his feet. “This is not a game, Hagan. I…” “You could take my place at the Joining Ceremony,” the Grand Master interrupted. “Sit in my rolling chair and take her to wife.” “And do what?” Dagan shouted. “How can I be a husband to her, Milord?” Frowning at the title Dagan only used when he was upset, the Grand Master waved a hand. “Sit down, Dagan.” “No!” “Then pace about like a caged bull if it suits you,” the Grand Master said, “but I think that is the answer to our dilemma.” “What dilemma?” Dagan queried, squinting dangerously at his brother. “I have no need for a wife save for ceremonial purposes. I can’t walk beside her in the garden. I can’t ride beside her by the river. I can’t swim with her there.” “You can, and do, lie with her,” Dagan snarled, his jealousy turning his handsome face ugly. “Aye, but that is necessary to produce an heir,” the Grand Master reminded him. “Even with you as her husband, I can utilize my right as Grand Master to lie with her when she is having her fertile cycle. The heir would be mine even if we were not legally wed. No one need ever know.” “I would know!” Dagan hissed. “Think you I would want my wife to be at your beck and call?” “You are no different than any other of my subjects,” the Grand Master said archly. “Everyone else considers it an honor that I make use of the Jus Primae Noctis rule.” Dagan stared at his brother. He knew the man as well as he knew himself and he could see the wheels turning in Hagan Kiel’s head. He also remembered the law that stated no man—under penalty of death—could touch the legal wife of the Grand Master and reminded his brother of it. “Aye, but she is not my legal wife nor will she be. There is no law that states I cannot touch her. I am the Grand Master, not you. As such, I wish you to marry Jameela.”

“No,” Dagan said, shaking his head. “That’s out of the question.” “It wasn’t a request, Dagan Kiel,” the Grand Master said. “That was an order!” “Then have me flogged or thrown into the dungeon or hanged for all I care!” Dagan told him. “I won’t do it!” “Don’t think I won’t, little brother,” the Grand Master warned. “Then do it!” Dagan challenged. “Guards!” the Grand Master yelled. Dagan blinked as the door to the Grand Master’s chamber swung open and the guards marched in. His lips parted as he stared at his brother. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered. “Will you obey my order?” the Grand Master asked. Dagan shook his head. “No and it is not fair that you ask me.” “So be it,” the Grand Master agreed. He looked to the guards. “Escort Lord Dagan to the darkest, filthiest, most vermin-infested cell you can find and chain his insolent ass to the wall!” He glanced at the garderobe then cocked his head toward it. “Do we have a cell directly beneath that?” The guards looked nervously at Dagan then one another before the taller of the two replied there was a cell near the cistern. “Then put him there.” “What?” Dagan yelped. “You are my brother and I love you dearly but I will not allow you to defy me nor will I treat you any differently than I would any Brother who would dare to deny me what I want,” the Grand Master replied. He glared at the tall guard. “Get him out of here until he agrees to do as I have ordered.” The guards seized Dagan’s arms in steely grips. He was of a mind to break away, but instead he lifted his chin. It was a matter of wills between him and his twin and he would not fight. He would go willingly to his punishment without complaint. Cocking an amused brow at his brother, the Grand Master smiled. “You’ll stay there until you relent, Dagan, or you’ll grow old and gray in that vile place.” “As you wish, Milord,” Dagan agreed. The Grand Master saw Brother Qutaybah grinning from ear to ear as Dagan was ushered from the chamber. When their eyes met, the Chancellor quickly wiped away the smile. “Where is my Lady-wife at this moment, Qutaybah?” “In her quarters, Milord. Do you wish for me to bring her to you?”

“No, but I do want her to know that her Trainer has been incarcerated. Let her know he has defied me and as such, I may well have him flogged for his impertinence.” Brother Qutaybah unconsciously rubbed his hands together as though eager for such retaliation. “Shall I inform Master Executioner Verial, Milord?” “I hope it will not come to that but if Lord Dagan has not ceded to my order by nine of the clock this evening, I will have him remanded to Verial’s most capable hands.” Chapter Six

Dagan’s shirt was plastered to his back, unknown filth turning his flesh cold and causing him to squirm beneath the despicable feel of it against his body. His arms were stretched wide, high above his head, his wrists manacled to the wall and the toes of his booted feet—though barely touching the floor—were beginning to experience wetness through the fine leather. His ankles were likewise chained to the wall so pulling his feet up was out of the question. Something cold ran down his hand and under the cuff of his cambric shirt. He was as uncomfortable as he could ever remember being in his entire life. “May the Prophet deny you Paradise when you leave this world, Hagan Kiel,” he spat and pulled against his bonds, hissing loudly when there was no give to the restriction. Only once before had he known the humiliation of being imprisoned, the terrible loneliness of being buried in the bowels of some despot’s dungeon, but then he had known Hagan would send someone to release him. It hadn’t taken his brother long to arrange his release, his rescuer paying the demanded ransom with one hand while plunging a sword into his abductor’s gut with the other. “No man dares assault the brother of the Grand Master and live to reap his ill-gotten gain!” Brother Lexa declared a moment before lopping his enemy’s head from its dying body. Only the Grand Master can assault his brother with impunity, Dagan thought, and who was there amongst the Brothers who would dare gainsay him? Miserable, cold, and shuddering from the slime running down his raised arms, Dagan groaned. There would be no rescue from this situation unless he agreed to Hagan’s terms and that was something he could not do. For Jameela’s sake, he dared not accept her to wife. But why not, Dagan?His inner voice cried out. “The Law!” Dagan shouted. “The Conclave’s damnable law!” The threat of tears stung Dagan’s eyes and he flung his head from side to side to keep them at bay. What good were tears against the might of the Conclave? Memories slipped unbidden into his mind there in the darkness and though he tried with all his might, he could not keep those brutal memories from invading. They were always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to spring upon him when he knew a brief moment or two of happiness. They were forever popping up to remind him of his hateful past and the man who had robbed him of his manhood.

***** Tristan Kiel was the seventh Grand Master to ascend the gilded throne of Akhkharu. The seventh son of a seventh daughter as well as the seventh son of a seventh son he inherited the mystical powers of his mother and father and was sent to train as a Mage at the Monastery of Akhkharu when he was four years old, a situation unheard of until then. While he was at the Monastery, his uncles—including the Grand Master at that time—his father, and all six of his brothers before him were slain in the Great War at Menini. At the tender age of eight and too young to have fought in the war, Tristan had, by default, become the new Grand Master. He took to the authority of his position with a vengeance that startled his enemies and worried his supporters. At twelve, he took his first woman. At fourteen, he killed his first man in hand-to-hand combat. By sixteen, he began actively seeking a woman for his chosen. “She must be a virgin, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and her beauty must be unequaled!” he demanded of his Chancellor. “I will pay a kingly ransom for such a lady!” Though his generals feared the task was impossible, they sent emissaries throughout the nine kingdoms, searching for a girl who fit the Grand Master’s desire. In the miniscule principality of Kabal, they found what they were seeking. Invernise Bejhena was fourteen years old, a nun at the priory in Kabal. It was her Prioress, the head of her Order, who sent word to the emissary that the woman he sought was housed there. “The monies from the ransom will do much good for the Sisters,” the Prioress was heard to chortle. Despite the heavy scarlet robe that covered her from neck to toe, the wimple over her head to hide the glorious blonde hair, around the neck to hide that swan-like beauty, and over her shell-like ears, her exotic beauty stunned the emissary. One look into her warm blue eyes—the color of the summer sky—took the man’s breath away. Though the young girl screamed and fought, she was taken against her will to Lalssu Keep and there she was trapped in a loveless marriage with a man she despised. “Give me a son and I will let you go back to your precious nunnery,” Tristan vowed. It was said Invernise wished the demons upon Tristan Kiel and prayed nightly that his soul burn forever in the Pit. When—after four miserable years as the Grand Master’s Lady-wife—she discovered she was with child, she thought the end was in sight. She would thrust the son of the fiend from her body then leave Lalssu Keep forever. She did not count on loving the babes that came from her womb or having a great desire to protect the second born from his father’s insane wrath. “Twins!” Tristan shouted with displeasure. “I asked for one son, not two! What will I do with the other?” The Bishops of the Order were consulted for never had there been a dual birth in the history of Lalssu. The Law was firm in regard to the order of siblings, the firstborn son of the royal family of Kiel was given the throne of Grand Master; younger sons were made Lords and given regiments of their own and vast holdings of property, but no real power within the Conclave. On this, the Brothers of the Conclave were

adamant. Female children were handed over to whomever could afford their bride price then promptly forgotten. It was decided amongst the Bishops that the second son must be slain. To allow him to come to maturity, to possibly make an attempt to wrest the throne from his brother, the rightful heir, would be unwise. Had that not been the cause of the Great War at Menini? Had not Grand Master Tristan’s own father rose up against his brother and tried to take the throne? “Treachery runs in the Kiel family,” the Bishops proclaimed. “We can not allow another war.” Upon hearing the Bishop’s verdict Invernise was beside herself with terror. She flew to her husband’s throne room and there prostrated herself before the great man. With tearful entreaty—her beauty even more pronounced in her grief—she pleaded with him to spare their child, promising Tristan she would see that the boy never vied for the throne. “You can not make such a promise,” Tristan sneered. “And if not him, then a child of his body could make an attempt to take what is Hagan’s!” “Send him to a monastery then but let him live!” she begged. Despite his firm intention, the tearful pleading of his Lady-wife moved Tristan. Her beauty struck such a chord in his black heart, strummed such a delicious melody on his libido, he relented and made a decision that would come back to haunt him many times over. “Will you be content if I let him live but make sure he will never have a child of his loins to rise up against Hagan?” he asked. Unsure of her husband’s meaning but relieved to see he might relent she eagerly nodded. “Aye, Milord. I will do whatever you say if you will but let my Dagan live!” And so it was that Dagan Kiel suffered for his father’s paranoid fears. And Tristan Kiel suffered for his foolishness for in the thirteenth year of his favorite son’s life, the boy’s fall from his horse ended the Grand Master’s majestic dreams. While the ignored son grew into a strong, vibrant, lethal warrior, the favored son kept to his bed or was paraded about in his rolling chair—an invalid for the world to pity. As Dagan matured into a man the Brothers admired and trusted, Hagan was barely tolerated and even then reluctantly by men who looked to Dagan for leadership. ***** “For what good it did me, Father,” Dagan said aloud, pulling on his bonds once more. There was no doubt in Dagan’s mind that his father—frying in the Pit to which his mother had no doubt consigned him—regretted his decision before his painful, lingering death. A month before his demise, he had called his younger son to his bedside and had spent hours on end teaching him the Magic he had learned at the Monastery of Akhkharu, thinking he was passing on ancient secrets to a son whose seven by seven by seven birthright had already instilled in him knowledge far beyond his father’s ken. Though Tristan Kiel never uttered an apology to his son, his last words had helped to blunt the hatred Dagan bore his father.

“You are the true ruler of the Conclave, Dagan. It is your brawn and sword hand the Brothers will follow. Never forget that,” Tristan whispered then laid still, his eyes wide, a look of fear on his sunken face. “He sees the fire,” Invernise stated with a secret smile. “Soon he will feel its embrace.” With that said, Dagan’s mother turned and walked from the room. Within the hour, she would be on her way to the Priory and the life she had left behind twenty years earlier. Never once did she doubt her eldest son would allow her to leave Lalssu Keep. Hagan had been the only one to weep over his father’s cooling body. The new Grand Master would keep a silent vigil while those around him planned the grand state funeral that would lay the seventh Grand Master to rest. Now and again, he would look to his twin, needing the support Dagan always had at the ready. “You are my right hand,” Hagan broke his silence to say. “I am going to need your help, little brother.” “I will do whatever you tell me to, Milord,” Dagan agreed. Thinking back now on that conversation, Dagan sighed heavily. His word had always been his bond and he had prided himself in never going back on a promise. He squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the anxiety pumping through his heart. The scrape of metal against the stone floor made Dagan open his eyes. He heard heavy footsteps coming down the steep steps that led to his cell and breathed a sign of relief. It couldn’t be Brother Qutaybah coming to gloat. No doubt it was the Master Executioner Verial coming for his answer. As harsh lantern light blinded him, Dagan looked away from the brightness, squinting. “Have you reached a decision, Lord Dagan?” the Master Executioner barked in his gruff, bass voice. Dagan looked around, still squinting and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man who had put the fear of the Prophet in many a prisoner’s soul. Verial was holding the lantern up beside his large, round face and the shadows cast that scarred visage into a nightmarish apparition. “What did His Grace tell you?” Dagan asked. Verial shrugged. “If you do not agree to His Grace’s orders, I am to take you to the post,” he said flatly. “I would regret having to do so but I will lash you until you agree to do as you were bid.” Dagan shuddered—more from the thought of being whipped with Verial’s cat-’o-nine than from the slime that oozed into his armpit. “And if I should die while you’re whipping me, Verial?” he had to ask. The Master Executioner sighed deeply. “I would regret that even more but orders are orders and I follow mine, Lord Dagan.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “So, what’s it to be?” Dagan knew his decision had been made long before the guards had brought him to this vile place. He knew Hagan understood that, as well. It had simply been a lesson in who was the true Grand Master and who the servant.

“Tell him I agree,” he said, then quickly added, “but under protest.” Verial nodded. “I don’t know what you’re agreeing to, Lord Dagan, but it’s good that you did. I would not like to strip the flesh from your back.” He lowered the lantern and turned to go. “Wait!” Dagan called out. “Aren’t you going to unchain me?” Verial never looked around. “No, Lord Dagan. I was told to let you stew until an hour before His Grace’s Joining then I was to take you to the baths and let the stewards dress you.” “How soon to the Joining?” Dagan yelled for Verial was already out of sight. “Three hours, Milord,” Verial yelled back as he banged the door behind him. “Three hours?” Dagan whispered, shocked. He slumped in his bonds. “Three hours,” he repeated. The sound of Hagan’s laughter drifted through his mind. Chapter Seven

Jameela’s tears had ceased but the blood from her hands still oozed as she tiredly struck the door behind which she was locked. Brother Qutaybah’s sneering face was emblazoned in her mind’s eye as she pummeled the door again, smearing scarlet upon the wooden panel. “Because of you he is being lashed and may well die, slut!” the Grand Master’s Chancellor had gloated when he had come to tell her of Dagan’s arrest and removal to the dungeon. “Let me go to the Grand Master!” she had pleaded. “Let me explain!” “There is nothing you can do, bitch!” Brother Qutaybah sneered. “The die has been cast.” Sinking to her knees, she crouched beside the door, her forehead dropped to her raised knees. Her fists were buried in the fabric of her robe, her long hair spilling like silk to the floor. In her heart, she knew if Dagan Kiel’s life were forfeit because of her, she would follow him soon to the arms of the Gatherer. The clank of a key fitting into the lock of her door brought hope to Jameela’s heart and she looked up hopefully as the portal swung open. Seeing who entered her chamber made her eyes go wide and stopped the breath in her throat. “We are here,” the portliest of four women said, “to make you ready for your Joining, Milady.” Having seen only Astrid…the woman sent to aid in her training…Jameela was shocked to see other females. Dagan had told her it was not allowed for the Brothers’ women to converse amongst themselves so they were kept apart. Seeing these four standing there staring down at her elevated Jameela’s fears. “We are to be your Ladies-in-Waiting,” the shorter of the quartet whispered shyly. “It is an honor unlike any we ever hoped to attain at Lalssu.” “An honor no other wife of a Grand Master has ever known,” the tallest of the four added.

“It can only be wondered why you deserve such treatment,” the ugliest of the women hissed. “Best to keep a civil, respectful tone in your voice, you old crow,” the portly woman snapped, turning to give the ugly woman an arch look, “else you will be back to Semiol’s bed!” The ugly woman grimaced. “I would rather slit my wrists and be done with it than return to the Horse Trainer’s stinking bed.” “Then remember to whom it is you have been assigned,” the portly one reminded her. “But I can not help but wonder…” the ugly woman began. “’Tis not your responsibility to question the Grand Master’s design,” the overweight woman said before reaching out a hand to Jameela. “Here, let me help you, milady.” Jameela reluctantly took the wide hand thrust at her and was amazed at how easily she was drawn to her feet. “I am Brincia,” the portly one introduced herself. “The tall one is Amanda and the short one is Lucy. That one is Marlin.” The ugly one gritted her teeth and spoke around the constriction. “Marilynn,” she corrected. “Not Marlin.” “Whatever,” Brincia said with a roll of her huge eyes. “Have you news of Lord Dagan?” Jameela asked, her hand still held in Brincia’s strong grip. Brincia frowned. “The Master Trainer?” She shook her head. “No, milady.” “Why do you ask?” Marilynn inquired with narrowed eyes. “What is he to you? Have the two of you…” Brincia snatched her hand from Jameela’s and backhanded the ugly woman. “Keep a civil tongue! Did I not tell you already?” Jameela watched Marilynn stagger away, a claw-like hand pressed to the fiery imprint Brincia’s broad hand had raised upon her thin face. Her deep gray eyes were wide, her mouth a perfect “o” as she stared at Brincia. “You’ll not be long with us, I can tell you, if you don’t watch that evil mouth of yours!” Brincia stated then turned her back on the injured woman. “Now, milady, we should see to your bath.” Jameela shook her head. “I must have audience with the Grand Master,” she said. “I can not go through with this until I know Lord Dagan’s fate.” Brincia frowned. “His fate?” She looked to Amanda. “Have you heard something I haven’t?” Amanda shrugged. “Had something happened to him, I am sure Verial would have told me.” “Who is Verial?” Jameela asked.

“The Lord High Executioner,” Amanda said then bit her lip. “Although…” Jameela pounced on the tall woman’s last word. “Although?” she repeated. A scowl rippled across Amanda’s long face. “I know he has someone in his dungeon but he didn’t say who.” Jameela whimpered. “Lord Dagan was arrested this morn and Brother Qutaybah said he was being whipped.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Nay,” Lucy stated emphatically. “Had someone been whipped, I would have known of it for it is my man who assists Verial and he was not called to ready the punishment yard this day.” Hope widened Jameela’s tearful gaze. “Are you sure? Could they not have punished him in the dungeon?” “Never,” Bincia said. “All punishments are carried out with the presence of the entire Conclave and my man, who is a steward in the Grand Master’s quarters, would have told me of such a gathering.” “We would know of such things happening even if the Ladies of Lalssu Keep are kept ignorant of the business of the Conclave,” Lucy commented. “Ladies such as yourself,” Marilynn jeered. “The Brothers believe what a woman doesn’t know won’t cause them any problems.” Lucy clarified. “Problems for the Brothers, not the women.” “Our men are commoners in the employ of the Conclave so we have no such stringent rules applied to us as you Ladies do to you,” Brincia said with a smile. “We are made privy to all the goings on here and we are allowed to socialize as time permits.” “You will be one who has more rules than all the others,” Mailynn added, her mouth twisted in ill-disguised mirth. Jameela wrung her hands. “You think, then, you would have heard if Lord Dagan had been hurt?” “One of us would have,” Lucy replied for the others. “Then why would Brother Qutaybah…” Jameela began but Brincia cut her off. “Brother Qutaybah is an evil, vengeful man,” the portly woman said. “He hates everyone save himself and the Grand Master.” She lowered her voice. “I have heard it whispered that Brother Qutaybah is enamored of the Master and that he much envies the relationship Lord Dagan has with the Master.” “Thus,” Lucy said, “he would much envy…if not hate…your relationship with the Grand Master for as the Master’s wife, you will be of great importance to Lalssu Keep.” “Especially so when you conceive the Heir,” Amanda sighed wistfully. Brincia grinned. “Aye, that is true.” She placed a gentle hand on Jameela’s arm. “Have no fear of

Brother Qutaybah. A whisper in the Grand Master’s ear that he is annoying you will go a long way in curbing that old bastard’s tongue! I’ve heard the Master has little regard for Brother Qutaybah.” Jameela drew in a deep breath. “As long as Lord Dagan is kept safe, I can abide even Brother Qutaybah’s wickedness.” She hung her head. “Even though I may never see Dagan again.” The three friendly women looked at one another and it was Lucy who took Jameela’s hands in hers. “Milady, if you have affection for Lord Dagan, you would be wise not to show it to the Master.” “For Lord Dagan’s sake,” Brincia said. Jameela nodded listlessly. “I understand and I thank you for your words of warning.” Brincia clapped her hands softly. “Then let us ready you for your Joining for the night is getting no younger, Milady Jameela.” Jameela allowed the women to undress her and while Marilynn was ordered to fetch the copper bathing tub and the many pails of hot water, the other three women set about manicuring their charge’s hands and feet, trimming her hair, plucking her eyebrows and shaving the hair from her legs and underarms. “Such is the way of the Conclave,” Brincia explained for Jameela had never heard of such things. “Elegant ladies are so pampered.” “I am no elegant lady,” Jameela said. “I was but a shepherd’s daughter when Lord Dagan bought me for the Master.” “All the Ladies of the Conclave began life as commoners,” Brincia said. “I know of none who were of the gentry before coming here.” “That may be because all who come as mates to the Brothers are orphans or such with no kin to care about them,” Amanda sighed. “To care if they disappear behind the walls of Lalssu Keep never to be seen again, you mean,” Marilynn snarled. “Pay no attention to her,” Lucy whispered to Jameela as she helped her charge into the steaming tub of water. “She was banished from her village because she’s so ugly.” Jameela glanced at Marilynn and found that one glaring back at her. A slight tug of pity for the woman’s gangly limbs and pinched features passed over the younger woman’s mind. She tentatively smiled at the unattractive woman but Marilynn did not respond in kind. “Will there be other women at my Joining?” Jameela asked to take her mind from Marilynn’s hateful stare. “Oh, no, Milady,” Brincia replied. “Women are not allowed behind the Sanctuary doors. Only the Grand Master’s Lady is permitted and only this one time.” “But I will have you ladies to converse with?” Jameela asked, her loneliness apparent in her soft words. “Although we had a hard time conceiving of it, but such will be allowed, Milady,” Brincia answered. “It

is almost as though the Master wishes for you to be as happy here as it is possible to make you.” Jameela lowered her face into her hands and began to sob. Shocked, the other women stepped back from the tub, alarmed at such a reaction. It was Lucy who finally knelt down beside the tub and asked how they had upset her. “’Tis not you,” Jameela sobbed. “’Tis Lord Dagan,” Brincia said gently and also knelt. She reached out to lift Jameela’s head and turned the young woman’s face toward her. “Milady, you must forget him.” “I can not!” Jameela cried, her lips trembling. “I love him with all my heart!” Brincia released a long breath. “Then if you love him, tuck that love into a tiny place within your heart and there keep it safe.” “As you will keep him safe,” Amanda put in. “Once you have become the Grand Master’s wife, a slip of the tongue could well place the Master Trainer’s neck in a noose and I know that is not what you want.” “Nay, it is not,” Jameela whined. “Then go to your Joining knowing in order to keep Lord Dagan safe, you must never allow your feelings for him to show,” Lucy advised. “Especially not to your new husband,” Brincia added. Chapter Eight

“She comes to the Joining. All rise!” an unseen voice called out. The sound of men coming to their feet echoed around her and Jameela flinched. She was shaking in her slippers and the weight of a hundred or more eyes leveling toward her made her heart skip a beat. “Follow me,” Brother Qutaybah whispered. Jameela barely saw the beauty of the Sanctuary as she walked behind Brother Qutaybah. The thousands of candles that lit the vast room, gilding the dark blue marble walls, lent a dreamlike quality to the event. The myriad golden candelabras, copper urns filled with fragrant flowers, lush tapestry panels flowing down the walls would have awed her had she not been in such a lethargic frame of mind. She walked as though she were on the way to her execution and not to the Joining that would make her the most influential woman in the Northern Kingdom. Vaguely, she heard the faint strains of music that accompanied her walk down the long aisle that led to the soaring altar. There was a mystical undertone woven through the melodic strains but the beauty of the music had no more effect on her than did the elegant surroundings. She kept her head high but her hands upon the bouquet of lavender and yellow roses clutched to her waist were trembling. Her eyes were moist, her mouth dry, and her heart pounding fiercely beneath the satin of her white Joining gown.

Heads turned as she passed but she did not hear the sighs of the Brothers who had no woman of their own and the murmurs of approval of those who did. She paid no heed to the men but kept her eyes locked on the high altar and the semicircle of males standing there. “There will be the Lord High Abbot, dressed entirely in red,” Brincia had instructed. “He will pronounce the Joining vows. With him will be two blue-clad Brothers who will serve as Acolytes and a third, robed in yellow, who will place the Joining band upon your arm. The fifth man there will be the Grand Master and you will recognize him right off for he will be adorned in a white wedding robe with gilt trim.” Jameela frowned for she could see but four males standing at the altar. She could make out the red, blue and gold robes but she saw no white robe among those gathered. Her heart lurched as her fear grew. Brother Qutaybah nodded pleasantly to the Brothers he passed on the way to the altar. His back was ramrod straight, his silver-shot burgundy robe swaying upon his bony frame. In his hand, he carried the staff of his office, the golden sphere gleaming in the candlelight. With each step, the thump of the staff upon the scarlet carpet runner sounded like a death knell to Jameela’s sensitive ears. It was not until they were only a few feet from the altar that Jameela noticed the man sitting in a chair off to one side. While those gathered were on their feet, this man sat with his head bowed, his hands clasped in his lap. With a start, Jameela realized the robe he wore was pristine white, edged with golden thread, as was her gown. The chair! She thought, taking in the conveyance. It was a rolling chair! Once before she had seen such a contraption. A pitiful wretch…crippled from birth…had sat in the public square of Sahar Colony for many years, begging for alms until one morn he had been found slumped in the chair, dead for many hours before anyone noticed. Crippled, Jameela thought and her gentle heart ached for the man. She stared at his bent head, taking in the gleam of his dark hair beneath the circlet of Grand Master, and remembered the times he had been bodily lifted from her after the bouts of lovemaking. A small groan of pity escaped her throat. Though he could not walk, he had performed his duty admirably well. Her thoughts must have reached him for he slowly lifted his head and when he did, his gaze locked with hers. Such sad eyes, she thought, looking into those warm brown orbs. Her pity escalated for in those eyes she believed she saw the fear of rejection, the fear that she would view him with disgust. So lost was she in the pull of that heartrending gaze, she did not take in the whole picture of his still face. When she did, she faltered, coming to a stop three feet away, her eyes wide, her lips parted, her breath held. “Lady Jameela,” Brother Qutaybah smirked, “I have the great honor to present you to your husband, Grand Master Hagan Kiel.” “Hagan?” Jameela questioned, her gaze moving quickly over the features of the man in the chair and comparing them to those of her beloved Dagan. So close was the similarity, she would not have been able to tell them apart. It was as though she was staring into Dagan’s handsome face and she looked to Brother Qutaybah for an explanation. “Identical twins,” Brother Qutaybah said with a sniff. “I thought you knew.” Twins! Jameela gasped to herself. Once more she was rocked by the revelation and she blinked several

times to rid her eyes of the telltale moisture that threatened to overflow. How could she lie beside this man, mate with this man, bear children to this man who bore such an uncanny exactness of resemblance to the love of her heart and not go mad? Shaking her head, retreating a few steps, Jameela looked for a way out. All around her, men were pressed shoulder to shoulder, blocking any escape. If she attempted to run, they could easily restrain her. She looked back at the Grand Master and saw understanding in his sad eyes and she reacted to that knowing look. Rushing forward, she fell to her knees before him and reached out to grasp his hand in hers. “Please, Your Grace,” she said urgently, tears running down her pale cheeks. “I can not…” “Wed me?” the man in the chair interrupted. He reached out to cup her cheek and she was surprised that his hand trembled as he did so. “Milady, neither of us has a choice in this. Before this night is o’er, we will be man and wife whether we like it or not.” “But I love another!” she protested, bringing his hand to her lips to kiss. “It would be wrong for me to…” He firmly pulled his hand from her grip. “The Joining will stand so there is nothing to discuss, Jameela. Get up and let’s be done with this.” There was no escape for her, she thought as she stumbled to her feet. His gaze was steady on her, daring her to go further with her protests. There was something very strange in the look he was giving her and she feared that look but her concern over Dagan’s fate lifted her chin. “I ask only that you tell me of Lord Dagan,” she said, holding that fearful gaze. “Is he…?” “He is as well as can be expected under the circumstances,” the Grand Master mumbled. “He is in good health if not in a particularly good state of mind.” Jameela put her hand to her heart. “He was not whipped?” A faint smile eased over the Grand Master’s face. “Nay, Wench. Not in the physical sense at any rate.” He cocked his head to one side. “Is it Dagan you fancy you love?” “I have no doubt that I love him,” she replied. “With all my heart.” “Huh,” the Grand Master grunted and shook his head. He looked down, his hands clenched into fists. “I love my brother but sometimes he does things that make me dislike him completely.” He looked up. “Tonight is just such a time.” Terror raced through Jameela’s heart. “Please,” she begged. “Do not blame him for my wayward heart, Your Grace. He has not once…” The Grand Master held his hand up. “It matters not what Dagan feels, Milady. He is as much a pawn in this matter as you.” He turned his attention to the Lord High Abbot. “Get on with the ceremony, Teazel.” Nodding respectfully, the Lord High Abbot instructed Jameela to kneel at her betrothed’s feet. “Let her stand,” the Grand Master snapped.

“Milord, it is not…” “It is my Joining and it will be performed in the manner in which I decree!” the Grand Master commanded through clenched teeth. He put a hand out to Jameela. “Take my hand and stand beside me as my equal, Wench.” There were muted mumbles of protest among the gathered Brothers but none dared gainsay the Grand Master’s orders. They cast the lovely woman who took the proffered hand a look but their whispering stopped when the Grand Master swept his hawkish glower over them. “Let it be known that I am accepting this woman not only as my mate but as my helpmeet, my friend, and the keeper of my heart. Any Brother who would dare insult her or cause her the first moment’s agitation will have my undying enmity. Is that clear?” Quick nods punctuated the shout of “Aye, Your Grace” from amongst those men gathered. The Grand Master turned his stern look on Brother Qutaybah. “Do you understand?” he demanded. Brother Qutaybah inclined his head though his eyes were bright with anger and the fingers of the hands clasped at his waist had bled of color so tightly were they clenched. “Under penalty of being stretched upon the Lord High Executioner’s post and lashed until there are no strips of your flesh left hanging on your lifeless body and every drop of your worthless blood is pooled at your feet?” the Grand Master pressed. “Speak to me!” The anger in Brother Qutaybah’s eyes fled to be replaced with shock. “I am here to do your will, Your Grace,” he replied. “Your wish is my command.” “Then swear to me before those assembled that you will not cause my Lady-wife one moment of distress. That you will attend to her commands and instructions as though they came straight from my lips!” Brother Qutaybah swallowed hard, the bulge of his Adam’s apple bobbing. He cast Jameela a fleeting look then his shoulders slumped. “It will be as you have decreed, Your Grace.” “Lie to her ever again, frighten her with any implied mistruth and I swear to you before these good men that I will retaliate in ways you will rue to your dying breath!” the Grand Master stated. His head lowered, hanging as though the weight of the world were pressed atop it, Brother Qutaybah closed his eyes. Satisfied that he had cowered the coward, the Grand Master looked up at his betrothed. “Have I covered what needs be said, Milady?” Jameela smiled tremulously. “I believe you have sufficiently chastised Brother Qutaybah, Your Grace, and for that I am eternally grateful. He has not been very nice to me.” “I am aware of that, Wench,” the Grand Master acknowledged. “Should he treat you in that fashion in the future, his life will be forfeit.”

The Brothers looked at one another with surprise stamped upon their faces but they nodded at one another, having understood the implications of not giving the Grand Master’s Lady-wife the respect he demanded they show. “Now, Join us together, Lord Abbot, for I am growing weary of this hellish chair,” the Grand Master stated. “My shoulder is killing me.” “Perhaps,” Jameela said softly, “I could sit beside you, Your Grace.” She held his gaze. “There would be less strain on your arm.” The Grand Master threw his head back and laughed then brought Jameela’s hand to his lips. He placed a hard kiss to her wrist then motioned for a chair to be brought. Brother Qutaybah jumped to the task and brought a chair quickly, placing it gently behind Jameela’s knees and holding it steady until she was seated. Silently he backed away, his hands once more at his waist. The ceremony was not overly long but it was intricate. Explanations were given on the accepted conduct of a Grand Master’s mate and instructions on her duties were clearly stated. When at last the actual Joining was pronounced, Jameela’s head was spinning with all the information she had been given. “I present to you His Grace, Lord Hagan Kiel, Grand Master of the Conclave and his Lady-wife, Her Grace Lady Jameela!” the Lord High Abbot exclaimed. There was a hearty round of applause, vigorous nods of the Brothers’ heads and an actual smile or two here and there. Once more the Grand Master brought Jameela’s hand to his lips, sealing their Joining with a kiss as light as a butterfly’s winds. “Milady, I am honored to have you to wife,” he said. Jameela breathed easily for the first time that day. She managed a smile though she wished with all her heart it was Dagan Kiel to whom she had been Joined in matrimony. “Now, if you will excuse me,” the Grand Master said. “I need to refresh myself before we retire for the evening, Milady.” He glanced at Brother Qutaybah. “Escort Her Grace to her new quarters and send her ladies to help her ready herself for…” He faltered then lifted his chin. “For the consummation of our Joining.” She watched her new husband being rolled away and wondered at the break in his voice on his last words to the assembly. Her heart went out to him as she looked at his bent head, his hands clutched almost desperately on the arms of the rolling conveyance. “He looks tired,” she said to no one in particular. “He tires easily,” Brother Qutaybah said in a haughty tone then cleared his throat. His next words were almost normal. “He will not overly abuse the privilege of being your husband.” Somewhat confused by such a statement, Jameela said nothing as the Grand Master’s Chancellor swept out a hand for her to precede him. As they passed the members of the Conclave—parting before her advancement—she met the eyes of a few and was relieved to see no overt hostility aimed her way.

“Where is Lord Dagan?” she asked Brother Qutaybah and felt—rather than saw—the lanky man stiffen. “I do not know. He did not deign to attend as you no doubt noticed, Your Grace,” Brother Qutaybah replied and the smug satisfaction in his voice made it clear to Jameela that the awful man was glad Dagan was no doubt suffering in some way. “Would you find him for me and ask him to come to my quarters?” Jameela queried and thought the man walking slightly behind her now that she was a person of authority was going to refuse. “With all due respect, Your Grace, but perhaps you should ask your husband’s permission to have Lord Dagan…” “I shall,” Jameela interrupted him, “but please do as I ask.” She cast a side look at Brother Qutaybah. “I will make sure my husband knows you voiced your caution.” She could hear Brother Qutaybah’s teeth grinding but he did not respond to her words. Once they reached the new quarters provided for the Lady-wife of the Grand Master, he opened the door for her and ushered her inside. “I will do as you command, Milady,” Brother Qutaybah told her then clapped his hands to the two guards who flanked the portals of Jameela’s new home. “Fulid, fetch Her Grace’s attendants. Yareon, see to whatever her needs may be until the women arrive.” The guards snapped to attention and the younger of the two made haste to seek out Jameela’s ladies-in-waiting. The older man arched a brow at his new mistress, not having received permission to speak. “I would like a glass of lemon water if it is not too much trouble,” Jameela said. “Yareon, is it?” The guard smiled widely. “No trouble at all, Your Grace, and aye, it is Yareon.” He left Jameela looking about the sumptuous room that had been provided for her, quietly closing the door behind him. Jameela flinched as she heard the portal’s lock engage. For a moment she feared being locked in then realized her safety was the guard’s concern and relaxed. Her feminine curiosity aroused, she began inspecting the extravagant room that had been designed especially for her. So engrossed in her tour of her quarters, she paid scant attention to the lock disengaging and the door opening. “Is it to your liking, Milady?” Jameela spun around, her eyes wide as she beheld Dagan standing in the opened doorway, a glass of lemon water in his hand. She rushed to him, coming up short at his slight frown. “You are…” she said then cleared her throat. “You are well, Milord Dagan?” “Quite well, Milady,” he replied, closing the distance between them. He extended the frosty tumbler of lemon water. “You have developed quite a liking for this brew, haven’t you?” Jameela grinned. “It quenches my thirst better than anything I’ve ever encountered.” She took the glass and brought it to her lips for a quick sip. “Some thirsts are easily quenched,” he replied. “While some will never be.”

She slowly lowered the tumbler. “Why did you not tell me the Grand Master was your brother?” she inquired softly. “Or that he and you were twins?” Dagan shrugged carelessly then thrust his hands into the pockets of his black breeches. “It didn’t seem of any great import.” He shrugged again. “There is nothing neither he nor I can do about the circumstances of our birth.” “I wish you had told me he was handicapped,” she said. “Hagan isn’t handicapped, Milady. He is crippled. There is nothing soft nor lacking in him save the use of his legs.” “How did that happen?” she asked. “Was he born that way?” Dagan shook his head. “No. He was injured as a boy, a fall from his steed.” “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “So is he, but it will not interfere with his marriage rights.” Her face red at his remark, she took another sip of the chilled lemon water, looking over the rim of the tumbler at her companion. He seemed at ease in his surroundings so she reckoned he had his brother’s—his Grand Master’s—permission to be in her quarters. He held her gaze. Lowering the glass, she held it with the bottom in her free hand. “I wish it had been you who…” “He will be along shortly,” Dagan said, halting the admission she had been about to make. “He wanted to speak with the two of us before you and he retired for the evening.” For the first time, he looked away but not before she glimpsed the infinite sorrow in his amber eyes. “He loves you,” she told him. Dagan snorted but it wasn’t a sound of disbelief. Rather it seemed to her it was a noise of exasperation. “So he has always told me but there have been times when I questioned the validity of his statement.” “Such as when he sent you to the dungeon this morn?” she asked. An amused smiled lit the Master Trainer’s handsome face. “You have to admit it is a supreme way in which to garner one’s attention, eh?” “You do not fear him?” she asked lightly but the concern on her face belied the easy way in which she asked. “Fear is not the correct word, I think,” he admitted. “Irritated, frustrated, even annoyed would better describe how I feel when he asserts his power on me.” “I hear your affection for him in your tone, Milord,” she said. He shrugged and looked away.

The air was charged with silence then he asked once more if the quarters were to her liking. “They are dazzling,” she replied. “Far more than I ever thought to have.” “If there is something you wish, something you need, let Qutaybah know,” he told her. He narrowed his eyes. “He is treating you better, is he not?” “Oh, yes!” she answered. “He might not like being nice to me but he is far more polite than before this day.” She giggled. “Lord Hagan made sure he would be.” Dagan’s lips twitched but he made no comment to her words. Instead, he walked to the lone window and looked out over the enclosed courtyard beyond. “A lovely cage,” he said quietly. “No escape from this place, Milady.” “Why would she want to escape, brother?” Dagan and Jameela turned toward the door. His steward who pushed the chair to the center of the room was rolling the Grand Master into the room. After making sure his master wished nothing further, the steward bowed and then backed out of the room, closing the portal quietly behind him. “Well, Dagan? Why would our lovely Lady-wife wish to escape?” Dagan frowned. “When have you taken to using the royalour , Your Grace?” The Grand Master grinned. “Was I doing that, brother?” This time Dagan’s snort gave no doubt of his disbelief and he looked away from the humor on his twin’s face. “You haven’t told her, have you?” Dagan snapped his head around. “Told her what?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “That she is as much your Lady-wife as she is mine,” Hagan replied. Dagan’s lips parted in shock and he was about to speak but his brother held up a hand. “I have no intention of starting my wedded life with the lovely Jameela on a lie, Dagan. She has a right to know the truth.” “Don’t,” Dagan said so softly his voice was but a breath of sound. “What?” the Grand Master asked, putting his hand up to cup his right ear. “Is that the dungeon master I hear calling your name, Dagan? Do you miss the embrace of your shackles?” Despite the thudding of her heart, Jameela stepped forward, garnering her new husband’s attention. “Your Grace, please do not threaten him with torment you know you do not wish to inflict upon him,” she begged.

Hagan laughed until tears formed in his eyes. “Ah, Wench, you are fast becoming his champion.” He wiped his eyes. “Dagan, tell her I always make good on my threats.” “He gets great delight out of seeing me strung up to that foul wall,” Dagan said with gritted teeth. “He doesn’t think I know about the peephole in the ceiling but I do.” “Aw,” the Grand Master said on a long breath. “And I thought I was being so clever lying on the floor and watching you fidget.” “What is this truth you believe I should know, Your Grace?” Jameela asked quickly, feeling a chill enter the men’s words. “Ah, yes, the truth.” Her new husband arched a brow at his twin. “Shall I tell her or will you?” “Hagan, don’t do this,” Dagan pleaded. “What purpose will it serve?” “To put her mind at rest?” his brother countered. Jameela looked from one man to the other. Dagan’s face was hard, his eyes bleak, his mouth tight. Hagan was grinning, his eyes twinkling, his lips quivering with amusement. Whatever secret the Grand Master wished to impart seemed to make Dagan ill at ease. “You know I am going to tell her,” the Grand Master stated. “You always do what you want,” Dagan said. “And that has not been either prudent or safe on occasion.” The smile slipped from the Grand Master’s face. “True, but the consequences have been mine to bear, haven’t they, Dagan?” Dagan flinched and turned his back, staring once more out the window. Jameela could sense the disquiet between the brothers but was at a loss to know what to say or how to react. When her new husband bid her sit on the settee beside his rolling chair, she did so without comment. “I really had no desire to wed,” the Grand Master said, causing Jameela to blink. “It was something necessitated by decree of my position.” He held his hand out to his Lady-wife and threaded his fingers between hers. “Dagan, on the other hand would never have married because of his condition.” The snort that pushed from Dagan this time was full of bitterness. “He deserves a helpmate, don’t you agree, Wench?” Jameela tore her attention from her husband to the man standing so stiffly at the window, his back to her. She looked back at the Grand Master, her gaze full of pleading. “Well?” the Grand Master prompted. “Don’t you think he deserves happiness with a woman he can call his own?” Hurt drove through Jameela’s breast and she felt the prickle of tears starting. As much as she wished

Dagan happiness, it would not be with anyone other than herself. “He is a good man,” was all she could say. “Indeed, he is,” her husband agreed. “He did not deserve what our father did to him anymore than I deserved to be a cripple.” He glanced over at his brother. “Between us, we are a whole man. Wouldn’t you agree, Dagan?” Dagan did not answer. The Grand Master sighed audibly. “Now, he’s pissed at me,” he said. “I may well have to call the dungeon master yet.” “His scourge or hot pinchers couldn’t hurt me any more than what you mean to do,” Dagan said though he didn’t turn around. “Spin your evil, Your Grace, and get it over!” “Evil?” the Grand Master queried in a disbelieving voice. “Dagan, why do you think me such a demon?” “Because if you tell her the truth, that is exactly what you will be!” Dagan said, turning to face his twin. “Don’t do this!” “Tell me what it is you have to, Your Grace,” Jameela interrupted. She tensed her fingers around her husband’s. “Please don’t put Lord Dagan through the ordeal of having to hear your words. Allow him to leave and…” “It was he who spoke the words of Joining with you this eve,” the Grand Master told her and as her eyes widened, her lips parted, he nodded emphatically. “By proxy, aye, but still it was he who made the vows. In essence, though you are my legal Lady-wife, so, too, are you his.” Jameela sat back, too shocked to speak. She could not look at Dagan and found it hard to look at the man who was legally her husband. “I can fulfill the marriage consummation,” the Grand Master was saying, his face pleasant, his eyes full of good humor. “I don’t believe there will be any problem with getting you with child. The equipment works if not the legs.” Slowly Jameela turned her head to the window. Dagan was standing with his hands to either side of the frame, his forehead resting on the glass. The bars on the windows made it appear as though he were incarcerated in a jail cell. “I see no reason why we can not share you,” the Grand Master continued. “He can sleep here with you.” His forehead creased. “I am told he can pleasure a woman with that wicked mouth and those strong hands of his so you should be able to enjoy your nights with him.” Disbelief made the blood pound in Jameela’s temple as she listened to her husband’s words. They seem to be coming from a great distance, muted by the rush of her heart, but every syllable registered in her brain. “Of course, on those nights when you are at your most fertile, I will expect you to sleep with me.” Dagan turned around, his hands clenched at his sides. “And what happens when the Tribunal finds out she is committing adultery, Hagan?”

“I don’t believe it is adultery if it is mandated by her husband, is it, Dagan? If I give her permission, what harm is there?” “Harm?” Dagan questioned, striding forward with his shoulders hunched like a man in great pain. “You call the Tribunal relieving her of her head being a harmless situation?” The Grand Master waved his hand as though to negate such a ridiculous query. “I had the Joining papers written so that both our names—mine and yours—are listed as her rightful spouses. Since I…” “You did what?” Dagan roared, his eyes bulging. “It will be no secret that we are both married to her, Dagan,” his twin said, his tone exasperated. “Not among the Tribunal, at any rate.” “You can’t do that!” “I can and I have,” the Grand Master insisted. “They didn’t particularly like it but I gave them no choice in the matter.” “Do you remember what happened the last time the Tribunal didn’t like the Grand Master’s plans?” Dagan snapped. “The war cost this land hundreds of thousands of warriors’ lives. It…” “Won’t happen again, because this is a situation unlike the other. Then, two brothers were fighting for control. Here, two brothers are in agreement.” “Speak for yourself!” Dagan said with a snarl. “You don’t want her?” Jameela was looking at Dagan’s enraged face. She could see the blood pounding in his temple. He was quivering with anger, his breathing fast and shallow. She feared for his health and spoke quietly to him. “I do not mind being shared, Milord.” “Well, I mind!” Dagan shouted. “Think you I want the woman I love oozing from my brother’s bed to mine? His stink still on her?” “She can always bathe before sliding between your sheets, Dagan,” the Grand Master said in a dry tone. “My juices aren’t all that foul, you know, that water can not cleanse them.” “Go to hell, Hagan!” Dagan bellowed and stalked to the door, throwing it wide. The portal crashed against the wall then slammed shut behind the Master Trainer’s departure. Jameela made to stand up to follow him, but her husband’s hand tightened on hers and she was forced to remain seated. “He’ll stomp and curse, pout and moan but he’ll realize I have provided us with a solution that will benefit each of us.” He shrugged. “He will never admit it to either us, of course, but once the shock of my suggestion wears off, he will see the wisdom in it.”

“Do you not realize that you have hurt him deeply, Your Grace?” she asked. “His pride? Aye, perhaps, but he could never have had you in any other way, Wench. I am doing the pigheaded fool a great favor though he refuses to see it at the moment.” “And you have no fear your Tribunal will harm him?” she questioned, that being her greatest concern. Hagan Kiel’s handsome face tightened. “They had better not try. Let even one of them voice opposition to this arrangement and I will have him hanged, drawn and quartered!” Jameela hung her head, the events of the day having finally pressed her so far down she felt she would never rise again. “Do you dread sharing my bed with me?” the Grand Master asked softly. She looked up at him. “You have been nothing but gentle with me, Your Grace. You have given me great pleasure.” She blushed. “You are a very skilled lover.” “As is my brother even if he can’t do what I can,” her husband reminded her. “Am I not correct when I say that?” She nodded slowly. “Aye, Your Grace. He has pleasured me exceedingly well.” “Then what’s the problem?” the Grand Master asked. “It is not as though you and I have never lain together. I am not demanding the exclusive use of your very lovely body. I am granting Dagan his heart’s desire in being with you. Whatis the problem?” Jameela thought about it for a moment then realized the answer lay in her. “He fears for my safety, I think, Your Grace,” she replied, thinking of the orders Dagan had given the Conclave at their Joining. She wondered how many of the men knew—if any—who had really been sitting in the rolling chair that eve. “A fear without basis,” the Grand Master stated. “I will repeat Dagan’s warning tomorrow when I break my fast with the Brothers. No man will dare show you disrespect nor will he think twice about the arrangement I will share with them.” “You will tell them you intend to share me with Lord Dagan?” she gasped. “The sooner they are privy to the situation, the sooner I will know which ones will have no problem with the arrangement and which ones I will need to eliminate. Either way, after much thought, it is best the dual marriage be out in the open. I had meant to keep it secret but since there is no chance that Dagan will get you with child and has no desire to run the Conclave, I believe the Brothers will accept the arrangement without too much argument.” Chapter Nine

The grumbling died down to an occasional hiss as the Grand Master surveyed the Brothers seating below the dais. He made eye contact with each of the Supreme Masters, evaluated their reactions to his statement then shifted his attention to his twin. Dagan was staring back at him with stunned disbelief stamped across his features.

“Do you not see the beauty of such an arrangement, Brother?” the Grand Master asked. Dagan shook his head, unable to speak. “Come now,” the Grand Master chided his twin. “You all but run the Conclave as it is. You are my legs, Dagan. Neither of us by himself is whole; together we are more man than any other assembled here!” Once more there were grumbles but no longer of shock or disgruntlement but rather agreement with heads nodding slowly, glances being exchanged which clearly expressed the concurrence of many of the Brothers. “Look at it this way,” the Grand Master suggested. “Dagan has no ambition to be Grand Master. Each of you knows this. He is my right hand, my legs, my strength and stamina. It is he who puts the warriors through their paces, who sees to the security of the Conclave. He does what I am not capable of doing.” He cocked a brow. “On the other hand, I can do that of which he is not capable—produce an heir to the Kiel dynasty. I am the brew and our Lady-wife is the vessel.” Dagan winced and lowered his head. His hands were balled into tight fists in his lap and a muscle worked in his lean cheek. “I have no love for Lady Jameela but I do hold some affection for her. She has satisfied me on the occasions on which I tested her. I am most pleased with her as my wife.” He shrugged. “As pleased as I will ever be considering I have no desire to be a randy ruler.” The Brothers chuckled amongst themselves. Such had not always been the case with the ruling family of the Conclave. After all, a ruler much enamored of his sexual prowess had been the start of the Great War in the first place. “Dagan loves the Lady Jameela and she, him. Despite his deficiencies, she would be most content to be his and his alone but, alas, she belongs to us both and in that regard, we should both have her. Do you not agree?” “Aye!” came the hearty accord from the Brothers. All save Dagan, who remained silent. “Will you gainsay he and I sharing the lovely lady’s favors?” “Nay!” “Will there be disrespect for your Grand Master’s Lady-wife should my brother share our bed?” After a short pause, the Brothers shouted, “Nay!” “And when there is issue from the Joining,” the Grand Master continued. “Will there be any among you who will question the paternity of the child?” “Nay!” “Then,” the Grand Master pronounced, rubbing his hands together. “It is settled.”

All but one Brother stood, eagerly clapping his approval of the suggestion. “Aye!” they yelled in unison. Dagan lifted his head and met his twin’s gaze. The two men stared at one another for the space of a half-dozen heartbeats then Dagan got to his feet. All around him, the Brothers fell silent, their attention locked on the tall warrior. “If this is the consensus of the Conclave, I will abide by its decision,” Dagan said quietly. The Grand Master’s mouth twitched into a hesitant smile for he did not like the stony look on his twin’s face nor did he much care for the hard look in Dagan’s amber eyes. “Good, then it is settled,” he said. “Let us inform our Lady-wife.” Dagan squared his shoulders. “I must leave that to you, Your Grace,” he stated. “There are problems on the eastern border and my troop and I will be leaving directly after this meeting.” More grumbling but this time of a worried nature shifted over the hall. “Prince Sekhem is giving us grief once more?” Hagan asked, his forehead creased in concern. “I am afraid so, Your Grace,” Dagan replied. “He has stolen many of Lord Fadil’s herd and taken them to the central highlands of Ordo. Unless we get them back before the snow flies, they will end up in the bellies of the Ordonese. I intend to put a stop to these raids once and for all.” “How long do you propose this mission to last?” the Grand Master inquired. Dagan hunched one shoulder. “Until the situation is remedied, Grace.” The Grand Master motioned to his assistant. “Before you go, come to my quarters. I would bid you a proper leave, my brother.” Dagan bowed in acknowledgement of the command, his clenched right hand over his heart. He stood aside with his fellow Conclave members—their heads bowed—as the Grand Master exited the room, his assistant pushing the rolling chair upon which Hagan Kiel spent the majority of his waking hours. “This will not be an easy mission, milord Dagan,” Brother Qasim said as he turned to the Master Trainer. “I fear it will be a very dangerous undertaking,” Brother Alonso put in as he joined them. “Nevertheless,” Dagan said. “If we continue allowing Sekhem to raid where he will, we will have no meat on the hoof left to the Conclave.” “You will be careful?” Brother Qasim asked. “As careful as a warrior can be,” Dagan promised. ***** Jameela paced back and forth before the elegant settee, oblivious to the beautiful surroundings of her new quarters. She twisted her hands with every circuit of the room, wringing them so tightly, her flesh was rubbed raw in places.

“I told you it would work out, did I not, Wench?” the Grand Master queried his Lady-wife. “Aye, you did, Your Grace, but I can not help worrying,” Jameela answered. “Don’t borrow trouble,” her husband cautioned. “My word is law within the Conclave and I have spoken with each Brother individually. None of them has a problem with the arrangement as it stands.” Jameela stopped her pacing and looked at the man in the rolling chair. “Not a one of them?” The Grand Master smiled broadly. “Not a one would have dared.” He reached out and patted the settee. “Pray come and sit down, Wench. There is no need for you to worry.” Chewing on her lower lip, Jameela did as she was commanded, perching primly on the edge of the settee and tucking her legs to the side. “I would not like to be the cause of a problem between you and Lord Dagan,” she said. “There will be no problem between us,” the Grand Master replied. “The only times there have been wars among siblings within the Conclave, it was over the issue of offspring. In our situation, there will never be a question of who has sired the heir or who is capable of producing one.” “But what if I can not conceive?” she asked, once more wringing her hands. “What if…?” “What if the sun does not rise come morning?” the Grand Master countered. “What if the ocean ceases to send waves to the shore? What if Brother Qutaybah grows fat and complaisant and jovial?” Jameela laughed despite her worry. “I don’t believe any of those things will ever happen, Your Grace.” Her eyes crinkled with amusement. “Especially not the last one you suggested.” “Then have no fear, you will conceive.” He shrugged. “If you do not, you do not. Should that happen, I will quietly divorce you but you will still belong to Dagan.” Hearing that, Jameela relaxed though she was still concerned for her lover’s safety. “He is a prime warrior,” the Grand Master stated. “Have no fear for him, Wench. He will return to us in one piece.” There was a firm rap on the door and the Grand Master bid entry. Dagan walked in, his imposing figure dressed for battle. He glanced at Jameela as she came slowly to her feet, but directed his attention to his brother. “The troop is ready to leave for Ordo, Your Grace.” The Grand Master put his hands on the wheels of his rolling chair and propelled himself forward, shaking his head at both Dagan’s and Jameela’s offer of assistance. When he was close to his brother, he put out his hand and Dagan clasped it firmly. “Be careful, brother,” the Grand Master bid. “Come back to us quickly and in good health.” Dagan felt the strong hand of his brother tight around his own. “I will do my best to see that happens, Your Grace.” “Good,” the Grand Master said on a long breath. “Now, bid our lady a proper farewell ere you go.” He

let go of his twin’s hand. The Master Trainer bowed respectfully then turned to the beautiful woman standing to his left. “Milady, I bid you goodbye until we meet again.” Jameela raised her chin. “And I bid you godspeed, Lord Dagan, until we are together once more.” She held out her hand and Dagan took it, bringing it briefly to his lips before stepping back. “Oh, for the love of the gods!” the Grand Master exclaimed. “I’ve seen better fare-thee-wells from peasants on their way to prison!” He bent forward and swatted Dagan on the thigh. “Take her to bed, brother, and make me proud by making her squeal with delight!” Dagan’s face turned as crimson as Jameela’s and he opened his mouth to protest but the Grand Master raised his voice, making his words a command and not a suggestion. “See to it, Dagan!” he ordered and wheeled himself to the door, yelling for his assistant to open the portal. The Master Trainer and Jameela stared at the door as it closed. Neither moved nor did they allow their gazes to shift to the other. It was a moment in which both felt keenly lost yet ached to act. “You will be careful,” Jameela finally asked so quietly her voice was but a breath of sound in the vast room. “As careful as I have ever been,” Dagan replied. She went to him, drawing his eyes to hers. Lifting her palm, she placed it gently to his cheek and cocked her head to one side. “I will be worried sick the entire time you are gone.” He turned his head so his lips were against the center of her palm, his hand up to hers to hold her sweet flesh to his mouth. His kiss was as soft as the caress of a butterfly’s wings before he moved her palm to his chest, placing it over his heart, where he held it firmly. “Have no fear that I will return to you, milady. I would move mountains to do so.” “This,” she said, lowering her eyes. “This arrangement is to your agreement, milord?” It was on the tip of Dagan’s tongue to tell her it was not; that it went against everything in his heart and soul to share her with his brother but he knew he had never had a choice. If he had not agreed to the Demon’s Bargain Hagan had ventured forth, Jameela would have been lost to him forever. “I have no intention,” he said, clearing his throat of the huskiness that felt as though it were choking him. “Of sharing my brother’s bed.” “I don’t think he will ask that of you,” Jameela put forth though she wasn’t sure that was true. “This notion of me holding you while he mates with you is not something I would ever allow,” he said. “Nor would I like for that to happen.” “And I will not pleasure you while he watches,” Dagan stated, his chin lifted. “I am most relieved to hear that although you have watched while he has done the pleasuring, have you

not?” Dagan’s eyes narrowed. “I was commanded to do so but it was not of my choosing, Wench.” “I won’t…” He stopped then reached out to jerk her into his arms, pressing her firmly to his thundering chest. “I will suffer every moment we are not together,” he said before lowering his head to capture her mouth with his own. It was a heady kiss, filled with the pent-up frustrations and longings Dagan Kiel had known all his life. Though the dastardly thing done to him by his father had taken away the staff of his manhood, it had not taken the desire. It had not removed the raging craving for the beautiful body of the woman in his arms. The buckle of his breastplate came away eagerly in Jameela’s hands as she stripped the thick iron protection from his chest. She pressed her lips to his naked chest and felt his fingers threading through her long hair, holding her mouth to his erect nipples as she suckled first one pap and then the other. “Ah, Jameela,” he sighed, his head falling back as she trailed kisses up his neck and jaw and onto his mouth. He lowered her to the carpet, his hands roaming over the silken gown that clung to her like a second skin. The material gave way to his questing fingers, tearing, shredding, and coming away as he sought to behold her naked body. The carpet was soft and Jameela sank into the velvety pile, sighing with the sensual feel of the fibers caressing her naked back and thighs. A faint aroma of cedar filled her nostrils as she lay there, watching Dagan strip the battle clothing from his body. Moistening her upper lip with her tongue, she heard his low growl and shivered. It was the sound of a male animal primed to take his mate. His hot mouth closed over one turgid nipple, the wetness of his tongue lathing the puckered flesh. His teeth gently worried the tender bud as his tongue flicked in soft, slow jabs at the tip. “Dagan!” she moaned, burying her hands in the thickness of his dark hair, pressing his head close to her breast. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the exquisite torture. As he suckled her, she felt his hand moving to the core of her passion and when his fingers slipped inside her, she arched her hips up to meet the possessive invasion. Dagan plucked at her nipple with his teeth then trailed kisses down her side, smiling inwardly at the path of goose bumps he left in the wake. One kiss stopped at her navel, his tongue darting inside to elicit a delicate shiver and a moan that spurred him further downward. His lips joined his probing fingers as he closed his mouth over her clitoris. Once more his tongue jabbed at her sensitive flesh but this time the movement was neither gentle nor slow. Her moistness filled his nostrils with a scent of sweet musk and the taste of it on his tongue made him suckle her warm center like a babe at his mother’s teat. The Master Trainer knew every trick, every nuisance, and every timed movement that would satisfy his lady. He had taught many a woman of the conclave how to pleasure both her man as well as herself. But he drew from the very depths of his sexual repertoire to bring pleasure to Jameela Kiel. From ancient tomes written by sex masters from all over the world, he employed techniques that would center all her delight between her quivering thighs. Where before the training of a woman had brought him no pleasure, had never once aroused this man the Healers said could never know physical gratification, the act of

giving Jameela acute enjoyment, gave him a satisfaction he knew he would experience with no other. He slid his tongue against his fingers, as far into her moist cavern as he could. He stretched her, using his free hand to pry apart the folds of her vagina, the back of that hand to press firmly against her lower belly, causing the clitoris to protrude. Jameela’s hands tightened in his thick curls, gripping him almost painfully as he worked his mouth along her core. Her hips were arched toward him, her heels digging into the carpet. She could hear her own moans, his growls, and the rapid thunder of her heart in her ears. He lifted his head and looked up at her, smiling at the expectant look on her face as she met his eyes. Even as he held her gaze, he withdrew his hand from her moistness. “Dagan, no!” she whispered, so close to climax the removal of those strong, questing fingers made her whimper for their return. Dagan smiled and it was a smile that made the hair stir on her arms and her womb constrict. She could not look away from that predatory leer but when his middle finger slid unerringly into her anus, her eyes flared and she drew in a quick breath. “Come for me, Wench,” he commanded in a low, throaty voice. “Come for your man.” She bit down on her lower lip, prolonging the moment as his finger wiggled inside her, going deeper until the feeling was part ecstasy and part pain. As his thumb slid into her vagina and arched upward, probing against the g-spot, ripples of pleasure began in her belly, spread to her vagina and the itch of climax began. Her fingers were gripping his hair, bringing his head down. He could feel the tenseness of her vagina, the strong grip of her anus against his fingers. She was a breath away from climax as he took possession of her clitoris and began to suckle. “Ah!” Jameela shrieked and the itch became a trip hammer tattoo between her legs. Once. Twice. Three times the spasms gripped her. She clasped her thighs against the side of his head, her fingers like claws in his thick hair, and arched her hips as far upward as she could. He felt the spurt of her cum oozing against his lower lip and pushed his thumb downward so he could taste that starchy essence. He lapped at her nether lips as the strong spasms became gentle little tugs then died completely away. Though he knew the area between her legs was supersensitive, his suckling—aye, the mere touch of his mouth against her—was a charged torment, he lathed her, sucked every dewy drop of moistness from her core, easing his fingers from her orifices as he lapsed into delicate licks that ended in a sweet kiss on her pubic mound. Jameela was shivering, her thighs quivering. Her hands fell limply to her sides, she plopped down upon the carpet, boneless and well sated. Her head tilted to the side, her eyes closed. Dagan moved up beside her and gathered her into his arms, one hand cupping her head upon his

shoulder. Against his ribcage, he could feel the rapid beat of her heart. “Did I please you, Wench?” he whispered, his lips alongside her temple with a wisp of hair tickling his nose. “Um,” was all she could manage to mutter. She snuggled against him, sleepy and as content as a kitten whose belly was full of rich cream. One hand splayed across his chest, fingers entwined in the crisp hair. “Milady?” he said softly. “I must leave.” “No,” she protested, running her arm over his side to anchor him to her. “I wish I did not have to go but duty calls.” Jameela let out a long sigh accompanied by a groan of regret but she released him and sat up, turning to look down at him with eyes still smoldering from passion. “You will be careful?” she asked. “Aye,” he replied and got lithely to his feet. He held a hand out to her and when she placed her soft hand in his, he helped her up. He blinked as she threw her arms around his waist and plastered her face to his chest. “I will miss you,” she said and he could hear tears in her voice. Putting her firmly from him, he placed a quick kiss on the top of her head and turned away. He dressed quickly in his discarded clothing then strode to the door and was gone before she could stop him. Jameela’s throat clogged with emotion and she sank to her knees, her arms wrapped around her body, and she began rocking slowly back and forth in despondency. Tears fell from her eyes even as her body longed for the pressure of the Master Trainer’s hand upon it. “He will return as quickly as humanly possible,” the Grand Master—whose voice was so close to Dagan’s—said as he was wheeled into the room. Clad in a silk dressing gown and felt slippers, he looked ready for bed. Lifting her head, her face stricken with misery, Jameela looked at her husband. “Not quickly enough, Your Grace. I fear for his safety.” The Grand Master smiled. “I know in the past my brother has not been as conscientious of his personal welfare as his position in the Conclave warranted, but I will wager you he will be most diligent in that area henceforth.” Jameela put her hands up to wipe away the tears. She sniffed then sighed deeply. “I pray you have the right of it, Your Grace.” “Hagan,” the Grand Master corrected and at her worried look, shrugged. “In our own quarters, we are husband and wife. I’ll refrain from calling you Wench if you’ll cease belaboring me with my title.” Jameela smiled despite her misery. She was glad her husband would not call her Wench for it would remind her too keenly of her lover.

“There is a matter to which we must attend,” Hagan said as his assistant rolled him toward the high bed. “A matter best seen to now before the Conclave has reason to question it.” “What matter is that, milord?” she asked, not quite confident enough to call him by his given name. “The consummation of our Joining,” he said. His assistant lifted him from the wheeled chair and sat him upon the bed, kneeling to pull off his master’s soft slippers. “At least mine and your part of it since I am sure Dagan took care of his end of the arrangement.” Jameela blushed hotly and lowered her head, her long hair falling forward to shield her face. “Must we do that now?” she asked softly and did not see the stern look that passed over her husband’s handsome face. The Grand Master bid his assistant to lift his legs onto the bed and help him to sit comfortably upon the mattress. That done, he waved the man away, ordering him to stand outside the door until called for. When the door to the chamber closed with barely an audible click, Jameela’s husband turned his head to look at her. “One thing I ask is that you never question my commands or suggestions before the servants, milady,” he said firmly. “In private, you can call me anything you like and question every remark I make, but never within the hearing of anyone other than Dagan or myself.” Jameela winced, closing her eyes but did not look up. “I am sorry, milord. I apologize, I did not…” “No need to apologize,” he said. “Just take my statement to heart. As to the consummation, the Brothers must see the deed done in order for our Joining to be legitimate.” She lifted her head. “The Brothers have seen you take me on several occasions and…” “But not as man and wife,” he interrupted. “As mate and mate. As rightful Master and she who will bear his children.” He spread his hands. “No males other than myself and Dagan will ever be allowed to spend time alone with you so there will never be a question of who the father of the child will be.” Jameela nodded. “I understand.” Hagan Kiel reached out to her and smiled when she took his hand. “It is only necessary for one of them to see the deed done. The Lord Abbot will watch then report to his fellow Tribunal members and that will be that. I will not overstay my welcome, Wench,” he assured her. “I like you but I am not in love with you as my brother is.” He cocked his head to one side. “Give the Conclave an heir and we’ll be content. Sex is a pleasant diversion but my passion in life is chess. I win every match I play.” She raised an eyebrow. “And with whom do you play, milord?” “Hagan,” he corrected with a waggle of a finger. Jameela swallowed then repeated her question using his given name though the effort put a strain on her lovely face. “Dagan, most of the time,” he answered. “Sometimes with that idjut chancellor of mine but he is terrible and no opponent at all.”

“You win every match with Lord Dagan?” she questioned. The Grand Master brought her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Looking up at her through his lashes, he chuckled. “I know his reputation among the soldiers but as long as I win, I’ll let him keep his arrogant head.” “But should you lose?” Her new husband shrugged. “Won’t happen, Wench. Dagan is smarter than he looks.” “Even though he looks exactly like you?” she countered. The Grand Master threw his head back and laughed loudly. His eyes were brimming with tears when he at last composed himself. “Touché, little one,” he granted. “You’ll keep us both on our toes.” He winked at her. “Even if I can’t stand on mine.” There was great humor in this man’s eyes and a camaraderie she certainly had not expected. In her heart she knew if she treated him well, respected him as she was required to do, and kept to their bargain, her life within the walled compound of the Conclave would not be as bad as she had imagined it would be. “Shall I bid your assistant fetch the Lord Abbott, then?” she asked quietly. “Aye,” he replied. “I have instructed Lord Amanra to wait five minutes or so before he joins us. Perhaps you could arouse me so the deed can be done quickly once he arrives.” Heat flamed across Jameela’s cheeks and she avoided his eyes as she got off the bed. She reached for the dressing gown lying across the foot of her bed and flung it around her, belting it securely then walked to the door. She frowned, and then looked back at her husband. “Your assistant, his name is..?” “Manu,” the Grand Master supplied. Opening the door, Jameela glanced shyly at the assistant. “Manu, would you fetch the Lord Abbot for us?” The assistant inclined his head. “As you wish Your Grace,” he replied and bowed to her before backing away from her presence. Closing the door, Jameela walked slowly back to the bed. Her head swam with the numerous instructions Dagan had given her over the last few weeks. Coming to stand beside her husband, she asked if she might straddle him. Hagan Kiel grinned. “If you are asking if you will hurt me,” he replied. “These limbs are dead wood.” He doubled his fist and slammed it down on his left thigh. “I feel nothing from here on down.” With ladylike grace, Jameela unbelted her gown and let the silk slide from her body. She saw mild interest in her husband’s eyes but not the ravaging passion that jumped out at her from his brother’s. With trembling hands, she leaned forward and unbelted his robe and pushed it aside to reveal her husband’s nakedness. Very carefully, she lifted her leg and climbed atop the Grand Master, her rump upon his thighs. Reaching for his flaccid member, she cradled it between her palms.

“Nowthere ,” her husband said, “is where all the feeling my legs should have has gone to.” To underscore his statement, his manhood began to stiffen. Jameela smiled at his remark and began rolling the hardening member between her palms, alternating the movement as her hands moved up his penis, sliding gently down then began the process again. The Grand Master sighed and closed his eyes. “Your touch is like the kiss of a butterfly’s wings, milady,” he said. Cupping his ripening member in her left hand, she used her right hand to stroke him, spreading the seepage from its tip to soothe the length. Her fingertips traveled from the underside of the head to the wiry curls at his pelvis, stroking downward with firm, delicious pressure. “Dagan is a hell of an instructor,” his brother mumbled, reaching up to grab the headboard above him. Without a word, Jameela lifted one leg, then the other and positioned herself between her husband’s legs, but before she could lean forward to take him into her mouth, the Grand Master quickly reached for her, gripping her arms. “Nay, milady!” he said, his breath coming in quick pants. “I am about to burst!” The door opened quietly and from the corner of her eye, Jameela could see the man who had Joined them. She did not look at him but straddled her husband’s hips and reached down to position his throbbing love weapon at the entrance to her velvet sheath. “Jameela, please!” Hagan pleaded. She sank down upon his rock-hard penis and even before she could move, felt his seed coursing into her. His hands were still on her upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh as the last of his spasms subsided. She stared into his eyes, watching him drawing in gasps of breath. She vaguely heard the door close behind the Lord Abbot’s departure. “By the gods,” the Grand Master panted. “I have never felt such pleasure.” Remembering her training, Jameela stretched out atop her husband—his manhood limp but still inside her—and laid her head upon his shoulder. “Are you sleepy, milord?” she asked. “Hell, no,” he said, surprise rife in his voice. “How can that be? I have always fallen asleep after all our other times together.” “Then perhaps you would like me to pleasure you again?” she asked. Wrapping his arms securely around his wife, the Grand Master grunted. “Aye, milady. I am willing and eager if you are!” As she stroked her husband’s chest, a part of Jameela felt great shame at what she had proposed to him; but the peasant part of her—the part that ever watched out for her own well-being—knew that by getting herself with the Grand Master’s child, she would be free from his embraces for awhile. Though she knew he had meant what he said about not overly abusing his place as her husband, it was not his arms she wished to have wrapped about her.

“Milady?” the Grand Master asked. “Aye, milord?” she mumbled. There was a moment of silence then she craned her head to look up at him. “Milord?” Hagan Kiel swallowed hard then locked his eyes on her. “Can you teach me what Dagan does to pleasure you?” he asked. At her widening eyes, he cocked one shoulder. “I would make our time together as good for you as you make it for me. I am not a selfish man.” Bright crimson spread over Jameela’s face and as she began to stammer, her husband held up a hand. “Never mind, Sweeting,” he said. “I’ll have Dagan instruct me when he comes home.” He reached up to pull her head to his chest once more. Chapter Ten

The breeze was strong as it wafted the cape around Lord Dagan’s legs. He stood atop a hill with his men ranged behind him and squinted into the brisk Highland’s wind. “Gaoth, Prince Sekhem’s keep, is just over that rise, Lord Dagan,” Lieutenant Ushabti informed him. “It is heavily guarded and has never been under siege. I doubt he will be expecting us.” Dagan grunted. “He thinks we will ignore this raid as we have ignored the others.” “He picked the wrong man to steal from this time,” Lord Fadil said nastily. “I’ll have his head on my pike ere the sun sets!” “It will take us longer than that, Fadil,” Dagan warned. “Gaoth Keep is nearly impregnable as Ushabti says.” Lord Fadil threw out a negligent hand. “The word is nearly,” he said with a snort. “No keep is entirely invulnerable.” Hunkering down, Dagan released a long sigh. Fadil was not one of his favorite Brothers and he knew if he was truthful to himself, one of those he neither respected nor trusted. “Have you wondered what the Ordonese do with the herds if they do not eat the meat?” he queried. When Fadil remained silent, he looked up at the man. “That killing field was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” It had been just a few miles back, when they had crossed the Aquert River that Dagan and his men had come upon a sight that had turned their blood to ice. Fadil’s entire herd lay on its sides, the throats cut, and every drop of blood drained from the carcasses. The stench had been horrendous but the implication was even more disturbing. Lord Fadil frowned. “I was too upset to wonder at Sekhem’s foolishness. Perhaps it was his way of taunting us.” “With all due respect, Lord Fadil,” Lieutenant Ushabti put in. “I don’t think they believed we would follow.”

“Nor do I,” Dagan agreed. “And there was more than just those freshly killed beastees scattered across that barren plain. There were others in all degrees of deterioration. Bones were intermingled with pelts of later killed animals. None looked as though the first slice of meat had been taken.” A gagging sound made Dagan turn and look behind him. One of his soldiers was spewing his breakfast and a look at many of the others revealed not only upset stomachs but also grave unease. “Do you think the old tales could be true, Lord Dagan?” Ushabti asked. “Certainly not!” Lord Fadil snapped but there was disquiet on his beefy features. His gaze shifted back and forth as though he expected demons to jump out at him at any moment. The Master Trainer got to his feet and sighed heavily once more. The wind was turning colder, making his eyes water as he stared off into the distance. “I thought the old tales were nothing more than yarns to keep us on our side of the border, but that field of death concerns me.” “Even more reason to take Sekhem’s keep and put every man, woman and child there to the sword!” Lord Fadil stated. “The only good Ordonese is a dead one in my book!” “The Conclave does not make war on women and children,” Dagan growled, his eyes narrowed toward the man he was beginning actively to hate. “My sword makes no such distinction when it comes to demons,” Fadil sneered. “If demons they are,” Dagan replied. “We’ll know soon enough, now, won’t we?” Fadil queried, his stubby nose lifted in challenge. “Aye,” Dagan mumbled as he headed for his mount. “That we will.” ***** Prince Sekhem drained his golden goblet and leaned back in his chair, his belly sated, his thirst slaked for the moment. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and belched. “Nothing like good Conclave beef to fill a warrior’s belly, eh?” he asked. The warriors sitting at the table with him laughed and banged their goblets with approval upon the thick mahogany wood. Here and there a slave rushed to refill the goblets of their masters. “Think you it would be a better treat to have a few of the Brothers here to slack our hunger?” Lady Neith, the only female present save the slaves, inquired with an arched brow. She brought her filled goblet to her lips and smiled evilly before she took a long drink. “Have you one of them in particular you would like to have join us?” Sekhem inquired. Lady Neith licked her lips upon finishing her drink and motioned a slave to fill her goblet. “I was thinking of Dagan Kiel,” she replied. “Ah, yes,” Sekhem said, nodding. “I’ve seen drawings of him our spies have made.” He grinned. “I can see why you would like a taste of that one.”

“And you would not?” Lady Neith countered. Sekhem chuckled. “I believe I could feast quite nicely upon such a glorious male.” “What if I had other things in mind for him?” Lady Neith asked, turning her head to look through the windows at the moon beginning its ascent in the heavens. Those at the long table grew quiet. Even the slurping of their goblets ceased as the men turned their attention to the female warrior. They knew the woman well and her sorceress abilities often filled them with a dread they neither understood nor with which they felt comfortable. No other woman had ever sat at the table of the Prince and this one had won that spot through a brutal fight that had stunned each of them to the core of his being. Sekhem steepled his long fingers, placing the sharp nails across his think lips. “Such as what, my sweet lady?” Lady Neith rocked the base of her goblet against the table. Not looking at any of the men but directing her attention to the liquid in the golden vessel, she reminded them she was of childbearing age. A gasp shifted through those assembled but not a single word was spoken, not even from their Prince. As quiet settled once more upon the room, Lady Neith lifted her gaze to Sekhem. “I journeyed to Sahar Colony awhile back…” she began but Sekhem interrupted her. “You did not dare!” he shouted. A slow, venomous smile plied Neith’s lips. “I have no fear of the colonists nor the Brothers of the Conclave,” she informed him. “I have traveled to much of that area and have seen Dagan Kiel in the glorious flesh.” She circled the rim of her goblet with one elegant, vermeil-painted fingernail. “And have stood as close to him as I am to you, Khnum.” Lord Khnum, the oldest of the warriors present, sat two men down from the lady warrior. He stared at her as though she had grown an additional head. “Foolhardy,” he pronounced. “That was a very foolhardy reconnaissance, Lady.” “No more foolhardy than it was for you to experiment with me,” she reminded him and at his wince, laughed. “Oh, what a triumph that was for you, eh, milord Khnum?” “A grave mistake,” Khnum muttered, unable to meet the glares of his fellow warriors. “Mistake or not, I am grateful you chose me over the others,” she acknowledged with a bow of her lovely head. “What was your purpose in going to Sahar?” Sekhem demanded. “Were you spying or was there something in particular you sought?” Neith shrugged. “I was looking for a slave girl with whom to wile away the tedious hours between raids,” she answered. Sekhem frowned. “I have seen no colonist here,” he accused.

“Unfortunately I did not win the bid on the one I sought,” Neith explained. “But Dagan Kiel did.” “Ah,” Sekhem drawled. “So you would like to punish him for outbidding you.” Vengeance was something of which the Prince both agreed and approved. “In a manner of speaking,” Neith said. “But again I remind you, I am of childbearing age.” It was Lord Khnum who beat his fist upon the table. “You can not make a female warrior!” he snarled. “Only I can do that, if such is your intention, Wench!” “And that is something you will never be allowed to do again,” Sekhem warned as all eyes fell angrily on Khnum. “I agree,” Neith said, bringing the stares of the men to her. “Gaoth Keep needs no other female save me.” She lifted her chin. “I want Dagan Kiel’s get. I want a son of his flesh.” Shocked murmurs spread along the table. Heads were put together and whispers hissed among the men. “For what purpose?” Sekhem queried, his eyes narrowed to thin slits as his sharp fingernails pressed indentions into his chin. “Because it would amuse me,” Neith replied although her own eyes were hard with what each man knew was a hidden purpose. Sekhem stared at her for a long moment then waved a dismissive hand. “Then go to Lalssu Keep and lie in wait for him. Bring him back here and we will partake of him when you are finished.” Neith’s lovely features tightened. “Let me make something clear to the lot of you,” she said, coming slowly to her feet. The only sound in the room came from the scraping of her chair upon the marble floor as her fevered gaze shifted from one warrior to the next until it landed with force on Prince Sekhem’s pale face. “Dagan Kiel will be mine and mine alone,” she told the men, her words directed to her Prince. “No other will be allowed to lay hands to him.” A challenge was being issued and Sekhem’s jaw clenched, a muscle working in his lean jaw. He glared at Neith, his hands now curled into claws on the arms of his chair. “I have claimed this warrior as my consort and as such, he will be entirely mine to use or abuse or set free as I see fit,” Neith continued. Lord Khnum laughed, drawing Neith’s withering stare. He cocked a brow at her. “Know you he was turned into a steer lo these many years ago, Wench?” he asked. Neith narrowed her eyes. “Know you I have powers of which not even you are aware?” Khnum lifted his other brow. “You think you can put starch in cloth that is wrinkled and limp?” he taunted. In answer to the old warrior’s question, Neith turned her attention to the napkin lying beside Khnum’s goblet. In the flicker of an eye, the linen shifted upon the table, twisting until it was a tightly rolled tube

that lifted straight up from the wooden surface. “Ah…” those assembled breathed, their beady gazes beholding the rigid cloth. Khnum frowned then shrugged. “You might put starch in the cloth, Wench, but you can not bring seed from pods no longer there.” The napkin dropped back to the table and the men laughed nervously, though none dared look into Neith’s angry eyes. “Perhaps not, Old One,” Neith said through clenched teeth. “But you can put the parasite in him then once it reaches maturity, put one of its nestlings inside my womb. The restorative powers of the parasite are marvelous. Don’t you agree?” Shock spread over the men. Even Khnum stared at her with stunned realization of what she intended. The older warrior turned his beseeching eyes to his Prince. “Please tell me you do not sanction such insanity!” Khnum pleaded. It was apparent to every warrior there that the wheels of thought were turning inside Prince Sekhem’s head. His attention was riveted to Lady Neith, his long fingers tapping a rhythm against his chair arms. “What do you hope to gain from this, woman?” the Prince finally asked. “A son,” Neith replied. Sekhem said nothing for a long moment then, “And that is all?” “I want a son to champion me when my years advance; a male to whom I can grant the abilities given to me.” “And overthrow your rule, Sekhem!” Lord Khnum shouted. “Be warned, Your Grace. This Wench intends to replace you!” “Let her try,” Sekhem sneered, his gaze locked on Neith. “I welcome the challenge.” Neith bowed her head. “A challenge I have no doubt I would lose,” she said demurely. Her lovely features were schooled into a look of humility. “I would never challenge you for the leadership of our people, Your Grace. Such a thought has never entered my mind.” “Liar!” Khnum accused. He stood up so quickly, his chair crashed to the floor. He lifted a bony finger and pointed it at Neith. “She means to see us all withered to dust! She seeks to seize the throne for herself!” Clucking her tongue as though at an unruly child, Neith clasped her hands at her waist. “When have I done anything but be of help to the warriors of Gaoth since my rebirth?” she asked. She looked at each of the men in turn. “Have I once asked anything of any of you that I was not willing to do myself?” At their shaking heads, she asked if they had ever heard rumors of her daring to usurp Prince Sekhem’s rightful place. Again, the men shook their heads in denial. “Should you ever try,” Sekhem said, once more steepling his fingers under his chin, “it will be the last

thing you do before your head is separated from your body or else you find your flesh roasting upon a slowly turning spit in yon fire pit.” Shivering at the image such a torment would bring Neith bowed her head. “I will take your warning to heart, Your Grace.” Strained silence met the female warrior’s words. The men stared at her, waiting for their Prince’s decision. When it came, their eyes shifted to him. “Go,” Sekhem granted. “Take your handsome warrior and bring him here. I am anxious to see you put starch in his cloth ere he be introduced to the parasite.” Nervous chuckles accentuated the regal command. Lord Khnum shook his head of wiry white hair furiously. “I do not sanction you allowing an outsider to become one of us.” Prince Sekhem stared at the elderly man. “Well, I sanction it for then we would have a Brother of the Conclave as hostage. Their Grand Master would dare not attack us for fear we would slit the man’s throat and drain him dry.” Neith relaxed. Surreptitiously, she ran her sweating palms down the skirt of the gown she wore only to appease the males. She itched to pull on the men’s britches that were her normal attire, saddle her stallion, ride out to intercept Dagan Kiel and bring him back to her lair. “Go capture your handsome warrior, Neith.” Sekhem waved his hand, dismissing her, then lifted his goblet to a nearby slave who jumped to refill the Prince’s vessel. Neith bowed to her Prince and inclined her head to the others before exiting the room. Her back to the men, no one but a shivering slave saw the malicious grin that stretched the warrioress’ scarlet lips. “This is a mistake, Your Grace,” Lord Khnum warned. “She is planning a coup. I’ve no doubt of that.” “Nor do I,” Sekhem agreed as those assembled turned surprised attention his way. He took a sip of the thick liquid inside his goblet then tilted the amber vessel until he had drained the last drop. He then hurled the goblet across the room, the heavy gold striking a hapless slave who fell unconscious to the floor. Growls spread around the table as salivating tongues thrust out to lick eager lips. “Feast, my friends,” Sekhem said as he lifted his napkin and wiped at his red-stained lips. “Enjoy.” The men shot to their feet and fell upon the unconscious slave. The slurping sounds that followed caused the other slaves to stand where they were, shuddering as with the ague. Sekhem reclined in his chair, and watched his warriors draining the slave and smiled. Soon, he would have a royal slave of his own to exhaust. As soon as Neith—her days already numbered—brought Dagan Kiel to Gaoth Keep. Chapter Eleven

Dagan took the proffered bread and cheese from Ushabti, his trusted Lieutenant, and ate, chewing thoughtfully as Ushabti poured wine for Dagan to drink. The tent kept out the cold wind howling outside and the brazier before which he sat warmed his bare toes. “We’ve all heard the tales,” Ushabti said. “I never believed them until today.” “Neither did I,” Dagan said, thanking Ushabti for the wine. He took a sip of the warm brew then set it aside. “The thought makes me ill.” “I had to down a flagon of beef’s blood upon my initiation into the warrior society,” Ushabti said as he took a seat across from Dagan. “As it was explained to me, it was to put iron in my sword.” “I was made to drink that shit, too,” Dagan acknowledged. “It put no iron in my sword.” Such was the relationship between the two men that Ushabti could laugh at the statement. “Don’t you wish it could have?” he teased. Dagan clucked his tongue. “Not until I met Jameela,” he answered. Ushabti’s brow furrowed. “You have never missed not being able to pleasure a woman?” he inquired. “Aye, well there’s pleasuring and then there’s pleasuring,” Dagan remarked. “Apparently that beef’s blood I was forced to down put iron in my tongue.” He wagged his brows then joined Ushabti in laughter. “I have always envied you being the Master Trainer,” Ushabti said then shrugged. “Up to a point, that is.” “Well, my point doesn’t get up,” Dagan chuckled. “So there’s no reason for you to have envied me, my friend.” A warning call from one of the sentries brought both men immediately to their feet, hands going to the swords lying on Dagan’s cot. Bootless, they rushed out into the gathering dusk, looking in the direction from which the call had come. “Riders,” the sentry who had sounded the alarm said as he ran up to Dagan. “At least three score.” “We have four times that many,” Lord Fadil scoffed. “We will ground them into the dirt!” The sentry ignored the noble and kept his eyes riveted on Lord Dagan. “They know we are here, milord. I would stake my life on it.” “And you very well may do just that,” Ushabti mumbled. “They appeared out of nowhere, milord, as the sun set,” the sentry said with a shudder. “And they are not armed.” At Dagan’s blink, the man shook his head. “Not a weapon amongst any of them.” “Well, see?” Fadil chuckled. “They not only don’t know we’re here, they are probably out for a leisurely ride to…”

“To what?” Dagan demanded. “Drain another herd of cattle?” He clenched his teeth and spoke through the constriction. “If the tales are true of these warriors, they need no weapon to engage an enemy. They have the strength of ten men in their hands and the smell of our blood in their nostrils!” Lord Fadil’s face paled but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge what might be headed their way. “I will put my trust in this,” he said, holding aloft the sword he held. “It has never let me down.” Dagan snorted and turned his back. He looked at his men. “Aim for the neck, men. Lop the head from their shoulders. Merely running them through might not kill them.” “Oh, for the love of…” Fadil scoffed but was cut off in mid-complaint as Dagan grabbed him by the shirtfront and brought him forward. “I don’t care what you do, Fadil, but if you fall victim to them, I will personally behead you. Is that clear?” Tearing himself free, Fadil would have responded had not the sound of hooves come echoing toward them. As it was, as those around him joined in the battle with the Ordonese warriors bearing down on them, the cowardly lord took flight, hiding behind one of the tents. He never saw the Ordonese warrior until he felt the agonizing dual stings that pierced his neck and got a glimpse of the shaggy hair brushing his cheek as his life force was drained. The battle had been one-sided from the onset. The riders who leapt from their brutish stallions were taller and heavier than the warriors of the Conclave. Swords were easily knocked aside or snatched out of the hands of the weaker soldiers. So quickly did the riders move, they were but a blur, a rippling shadow that flowed behind Dagan’s warriors and fell upon them with ravaging viciousness. Necks were ripped open by long, sharp fangs that buried themselves well past a warrior’s flesh and sank into pulsing veins. As his men fell beneath the onslaught of the bloodthirsty riders, Dagan knew the outcome would not be in his favor. His main objective was not to defend himself—for it seemed the riders were ignoring him—but to lop off the heads of his own men when the riders had drained them else they become one of the Undead. Lady Neith sat astride her prancing stallion, easily keeping the brute in check. Her eyes never strayed from Dagan Kiel as he struck out with his sword, taking the heads of her men as well as those of his own. He was covered in blood and the smell was like an aphrodisiac whispering to her. Her nostrils quivered, her womb contracted in anticipation of being the first female to know the staff of the handsome warrior. She was mesmerized by his warring abilities, admiring of his own savagery as he fought. His brawny body and striking good looks brought moisture between her thighs. The distant, faint emotion of the human she had once been squeezed at her black heart when Lord Dagan’s lieutenant and friend was set upon by her own second in charge. She watched as Dagan’s eyes flooded with tears and he leapt to lop off the head of his beloved friend even as he roared in grief, the backswing of his arm removing the head of Neith’s lieutenant. There were five of Neith’s warriors left. They slowly circled Lord Dagan, jumping easily out of his reach as he thrust his bloody sword at them. So quickly did they move, he often found himself staring at empty space where a blink of an eye earlier a warrior had stood. He was panting with the exertion of the fight, weakened by both the wielding of his weighty sword as well as the sorrow that was quickly settling upon his broad shoulders. “Watch him,” Neith sent into the minds of her warriors. “He knows he has lost and he will attempt to take his own life. Do not allow him the chance!”

As though he had heard her ethereal words, Dagan took his sword in both hands, holding it at shoulder height, and began to pitch forward, his intention to fall to the ground, his throat upon the blade’s edge. “No!” Neith screamed. The movement of her warriors was a blur even to her keen sight as they propelled themselves toward Lord Dagan. One snatched the sword from the warrior’s hands, nearly slicing through Dagan’s palm, and another thrust a meaty shoulder under the falling man and swept him up as two others grabbed the surprised warrior’s arms. Neith breathed a sigh of relief as she dismounted, keeping her attention latched on Dagan Kiel. After a brief moment of stunned amazement, he yelled in frustration and began struggling with those who held him. “They have the strength of ten men in their hands,”Dagan heard his own words to his men and was like a madman in his attempt to break free. In a distant part of his brain, he knew the fight was lost, the outcome settled but he fought on, his teeth bared. It was not until the woman came into his line of vision that he ceased to struggle. Once her mesmerizing gaze met his, he knew he was lost. “Good eve, Lord Dagan,” she said in a sultry voice. Her crimson eyes were glowing, her ruby lips moist as she ran a forked tongue over the lushness. Dagan shuddered, his knees weakening at the sight. He hung his head, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop what was coming. “Lay him down,” Neith ordered her men. “Don’t let his compliance fool you.” The riders lowered their unresisting captive to the ground and bent over him, one on each wrist, one on each ankle and the fifth squatting over him to anchor his head. With glazed eyes that still bore the telltale hint of tears, Dagan stared straight up at the high-riding moon, lost already in his own mind. Neith knelt down beside him, studying the handsome face that was splattered with blood and wet with sweat. She put a hand on his chest and reveled in the feel of his racing heart. “I will make you One with me,” she whispered and as she lowered her face toward his as though she would kiss him, the warrior above him turned Dagan’s head to one side. The sting of her fangs piercing his jugular vein and her lips drawing his life’s blood into her mouth closed Dagan’s eyes. His last conscious thought was of Jameela, the woman he loved. Chapter Twelve

Jameela sat bolt upright and screamed. Staring wide-eyed into the darkness of the room, she did not feel her husband reaching out to her nor did she hear his calming words. “’Twas but a dream, Sweeting,” Hagan said as he clumsily pushed himself up in the bed. His useless legs seemed more of a hindrance than they had ever been to him before and he cursed his lameness.

“I’ve lost him!” Jameela cried, burying her face in her hands. A shaft of fear traveled through Hagan Kiel. “It was a dream,” he said again. “Dagan is fine. I would know if it was otherwise.” But there was an emptiness inside him that was not there when he had fallen asleep with his new bride at his side. A feeling of hopelessness and terrible loss was edging up his throat and he shouted for his assistant who was just outside the chamber door. Manu was already on his feet at the scream of his master’s lady, his hand poised over the door latch. At the calling of his name, he rushed into the room, dagger in hand. “Send men after my brother,” the Grand Master ordered. “I would alleviate my lady’s concerns.” Bowing quickly, Manu left the room, shouting for others to join him. Jameela was keening lowly, rocking back and forth, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She ignored her husband’s questing hand and barely responded as he pulled her down beside him, anchoring her cheek to his shoulder. “I would feel it if he were in danger, milady,” he said though his voice was not as steady as he would have liked. “I saw it,” Jameela whispered, her unblinking eyes staring into the shadows. “She was draining the blood from him.” Hagan knew the legend of the Ordonese but like most everyone else discounted it as a boogeyman story passed down from grandfather to grandson to generate a healthy dislike of their border mates. At hearing Jameela’s words, he relaxed as much as his own unease would allow. “Her?” he said. “Ah, Sweeting, that confirms for me it was but a dream. There are no female blood-drinkers among those heathens.” “There is but one and she has our beloved in her vile clutches,” Jameela said. Hagan tried to smile but his face felt as frozen as his useless legs. He stroked his wife’s hair and crooned to her, trying to erase the nightmare that had set her heart to thundering and her tears to falling down his naked shoulder. Long into the sleepless night, both lay with eyes open; dread making them feel hollow inside. As dawn’s light crept through the slit in the silken drapes, the feeble rays fell on bloodshot eyes and pale, uneasy faces. When his assistant tapped lightly at the door, the Grand Master mumbled an order to enter. Manu advanced only a short way into the room. His face was tight with concern for he had bad news to convey. “My men?” Hagan asked quietly. “I have tragic news to convey, Your Grace. We found none alive,” Manu reported. “Of Lord Dagan, there was no sign.”

“She took him with her,” Jameela said and swung her legs from the bed. Like an old woman, she retrieved her dressing gown, unaware and uncaring of her nakedness before her husband’s servant. Looking at his master for explanation, Manu was alarmed to see the grief lurking in the Grand Master’s amber eyes. “She fears for my brother’s immortal soul,” the Grand Master said and motioned Manu to lift him from the bed. Hurrying to push the rolling chair forward, Manu quickly slid his strong arms under his master’s body and placed him in the chair. He covered the Grand Master’s nakedness with a blanket for it was Hagan Kiel’s habit to take a long, leisurely soak each morning so clothing would not be needed until after the bath. Today, however, was not to be as every day had been. “Fetch my ceremonial robes and bring them to me immediately,” the Grand Master ordered. “Have Lord Qasim convene the Tribunal and tell him to make sure every Brother is there. Have Lord Alonso send word to our allies. We will need every warrior we can muster.” “You mean to invade Ordo, Your Grace?” Manu questioned and winced as the realization of his effrontery hit him like a rock. “I mean to get my brother back,” the Grand Master snarled. “There will be no bringing him back from where he now dwells,” Jameela said from the far end of the room. She was standing at the window. “But I would have him here even though he is no longer amid the living.” “Don’t say that!” the Grand Master shouted. Jameela shrugged but made no comment. Her eyes were on the bright sunlight that was as much an enemy of the Ordonese as was the blade. She, too, had heard rumors of the evil practiced there but had considered them nothing more than fanciful tales. Her heart told her the tales had become reality. “Tell Lord Alonso to assemble the warriors in the thousands; in the tens of thousands! We will need each and every one to combat this evil.” Manu bowed in compliance and hurried from the room. “You will need to have a special place built for him,” Jameela said, running her fingers along the bars that covered the windows. “A room in the heart of the keep where no sunlight can corrupt him.” “They only come out at night,” the Grand Master muttered to himself. “They have power only then.” Jameela nodded absently. “So the legends say but are you willing to accept that as fact, milord?” Hagan Kiel frowned. “Why would it not be true?” “Because they fight only at night does not mean they are incapable of walking in the light. Perhaps their power is greater at the rising of the moon but then again, perhaps that is a lie they tell to lull the unsuspecting.”

The Grand Master wheeled himself over to where she stood. “I remember hearing they can change shapes,” he said. “Do you think that could be true?” Jameela put a hand to an ache throbbing at her right temple. “Anything could be true, milord. Once, when I was a child, I heard my father telling my brothers a wolf had been gutted outside Yrand. He said that when the farmer who gutted the wolf went to throw the carcass on the fire, the wolf changed into a man. The man jumped up and ran away.” The Grand Master lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Do you believe there is truth to the rumor that their victims will have such inhuman powers when they are reborn? And how are they reborn? What evil magic brings them back to life? What vile ceremony is performed?” He ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I would not like to think Dagan could…that he would…” “Have a special place built for him,” Jameela said again. “I will take to that special place with him.” Hagan Kiel stared up at her. “You would become one of the undead to be with my brother?” “To be with the man I love more than my own life? Aye, I would,” she answered and turned away. She went into the bathing chamber and closed the door behind her. Chapter Thirteen

Dagan was adrift on a blistering hot wind that skirled loudly in his ears. The stench of death filled his nostrils. Restlessly, his limbs moved of their own accord, his body a mass of itching from scalp to sole of foot. His throat was parched, his head throbbing with a violent pain that caused streaks of lightning to pulse behind his closed eyelids. “Here,” Neith snapped to a waiting slave. “Bring more iced water and clean sheets.” She handed a bowl and cloth to the slave. “And prepare a goblet from the vessel I filled this morn. He will awake soon. His thirst will be great.” Scurrying to do his mistress’ bidding, the slave cast a fearful glance to the man bound ankle and wrist to the iron bed upon which he lay and shuddered. “He can not harm you, Adamnan,” Neith said with a snort. “At least not for awhile yet.” “Jameela!” Dagan cried out in his semiconscious state. He tugged on his bonds, his head whipping from side to side. Neith frowned sharply as she took a seat on the damp sheets becoming soaked with the warrior’s sweat. She narrowed her eyes, anger filling her cold heart. “Soon, it will be my name you call, Dagan Kiel,” she promised. Adamnan rushed in, a chilled bowl of water in one hand and a tall golden goblet in the other. He bowed deeply and with his head lowered, offered what he carried to his mistress. “Put the goblet on the table and leave us,” Neith commanded. She took the bowl, set in on the bed and took out the soft fleece cloth floating in the cold water. Wringing out the cloth, she bent forward to wipe the sweat from Dagan’s brow.

A groan of pleasure rattled from the warrior’s throat and he licked his lips. “Soon, my beloved,” Neith promised, patting the parched lips of her captive. “Soon.” She bathed his face and shoulders, ran the cloth over his chest and sides, re-wetting it in the water after each pass for Dagan Kiel was hot to the touch and his flesh an infused shade of red. Dagan’s eyes fluttered open and he stared above him but Neith knew he was unaware of his surroundings, incapable of understanding anything other than the vast pain slowly building within him and the irritating rash that made him writhe. “When you are stronger,” she said softly, dragging the cool cloth down his lower abdomen and over his naked thighs. “Khnum will insert the parasite into your back. The procedure is unlike any pain you will ever experience and to do so when you are weak as you are now, would not be good.” Her gaze slid to the flesh between his thighs and she reached out to touch him, to hold the lifeless weight of his manhood in the palm of her hand. Using all her concentration, she made the staff stiffen and rise. Her eyebrows lifted as the warrior’s fleshy weapon thickened to a length and breadth that pleased her immensely. Unable to resist the temptation, Neith flung the cloth away and stood. Her hands went to the soft shift covering her body and rent the fabric down the middle, laying bare her curvaceous body. Sweeping aside the bowl of water, she climbed on the bed and straddled the warrior’s hips. “Lie still!” she ordered and Dagan Kiel ceased to thrash about though he continued to moan. Arching her hips over the upraised member, Neith impaled herself upon the rigid length; her head thrown back, her eyes closed as the warrior’s weapon completely filled her sheath. A groan of satisfaction pushed from her throat as she felt the thick flesh pressing against the entrance to her womb. The pleasure-pain brought a spasm of delight and she leaned forward, her hands placed on Dagan’s cheeks. Lost in an abyss of misery, Dagan did not feel the sorceress’ lips upon his mouth. He was not aware of her invading tongue dueling with his own. He had no way of knowing he was being ridden like a stallion, his flesh used. In that dark, brutal place that held him captive in its fiery claws, he was roasting like a pig in a pit. His face felt as though it were pressed close to a raging inferno and his body was a torment of prickling agony. Neith was lost in a dark place of her own as she rocked her body upon his staff. The fire was building inside her, the lust spiraling higher than it ever had before. Such pleasure was invading her womanhood that she felt tears cascading down her cheeks. Her rhythmic motion became more frenzied, the grip of her vaginal muscles pulsing against the firm, unbending flesh impaling her. She ground against the warrior, twisting her body this way and that in an effort to relieve her own brand of itching. Her long hair whipped about her naked shoulders. Sweat ran between the upthrust peaks of her heavy breasts and formed a light film on her upper lip. She was lost in the moment, completely in thrall to the manly sword that had cleaved her nether lips. “Dagan!” she shouted as the first wave of ripples seized her. She jammed her body down upon his staff and held herself there, her thighs pressed against his, feeling the pleasurable pain as it intensified the contractions that gripped, relaxed, gripped harder, relaxed, then gripped one final time with such force she threw back her head and screamed with the enjoyment of it.

Dagan grunted, as something slammed against his body, unaware it was the limp body of a beautiful woman who had gone where no female had before. So immersed in agony, feeling nothing but the pain and torment that riddled his fever-encased body, the weight pressing on him only added to his misery. Neith laid atop her captive, warmed by his hot body, her nostrils quivering with his manly sweat, her lower half still connected to his. “Relax, warrior,” she said though her command was only for that portion of Dagan Kiel’s body that was still as inflexible as an iron rod. She smiled and sighed contentedly when she felt his flesh soften and shrink within her. It would be another day, perhaps two, she thought as she nuzzled her cheek against his slick shoulder, before he would be well enough to take to Khnum’s operatory. First, he must gain back the strength she had drawn from him and the only way to do that was to feed him. She ran her fingers along the underside of his bound arm, reveling in the hard muscles that encased his arm. Sliding her hand beneath his limb, she plucked lightly at the wiry hairs on his forearm. Such an intimate thing soothed her and she cupped his arm and held it. Soon she was asleep, her body blanketing his, one raised knee pressed familiarly upon the juncture of his thighs. ***** Prince Sekhem paced the confines of his elegant chamber, grinding his teeth harder with each circuit. He was chaffing at the news that one of his spies had brought to him earlier and his fury had been vent upon both the spy as well as Sekhem’s surroundings. Such was the Ordeon warrior’s anger that half his chamber lay in ruins while the other half had been cast from its normal placement. Glass had been shattered, rich fabric torn to shreds, priceless paintings and artifacts many centuries old now ere nothing more than so much rubble upon which he mindlessly trod. The spy’s mutilated, drained body lay curled in the corner of the room, his broken neck twisted so savagely, the dead man—had he been able to see—would be looking upon his own back. Cowering in the far corner by the open door, Lord Sepat stood trembling. He did not take his eyes from his prince and stood ready to flee the royal chambers if the need arose. “Every warrior at his command!” Sekhem thundered and lashed out at the only remaining drapery panel hanging from a dangling, broken rod. His claws pierced the silken fabric and dragged down its length, the ripping sound loud as he demolished the material. The rod, hanging only by a single nail, came crashing to the carpet with a clank. “T…The Brothers outnumber us, Your Grace,” Lord Sepat dared to remind his prince. Rounding on his Minister of the Military, Sekhem stopped pacing long enough to glare at the rail-thin man. “Do you not think I know, Sepat?” the prince screamed. Lord Sepat lowered his head at the admonishment, but he kept his keen eyes riveted upon his prince. “My apologies, Your Grace. Of course, you know.” “They could never defeat us,” Sekhem snapped as he recommenced his agitated pacing. He thrust a hand through his thick hair. “But they could decimate our forces enough to cause us trouble.”

Wisely, Lord Sepat refrained from agreeing. He was tracking his prince as the man moved, gazing up at him through shaggy brows. “They want him back, they say,” Sekhem continued. “They will leave us alone if we but send him back.” He paused, his crimson eyes narrowed. “Unharmed, they say.” Once more he plowed a hand through his hair. “As if that were even possible!” Until now Lord Khnum had not spoken but he cleared his throat in way of asking for permission and when his prince turned his glower to the elderly man, Khnum’s voice was calm. “Lady Neith will not want to part with her toy,” he said. “The decision is not hers to make!” the prince shouted. “Nay, it is not, Your Grace,” Khnum agreed. “Then why mention it?” Khnum steeled himself against the thunderous yell that had caused a wrecked painting to fall from the wall. “Dagan Kiel has yet to fully recover his senses,” Khnum answered. “The last I heard, Neith had not given him Sustenance. Until she does, he will not begin the True Thirst that will make it necessary for me to introduce the parasite to his flesh.” Sekhem thrust out an explosive breath, spraying spittle as he did. His hands clenched into fists at his side. “Tell me something I do not already know, fool!” he demanded. “Without the Sustenance,” Khnum said calmly. “The warrior will die. She all but drained him dry upon the battlefield. She injected enough venom into his veins that he is in excruciating pain. Unless he is fed, he will die in agony and our race will know the full might of the Brothers of the Conclave.” At his prince’s roar, the elderly man held up a restraining hand. “Nay, they will not defeat us, but as you say, they will slay many of our warriors, forcing us to make more. That will take time and I fear we will be running for our lives as we do.” “So what is it you suggest?” Sekhem screamed at the top of his lungs. Lord Sepat slid down the wall, the fury of his prince causing him to cover his head with his arms. Khnum ignored the cowardly Minster of the Military and made a mental note to find a replacement for Sepat Fortu. “Turn the warrior over to me now. Let me introduce the parasite to his flesh this very eve. I will give him the Sustenance needed to complete his rebirth and it will be to me he will owe his allegiance and not the Lady Neith,” Khnum replied. “The warrior is mine!” Prince Sekhem turned his glower to the doorway where Neith stood, her anger flashing in piercing blue-gray eyes. He took a step toward her but when she did not slink back, did not lower her gaze to him; he stopped, impressed—if not happy—with her defiance. He narrowed his gaze. “You would go against my orders, Wench?” he snarled.

“I will defend what is mine,” Neith answered. “If I need to joust for the right, I am ready to do so.” One dark brow slanted into the tousled mess that was Sekhem’s hair. “You feel that strongly about this warrior?” he asked. Neith nodded and swung her attention to Khnum. “He,” she said, pointing a finger at the old man, “wants to make a warrior who could defeat you.” “Not so,” Khnum said quietly. “Our prince knows where my loyalty lies.” “No man can defeat me!” Sekhem scoffed though he glanced at Khnum, no doubt attempting to gauge the man’s reaction. “May I make a suggestion of my own, Your Grace?” Neith asked, coming slowly into the room. Sekhem waved a hand in permission. “Send word to the warriors poised on our border that we will bring Lord Dagan to them within the fortnight. Tell them he was gravely wounded in the fighting but we are nursing him back to health. Tell them we spared his life because we knew he was the brother of the Grand Master.” “They will not believe such a lie,” Khnum said with a snort. “Nay, they will not,” Sekhem agreed. “The tales our own warriors have spread will have damned us to the Conclave!” “And when they see the bodies of their countrymen lying sprawled on the killing field, they will know a portion of those tales are true.” “Aye,” Neith acknowledged. “They have long suspected us of being Blood Drinkers but they have no notion of the true beings we are.” Sekhem cocked his head to one side. “That is true.” “Give me a fortnight with Dagan Kiel. Let me bind him to me and then allow Khnum to introduce the parasite to his flesh. Within that fortnight, I will have what I seek and Dagan Kiel will be One of us.” She smiled. “Such is a winning situation for us.” “She plans to try her parlor trick upon Kiel’s useless staff and…” Khnum began but Neith’s laughter interrupted him. “You dare laugh at me, Wench?” he forgot himself and shouted. “I have already plied my suggestions on his useless staff as you named it and he rose to the occasion to give me great pleasure. Once the parasite…” “Enough!” Sekhem snapped. Neith bowed her head elegantly, clasping her hands at her waist as she knew submissive females should. “Do what you want with the warrior,” Sekhem grated. “I will send word he will be returned to the Brothers. You had better pray they listen and do not attack. If they do, Dagan Kiel will feel the steel of

my fangs ripping out his heart!” A muscle ground in Khnum’s withered jaw. He dug his fingernails into the flesh of his palm but remained silent. His hatred of the woman pulsed from his beady eyes as he watched her bow then leave the room. “I will have her heart in my hand when this is all done,” Sekhem swore. He turned to Khnum. “Get out and have your operatory ready. I want this over and done with long before the fortnight she asked for arrives!” When Khnum had excused himself, the prince flung himself down on his disheveled bed and stared up at the ceiling. “I am thirsty. Come here, Sepat,” he ordered and grinned nastily when he heard the other man’s whimper of fear. ***** Neith barred the door to her room. She did not trust either Khnum or her prince. As she had hurried toward her quarters, she had snatched both men’s thoughts from the ether and knew her days were numbered if she did not plan otherwise. Dagan Kiel was lying bound to the bed, his unseeing eyes wide. Though he thrashed about now and again, his movements were slowing, growing weaker, and she knew if he did not take Sustenance within the hour, he would die. She could barely hear his heartbeat and when she probed his thoughts, knew he had resigned himself to death. She picked up the goblet her slave had brought earlier and carried it to the bed. Placing her free hand under Dagan’s neck, she lifted his head and placed the rim of the golden goblet to his lips. “Drink, warrior,” she commanded. Still wandering in the agonizing void that crippled his body and plundered his soul, Dagan clamped his lips shut, instinct taking over to control him. “Drink,” Neith said more forcefully. She tilted the goblet so that a single drop touched Dagan’s upper lip. As though being scalded with lava, the warrior recoiled against the feel of the thick fluid touching him but Neith would not allow it. She lifted the goblet higher and the liquid splashed over the crease of Dagan’s lips, clinging to the dry, cracked flesh. She straightened, careful of the fullness within the goblet. He fought it for a moment, his head thrashing from side to side but then she watched as her captive stilled. A puzzled look entered his fever-glazed eyes for a moment then the tip of his tongue slipped out to taste the fluid upon his lips. Sighing with relief, Neith saw that tentative taste become a slow lick across an upper lip then a stronger lap against the lower. The warrior’s mouth opened—a dying man sensing salvation was but a swallow away. “Aye,” she said, bringing the goblet to the warrior’s mouth once more. “It is nectar from the Dark Gods, my beloved. It is the Sustenance of our race.” She held the goblet as he drank greedily of the thick substance. Her own mouth watered though she would never be able to drink of that fluid, herself. As her captive devoured the liquid, draining every drop within, she felt her veins tighten for it was her own blood that now coursed thickly down the throat of

Dagan Kiel. Chapter Fourteen

“What does it say?” Lord Qasim, the Minister of Justice, asked. He was watching the Grand Master’s face, worried at the pallor that had overtaken it. “It says they will return him to us within the fortnight,” Hagan Kiel replied. He looked up. “They say he was gravelly wounded and is being nursed back to health.” “Do you believe them?” Qasim queried. The Grand Master shook his head. “They are demons,” he replied. “My Lady-wife fears they have already turned my brother into one of them.” “But what does that mean?” “She is not sure but fears the old tales are true.” Qasim sighed heavily. “I don’t believe the Ordonese are undead,” he said. “Perhaps they have magical abilities. I have heard of men changing to wolves, even bats, but I have yet to see one. I doubt me I ever will.” “She wants a special room built for Dagan. She says he will need it when he changes.” Slumping in his rolling chair, the Grand Master put his head in his hands. “By the gods I wish I had the use of my legs! I would ride to that hellhole where my brother is being held and free him with my bare hands!” “We are your hands and legs, Your Grace,” Qasim said. “We will free him for you.” The Grand Master raised his head and his Minister of Justice was shocked to see tears streaking that pallid face. “It was because of me that our father mutilated Dagan. Had I known what was going to happen, I would have found a way to stop it.” More tears flooded the Grand Master’s eyes. “All his life, my brother has suffered for being my kin. Now, he may be suffering more because of it.” “Do not think such a thing, Your Grace,” Qasim said, coming to hunker down before his Master. “You were a boy, yourself, and could have done nothing to prevent what happened. If Lord Dagan were not your kin, he would not be alive and mending. The Ordonese would have taken his life as they took the life of his troop.” Sobbing as though his heart would break, the Grand Master leaned forward, burying his head against his useless legs. He barely felt the soft touch that wound its way over his shoulders but he heard the soft whispers of support from the lips of his wife. He reached up to grasp her hand and hold it. “Milady, you…” Qasim began but the Grand Master’s consort turned her gaze to him. What he saw in those lovely green eyes stunned him as much as the tears in his Master’s. “Lord Dagan will be returned to us,” Jameela Kiel said firmly. “He will be changed but he will be alive. Keep your men at the border. Bid them not to cross over lest they give their lives uselessly. When we

have our warrior back, we will close that border so the demons will never cross it again.” “How?” Qasim questioned. “They have raided our lands for as long as I can remember. Even in my father’s father’s time they have taken our herds.” “They’ll come raiding no more once the borders are sealed,” Jameela said. “Listen to her,” the Grand Master said, his voice rife with pain. “She had another dream and in it, she found the way to protect us.” He straightened up in the rolling chair, turned his head and placed a kiss on his wife’s wrist. Qasim doubted there was any way to protect themselves from the Ordonese raiding parties. He distrusted women and women’s intuitions. Though he had been bidden to respect the Grand Master’s Lady-wife, she was but a woman and a woman unaccustomed to matters of national security. “How long is the passable border between us?” Jameela asked. She held the Minister of Justice’s gaze. “Fifteen miles, milady,” he replied. “And the rest is coastline?” Qasim nodded. “Ordon is surrounded on three sides by water.” “Remember you the legend that the Ordonese can not cross running water?” she asked. Once more Qasim nodded. “I have heard such but that may not be true.” “But if it is, we only have to worry about fifteen miles of borderland. Is that true?” “Aye.” “Then go now and fetch your Minister of Agriculture and your Minister of Artisans. We will need them.” Qasim’s brow furrowed. “I don’t see…” “We will build two walls down the length of the border,” Jameela told him. “An inner wall and an outer wall separated by a canal.” “Walls and canal can be scaled and crossed, milady,” Qasim stated. “Aye,” she agreed. “But we will route a waterway from our northern coastline to our southern between those two walls, Lord Qasim and on either side of those wall we will plant row upon row of garlic.” The Grand Master stared at his wife. “The old legends say the Ordonese are deathly afraid of garlic!” Jameela nodded. “Garlic and running water are anathema to them and we will also have another protection mortared into the walls of our barrier.” “Which is?” Qasim asked. “Silver,” she replied. “Molten silver cemented along the tops of each wall.”

Despite his dislike of females, Qasim found himself begrudgingly admiring the plan the Grand Master’s Lady-wife had conceived. His agile mind turned the logistics over and over, compared what he knew to what he had heard since childhood regarding the demon Ordonese, then let out a long breath. “It just might work,” he said. “We won’t know until we try, will we?” Jameela queried. Qasim looked at his Master. “You agree with your Lady’s assessments, Your Grace?” “I do,” the Grand Master replied. “She has abilities none of us suspected.” “And how did you come by these abilities, milady?” Qasim asked. “They came to me in my dreams,” Jameela answered. “I know not from where for I have neverseen such things before.” “Perhaps because you have never had so much to lose before now,” the Grand Master said quietly. Jameela looked into the face of the man who was a mirror image of her beloved. Over the last few days, she had come to know great affection for the Grand Master though her love would always belong to Dagan Kiel. “We both have much to lose if these dreams prove me false,” she told him. “I pray the gods will keep him safe.” “Bring those two ministers to us,” the Grand Master commanded Lord Qasim. “Let us set into motion this protection my Lady-wife believes we need. Have every able-bodied man, woman, and child old enough to wield a shovel ready to dig the canal.” He held up a hand as Qasim was about to leave. “Either way, Qasim, we will bring my brother home if even it means slaughtering an entire race of people.” ***** Dagan was as weak as a newborn kitten, not even able to stand without help. The shackles that pulled at his wrists and ankles were useless for there was no strength in his body to fight his captors. The lethargy that sat upon his shoulders like a stone kept him as still as the maddening pain in his head would allow. Every so often, he had to force a trembling hand to his temple to relieve that agonizing throbbing. “Once Lord Khnum has treated you, you will no longer have such devastating headaches,” Neith told him. She was sitting well back from his bed for he had tried to strangle her after taking the Sustenance. Though he was frail and no more effective than a babe, he had managed to bruise her but more than that, had put a healthy fear of him in her very soul. Dagan ignored the woman. When he had finally come out of his semiconscious state late the night before and was as himself, he had been stunned to find he was still alive and that she had not drained him as dry as a sand dune. He could not imagine why she had allowed him to live but reasoned it had something to do with who he was. The moment that thought crossed his mind, he had sent his thoughts to Jameela, hoping against hope they would wing themselves to her and she would understand them. Likewise, he schooled himself to hide his thoughts from the demoness across from him for he feared she might be able to intercept them.

“Are you not curious about the treatment Lord Khnum will perform on you?” Sitting across from him, straddling the chair as a man would, the woman had been taunting him since late afternoon with her questions. She had wanted to know what he had felt when he had consumed the goblet of blood. She had asked if he had heard the spirits singing in his head, had he enjoyed the taste of the Sustenance. Disgust, he thought as he formed the answer in his brain. Disgust, nausea and an overpowering urge to tear the bitch apart with his bare hands, had been his silent answer. Singing spirits? Aye, he thought bitterly. He had heard the demons whispering vile things into his mind, singing to him of brutality and savagery, of death and destruction and mutilation. Enjoyed the taste of her blood? By all that was holy and unholy, he had. It had, indeed, been nectar to him and the taste lingered on his tongue, making him want it, need it, crave it as a starving man does a feast of succulent foods placed before him. To his mortal shame, he ached for the taste of it again, the feel of it easing down his parched throat. He knew denying himself such evil would mean fighting the pull of it with every ounce of his will. “It will only be harder on you if you fight it, Beloved,” Neith told him. So, he thought, shecould read his mind. His every thought could be plucked from the air like a raptor diving after its prey. Yet, when he tried to read her mind, all he felt was a thick, miasmic wave that left him sick with disgust. “We will be equals once the deed is done,” she said. “You will be allowed to return to your people and to that slave you fancy you love.” He slowly turned his head and stared at his tormentress. She was smiling at him in a way that chilled his blood and as her gaze fell to the twin wounds on his neck, he could not stop the shudder than ran through his body. “I am not lying to you,” she said. “You will be taken to the border and turned over to your brother’s men.” “Returned to them as what?” he said through clenched teeth. Neith crossed her arms on the back of the chair and laid her chin on her right wrist. “As one of us.” “I would rather die in a fiery pit than go back to my people as one of you!” he snarled. “Once the deed is done, you will not have such morbid thoughts, Beloved.” “Stop calling me that!” he shouted at her. “I am no more your beloved than you are mine!” Neith cocked a shoulder. “My blood pulses through your veins, Dagan Kiel. You belong to me.” It was on the tip of his tongue to call her every insulting, vulgar name he had ever heard muttered. He wanted nothing more than to get his hands on her and to have the strength to tear her limb from limb. “You will find when you have the chance to lay hands to me, that you will want nothing more than to thrust your cock in me and spray me full of your life-juice,” she said, a superior look on her face.

“You stupid bitch,” Dagan threw at her. “For all your mind reading, you don’t know that is the last thing that will ever happen!” “But why, Dagan-love?” she cooed, sweetly. “Because you hate me or because you believe you have no ability to fuck a woman?” His face turned hard but a blush of shame softened his features. He turned away from her, having no desire to answer her taunt. “When the deed is done, you…” “What godsdamned deed, bitch?” Dagan howled, his frustrations getting the best of him. Though he was so weak all he wanted to do was sleep, the constant mention of some nefarious deed lurking in his future demanded he ask. Neith stood, swinging her leg over the chair seat. She smiled but did not answer. As she turned to go, his growl made her laugh. Infuriated at her laughter as she left him pulling uselessly and weakly against his fetters, Dagan wished he could loop the chains around his neck and hang himself. He knew he would prefer death to whatever evil thing lay in wait for him at the hands of the faceless Lord Khnum. ***** Angry at the thing he was being forced to do, Lord Khnum picked the most deadly of specimens from the beaker. Already, this one had devoured half a dozen of its nestlings. Engorged with the blood and flesh of its sisters, the specimen was strong, wriggling furiously in the grip of the tongs pinched around its elongated body. As it was placed into a beaker of fresh-drawn blood, it began lapping greedily at the liquid. “You want him to be one of us,” Khnum mumbled as he turned to his instrument drawer and began removing those that would be needed to aid the Transference. “I will give him an addiction worse than any Queen ever conceived in her filthy womb!” He held up a shiny scalpel and tested the thinness of its blade with his thumb. He sucked in a breath as the blade sliced into his flesh and a bead of blood oozed up. The specimen sensed the bloodletting and the beaker clattered along the marble desk. Grown twice the size it had been, the specimen had all but drained the liquid from the beaker and was now squirming around and around inside the glass, its scarlet eyes latched on Lord Khnum as its forked tongue lapped at any stray drop of blood. “Not me,” the old man chuckled. “It will not be my body you will invade.” He felt a sharp twist along his backbone and knew his own parasite had decided to show him who was Master and who the host. Lord Khnum was the oldest of his kind though he had not been the first. He had not even been among the first generation of Ordonese warriors to be infected with that which made him what he was now. For centuries he had trod along the barren lands of Ordon, crossed the border into the blood-rich fields of the Conclave and taken his pleasure of thousands upon thousands of his enemy. When human blood could not easily be taken, beef blood would do though it lacked in succulence the satiation his parasite desired. So long ago had been his rebirth that he could not remember the details of the Transference.

He turned his eyes to the Book that perched high upon the tallest shelf of the operatory. Tempted many times to climb the high ladder and take down the Book, his parasite had never allowed it. Should he put one foot upon the lowest rung, the demoness inside him would cause such pain he would be brought to his knees immediately and spend the rest of the day repenting in agony. Even looking upon the Book caused the beastess inside him to turn sharply, causing acute torment to lacerate Khnum’s spindly body. Khnum suspected the origin of his kind was concealed within the cracked human-leather of the Book. It was a secret the parasites wanted kept hidden. Turning his attention back to the specimen he had extracted from Neith before her battle with Dagan Kiel’s troop, he was pleased to see it had doubled in size again. Now as large as his hand, the parasite was trying to gnaw at the sides of the beaker with its opposable fangs, searching for any residue of blood left. “Soon, you can feast on an Akhkharu warrior, my little demoness. You can slither into his strong, handsome body and forever make your home,” Khnum promised. The parasite stopped moving and appeared to be listening to the old man’s words. Its forked tongue struck repeatedly against the glass; its scarlet eyes pulsed within the triangular planes of its warty head. A milky substance fell in a long thread from the gaping maw of its mouth and sizzled against the glass. “I want you to hurt him,” Khnum said, putting the scalpel to his wrist. “I want you to bring him such agony that he will wish for death with every breath.” Slicing a thin line along his flesh, the old man allowed his own blood to flow into a small dish. “I want you to curse his offspring with the same unrelenting pain and hopelessness so they will rue the day they became One of us.” Khnum held the dish above the beaker where the specimen had gone into a frenzy of twisting, turning, squirming motion. So violent was the movement, the old man could hear the hiss of the fledgling. “Promise me,” he said, turning the dish so a small drop of blood fell into the beaker. Pouncing on the aged blood of the Ordonese warrior—an essence as rare and succulent to the parasite as an aged wine would be to a connoisseur—the specimen writhed and appeared to be salivating, the acid-like white substance dripping from its maw. “Pledge to me you will bring hell to Dagan Kiel and I will feed you the sweetest blood, the most potent Sustenance of them all.” He raised the dish, grinning manically at the prolonged hiss of denial from the specimen. “Pledge to me or I will give this nectar to your nestlings!” Snaking its eel-like body halfway up the beaker, the specimen had once more doubled in size. Its forked tongue could almost reach over the glass rim. Its beady eyes locked on the old man, it slid down the glass and coiled around itself, granting as much submission as it ever would. Satisfied the deal had been struck, Khnum tilted the dish of his ancient blood into the beaker and watched as the specimen went crazy in an effort to devour every drop. As it squirmed around inside the beaker, the old man quickly lifted the beaker and placed it inside a much larger one he knew the specimen could not escape. With the consumption of his potent blood, the demoness would double—if

not triple—in size and every precaution needed to be taken until the Transference. Khnum turned his attention to the beaker that held the remaining specimens taken from Neith’s treacherous body. There were four of the nestlings left from the hive he had excised. By law, he should destroy them but he had no intention of doing so. With a hateful grin upon his thin face, he took up the beaker and placed it in a cubicle, hiding it behind a stack of old texts. “One never knows when one will need ammunition,” he chortled. ***** Neith kept well back from her captive as Dagan Kiel was taken from his bed. The heavy manacles weighing down his hands and feet made it hard for the warrior to stand and impossible for him to walk. The two Ordonese warriors who supported him were strong and easily dragged the weakened warrior along between them, his bare toes scraping over the rough tiles. “At least you can allow me my britches!” Dagan snarled. “But I like you naked, Beloved,” Neith laughed. She could hear his muttered curses and marveled at the repertoire of his vulgarities. For a man unaccustomed to the hand of a woman upon him and the raping of one, he surprised her with his plans for her. “Once you’re healed, you will be able to do that and more, Beloved,” she told him. “Although you will find you will enjoy my rape almost as much as I will enjoy you doing it.” The Ordonese warriors chuckled and one glanced back at Neith, taking her measure and grinning hungrily at her. When she showed no sign of welcoming his silent suggestion, he shrugged and tightened his grip on the captive’s arm. Understanding as he never had before how his twin must feel in not being about to walk, Dagan felt like an invalid. He was in no condition to fight what was about to happen to him and could not get the bitch’s words out of his mind, “when you are healed”. The connotation of those words put a chill down his spine and worry clouded his vision as he stared at the passing tiles beneath his useless legs. “Healing won’t take long so don’t let that concern you, Beloved,” Neith informed him. “A day, perhaps two, and you will be better than you have ever been.” The two warriors had ceased to drag him and he lifted his head to find himself before a wide iron door being opened by a brace of different warriors. The portal creaked open—setting his teeth and nerves on edge—to reveal a brightly lit room, the intensity of which made him squint. “Over there,” he heard a brittle voice command. Swinging his head to one side, Dagan beheld a rail-thin man who bore a decided resemblance to the detestable Brother Qutaybah. For that reason alone, Dagan hated the man on sight. “Lord Khnum,” Neith said. “May I introduce Lord Dagan Kiel of Akhkharu?”

Khnum ignored the introduction. “You!” he called out and the warriors at the door hurried into the room. “Take his legs and hoist him onto the table.” “Be careful of his arms,” Neith advised. Dagan felt himself being lifted and was surprised when they laid him down on his belly, his arms pulled over his head. The table upon which he found himself was made of black granite and was cold to the touch, cooling the fever that made his body far too warm. “Lock the manacles into the stanchions then leave,” Khnum commanded. The weight of the chains on his wrists and ankles pulled his limbs painfully downward, flattening him to the slab. His cheek was turned away from those present so he lifted his head to view the old man and his tormentress. “You may go, as well,” Khnum said to Neith. “I will stay,” she said and met the old man’s angry glower with a steady look. Khnum gritted his teeth but turned away, telling her to suit herself. Neith came to stand at the head of the table. She put one hand on Dagan’s shoulder and when he tried to shrug it away, she dug her nails into his flesh. “Behave, Beloved,” she said. “You will need the comfort of my hand once Lord Khnum begins his surgery.” There it was again, Dagan thought, feeling sweat pop out on his brow. What vile thing was this old man going to do to him? He felt his skin crawling, goose bumps pebbling his flesh. Fear had invaded his soul and try as hard as he could, he could not dispel it. Neith watched Khnum walk to a workbench and when he turned with a large beaker in his hands, her eyes widened. “That came from me?” she gasped. Khnum’s grin was horrible. “Aye, Lady Neith. What think you of your little nestling?” Dagan tried to turn his head, to see what it was that had put such shock in the demoness’ voice but she put a hand to his head and held it down. “Was the one you gave me that large?” he heard her ask. “Aye,” Khnum lied. He placed the beaker on a stand beside the table. Neith’s face had creased into a mask of concern. She found the nestling—a thing that had only recently been a part of her own body—disgusting and horrendously terrifying. It glared back at her with menace and she could not stop the shudder that rippled through her body. It was all she could do to tear her eyes away from the dreadful sight as Khnum plucked a scalpel from a tray and placed the tip to Dagan’s flesh. Dagan opened his mouth to demand he be told what these two demons were about but never got the chance. A slicing pain slid from just under the right side of his ribcage all the way to the pelvic bone and he yelped. Licking her lips as the warrior’s crimson blood seeped down his side and over the small of his back, Neith watched in fascination as Khnum took the lid off the beaker. Her heart was thundering in her chest as the old man used a pair of tongs thick enough to lift a large rock to pluck the parasite from its glass

prison. Her eyes widened in disbelief as Khnum struggled with the hideous eel-like thing then dropped it on the warrior’s bare back. Both Neith and Khnum jumped back, neither wanting to come into contact with the parasite. Each held their breath as the creature wriggled back and forth for a moment then—sensing the freely flowing blood nearby—opened its mouth and squirmed quickly down into the surgical opening on Dagan Kiel’s back. At first, the cut on his back had hurt because he had not been prepared for the attack. The initial sting had been replaced with a heavy, slimy weight that made his flesh crawl. That sensation puzzled him but when hell opened up to send a fiery shaft of pure agony into his bound body, Dagan screamed in unrelenting torment. Surprising herself, Neith felt tears form in her eyes as she beheld the violently struggling, screaming warrior. She remembered well the agony that had accompanied the invasion of the parasite Khnum had placed in her over forty years earlier. The gnawing, tearing misery as the creature had slithered into her back, its sharp fangs clamping down on a vulnerable organ, and the awareness of her own blood being sucked out of her returned unbidden in nightmares that brought her awake in sweaty panic ‘til this day. But watching Dagan Kiel writhing in such immense suffering, she knew her Transference had been nothing compared to this. “Do something!” she yelled at Khnum even as she covered her ears to block out the warrior’s inhuman screams. “There is nothing that can be done,” Khnum shouted at her. “You wanted him to be One of us? Well, now he will be!” Dagan’s body arched upon the marble table. He jerked uselessly at his bonds, striving with all his waning strength to pull his hands and legs free. The manacles bit into his limbs, scoring his wrists and ankles, tearing his flesh. The force of his pulling dislocated both wrists but he did not cease to struggle. His screams filled the room, echoing off the walls and his eyes were bulging from his head. Khnum crossed his arms, savoring the screams, tantalized by the anguished contortions of the warrior. He cocked his head to one side, watching intently as the cut he had made on Kiel’s flesh began to close. “Amazing,” he muttered to himself. In all the Transferences he had done over the years, none had mended this quickly. Neith swiped at the tears clouding her vision and forced herself to walk over to the anguished warrior. With her hand trembling like that of a palsied ancient, she placed her palm on Dagan Kiel’s head and forced it gently to the table. The heat radiating up to her palm from his flesh stunned her, scorched her, but she kept a steady pressure on the warrior’s head. “Listen to me, Beloved,” she sent to him. “Relax and the pain will lessen.” Hearing the woman’s silent words, Khnum snorted. “Make it stop!” the warrior howled. “Please make it stop!” Her heart breaking at the words, Neith looked up at Khnum. “Is there nothing you can do?” Khnum took great pleasure in shaking his head. He was smiling at her, his beady eyes as hateful as a viper’s.

Dagan was lost in the agony that rippled through his body. It felt as though a shark had invaded his back and was stripping away the meat of his organs. The drawing sensation in his lower back was an agony unto itself, warring with the other pains racking him. He could hear himself pleading, begging for help. Ashamed of such weakness, he tried to control it, to keep the pleas from passing his lips, but the pain was too great. Interspersed among his screams were pathetic invocations to whatever god was listening and would take pity on him. A streak of intense light passed just outside Neith’s peripheral vision and she jerked, turning her head toward the source of the brightness. She blinked for high upon a shelf was a glowing light, its milky green color ghastly and painful to behold. Khnum followed the woman’s gaze but saw nothing that could have drawn her rapt attention save the Book. Knowing she could no more access that ancient tome than could he, he turned away. Returning his avid attention to the struggling warrior whose screams had become hoarse shrieks as his vocal chords became damaged, he reveled in the torture of the Akhkharu warrior. Unaware she did so, Neith moved toward the bookcase. At the center of the sickly green glow she could make out a book and it was to this beacon she walked. She no longer heard the warrior’s screams for she had entered a vacuum where no sound entered. Her entire focus was on the book. The old man did not see Neith put her foot to the ladder’s rung. That part of the room had become dark, shadowy, blocking off his vision and awareness of what was happening. So alert was he to the misery of the man on the table, nothing else registered with Khnum. He mentally followed what was happening to Dagan Kiel. As the creature wriggled in warrior’s body, its greedy mouth clamped tightly to his kidney, it began spreading potent juices into the helpless man’s bloodstream. While its oral sucker drew in Kiel’s blood—filtering nutrients from the liquid—it expelled fertilized eggs into the cavity under his liver; these eggs would hatch within the hour to become nestlings. As it delivered its young, the now adult parasite would slither and climb, binding itself to the warrior’s backbone. “And it will be with you to the end of your miserable days,” Khnum said with a laugh. Neith paused on the top rung of the ladder and stared fixedly at the glowing book. A part of her was loath to touch the tanned leather but another was so mesmerized by the call of the thing, she could not have stayed her hand from grasping it if she had had the will to do so. Closing her trembling fingers around the spine, she pulled the ice-cold volume toward her, now hearing the screams of countless rebirths chronicled within its fleshly pages. The Book—as she now knew it to be—clutched tightly in her hand, she slowly descended the ladder. Dagan had ceased to move. His vocal chords stretched by the force of his shrieks, his screams could no longer be heard except in his own mind. The ungodly pain that had enveloped him was now a brittle ache in his back. With fingers arched into claws that dug bloody nails against the marble slab, he lay wide-eyed and staring, listening to the coo of the alien life form that was now irreparably a part of his body. “Accept Me, Warrior,” it commanded in a low, sultry croon. “Protect Me and I will protect you.” “No,” he silently denied and crushing pain squeezed his backbone, arching his body from the slab.

“Accept Me!” the creature demanded and brought fresh agony to the warrior’s body. The pain was excruciating, the agony too prolonged. There was hopelessness here and helplessness that could only be overcome with death. But in that part of his mind already being taken over by the excretion of the parasite’s juices, Dagan Kiel knew he would never be allowed to take his own life. He would be as much a captive of the thing inside him as any prisoner had ever been. “Accept Me,” it whispered and the voice was soothing, cooling his heated body with a wash of freshening wind. “Accept Me and I will punish those who have hurt you.” Knowing full well the evil within him would promise anything in order to have him recognize it, to allow it to rule him, Dagan made a counter-demand of his own. “Give me the means to punish them, myself, and I will acknowledge you.” For a brief moment in time, the parasite remained silent. It did not move. It did not increase the pain holding Dagan Kiel in thrall but neither did it lessen that torment. Then… “You will be a warrior among warriors, Dagan Kiel,”it hissed.“I accept you as you accept Me!” A gentle numbing began at the base of his neck and flowed slowly down his body. With it, came a cessation of all pain followed by a tremendous thirst. “Give Me Sustenance, my love,” the parasite ordered. The Book clutched tightly to her chest, Neith walked to the table upon which Dagan lay and looked down on him. He was awake, his eyes turned up to her. She glanced beyond him to find Khnum standing as still as a statue, his head turned to one side, his lips parted. “He is entranced,” Neith said quietly. “He is mine,” Dagan sent to her. Neith looked down at Dagan and saw the meanness glowing in his changing eyes. She took in the glisten of sweat on his handsome face and the determined clench of his jaw. “You did this?” she asked Dagan, cocking her chin toward Khnum. “She did.” Neith knew he meant the parasite that was now fully mature inside him. Her gaze went to the smoothness of his back where no surgical incision could be detected. A tremor ran down her spine and her own parasite shifted in distress. The warrior had healed quicker than he should have. Though the warrior was shackled wrist and ankle to the table with links no man could break binding him, he broke the chains as easily as though they were made from paper. He pushed himself from the table and swung his legs off the side. A loud popping sound accompanied his movements. Startled, Neith staggered back. She recognized the symptoms as Dagan Kiel tore the manacles from his flesh and threw them away. Already his face was elongating, his body coursing with a fine pelt. A guttural growl issued from his throat as fangs descended and talons formed.

“Go,” he grunted, the last human sound he was capable of making. Terror unlike any she had experienced propelled Neith from the room. She jerked open the door and screamed at the warriors flanking it to bar it. “Lock it! Lock it!” she shrieked. “He’s going into Transition!” The warriors gaped at her but the piercing howl that came from Lord Khnum’s operatory thrust them into motion. Dropping a thick iron bar across the middle of the portal, they hastened to add a top and bottom bar as well. They barely had time to move back before a tremendous weight hit the iron door, shaking it. “Upstairs!” Neith yelled. “We must secure the vault!” Feet and arms pumping like runaway pistons, the trio made for the stairs, Neith in the lead. Dagan Kiel was no longer human as he turned slowly from the locked door and latched his crimson glare on Lord Khnum, who stood as transfixed as a granite statue. The warrior growled low in his throat and dropped to all fours, the bones of his body grating against one another as they shifted and re-formed inside him. He no longer felt the pain of his flesh shrinking and growing leathery. He did not feel the thrust of his elongated muzzle or the eruption of more fangs piercing his gums. He did not sense the pelt growing wiry and thick over his flanks and under his growling belly. He was unaware of the talons clicking on the terracotta tiles as he sidled closer to his victim. With saliva dripping from his massive jaws and sparks of red light shooting from eyes now lupine instead of human, he sprang. Khnum went down under the force of the beastess that crashed into his body. Aware of every bite, every rip, every tear that tore him asunder, he was incapable of preventing his death. The old man knew he had made a bargain with a creature as deadly as he had desired it to be but he had made one unthinking, fatal mistake. “Pledge to me you will bring hell to Dagan Kiel and I will feed you the sweetest blood, the most potent Sustenance of them all,” he heard himself saying. In giving the fledgling his own blood, Khnum had given it the means to destroy him. Aye, he thought as his beating heart was ripped from his body. Hell had been brought to Dagan Kiel; but it was the hell of fury not the hell of torment Khnum had wanted it to be. As light flickered and went out in Khnum’s eyes he felt the sweetest, most potent Sustenance of them all being sucked from his body as the ancient parasite squirming inside him, shrieked as it was torn out and devoured. Chapter Fifteen

Dagan hated himself for what he had done. It was the beastess inside him spurring him on. The bloodlust had washed over him with a vengeance and he had torn the old man limb from limb, consuming flesh, sucking the marrow from ancient bones and feasting on Sustenance so sweet, so potent and exhilarating that he had gorged himself until he lay wallowing, licking the crimson stains from his paws. When he woke—his body sore and cramped from its extended fetal position—he had stretched until the kinks were gone from his muscles and sinews. Human once more, he had looked down upon his nude,

bloodstained body and known a moment of acute embarrassment. But the embarrassment had passed quickly; replaced by a thirst so acute he began to pant. And that was when the door was unlocked and the bitch from the abyss dared show her evil head. Neith did not enter the room. In her hand she held a goblet that she squatted down to place on the floor, keeping her eyes on the warrior every moment. He knew what was in the goblet and his mouth watered. Growling at the woman who backed further out into the corridor, he advanced on her but stopped to pick up the goblet and drain it. When he was finished, he threw the goblet against the wall and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze as steady on the woman as hers was on him. “How do you feel?” she asked. “Invincible,” he snarled and before she could move, he was on her, dragging her to the floor, covering her with his body and ripping at her clothing. Neith gloried in the rough treatment with which he punished her. His nails gouged into her flesh, scratching her. His teeth nipped at her bared breasts, scraping her flesh but not going deep enough to cause injury. His knees thrust her legs wide apart and when his cock drove hard and deep, thrusting into her with enough force to rock her backwards along the floor, she brought her legs up and encircled his hips, grabbing handfuls of his hair to bring his mouth to hers. Straining against one another, he, pummeling into her lush body as a sharp plow through fertile soil and she, arching upward for every forceful drive, the two came in a burst of pulsing finality that brought yowls of satiation from them both. When the last rapid heartbeat had returned to its normal thump and the last panting breath had slowed to an ordinary intake and exhalation, they lay together on the cold floor with him tightly encircled in her arms. “I could have killed you,” he growled. “No, Beloved, you could not have.” “Iwanted to kill you,” he swore. “And you still do,” she said on a sigh. “But we need one another, Dagan.” One moment he was lying atop here, the next he was on his feet, arms akimbo, glaring down at her with hatred rampant in his dark amber eyes. “I think not,” he disagreed. Standing there in masculine glory—his staff dangling between taut, muscular thighs—Neith thought him a wondrous specimen of maleness. She let her gaze move lovingly over his broad shoulders and wide chest, rippled abdominal muscles and lean hips, and still thought him the handsomest man she had ever beheld. “Well, you’re no more than a hell-hag,” he spat, intercepting her thoughts. Neith sighed. “What did you just do to me, Beloved?” she asked, sitting up.

He bent over her, his face close to hers, the fury sparking a challenge in those amber eyes. “Call me that one more time and I’ll pull your tongue out by the roots!” he promised. Neith managed a shrug although his words both thrilled and bemused her. “Do it and it will grow back.” “Then I’ll pull it out again!” “And it will grow back again,” she told him. Dagan growled low in his throat and straightened up. His hands itched to circle her neck and squeeze. “I’ll ask you again; what did you just do to me?” “I fucked you!” he threw at her, his words coming from tightly clenched teeth. “And how were you able to do that, Lord Dagan?” she asked sweetly. “I…” he began then stopped, blinking. He stared at her, his lips parted; his brow furrowed then he slowly lowered his head to look down at the juncture of his thighs. They were there! He thought, shocked to the core of his being. He reached for them, took them in his hand, hefted them, even squeezed, wincing at the unaccustomed pain that shot through them. His head snapped up. “How?” he whispered. Neith held her hand out to him to be helped up. When he paid no attention to her request, she cocked her head to one side. “You want the answer?” Blowing a harsh breath through his quivering nostrils, he took her hand and yanked her to her feet, overdoing it, for her nude body slammed into his. Irritated, he pushed her away, sickened by the feel of her against him. “You weren’t so bothered by it a few minutes ago,” she taunted. “How?” he bellowed, taking a menacing step toward her. “You felt the incision the late unlamented Lord Khnum sliced into your back,” she said. “Do you feel it now?” “Woman…” “Put your hand back there and tell me what you feel.” She said it with enough authority that he didn’t think twice about obeying. Try as hard as he could, he did not feel the place where he knew the cut had severed his flesh. He ran his right hand along his back over his kidney but there was nothing there. “The parasite closed the incision almost as quickly as it entered you,” she informed him. “I have never known it to happen that fast.”

“What has that got to do with my balls?” he shouted at her. Neith sighed deeply and shook her head. “Think about it, warrior,” she said. “If it can heal your cut, it can heal any damage done your body. That is what it does to keep itself alive and fed.” She grinned saucily. “Even replace needed organs and appendages that have long been missing.” Dagan staggered backwards, slumping against the wall behind him. He stared at her, the implications of what she was telling him making the wheels turn in his head. “Aye,” she said. “The nestlings can heal any being into which they are transferred.” “I can love my woman,” he whispered. “You can love this woman,” Neith said, her eyes narrowed. He slowly shook his head. “No. That I will never do.” Fury sending shards of ice from her eyes, Neith came to him, jabbing a sharp nail into his shoulder. “You owe me, warrior!” She reached down and grabbed his balls. “For making you whole again!” He stood perfectly still, hating the feel of her hand on him, but willing her to let go. When she did not, he flung a mental command at her that threw her across the corridor to crash into the wall. Neith let out a loud humph and slid down the wall to land in an ungraceful heap. She stared, eyes wide, and knew he was both stronger and more determined than she. Her shoulders slumped. “What do you want, then?” “To return home,” he said. She shook her head. “They will never allow it.” “Who won’t?” “Prince Sekhem.” “Think you I can’t defeat him?” “I believe you can but at what price, milord?” she challenged. “If you leave without his permission, he will come after you with warriors who will slay everything in their path.” Dagan lifted his head. “Even as we speak, my people are building walls to keep the Ordonese from venturing onto Akhkharu lands ever again. Thousands of them are toiling away, rerouting the waters from the Sea of Alize so they course between our land and yours.” “Running water?” she questioned, her eyes wide. “And garlic and silver,” he stated. “When I woke to find myself alive, not an undead demon as I thought your kind to be, I sent my lady instructions she was quick to set in motion.” She probed his mind and saw the truth of his words. Her mouth dropped open. “Without slaves or herds

in time of famine, we will shrivel from thirst and be forced to feed upon one another. My kind will die out! “ “Aye,” Dagan said. “That they will.” Neith scrambled to her feet, her hands out in pleading. “Please, milord. You cannot wish that upon me. I…” “Think you I will leave you here when you have the Book?” he threw at her. Sucking in a stunned breath, Neith put a hand to her mouth. “I know you took it,” he said. “I know not what is in it but the beastess within me believes it is important and I will have it if you want to survive this.” Her eyes shifting from side as she hurriedly thought of the consequences that could come from her having possession of the Book, she tried to keep her thoughts from him but he snatched them from her as easily as candy from a babe. “The knowledge is there,” he said. “The knowledge of the Transferences.” “Aye, but…” “Go fetch it, wench,” he ordered. “And fetch my clothes while you are at it!” She stood her ground. “I can not allow this,” she said. “It was my intent to one day rule the Ordonese. I will not let my race…” “I’ll not send good beef to be drained and their carcasses left to waste in the desert, but you can send back ships filled to the rafters with Sustenance taken from our abattoirs if you want,” he interrupted. “What good will that do?” she shouted. “We can not venture into the sea and…” “Think you the barrels won’t wash to shore with the tide, bitch?” he countered. Neith considered his words. The solution, as he saw it, made sense but she was loath to give up the destiny she had carved for herself. “If you stay here, you will die as Lord Khnum died,” he warned. “Book or no Book.” She was well aware of Prince Sekhem’s hatred and his desire to see her head removed from her body. Her only choice was to go with the warrior but she wasn’t so sure that would be an easy feat to accomplish. “Go get my godsdamned clothes and we will quit this evil place. We must be at the border ere the last brick is mortared into place else we’ll not be able to cross over,” he said. “I have no desire to live my life, such as it is now, here.” Neith lifted her chin. “I still want you. I have claimed you and a portion of me is inside you. I have made you a whole man and I want the whole man!”

For the first time, she saw him smile. “Well, bitch, you can have me. In a fashion, at least.” She frowned. “I don’t understand.” “You don’t need to,” he replied, easily blocking her probe. ***** Jameela shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight. The workers around her were toiling tirelessly, spades to earth and block upon block. Behind her, the artisans were melting bars of silver and as the top layer of wall was mortared in place, rushed to pour a thick stream upon the stone. “This has depleted much of our treasury,” Lord Qasim grumbled. With each spreading of the silver, he winced as though it were being splashed on his flesh. “Which is worth more, Qasim? Silver bars stacked in the treasury or my brother’s life?” the Grand Master inquired. Sitting in his rolling chair, sheltered beneath an awning held by four stalwart slaves, Hagan Kiel was sipping a glass of lemon water with one hand while he patted the head of his favorite greyhound with the other. Lord Qasim sighed deeply. “You know I hold Lord Dagan’s life almost as priceless as I hold yours, Your Grace, but…” He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “They are only half a mile from us,” Jameela said, drawing the men’s attention. “They?” Qasim questioned. Jameela’s mouth tightened. “Aye. He has that woman with him.” It was the Grand Master’s turn to wince. “The Ordonese warrioress you told me about?” “The one and the same,” Jameela declared, her eyes narrowed. “Why would he bring one of those demons with him?” Qasim asked. Jameela “listened” but the answer was not forthcoming. She stamped her foot and cursed. “She’d best keep her hands to herself, Dagan Kiel!” she shouted. Qasim and the Grand Master looked at one another. “Be careful what you say, wench!” the Grand Master hissed, looking behind him. Several members of the Tribunal were scattered about. They did not deign to lift a hand to help dig the canal nor lay a block in place or even plant a bulb of garlic but rather watched with an air of boredom and disdain. “As though the Master’s Lady-wife has reason to worry about any woman laying hands to Lord

Dagan,” one Tribunalist was heard to joke. The Grand Master turned and glared at the offending Tribunalist whose sheepish look and red-stained cheeks caused those around him to keep other comments to themselves. “Did she… Was he…” Qasim swallowed hard, his mouth twisted as though something vile lurked in his throat. “She made him into one like herself,” Jameela answered the Minister of Justice’s concern. “But he says I am not to worry. He is coming back a better man than when he left.” “You really can read his thoughts, wench?” the Grand Master questioned. Jameela nodded. “Some of them but he hides others. There is a secret he does not want to share with me or you.” Hagan Kiel threw his shoulders back. “By the Prophet he’d better think twice about hiding anything from me,” he snapped in his most authoritative voice. “There is a special dungeon cell with his name on it!” Casting her husband a wounded look, Jameela felt the tears gathering. “Aye,” she said softly, “that there is, Your Grace, and one to which he has never…” She stopped, cocking her head to one side, frowning, and then she opened her eyes wide. “What?” the Grand Master demanded. “He knows about the cell because he put that notion in my mind,” she answered. “He says not even he knew why until now but that it will be needed every…” She seemed to be listening intently. “Every?” her husband echoed. “Three months,” she continued. “As he understands it.” Then her lips pursed and her gaze grew stormy. “And?” the Grand Master prodded. “Shewill need a cell of her own,” Jameela snapped, turning away. “Aye, well, she godsdamned will have a cell of her own, as far from his as can be found!” “For when they turn into raging beasts with bloodlust wild in their eyes,” Qasim said with a shudder. “Riders!” called out a sentry from the break in the inside wall of the dry canal. The workers stopped their labors and looked toward the area where the sentry was pointing. All along the wall for as far as the eye could see, men, women and children were ranged with picks and hoes and shovels in hand. Unseen at the farthest reaches of the dry hole dug five feet deep in the Ahkharuan soil, engineers stood at the floodgates, ready to lift the heavy wood and metal barriers so sea water could fill the canal. “How many riders?” Qasim yelled.

“Two in the lead but a troop of fifty or so in close pursuit!” came the answer. Jameela turned to a brace of archers who stood paused beside a flaming caldron. “Now!” she shouted. The archers took up their bows and dipped their flannel-wrapped arrow points soaked in creosote into the caldron. A burst of flame flared and the arrows were loosed, one to the east and one to the west. Their arrows would alert other archers stationed along the walls to send their own signals toward the opposite ends of the canal where the engineers stood ready to loose the running waters. Jameela bit her lip as she hurried toward the women and small children who were planting the last of the garlic bulbs on the Ordonese side of the border. “Hurry,” she said. The last few bulbs covered, the women and children of Sahar Colony scrambled over the three-foot wide makeshift bridge that linked the two countries. Where the wood lay upon the ground, no garlic had been planted on either side of the border and would not be until Dagan was safely across. Their counterparts stood with their plantings in hand on the Ahkharuan side and had to move out the way so the others could pass. “As soon as he is across, stand in the opening,” Jameela instructed the four women and two children. “Do not be concerned. The Ordonese will not run you down with the garlic in your hands.” Hagan Kiel ordered Manu to push him closer to the openings in the double wall. The space was wide enough for the horses to jump across in single file. He looked to the left then the right and saw the dirt in the canal darkening. “The waters are coming,” he said then strained to find his brother speeding toward them. Thundering hooves echoed across the barren land that separated Ordon and Akhkharu. As the beasts crested the hill, everyone could see Lord Dagan in the lead, riding bent low over his mount’s head, cutting the wind resistance as the black stallion raced toward the double walls. Another horse was speeding a neck behind Dagan’s. “Hurry, Dagan,” Jameela whispered and was rewarded with a mental touch against her cheek. Dagan used his reins to spur the big stallion faster. He could sense Neith close behind him but gave scant thought to the woman. His heart was thundering in his chest and with a vision that had improved one thousand per cent, he could see Jameela as clearly as though she stood right in front of him. “Move Hagan out of the way,” he sent to his lady. Jameela flinched. “Your Grace! You are in his path. Move back!” Manu jerked on the handles of the rolling chair and quickly dragged his master out of harm’s way. Even as he did, the big brute of a stallion came flying over the makeshift bridge, its hooves not even touching the wood. Dagan glanced down at the water flowing quickly toward the center of the wooden planks from East and West. A part of him issued a silent command for Neith to hurry while another part of him hoped the warrioress would be caught on the other side, trapped there. Had she not been in possession of the Book, he would have ordered Jameela to tell her people to bar the woman’s path. “You had better not!” a violent push against his mind warned and Dagan grinned.

Jameela’s eyes grew wide as the black stallion bore down on her. She gasped even as her lover’s arm swooped down for her and dragged her to the back of the beast. She threw her arms around Dagan’s waist and pressed her cheek to his back, the stallion never breaking its thunderous stride. The waters were converging as Neith cleared the wooden planks. She felt a vast sickness reach up to grip her and had to fight the instinct to pitch herself off her mount and stay clear of the running waters. Hagan looked behind him and saw his twin racing back toward Sahar Colony. He heard Lord Qasim giving orders to the women to finishing planting the garlic. “Quickly, now!” Qasim shouted, keeping his eyes on the advancing troop galloping toward the barrier. The women planted the last of the garlic on the Ordonese side then ran over the planks as the masons scurried over to lay the last blocks in place and a metal smith stood ready to pour a stream of silver atop. Dagan paused at the top of a rise and dragged on his mount’s reins, turning the beast so he and Jameela could see what was happening. The metal smith was the last over the bridge—barely clearing it before the plank was drawn back, the swirling waters beneath it lapping greedily at the banks. “I pray the blocks will hold,” Jameela said. “They will,” Dagan assured her. He smiled as he watched women and children stooping down to plant garlic on the Akhkharulian side of the border. Neith sawed on the reins, her stallion coming to a skidding stop beside Dagan’s. She swept her eyes contemptuously over Jameela then turned her attention to the man she considered her mate. “Sekhem is cursing a blue streak, Beloved,” she said. Dagan glanced at her then away. He was watching the Ordonese troops ranging well out of the way of the garlic-studded barrier. Prince Sekhem’s fist was raised in the air, his shouts as clear as a bell to Dagan’s enhanced hearing. “One more word,” Dagan said softly, his words aimed at Sekhem, “and there will be no help for you from my people. Turn around and go back to Gaoth and I will see your needs are met.” “You will rue the day you defied me, Dagan Kiel!” the Ordonese prince snarled. “Such is life,” Dagan responded. “You had better hope the garlic thrives and the wall stands,” Neith warned. “Else Sekhem will be here in a thrice to take your head.” Jameela tightened her hold around Dagan’s waist and was relieved when he covered her hands with one of his. He gave her hand a tight squeeze then gave Neith a stern look. “Go back to where my people are and ask for the Grand Master,” he commanded her. Neith lifted her chin. “I will not! Where you go, I go!” “I think not,” Dagan said firmly. “Go, else I will have my people come after you.”

Narrowing her eyes, Neith clenched her teeth as she spoke. “Do you forget I have the Book?” “Go find the Grand Master,” Dagan repeated. “You’ll know why when you meet him.” Without giving the woman another second of his time, Dagan turned the horse toward the far hills and dug his knees into the stallion. Neith was furious as the Akhkharulian warrior galloped away, the insipid woman draped around him like a thorny vine. For a moment, she had it in her mind to follow them but the womanly part of her—curious to know what Dagan meant—turned her toward the crowd gathered at the border. As she urged her mount forward, she could see Sekhem’s troop already riding hell bent for leather away from the stone barrier and back toward Gaoth keep. “Your Grace,” Manu said, nudging his chin toward the advancing rider. Hagan frowned for he could see it was the Ordonese woman. His hands clenched on the arms of the rolling chair and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Manu to get him the hell out of there lest the bitch make demands upon him. But as she drew nearer and he could see the blazing beauty of her pale face, he surprised himself by bidding his manservant to wait. The closer she came to the crowd, the more uneasy Neith felt, but there was a pulling she did not understand though she did not understand what it could be. The pulling seemed to be coming from the heart of the mob. When a tall woman and her brats moved out of the way, Neith sucked in a breath for she could make out clearly the man at the center of the rabble and she felt her heartbeat quicken. Hagan found himself staring at the beauty whose horse trotted toward him. There was nothing about her that did not please him. Had he been able to stand, he would have risen and given a stately bow so taken with her appearance was he. He is lame, Neith thought as she took in the rolling chair. Never mind, an additional thought flitted through her mind, that he was a carbon copy of Lord Dagan. Manu stepped in front of his master as the Ordonese warrioress drew nigh. He put a hand to the sword at his side. “Tell your man to step aside, Your Grace,” Neith said in an authoritative voice. She stopped her mount five feet away and bowed her head in greeting. “I am no menace to you.” “Every Ordonese taller than a grasshopper is a menace,” Hagan quipped. “Only to our enemies,” Neith responded and vaulted expertly from the saddle. She tossed her reins toward a man she reasoned to be a servant and strode forward, drawing off her black leather riding gloves as she walked. “Am I not your enemy?” the Grand Master inquired, looking up at the gorgeous woman. “Perhaps,” Neith replied. “And perhaps not.” She pulled aside the long leather duster she wore and drew out the Book. “This will let me know.” Glancing at the aged leather, Hagan felt nauseous for he suspected what bound the tome. “What is that?” he asked.

Neith squatted down in front of him. “Your salvation, Beloved,” she said, putting out a hand. Hagan took the woman’s hand and felt a tremor of sexual excitement rippled through him. Even though Jameela was an expert at the craft Dagan had taught her, her touch did not do to Hagan what this woman’s did. “I don’t understand,” the Grand Master said, bringing Neith’s hand to his lips. Neith smiled for her body was trembling at this man’s touch. Lord Dagan—as handsome a man as she had ever seen—could not hold a candle to the warrior who held her hand. His fingers burned her flesh with a delightful fire that set her loins ablaze. The Book clutched in her free hand undulated much as her womb had quickened at the Grand Master’s touch. She knew this man was the one intended for her. “The woman with whom Lord Dagan rode away,” Neith said. “She is your Lady-wife?” Hagan nodded, wincing at the thought. The woman who squatted before him would make a much better helpmate than Jameela. “And he cares for her?” “Dagan?” the Grand Master inquired. “Aye, he loves her deeply.” Neith’s pride prickled her but she shrugged away the annoyance. “And she him?” “With all her heart,” Dagan’s twin acknowledged. “She is ready to share a cell with him.” Rolling her eyes, Neith got to her feet. “She has yet to see him Transition,” she snorted. Hagan didn’t like the sound of that, but so lovely was the woman staring down at him he pushed the unease aside. “You will also need a cell, milady?” “Aye, but not for another fortnight,” Neith responded. She cocked a brow. “That will give us plenty of time to…” Her red lips stretched into a taunting smile. “Get to know one another,” she finished. A prickling shudder traveled through the Grand Master’s body and his staff stiffened. Quickly covering that offending member, he looked up at the woman and shrugged. “He has a mind of his own, I fear.” Neith threw her head back and laughed then shouldered Manu out of the way. She gripped the handles of the rolling chair and began pushing it toward the coach that waited nearby. “It took all Manu’s strength to get me over here,” Hagan said, looking behind him. “Well, my strength is that of ten of your warriors,” Neith said. She stopped pushing the chair and bent down so her lips were against the Grand Master’s ear. “Especially in bed,” she whispered for him alone. ***** Dagan maneuvered his mount into the thickest portion of the forest beyond Lalssu Keep. He had to push away a few low-hanging bushes to protect he and his lady but the view that greeted them was worth every minor scrap of branch.

“By the Prophet!” Jameela gasped as he halted the horse, swung a long leg over the mount’s head and slid to the ground. She barely noticed her lover holding his arms out to her. The forest had ended in a line of windswept pines, gnarled and twisted from the sea gusts that had pressed against them for centuries. Framing a spectacular view of the ocean, the pines gave off a pleasing scent and their warped branches rubbed together in a soothing sound. “I come here a lot,” Dagan said as Jameela put her hands on his shoulders and he swung her down from the stallion’s back. “I can see why,” she whispered. “I was afraid Hagan would not allow you to leave the keep,” he said, crooking his index finger under her chin to lift her face. “It took all my persuasion to make him listen to you.” Surprise elevating her brows, Jameela asked if he could commune with his twin as he communed with her. “If you can, he did not tell me.” “I have always been able to influence him when it mattered,” Dagan replied. “Sometimes, my anger gets the better of me and the persuasion doesn’t work.” He shrugged. “Most times, he listens though he is unaware that he does.” She put a hand up to his face and pushed a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. “I was so worried about you.” “You had reason,” he said, then took her hand in his and brought it to his chest. “Feel my heart?” She nodded, splaying her fingers against his shirt. There was a steady, strong beat beneath the cambric. “I am alive, Jameela, and that is all we ever need remember about the days passed.” Jameela frowned and when he asked what concerned her, she told him she feared the woman he had brought back with him. “There is no need to let her cross your mind. She has what she came for even if it was something she did not know existed until a short while ago,” he said. “She won’t try to come between us?” Jameela asked, her worry turning her green eyes dark. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She will have someone else to occupy her time and something tells me he will give her a run for her money.” He looked out across the heaving waters of the ocean he would never again be able to sail upon. “But at least he will be able to run now.” Jameela frowned. “You speak of your brother? How can he run, milord?” “I have spoken enough of everything save us,” Dagan said and flexed his knees. He lifted Jameela in his arms, swung her around, and turned toward a stand of pines under which a soft, thick bed of fragrant pine needles lay. Eager to have his hand upon her again, his lips drawing upon her lips and suckling her nether lips,

Jameela hugged his neck, giggling like a schoolgirl when he dropped her lightly on the bed of pine needles and flopped down beside her. “I think I can do more than suckle your sweet juices,” he said, flinging a long leg over hers. “You can…” she began but his mouth descended upon hers and she lost herself to the dueling of their tongues and the firm pressure of his hands upon her breast. When he withdrew his lips, she let out a shaky breath. “Have you missed me, wench?” Dagan purred, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck and flick the tip of his tongue into the spiral of her ear. “By the Prophetess, I did,” she mumbled as she ran her fingers through his hair. “That’s good to know.” Jameela’s head fell to one side as he tugged at the bodice of her gown, exposing her breast. Chill air blew over her flesh but the hot moistness drawing at her nipple as he anchored his mouth to her breast brought a feverish blush to her upper chest. She tightened the hold she had on his dark curls and pressed his face more firmly against her. His low chuckle made her smile. Dagan ran his hand down his lady’s side and slowly began gathering the folds of her skirt upward. Beneath his rough, calloused palm, he could feel the nubs of her goose bumps spreading across her thigh. Slipping his fingers into the sweetness at the juncture of her thighs, he gave silent thanks to the Conclave for outlawing underwear on females who resided at the Keep. “Did you miss me?” Jameela whispered. “Not one moment passed that I did not think of you,” he vowed. “Even while you were in the arms of that witch?” Dagan raised his head and looked up at her. “She took what should by rights have gone to you but because of her, I am a true man. She means nothing to me nor will she ever.” “She made you service her,” Jameela accused. “She made me take my vengeance out on her,” he corrected. “There is a difference.” “I don’t…” she began but stopped as his fingers slipped deftly inside the oozing pocket of her womanhood. She moaned, arching her hips toward his questing hand. “I will say one thing more about Neith and we will never discuss my time with her ever again,” he said as he began stroking her clitoris. “Hers was a gift for which I will be eternally grateful but it is you who will reap the rewards of it, not her.” Jameela opened her mouth to ask him to explain his enigmatic words but never got the chance for he withdrew his hand, fumbled at her thigh—his hard hand pressed against her thigh. He rose up, sweeping aside her knees as he positioned himself between her legs. She sighed when she felt what she thought was his thumb poking at her exposed opening but when his hard cock thrust inside her, her eyes grew wide, her mouth dropped open and she stared down into his laughing eyes.

“Surprise,” Dagan said in a singsong. Before Jameela could begin asking the questions crowding her mind, her lover began driving inside her with such delightful force, such wondrous pressure and throbbing heat, she drew her legs up and wrapped them around his hips, gathering him to her in an effort to meld their bodies into one glorious entity. His deep, erotic stabs into her welcoming cunt was an exquisite plundering that had her panting as overwhelming lust invaded her lower body. She arched up to meet his every thrust, needing him as deep inside her as his shaft could forge. Honey dripped from her nether lips, oiling his forceful passage. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt; her heels dug into his lower back. Dagan’s hips moved like pistons as he drove into his lady. His hands clutched her buttocks, lifting her, gaining the access they both craved. He could feel the building pressure inside his cock and knew he was but a stroke or two away from gaining the greatest pleasure he had ever known. He was gasping for breath, his heart thundering in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears but his only thought was pleasuring Jameela. He did not want to spray his life-juices inside her until he knew she was about to experience the same lustful release he felt striving to be unleashed. “Harder!” Jameela hissed. “Ram me harder, Dagan!” Her own climax was rapidly approaching. She could feel the itch that flooded her lower belly and made her squirm all the harder against her lover. His lady could not have said anything more erotic and Dagan could no longer hold at bay the rushing torrent that spilled into the hot, velvety vessel beyond. The force of his ejaculation elicited a yell of possessiveness and release. Jameela screamed as she climaxed. So forceful was the penetration of that welcoming shaft, so potent the shot of Dagan’s sperm, she knew beyond all doubt her womb would welcome those hot life-juices and cultivate within a child of their union. With his newfound powers that the parasite inside him granted, Dagan knew it, as well. Collapsing atop his woman, the Master Trainer—who from that day forward would train no more women—closed his eyes and surrendered to the fate he had first cursed. Without the Transference of the being nestled within him, he would never have been able to sire a child by this woman he loved more than life itself. Lying quietly, their bodies still trembling from the strength of their lovemaking, the couple strove to quiet their heaving breaths and still the rapid thunder of their hearts. Threading his fingers with hers, Dagan lifted Jameela’s hand to his lips then placed it on his chest as he rolled to his side, content for the first time in his thirty-five years. “Did what was done to you cause this?” Jameela asked quietly. “Aye,” he replied and turned his head to gaze into her eyes. He was hurt to see worry on her lovely face. “I will never harm you, milady.” “There will be changes,” she whispered. Tears formed in her eyes. “To you.” Dagan pushed himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. “At first, I thought this was a hideous

thing that had been done to me but now…” “Now?” she asked, her forehead wrinkled. He bent over her to kiss away the frown. “Now, I can see at least one advantage to having a parasite inside me which can heal my every wound.” He shrugged. “Even as old a wound as the one I suffered as a boy.” At the mention of the word, Jameela’s fear overtook her worry. “There is a disease inside you?” The beastess curled around his kidney shifted, bringing a moment’s passing pain. It was a warning to him that the parasite had not appreciated being called such. Dagan moved uneasily for the pain was more annoyance than misery. He explained to his lady what the thing inside him was and that it would be with him for the remainder of his life. He told her that should the revenant worm—as Neith had called it—die, he would follow quickly. “But you have nothing to fear, milady,” he said. “I intend to live a long, sensuous life with you at my side.” Jameela wiped away her tears and forced a tremulous smile to her lips. “I like the sound of that, Dagan.” Dagan sighed contentedly then lay down again, bringing Jameela into the circle of his arms. He nestled her head against his shoulder and stroked her long hair. “Hagan is about to lie with her,” he said. Jameela experienced a moment of intense jealousy and stiffened. “She will take his blood.” “He is still my husband,” Jameela said with clenched teeth. Dagan blinked. “You would rather have him?” “No!” Jameela was quick to say, arching her neck so she could look at him. “But I don’t like it that she will have had the both of you.” “As the both of us have had you,” he said quietly. Jameela’s anger evaporated as quickly as it had surfaced. Her eyes softened. “Women are ever jealous of one another, milord. Forget I mentioned it.” She lay down, cuddling closer to him but as realization set in, she sat bolt upright in the bed. “What?” he asked, his brows clashing. “She will heal him!” Dagan smiled. “Aye, she will.” “He will walk again?” At her lover’s slow nod, Jameela began to cry again. “Now what ails you, wench?” Dagan demanded. “Are you sorry my brother will no longer be a

cripple?” She shook her head. “I cry because I am happy for him, you fool!” she snapped. “He was good to me and he deserves happiness of his own.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. At a loss as to what to do, Dagan patted her clumsily, unnerved and unmanned by her weeping. Upset with himself for not knowing how to handle her tears, he simply pulled her down beside him and held her, crooning words she had no way of understanding but feeling better for doing it. Jameela’s ear was pressed closely to her lover’s chest and she could hear the steady, comforting beat of his stalwart heart. This man was hers and would be hers for as long as she lived. That knowledge brought a peace she had never hoped to feel. “There will be times when I will need to go to that special place that is to be built,” he reminded her. “And I will go there with you.” Dagan shook his head. “Nay, you will not!” he said firmly. She considered his answer for a moment then relaxed against him. “Then I will be waiting outside the door when you come out again.” “For that,” he said, loosening his hold, “I will be thankful, wench.” A long silence passed between them then Jameela asked if he thought she should make the acquaintance of the woman who had brought the three of them to a better life. “Stay clear of her, ‘Meela,” he said, using a nickname he had often wanted to call her. “She is what she is and I have no more trust of her than I do any other Ordonese.” “And you stay clear of her, as well,” Jameela ordered. “With the greatest pleasure,” Dagan swore. “Then seal the bargain, warrior,” she demanded and reached down for the shaft that had given her such extreme delight. Discovering it thickening in her grip, she used her free hand to rip open his shirt. She lowered her head and kissed his chest then ran her tongue down to one exposed pap. The instant her tongue touched that pebble of flesh, it hardened. Gripping it with her teeth, she lightly worried that manly nugget, grinning to herself, as the rod in her hand became heated iron. As his lover’s mouth moved to his side and the cock she had pulled from his breeches began to throb, he flung his hands out to his sides and let her have her way with him. As her sweet, velvety soft lips closed around the head of his cock, he sighed with anticipation. “Give me what I desire as I have given you what you desired,” the beastess within him whispered. Along with the craving for the body of the woman he loved came a great thirst for rich, red blood. “Not this lady’s!”Dagan sent. “You will live a hundred years,”the beastess proclaimed.“Longer still if you stay out of the clutches

of your enemies.” Understanding shot through Dagan in an instant. Even as his manhood oozed life-juices into the suckling mouth of his lady, his blood began to turn cold. “Make her one of us and you will be together for as long as you both wish to live,” the parasite cooed. As though she had heard the evil thing speaking, Jameela released his shaft and looked up at him. Their eyes met and held. In hers was a silent question. In his, terror combined with despair. “Dagan?” she finally questioned. “I change, Jameela,” he said, flinching at the thought. “To something so vile, so…” “If I were to change, as well,” she said. “Could we then be together in that special place being built?” He thought a moment then nodded slowly. Sliding her body up his, she pulled her hair to one side and offered him her neck. “Then do it,” she said. Every instinct within him screamed denial. He could see the lightly pulsing vein in the slender column of her neck; actually hear the rush and flow of her blood running. His mouth watered and he licked his lips, the craving to taste her a physical pain that grew with every beat of her heart. “Jameela,” he whimpered. “Do it,” she repeated. “I would be one with you, my beloved.” The addiction was too strong. The need was too great. The proposition of the beastess inside him was too demanding. He knew himself to be weak where this woman was concerned and the thought of her lying lifeless, death corrupting her lovely flesh was more painful than he could bear. “Do it,” Jameela whispered. He pushed himself up, moved over her and lowered his mouth to the pulse at the side of her throat. Spurred on as much as his great love for his lady as with the hunger invading his soul, he could feel his fangs extending. Jameela winced as the sharpness entered her flesh. She drew in a deep breath and held it as numbness spread over the punctures. He was drawing on her flesh but she felt no pain. His tongue was lathing the wound and she was sinking into a gentle lassitude that made her eyelids flutter before she closed them. “Do not take too much,”the creature warned.“There is venom in your bite but it will prepare the way for the Transference when it is time.” Inside his body there were fledglings growing to maturity. One would be drawn out of his flesh and placed inside Jameela’s. She would, then, be like him and there would be no returning to the way either of them were. Gently, he eased his fangs from her throat, licked away the tiny beads of blood that remained, and then

folded her in his arms once more. For the moment, the craving inside him had been satiated. As he laid there with her, his cock still throbbing, he willed the rock-hard erection to go away. “Oh, no,” Jameela murmured and her hand slid down his chest and to the jutting column of his cock. “I want it harder, milord, not limp.” Dagan sucked in his breath as she bent over him and drew his shaft into her mouth. As she milked him of his life juices he tried not to think of Hagan. “She tells me I will walk again when that evil thing is put in me,” his twin’s voice slithered through his head. “She says the sex will be better than ever!” “She’s taken his blood,” Dagan muttered. Jameela lifted her head. “Shut up, warrior. Concentrate on what I’m doing, not what your brother is up to.” “I was only…” Dagan began but she slid her hand around his shaft and twisted lightly but firmly from side to side, moving her fingers up and down, dragging him deeper into her mouth—just as he had taught her to do. Giving himself up to her soft ministrations, Dagan Kiel closed his eyes and forced all thoughts from his mind. Save the erotic one that made his blood boil and his cock as rigid as stone. ***** Hagan tucked his bottom lip between his teeth. His hands were on the arms of his rolling chair, clutching the wood as though the two projections were a lifeline. “Will it hurt?” he asked. He stared up at Neith. “I have feeling in my back and hips if not these useless legs.” Neith hunkered down in front of him and placed her hands on his thighs. “They will not be useless once the Transference takes place, Beloved One.” “But will it hurt?” the Grand Master repeated, worry clouding his amber eyes. “Aye,” she replied honestly. “It will but isn’t that a small price to pay to walk again? To ride?” A dreamy look crossed over Hagan’s handsome face. “To swim again,” he sighed, then opened his eyes wide. “That I won’t be able to do, will I?” She shook her head. “No, but you can fuck me until your cock falls off. Won’t that be better than swimming?” “Swimming in your cunt honey?” he retorted, his lips twitching. Neith lifted her head. “I’ve had more than my share of lovers, warrior, but my cunt is as tight as a virgin’s! The parasite makes it so!” Hagan looked at his twin who was standing nearby, his arms crossed over his chest. “How bad was the

pain?” he asked. “Bad enough,” Dagan replied without expression. “Will I…” Hagan swallowed. “Will I scream with that pain, Dagan?” “Like a steer at pulling time.” Flinching, the Grand Master squeezed his eyes shut. “It is too late for second thoughts, Beloved,” Neith said with a touch of anger. “The venom is in you and the thirst will grow. When it becomes a hunger, you will wish yourself capable of slacking it.” Hagan did not open his eyes and his words were directed at his brother. “Can’t I just have a gob…a goblet of the stuff?” he asked, swallowing at the nausea that leapt up his throat at the thought. Neith rolled her eyes. Dagan snorted. “You haven’t given him a taste yet?” he asked. “Not of Sustenance, I haven’t,” she said with a wink. Dagan unfolded his arms and came to stand beside his brother. “You don’t have a choice, Hagan,” he said, hands on hips. “You want to walk, to run, to dance with this woman?” “To fuck her standing up,” Neith murmured. Hagan opened one eye. “I’ve never done that.” “She’s giving you back your legs, brother,” Dagan said with a grunt. “Be a man!” Hagan turned his head and looked at the beaker where a fledgling squirmed, its forked tongue tasting the glass. He cringed. “Do you want to remain a cripple begging for blood to satisfy yourself?” Neith snapped. Tearing his stare from the hideous beastlet glaring back at him, the Grand Master shook his head. “Put him on the table Manu,” Dagan ordered. As much as he loved his brother and wanted to see him whole once more, he could not force himself to be the one to put Hagan through the hell he knew was about to commence. Neith looked around at her lover’s twin. “Will you be as spineless when it is time for your woman to be made one with us, warrior?” Manu was standing behind his master’s rolling chair, trembling from head to toe. His face was as white as parchment and he kept swallowing as though something were stuck in his throat. His pleading eyes met Dagan’s angry ones. “Leave us,” Dagan ordered and was nearly bowled over as the servant fled the chamber. Jameela jerked as the door to the chamber was flung open and her husband’s servant ran down the corridor. She had been sitting outside the room, nervously waiting her own turn. Her palms were

sweating and she ran them over her skirt as she got slowly to her feet. The door was open wide enough for her to see inside the room as she watched Dagan lift his brother from the rolling chair and carry him to a long table out of sight of the door opening. As she craned her neck to see around the door, she was brought up short by sight of the bitch that had made Dagan a man. “You might as well come inside,” the evil woman called out. “No!” Dagan denied and rushed to the door. He looked at Jameela for a moment then shut the door in her face. The portal was made of wood a foot thick sheathed over with solid iron. It had taken four men to lift the sturdy thing onto its hinges. All sound within the room was cut off when it was closed. Though she tried the handle, Jameela found it locked and barred against her entry. But it was not so soundproof that it blocked the hellish scream that came unbidden to her newfound sixth sense. Covering her ears with her hands did not block out that reverberating shriek of agony. Dropping to her knees, she knew her time was near. She began to pray she could endure the torment her lover and husband had undergone before her. Chapter Sixteen

Dagan’s heart was breaking as he opened the door and beckoned his lady to join them. She was pale—paler than his taking of her blood should have made her—and he berated himself for being the cause of her distress. “You heard?” Jameela nodded. Taking small steps, she went to her lover and took the hand he held out to her. She was trembling and as Dagan folded her into his arms, she felt tears gathering in her eyes. “I am a coward, milord,” she whispered. The Grand Master glanced at the woman who would soon become his new wife. Like his twin before him, he was beginning to feel the Transition coming on much too quickly after the Transference. The unease in his bones and muscles was rapidly growing. “Close the door, Dagan!” Neith shouted. “Bar it!” Shoving Jameela out of his arms, Dagan hurried back into the room and shut the door once more in his lady’s face. He barely had time to lower the bar into place before he heard the unearthly growls coming from behind him. Spinning around, his eyes widened as he watched his brother drop to all fours and begin to change. Neith hurried to Dagan’s side and took his arm. “He might attack us in this his first change but I pray not. If he does, Transition quickly and protect yourself.” “Transition on demand?” Dagan queried, flicking her a quick look before returning his amazed stare to his twin. “Think it and it will happen,” Neith told him.

Hagan Kiel was rolling on the floor, his muzzle already pushed forward, his ears elongated, fur covering every inch of his body but his hands were still human though the nails had extended into wickedly curved talons. The popping, cracking sounds of his bones changing into those of a wolf had stopped and as he threw back his head in agony, a howl of fury pushed from his throat. “Look,” Neith said. She directed Dagan’s gaze to his brother’s hands. Wiry dark gray tendrils were snaking out over the backs of the Grand Master’s hands and the flesh of his palms was turning dark and leathery. Sitting back on his haunches, he held up what were fast becoming paws and stared at them with a lowered red gaze. When the full transition had occurred, he slowly turned his lupine head and stared at Neith and Dagan. Leathery lips pulling back from sharp fangs dripping with thick saliva, he growled low in his throat, his muzzle wrinkling, but he remained where he was. Neith breathed a sigh of relief. “He knows who we are and won’t attack.” Dagan jumped as the woman beside him dropped to all fours and began changing. His mouth dropped open for her Transition was quick—within a blink of an eye—and occurred as silently as leaf falling to the ground on a lazy fall day. Hagan Kiel raised his head and sniffed the air. His wet nostrils quivered for he had taken in the scent of his mate padding slowly toward him. Scarlet eyes glowing, he lowered his front paws to the floor and shook his thick gray pelt. Neith—her coat as white as snow—went to her lover, sidling to him so that he could butt his muzzle against her side. When he nipped at her, she turned, nipped at him, and then the two playfully rose up on their hind legs and swatted one another, growling low and yipping excitedly. Dagan watched in stunned silence as the two wolves circled one another, teasing, bumping, and yelping lightly. Pressed against the barred door, his amazement turned to lust when his twin nosed the female around until her backside was to him and mounted her, his front paws gripping her lean flanks. Not wanting to witness the mating, he turned away and leaned his forehead against the door, closing his eyes to the sounds of rutting going on behind him. Jameela also stood with her forehead to the door, her hands pressed against the thick iron sheathing. Though she could not hear what was going on beyond that formidable portal, she knew what must have been happening. How long she stood there, she would never know, but when the door opened, she almost fell into the arms of her lover. Standing framed in the doorway, Dagan’s face was flushed; sweat glistening on his brow and upper lip. He said nothing but reached out to take Jameela’s hand. Without hesitation, she took that strong hand. When she entered the room, he shut and locked the door behind her then asked her to remove her robe. Jameela glanced at the two other people in the room. Neith and Hagan were standing to one side, their arms around one another’s waist. She knew a brief moment of embarrassment but did as her lover bid. When she stood there naked, she asked what it was she needed now to do. Dagan did not answer but swept her up into his arms and carried her silently to the table. When she would have looked toward the retable—the small shelf behind the altar upon which stood a glass beaker—he prevented her with a gentle but firm grip on her chin. He took her right hand in his.

“There will be pain, milady,” he said. “Agonizing pain and if I could take it upon myself for you, I gladly would.” The Grand Master walked to the table and took her left hand. “We will be here for you.” Jealous of the tenderness being shown her rival, Neith came to the table and eased her mate aside. She stared down at the girl with something akin to hatred but when Hagan’s hand fell heavily on her shoulder, she quivered. The male had silently given his order and the bitch—though not cowered—backed off. “Turn over on your stomach, Beloved,” Dagan said in a husky voice. “Do you want me to prepare her?” Neith asked but Dagan shook his head. She handed him the sharp blade and stepped back to retrieve the fledgling that had been harvested from his body the day before. The pain was terrible as the scalpel sliced into the flesh of her lower back, but Hagan was holding her hands above her, his thumbs running lightly over the skin at the underside of her wrists. He spoke quietly to her in words she did not understand. Pushing her head hard against the surface of the table, Jameela was crying, her heart thundering like a herd of wild stallions in her chest. Dagan hesitated as Neith removed the glass lid of the beaker. She held a pair of tongs out to him and when their eyes met, he swallowed hard. “She is losing blood from the incision,” Neith said. “That scent is not going unnoticed by my mate or me.” The warning was there and Dagan took the tongs, his hand shaking so badly that his first attempt to grasp the fledgling failed and the metal jiggle against the beaker. “Careful!” Neith hissed. “Do not injure the nestling!” Mentally trying to steady his hand, Dagan’s second attempt to grasp the fledgling succeeded. He was amazed at the strength of the three-inch beastess as it wiggled to and fro and tried to escape. “Put it to her back, warrior!” Neith snarled. “Be quick about it!” Not giving himself time to put an end to this thing, Dagan dropped the fledgling over the incision in Jameela’s back and gasped as the creature dove unerringly into the wound. Neith had moved quickly to the foot of the table and made a grab for Jameela’s ankles as the girl screamed in torment. The Grand Master held her hands as she tried to break free. Looking up at his brother, he felt a twinge of shared pain. Jameela was in agony, writhing on the table as she tried to dispel the creature slithering around inside her. It felt as though a hundred thousand bees were stinging her organs. “Accept Me, Woman,” the parasite commanded. “Accept Me and I will make the pain stop.” “Aye!” Jameela screamed. “Anything you ask!” Dagan remembered well the parasite demanding his allegiance to It. He knew his lady was in too much pain to understand to what it was she agreed. Not that she had a choice, he thought.

As quickly as the pain began, it eased. Only the vague sensation of small crawling things wrapping around her backbone remained but that was a feeling Jameela could endure. “The Book says that though the Queen will not allow a female impregnated with Reaper sperm to reproduce other females,” Neith said. “She will protect her own gender once it has been introduced into a warrioress.” “Reaper?” Dagan questioned. “That is what our race is called,” Neith replied. “I thought it was Ordonese,” the Grand Master put in. “I thought so, too, until I read the Book.” Jameela was lying still, her eyes open but unblinking. Her face was flushed with a reddish glow. “You gave her Sustenance when you took her blood?” Neith asked. Dagan nodded. “My own but none other,” he replied. “Never will I allow her to consume any Sustenance other than mine.” Neith pressed her lips together. “A mistake,”she silently sent to her lover though Dagan intercepted the comment, ignoring it. Neith and the Grand Master released their hold on Jameela. They headed for the door at the same time. “Bar it behind us,” Neith advised Dagan. “Her Transition may be as quick as my Beloved’s and yours.” Nodding, Dagan heard them leave then walked to the portal to bar it. As the heavy iron bar slid into place, he heard the wet, squishing and popping sounds that signaled his lover’s changing. Not wanting to witness it, he kept his back to her and stared at the striations of color on the iron sheathing of the door. “Dagan!” he heard in a low, throaty growl. He closed his eyes for a moment, steeled himself then turned. She had completed Transition and was perched on her haunches, her pelt pristine white. The vermeil glow from her lovely eyes beckoned as she swept the fullness of her tail along the floor. One delicate paw lifted from the floor as a lady would lift her hand for a lover’s kiss upon her wrist. She growled softly, all human ability to speech now gone. His mate, Dagan thought as he willed himself to Transition, called. His lover, his bitch, awaited the consummation of their desire in this new form. Dropping down to all fours, changing in the wink of an eye, he sidled close to her, his muzzle touching hers wetly as they met. He sniffed her and reeled from the musk of her heat wafting up to his quivering nostrils. She whined and lay down on her side, that sweet little paw waving at him as she spread her hind legs for his inspection.

He sniffed her, licked at the protrusion of her sex and tasted the sweet, sweet essence of her juices. He nudged with his muzzle and she rolled over, presenting her rump to him, wiggling it like a coy woman of the evening. She grinned as she heard his low grunt of humor and as he reared up and grasped her hindquarters, she flicked her tail out of the way, giving him free entry to her throbbing body. He entered her in one smooth, assured stroke and filled her canal to the hilt. His front paws grasping her flanks, he thrust into her with powerful strokes. When he came, he shivered and let his silvery head fall to her back, exhausted. For a moment they stood that way—he still locked inside her—and then he withdrew. Wolf-tired, he fell to the floor and lay on his side. She turned and lay down beside him and wedged her muzzle between his hind legs. With delicate strokes, she licked the essence of him, cleaning him as he shivered at her touch. When she was finished, she lay down beside him—her back to his front—and they slept. ***** The full body of the Conclave sat in attendance as the Grand Master divorced his Lady-wife and took another as mate. They were silent, subdued, as the Master Trainer took unto himself the cast-off wife of his twin. The dual Joining was a first for the Brothers and had set a precedent they had not embraced until they witnessed Lord Dagan’s Transition behind the heavily barred doors of his holding cell. Such a sight had quelled any disagreement, any opposition to the Grand Master’s plan. They knew who was in charge and accepted it. There would be no rebelling. Neither would there be any disrespect shown for either Lady-wife for the she-wolves had torn apart and devoured Brother Qutaybah, the Grand Master’s chancellor, when that one had dared to insult the Lady Jameela. “My brother and I have an announcement,” the Grand Master said. He held his hand out to his Lady-wife, as did Lord Dagan to his mate. The Brothers strained to hear, cocking their heads to one side for they sensed a pronouncement of significance. “Many years ago, war broke out within the Kiel clan,” their Master reminded them. “All from the lust of one brother to have what another owned.” He swept his hand toward his twin. “As you can see, Lord Dagan has his lady and I have mine. My brother is content to see me Master and has no design on the throne. Neither will his children or his children’s children.” A gasp went through the Brothers. They had yet to come to terms with Lord Dagan having been made whole. The knowledge that the former Master Trainer was now capable of breeding made many of them uneasy. To those who worried, it seemed another vicious war might well be in the making should the offspring of Lord Dagan and Lady Jameela set eyes on the throne of Akhkharu. Lord Qasim dared to raise his hand. The Grand Master nodded at the Minister of Justice to speak. “Is there a chance either Lady is expecting?” he asked.

“Both are,” Lord Hagan Kiel announced. Another gasp ran through the assemblage. A low muttering rumbled amongst the Brothers. The Grand Master called them to order and silence was immediate. “There is a vast area of land to the north and Lord Dagan has requested to make that his home. He will journey there as soon as arrangements can be made.” “That land has never been mapped, Your Grace,” Lord Qasim reminded him. “Perhaps there are inhabitants who would not take kindly to being settled by the Akhkharu.” “There are wolves there,” Lord Dagan spoke up. “But no human inhabitants.” He brought his lady’s hand to his lip and kissed it. “Our offspring will be the first.” “You have reconnoitered this land, Lord Dagan?” Lord Gidim asked. “I have and it is acceptable to us. Those who would like to journey with my Lady-wife and I are free to do so.” “Those who expect my brother to fight me for this throne now that he has a son on the way can see he has no such intention,” the Grand Master said. “With all due respect, Your Grace, but might not Lord Dagan’s sons feel differently?” Lord Gidim pressed. “One of the reasons war broke out was because the men of the Kiel family taught greed to their sons,” the Grand Master reminded them. “It was a time where each man was out for what he could grab. If my Lady-wife and I, as well as Lord Dagan and his, teach our offspring greed is anathema, there should never be any worry of who owns what.” “We will each have our land, our ladies, our children, and not covet the others,” Lord Dagan put in. Though Lord Qasim knew the brothers believed in what they espoused, he also knew human nature might change in generations to come. Concern clouding his vision, he returned to his seat, hoping that would not be the case in his lifetime. When the Brothers had left the throne room and all that remained were the twins and their ladies, the quartet sat in companionable silence, sipping at the delicious brew in their goblets. “Qasim will stay but I believe Gidim will travel with you, Dagan,” the Grand Master said. “I believe you are right. Qasim looked a little gray when he watched you Transition, brother. I would watch him were I you.” The Grand Master nodded. “I shall.” Jameela lowered her head to her husband’s shoulder and yawned. “You are sleepy, wench?” Dagan questioned.

“Too much copulating will do that,” Neith said dryly. “Or not enough,” the Grand Master chuckled. “Take me to our quarters, milord,” Jameela sighed as she set aside the thick liquid in her goblet. “I need something to keep me awake ere we make the trek to the north.” “You need something to relax you, wench,” Dagan responded as he drained his goblet then threw it across the room and into the fire pit. He picked his Lady-wife up and held her high against his chest. The Grand Master watched his twin carrying his lady up the winding staircase that led to their quarters. “I will miss that poggleheaded fool,” he commented. Neith put down her goblet and went to her mate. She knelt down before him and put her hands on the buttons of his breeches. “I will see that you are compensated for not having him here with you,” she said. The Grand Master laid his head back against the tall chair and turned himself over to the gentle ministrations of his Lady-wife’s very competent mouth. In the chambers above, Lord Dagan laid his mate upon their bed and leaned over to rip the clothing from her luscious body. His eyes were hot, the bold jut of his erection giving evidence of his highly aroused state. Jameela crossed her hands behind her head and watched her husband tearing at his own clothing. “We’ll need a tailor and seamstress to travel with us,” she sighed. Dagan—as naked as the day he was born and as whole as that glorious day—threw himself upon his wife and began to take her mind from anything other than the thrust of his cock as he rammed into her. “And a cook,” she said, grunting as he rocked his body against hers. As she named off all the servants she wished to go with them—and some she wanted to make sure did not—her words were cut off in midstream for Lord Dagan Kiel covered her tempting lips with his own and sucked them from her mouth. Epilogue

The brothers Kiel decided that Lord Dagan would take the Book with him to the north country of Cinerary. There it would be deeply buried in a secret place only Lord Dagan would know. To have it fall into the hands of one of the Brothers of the Conclave to be used for nefarious purposes would be disastrous. As Lord Dagan, his Lady-wife and twenty-five of his closest allies made the journey to their new home, the first shipment of Sustenance was delivered on the tide to the inhabitants of Ordon. The ship stood well out to sea, the barrels dropped overboard, the sailors watching as Ordonese untainted by parasitic means scrambled along the shoreline to harvest the barrels of beef blood. Prince Sekhem stood high atop a sand dune and glared at the Akhkharulian ship. Unable to wage war against his enemies, incapable now of crossing the border between their lands, his warriors were forced

to war amongst themselves and rebellion was brewing in their ranks for only a handful of untouched servants remained in Ordon. The rest had fled by boat to Akhkharu before those who waded out into the waves were locked up and watched carefully. Tracking one brawny servant as he plucked a barrel from the running water, Sekhem ground his teeth. Never again would there be a rendering of servant flesh in Ordon. Never again would there be a draining dry of a servant who had displeased one of his warriors. The servants must remain untouched so they could perform the labor required to provide Sustenance. Reading his prince’s mind, Lord Uruku—he who took Lord Khnum’s place as the prince’s advisor—spoke his mind. “What will happen to us when these servants die out, Your Grace?” Prince Sekhem tore his furious gaze from the enticing body of the brawny slave. His hands were gripped into fists. “Then we will cease to exist,” he said through clenched teeth. “Unless those damnable barrels stay washed upon the sands when the tides reside.” Looking worriedly toward the cresting waves that pushed the bobbing barrels to land, Lord Uruku flinched. Even the thought of one drop of running water touching his flesh made the parasite inside him turn. Long after the last barrel had been retrieved from the shoreline and the Akhkharulian ship had disappeared over the horizon, Prince Sekhem kept his angry watch. In his black heart he knew his race would be wiped from the face of the land. Only the sons of Dagan and Hagan would remain, the vile offspring of the detestable Neith Alal. Knowing he had lost, Sekhem lowered his head and wept bloody tears. ***** In Lalssu Keep, Sekhem’s mortal enemy thrust the first of the new generation into the world. As she nuzzled her bloodson—born of Lord Dagan’s loins and not her husband’s—she smiled for far to the north she knew another bloodson was squirming from the belly of Jameela. “Omair,” she named him—as was her right—and listened quietly for Jameela to speak. “Altair,”Jameela sent. Neith devoured the mess caused by the birthing then resumed her human shape. Cradling her newborn child in her arms she held him aloft, a present to the Ancient Ones who had made them a unique race upon the earth. The boys were Bloodbrothers from the same father but from two different wombs. And they would one day rule the world together.

About the author:

Charlee is the author of over thirty books, the first nine of which are the WindLegend Saga which began with THE WINDKEEPER. Married 37 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing houseslave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.

Charlotte welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at P.O. Box 787, Hudson, Ohio 44236-0787.

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