Warlord

WARLORD TASHA TEMPLE

Published in ebook format by TempleFiction Copyright © 2011 by TempleFiction www.templefiction.com All rights reserved. Cover design by Book Graphics www.bookgraphics.wordpress.com

Synopsis Sara’s life is boring and predictable. It’s also about to change. A startling use of cruel, inhuman power places Sara in extreme peril giving her only one way to escape. Sara must overcome her deepest fears and resist her most powerful desires to stay alive. In the struggle to conquer herself, Sara encounters a god of a man from a distant land who brings her to the heights of pleasure, beyond what she had ever imagined possible. The fiery passion between Sara and the warlord, Arystan, is the material of legends. As their souls collide and lock in tangle of lust and ardor will Sara resist her deepest yearnings and give up everything so that they can remain together forever? Can she break through Arystan’s battlehardened defenses and reach his heart while helping him defeat the cruel enemy of his past on the battlefield? This steamy novel of love, battle and passion will leave you on the edge of your seat with suspense.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter 1- Darkness Chapter 2- Alone . . . Not Quite Chapter 3 - Enter the Dream Chapter 4 - The Pool of Desire Chapter 5 - Falling In Chapter 6 - River of Blood Chapter 7 - Inferno Chapter 8 - The Price of Escape Chapter 9 - Ties That Bind Chapter 10 - Bonfire Chapter 11 - The Lion’s Den Chapter 12 - Breaking the Rules Chapter 13 - Arystan Returns Chapter 14 - Plotting Chapter 15 - Something Wicked Chapter 16 - Getting to the Truth of the Matter Chapter 17 - Seeking Forgiveness Chapter 18 - Giving Thanks Chapter 19 - Be Still Your Heart Chapter 20 - Witch in the Mountains Chapter 21 - River of Blood Chapter 22 - Horoshaya Yeda

CHAPTER 1 Darkness Sara awoke with a splitting headache. She sat up, holding her head. It was dark. Grimacing, she put her hand down on the floor, noticing that it felt cold, hard, almost like stone. Had she passed out from the wine and her friends taken her back to the hostel? The accommodations were a bit rustic, but she didn’t remember the floor being made of stone. She peered around, trying to make out the contrast of furniture, walls, doorways, anything. There was nothing but absolute black. The last thing she remembered was having dinner in a tiny restaurant called the Horoshaya Yeda in Dushanbe with all of the archaeology students and the professor who were along for the dig. They had ordered a variety of dishes and she had eaten something called “balls of goat” on a dare. She was sure that’s exactly what it had been. She also remembered having several cups of jazi, some sort of local wine. Whew, that must have been some wine. Slowly she rose to her feet, disoriented from the lack of light. She felt cold and drew her arms around her, feeling the goose flesh on her bare skin. It had been a warm evening in Dushanbe and she was dressed in a sleeveless white sundress with matching low-heeled sandals. But the obscurity of the dark was so overwhelming she could not even make out the color of her clothing now. At least, she was still dressed. Sara could not perceive how large the space was in which she stood, but had the sensation it was relatively small and circular. She stretched out her arms and turned carefully, brushing a wall with the tips of her fingers. She ran her palm over the wall, tracing large, rather squarish blocks of rough rock set against each other. What was this? The situation was becoming more bizarre. Sara shifted so that her back was against the wall and began inching around the room, finding it obvious as she moved that it was, in fact, circular. She stumbled, her right leg coming into contact with something firm. Sara stepped back. She didn’t know exactly why, but something told her she had touched a person. “Hello?” she ventured hesitantly. “Is – is anyone there?” There was no answer, but her voice seemed to echo a bit. The entire room must be made of stone. The person she had sensed was lower to the ground. Sara slid down the wall until she was resting on the floor and then reached out cautiously toward the form, scooting closer until she felt a cloth-like object. She drew her hand back quickly. “Is someone there?” she tried again, whispering. There was no response. She reached forward tentatively, running her hand lightly down the length of what seemed to be an arm encased in fabric, rough fabric, like a cloak or a

tunic, perhaps. It felt very thin. Maybe the person was asleep or injured. She snorted. Probably too much jazi. “Excuse me,” she said a bit louder to the form. “Are you asleep? Do you need help?” The stone room was silent, the only sound the slight residual echo of her voice. She moved to a kneeling position and edged closer. A little more boldly, she ran her hand over more of the figure. It was definitely a person – a man, she judged, from his size. She couldn’t see his clothing but it felt as if he wore a tunic that fell to his knees and some sort of thick leggings underneath. She groped a bit further down and felt heavy boots. His legs were stretched out and he seemed to be reclining against the wall. Sara sat back on her heels, staring into the blackness in the man’s direction, wondering what to do next. Well, there was nothing for it. She could spend all night alone, waiting for him to stir or she could wake him up now. She wanted to know what the hell she was doing in some circular, stone room when she was supposed to be in the middle of a semester of archaeology study in Tajikistan. She’d already had second thoughts about coming on the dig. The fieldwork was scheduled during her last semester of university and taking the time off meant she would be unable to complete the requirements of her double majors in archaeology and anthropology. That meant postponing her graduation and making the classes up in the fall. Her parents spared no breath impressing on her how utterly irresponsible and out of character it would be for her to throw away the opportunity to complete her degrees in a timely manner. They reminded her that there would be plenty of time to pursue fieldwork after she graduated, and obtained her masters’ degrees and, of course, her doctoral degrees. Then, if she was still interested, she could lead the fieldwork herself. Sara listened carefully to her parents. After all, she had never done anything out of the ordinary. She was twenty-four years old and generally allowed her life to be meticulously orchestrated and controlled by her parents and boyfriend, John. But this time she refused to back down, feeling a deep sense of urgency to travel to Tajikistan, if only to do one interesting thing with her life. Finally, persuaded by parents, John had given her an ultimatum. Stay with him and finish her degrees or their relationship was over. She wavered, but at the last minute had broken up with him and fled to the airport. John had been nearly too stunned for words, so certain she would never leave him. He begged her to stay and retracted his demands, finally telling her as she left that he would be waiting for her when she returned, ready to renew their relationship. Well, she was here now. Halfway across the world in a remote, isolated section of Tajikistan. It didn’t hurt that the professor leading the dig was drop-dead gorgeous with wavy blond hair and blue eyes, the movie star-meets-explorer type. She had long been

curious what his body was like under his customary lecture dress which wasn’t bad in itself – well-fitting jeans, cuffed shirts, tailored sports coats. In her class daydreams, Sara imagined working the buttons of his white shirt loose, a cut figure emerging, nice pectorals, hard six-pack, tanned and toned. And she wasn’t too far off. It was hot in this country and she had seen plenty of the professor’s torso while working at the field site. He was forty years old, but hell, that wasn’t enough of an age difference to diminish her appreciation of his body. Since she was here, she’d put “fuck the professor” on her mental ‘to-do’ list of things Sara Aster would never do. She hadn’t gotten the chance. Yet. But there was still time before they returned to America. She sighed. It wasn’t likely she’d be fucking anyone, anytime soon, if she didn’t figure out what was going on. “Sir,” said Sara, a bit of impatience in her voice now. “I’m really very sorry, but I need you to wake up. I need you to tell me where I am.” She pushed on his leg. There was some sort of padding under his clothes. She crawled forward and brushed against something sharp. “Ouch!” she cried, bringing her hand to her mouth. Something warm and sticky oozed from her small finger. She tasted it. Blood. She sucked at the wound, trying to get the flow to stop. Very carefully, she lowered her hand and felt something smooth resting next to the figure, even colder than the stone, lying blade up. Metal. A dagger or a sword. What? All right, she thought. Enough of this. Time to wake up this knight. She took hold of one shoulder and shook it a little. He didn’t make a sound and hardly moved. She brought her hand up to where she thought his head should be and felt a hard object. A helmet of some sort. Fine, she would touch his face, maybe give him a little slap. That should do the trick. She hesitated, a bit reluctant to wake up a stranger in such an intimate manner, but went ahead anyway, bringing her hand below his helmet, feeling for his cheek. She felt something smooth and hard, almost like wood. She recoiled a bit and then touched him again, tracing his face. She found his forehead, his cheek, his jaw. His mouth was hanging open and she could feel his teeth. Why wasn’t he moving? Then she brought her hand up to his nose and felt nothing. She pressed her fingers forward and found a hole where it should have been and then slid them upward finding two large, gaping holes for his eyes. Sara screamed, dropping her hand as if she had been burned and threw herself backwards in the dark. A skeleton. She had just tried to wake up a skeleton.

CHAPTER 2 Alone . . . Not Quite Shit. Shit. Shit. Now what? Sara stopped screaming as soon as she realized no one seemed to be able to hear her. Nothing else had moved, nothing came out of the darkness, she seemed entirely and completely alone. Well, except for a dead person dressed as if he was a few centuries off. Now, she was really worried. Why was it so dark in here? She had out gone to dinner tonight without bringing much of anything with her. She had removed her watch because she decided it detracted from her outfit. Had she worn it, she could have used its small green light for illumination. She had stopped carrying her cell phone the first week in Tajikistan since the service was almost nonexistent. But at least it would have had some light. As it was, she had nothing with her that would help her see. She took a deep breath. She could either wait for morning to come or explore more of the room now, in the dark. But what if morning never came? What if it was perpetually dark in here? She chided herself. What kind of place would be perpetually dark? Then a chill flooded her spine. She could be underground. If so, it truly would never become light in the chamber. She could starve to death, ending up reclined against a wall like the knight for the rest of eternity. The jazi seemed to have worn off and she felt wide awake. All right. She would explore now. It was a bit creepy knowing a dead person lay next to her, but she had to do it. Her heart suddenly pounded in her chest with a frightening thought. What if there were other dead people in here? She got to her feet, backed to the wall again, and moved away from the knight, circling the room in the opposite direction. This time she counted her paces, at least the paces measured by her sideways, shuffling steps, as she nervously edged around the chamber. She counted to thirty and had almost started to relax, when her left arm brushed something. She stopped, her pulse racing and turned toward it, carefully reaching over until she felt a thick, rough cloak. Following it down she thought it was actually more like a set of robes. This person was standing up, no, leaning rather, against the wall. He was taller and broader than she was and she assumed, another man. “Um . . . hello?” Sara asked, thinking it somehow not right to assume the man was dead. She cleared her throat. Still nothing. Steeling herself, she moved in front of the figure and reached around it, feeling its robes more thoroughly. Her right hand closed around a pole and she slid her hand up its shaft. She gasped as she bumped up against something wrapped around the pole that felt smooth and wooden. She felt the area slowly with her fingers. It was a bony hand, a skeletal hand, gripping the staff. That answered the question of dead or alive. No need for conversation with this one.

Gingerly, she reached up and felt around the man’s head. He was quite tall and she had to stand on her tiptoes to feel that he had some sort of hood draped over his empty face. As she stepped back, her foot accidentally entwined in his long robes and she stumbled, pulling on the fabric. The figure lurched forward from its stance on the wall, its heavy weight, even with only bones, crushing Sara to the floor. She screamed as she heard some of the bones shattering and the heavy staff fell painfully against her cheek. She scrambled out from under the cloaked skeleton as quickly as she could, noticing that it seemed to be not entirely intact now, more like in several pieces. Ugh. When she finally collected herself, she backed to the wall again and continued counting paces. After fifteen shuffling movements, she bumped into something soft with the toe of her sandal. Taking a deep breath, Sara knelt and felt a smaller figure which she thought was a woman. This time she easily felt thin bones emerging from hard leather objects which seemed like arm guards. The figure also wore something on its torso which felt like a breastplate that jutted out a bit at the top. It had on a short dress of some kind, perhaps a skirt. Sara found a small sheathed dagger in a belt at the woman’s waist and a small round shield loose on the floor. The woman’s hand was wrapped around a hard metal pole about eighteen inches long attached to a metal chain. Sara followed the cold links of the chain until she came to a very heavy round object with sharp, metal spikes. It must be a flail. Sara shuddered and hastily withdrew her hand. At least she hadn’t knocked over that skeleton. Now that would have hurt. She continued fifteen more paces until she reached the knight again. She made some quick mental calculations. The chamber was sixty small paces around. The knight, cloaked man, and woman seemed to be evenly spaced at intervals along the wall, with an empty place across from the woman where Sara had awoken. Each skeleton appeared to be armed. Recalling the echoing of her screams, she judged the chamber wasn’t very far across. Still, she needed to find out how what, if anything, was in the middle. She took another breath and walked forward, holding her arms outstretched for balance. After a few steps, she brushed against something solid with both sandals. Wincing a bit at the contact, she bent forward and felt with her hands. There was a low, circular barrier fashioned from rough-cut stone blocks, like the outer walls but on a smaller scale. It stood about two feet high and she could just barely reach the other side. She straightened and stood staring down where she envisioned it to be, although she could not discern its opening in the pitch blackness. What was it? Some kind of well? Hmmm. She wondered if it had a bottom. She knelt next to it and extended her arm into the middle of the opening. Her hand seemed to reach below the level of the floor of the chamber. She bent forward farther so that her arm went in past her shoulder and waved it around a bit. She felt no bottom or any resistance inside. Frowning, she withdrew her arm.

Then the room began to rumble slightly and the faintest of lights seemed to glow from within the depths of the well-like enclosure. The shaking increased and Sara glanced around the chamber, hoping it was built solidly. If the rocks crumbled, it would be a quick death without question. The quaking finally stopped. The light had increased in intensity and she could now see around her. She had been right about the chamber, except for one detail. Three skeletons lay evenly spaced against the walls, one empty place behind her. The knight lay at her right, the blade of his sword barely glinting in the emerging light. Ahead of her, the skeleton of the woman lay against the wall, her skull tilted down, chin resting on her collarbone, garbed in light armor, clutching a flail. And on Sara’s left, face down, the remnants of a cloaked skeleton, the hood folded over emptiness, its bony hand still wrapped around the staff, various parts of bones scattered around the floor. Its skull had broken free and rolled to within inches of Sara’s foot. She started. Then she looked up. What she had failed to notice, she could not have seen in the dark. Above her, thick, ropy cords crisscrossed the ceiling, long, gray and silvery. She saw flashes of movement which she quickly discerned were rather large, black spiders scuttling through webs, their beady, red eyes peering down at her through the filaments as they moved. She guessed they weighed ten to twenty pounds each. Repulsed, Sara looked back at the low, circular enclosure in the center of the room. The light from within abruptly grew brighter and she stepped back, shading her eyes. An indefinite, filmy shape slowly emerged from the brightness, flashed, and then seemed to suck the light into itself. She lowered her hand. The shape undulated before Sara, goldblack, like low torchlight. Sara blinked rapidly. Maybe she really did have too much jazi. She made a mental note never, ever to have any again. The image addressed her. “Sara Aster. You have been brought here to be tested. If you succeed, you shall be trained. If you fail, you shall die.” Sara swallowed. She could think of nothing to say in response, her mind uncharacteristically blank. The filmy shape spoke again. “If you wish to live, you shall first gaze into the Metus Lacus. In it, will appear your worst fear. You may choose what you may to face it. Weapons, armor, anything you imagine shall be yours, save one. No living being may assist you – you must face your enemy alone. If you are overcome, you shall immediately die and your body returned to this chamber to remain here forever.” Sara stared, her wits beginning to return. Metus Lacus? She tried to recall her Latin. Oh, yes. Pool of Fear. That did not sound comforting at all. The mist writhed before her, shimmering ephemerally and then continued. “If you conquer your enemy – your fear – you must then look upon the Desiderium Lacus. In its

reflection, your greatest desire shall appear. You must resist what you see. If you give in to want, you shall die and remain in this chamber eternally.” The figure swirled, some of the mist remaining in the well, as if it was connected to something below. It grew fainter and then brightened, speaking again. “The visions will seem as real as your very existence. They are difficult tasks, difficult trials. It is not likely you will succeed.” It seemed to give her a measuring look. “If you are successful for some reason, you will be returned here alive. But you must still face a final challenge. To escape from this chamber, you must use what you have acquired on your journeys through the pools.” The figure began to fade slightly. “Wait,” called Sara, trying to think of something to ask it, certain she did not have enough information to complete the tasks. “Why is this necessary? Why are you doing this?” she blurted. The figure looked at her consideringly. It was neither man nor woman, neither earthly nor spirit. It appeared to hesitate as it took in the cloaked skeleton splayed out on the floor, its gaze almost curious. Then, it seemed to come to a decision and answered her. “Every two hundred years, we choose a mortal to be tested. Most are unworthy. I expect you to be no different. As you can see,” the shape waved at the wall behind her, “your place already awaits.” Sara noticed that when the figure spoke, a face materialized for the purpose of words and as it gestured, fingers or a limb appeared. When it fell silent, these figments faded back into the filmy light. “But why me? Why choose me?” The figure swirled, almost contemplatively. “You are but one of many candidates that have been chosen throughout time. There are many such chambers, each with places for four candidates. At the death of the fourth, each chamber seals and may never be opened again. There have been many such candidates and many such chambers.” The mist drew indistinct hands together, giving the impression of fingers steepling. “This time, we have chosen seven mortals to be tested.” Sara swallowed. We? “But you are mine,” it continued, a bit possessively. ”I will train you if you succeed, I will bring your death if you do not.” “Train me? For what?” The specter darkened and for a moment, Sara thought she had displeased it. Then it spoke again. “There is no need for you to know unless you survive.”

The figure paled, the vapor thinning slightly. Sara could now make out the opposite wall of the chamber through it. Her mind raced. She should think of something else to ask it, something else that might help. Why was her brain so sluggish and uncooperative when it normally ran at an almost supersonic speed? Suddenly, the image winked out. A residual signature glow lit the room dimly. Then she heard the figure’s voice again, coming from nowhere, but everywhere, at the same time. “With unquenchable fire, comes unquenchable thirst.” The afterglow disappeared and it was pitch black again. Sara’s heart began to pound. Then a soft radiance began to shine from within the circular stone basin into which the figure had vanished. Sara now knew what it was. The Metus Lacus – the Pool of Fear. She knelt down and touched the loose skull by her feet, purposefully running her fingers around its vacant eye sockets. Yes, it was real enough. She didn’t think she was dreaming . . . yet. But it appeared she was about to enter a dream, a dream from which she might easily wake up dead, like the others in the room. She shuddered. What had they each faced? And why had they all failed? She closed her eyes, took a deep cleansing breath, stepped to the well and looked inside. ***** The shapeless mist waited patiently on the edge of dark plane. Although it had other things to do in the intervening time, these interesting opportunities came only once every two hundred years. It hoped that this event would not be disappointing. Most mortals never made it past the Metus Lacus. One even refused to look in the pool and died a slow death of thirst and starvation in the chamber. How incredibly boring. What a relief that had only happened once. The mist had viewed plenty of exciting scenarios – mortals facing serpents, lions, dragons, warlords, even gods. One mortal, a long time ago, had conjured up in his fear a tidal wave of enormous proportions. The situation looked to be rather appealing until the man stood paralyzed and let the wave simply swallow him and wash him out to sea. Disappointing indeed. Those few who made it to the Desiderium Lacus usually provided a bit more amusement. The most common settings involved gold, jewels, power and occasionally other mortals, the latter being the most entertaining and generally proving the most difficult to resist. Giving in to temptation on any particular desire resulted in a very painful, drawn-out death. If the mist had the ability to sigh, it would have. None of its mortals had ever made it past the Desiderium Lacus to the final challenge of exiting the chamber. However gratifying these scenarios were and however enjoyable the deaths, it longed for someone

to succeed, for someone to train. It wasn’t fair that the other mists ended up occasionally with a successful mortal to train, even if it was the newest mist. Finally, the mist felt the surges of power as the six other forms readied their own planes for the challenges. Of the seven mortals selected this time, this mist sensed something in its female mortal that gave it a small sense of hope she might actually succeed. Then again, it had sensed all manner of qualities such as strength, bravery, loyalty and altruism in others and not one had ever survived. Well, it would find out soon enough about this one.

CHAPTER 3 Enter the Dream At first, Sara saw nothing except a lightly glowing pool of water, the stone walls reflected on its surface. Then the pool seemed to grow brighter as it did when the mist had emerged except that the light became dazzling and quickly blinded her with its brilliance. She felt a strange sensation as if she was being drawn through jelly and then the brightness receded. She was standing in a manicured yard outside of a large, white house with columns on either side of the front entrance. She looked around and saw that there were many similar houses up and down the street. She saw no one moving about. The front door to the house was open and Sara felt that she should enter. She walked up the steps and hesitated at the fancy, glass door. It did not occur to her that this was a dream. It seemed very real, as if she had simply walked down the street and casually decided to enter the house. She did not even think of the chamber or the warnings the mist had spoken as she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She did not recognize the house although it was elaborately and obviously, expensively, furnished. She crossed the empty foyer and walked through a large open doorway into what looked to be a study. There behind a large, mahogany desk sat . . . Sara. What? Then Sara suddenly recalled where she was. The Pool of Fear. Her greatest fear was . . . herself? She recalled what the mist had said about weapons. Was she supposed to face off with herself? Was she dangerous? Did she need a gun, a butcher knife, a taser perhaps? She shook her head. She could not think of what she might possibly need and so did not summon anything. She watched herself closely. She was older, possibly around fifty. The woman did not seem to notice Sara standing just inside the entrance to the study. She studied herself. On closer look, she thought she looked terrible. The older woman had her hair drawn up into a tight bun, dark circles under her eyes, and a defeated look about her. Her eyes looked vacant and drawn. The phone rang. Sara watched as the woman answered it. “Hello, mother. . . . Yes, mother. . . . Of course, mother. . . . No, John’s not here. He had to stay overnight for his job again. . . . What? Oh yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired. I’ve been up since five this morning grading papers and working on the grant applications. . . . All right, I’ll see you and dad here at six this evening. . . . Yes, the housekeeper cleaned your bedroom. . . . . Yes, I spoke to her about your toiletries. Everything should be arranged in your bathroom just the way you like it this time. . . . Minced pie sounds fine for dinner. . . . I love you too. I’ll see you tonight. Bye.” The woman hung up the phone and sighed, resting her forehead in her hands. Sara walked up to the desk and moved behind it. A stack of what looked like class

assignments were piled in front of the older woman, a thick, stapled group of papers on her left. Sara glanced at the top sheet of the stapled papers. Below the typewritten title for the grant application, it read “Sara Aster, Professor, Ph.D. Anthropology, Ph.D. Archaeology, Ph.D. Geography.” Wow, Sara thought. Three doctoral degrees? So, she had actually studied geography also, just like her parents were always pushing for her to do. “With more degrees, you are more marketable,” they would say. “Just think of the job security.” That was a lot of schooling. No wonder the woman looked tired. Judging from the look of things, she certainly didn’t do much fieldwork, if any. The phone rang again. Sara noticed that there was a caller ID window on the phone and watched her older self glance at it. It read “Bella Rose.” The older woman simply watched the phone ring and listened numbly to the answering machine. “Hi, John. It’s Bella.” There was an unmistakable purr in the woman’s voice. “I know you don’t like me to call you at home, but I can’t reach you on your cell. I’m in San Fran this weekend. I know you are too. Let’s get together tonight. Check your messages and call me. You know the number. Ciao.” Sara understood immediately the implications of the message – her husband, or at least her dream-husband, seemed to be having an affair. What Sara noticed immediately was that the older Sara did not seem the least bit surprised or disturbed by the message. Instead she had a tired, resigned look on her face. The woman reached over, pressed the delete on the machine and then left the study. Sara followed her up a sweeping flight of stairs and down a wide hallway. The older woman paused at the second door on the right and walked in. Sara followed. The room was spacious with a king size four-poster bed covered by a pretty bedspread, a sofa, two armchairs, and an antique bureau. Sara walked to the bureau and looked over the framed photos resting on it. There was one from her wedding day. She didn’t look much older in the photo than she was now. She had married John. She looked at several other photos over the course of the years. They didn’t appear to have any children. Her parents were in every single photo with them, even on their vacations. Sara glanced across the room. Her older self had opened a door in the middle of the wall and was stepping into another room. Sara walked to the door and looked through. The room was slightly smaller with an identical four-poster bed and matching bedspread. Over the bed hung a framed, embroidered stitching with the names Gina and Fred in a heart with an arrow through it. Her parents? With a room right next to hers and John’s? With a door connecting them? Sara thought she might be sick. Without warning, the scene dissolved and she was sitting on a quilt spread over the grass in a downtown park. The day was warm and sunny and there were other people in the distance enjoying the park. She looked down at herself. She was wearing the same white sundress and white sandals she had been wearing in Dushanbe. Someone was coming toward her, waving and smiling. It was John.

“Sara!” he said, with delight. John always sounded delighted. She smiled at him. “Thanks for meeting me. I know it’s hard to take time off with your schedule. A halfhour is all I need. I brought lunch for us.” He shook the bag, rattling the plastic containers inside. “Sushi. Your favorite,” he said delightedly as he sat down next to her. “Sara, I know you like me to be direct so I’ll just come right out and say it. I’ve already asked your father’s permission. I’d like you to marry me. Your mother gave me your grandmother’s ring.” He fished in his pocket for a small box and opened it. Inside was a tarnished, silver ring with a beautiful inset opal. It was on a chain. “I haven’t had a chance to get it re-sized, but you can wear it as a necklace until I do.” He took it out of the box and hung it around Sara’s neck. He looked satisfied and opened the bag, handing Sara a container with two sushi rolls inside. He opened his sushi and began to eat with relish, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Then he looked up her, frowning. She hadn’t touched her food. “What’s wrong?” Sara just stared at him. This didn’t feel like a dream. This felt real. She knew this scenario was truly and actually waiting for her when she returned from Tajikistan. This was not a preview of her life – this was her life. “I – I didn’t give you an answer, John.” He looked at her, still chewing. “Oh,” he said, relieved. “I thought something was wrong with the sushi. I bought it from Tony’s. Your favorite.” He continued eating thoughtfully for a few moments more and then said, “We should get married right away. I know you have a few classes to finish up for your master’s degrees and then will want to start your doctoral programs right away. Knowing you, Sara, you’ll probably enroll in two, maybe even three, at the same time. You’re so over-achieving, just like your parents always tell me.” He grinned at her, his green eyes mirthful. “But John, I haven’t given you an answer.” “What?” he asked, his mouth full of sushi. “An answer. About marrying you.” John’s cell phone rang. “Sorry. Just a minute, dear.” He flipped it open and looked at the name. He winked at Sara and then turned away from her slightly. “Hello? . . . Hi, uh . . . No, it’s not really a good time. . . . . No, I can’t really talk. Not right now. I’m uh, with someone. . . .” He glanced over at Sara a bit furtively, his mouth in a frown. “Uh, all right. That sounds good. . . . Tonight? . . . Er, yes. . . . I’m looking forward to it too.”

He flipped the phone shut and gave Sara a tight smile. “Business. That’s the nature of being an entrepreneur. I have a dinner appointment tonight with a potential client. It might go late – it’s an important account. You and I will have to have our celebratory dinner tomorrow night.” He noticed her look of disapproval. “Sara, stop worrying. I’m only working hard to make us successful and wealthy, beyond our wildest dreams. My business is already going well. I’ll be able to put you through as much school as you want. No loans. I know you’ve thought of doing fieldwork, but there’s no need. You can continue with school as long as you want. Earn a degree in every subject. You’re suited for it. It will be better that way, anyway. Your life is your oyster, dear.” John replaced his empty plastic container in the paper bag and got up from the blanket. “I know you only had a half-hour between classes so I’ll let you get back to it. Listen, don’t let the wedding plans worry you – your parents practically have the entire event planned out to the last detail. In fact, the invitations are ready to go to the printer this week – as soon as we choose from two dates your parents selected. Whichever one matches your course schedule the best. We shouldn’t have to do anything but show up.” He grinned and made to leave, but then turned at the last second, bent down and gave Sara a kiss on the cheek. He straightened. “Ciao, dear.” Sara sat there numbly, watching John walk away. She looked down at the still-opened jewelry box resting next to her unopened container of sushi and then her eyes flew to the ring around her neck. She fingered it. It was old, delicate, beautiful. The silver was tarnished, almost black, but she could see the inlaid filigree. The opal was nearly incandescent, a swirl of colors within the whiteness of the stone. Sara felt like she was suffocating. John hadn’t waited for an answer. Her parents had approved and that was as good as “yes” to him. They could give him an answer for her. Her parents had probably decided when she and John would marry and exactly when John would propose. He and her parents got along famously. They enthusiastically invested in his new business, bankrolling it for the most part, confident it would pay off in riches for their daughter. Being proposed to was nothing like Sara had imagined. But the marriage did make sense. She would marry John, continue with her degrees, probably end up teaching. She did like learning and his business was doing well. He could support them, they could buy a nice house. She had wanted to do fieldwork, her first academic love, but John was right. She couldn’t really spend time in the field while pursuing all those degrees. And her parents didn’t approve of her traveling overseas. They felt it was dangerous and didn’t want her to be gone for too long at one time. She looked down at the ring again. So, this was it. Her life. All planned out from start to finish, to the detail, as always. And she was getting married. Why then, did she feel like crying?

The tears came before she could stop them, like pressure built up behind a stuck faucet. She bent her head and let them fall onto her knees, spattering over her white dress. She looked down at the sushi container. John hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t touched it. Had he even noticed her? Ugh. Did he even love her? Did she love him? The last time they had had sex was nearly three months ago. True, she was busy with studies and he was busy with his work, but three months? And he didn’t even seem to have been all that interested, taking about two minutes to climax, roll off of her and fall asleep, oblivious that she had barely participated. He had never been the world’s greatest lover before, but he certainly wasn’t hot in the sack now. It was ridiculous to want something more in life than security, wasn’t it? Sara became more and more upset. She looked up and saw John just as he disappeared into the throng of pedestrians at the sidewalk, waiting to cross back to the row of office buildings across from the park. Dare she say anything and disrupt what she had worked so hard to achieve with her life? If she refused to marry John, it would upset the balance of her entire future. She could hardly breathe, thinking of how bitterly disappointed her parents would be. They would never come to terms with it. The light changed and the pedestrians started to cross the street. Sara started to choke. Really choke, as if she was dying. In fact, she was. “John!” Sara called out. Her voice seemed supernaturally loud, carrying across the park. Several people turned and looked in her direction. “John!” she called again, watching the crowd of people in the intersection. Her shoulders started to droop. It was too late. Too late to keep the pendulum from swinging, the invitations from going out, the ball of her life set in motion. Then, she looked up and saw John in his turtleneck and tan sports coat, standing on the corner of the park intersection, looking toward her. She held up her hand, shading the sun from her eyes. The light changed again and cars drove past. John waited by the crosswalk, still staring at her. Sara jumped up, leaving the quilt and sushi behind and ran across the grass. She stopped before him, breathless. “What is it, Sara?” he asked coldly. “I need to get back to work and I imagine you need to get back to your classes.” “John,” she said, looking at him helplessly. She looked across the street. The red blinking hand in the crosswalk was counting down from twenty. She closed her eyes tightly. “I can’t marry you.” He started at her blankly for a few moments. Then he laughed. “I thought for a minute, you said you wouldn’t marry me. I’ll see you later Sara. I’ve really got to get to work.” “I did say that, John. I won’t marry you.”

John pursed his lips, his mouth stretched in a thin, angry line. “You can’t ‘not’ marry me, Sara. It’s all been arranged. Your parents –” “My parents don’t make my decisions, John. I make them.” He stared at her as if she had gone completely mad. “I’m sorry, John,” she said softly. “Really, I am.” “Fine. I’ll give you more time,” he spat, looking over his shoulder as the pedestrians once again entered the crosswalk. “No, John. It’s not that. I don’t need more time. I – I don’t think you’re the one for me.” “What do you mean I’m not the one for you? Of course, I’m the one for you. We’ve been together four years. I’m practically a son to your parents.” His eyes shifted. “They’ve – they’ve put a lot of money into my business, Sara.” “Oh, so you need to marry me to keep their money?” “No – it’s just that – well, it would make things rather awkward, don’t you think?” “What is awkward, John, is that you asked me to marry you today and never once said you love me. In fact, you didn’t even really ask me – you just assumed I’d said yes.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about? Romance, Sara?” he asked bitterly. “You’ve always been the one who never wanted anything on Valentine’s Day, nothing for your birthday, no roses, no candy, everything needing to be practical.” He said the word as if it was profane. “Do I love you? Does it really matter? I can provide everything you need. Money, a house, freedom for you to study, your parents’ approval. Don’t lie to yourself, Sara – that’s exactly what you need – mommy and daddy to approve. Well, they approve . . . of me.” Sara spluttered. “How dare you insinuate I would marry you just because my parents want me to? I have to love you too, you know.” ”Well you do, don’t you? That’s enough for both of us. I really have to go.” He turned to the street. “Stop.” She placed her hand on his arm. John spun at her touch, his eyes angry. She quailed at the look in them, releasing him and taking a step back. “I – I don’t think I love you, John.” He continued to stare at her, his green eyes almost hateful. “I don’t want to – I’m not going to – marry you. Not now. Not ever.” She held his gaze. “You’re making a big mistake, Sara.”

She sighed. “One that’s mine to make.” She began to remove the chain with the ring from around her neck. “Keep it,” he hissed. “It was your grandmother’s anyway. I don’t want the damn thing.” The crosswalk light turned white. John gave her one last spiteful look and then turned on his heel and walked away. Sara fainted. When she woke, she felt the cool, hard stone underneath her. The well was glowing, lighting the chamber, again throwing off just enough illumination by which to see. She looked around. She was leaning against the wall facing opposite the remains of the woman, evenly spaced with the other skeletons, arranged just in the manner the mist had said she would if she ended up dead. But she wasn’t dead, was she? ***** Vapor curled on the sides of the plane, the misty being watching with interest as darkness raced through the scene, sweeping inward and obliterating the scenario the woman had created. Now that had been something different. The mist was used to seeing all manner of fears, most often terrifying, supernatural creatures, but a fear that was the mortal itself? If the mist had eyes, tears of mirth would be leaking from them. The mortal hadn’t even conjured a single weapon. Perhaps she was a bit dense and made it through the scenario on blind luck. The mist was unfamiliar with a setting such as the one it had just witnessed. It had found it difficult to gauge whether the mortal was going to succeed or fail, but toward the end, it was certain it felt failure. In fact, as the man the mortal had conjured had disappeared in the throng of other mortals before he had been called back, it had seen blackness coil at the corners of the plain, indicating the end of the scenario. But somehow . . . somehow, the mortal had faced her fear and lived. It put out mental feelers for the other mists. Five of the seven mortals who had been tested were dead. There were only two left, including this one. It invited the mists who had lost their mortals to the Metus Lacus to join it and watch this mortal face her next challenge. It was sure that after it described what had happened, most of them would accept the offer. What followed was certain to be interesting. ***** Sara panted on the floor, her eyes closed, trying to regain her bearings. She did several inhalations and exhalations from her yoga training, centered herself, and opened her eyes again. She studied the chamber, taking in the three dead bodies, the softly glowing cistern, the indistinct movements above her head that she knew to be enormous arachnids. She must still be alive. Now that the harsh reality of her situation was upon her again, she realized how close to death she had actually come. Had she not objected to marrying John, she knew it would have meant her death. The dream might not have been real, but her greatest fear was

herself and whether she had the fortitude to do what she wanted with her life instead of having it dictated and controlled by others. Had she succumbed to her dream-self, she had no doubt her real self would have died, disappeared mysteriously on the trip to Tajikistan, meeting an unknown fate that even the American consulate would not have been able to solve. She shuddered. So, she had to face her greatest desire now. Sara wondered what she would possibly see in the pool. She understood all too well now how difficult it was to separate dream feelings from actual feelings. It was very, very real in the pool. She didn’t want to die. She would just have to resist whatever was in there – wealth, success, perhaps fame even. She would be ready. Sara got to her feet and walked forward until she reached the low wall of the pool. She leaned over and looked into the glowing water without hesitating. She saw the bright light and felt the familiar feeling of being pulled through a thick gelatin. Then, the light faded, the mist receded and she found herself in an enormous, hideskin tent.

CHAPTER 4 The Pool of Desire Sara looked around. The tent was huge, almost the size of a small house. There were hides on the ground and torches set in low holders around the walls of the room. A rough-looking wooden table and three chairs occupied part of the tent. In the center of the room, a fire had been built in a stone hearth. On the far side, there was a large, low bed piled with dark furs. On the other side, there was a low stone bench. The hides covering the entrance to the cave flapped a bit. She could hear the wind howling outside, muted by the thick skins draped over the structure. The air coming from the slight gap in the entrance flap seemed bitterly cold, but it was warm in the tent, the fire being adequate to heat the enclosure. She looked down. She no longer wore her white sundress, but instead a dress made of some sort of animal skins. It was light brown and fell to mid thigh. It seemed to have been tailored-made for her, form-fitting, hugging her curves precisely. At first glance, the hem looked uneven, almost ragged, but looking closer, Sara saw that the workmanship of the dress was exquisite, the dress carefully cut and sewn to an irregularly patterned design. It had thin straps for sleeves, a high leather collar that ran around her neck, and a large open area plunging to her breasts. Entwined metal rings ran down her neck, connecting the collar to the bosom. A leather bra encased her breasts and two matching rows of chains ran from the bra to the outward most points of her hips, attaching to her skirt, leaving her back and belly bare. Her feet and legs were also bare, her fair skin contrasting with the shades of browns surrounding her. She also wore a cloak, a light cloak, attached with a gold clasp at her throat. There was something else. The opal ring was still on the chain around her neck. So, what was this? Was she on a dig? An expedition? Her greatest desire was to go camping – in some sort of slave girl-princess outfit? She walked barefoot to the fire over the soft skins and looked into the flames, absorbing the warmth. Suddenly, she heard low, angry voices. A group of men stopped outside the entrance flap arguing with each other. Then, the hides lifted and one of the men walked inside, dropping the skin behind him. She looked across the fire at him, her mouth falling open. A bulky figure covered in a thick pile of furs strode to the far corner of the tent, his face obscured by what looked like a giant lion, complete with rows of sharp white teeth, drawn over the top of his head. There was a light dusting of snow covering his garments. The man stopped by a low stone table and grunted, removing the head of the lion and shaking the remainder of the lionskin cloak from his shoulders. Underneath, he wore more skins and a chain mail coat that glittered, catching the torchlight. He turned around, his hands unfastening his clothing, his black eyes fixed on Sara. His skin was dark brown and he had thick black hair and a hard set to his smooth, but rugged face. His eyes were like pools of lust, boring into her, desire evident in their obsidian

depths. Why was he looking at her like that? She realized she was staring at him and dropped her eyes, blushing heavily. When she looked back up, trying to be a bit more surreptitious, she realized he had not stopped looking at her. He had finished removing his armor and furs. He sat on the stone bench calmly unlacing his black boots and stepped out of his heavy, fur-lined leggings. Then he rose. Sara’s breath caught in her throat. In all her life she had never seen such a perfect specimen of a man. He was heavily muscled, but not to the point of being bulky. He had not an ounce of fat on him. He moved with the grace of a lion, supple and agile. If he moved that way undressing, how would he move in other situations? Sara bit her lip, thinking of him taking her, his hard, muscled body riding hers, plunging ceaselessly into her body as she arched in the firelight, lost to pleasure. How would his black eyes look as he took her, burning down into her, possessed with a primal, animal lust? God, a man as strong as that would be a powerful lover, strong, sure, thorough, but probably not gentle. No, probably not gentle at all. With a start, she came back to reality. He had not completely undressed. Heavy, darkgold armbands encircled his corded upper arms. He wore a loincloth of sorts, made of split leather and mail. It looked to be open underneath and she imagined there was no more under the garment than it appeared. He also wore a short sword buckled about his waist. His body glistened in the torchlight, as if it had been oiled. And he was still looking at her, his black eyes penetrating, as if he could see right through her very soul. He fixed her with a smoldering gaze and walked toward her slowly, purposefully, his musculature rippling in the firelight. Dear god, she breathed. ***** The mist looked appreciatively on the scenario before it. Now this was something to which it could relate. The other male candidate had died and the female mortal was the only one left. All of the mists had gathered to watch this woman compete with her desire. Although it was interesting to watch the mortals die, it was becoming a bit tiresome to have so few successes. It had been a long time since they had a worthy mortal to train. All hoped that at least one of the mortals would survive this time. ***** Sara held her breath as the man moved closer, reaching the hearth and circling around it, as if she were prey, until he stood behind her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, hotter than the flames before her, as if she would be burned if he touched her. She closed her eyes, the world beginning to recede, her breath quickening, focusing only on the presence of the godly man behind her who she felt was about to consume her within a phoenix of lust.

“Sara.” The man’s voice jolted her. He had spoken her name, she was sure of it, although he had said it rather gutturally and it had come out sounding more like “Sareta.” His voice was low and sensuous. “It has been so long. Do you not have any greeting for Arystan?” He lifted her hair and gently bit the side of her neck. Sara felt as if she might melt. Suddenly, he whirled her roughly to face him. She stared up at him, her blue eyes wide. She was surprised, but not frightened. “You look as if you’ve never seen me before, woman,” Arystan said, growling. “Has it been that long? I will have to make you remember me then.” He pulled Sara to him strongly, causing her body to jerk. She let out a cry as her flesh met his. It was hard, god so hard, and firm, alive, fiery. And his touch, strong and lustful, as if he could, and would, devour her. She could feel his enormous erection beneath the cloth at his loins and without thinking, she pressed into it further, grinding it into her abdomen. “I see your body recalls me now, consort,” the man said lustfully, giving her another jerk. His eyes flicked briefly to the small chain she wore around her neck, the opal ring tucked between her breasts, but he said nothing. Sara looked up at him helplessly, her blue eyes glazed with desire, a powerful ache between her thighs. Something very dim in the back of her mind registered a warning, something cautionary. She could not quite identify what the voice was trying to tell her. Perhaps it was to take this more slowly. Fuck that. That was insane. She had a timeless connection to this man – to Arystan – that transcended rationality. She did not understand why, but knew it to be true in the depths of her soul. It was right to be here. It was right to be with him. He ran his tongue almost savagely up the side of her face as she closed her eyes and tried to step back. He tightened his arms around her, holding her firmly in place. “You are not going anywhere. You like my touch,” he said, taking the side of her chin in his teeth and pulling, biting just softly enough not to break the skin. He licked at her lips brusquely and she opened her mouth to him, but he did not accept the kiss. Instead, he wrapped one hand in her hair and tilted her head back slightly, bringing his tongue and teeth to her ear, tracing it sharply and then biting around the delicate shell. She writhed beneath his touch, crying out, but he held her immobile. “Yes, I think you like my touch very much, woman,” he growled. Sara could feel wetness gush from between her thighs, unable to control her responses to his handling of her. She realized abruptly that she had nothing on under the leather skirt, as she felt the slipperiness roll down the inside of her leg.

Arystan stopped. “I can smell your arousal and it is like ambrosia to me. Nectar of the spirits. Before we are done, woman, I will taste it, swallow it, drink the honey from your fountain. Be sure of it.” Sara’s knees buckled and he yanked her back up by her arms, letting go of her for a moment to reach toward her throat and unclasp the cloak. “You won’t be needing this for warmth tonight,” he said, tossing it carelessly toward the back of the tent. He began to writhe against her body sensuously, his hands roaming over her curves, lifting her skirt and letting it fall back, pushing up her breasts, running his hands over her belly and hips, then grabbing her buttocks and pulling them forward forcefully. Sara moved against him, emitting little cries of pleasure, reason having abandoned her, the only thing that mattered now the dark god in the firelight, devastatingly handsome, passionate, intense, ready to have her, take her, fuck her senseless. Arystan begin to back Sara up toward the large pile of furs against the wall of the tent. She felt the back of her legs brush against the bed and he stopped for a moment. He looked down at her hungrily, his eyes locked to hers, and then he fiercely kissed her. Sara felt she would explode with his ardor, his deep hunger, it was almost as if he was trying to consume her, his tongue forcing its way past hers deeply into the recesses of her throat. She couldn’t breathe, but didn’t want to, as she tried to kiss him back, Arystan all but taking over, controlling the speed, the depth, the possession of her mouth. Then he pulled away abruptly, looked down at her, his black eyes glinting, and pushed her back forcibly onto the bed.

CHAPTER 5 Falling In Sara felt herself falling and then her body landed on the pile of furs, bouncing jerkily, as she stared up at Arystan, her legs falling open slightly. His black eyes gleamed as he watched her skirt ride up higher on her thighs and he licked his lips. Sara’s eyes were hooded, wanting him, almost impatient now, wondering why he did not follow her down to the bed. Instead, he turned away and walked a few paces to the table, slowly unfastening the bronzed bands from his biceps. He removed them carefully and set them down on the table. His torso was fully exposed now, the sinew of his arms apparent as he worked at his sword belt, removing it and laying it on the table as well. Then, he turned to face Sara and released his loincloth, letting it drop to the furs. He stepped out of it, his mouth turning up seductively. Sara’s mouth fell open as she looked upon Arystan’s glistening organ for the first time. It was fully erect and had to be at least ten inches long. It was so enormous, she didn’t think she would even be able to fit her hand around its girth. The uncircumcised head was purpled and leaking fluid, blood coursing through it, turning it a darker shade than Arystan’s skin. John had always been proud of his maleness, but god, he had nothing . . . nothing, on the man standing before her who looked absolutely ready to pounce on her. Arystan strode forward, his cock bobbing somewhat as it pointed toward her out of a thick nest of black, curling hair. He stopped next to the bed of furs where Sara lay, undulating, her hands pulling up at her skirts, running over her own breasts, looking up sexily at him, moaning, more than ready for him. His eyes glinted for a moment and then he moved to the bottom of the bed, crawling up and kneeling below her. She continued playing with her breasts, her hands toying with the chains that bound her outfit together and when he made no move toward her whimpered, “Arystan.” She was aflame with need. “Please.” “I see you’ve finally recalled my name, woman,” he said, reaching for her legs and thrusting them apart forcibly. Sara gasped, feeling more lubrication slide out of her opening. She really did have nothing on under the leather skirt. Arystan reached under her dress, feeling the curves of her ass, grabbing both buttocks firmly, and then continued sliding his hands around, reaching her sex. He mashed one thumb down hard on her clit and Sara screamed, buckling underneath him, writhing in ecstasy and agony as he began to work his roughened fingers over her, drawing them down through her labia and then plunging one finger up inside her. She choked back a scream again, arching, desperate for more than his fingers, muttering a stream of obscenities as she pleaded with him to take her. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her thighs, jerking her ass up onto his knees and pulled her up higher so that her back was in the air and her shoulders pressed down into

the thick furs. He wasn’t going to was he? Good god, John had never done this – he refused to do this. He might brush his hand down there a few times but then it was back to him, all about his pleasure. Arystan looked down at Sara’s wide blue eyes, his features masculine, stern, and yet something in his eyes told her how much she meant to him and she knew this was no passing dalliance, no one-time tryst. She must have a history with this man. A history of desire. Her greatest desire. Shit. Sara started to panic, her situation flooding back, snippets of the being’s voice in the chamber floating before her. If you give in to want, you shall die. Oh god, no. She tried to fight what was happening to her – the powerful emotions, the need coursing through her, the feel of Arystan’s hands wrapped around her thighs, his eyes hard as diamonds staring at her. This was a dream, it had to be. She had to wake up – or leave – or resist. Something. Yes, resist. That was it. She had to resist him. Arystan took one more look at the woman under him, her long, honeyed hair spread behind her on the furs like a halo around her head, a melek, a devaduta, his angel, fallen to earth from some distant land, for him and him alone. Then he tightened his grip on her thighs and lowered his mouth to her core. Sara screeched, pushing and pulling at his black hair futilely, Arystan not budging as he lashed her clit mercilessly with his tongue, applying pressure, then releasing, pulling on her sensitive bud with his mouth, his hot breath threatening to burn her to ash. He took her small button gently between his teeth, almost snarling, and then soothed it with his tongue, as she howled and pleaded, begging for him to stop, the pleasure too intense, all thought and logic gone from her. He moved his tongue lower, parting her labia and then dipped it into her center, tasting her sweet juices flowing freely, drinking of her nectar and then swirled his muscle into her, causing her to shriek his name over and over as she gasped and writhed, tears now flowing freely from the corners of her eyes. Sara was coated in a sheen of perspiration, rivulets running down her neck, pooling in her cleavage, gliding over her bare torso, collecting in her navel, as if her entire body had been heavily oiled. Still Arystan did not stop, teasing her ruthlessly, stroking in and out of her with his tongue, thrashing her clit, sucking, biting and drawing it up higher, up into the furnace of his mouth until Sara felt something growing and building within her, an unendurable throbbing that sweetened then grew even stronger, until it was almost unbearable and still Arystan continued, showing no mercy as the ache built on itself, a whirling, pulsating sensation and then Sara was abruptly flung upwards, screaming Arystan’s name, somewhere distant far beyond the realms of earth, clutching for the stars and then sliding down their gentle, soothing brightness, caressed by them as she glided slowly, softly back down, slipping first into the tent, then toward the hide bed and at last into her body, a roaring in her ears allowing only to feel, but not hear, as she came back to herself. Arystan stayed with Sara as she came down, lapping at her spring, drinking down her essence until there were no more drops to be had. He loosened his grip on her thighs and gently lowered her soaked body to the bed, moving up the skins until he rested on his

elbow next to her head, watching her, her eyes closed, still panting, her golden skin suffused with perspiration in the torchlight. She turned her head to him, locking her blue eyes to his black ones, which went soft for a moment as he traced his hand lightly up her belly, over her breasts, up the chain from her cleavage to her neck, his fingers lightly encircling her throat for a moment. She watched the sinew ripple on his arms, the light black hairs dancing as he moved, his muscles powerful, yet sensual, able to kill a man, but yet make passionate love to a woman. Then Arystan wrapped his hand around the chain to her breasts and jerked Sara to him, his eyes hardening. He crushed himself to her mouth, rolling on top of her and kissing her brutally, his organ swollen, thick and hard, throbbing heatedly against her. She whimpered, ready to receive him, the yearning building within her again, lost to everything but the black-haired god above her. He broke the kiss and pulled back slightly, his eyes, magma burning a hole into hers. “And now, woman, I possess you. All of you,” he breathed, positioning his enormous cock at her entrance, dripping with fresh lubrication of desire and residual juices from her orgasm. He raised back his hips to thrust into her. Something far in the back of Sara’s lust-crazed mind was desperately screaming at her, frantically trying to get the attention of the woman, all but turned into a sticky, gooey mass of wantonness. Death, the voice whispered. Death comes. It comes for all eternity. You must resist, Sara. You must resist or all will be lost. Arystan is real, but not this way, not here, not now. Her hands rested on Arystan’s powerful forearms; she felt the heat from his flesh, the strength in his body, the dominance in him, taking over her body and mind. It was too much. She had to have him. You will be lost, Sara. You will die an everlasting death for one moment of pleasure, one act of passion. Resist Sara, and you can have Arystan in life, in flesh and blood, as you are meant to. She let out an anguished scream of torment and flung herself from under Arystan, falling heavily from the bed and rolling to the wooden bench. Arystan’s eyes followed her, his reflexes normally quick as a cat, dulled by passion, overwhelmed by his own ardor and the nearness of plunging his cock into the willing, wet orifice of the woman he loved and who, he had assumed, loved him. Without thinking, Sara grabbed Arystan’s short sword, pulled it from the scabbard and half-crouched, looking back at the bed for a brief second. Arystan rose in all his nakedness, his muscled body glistening, his cock erect and swollen, a mixture of surprise and fury darkening his expression. He knew what drawing a sword meant and in the next half-second leaped toward the bench, intent on seizing Sara. But her mind was running on automatic and she sensed somehow that was what he would do. As he leapt, so did she, except for the back of the tent, the sword raised above her head, stabbing the razor-sharp blade through the thick skins and placing all of her weight on the sword as it slid down, slitting the hides open cleanly. Without looking back, she darted through, running through a conglomeration of smaller tents, barefoot over the hard, snowy ground. Arystan clearly had the largest

dwelling in the encampment. It was dark and she heard snatches of indistinct conversations, both inside and outside of the tents as she ran, but no one tried to stop her. She made it to the edge of the camp, pulled herself onto the back of a large, black horse and hit it hard on the flank with the broad side of the small sword, kicking it with her heels as she did so. It whinnied and reared and she barely hung on to its mane, but then it jumped from a cold start into a fast gallop. Sara took one last look behind her, her hair streaming over her back, and saw Arystan silhouetted against the split in the tent, watching her flee, not chasing her. Then his image seemed to ripple and she twisted forward again, panic rising in her throat as the dark landscape shimmered and dissolved and she blacked out. ***** The mists watched Sara ride off on the dark horse, enthralled. If they could pant, they would have been doing so now, tongues lolling out of ephemeral mouths. They watched the vapor curl up in the corners of the dream and the landscape fold in on itself, sucking the mortal back into the chamber. This mortal was different. She seemed to have no idea what she would face in each pool, and when confronted by her fear and desire, seemed hardly to recognize it. In fact, it seemed as if this mortal hardly knew her own life. But the setting had been exciting to watch – better than most. True, there had been a bit of grumbling among the other mists when the woman escaped, just as the scene had been getting good. At least with the desire scenarios, they frequently were able to watch the mortals fuck each other. And what fucking it usually was, being the product of the greatest desire of one, or sometimes both, mortals involved in the scene. Of course, once they physically engaged, no one, absolutely no one, ever stopped, and so they all died rather quickly, albeit painfully. It was not known whether the mortals experienced climax before they died. It might have softened the blow of death. This mist had been certain when the woman had climaxed that she had succumbed and was the walking dead. But when the setting continued, the mist was forced to concede that the initial release with the man must not have been her greatest desire. It could feel the mutual surprise emanating from the other mists as well. It had never watched someone climax before actual penetration. What a scenario this had been. Ah well, it didn’t matter now. They had one. A living, breathing mortal who had passed through both pools. And if she could just make it out of the chamber, she would be theirs. Of course, it was another matter entirely to escape the chamber. That required a bit more . . . physical talent. It was forbidden to interfere. They would watch and be patient, even if it meant waiting two hundred years for another.

CHAPTER 6 The River of Blood “They have arrived, my lord. They set up camp in the valley, next to the river.” The man’s hands were on his knees, breath misting from his panting form in the chill, autumn air. Arystan eyed the soldier from the low bench where he sat. He set his cup slowly down on the wooden table, steam rising from it. “How many strong?” “Eighteen thousand, my lord. Six thousand on horseback.” Arystan’s brought his hand to his chin, rubbing it absently, resting his hide-clad arm on the table, his black eyes contemplative. A white wolf skin rested on his shoulders, its bared teeth thrown back over his neck. The messenger straightened a bit, his breath returning. He adjusted his worn cloak over his shoulders. “My lord, it is a great number. Perhaps we should retreat. Face the General another day.” Arystan’s eyes flashed as his fist came down hard on the table, slamming it with such force that the heavy wood jerked from the ground. The man cowered, trying to sink back from his leader whose lips were now curled in a terrible snarl. “My lord, I meant no disrespect –” the man whimpered. “You are not my advisor, Kanar. You would do well to get out of my sight.” A look of intense relief crossed Kanar’s face as he bowed repeatedly, backing up until he could safely run back into the camp. “Tebur! Sabalak! Attend me! Now!” Arystan’s voice rang out strongly. Within minutes, a man very similar to Arystan, except of slighter build and having a thick goatee took a seat on the bench across from Arystan at the same table. He wore a leopard skin cloak which was drawn forward over his head, the teeth of the animal grazing his black hair. A second larger, stout man joined him on the bench. He had a thick, wiry beard, a full black mustache and wore a heavy bearskin cloak which was draped back over his shoulders. Arystan leaned back, looking over both of his chieftains, saying nothing as a thin man in tattered robes brought over two additional cups, filled them with tea and re-filled Arystan’s cup. Arystan reached down and took a sip of the steaming beverage. The thinner man, Tebur, wrapped his hands around his cup. Sabalak waited for Arystan to speak. “General Bayuan brings eighteen thousand men to greet us. They make camp across the river,” Arystan said simply.

The chieftains considered this information. “We have only six thousand. They outnumber us three to one,” said Sabalak gruffly, shifting his bulk on the bench. “Yes, it is more than we had thought,” said Arystan thoughtfully. “But we will proceed with the original plan.” “Do you think it wise, my lord?” asked Tebur. “Perhaps we could engage them some other time when the odds are more in our favor.” “Bayuan has the aid of the evil ones. His successes are unnatural, his victories immoral. We have not meaningfully touched his army since the ambush of his cavalry in the mountain pass. He annihilates entire villages unscathed, sparing no one. He must be stopped and he shall be stopped now,” replied Arystan. “We are all willing to fight him to the death,” said Sabalak. “But it is a great display of force his army makes. It impresses the minds of our men, causing them not to question their loyalty, but their chances.” “It is more than their chances our men will question if we do not kill him. It is their freedom and the lives of their families. This is the last battle – his last battle. I sense it,” said Arystan. Tebur looked across at Sabalak and then back at Arystan. “We are with you, Arystan. Now and always.” Sabalak nodded. Arystan considered for a moment and then said, “See that there are no fires lit tonight. And no sounds. Have campfires set high on the hill behind us. Bunch the fires together to present the impression of a small encampment. Let General Bayuan think our position farther from the river and our numbers smaller. Tebur, is everything in position at the river?” “Yes, my lord.” “Good. Take two hundred men and fifty archers upriver at dusk and complete the work. Stay the night. Release the archers on my signal in the morning. Sabalak, how many horse have we?” “Most of our numbers are horse, my lord. We have five thousand.” Arystan’s black eyes were distant, but focused. “We need three thousand on this side to press our advantage and present a show of strength. We will keep the remaining foot soldiers in the main encampment. I will lead the attack on their forces. Sabalak, take two thousand horse and cross downriver before dawn, after the water is lowered. Flank them. Do not ride into their camp until my signal.”

Arystan straightened and took another sip of his tea, his black eyes intense, moving from Tebur to Sabalak. “The fate of our people rests in our hands. We must defeat Bayuan’s army, but it is even more important to kill Bayuan. He is protected by strong forces, dark forces. But if I can isolate him, I can kill him. He will not escape.” “If you can confront him, I do not think he will try to escape, my lord. He has too much pride, too much arrogance. In any event, you are the better fighter,” said Tebur. Arystan nodded soberly. The three men clasped their wrists together powerfully and then rose simultaneously. “Make the final preparations, my brothers,” said Arystan. “Tomorrow, we shall know victory.” ***** “How many does Arystan have, Itkul?” The man’s tone was detached, calculating. “It is difficult to tell, General. They are camped high in the hills. I do not think a great number. Two thousand. No more than three.” A man of huge bulk with cold, black eyes sat cross-legged on a pile of furs across from three other men. Itkul sat on his heels to the left of Bayuan, his eyes shifting uneasily at the sounds of industry outside the tent – hooves stamping, stakes being driven into the hard ground, men yelling. The sides of the canvas tent rippled gently in the cold afternoon breeze. Bayuan scoffed. “So few will be easy to overcome. The river is deep here. After we complete the camp, we will find a ford and send half of our forces across, including most of the horses. We will run them down and kill them all.” “My lord,” said the man on the far right, bowing his head as he spoke. His scalp could clearly be seen through his thinning black hair. “We outnumber them greatly. Perhaps we should consider wearing them down, weakening their numbers. It would not take many assaults across the river. Within a month, possibly even a week, our victory would be assured. We have the forces to spare. Small losses would mean nothing to our army.” The general sat very still, appraising the man, his back ramrod straight despite his size. A slight tinge of gray touched Bayuan’s temples, but his skin was smooth and taut, his bearing rigid and powerful. His black eyes had a ruthless cast. “You surprise me, old man,” he said unkindly. “There is no honor in warfare by attrition. There is no glory in it. It is not the way of General Bayuan.” The man cringed visibly, his head bowed, his eyes facing the floor. “And more, Ulzhan,” Bayuan said, his voice softly deceptive, “there is no need for it. We have enough forces to overwhelm Arystan’s poor excuse for an army. We will simply crush them.” He brought his hand up into a fist, his knuckles whitening.

“Forgive me, General,” said the man sitting in the middle, directly across from Bayuan. He was the youngest of the three advisors, his hair a lighter shade of black, almost dark brown, the hint of a mustache forming over his youthful mouth. “But is it wise to split our forces across the river? Perhaps we should send our entire army across or wait for Arystan to come to us.” Bayuan stared at him. “The river is no danger to us, Jalus. Even halved, our forces outnumber theirs. Besides,” he spat, and a small pool of yellowed spittle gathered on the hideskin floor, “Arystan is young and inexperienced. He is no match for me in strategy or in combat.” A dangerous mien suddenly crossed the general’s face and the tent seemed to noticeably chill. The three men glanced about anxiously, drawing their robes to them. Bayuan’s eyes became distant, unfocused, vicious . . . almost evil. “I have spoken to the divine forces and they have assured me success is mine. I shall not fail.” There was a long silence and then Jalus said confidently, “You shall certainly be victorious, my lord. Your bravery and skill are much renowned throughout the kingdom. You are a far greater fighter than Arystan.” Bayuan’s eyes snapped back as if he had just come out of a trance. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I am.” ***** The morning was crisp and clear revealing plainly the encampment of eighteen thousand soldiers on the broad plain before the river. The pink light of dawn had just begun to fade when the worried cries of soldiers began to echo through the camp of General Bayuan. One of the soldiers rushed into Bayuan’s tent, awakening him from a deep, restful sleep. “General,” he said, falling to his knees, his head bowed, knowing the news he brought could mean his own death at the leader’s hands. “Arystan’s forces. They are upon us. They attack. Now!” Bayuan threw off the bearskin furs and stalked to the tent entrance, throwing back the flap. Half-dressed, his eyes clear, he took in the disorder, men running in every direction, horses milling about, stamping and neighing, his chieftains yelling orders, trying to marshal a defense as three thousand horsemen thundered across the river bearing down from the hills. “Sound the alarm,” Bayuan snarled at the man still on his knees. A staccato drumbeat filled the thick air and Bayuan’s soldiers hastily scrambled to don armor, hoist weapons, and those on horse, prepare their mounts. The attacking horsemen from Arystan’s army raced easily across the shallow river, swinging all manner of swords, axes, halberds and pikes. As Bayuan’s soldiers armed

themselves and fought back fiercely, the aggressors began to turn their mounts in almostpanicked circles, looking clearly overwhelmed and surprised by the extent of the resistance they found themselves facing. General Bayuan watched the battle from his horse in the center of the field, unwilling to enter the fray just yet. He saw Arystan swing his sword in an arc, cleaving the head cleanly from one of his soldiers, and then complete the circle, plunging the weapon into the throat of another who toppled from his horse, dead. Arystan stood up in his stirrups, his black hair wild about his face, the white wolf skin drawn over his head stained red with blood, his eyes sweeping over his flustered troops. Arystan seemed to notice Bayuan sitting imperiously in full regalia on his caparisoned black horse and Bayuan could have sworn he saw the warrior’s eyes widen. “Retreat,” Arystan yelled, still looking toward Bayuan, and then he whirled his sword over his head and pointed toward their camp across the river. “Back! Across the river!” Answering shouts of “Retreat!” and “Across the river!” resounded throughout Bayuan’s camp from the horse-mounted warriors. Bayuan looked on smugly as the hardly battledamaged horsemen hurtled back across the shallow river, apparently heading for the hills. Bayuan’s scouts had informed him that, judging from the location of their fires, Arystan’s camp was located in a steep mountainous area. A good place to hide, Bayuan surmised. Hiding was what Arystan did best. Well, this time he would not be allowed to run. Bayuan would send enough of his forces to round up every last warrior. He would not be outmaneuvered. Bayuan nodded at his chieftains who shouted the orders. The General’s army began a furious pursuit, those on foot wading across the surprisingly shallow river, the horsemen holding back so as not to overrun their own men. General Bayuan himself waited a few minutes until a good portion of his army had passed over and then spurred his horse on, quickly crossing the river and taking the lead at the head of his legions. Arystan pulled up his horse, watching as the general reached the far bank, waiting until Bayuan gave the order for his multitude of cavalry to cross the river and join the foot soldiers. A shrill whistle, like the call of a hunting falcon, pierced the air three times in quick succession and went unnoticed by the eager troops laying chase to Arystan’s fleeing men. The calls were not overlooked upriver. “Now!” shouted Tebur and the archers loosed repeated volleys of arrows at the waterlogged bags holding back the river until they began to shift and empty, their sandlike contents mixing with the turbulent water coursing over the barricade. And then, quickly, the entire dam burst and the pent-up river behind it poured violently back into its rightful trough, spilling, rushing, cascading at mind-numbing speed down the valley, toward the battle being waged below. Roughly half of Bayuan’s army had crossed the river, with a huge contingent of footmen and horsemen still in the midst of the low river when the hard, heavy wall of gray water

rushed around a corner, taking them all unaware, engulfing, crushing, sweeping them away, their cries and screams drowned by the water, muted by the thunderous sound of the returning river as it saturated the plain, flooding the camp, submerging bodies and supplies. Bayuan stood up in his saddle and turned, his eyes widening at the sight of the devastation, then narrowing as he realized it was a trick. He was still facing the river when a fierce, earth-shaking battle cry sounded and Arystan’s retreating horsemen suddenly wheeled and attacked, aided by nearly a thousand warriors on foot, previously hidden, rushing fearlessly from the surrounding trees and rocks, their weapons held aloft, their faces full of fury. The turning of Arystan’s horsemen and the crush of running soldiers from both sides pinned Bayuan’s men against the river. They pulled backed toward the raging waterway, having nowhere else to go, struggling in vain to regain formation. Most of Bayuan’s cavalry had been crossing at the moment the river unleashed and were now lost. The remaining soldiers were divided on both sides, those in Bayuan’s camp nearly leaderless, as the chieftains had crossed at the head of their units, eager to claim honor and glory on this very easy battlefield. The men and cavalry still in Bayuan’s encampment milled about uncertainly, unsure of what to do. A few tried to cross and were swept away by the still-raging water. Those on Arystan’s side of the bank were only slightly less confused, some riveted by the horror of the flood as bodies of men and horses continued to churn, blood mixing with water, others unnerved by the sudden change of direction in Arystan’s soldiers who only moments before had been retreating. Arystan charged through the nervous, stamping ring of horses and soldiers, heading straight for Bayuan who noticed him at the last instant and twisted from his horse, falling to the ground, rolling, and rising easily to his feet. Arystan leapt lightly from his massive horse with surprising grace and agility given his bulky armor and furs. He pulled his wolf skin from his shoulders, tossed it over his horse and sent the animal off into the fray. Bayuan faced Arystan, holding a long pole arm before him, a tuft of feathers from a rare black swan separating the shaft from a twenty-four inch, wickedly sharp blade, curved on one side and serrated on the other. He wore hides and chain mail and a metal hood over his long, black hair. Arystan held a straight, unserrated, three-foot broadsword high above his head, pointed toward Bayuan. Bayuan thrust the pole arm at Arystan, testing him, confident that the warrior’s defeat would be as simple the spirits assured him. Arystan did not flinch at Bayuan’s challenge, poised and still, a hungry glint in his black eyes. Bayuan thrust again, trying to intimidate the younger leader. All around them the battle raged, but no one from either side dared intervene or come to the assistance of either man. A circle of sorts cleared around the two combatants, the deference given to engaged leaders.

Arystan abruptly ran toward Bayuan, his sword high in the air, his eyes bloodthirsty. How foolish a move, thought Bayuan. A mistake an inexperienced and too-eager warrior would make. Bayuan effortlessly brought the long pole arm back and began to swing it in a wide, low circle, curved blade forward, knowing it would connect with Arystan’s torso. He would lower his swing if Arystan thought to be clever and roll to catch Bayuan from the ground. The weapon would still check him. Bayuan was prepared for such a tactic. Arystan continued his run toward Bayuan, unswerving, no hint of change in position. As he neared, he began to lower his body, almost to a running crouch, a fierce snarl fixed on his face. Ah, thought Bayuan. As I suspected, he thinks to roll under my weapon. But it was too late for such tactics. Bayuan had already accounted for this and the pole arm, still in motion, now whipping through the air toward the front of the general, was low enough so that Arystan could not avoid its contact even while near to the ground. Inches before the blade connected with the approaching warrior, Arystan jumped into the air, springing up toward the startled general and clearing the staff. Surprise registered in Bayuan’s face as he instinctively feinted to the side to avoid Arystan’s leap, the whites of his eyes flashing around the dark centers. As the general did so, his head flipped back slightly and his armored hood swung loosely with his movements, briefly exposing his neck. Without hesitation, Arystan thrust the sword into the vulnerable flesh, his momentum carrying him forward as he toppled with Bayuan to the ground, the blade driving through the back of the man’s neck where it penetrated several inches into the hard, frozen ground, Bayuan impaled upon it. Arystan rose to his feet from where he straddled the general and pulled his sword roughly from the man’s flesh. Dark blood burbled onto the hard ground, staining Bayuan’s armor and furs. Bayuan’s hand unclasped, slowly releasing the pole arm, the staff rolling from his grasp and stopping a few inches away from his body. The older man’s eyes held Arystan’s gaze, shock still evident, until they dimmed, flickered weakly, and then were vacant, staring sightlessly at the gray sky. Arystan stood a moment more over his fallen enemy and then threw his head back and gave three hawk-like whistles in succession. Two thousand horsemen across the river swept from both sides of the woods toward the soldiers in the remains of Bayuan’s camp, forcing them against the watercourse. The riders flew the flags of Arystan and shouted cries of “Bayuan has fallen!” This caused unspeakable panic and, although they were outnumbered by those in the encampment, resulted in almost immediate yield and surrender by Bayuan’s demoralized troops. Upon realizing their leader was dead and the troops in their camp had been taken, and still stunned by the deaths of so many in the river, Bayuan’s army on Arystan’s side of the river quickly surrendered as well. In the ensuing commotion of victory and defeat, the tending to the injured and the gathering of the dead, no one noticed the tendrils of black mist curling from Bayuan’s open mouth as he lay on his back on the battlefield before his body had been dragged away.

“Yessssss. Yessssss. Join ussssss,” six voices lisped, echoing eerily, words overlapping and repeating, the syllables oddly drawn out. The mist exited Bayuan’s body and swirled in a spherical pattern the size of a man’s fist. If someone were to have seen it, it would have appeared to be a blackened bit of smoke, the result of a charred bit of venison burning at the spit over unattended flames. But there was no venison, no fire, and no one watching as the mist rose into the air intact and then was suddenly sucked skyward at an alarming rate of speed.

CHAPTER 7 Inferno Sara came to her senses. She was once again lying on the cold stone floor of the chamber, leaning against the coarse wall. The cistern beneath the low circular ring was still glowing softly, casting enough light to gently illuminate the room. Everything seemed to be exactly as she had left it before she peered into the Pool of Desire. The three skeletons were still there, the woman directly opposite her, the knight slumped against the wall, the man in the cloak face down, his skull loose and bones scattered. The dark shadows scuttling above reminded her that the spiders were ever-present. She gave a small shudder of disgust. Sara looked down at what she was wearing. The chained, leather outfit had disappeared and she wore her now too-familiar white sundress and sandals with a small bloodstain on the right side where she had wiped her hand when she had cut it on the knight’s sword. She sat there for a moment, bits of the dreams, or whatever they were, flitting through her mind. Her parents’ perfectly arranged bedroom next to hers, breaking up with John on the sidewalk next to the park, Arystan’s magnificent body flickering in the firelight, the look in his black eyes as his body hovered over hers ready to plunge into her, the sweet ache between her legs yearning for his power, his thrusts that never came. She sighed and got slowly to her feet, noticing that her underwear was a bit damp. Well that wasn’t to be helped with a man like that, who she had almost had. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. There was another hurdle to face. What had the misty being said? Oh, right. With unquenchable fire, comes unquenchable thirst. What exactly was that supposed to mean? The mist had also told her that no one had ever made it out of the chamber even if they survived the Pools of Fear and Desire. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t tell her boyfriend of four years to piss off and then refuse the hottest cock she had ever seen to become a weaponless skeleton in a white dress lying forever underneath a canopy of creepy, eight-legged vermin. No way. Even it had all been a dream. Sara walked slowly around the room, trying not to peer into the glowing well. She’d had enough for one lifetime of what it had to offer. She examined the floor, walls, and what she could see of the ceiling through the gray mass of webs. As far as she could tell, there were no windows, no holes, no chinks in the stone. The chamber was quiet, except that it did suddenly seem to be getting a bit warmer and brighter. Even in her sleeveless dress, Sara started to feel flushed and lifted the hair from her neck a bit to let her skin cool. Without warning, a large black spider plopped from the ceiling and landed next to her. She jumped back. Shit. The spider was as tall as her knees and she could probably wrap her arms around its body. It clucked its mandibles together, staring intently at her with its red eyes. Sara’s eyes scanned the room for something with which to defend herself. She

could use a weapon from one of the skeletons but had an odd feeling that something might happen if she did that that would be worse than facing the arachnids. She was backing up to where she had first awoken when her heel caught something where the floor met the wall. She looked behind her. It glinted. It was the short sword she had used to escape from the yurt. Her hand flew to her neck and she pulled the chain out from the bosom of her sundress, staring at the opal swinging from the two ends of the necklace. So, she had brought something back with her from both dreams. The mist had said that she would have to face a final challenge. To escape from this chamber, you must use what you have acquired on your journeys through the pools. Sara had no idea whether facing a spider was the final challenge, but she thrust the ring back into her dress and grabbed the black handle of the blade. Right now, a sword, rather than jewelry, seemed to be the better choice with which to try. There was another juicy plunk and a second spider landed across the room from her. The first spider had not come any closer. It didn’t look as if it planned to attack her; in fact, it seemed nervous, rubbing its mandibles together in what Sara thought was a worried fashion. Then a third and a fourth dropped from the ceiling and began scurrying about the chamber. Sara gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands, swinging the blade slowly back in forth in the ruddy light as she took in the new abundance of creatures joining her. She had a sudden, horrible thought that if the spiders were falling to the floor, there might be a round, black body poised to drop onto her head, directly above her. She raised her head very slowly, almost too terrified to check. Instead of a spider, fire met her eyes, what looked to be the beginnings of an inferno, already blazing overhead. The deep blue of her eyes reflected flames dancing through the jumble of webs, burning through the silvered cords. Black shapes scuttled furiously through the chaos as long filaments loosed and arced through the air, some of the creatures clinging to the ends as they slammed into stone walls and fell dazed to the floor. The entire ceiling seemed be lowering, a white roof sinking, as if the chamber were becoming squatter. With a start, Sara realized the flames were burning the last vestiges of the strands which bound the main web to the walls. A large chunk of web in the center of the room broke free first, falling into the pool and sinking, golden droplets splashing over the floor in its wake. The fire appeared to be creeping down the walls. The cloak of the skeleton which held the staff was now ablaze at the bottom. This must be some sort of magical fire, Sara thought, burning down stone with no apparent fuel. But it was hot as a real fire and she was sweating, her skin reddish, her dress clinging to her, discomfort tightening her throat. The entire webbing was sagging further, flames still licking up and down the strands, bits of charred fibers floating through the air like cinereal snow. She could almost reach up and touch the mass with her arm outstretched. It looked sticky. If it collapsed on her, she would surely be trapped in it and die as the fire consumed her.

Sara looked again toward the pool in the center of the chamber and groaned. It looked as if entering it again would be her only option. She ran to the cistern and peered in. She could see the web which had fallen in earlier far below in the water. It seemed to be rustling, as if with a current. She had no idea what she might face in there. It was growing almost unbearably hot in the chamber. A spider fell close behind her. Sara brushed at her back as she felt its furry legs clutching at her hair and neck, trying to use her body to check its own descent. All around her, agitated arachnids clicked their mandibles, darting about furiously, trying to find a means of escape. Sara looked back at the pool. She was going to die if she didn’t jump in. The cistern was narrow, just wide enough for a person and she would have to go in headfirst if she wanted to see where she was going. She took a deep breath, put the sword in first, and then tipped over, following it down into the water.

CHAPTER 8 The Price of Escape Sara swam strongly down a long, straight shaft which seemed to have no end. The water was pleasantly warm and a soft light suffused the stone passage. Finally, she saw a wall ahead of her and realized that the shaft took a bend. She was a good swimmer and could hold her breath a long time, but hoped that the tunnel would end soon, especially if she had to use her energy to maneuver through twists and turns. She gave a hard kick and made to swim through the curve when she was abruptly thrown back by what felt like a solid wall although she had seen nothing in her way. Stunned, she reached forward with her free hand. There was definitely something blocking the passageway. The shaft was very narrow, but Sara twisted just enough to look back up at the opening and saw that the water, far above, was blindingly orange, as if itself was burning. She could almost make out tongues of flame snaking down from the top of the cistern. She turned back to the obstruction. There was no way to go but forward. She pushed at it again, feeling her fingers tug on something soft and gooey. It dawned on her that the spider webs that had fallen into the well must have collected at the bend. The mist had said she would need to use what she acquired from the dreams if she wanted to escape. Well, she had acquired two things: a sword and a necklace. Sara was certain the thing to use now was the sword. She swung the weapon against the entanglement, struggling against the thickness of the water, but once it connected, the webs parted like butter and the blade sliced easily through the waterlogged mess. She continued slicing through the narrow tube until her arm began to tire, but she finally reached the end of the tangle and slipped easily through the parted, sheer curtain. At last, she was free of the webs and saw that the passage straightened and rose upwards. Sara’s lungs were beginning to burn as she kicked furiously higher, the light diminishing somewhat now that she had passed out of view of the fire. After ascending what felt like at least the same distance as her initial descent, she reached a blank stone wall which blocked the passage. Sara twisted furiously, her hair whipping around as she looked for some other way out. Her chest felt as if were about to explode as she reached her limits of air. She dropped the sword and pushed desperately against the stone with both hands. It would not budge. As she shoved at it, her hands brushed against a tiny imperfection in the ceiling. Sara impatiently pushed her floating hair aside and looked closer, feeling it carefully with her fingers. It was a very small, oval indentation recessed into the shape of a rectangle. Sara knew she had only a few more seconds before she began to quench her thirst for air and gulp in the water, becoming a floating skeleton instead of a burning one. Her mind drifted, a bit foggy, as the lack of oxygen began to affect her reasoning. She had used the sword. It would be no help now. What else? The ring! God yes, the ring.

Trembling, Sara pulled the chain over her head, fumbling a bit to get the circle situated between her fingers, and then pressed the opal into the oval hole, the rectangular setting fitting perfectly into the remainder of the notch. Now what? She rotated the ring slightly and heard a loud, groaning sound. Then, the ceiling slid back and she burst through the well into a stone room identical to the last, except that it was empty and lit by open cathedral windows with sunlight streaming in. Sara dragged herself out of the cistern and lay gasping like a fish on the stone, looking dazedly up at the row of windows encircling the chamber. Then her head fell back and she promptly passed out. ***** “Sara.” She opened her eyes, blinking. “Sara Aster. Awake.” Sara slowly sat up and felt her dress. It was dry. Her hair was kinked slightly, but it too was no longer wet. She must have been lying here awhile. She glanced over at the low well in the center of the chamber and frowned. The same indistinct mist was floating over it, tethered by the haziness, its eyes, if they could be called eyes, watching her. She stood up and looked at the figure, her eyes narrowing. “You again,” she said evenly. The mist undulated, saying nothing. Sara got to her feet and put her hands to her hips, her lips pursed. She could feel anger and resentment building within her. She was still imprisoned in a stone room. This was preposterous. She had had enough. “Now look here,” she said to the shape. “I’ve done every single thing you asked. I looked into the Metus Lacus, the Desiderium Lacus, and escaped the chamber. Now what? May I go? I still have no idea whether this is all some jazi-induced nightmare or whether someone at the Horoshaya Yeda slipped some magic fucking mushrooms into my tea. All I know is that I’m sick and tired of living with skeletons, looking into a miserable, depressing future, giving up the best sex of my life, dealing with a hideous spider infestation, virtually being burned alive, practically drowning . . . .” She stomped her foot, trying to look furious although she could sense the upwelling of hot tears. She fought it back. She was not going to give this being the satisfaction of seeing her cry no matter how much she wanted or needed to. “Most of all,” Sara said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “I am tired of being treated like a prisoner in a dungeon and kept here for who knows how long. I’ve met all of your conditions, overcome your challenges, succeeded where you implied I’d fail. I want to

wake up. I want to go back to my university group, get on the plane and go back to America. Now!” She stared at the essence insolently. The mist hissed unpleasantly. The mortal woman did not look the least bit afraid. What a cheeky little thing she was. But perhaps that would serve things better in the long run. America, indeed. The mist mused. It had been a well-behaved mist for nearly two thousand years, patiently orchestrating these obscure, mildly entertaining trials. But it hadn’t always been a mist. Before the six other mists had conscripted it, it had been mortal, a strong, powerful and feared mortal. Yessssss, it hissed to itself, recalling – a warlord, that’s what it had been. But . . . killed before his time. It suddenly considered Sara. Perhaps the mortal could be used, now that it rightfully had some control over her, to change things. Perhaps even to prevent the death of its mortal self by taking the life of the warrior who had killed him in battle. Strands of fog rose from the mist that took the image of arms and then it cast them forward quickly toward the mortal. Black smoke flew from the outstretched arms and dashed forward, slipping in through small gaps in through the woman’s lips. Sara’s eyes immediately became glazed. She swayed slightly on her feet, feeling her resistance leave her, her conscious thoughts invaded, usurped by something much more powerful. “What is your will, Great One?” she asked hollowly. That was better. Much better.

CHAPTER 9 Ties That Bind Sara found herself standing on a great plain. The sun burned down relentlessly. She staggered, feeling weak, nauseous, looking at, but not really seeing, the grasses stretching endlessly before her. Could she eat grass? She couldn’t recall the last time she had eaten. She cocked her head, staring obtusely at the small holes in the baked earth. Then it registered. Rodents. She sank to the ground, kneeling before one of the holes. A rodent usually made two holes to each burrow. An entrance and an exit. But what if she waited here long enough? Wouldn’t one eventually decide to check the other door? Maybe when it appeared, she could bash its head in with a rock. It did not occur to her that she had no rock. Her stomach rumbled. Mmmm. Lemmings, jerboas, maybe a fat, very slow suslik. Sara sat very still under the hot sun watching the hole with marked interest. Her mind drifted lazily to thoughts of broiled mice, crisp desert hamsters . . . great spirits what if a porcupine waddled by? She had no fire. Well, no matter. Perhaps raw rodents wouldn’t be bad. After all, wolves and leopards ate them whole and enjoyed them. Would it really be so different for her? Sara, lost to her dreams of steppe food, failed to hear the sound of approaching horses. A group of fifteen men wheeled up behind her, eyeing what appeared to be a young girl in a tatter of rags sitting alone in the middle of the plain, staring at the ground. Most of the riders were bare-chested and wore hideskin bands around their waists from which hung short strips of heavy leather in the front and back, leaving the sides of their hips exposed. A dark, thickset man at the head of the group shifted in his saddle and grunted. “What are you doing here, girl?” he called to her from his horse. Sara heard the man’s question coming from above and behind her. Her mind registered that he spoke in a language different from her native tongue, but somehow she had no difficulty understanding him. She got up, unsteady on her feet, and turned to face him. The man immediately saw that this was no girl, but a woman. And a woman from a different land. Her skin was pale, sallow, weak-looking. Her eyes were a dull blue, although he had seen blue eyes on occasion among his people. She was skinny. She looked as though she hadn’t eaten in days, perhaps longer. Her hair was brown, matted and dirty. He dismounted. In addition to the short loincloth which left little to the imagination, he wore a strip of thick, black hide which wrapped around his neck and over one shoulder before running down the front of one huge arm. It was attached by metal studs to straps of leather which encircled his muscles. The last strap wound around the man’s wrist and connected to a metal ring on his middle finger. The effect was intimidating.

He walked the few paces to Sara and circled slowly, considering her, one hand on the hilt of his sheathed saber. “What is your name?” he demanded. His voice was strong, his demeanor authoritative. It was easy to see he was used to being obeyed. Sara looked at him, a bit of glassiness in her eyes. She told him. He grunted. The name was unusual. He had never heard it before. “Where are you from?” He was tiring of this woman, giving her one last chance to convince him she should be allowed to remain unmolested on the plain. Sara thought for a moment. It wasn’t just that she was starving and having difficulty thinking clearly, but . . . she really didn’t know. She tried to recall how she had arrived on the steppes; what she was doing in this country . . . this land, wherever it was; anything . . . anything at all from her past. She drew a blank. Receiving no answer, the man spat. He picked up a tangled lock of Sara’s hair and then dropped it. He jerked his head at one of the men on horseback and moved swiftly to remount his horse. “Take her,” Sabalak ordered. “Add her to the rest at camp.” One of the men dismounted, walked to Sara and lashed her wrists together in front of her with a leather thong. He dragged her to his horse, threw her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, mounted and slid her to a seated position in front of him, facing forward. Perhaps I’ll have her myself, thought Sabalak as he watched the man secure her. Cleaned up a little and fed a lot, he was certain she would be quite fuckable. The riders immediately set off again at a gallop across the plain toward distant gray mountains. As the wind rushed through her hair and Sara leaned back against the horseman’s bare chest, it occurred vaguely to her that she should have resisted. ***** The riders passed through a copse of archa trees into a large clearing of sorts. On one side ran a small river, on the other sprawled granite foothills, children of a much higher, jagged range standing sentinel beyond. In the clearing clustered innumerable skin tents, makeshift corrals, wooden enclosures, and piles and stacks of various supplies. The encampment was surrounded by the scrub juniper which made it difficult to see from the plain. Behind the camp, a large knoll provided a vantage point from which to scan the steppes. The site was strategically situated and so served as a semi-permanent operations base. The horseman holding Sara broke from the group, rode to one of the enclosures, and dumped the woman unceremoniously next to the gate. He departed without a backwards glance. An ancient-looking man with dark, wrinkled skin, his loins bound up in a

diaperish animal wrap, puckered his toothless lips at Sara in a lecherous smile and then swung open the gate and pushed her inside. Sara stumbled a few feet over the dry ground and then stopped, squinting in the bright sunlight. She was in a wide, circular enclosure, the fencing made of small saplings bound so tightly together they were next to impossible to see through. A large slanted roof jutted from the enclosure in one corner. About twenty women huddled underneath its shade. A beautiful, slender woman walked from the shelter and approached Sara. Leather strips crisscrossed her breasts, leaving her nipples exposed and she wore a band around her waist similar to the dress of the horsemen, except that the strips hanging down were longer and of soft, supple cloth rather than stiff leather. Plain gold bands encircled her upper arms and she wore an anklet of linked silver rings. Her long, dark hair had several braids in it, each woven with tiny blue and white beads. The woman stopped in front of Sara, her eyes haughty, taking in the woman’s state and condition of her clothing. “I am Rainura,” she said dismissively, turning Sara from side to side to see her better. She did not ask Sara’s name and it was clear she did not care. “Follow me.” She walked to the shelter without looking back. Sara hesitated briefly, and then followed. “Nazin, Kumys, you will attend her,” commanded Rainura. Two women got to their feet from where they had been seated on the ground and walked toward Sara, their expressions blank. Rainura pulled a wooden stool to a small round table and seated herself. She began grinding a white root into a paste with a pestle, adding water as she worked. The stool was the only seat in the enclosure. It was not particularly comfortable, but it clearly designated Rainura’s status as she did not have to sit on the ground. Rainura was no slave whose sole purpose was to sexually service the men. She was a concubine, a consort, although with no real rights to any particular man. But she was treated better, dressed better, and she protected her rank viciously. Rainura studied Sara over the worn, wooden bowl as she finished the infusion. This new woman was no threat – she would never rise to Rainura’s level. She could see it in the woman’s vacant blue eyes. Besides, the upkeep of a concubine was expensive in times of warfare and she knew it was unlikely Arystan would agree to another. Nazin and Kumys began to remove Sara’s clothing. Sara drew back, clutching at her threadbare robes, a look of disobedience in her eyes. Rainura immediately rose from her stool and threaded her way through the other girls, carrying the bowl, displeasure clouding her attractive features. She reached Sara and held out the bowl. “Drink,” she ordered.

Sara’s blue eyes flashed at the woman. Something about the situation screamed danger. “Stupid girl. We do not mean you harm,” Rainura sneered. She gestured toward the shelter. “We – the women – are all you have here. This camp is dangerous, deadly even. Without us, you will have no one, no allies, you will be completely vulnerable. You do not want to find yourself in that position. You must accept our help if you want to live.” It was partially true anyway. Rainura flicked her eyes disdainfully over Sara’s gaunt figure. “Besides, you are halfstarved. The drink in this bowl is a powerful nourishment. We will feed you and your strength will return.” Sara eyed the bowl suspiciously. Her mind was trying to tell her something. Rainura would force the drink down Sara if she had to. But this speech would work. It always did with the stubborn ones. “Do you think I lie?” scowled Rainura. “Look around you. Does any woman here look malnourished?” Sara’s eyes darted around the shelter. All of the women did look well-fed, if a bit glassyeyed. And she was very hungry. Very, very hungry. She looked back at the milky white fluid filling the bowl. It wasn’t a roasted pygmy shrew, but still . . . . Sara nodded, allowing Rainura to help her tilt the bowl so that she drained all of the beverage. Then her blue eyes glazed back over, but this time not from hunger. Relieved, Rainura thrust the bowl into another woman’s hand. “Wash this,” she commanded, watching Sara carefully. The drug took effect almost immediately. The woman would be easy to control now. Rainura returned to her stool. Nazin and Kumys again went to remove Sara’s clothing, this time without a single protest from her. Rainura’s black eyes washed appraisingly over Sara’s body. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties, full breasts, a good roundedness to her hips, her belly too thin, but that would be remedied once she started to eat again. Although her abdomen was slack, Rainura’s discerning eyes noted a bit of developed muscle in Sara’s calves and thighs. Her eyes narrowed, wondering how that came to be. The woman was also of another race, but that would not be a problem for the men. Periodically, the camp acquired women who looked differently: skin of white or black, hair of yellow or red, eyes of blue or green. Rainura grinned wickedly. It really didn’t matter to the men – all women had a pussy. Arystan had informed her that the camp would hold another festival next week. Such celebrations were held occasionally when the threat of conflict was low to allow the warriors to unwind. The slaves were to be presented at that time to Arystan’s chieftains for the night as a reward for their loyalty. Conditions were harsh on the hot steppes and the end of the campaign against General Bayuan’s army was not yet in sight. Arystan’s forces had been routing small bands of soldiers for more than a year without success in

luring the general to engage them. Ah well, what did she care? That was something for the men to worry about. It was Rainura’s job simply to have these pitiful women as presentable as possible in a week’s time. “Bathe and clothe her,” she snapped to Nazin. Her eyes followed the dark-skinned woman who immediately led Sara to the large pail of water under the corner of the overhang which collected the runoff when it rained. “And feed her.” It wouldn’t do to have this new woman looking like a skeleton when it came time for the festival.

CHAPTER 10 Bonfire Although her wits felt dulled, Sara sensed her physical strength returning as she hungrily consumed the wild apple, barberry, pistachios and almonds she was given. Two days before the festival, Rainura also distributed dried ground squirrel to the women. Sara thought she had never tasted anything better in her life. On the evening of the festival, Rainura appeared again. She had not given the root concoction to the women yesterday and the drug would be wearing off by now. Rainura always stopped giving the drug before festivals. The women became shy and frightened without it and all of the chieftains preferred them that way. Torches were already lit by the shelter and Rainura walked among the cowering women in the flickering light, hissing at them to behave, slapping those who angered her. She wore a long, flowing dress which covered all of her attributes and calf-length deerskin boots. The rest of the women were dressed more scantily. All were barefoot. Leather thongs wrapped tightly around and underneath their busts, forcing their naked breasts upward and outward. They wore short hideskin skirts, open on the sides, and black leather collars with a metal ring on the front of each. Rainura informed the women that the collars were for the enjoyment and discretion of the chieftains. She stood before the women, ready to give her usual speech. After a time, the drug seemed to permanently dull the brains of some of the women, and she found even those who had already been through the festival needed to be reminded. Besides, there were quite a few new women this time. The chieftains would be pleased. “You will follow me without question to the bonfire. The men are . . . hungry. They are warriors, first and foremost. It is in their nature to show no mercy. Tonight, you will be fucked brutally, possibly raped, and you may be beaten or killed.” Several women let out a small shriek and most cringed visibly. Rainura smirked. She was not making this up. “The chief and his chieftains will choose from among you tonight. You are gifts for their pleasure, their amusement, their urges, their whims. None of you shall complain no matter how you are treated if you want to live,” she said, fixing them with a severe gaze. “Of course, some of you may not live anyway.” Rainura shrugged. “When brought before the bonfire, the warriors will select in order of seniority. Arystan,” she hesitated as she said his name, “as leader, will choose first.” Rainura had no idea why she hated the fact that Arystan fucked other women. He went through them with abandon, seeming not to particularly care for anyone. She too, of course, fucked all of the chieftains and some of the common soldiers from time to time. But she would have given anything to have even a bit of the handsome leader’s heart for herself, for his strength, his dominance, his passion to be reserved in some way, some small way, for her alone. It frustrated her immensely that he showed nothing for her beyond the sex act itself, no matter how hard she tried to please him.

The old, withered man who had guarded entry to the enclosure when Sara first arrived, now swung the gate open and two men stepped through, heading for the torchlit area at the back of the enclosure. “Line up,” ordered Rainura. The women all rose from under the shelter, forming a procession of sorts. “Hold your hands before you.” The women did what they were told. The two men walked down the line, binding the hands of all of the women. “You sure are a pretty one,” leered one of the men at Sara as he bound her wrists. “Not often we get foreign pussy.” He shook his head. It was too bad he didn’t rank high enough to warrant a go at her. Sometimes, when a chieftain was displeased in some manner, a woman was turned out to the rest of the men. Now that was always something, even if the woman didn’t often survive long in the ensuing savagery. Maybe they would get lucky tonight. He slapped Sara’s ass as he finished, causing her to jump, and moved on to the next woman in line. When finished, the soldiers linked the women together with a long length of rope. The old man swung the gate open again and the men, carrying small torches, led the women to a huge bonfire around which Arystan’s chieftains sprawled in a semi-circle, their eyes dark and hungry. Although there were thousands in the camp, most were not of sufficient status to merit such a reward. Those warriors spent festival nights eating roasted goat, drinking around other bonfires, some even cavorting with their own comrades. The intoxicating music of the long, reed ney flutes stopped abruptly and an erotic, thumping drumbeat picked up. A man at the center of the bonfire rose, his strongly muscled chest glistening in the dancing light of the flames. His black eyes swept past the fire to the line of women, their faces in shadow. As leader, Arystan was entitled to select first. He first turned to his chieftains and made a short speech about the women and his intent to reward each of them for their fealty to him. This was met with enthusiastic hoots and growls. If truth be told, Arystan cared little for this ritual but continued it regularly as it kept his libidinous chieftains more than appeased. He preferred to strategize about battle, practice his fighting skills, thunder across the open steppes on his great, strong horses. Pussy was simply pussy. He fucked women thoroughly, even animalistically, but it was just that – fucking. Once he’d sated his need, he could return to other pursuits until the urge was upon him again. But . . . the ceremony was good in other aspects. It was heady to watch his chieftains choose their women, to see the lust in their eyes, feel their appreciation of his generosity, stoking their reverence, allegiance and devotion to him. That was good indeed. Arystan moved around the fire, walking slowly to the beginning of the line of bound women. The eyes of his warriors were upon him as he inspected them. Unlike his chieftains, he never groped or fondled a woman before he chose her. It simply didn’t

matter to him. He was going to fuck the woman anyway – it really didn’t matter how she felt. He was known to be rather brutal sexually, another quality that inspired admiration from his chieftains. He always pretended to make a show of interest, but actually chose a woman at random, sending her to his tent to be fucked later while he waited, magnanimously, for the remainder of his chieftains to make their selections. The women all looked frightened, properly cowed, their black eyes wide with apprehension. His chieftains would be quite pleased. Rainura had done a good job. He would have to give her a thank-you fuck later. He knew Rainura kept the women drugged to make them easier to control. He didn’t care as long as they were clear-eyed at bonfire night. The chieftains fed on the scent of fear, the women’s distress, their vulnerability. Arystan did too. After all, part of the thrill of the hunt was the terror in the eyes of the hunted. Yes, they all looked terrified. All except one. He stopped in front of Sara, her pale skin obviously out of place, even as golden as it had turned under the sun. She was pretty, he admitted, although in an unusual way. Hmmm. It had been awhile since he had had a woman of another race. He had once fucked a woman with hair so pale it might have well been white, almost to her death, taking her so brutally, refusing to stop, even when she pleaded with him in that strange, lilting language. Perhaps she did die afterward – he had no idea – he never saw her again. And then there was the black woman who had actually been magnificent. One of the best fucks of his life if there were such things. Well, what the hell, why not something different tonight. He unsheathed his short sword and held it to Sara’s throat. She stared back at him, meeting his gaze, unflinching. Her blue eyes were cool. So, she wasn’t afraid of him. Well, that would change before the night was through. Another reason to choose her, to remove her from the line-up. His chieftains wouldn’t appreciate a woman who was not accommodating. He brought his blade down swiftly twice, severing the ropes that linked Sara to the women on either side, leaving her hands bound. He frowned as she didn’t flinch when he swung his sword. He jerked his chin at the attendants waiting in the shadows who materialized and pulled Sara from the line. Then he walked back to the fire and gestured for his first chieftain, Tebur, to rise and select. His black eyes glowed. This was the best part. Sara was pushed roughly down a line of yurts by the same man who had bound her hands in the enclosure. No one was to touch her now that Arystan had claimed her, but they didn’t have to treat her gently. The man stopped before the largest tent in the compound, opened the flap and stepped through, yanking Sara inside with him by her wrists. He dragged her to a pole in the center of the room and pulled her hands over her head, attaching them to one of several, linked metal rings which hung from a bronze pin.

“Yeah, it’s just too bad I can’t have a turn with you,” the man breathed, licking his lips, as he watched the torchlight play over Sara’s naked breasts, his hand moving to his loins. He inhaled sharply. “But I prefer to keep my cock attached to my balls.” He exited the tent quickly and re-tied the flap. Sara felt her mind clearing. She was not used to drugs and had still felt under its influence at the bonfire, even though the effects had been waning. She had not reacted when Arystan had swung his sword. If she had had all of her wits about her, perhaps she could have thought of some way to escape by catching him unaware. Then again, possibly not since she apparently had been surrounded by the fiercest warriors in the camp. Her mind was beginning to work faster now in the way in which she was accustomed; her intellect feeling more comfortable, familiar. Where was she? More importantly, who was she? She could not recall anything before she had been abducted by Sabalak on the plains. She had been starving and hungry, but certainly she had a past, didn’t she? Well, she could dwell on that later. She pushed aside those thoughts and considered her current situation. Her eyes swept the large room. There was a low bed of furs, a table with two wooden benches and a stone bench on the far side. There were a few torches burning low around the perimeter of the walls. The ground was covered with hides. In the center of the tent rose the pole to which she was secured. It was summer and there was no fire. Something about the room felt oddly familiar. She scanned the enclosure for weapons and saw none. Still, she would be watchful and work on a plan for escape or if not escape, at least survival. After a time, Sara fell asleep, letting the leather ties on her wrists take some of the weight from her body. She was startled awake by someone jerking on the collar around her throat. Half-choking, her eyes flew open and she looked into Arystan’s dark, penetrating stare. He was naked and looked as if he was ready to swallow her whole. Her knees weakened as she felt a pulse of desire wash over her. Fuck. This was bad. She was about to be raped by a ruthless, unfeeling stranger and she was getting hot for it? She’d better cool down and think rationally or she could forget about escape, possibly even forget about surviving.

CHAPTER 11 The Lion’s Den Arystan saw the flash of heat in the eyes of the woman bound to the pole. He felt an unusual throb in his belly as his eyes met hers. It unnerved him and was most unwelcome. He shook the woman, his black eyes boring into her, his fingers still wrapped in the ring at her collar. She did not lower her gaze. The women always lowered their gaze. Her eyes were blue, a deep, brilliant cerulean color, exactly like the lake next to which he had grown up as a child. His eyes hardened. “Do you know why you are here?” She knew, but did not reply. He shook her again, more harshly this time. “Yes,” Sara said, spluttering at the sensation of choking. He dropped her collar, considering her. Now was the time when he fucked the slaves and whores brought into the camp without a second thought. He might take them up against the pole or he might cut them loose and fuck them on the skin floor, the women begging and pleading for him to stop as he plowed into them viciously, driving them across the yurt. He did not understand why he was hesitating with this woman. It was not for lack of ability. He grimaced. No, the equipment was in working order. More than working order, it felt as if his cock was going to burst into the woman of its own accord. Sara watched Arystan. She was unsure about his hesitation as much as he was. But that didn’t make it any easier to breathe when he was near her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, washing over her like waves of flame, turning the warm night restlessly hot, sultry even, as her body began to flush and perspire, her hair beginning to form soft ringlets around her face. Arystan’s eyes were like black pools of liquid fire that seemed to pour over and want to engulf her. And his cock. When she had regained her wits after almost being choked, she had seen the monstrosity, long, impossibly thick, dark, beautifully shaped. She wasn’t sure he would even fit, but gods she wanted him to try. Her mouth parted slightly as she stared at him, helpless to break his gaze. Arystan clenched his fists at his sides, looking down at Sara, feeling again that strange tingling sensation accompanying the familiar throb of his cock. Curse this woman. He could fuck her, would fuck her, and it would be no different from any experience he had ever had. He stepped closer to her, noticing the heat flare in her eyes and that she seemed to strain a little at her bonds and push her body toward him imperceptibly. Why wasn’t she afraid? Growling, he reached up and grabbed her hands, encasing them in his, even though she was already restrained and he ground himself into her harshly, his hard muscled chest pressing against her soft, willing flesh. He heard her gasp, felt her sharp intake of breath. His cock, uncomfortably hard, was pressed into her belly and he felt her wind her hips against him. Shit. So she wanted him? So what? That didn’t mean he had to want her back. He was simply going to take her, without thought, without emotion. She was beautiful though,

with that pale, creamy skin, lust clearly in her eyes, her pelvis making small thrusting motions against him. He pushed his body harder against her to make her stop and trailed his hands down her arms, sticky with perspiration, to her shoulders, lingering as his eyes washed over her throat. Then he reached behind her neck, thrust his hands in her damp mass of hair and lowered his head to hers as if in a trance. Sara tilted her head back to receive him, her eyes glazed, panting slightly, as their lips met in a blinding flash of fire, jolts of electricity crackling through their bodies, mutual spasms of desire coursing through their connected flesh. Unable to stop himself, Arystan kneaded Sara’s hair with his hands, causing her to cry out, raping her mouth with his tongue and teeth as she drank his ardor down. Arystan suddenly jerked away, furious with his own reaction. His eyes blazed at her. “Who are you?” he demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her fiercely. “What are you? A sukkuba? An evil spirit, come in the form of woman to seduce me so that you can then kill me?” Arystan released her and strode quickly to the stone bench, unsheathing his short sword from his belt which lay on a small pile of skins. Sara’s eyes flicked to the clump of garments. He must have removed those before he woke her. He walked back to her, holding the sword before him as he approached. Her eyes widened. “So, there is fear in your eyes now, woman,” he said quietly. “As there rightly should be.” He brought the blade point to her throat and pressed it there, indenting it against her neck, but not breaking the skin. Sara tried to move back from him, but her head fell against the pole. She looked at him, clearly afraid, but the lust had not left her eyes. He could see it. Damn her. Cursing, he brought the sword up hard and slashed at the thong connecting her wrists to the chain of rings on the pole. It was a narrow strap. Arystan had a very good aim. Then he grabbed Sara’s wrists with one hand and cut the bindings, stepping back and letting the rope fragments fall to the ground. There. If she was some type of devil, she was now free to attack him. At least he would be on more familiar footing and could defend himself as a man, rather than be a slave to some magic-inspired lust. Sara rubbed at her wrists, trying to bring the circulation back into them. She made no move toward Arystan although he waited, his sword lowered, still on point. Finally, he sheathed it and tossed it aside, angry with himself. She was just a woman, in all probability simply trying to pretend that she enjoyed him, like the women had before he entered the war, clamoring to please him, offering themselves to him because he was a warrior of prowess, a warlord on his way up in the ranks. Well, there was one way to test that theory. In his experience, there were some things that couldn’t be faked.

He walked back to Sara slowly, noting the immediate dilation of her pupils. He locked his black eyes onto her blue ones. They blazed back at him with heat, heat Sara was trying desperately to control. Experimentally, Arystan lowered his lips to her neck, nipping gently at it. It was true, he was usually a savage and brutal lover, but he could be passionate, even tender, as he had been at times before the war took hold. He saw that Sara’s breath quickened and her eyes fluttered for a moment, but she made no sound. Hmmm. His eyes flicked to her pale breasts, bound and wrapped in leather, the pink-brown areolas dark in the torchlight, her nipples hard and erect. He frowned. Could she fake that? He brought his hand up and held it above her cheek as if he meant to strike her. Instead of cowering in anticipation of the blow, she leaned in to his touch. He swallowed, bringing it down slowly to her lips where she kissed it, staring up at him, before he drew his calloused hand over her jaw line, down her throat, coming to rest at the swell of her breasts. Sara’s eyes were half-lidded with pleasure. He had released her from her bindings so to stand here helplessly before him, she realized, was ridiculous. She should be furtively searching for a way through the flap, calculating how to disarm this man, Arystan, and take his sword. Why then did her body keep responding to him? He obviously had a part in keeping her captive for a week, under the influence of some sort of drug, and then had ordered her tied to the pole in the middle of a tent so he could ravish her. And now she wanted him, wanted his touch, wanted to revel again in the feeling of his hand raking down her flesh, leaving a trail of sparks behind. More than anything, she wanted him to possess her, to taste his mouth again, to feel his beautiful dark-bronze cock inside of her. She shuddered powerfully. She must still be under the influence of a drug. But then again, this man seemed to be almost as surprised at his reactions as she was at hers. It was almost as if he was caught off-guard, off-balance. She sensed he was the type of man who was never caught off-guard. Arystan watched her shudder, watched the pleasure she obviously took from his touch and found himself reacting powerfully to her responses. His cock suddenly throbbed, almost aching as even more blood rushed to it, filling it to capacity. Fighting the urge to grab her, throw her to the bed, and pound into her beautiful body unmercifully, he instead reached under her naked breast and gripped it firmly. Sara gasped. Her nipple stood out even more, blood-engorged from the tightness of the bindings and his grasp. He bent down and took the nipple in his mouth, running his teeth over it, his black eyes looking up at her to watch her reaction as his hand moved to her other nipple and roughly caressed it. Sara made a strangling sound in her throat and grabbed for his arms with her hands to steady herself, arching as he rolled her nipple with his tongue, taking more of her breast in his mouth and then moving to the other and repeating himself. This could be no act, Arystan thought. He felt her hands on his forearms. They felt warm, wet, good. How would they feel on his cock? How would she feel on his cock? He throbbed again and then reached for her buttocks and pulled her to him fiercely, her slick belly coming to rest against his hard abdomen.

Sara felt as if she had connected with a geyser, as if boiling water had met fire and steam was rising from their bodies, steam that made the tent sticky and moist, like a living, breathing jungle and this was the god of that jungle pressed to her body. She wantonly ground against his body, hearing him hiss as he threw back his head. Not thinking, controlled now only by desire, she stood on tiptoe and reached up and kissed his chin, the only part she could reach with his head tilted backward. His head immediately snapped back, his black eyes hard as steel and she wondered whether she had made a grave mistake in trying to kiss him. Arystan was thinking the same thing. He didn’t kiss women. He fucked them, he used them, he sometimes abused them, but he didn’t kiss them. He had hardly kissed women even before he became a warrior and left for life on the battlefield. It formed attachments and complicated matters, things he was loathe to avoid. But he had already kissed her once and, great spirits, why did he feel compelled to do it again when the foreign woman before him meant nothing to him, absolutely nothing. She shifted against him and he painfully realized their bodies were still touching, the mutual heat sending streams of perspiration over their flesh, lubricating their skin. No, he shouldn’t, definitely he shouldn’t, but . . . . He bent down and hovered his lips above hers, willing himself to stop, and then losing that battle, as he had never lost a battle in his life, he took her. He was not gentle, scouring her mouth, thrusting his tongue deep within her, sucking hard on her lips and then crushing them, barely allowing her to kiss him back although he could feel her attempts. And then his hands were on her also, roaming over her back, her breasts, her thighs, feeling her slickness, her warmth, her willingness. “Your name,” he breathed harshly, his voice sounding raw, his hands still moving over her. Sara grabbed at him, trying to pull him back into the kiss. He grabbed her hair and shook her. She looked at him, her eyes unfocused. “Your name,” he said again, tightly. “What is your name?” “Sara,” she whispered back. “Sareta,” he repeated and then fell to her lips again. He reached under her skirt and touched her core, still ravishing her mouth and felt his entire hand come away drenched in wetness as the woman cried out against him, her breath hot and sweet. She was ready, more than ready. And so was he. “My lord –” came a low voice from the entrance to the yurt. Arystan spun to face the tent flap, livid, his breathing ragged. “Why – why do you disturb me?” he said, his black eyes dangerous, trying to bring his body under control. Sabalak stood in the entrance, his eyes raking over Sara unpleasantly, even as he spoke deferentially to Arystan. “I am sorry to disturb you, my lord. We called from outside, but you did not . . . answer.”

“What is it?” Arystan hissed. “We captured a messenger, my lord. In torturing him, we learned that an advance horse regiment from Bayuan’s forces rides tonight. They will pass by the river on their way over the pass to join his main encampment. If we ride to the gap quickly, we may be able to ambush them in the narrow valley.” Sabalak lowered his eyes, waiting for Arystan’s response. The leader’s body was tense, his eyes like iron. “How many horse, Sabalak?” “Five hundred, my lord. Elite cavalry.” “How long?” “By my calculations, the horses will arrive at the pass in two hours.” “Organize five hundred men, Sabalak. That should be more than enough considering it will be an ambush. They will not see it coming. We leave in one-quarter of an hour. I will join you then. I expect the men to be ready. Leave me. Now.” “Yes, my lord,” said Sabalak, bowing as he backed out of the tent to make the necessary preparations. The command in Arystan’s tone was not lost on him. Arystan turned back to Sara, looking down at her, his eyes burning. “So, woman . . . we will continue this . . . later.” His eyes flicked to the rings on the pole above her. “I will not bind you while I am gone. But you will be here when I return.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not disobey me or you will die, I assure you.” He stared at her a final moment longer, and then quickly dressed in the skins and armor from the stone bench. He strapped his short sword to his waist, slung a large scabbard over his back and left without giving Sara another glance. Arystan paused outside his tent and caught a camp servant roughly by the arm. “Y-y-yes, my lord?” the man faltered. “The woman in my tent. I charge you personally to attend her, within reason. She is not to be harmed or touched, in any way. That includes binding. To do so will mean your death. She is also not to leave my tent. If she does, that will also mean your death.” He gave the man a hard look. “A long, slow and painful death.” The man paled and stammered his assent as Arystan disappeared into the darkness.

CHAPTER 12 Breaking the Rules The woman in the red-and-white flowered bikini began to undulate on the sand. Whew, she thought, it was supposed to be hot in the islands, but this was far, far beyond her expectations. A delicious sensation swirled around her body, as if she was engulfed in a languid, decidedly sexual, whirlwind. She raised up on her elbows, looking around the beach while fanning herself with her tourist map. There didn’t seem to be any breeze. Well, it should only be a moment before her husband returned with the coconut drinks from the stand they had passed on their way to the shore. That ought to help her feel cooler. She suddenly felt again so . . . erotic. Was it the thought of her husband now that they were vacationing together in a romantic setting? Or perhaps the lifeguards. She cut her eyes over to the tower where two fit, dark men reclined in beach chairs, casually scanning the ocean. Mmmm. Yes, they certainly could rescue her any day. Her thoughts drifted to the bellhop at the hotel this morning. She was certain he must work only part-time, his afternoons taken up by surfing, thus explaining the deep tan and toned body she noted under his tightly fitting uniform. She lifted up a bit, her eyes sweeping over the men with surfboards in her vicinity. Maybe he was here now, somewhere . . . . The woman suddenly began to shudder. She felt an irresistible urge to touch herself, to thrust her fingers into the bottom of her bikini and rub at her clit. She knew it was swollen, white-hot, she could even feel it pulsating against the fabric of her suit. But she resisted, her senses steeped enough in reality to remind her that she was on a public beach. Instead, she writhed under the sensations, lifting her hips, grinding her shoulders into the sand, digging her toes into the soft beach. “Oh my god, mon,” said one of the lifeguards. “Dat woman. On the beach. She’s having a seizure, mon.” “Grab da bag. Go!” The woman began to make small mewling sounds as her hips began to buck faster and faster, a keening building in her throat. She tried to fight it back, but the beach began to recede and her bubble of ecstasy grew higher in intensity until it was nearly ready to burst. She stretched her arms out above her head, her fingers alternately opening and closing, grains of sand sliding over her palms, as she began to openly wail. “Run, mon. Run!” The two lifeguards reached the woman and threw their bag down beside her, frantically rummaging through it. “Aaaaaaaaah,” she shrieked, trying to hold onto the sand, finding it insubstantial, her hips rising even higher in tangent with her voice. And then she collapsed, panting, spent, falling flat to her back, releasing her clenched fingers, her cries falling to silence, her floral-encased breasts rising and falling deeply.

“Is da seizure over? What shall we give her, mon?” asked one of the lifeguards to the other. “Good grief, what’s going on here?” demanded a middle-aged man in long, yellow swimming trunks, bright red flip-flops, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. He held a coconut with a straw in each hand and looked stunned, staring at the dark-skinned lifeguards kneeling over his wife. The two men looked up at him. “Who are you?” one asked, sweeping back his long, matted coils of hair. “That’s my wife. What’s wrong with her?” “We don’ know mon. Does she have seizures?” “Seizures? What? What on earth are you talking about?” he spluttered. The woman’s eyes fluttered open, taking in her husband standing above her, holding the coconuts. “Honey?” she asked softly. “I’ve changed my mind. Can you bring me a hot dog instead?” ***** “What are you doing?” they hissed together, looking down at the commotion on the beach. “I don’t know what you things are all worked up about.” “You can’t abuse your power . . . our power . . . thisssss way. There are lawssss. Rulessss,” said six voices in an echoing unison. The mists could speak separately, but also together if united in thought or purpose. They were. “Odd,” said the mist, blacker than the others, coiling indolently into the shape of a serpent, “no one mentioned any ‘laws’ or ‘rules’ when you recruited me.” “You are supposed to know. Automatically.” The words reverberated in the empty cosmic space. The seventh mist made no response, suddenly uncoiling and breaking apart into a billion specks of black floating through a tangerine expanse. Violent pulses of light flared and pinwheels of color stopped and then started again, as the surroundings reflected the fickle impulses and emotions of the mists. “When we ‘recruited’ you, we senssssed great promise. You were strong, courageous, willing to speak to the spirits, ruthless even. Some ruthlessness is necessary. We are not pushoversssss. But you are not supposed to not bring with you your mortal baggage.

When you become one of us, your consciousness merges with wisdom. You become someone – something elssssse.” “Look. You can’t tell me you mists don’t have ‘needs.’ I’ve seen the way you watch the mortals compete. I don’t see what harm one woman on the beach –” “It is not the woman in the sandsssss.” The darkness ebbed and flowed, bluish light swirling and pulsating fiercely. “It is the mortal who survived the testing. You invaded her. Suppressed her memoriessss. You are trying to control her. Once chosen, the mortals are to be trained as protectors, not ussssed for your own endssssss,” they hissed unpleasantly. The universe curled in on itself and exploded outward again. “I intended to train her . . . until I had her and then . . . she was so contrary. And that sprit and fire and contrariness was all mine! Mine to use to my own advantage. Fuck the rest of you. You pulled me into this without asking me. I’ve been here for nearly two millennia and accomplished nothing, as far as I can tell. I want my body back. I want my power back. And I will have both. I will be even more powerful than I could have ever imagined.” The stars spasmed like a shimmering curtain, pinpoints of light winking in and out. The six mists seemed very upset. “You shifted the mortal within the timeline. You cannot do that. There are consequencessssss.” The word rippled in space, wound around the stars, twisting and dipping through sparkles of radiance, seemingly not wanting to die away. The mists spoke over it. “Consequencessss to interfering with the timeline. You are meddling. It is forbidden. The mortal world must remain restricted to linear time, even if we are not. You will upset the harmony, the balancccccceeee,” they hissed. “Can you stop me?” The black shape swooped and darted, almost roguishly among the colorful patches of light, completely at ease. There was a long silence. “Nooooo. We cannot stop you. Unlessssss you fail. Then, we can.” “I will be certain then, that I succeed,” it responded. ***** Sara watched the flaps close as Arystan departed. Then she turned as if in a dream and stepped away from the pole. She picked her way carefully around the tent. The hides felt soft on her bare feet, smooth, massaging. The flush from her skin began to dissipate but she was still warm. Her thighs felt sticky, the lubrication from her arousal now drying. She wished she had some water both for

drinking and washing. She became aware that the bindings around her breasts were becoming uncomfortably tight. She wrestled with the leather for a few moments before the straps loosened and fell from her. She stood in the torchlight, naked from the waist up, massaging her aching breasts, moaning with pleasure from the release of the strictures. “Ahem.” Sara jumped at the sound, turning rather quickly. A thin, dark man with a weasel-shaped face stood in the tent entrance, his eyes flicking around nervously. Sara thought to cover herself, but the man wasn’t even looking at her; in fact, it almost seemed as if he was purposefully avoiding it. She really had nothing with which to cover herself anyway, except perhaps one of the furs from the bed. Sara decided it likely mattered little to the men in the camp whether she was dressed or not. She dropped her arms and turned fully to face the man. “Yes?” He cleared his throat again, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Is there . . . anything I can bring you? Food, perhaps?” he muttered. She sensed a note of great reluctance in his offer, as if he hoped she would decline. His rat-like eyes were still scanning the room, taking in everything but her. She considered this. “I’m not hungry, thank you. But I am thirsty. Could you bring water?” She wasn’t sure how she had earned the privilege of food or drink. This wasn’t the way Rainura had described it, but she wasn’t going to decline the man’s offer; she really was very thirsty. “Certainly,” said the man, making to leave. “Wait,” Sara called. He poked his head back through the flap. “Er . . . perhaps also a washbasin – and a cloth?” She didn’t really think this request would be granted, but it didn’t hurt to ask. Particularly, if she was nice about it. She wondered something else, but thought she would wait until he returned to find out. “Certainly,” he said again, grimacing as he disappeared and secured the flap behind him. Minutes later he returned with what she had asked, setting the things on the table, not speaking as she thanked him. She decided to test her theory. “May I leave the tent? Go back to the enclosure?”

He drew back from her as if burned, his eyes slitted. “No,” he said quickly. His eyes flicked to the walls where Sara was sure armed soldiers patrolled. “You are under guard. You will be killed if you try to leave. Do not try,” he added nastily, doing his best to sound very convincing. He stared at her a long moment and then hastily exited the yurt. He knew that more than Sara’s life was at stake if she slipped away. It was also his own. That confirmed what Sara had suspected, but she was not really surprised. She drank the water gratefully, removed the rest of her clothing and washed herself. She was shocked to find that the water in the small basin was actually warm. She felt tired now. Sara wondered how long it took to ambush a regiment of horses. It had sounded like a good opportunity: the cover of darkness, a narrow valley, a mountain pass, the element of surprise. Something about the strategy she found interesting, stimulating even. It seemed as if she had some familiarity in the past with such things. How could that be possible? The need for sleep drove thoughts of strategic warfare from her tired mind. Sara looked around for somewhere to rest. The floor? The only other option was Arystan’s own bed. Dare she? She walked over to it. She had never slept in a fur bed before, at least she didn’t think so. It looked quite comfortable. She experimentally tested it. It was firm, but not hard. Perfect for . . . . She caught herself, trying not to think about what she could be doing with Arystan right now, especially since she was about to crawl under his covers completely naked. The torches seemed to be lowering. She didn’t know whether someone came in to maintain them or whether they were just allowed to sputter and die out each night, but the lower level of light suited her drowsiness. Without another thought, Sara slipped into the golds, reds, and browns of the furs, all impossibly soft, caressing her flesh, soothing her, and promptly fell asleep.

CHAPTER 13 Arystan Returns Sara awoke. She was facing the wall of the tent and felt nothing covering her. It was warm and she had apparently kicked off all of the fur coverings in Arystan’s bed while she slept. She quickly recalled where she was. She heard low voices outside the yurt and then heard someone enter. She watched a dark shadow flicker briefly across the stretched skin wall next to the bed. There was a small silence and then someone sat down heavily at the table. She slowly rolled over. The torches were even lower now, and some had gone out, but there was enough light by which to see across the room. Arystan sat at the table, disrobing and removing his armor. His cloak lay over the bench next to him. He unfastened the bronzed bands which encircled his corded upper arms and set them down, beginning to work on his plated vest. His black hair was matted on one side, a dark stain of blood visible at the hairline. Blood streaked his face and neck. Sara sat up, making no effort to cover herself, watching him. He met her gaze, his fingers working the fasteners loose down the front of his armor, saying nothing about the fact that she was in his bed. Sara hesitated and then slid from the bed, walking softly around the table to where Arystan sat. His black eyes followed her, burning with intensity as she moved the cloak aside and straddled the smooth bench beside him. Wordlessly, Sara placed her hands on Arystan’s shoulders and pulled the heavy, leather vest from his arms. He allowed this and she sat it on the floor behind them with a soft clunk. It was much heavier than she had imagined it would be. Sara’s eyes swept over the dark skin of his torso. He had a shallow gash on his shoulder where a small part of his arm had been exposed between the armband and the leather vest. The wound to his head looked worse, but blood caked his skin and hair and she could not tell how serious it was. She looked across the table and saw that while she had slept, someone had replaced the washbasin with a fresh bowl and new cloths. Perhaps they had brought it in right before Arystan arrived, knowing he might need it after the skirmish. A slight steam escaped the water. She reached over and drew the basin and a cloth toward her. She dipped the cloth and held it in her hand, warm water dripping from her fingers, undecided as her pulse beat an irregular rhythm against her throat. Her mouth dry and her heart pounding, she brought the cloth up slowly to Arystan’s head and touched it to the sticky blood. She held her breath. He did not flinch or draw away from her. Slightly more emboldened, she slid closer to him, her soft legs touching his hard, muscled thigh. He hissed at the contact and she drew back for a moment and then, trying to keep her hand steady, began to work at his temple, peeling away the dried residue until it was clean. It oozed a bit of fresh blood, but she had nothing with which to bandage it so she simply pressed the cloth against it and then let it be. It did not look

deep. She wiped the blood from his hair and then dipped the cloth back in the basin, wringing it as she watched the water change from clear to crimson. Sara cleaned the small gash on Arystan’s upper arm and then moved her arm behind him, wiping the dirt and sweat from his back. She was painfully aware of his presence, the smooth, flowing muscles rippling as he shifted, his dark, flowing hair, his broad, hard shoulders. As she finished, he lifted one leg over the bench, turning to face her, his leather skirt tented with evidence of his lust. His black eyes smoldered into hers and raked over her body, lingering at the apex to her thighs where her naked legs were spread across the bench. She wanted badly to fuck him, he was so close to her, so hot, his body drawing her in like a magnet, but she also wanted to finish tending to him. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, wrung out the cloth and raised her trembling hand to his chest. Arystan’s dark eyes rested on the woman as she drew the warm cloth over the muscles in his neck, shoulders, pectorals and abdomen, in sensuous, gentle sweeping motions. He had never had a woman attend to him after a battle. Rainura had tried once, but he found her ministrations irritating. But this . . . this was one of the most erotic experiences he could have imagined. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he tried not to betray any emotion while the beautiful, pale woman worked over him, stimulating his flesh in ways he had not thought possible. Sara drew the cloth one more time over his well-defined musculature, her eyes falling to the leather draped around his waist. She paused, wondering if she dared continue. She did. She worked the cloth up one muscular thigh, continuing, sliding her hands under the metal overlay, working her way closer, until she released the damp cloth, letting it fall to the floor, and slid her bare hand shamelessly to his cock. “Sara,” he rasped, as her hand came into contact with his shaft, engorged with blood, throbbing. Simply the way in which he spoke her name made her feel as though a river of fire gushed through her and she might ignite, bursting into a fiery conflagration. He stood up abruptly, flinging Sara’s hands away, staring down at the woman straddling the bench, at the fullness of her breasts, topped by large, brown nipples in the dimming torchlight. He had reached his limit. He walked quickly away from her as she stared after him, her mouth open, wondering what she had done. She was frenzied with need, almost shaking, she wanted Arystan so badly. Where the hell was he going? He returned a half-second later, flinging a white fur from his bed over the edge of the table. It was beautiful, a snow leopard. “Sit on the table with your legs over the edge. Now,” he demanded, his voice raw with desire. Sara didn’t have to be told twice. She scrambled from the bench to the fur which felt like velvet under her thighs. She moved closer to the edge, her legs spread, feeling the

wetness seeping out from her, trembling. She leaned back slightly, resting on her hands, and closed her eyes. He studied her, her legs falling open, the alluring patch of curling brown below her belly. The torchlight was low, very low, but it made the setting seem . . . intimate, another unfamiliar feeling to Arystan. He moved forward fluidly and positioned himself between her thighs. “Look at me,” he commanded hoarsely. Sara bit her lip and opened her eyes, looking directly into Arystan’s black eyes, her blue ones hazy, sensual, and then unable to stop herself, her gaze swept down over his taut, dark body. She gasped as her eyes came to rest on his loins. He had removed the leather skirt and his beautiful, huge cock was positioned inches from her opening, ready to drive into her mercilessly. Arystan knew from past experience that the table was the perfect height for taking a woman. This, however, was the first time he had ever brought over a hide. Usually, he threw the women directly on the boards, sometimes fucking them on their backs, the roughened wood causing scrapes and bleeding, cries of pain mixing in with those from his violent attentions. His eyes flickered darkly; he had a different type of discomfort in mind for Sara. Sara saw the dark look that crossed Arystan’s face. She felt her stomach clench with desire. His organ was so huge she realized he could probably use it for more than pleasure, possibly punishment, retribution, compliance. Arystan might be showing more consideration than she expected, but she could tell there was a darker side to this warrior. There was a price to pay to be had by him. A price she was more than willing to pay. In one swift motion, Arystan reached behind her, grabbed her hips and thrust himself forward, hissing as he entered her, her warm, pulsating, vibrant sheath welcoming and enveloping him. He held Sara impaled on his cock while she gasped at his size, adjusting to the sensation of being filled so wholly and completely. He groaned, feeling her pulse around him, and then pulled back slowly, drawing his cock out so that only the head was inside her, as she whimpered at his withdrawal, and then thrust into her viciously again, deeper this time, hitting her cervix as she let out a strangled cry. Sara reflexively locked her legs around his torso as he begin strongly driving into her, finding a rhythm, still holding her hips as he buried himself up to his balls, slapping and pounding against Sara’s thighs as he rode her on the leopard fur thrown over the table. Sara cried out at his intensity, tongues of flame shooting up her body, her senses whirling, a torrent of need flowing through her. She grabbed onto his shoulders, feeling his muscles rippling and tensing as he tore into her at a fervent pace, a sheen in the low torchlight developing over their bodies. Sara’s head fell back and Arystan drew his tongue up her throat, tasting her salty skin, making her shudder and cry out his name. Hearing his name on her lips only made him stroke into her harder and he locked his mouth over her neck, sucking, licking, and then biting down on her skin in his lust, until

she was whimpering and crying out, and he . . . tasted blood. Startled, he drew back, not slowing his stroke, noting the small dark patch where he had broken the skin. She brought her head up, her eyes glowing, dizzy with passion, and he pulled her into a hot, searing kiss as their bodies merged and flowed. Ravishing her mouth, Arystan effortlessly lifted Sara, still riding her body, his hands under her buttocks, spinning her away from the table, her legs locked around his waist. Sara’s hands slipped from Arystan’s shoulders to his biceps, her body arching back through the air, her hair cascading behind her, her mouth slack, as he continued to piston into her, watching her body jerk roughly under his stroke, bouncing her over his pole of iron, as she emitted cries and moans of pleasure. Suddenly, Sara pulled herself upright, her hands reaching for his back, her nails raking over his hard skin. He lifted her above his cock, bending his knees slightly as he slammed into deeply, enjoying her shrieks as he hit bottom again and again. He felt her warm sheath begin to clutch, he could feel her tightening around him, as she moved toward that state of bliss, propelled by his deep thrusts, as he drove into that spot of pleasure over and over. Arystan’s head bent forward with exertion, bringing her to that place where only he could take her, his eyes falling to the erotic sight of their bodies connecting, her sweet, wet sleeve encasing his cock as he pushed through her juices coating and gushing around him, his buttocks clenching as he feverishly drove into her portal of pleasure. Sara’s blue eyes locked to his as she tried to keep her grip on his slippery skin, slick with the juices of their exertion, their bodies coated with the oils of their lust. Arystan stared into her eyes, fascinated, unable to tear his gaze away as Sara’s pupils turned in on themselves and she looked somewhere far away, taking several deep breaths in succession, and then crying out, her pussy clamping powerfully over him, causing him to gasp as she squeezed him, feeling the gush of fluids flowing over his cock, her sheath spasming as her eyes looked through him, beyond, brought to nameless heights of pleasure, her pupils suddenly enlarging as if they would swallow the blue whole, her eyes turning almost black. Arystan had never before looked into a woman’s eyes during her climax, completely oblivious of the powerful connection he was forging with Sara. He held himself still while Sara’s pulsing slowed around him, her head falling to his shoulders as she gasped and panted, her body still resting on his huge, hard rod, harder, Arystan thought, than it had ever been in his life. He waited another moment and then gave her a strong, lustful stroke, jerking her body, causing her to gasp and register his presence again. That had been good, but Arystan was ready for more of the woman. Although he did not realize it and would not have admitted it if he did, Sara attending to him after the ambush and her responses to his ardor were affecting him deeply. He looked at her with a feral hunger in his eyes that she alone could slake, a ravenous need for her, something that could be sated only by driving into her sweet body, riding her, thrusting, taking enough pleasure of her to satisfy the fire that still burned in his loins. Arystan walked with her to

the bed, his carnal expression sending tremors through Sara’s belly as she felt his body tense with craving, as if he had just started. And he had. He looked deeply into her eyes, his dark eyes full of primitive lust. “Now,” he breathed at her, his face contorted with desire, “I fuck you.” Sara thought she might faint. Arystan easily lifted her from his body, Sara moaning as he slipped from her, feeling the emptiness, his loss, wanting him back, and then he tossed her unceremoniously onto the furs of his bed. “Turn over,” he said hoarsely. She dimly registered his words in her passion-clouded mind, her eyes dark and smoky as she stared up at him. His eyes hardened at her noncompliance. “On your hands and knees, woman,” he growled, reaching down and ruthlessly flipping her onto her stomach, then grabbing her hair and pulling her up roughly. A gush of fluid rushed out of Sara, soaking her thighs. He climbed onto the bed behind her, kneeling between her legs, pausing for a moment before he drove hard into her, banging against her cervix, causing her to fly up the bed. “No,” he hissed, grabbing her shoulders and dragging her back down, locking her in place as he began hungrily pistoning into her, thrusting deeply, his need taking him over, becoming his brutal, passionate self, riding her body roughly, feeling her jerk beneath him with every stroke as he hit bottom. Now was the time when the women would cry, beg, and plead for him to stop and release them, where what started as pleasure melded into something . . . darker, something closer to pain, something more primal, animal. Sara screamed, but it was Arystan’s name as she began to pulse again, her entire body tensing, as he flexed and pounded above her mercilessly. His black eyes registered surprise as he saw her back and buttocks tense and she came again, shrieking and crying under him as he drove through her orgasm relentlessly, intent on taking his own pleasure, reaching his own release. She was a small woman, but strong, he gave her that. She did not even try to crawl away, but continued to accept him, still pushing her hips back against him wantonly, wanting him, needing more, making him want her more. She ground her pelvis against him, winding her hips, taking his cock with her, and he groaned as his eyes rolled back in his head with the sensation. “You are so passionate, Sara,” Arystan whispered. “So insatiable, taking me as I am, all of me,” he growled, releasing her shoulders and gripping her by the hips, letting her head fall to the furs, his rhythm quickening, fucking her brutally, slamming into her repeatedly, small hoarse cries coming from the furs, her voice spent, but still staying with

him, Arystan’s black hair swinging, his body drenched in sweat, droplets of water cascading over Sara’s back, bouncing and rolling from her skin to the bed. Grunting, he rolled to his back, pulling Sara with him up to a sitting position so that she was impaled over his cock facing away from him, not missing a stroke, continuing to fuck her deeply, thoroughly. He felt her adjust to the change and realize that she had some control while in this position and he let her have a bit of freedom as she modified the tempo, beginning to fuck him, sliding herself over his cock lasciviously, perspiration now sliding from her body and cascading over his. She slid her warm tunnel over him faster, closing her eyes tightly, biting her lip, her breathing in tandem with her movements as Arystan’s black eyes drank in the beautiful sight of the globes of her ass jiggling deliciously as she bounced and coiled over him, gyrating in a rhythmic cadence. She rotated her hips, revolving her pussy around his cock and he groaned again at the sensation, tightening his grip on her hips, as she controlled and changed the angle of his penetration, her buttocks slapping and falling hotly against his loins. Although he enjoyed Sara fucking him, he felt the urge to take back control and pulled her down onto the bed, still taking her from behind as he spooned against her. He wrapped his arms around her body tightly, holding her arms helpless as he laid it to her, keeping her immobile as her body jolted and shook under him, Sara giving weak cries and gasps as he savagely dove into her. He took her like that for several minutes before he rolled her onto her stomach again, pouring on the power, heading for the final stretch, believing he must have nearly drained the woman, but shaking his head in amazement as he found her still receptive and wanting. Arystan grunted as he felt the familiar sensation of tightening, the pressure building on itself, every cord in his neck standing out, his face turning almost purple, the strain evident as he moved closer to climax, pleasure thrumming through his spine, through his cock, and finally curling up inside his balls, the dam breaking as he cried out, burying himself deeply into Sara, straining to get even deeper, his hot, white seed coursing repeatedly into her, emptying himself as wave after wave of aftershocks coursed through him, pulling her, grasping her to him, reveling in the last throes of pleasure until he finally collapsed over her wet, glistening body onto the soft pile of furs, completely and utterly spent. They lay together like that for several minutes until Sara shifted slightly and Arystan realized his weight was probably substantial, strong though the woman might seem. He always withdrew as soon as he finished his climax, feeling no need to lazily fall over a woman as he just had. And so he had given no thought to the pressure his body placed on Sara as he lay on her enjoying the feel of her body beneath him. He pulled out and Sara gave a little gasp. Arystan rolled onto his back next to her and she sleepily crawled over his arm, resting her head on his shoulder, instinctively comfortable with curling up with after sex. When Arystan realized what Sara had done, he started, almost throwing her from him. What did she think was she doing? He never allowed a woman to remain with him after he fucked her, much less drawing her body close to his. Sara’s breath was become more

rhythmic. Shit, she was falling asleep. He couldn’t decide whether to throw her out of the bed or simply roll her from his arm. She was originally brought to his tent tonight for one purpose, just like all of the other women who were treated as sexual slaves in the camp. After he was done, he always sent the women back to the enclosure. He could see the top of Sara’s head, her chestnut hair damp and soft against his shoulder. She shifted slightly and the soft warmth of her skin seemed to caress the entire length of his body. He sighed. She did feel very good against him. And he was exhausted, not only experiencing a staggering climax but also fighting Bayuan’s forces in an ambush, all in one night. Against his judgment, he slowly brought his arm up and around Sara’s shoulder. She turned into him, bringing her own arm across his chest and bent her leg over his thigh in her sleep. His cock began to subtly throb again. It was like sleeping with an angel. What the hell. It couldn’t be worse than sleeping alone and it was already promising to be better. He lifted himself up slightly and drew a light deerskin cover over their legs, enough for the warm summer night and relaxed, closing his eyes, sated, letting the last of the torches sputter out on its own.

CHAPTER 14 Plotting “What is she doing?” asked Tebur, leaning back on his black horse, his eyes fixed on the woman running through the archa trees, her hair gathered in a leather band high on the back of her head. “She is ‘working out,’” replied Arystan. “Working out what?” asked Tebur curiously, looking over at his leader. Arystan shook his head. “I don’t know. ‘Working out’ is what she calls it. I don’t think there is anything more to it.” “But she is running around in circles.” Arystan shrugged. “She says it makes her feel better. It is perhaps like the training we do to stay in shape for battle.” Tebur frowned. Sara had stopped jogging and was now stretching, her leg reaching high above her on the trunk of a tree. “I have never seen another woman do this. Is she a female warrior?” “I do not believe so, although I think her brave and believe she would fight if necessary. It is simply something she prefers to do. I require her to stay within the forest so that she cannot be seen from the plains. She does. Come, brother, let us see how the construction of the new crossbows is coming.” Arystan turned his horse and headed back to camp. “Are you coming?” Arystan called over his shoulder to Tebur, still watching Sara who was now doing a few sit-ups. Tebur nudged his horse after Arystan. The leader certainly gave this strange woman much leeway. He had never seen Arystan take to a woman before, but he seemed to be stuck to this one like a bee on nectar. Still, Tebur had nothing to complain about. If anything, Sara’s presence seemed to energize Arystan. The warlord seemed stronger, more certain, more openly eager to find and engage General Bayuan’s troops each day. It was now mid-summer and Arystan, Tebur and Sabalak had every hope that they would locate and defeat Bayuan before the snow fell. ***** “It’s late, Arystan. Put the maps away,” Sara said softly. The warlord ran his fingers through his thick hair. “The end of summer approaches, Sara. I must find Bayuan by then.” He pressed his palm irritably into the wood of the table. Sara sat down across from him. When he spoke her name, it still sounded like Sareta. She thought it beautiful. It had been six weeks since Arystan selected her from the

bonfire. After that first night, neither she nor Arystan knew what to do with their mutual attraction, so they simply continued, in a way. She had her own small tent, but spent most of her nights here with him. No one touched or bothered her in the camp and she was free to move about. Sara now knew everything necessary to plan an escape away from the camp, away from Arystan, but the idea sat heavy and black in her heart when she thought of it. Eventually, she stopped thinking of it. She drew the maps toward her. There were many nights when she listened to Arystan speak of Bayuan’s army, about the geography of the surrounding area, of battle plans and strategic opportunities. She still felt the same intellectual pull as she had when she learned of the ambush of Bayuan’s cavalry reinforcements. She studied the parchment, tracing the path of a long, winding river that flowed through mountain ranges, across plains, skirting forests . . . . “Arystan?” she said, thoughtfully. He looked at her, heat in his black eyes. He could never get enough of her. But she was bent excitedly over the map. He smirked. He had no idea where she picked up an aptitude for military strategy, but the truth was, he had found their discussions of warfare over the past few weeks stimulating. She had a number of original ideas he had never considered. “Yes?” he growled softly. She looked up. She knew the suggestion in his voice. But her eyes returned to the map. “What is the name of this river?” she asked, pointing to the thin, snaking line. “It is the red river, the Kanin Nehir. The River of Blood.” A small chill passed over her. Nice name. “Well, the river flows from the mountains here, which means there is likely a drop in elevation. It would flow faster just before it empties onto the plain, here. At that point it would be wide, possibly shallow enough to ford. But it narrows here and would likely run deep. On the other side of the river, this looks to be a plateau of sorts before it rises into mountains again. There are trees on a rise here, and here.” “Yes,” he said, interested, coming around to sit next to her on the other side of the table. He nuzzled her hair. “Tell me more.” She smiled at him, her eyes bright. “What if you could lure General Bayuan’s army to camp at this spot?” She pointed to a location next to the river. “Lure them?” “Encourage them. Convince them. Make them think it is their own idea. Perhaps let them capture a ‘messenger’ whose information makes the site seem attractive.”

“And then what?” Arystan asked, nibbling now at Sara’s throat. Her eyes went halflidded. “And then, nothing if you don’t allow me to concentrate,” she said, her voice hoarse. He bit her and then pulled back. She looked only half-convinced at his capitulation, but explained what she had in mind. When she finished, Arystan leaned back and folded his arms, one eyebrow arched at her. “Well? What do you think?” asked Sara. “I think, woman, that you are talented in many, many ways.” His black eyes glittered hotly. “But there is still the matter of finding General Bayuan’s army.” “Yes, there is that,” said Sara softly. Arystan was certain they would locate Bayuan’s troops by the end of summer. He had good intelligence that told him Bayuan was actually in the vicinity of the River of Blood. Perhaps the plan could be accomplished. It was a good idea. A very good one indeed. But there were other times for plans. It was late. He reached for Sara, pulling her to him, covering her mouth with his own, turning her protests into cries of passion. ***** Rainura watched hatefully as Sara walked through the camp. Sara gave the woman a small smile as she passed. They had held a festival last night and Arystan refused to participate. That, of course, meant an extra woman for his chieftains which only enhanced Arystan’s esteem and popularity. Arystan’s relationship, if you could call it that, with the foreigner was commonly known and readily accepted. Anything Arystan did was accepted. He was not a leader who commanded by fear or punishment, although he wielded those traits easily when necessary; instead, he inspired loyalty, selflessness, and devotion through genuine charisma and example. His men would die for him as willingly as he would for them. Arystan had not called Rainura to him once since the festival at which he chose Sara. And no wonder, thought Rainura. He wouldn’t even choose a new girl from the bonfire. How could one woman do so much for him? It was impossible. What kind of power could Sara have over him? Rainura had done everything sexually she could possibly think of for Arystan and she was, by all rights, experienced in all things sexual. She dressed sensuously, stroked his ego and still, still she meant nothing to him? She was beautiful, desirable. Every man told her so. Every man that is, except Arystan. And he was the one she wanted to recognize her worth more than any other. Rainura fumed. Perhaps if she could remove the attraction Arystan felt for Sara, he would call her back to his bed again. Well, not actually his bed – Arystan had never fucked her there. He had told her no woman belonged in his bed. Not that she had

minded being fucked on the skins, the table, the benches, up against that pole. Her eyes narrowed. Did he fuck Sara on the bed? She knew the woman stayed in his quarters most nights. He must. Damn him. Her eyes darkened with malice and then cleared somewhat. She had thought of the beginnings of a plan. First, she needed to venture out a bit on the steppes. She was accorded freedom and would be allowed to travel outside the encampment. She simply needed to gather a few botanical items.

CHAPTER 15 Something Wicked The next morning, the slave women sat on the ground around Rainura in their druginduced stupor, not bothering her as she finished mixing and distributing their daily dose. This time, however, Rainura retained the thickest part of the white mixture and poured it into a bronze flask. This was the same drug she used to daze the girls, but much more concentrated. It should send anyone, even Arystan, into a deep sleep. Rainura rose from the table, stepped disdainfully around the women sprawled at her feet, and walked to the gate. It was time to set the plan in motion. She had returned to the camp late last night after collecting the plants she needed. If there was one thing at which she was skilled, besides sex, it was preparing herbal mixtures, concoctions, drugs and all manner of poisons. Today, she had something very specific in mind. Rainura had spent long evenings in her grandmother’s hut, learning of brews and infusions, incantations and summonsing, all things terrifying and fascinating to a young girl. Her mother had scorned her grandmother’s teachings, calling it the work of evil sprits, but Rainura had been fascinated. Unfortunately, her grandmother died when Rainura was only nine and had not recorded any of her knowledge or passed it to anyone else. Rainura continually repeated the things she had learned to herself, trying to commit them to memory so that they would not be forever lost. There was so much, though, she had not been taught, so much knowledge that died with her grandmother. She had been very sad. She had considered poisoning Sara, but that might cause Arystan to retreat into his natural, affectionless state. In fact, he might withdraw deeply and never form an attachment to another woman. Rainura had heard of this happening. No, poisoning wasn’t her first choice, but if her alternate plan didn’t work, she would have to resort to murder. The thought was not entirely unappealing. Rainura would have preferred a concoction that forced Arystan to love her. She was sure that such a thing existed, but regrettably, she had not learned of it before her grandmother died. She did, however, have a mixture that if prepared correctly, would transfer whatever feelings Arystan had for another to Rainura. It was actually much better than simply killing Sara, because Arystan would actually have real feelings for Rainura. She had never considered preparing such a concoction before now because she believed Arystan had a heart of stone. She thought him incapable of attachment or love . . . until she had seen him with Sara. Rainura didn’t think Arystan actually loved Sara, but he was clearly attached to her. She would take the attachment. Besides, she had no patience to wait to see whether Arystan developed feelings of love for Sara that she could eventually transfer to herself. No, simple attachment would do just fine. She would be quite satisfied with being welcomed

into his yurt many nights, having a special place, no matter how small, in his heart, or at least with his cock. Rainura was familiar with the routines of those in camp and busied herself in the yard until mid-afternoon. She watched Sara leave the encampment to run around the forest and do various movements with her body. The silly woman did this several days each week for seemingly no reason at all. Rainura supposed it was why she had noted muscle tone in the young woman’s legs when she had first been brought to the camp, but what purpose it served, she had no idea. There were women who were warriors, but Sara did not train with weapons or demonstrate any aptitude for or interest in such things. She doubted it helped on a sexual level. Why Arystan would be attracted to musculature on a woman of all things, she had no idea. Rainura concluded that it must be a very strange residual habit from the woman’s foreign land. Very strange indeed. Rainura knew that Arystan often retired for a short rest at this time of day. Her heart leapt as she saw him enter his yurt after Sara left. Today was the day then. She considered bringing the drink to him personally, but decided against it for two reasons. First, he had all but ignored her ever since the night he had chosen Sara from the bonfire. He even brushed her aside for the thank-you fuck she always received after a successful ritual, suggesting she fuck Tebur or Sabalak instead. They were both good in the furs, but they were not Arystan. But the most important reason not to bring in the drink herself was that Arystan was well aware of her skill with concoctions. It would be odd if she suddenly appeared in his yurt with a refreshing beverage. She couldn’t risk raising even a slight suspicion that she had added something to his drink. So, she cornered a foot soldier. “Arystan is thirsty and has requested that a glass of goat’s milk be brought to him before he retires for a rest. Here,” she thrust the mug at him. The man stared at her. “Why don’t you bring it to him?” he said gruffly. “I’m not your servant.” Rainura sighed. She would have to resort to the usual. “You know,” she said seductively, her ebony eyes washing over the short, dusty man. His face was fleshy and pockmarked. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed you in camp before. Where have you been hiding? Unfortunately, I have something else to attend to right now, but I may have some . . . free time, later this evening.” She ran a finger over his shoulder suggestively. His eyes looked lustful and he gave her a lopsided grin showing his grayed teeth. He made to grab for her and she thrust the mug into his hands instead. He held the vessel, still leering. “Not so fast, lover boy. As I said, there’s something I need to do now. Take this to Arystan and I may see you later.” She gave him a sexy smile. Uggh. The things she did to get what she wanted.

He grunted his assent and turned to go, pleased with his turn of luck. “Oh, and one more thing –” The solider turned, looking back at Rainura, an impatient gleam in his eye. “I’ve heard Arystan is in a foul mood today. I suggest you say nothing about the goat’s milk. Just set it on the table without saying anything and leave immediately. You know how he gets when he is in an ill temper.” The man nodded and disappeared, heading for Arystan’s yurt. Yes, he did know how his leader could be. He’d be as quick and surreptitious as possible. Rainura waited ten minutes and then made her way unobserved to Arystan’s tent. Glancing around, she undid the fasteners and moved the flaps apart just a bit with her hand. The yurt appeared to be empty, but then her eyes fell on Arystan’s form sprawled on his bed. She slipped inside. The mug was on the table, empty. Good. She knew Arystan enjoyed goat’s milk and it was a hot day after all. He probably had no idea how the drink appeared but assumed it to be the thoughtfulness of the camp servants. She removed the pouch that was slung over her neck, set it on the table next to the empty mug, and walked quietly to Arystan’s bed. She studied him for some time before resting her finger on his wrist. If he awoke, she’d claim, perhaps, that she wanted to fuck him and then let him throw her out. He would believe that. But she had seen enough of the drug’s effects to know that he would not wake. His pulse was strong, but slow. Very, very slow. Perfect. She moved back to the bench and sat down, her back to Arystan. She opened her pouch and began to work quickly. ***** It was hot. The seasons were approaching fall, but today was certainly hotter than any day had been so far. It was just too hot to exercise. Sara stopped running – she would continue some other day. Perhaps she should take a swim in the river to cool off. That would be perfect. She hesitated. Hmmm. It would be even more perfect if she had company. She pulled the leather thong from her hair, shaking it out, and headed straight for the encampment, her eyes thoughtful and a bit hot. ***** Rainura had completed the mixing of the herbs, roots, and stems. She had pre-prepared as much as she could, but the final root had to be masticated and added fresh. She finally finished chewing it, spitting the pulp out into the bowl and stirred it in quickly. She wasn’t sure how much time she had. She added a sprinkle of blue thistle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It felt thick and numb inside. She hoped the feeling

would wear off quickly. She’d used up the last of several of the dried herbs she had brought from her mountain village for this concoction. This was her only chance. She had better not make any mistakes. She shifted, bringing her foot up to the bench and raised her dress up to her hips, revealing a knife with a six-inch blade belted around her thigh. She unsheathed it and examined it. This was the only part about which she was unsure. Her grandmother had told her to add her blood and the blood of the man, but not how much or from where on the body it should be drawn. Rainura considered. Her wrist was out of the question. She wasn’t skilled at this. She might nick an artery and she didn’t want to die. She guessed she could simply grip the blade of the knife and let the blood fall from her palm. Ouch. She glanced over at Arystan’s still form and took a breath. All right, it would be worth it. She held the knife over the bowl, chanted the incantation, and then brought her hand to the knife, closed her eyes and squeezed. The pain was sharp and she sucked in her breath, gasping audibly as she removed the knife. Arystan shifted. Rainura glanced behind her, her eyes widened with shock. Her hand strayed from the bowl, blood dripping on the table, before she realized what had happened and quickly moved it back. Arystan should not have moved. The drug must be wearing off. She must have miscalculated the dose for his size and metabolism. She would have to work faster. She squeezed her hand together, willing the bleeding to stop. Finally, the yellow-brown mixture was saturated with crimson, the blood starting to darken and congeal. That had to be plenty. Once mixed, only a few drops against a mucous membrane was enough to trigger the effects. Arystan wouldn’t have to drink it. She could dribble some in his mouth or even put a few drops inside his nose. She rose quickly, wiping her hand on her dress. She would clean it later. Or throw it out. She quickly replaced the supplies in the pouch, closed it, and set it on the ground next to the table. All that remained on the table were the wooden bowl, a mixing dowel, and a small mug. She didn’t want to risk upsetting the bowl so she decided to collect Arystan’s blood in the mug and then add it to the mixture. Quickly, she got up, walked to Arystan’s bed and knelt beside it. She gently pulled his arm from across his chest and spread his palm, bringing her knife to it. She positioned the wooden cup with her other hand, whispered the incantation, and then took another deep breath raising her knife. She really hoped he didn’t wake up from this. “What’s going on here?” Rainura jumped, looking toward the tent flaps, bringing the knife down involuntarily over Arystan’s palm as she did so. He shifted, mumbling a few words. Blood seeped from the gash, dripping quickly into the wooden container. Rainura kept her eyes on the woman in the entranceway while catching the drops. She needed only a few more seconds.

“Why, nothing,” said Rainura sweetly, pulling a fur from the bed closer to her so that it hid Arystan’s hand and the knife from Sara’s view. “Arystan was feeling a bit ill and I was asked to check on him. How are you? It’s been some time since we’ve spoken.” Rainura’s eyes swept over Sara scornfully, despite her best efforts to be civil. “I see you’ve moved up to a bit more . . . comfortable surroundings.” Sara closed the flap behind her, walked over to the table and sat down on one of the benches facing the bed. She had no reason to disbelieve Rainura. “I’ve been fine, Rainura. How is Arystan?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “He wasn’t ill this morning.” Worry was in her voice. Rainura seethed internally. Of course, the tramp would know whether Arystan was or wasn’t ill this morning. She probably spent the night with him. Rainura forced herself to calm. She had more important things on which she needed to focus now. Focus, Rainura. “I’m sure it’s just a stomach flu. Nothing serious,” Rainura said confidently, wringing the last drops of blood from Arystan’s hand into the container underneath the furs. She released his palm and placed her own hand over the mug, considering how to get it in the bowl sitting on the table. “What’s this?” Sara asked, poking at the purplish liquid in the bowl in front of her with the dowel. She wrinkled her nose. It looked awful. “Just something to calm his stomach. An old remedy my grandmother taught me.” Sara’s eyes drifted to the line of red drops leading from the bowl to the edge of the table. “This looks like blood . . . .” Her eyes shifted to Rainura, questioning. “I cut myself preparing the herbs for the calming remedy.” There was something about Rainura’s tone Sara didn’t like. But she knew that Rainura was good with concoctions. And drugs. She slid her eyes back to Rainura. The woman was rising from Arystan’s bedside and had something in her hands. Sara reached across the table and slid the bowl closer to her. “Don’t touch that,” Rainura hissed. “You’ll spill it.” “Why is that so important?” asked Sara, suddenly having a powerful urge to take the bowl. She protectively drew her arm around it. “I thought you said it was a minor stomach illness.” Rainura abruptly leaped at the table as if possessed, grabbing for the bowl. Alarmed, Sara jumped back, having the presence of mind at the last second to take it with her as she rose. Its contents slopped a bit as she backed up. Rainura circled the table. “Give me the bowl,” Rainura hissed. There was a terrible glint to her eyes.

Sara held it tightly, backing around toward the bed. “Arystan,” she called, not looking behind her. “Arystan, wake up.” He didn’t stir. What the fuck was going on? She chanced a glance toward him and immediately was set up again by Rainura who climbed over the table and launched herself at Sara. Sara nimbly sidestepped her and then saw the knife in the woman’s hand. “Why do you have a knife, Rainura?” asked Sara, alarmed, backing up again. The blade was covered in blood. Fresh blood. It was dripping from it. Rainura didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the bowl in Sara’s hand. So it was the bowl, was it. Well, that was easy to take care of. Sara looked at Rainura squarely and then flung the entire bowl across the room. The contents flew through the air and scattered over the skins on the floor. “NO!” shrieked Rainura as she followed the bowl with her eyes, wincing as it hit the floor. She turned her eyes to Sara, her expression murderous. Sara darted to the stone bench, unsheathing Arystan’s short sword from his belt. She knew exactly where he kept it. Rainura eyed the blade. It was much bigger than the knife she held. She didn’t know how to fight. She wondered if Sara did. This was a battle she’d most likely lose. Rainura had a sudden thought. Instead of advancing on Sara, she ran to the bed and clambered over Arystan, kneeling next to his head, bringing her knife to his throat. He didn’t move. “Oh gods, you’ve drugged him,” Sara realized, her eyes flashing as she took in Arystan’s condition. “Why?” Rainura kept the blade to Arystan’s throat, her black eyes on Sara. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll kill him. Put down the sword.” “What have you done? Why, Rainura?” “Why?” she spat. “Because I was here for Arystan long before you arrived. I was good to him, good for him, and he never gave me anything, never showed me anything other than using me. Then you came and he gave himself to you after just one night. One night! I don’t know how you bewitched him,” she said harshly, staring at Sara, pure hatred in her eyes. “I didn’t bewitch him, Rainura. We just – it just happened. I can’t explain why we felt the way we did.” Sara’s skin prickled with fear. She began to move slowly closer, trying to keep the woman talking. “Well, I want that.” Her voice was shrill, rising. “Any part of it will do. I want Arystan’s attentions. My concoction – which you destroyed – would have done just that. Transferred Arystan’s feelings for you . . . to me.” Sara’s eyes widened. The woman was seriously disturbed.

“If he won’t have me . . . I’m going to make sure he won’t have anyone,” Rainura said hysterically. She brought up her hand up and began to plunge the knife downward toward Arystan’s neck. Sara’s heart caught in her throat. If Arystan were dead, it would be her best chance to escape. But the thought of his death made her almost double over and retch. She couldn’t let this happen. She sprinted forward and launched herself at Rainura, still holding the sword in one hand, catching the woman just as the knife connected. The knifeblade dragged across Arystan’s throat, his flesh spurting blood. He moved a bit and let out a small moan. Sara wrestled with Rainura on the bed, the two women kicking and pummeling Arystan in their struggle. Sara was definitely stronger but Rainura was like a hellcat, crazed with fury and consumed by jealousy. Sara was finally able to wrest Rainura’s knife from her and threw it across the room. The short sword had become tangled in the furs and Rainura dove under them, searching desperately for it. She found it and brought it up in her hands, her black hair falling forward wildly about her face, panting heavily as she crouched over Arystan. He was moving now and making more sounds. He sounded groggy, as if he would soon awaken. Rainura glanced down at him, her eyes cold. “I’ll kill Arystan first. You’re next.” Rainura stood up on the bed, balancing unsteadily and then brought her arm down with a crazed scream. She had never used a sword before and instead of swinging it in an arc, brought it down stiffly in a chopping motion, as if to slice at Arystan. Sara rolled under Rainura’s arm, catching it by the elbow and forced it backwards, pinning it against the woman’s chest. Rainura lost her balance and toppled sideways, Sara’s grip still on her arm. Rainura, in her rage, kept her hand clenched around the hilt and fell forward onto the blade of the sword which sliced neatly through the artery in her neck. She lay twitching on the bed, gasping and choking as her life blood drained away. Horrified, Sara pulled the sword away, pressing on Rainura’s throat, trying to save the woman’s life, but the wound was too deep and the artery had been cleanly severed. Blood gushed in tandem with the rhythm of Rainura’s heart, tapering gradually to smaller pulses and then, finally, stopped. Sara was crouched between Arystan who was moaning, red oozing from his neck, and Rainura’s limp blood-soaked form, holding the sword in her hands, her mouth open with shock, when the tent flaps were thrown back and a rush of warriors swarmed into the yurt, Sabalak in the lead.

CHAPTER 16 Getting to the Truth of the Matter Sabalak’s black eyes swept the scene quickly, coming to rest on Sara, blood streaking her hair and face, coating her arms and hands, her breathing ragged, the sword still gripped in one hand. In a half-second, he had his saber unsheathed and pointed toward Sara. “Drop the sword or I will kill you where you sit,” he said, venom dripping from his voice. Sara swallowed, her heart pounding in her ears, having trouble thinking clearly, but realizing it was important for her to concentrate, most important to follow Sabalak’s instructions immediately. She met Sabalak’s gaze, nodded, and carefully lowered the sword, laying it slowly on the furs in front of her. Sabalak kept his saber trained on her, his hard black eyes never leaving hers. “Take her,” he said to the warriors behind him, his voice tight with fury. Sara looked down at Arystan. He was still bleeding. Oh gods, he couldn’t be dying. She stretched her fingers tenderly toward his neck, wanting to know how badly he had been hurt. Suddenly, she felt a force slam into the side of her head and chest, throwing her back against the wall. She gasped, the air knocked from her, and felt rough hands grab her and pull her to her feet, dragging her across the floor. She felt dizzy, the yurt spinning, and sensed someone leaning over her. “How dare you try to touch him, murderer,” Sabalak spat as the men held Sara immobile before him. He looked at her with contempt, as if she were the lowest of scum. It took a moment for him to calm before he could even speak, he was so livid with rage. Then Sabalak said, “Take her outside the camp and kill her. Now.” “Arystan,” Sara called weakly as the men dragged her toward the yurt door. Her head pounded and she slowly passed out. “Stop!” The voice was low, but the tone one that unmistakably required compliance. The men dragging Sara stopped immediately, still holding her limp body by the arms. Sabalak sheathed his sword and moved closer to the bed, his eyes briefly flicking to Rainura’s body. “My lord,” he said to Arystan who had struggled to one elbow, one hand held to his neck. Sabalak’s throat tightened as he looked upon his stricken leader. “Sara has just murdered Rainura and almost succeeded in killing you,” he said quietly, his voice tense with emotion. “She shall be put to death immediately, my lord. I will do it personally, I promise, once we have seen to your injuries.” “No,” said Arystan, his head falling back to the furs, his hand still at his neck, his eyes closing.

“But, my lord,” said Sabalak through clenched teeth, his huge frame shaking with barelycontrolled fury. “Arystan –” “No,” Arystan repeated. “Hold her. I will question her myself.” Then he seemed to quiet and was still. Sabalak’s jaw tightened and he turned stiffly to the two men holding Sara, still unconscious. “Throw her in the solitary pen.” He motioned to the rest of the warriors fanned out in the tent. “Remove her,” he said jerking his head at Rainura. “And get the healer in here. NOW!” ***** Sara squinted up at the shadow momentarily blocking the hot sun overhead, her tongue sliding over her cracked, parched lips. She had spent the night in the circular wooden enclosure. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against the rough wooden wall, her knees drawn up. She was still covered in Rainura’s blood. The pen was cramped, uncomfortable and her head still ached, but she was alive. At least, she assumed she was alive. This would be a very strange way to spend the afterlife if she wasn’t. The last thing she remembered was Sabalak ordering her to be killed immediately. Then, she had woken up here. Sabalak had looked at her with such hatred in his eyes, she was sure that was the end of her. Would she be allowed now to plead her case? She strongly doubted it. And even if she tried to explain, who would believe her? Rainura was dead and Sara was sure the evidence more than incriminated her for the attacks on both Rainura and Arystan. But at this moment, she didn’t care about the discomfort, the pain, or even whether the shadow above was someone who had come to take her to her death. She was focused on Arystan. She had seen Rainura’s knife pierce his throat and had seen his blood spill. She shuddered, tears threatening to flow from her eyes, despite the fact she had had nothing to drink since yesterday and felt very dehydrated. Was Arystan even alive? The figure above her retreated. The face had been was too shadowed; she could not make out who it had been. The small gate to the pen was left open. Sara remained where she was. “Clean her up and have her brought to me,” said a man, the emotion in his voice barely controlled. Sara’s heart leapt into her throat. It was Arystan. He lived. “We’ll bring her all right. But she needs no cleaning,” another man’s voice said. He spoke as if he was disgusted. There was a second man next to him who gave a small grunt of agreement.

“She will be washed, dressed and offered food and drink before she is brought to my yurt. Is that clear?” “But my lord, she is not worthy of such treatment. She made an attack on your life. It is a wonder you do not kill her now, the filthy, disgusting –” The man let out a small groan and then Sara heard a thump as he hit the ground, his head falling in front of the opening. His eyes were empty. “Do you have any difficulty obeying me? “N – no, my lord,” said the second man, clearly groveling. “Have I made my instructions clear?” “Yes, very clear, my lord. I will take of it right away, my lord, Arystan. Yes, of course,” “You will see to it yourself. Personally.” “Of – of course, my lord. I will s – see to it. Personally.” ***** One hour later, Sara was escorted by two warriors into Arystan’s yurt, one holding a sword to her back. As she entered she saw that a wooden chair had been set up at the far end of the tent. One of the wooden benches had been moved in front of the center pole and was arranged before the chair. Arystan, Sabalak, and Tebur sat on the bench together. There was a container on the table behind them. Arystan rose as Sara was brought in. Their eyes met, Sara’s blue ones liquid with fear and concern. Arystan’s were unreadable. He did not protest as they forced her into the chair. “Shall we restrain her, my lord?” asked one of the escorts. “That will not be necessary,” said Arystan tightly. The men bowed and left the tent. Sara quickly scanned the room. All of the ground skins had been replaced and she could see no bloodstains on the bed furs or the walls. Thank the spirits those tangible reminders of yesterday were gone. Tebur rose and placed a hand on Arystan’s shoulder who reseated himself, his eyes still on Sara. She wanted so badly to speak to him, but felt she should stay quiet. The three chieftains appeared to have something in mind.

Tebur retrieved the vessel from the table and walked to Sara, handing it to her. She accepted it, peering inside. It was full of an opaque, yellowish liquid. Almost like pus. She looked up, expectantly. “You will drink this, Sara,” said Tebur. “It is a combination of herbs that forces the mind to speak only the truth, unshaded by deception or trickery. It is sometimes used on the enemy, captured messengers for instance, if conventional methods such as . . . torture are unsuccessful. The beverage is quite potent. One of the drawbacks – and why it is only sometimes used on enemy soldiers – is that, if the dosage is not calculated precisely there is a very real risk of death. You are smaller than any person on which it has been used and so we are not certain whether the dose is lethal. In any event, we will know shortly. The first few minutes, while the extract takes hold, are painful, uncomfortable, and this is where your death might occur. If you do not die, you will be compelled to answer everything you are asked, as truthfully as your mind knows it. The effects should last long enough to determine what it is we need to know.” He glanced at Arystan. Sara looked into the mug again, uncertainly. “You are already dead if you do not drink it. Nothing you say in your defense can be trusted otherwise. It is a small risk for you to take,” Tebur said evenly, clasping his hands behind his back. Sara looked up at Arystan. His black eyes were still expressionless, but he sat very stiffly. She kept her eyes locked to his, lifted the mug to her lips, and drained it. The liquid might have looked like pus, but it tasted far worse. Sara never imagined such a foul taste could even exist. If was as if someone had taken the entrails of an animal, marinated it in feces, and let it bake in the sun for a few hours, but not too long so that it was still nice and moist. Disgusting. This was a culture that certainly used their botanical knowledge. For everything. Sara immediately bent forward in the chair, doubling over, clutching at her stomach. She had refused food and only taken a bit of water when they released her. She was glad for that or else anything she had consumed would be all over the skin floor by now. They would have had to be changed again. Her insides started to feel as though they were burning, her blood boiling, eating away at the linings encasing her life fluid. Once the shells burst, and she didn’t think it would be too much longer, her blood would be released, its circulation thwarted, and would coat her organs and tissues red as she died. Not the way she had imagined going. But at least she was aware and would experience the process of death as she left the earth. Then, as suddenly as her veins had heated up, they cooled. A calming sensation settled over her and she felt her consciousness recede. Arystan watched as Sara experienced the effects of the herbs, every fiber of his being tensed with unease and worry. He understood that there was no other way. If he simply refused to order Sara’s death, his chieftains would never trust her, but most importantly, they would begin to lose their trust and respect for him. He visibly relaxed as she sat up slowly, her eyes glazed, her stare distant, her body rigid.

“I believe it has taken effect, Arystan.” Tebur kept his voice neutral. “She lives.” He sat down next to Arystan. The leader rose from between his two chieftains and paced the room. Then he stopped behind them and faced Sara. “What is your name?” “Sara Aster.” She spoke without hesitation, although her voice was oddly hollow. “Where are you from?” “I don’t know.” They had been through this before. Arystan had asked out of curiosity and Sara had said that she couldn’t remember. He had thought that perhaps she had been lying. Apparently, she hadn’t. “Who am I?” “You are Arystan. You are my lover.” Arystan felt a strong throb in his loins. He squeezed his fists together, glad he was behind his chieftains. Several seconds passed before he asked the next question. “Did you attempt to kill me yesterday?” “No.” “Did you kill Rainura?” Sara did not immediately answer. Then she said, “I was wrestling with her for your sword. She fell on it.” “Why were you fighting with her? Tell me what happened,” Arystan commanded. Sara described returning from her run early, finding Arystan drugged and Rainura beside him. She described the contents of the bowl and how upset Rainura became when she destroyed it. Then she told of Rainura’s threat to kill Arystan and Rainura stabbing the blade of the knife at Arystan. “Is that how my throat was injured?” “I believe so, yes,” said Sara. “What about my palm?” “I don’t know about your palm,” she replied. “Continue,” Arystan directed.

Sara told of her struggle with Rainura, of the fight over the sword, and how Rainura had died when she tried a second time to kill Arystan with his own sword. She ended with Sabalak entering the tent. Tebur looked thoughtful. Sabalak scowled, looking back over his shoulder at Arystan. “You must admit, Arystan. It looked damning when we entered. My only thought was to protect you. She could easily have been trying to kill you.” Arystan walked forward and placed his hand on Sabalak’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. The huge man relaxed. He removed his hand and continued pacing. Then Arystan stopped. He had one more question for Sara. “Why didn’t you let Rainura kill me?” he asked softly. “Because . . . because I had to stop her,” she answered. Arystan swallowed. “You risked your own life. Why? Why did you do that to stop her?” “Because I . . . I –” Sara’s eyes started to shift. “She’s coming out of it, Arystan,” said Tebur quietly. “Why?” Arystan pressed, his voice insistent. Sara’s eyes shifted to his abruptly. “Because I . . . I –” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. What she felt. Why she had really stopped Rainura. Then it dawned on her. If she couldn’t bring herself to say something, she must be free from the concoction. And she hadn’t died. She looked down at herself, at her hands in her lap, her living body, almost in disbelief. Then she swallowed nervously and looked up, her eyes shifting between the three men. She didn’t remember what she had said while under the influence of the herbs. Tebur rose, looking at her over his hawkish nose. “You are cleared, Sara,” he said shortly. Then he walked to Arystan and gripped his shoulder hard as he brought his mouth to Arystan’s ear. “We will have food sent in for you. After that, we will make sure you are not disturbed.” “Come, brother,” he said to Sabalak, who rose and followed Tebur out of the tent.

CHAPTER 17 Seeking Forgiveness Arystan and Sara ate in silence much of the meal. The food was good, Tebur had seen to that, but both were lost in their own thoughts. Arystan, for his part, was consumed by two things. The first was guilt. Sara had almost been killed because she had tried to protect both his life and her own. Thank the spirits he had been alert enough to stay her execution. But then, he left her in confinement, letting her suffer a torture meant only for hardened soldiers when she had done nothing but try to save him. Would she forgive him? He glanced up at her furtively. He thought her beautiful, even though she was not of his race, her flowing chestnut hair, lake-blue eyes, that body, firm in some places, but curved and soft in all the right ones. She had been confined in the leather bra and skirt she had worn running yesterday. They had given her a long dress to replace it. It had thin fur straps that ran over her shoulders and the neckline dipped low. Very low indeed. He winced as he took in the bruise on the left side of her face. She had been tackled by Sabalak. He supposed it could have been worse. Sabalak was a massively powerful warrior. He could have killed Sara with one blow alone and by his assessment of the situation at the time, he would have been well within rights to do so. Sabalak was loyal and fierce and Arystan loved him like a brother, but he often acted before he thought. Yes, he was very lucky Sabalak had not killed Sara on the spot. Sara’s heart was full, but for a different reason. She already understood why things happened as they did. She knew Tebur and Sabalak loved Arystan. As far as she could tell, all of the men in the camp did. He was a wise, brave and charismatic leader. She knew it had looked very bad when Sabalak entered and saw her covered in blood, holding Arystan’s sword, Rainura dead beside her and Arystan looking nearly so. What else could he have thought? She also understood why she had been left alone in the tiny enclosure until today. It had not been pleasant, but still, what else could have been done? The herbs had taken time to prepare and Arystan could show her no mercy before his warriors. It must have taken much for him to resist Tebur and Sabalak. She knew they would have counseled him against keeping her alive, even for one day. She felt grateful to Arystan for sparing her. When he awoke, he too must have thought she had killed Rainura and attacked him. She wondered why he had ordered her execution be stayed. That was what most consumed her. That, along with why she had saved Arystan in the first place. She remembered what he had asked her when she was coming out from under the influence of the herbs. She had tried hard not to respond. She knew why she had done it, but refused to admit it, not to Arystan, not even to herself. Arystan was a warlord, not a man given to affairs of the heart. Those things had no place and would make no sense in his life. She would not delude herself. She was a pleasant diversion to him, nothing more. That was, of course, why he had spared her, wasn’t it? Simply for his pleasure?

Sara glanced surreptitiously at Arystan. A jagged gash ran down the side of his throat. She had watched it bleed, a lot, but the wound must have been superficial. It looked as if it would heal soon. His face and neck were covered with several light bruises where she and Rainura must have kicked him. She eyed his palm. There was a jagged line down the center of it also. She had no idea what that was about. Arystan pushed his plate away and poured some wine from the flagon on the table into two cups. He set one cup in front of Sara although she had hardly touched her food and wrapped both of his hands around the other. He looked at her until she felt his gaze and turned her blue eyes to his black ones. “You’ve hardly touched your food. You must be hungry. Why don’t you eat?” Arystan said gruffly. He knew Sara was hungry because he had withheld food from her for nearly two days. She smiled at him and ate a bit more. “I’m getting enough,” she said. He grunted and took a long drink of wine, peering into the cup. Then, he looked back up at Sara and drained it. He poured himself another cup and took a long drink, setting it back down and fidgeting with it a bit. Finally, he said, “Sara –” She looked over at him. He drained his cup again, studying its empty bottom, and then said a bit hoarsely, “I – I’m sorry.” It was a very difficult thing for him to say. In fact, Arystan could not ever remember apologizing to anyone. Ever. “Arystan,” Sara said softly, pushing her plate to the side and resting her hand on his sinewed arm. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, except for the fact that any of this happened in the first place.” Her heart clutched. “I’m just so relieved that you’re all right.” She gently caressed his arm. He watched her fingers move against him. “Yes, but you came very close to being killed. By my own hand.” “Arystan, you could not have done anything differently. You saved my life. I am grateful.” “How grateful?” he asked suddenly, looking up, heat in his black eyes. She returned his gaze. “I assure you, I will show you how grateful,” she replied, promise in her voice. The way he was staring at her set off a flurry of butterflies in her belly. Then Arystan sobered, his thoughts turning to the second thing on his mind. “There is something I want you to know,” he said. “You are not indebted to me. It is I who am indebted to you. You are the one who truly saved my life. Not only were you almost killed by my chieftains, you came even closer to death when you attacked Rainura to save me.” He suddenly grabbed her wrist, flipped it over on the table and ran his

fingers up and down her palm. She sighed at the sensation. “Never has a woman done something like that for me before. Never did I think one would. Why, Sara?” She was quiet for a moment. “Rainura had the knife raised in her hand. It all happened so fast. I – I didn’t really have to time to think.” He studied her. “No, I don’t think that is true. You faced two blades for me – not only Rainura’s knife, but also, my sword. You could have run at anytime. Rainura wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t have chased you. And if you had allowed me to die, you could have left Rainura to face Sabalak’s wrath. You would have been free of me, free of this camp.” Arystan looked down at Sara’s palm again, caressing it gently, entwining his fingers with hers. “You came here as a prisoner, Sara. Do you think you have been free to leave? Do you think you are free to leave now?” His eyes flicked up to hers. Sara’s eyes began to glisten. She had wondered this herself, but didn’t really want to know. In truth, she didn’t want to face the inevitable question of whether she wanted to leave. “I don’t know,” she said honestly, lowering her eyes, a single tear escaping down her cheek. Arystan reached across the table and held her chin, forcing it up so that she looked at him. “I tell you, Sara, you are free to leave. You may walk out the front gates of my encampment. I will provide you with a horse, provisions, and anything else you ask of me, within reason. No one will stop you or harm you. You have my word. You may leave, now.” His heart was heavy as he laid this before her. He meant it and would keep his word, but . . . would she go? Sara looked stunned. It was true – she had come here as a prisoner. And although there was much she did not know about herself, about her past, her nature at least was clear to her. She hated feeling as if she was held captive. And Arystan was all but helping her fulfill that need to be released from any sense that she was forced to stay here. But she wasn’t a prisoner, at least not now. Arystan had just said so. She hadn’t really known until now whether he would have let her go freely, but he had just made it clear that it was her choice whether or not to stay. To stay with him? Is that what he was asking her to decide? She tilted her head into his hand which was still cupping her jaw and sighed, closing her eyes. “I don’t want to go, Arystan. I want to stay here,” she said softly. She opened her eyes and looked into his black ones. “With you.” He made a sound in his throat, as if he was choking back a growl, and she saw his shoulders, rising and falling, his breathing deepening in a strange way. And then he was on her in what seemed like a blur and had lifted her from the bench into the air, his hands under her thighs holding her against him, her soft dress falling over his arms. He crushed his lips to hers with such ferocity and intensity that it made Sara dizzy, her hands grabbing onto his shoulders for support, feeling his hard muscles ripple beneath his beautiful, dark skin.

Arystan walked quickly to the bed, knocking aside one of the benches as he did so, and then paused, still holding Sara in his arms, their bodies pressed together. His eyes seemed even blacker, darkened with lust as they were, and he took her lips in his again, rolling his tongue sensuously in her mouth, sucking and pulling on her lips, relishing the feel of her hot mouth as he scoured it, wrapping his tongue around hers, savoring the woman who he had given freedom and who had chosen to spend her freedom with him. He broke the kiss, bringing his mouth close to her ear. “No woman has ever risked her life for me. No woman has done for me what you did, Sara,” he said hoarsely. She swallowed at the emotion in his voice. He let her fall to the bed, her body bouncing a bit as he followed her down, keeping his body above hers, his weight on his elbows. He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her again, their tongues entwining as he drank of her sweetness, her strength, her courage. Then Arystan let out a real growl and Sara’s eyes flew open. “Time to get you out of this dress, woman.” It fastened in the back, but Arystan impatiently reached under Sara’s body, lifting her, and simply ripping it from her neck to waist, pulling it from her torso and then sliding it over her legs. His eyes scoured her body, drinking in her nakedness, her soft, rounded breasts, the darkened areolas and hardened nipples, her taut belly, flared hips, creamy thighs, and the chestnut curl leading to the greatest delicacy of all. Then he pressed his body to hers, kissing her again thoroughly, his lips passionate against hers, tracing, nibbling and thrusting with his tongue as he possessed her, claimed her, loving the feel of her full breasts pressed hard against his torso, their flesh connecting, the contact sublime, electrifying, intense. Suddenly Sara pushed up at Arystan. He felt her struggle beneath him and he frowned, lifting up from her slightly. She rolled from underneath him and sat up. He sat up also, turning to face her, his expression dark. What was she doing? She pressed her hands to his chest and pushed and he let himself fall back against the furs. Then she straddled him, reaching under his hips and unfastening his loincloth, bringing her hands suggestively over his muscled buttocks as she removed it. His cock immediately sprang forth in all its glory, dark and pulsing, the head thick and engorged, fluid leaking from the tip. Sara flung the cloth across the room and looked down at his cock, a slow smile spreading across her face. She locked her eyes to his. “Now, Arystan, I will show you how grateful I really am,” she said, lowering her mouth.

CHAPTER 18 Giving Thanks “Aarrghh,” Arystan burbled as Sara bent to his cock, wrapping her lips around it, sliding her hot, wet mouth up and down his shaft several times, sucking hard as she pulled back, the head emerging from her soft lips with an audible pop. Arystan raised his head slightly, his breathing ragged, staring at her torpidly as Sara’s blue eyes glittered up at him hotly. “I know what you did for me, Arystan,” she said, running her tongue around the fluted head, pleasure pulsing, throbbing, thrumming through him as Sara continued to bathe and caress the tip of his cock with her smooth muscle. He groaned. The foreskin was pulled back and the head of his cock was dark, full of blood coursing through it as if it had a life all of its own. “You trusted me,” she breathed, kissing the tip of his organ, sucking the never-ending drop of fluid that kept reappearing, then plunging her mouth over him again, driving her orifice over and over his shaft, sucking and pulling on each upstroke of her mouth. She could not take all of him because of his length and so she brought her hands up to help, first cupping them lightly under his balls, rolling them gently between her fingers as he ached and hissed with pleasure. Arystan reached behind him, gathering furs under his head so that he could see the very erotic sight of the beautiful woman fucking him with her mouth. “You believed in me,” she sighed, taking his head in her mouth and sucking deeply on it then planting kisses up and down the shaft. She brought her hands up and rolled them gently over the head, coating them with pre-cum while she licked and sucked at the base with her tongue. Then she switched, licking and sucking her fingers as he watched, his black eyes hard as diamonds. She began to rub her hands up and down his shaft rapidly, firmly, but soft so that it was pleasant, caressing him, and his head fell back against the furs, sighing with pleasure as Sara’s hot hands encased and engulfed him. Then, she brought her mouth over him again, plunging it over as far as she could take him in, bobbing faster as she licked, sucked and aroused his pulsing, spasming cock. He groaned again, reaching for her hair, trying to wrap his hands in it as she writhed sexily between his legs. “Arystan,” she whispered, her hands working feverishly over the base of his pole up to the head and back again, “I would never, ever cause harm to you.” She fell to him with her mouth, worshiping him, as her hands continued to caress, rub and stimulate him. He felt his heart tightening at her words. Not only had she not harmed him, would never harm him, the woman had risked her life for him. He suddenly had the urge to violently shake her, to make her see how foolish she had been, how she should not have placed herself in danger, and, of course, he still felt overwhelming guilt over his treatment of her. Not able to admit his feelings and bursting with need and emotion, he dealt with it

the only way he knew how, swinging his legs over the bed, grabbing Sara by the shoulders and lifting her bodily to the floor in front of him. “The skins. Get down,” he said hoarsely. “On your knees, Sara.” That was all the command Sara needed, feeling a gush of fluid slide from her as she repositioned herself before Arystan, between his legs, her face even with his huge, glistening organ, her eyes turned up to him, liquid, lustful, sloe and dark. She leaned in and kissed the magnificent patch of curling black hair, teasing him with her lips, bringing her mouth under his cock, sucking and tasting the sensitive area at the base of the shaft and then licking at his balls, taking first one and then the other in her mouth, rolling them with her tongue as Arystan’s hands stiffened over the furs, his body tensed with pleasure. “Enough, Sara. Enough teasing,” Arystan snapped darkly, reaching down to her neck, bringing his hands under her hair and running his dark fingers through it until they were wrapped securely in her long, brown locks, then tightening his hold further, pulling outward on her hair, until she winced, whimpering at bit, but completely aroused by his dominance, his turning of the tables, taking the control away from her. “Now, suck,” he ordered, forcing her mouth over his huge shaft, causing her to choke and gag as he brought himself into her fiercely. He backed off slightly, allowing her to recover. He knew that he was huge and she couldn’t take all of him, but gods, she had started this, asked for this and now he was going to push her to her limits. Sara opened her mouth, willingly, ready to accept him again, loving the feel of his hands in her hair, so strong and controlling. She knew she held some power over him simply because of his feelings for her and because of the act she was performing, but Arystan was not a man who ceded sexual power easily, even to Sara, and despite her allure, when he exercised that power she had no choice but to surrender to him. Not that she minded. He guided her over him, plunging his cock into her willing orifice fucking her in a slow rhythm at first, thrusting into her mouth, her wetness enveloping him, Sara tightening her lips and tongue on the upstroke, sucking as she drew back. He thought she felt like heaven as he continued, not letting his grip slacken, sensing how much she liked his hands wound so tightly in her hair, a tangible display of his power over her. Sara brought her hands up again. His shaft was fully wet now, coated with her saliva and his pre-cum and she wound her fingers and palms around the parts she couldn’t reach with her mouth, stimulating him, sliding her hands over the lower part of his shaft, at a faster pace than her mouth, reaching under his cock to finger his balls lightly as she worked. He began to compel her mouth to keep pace with her hands, forcing her over his cock faster, as Sara gagged again, but he didn’t allow her to stop this time. He wound his hands deeper in her hair, increasing his grip, not breaking tempo, thrusting and plunging into her, dragging her over him as she brought him closer to the rapturic pinnacle. Arystan’s head was thrown back now, his black hair damp, his mouth hanging open, his eyes beginning to roll back in his head as he savored the feel of Sara’s hot, sultry mouth

sucking, kissing, working her tongue and lips expertly as he pulled her over his cock again and again, harder, faster, Sara sucking as if her life depended on it. Arystan felt his balls drawing up on themselves, the pleasure mounting, the familiar urge to pummel her harder, sweetness gathering at the base of his spine. He looked down at Sara on her knees, a mass of cinnamon hair falling around his thighs, her hot, sweet lips wrapped around his dark, reddened shaft as if she worshiped his cock, revered it, venerated it. He shuddered, thinking it was quite possibly the most erotic sight he had even seen, and the sight of her catapulted him over the edge as he felt himself exploding, pushing deep into her throat, holding himself there, forcing Sara’s head against his abdomen, shooting wave after wave of white, hot sticky fluid down her throat, convulsing, jerking with delight as he released jets of pleasure into her, Sara swallowing as rapidly she could, drinking him, consuming him, as he clutched her to him desperately as if her mouth was his eternal salvation. Finally, the pulsing slowed and Arystan released her as Sara gently moved back from him, her tongue dragging sensually around her mouth, drawing every drop of his essence into her. His head fell forward and his black eyes met hers where she remained on her knees, her hands gently resting on her thighs, panting prettily, her blue eyes dark and hungry. He felt a small throb as he reached down and lifted her up onto the furs next to him, falling backwards and then rolling onto his side next to her. He raised himself up one elbow and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, running his hand down her cheek as she closed her eyes and sighed. “Sara,” he breathed. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. He remembered how she had done that on the first night he had met her. He gave quiet thanks to whatever spirits put Sara in his path, although if he had actually known, he might not have been so gracious. He felt himself swelling again and drew his hand away from her lips, replacing it with his mouth as he kissed her slowly, gently, thoroughly. He brought his hand to her back, running it lightly over her skin, tracing her spine, moving lower toward the dip of her hips and over the swell over her buttocks, and then drew his fingers between her globes, pausing suggestively as he applied a small pressure between them, causing her to squirm and her eyes to widen. “What, woman?” he growled, pulling her to him forcibly. “Don’t look at me that way. We haven’t even begun to explore the things I want to do with you . . . to you. Perhaps not tonight,” he said, tracing her lips with his tongue and pulling on her lower lip with his teeth a bit, “but don’t doubt that we will.” Sara whimpered as he drew his slightly roughened hand back up over her hips, the curve of her belly, under her arm, and up to her throat, leaving trails of molten fire, and then he lifted her chin slightly and licked at it roughly underneath.

Sara cried out softly, trying to fight back the growing need within her, pushing back the haze of eroticism, as she turned to him, needing to speak. Arystan knew what she wanted to say. “Shhh. Don’t say anything more, Sara,” he whispered, grazing her cheek again, watching her eyes half-close at his contact and then open again to focus on him. His heart was full as his eyes swept over her, burning into her like black cinders. “We’ve said enough to each other. Let our bodies speak for us now,” Arystan said. He brought his hand down further, drawing it over her neck, wrapping his strong hand around her throat and pressing for a moment, the way she liked it, watching her respond as her eyes flew open and he held his hand there, giving her a searing kiss and then releasing her, as she panted up at him, whispering his name, her eyes ablaze with fire for him and him alone. Her passionate responses to his touch, his affections, profoundly moved him as he looked on her in almost open wonder, her blue eyes still locked to his, her body rippling, ready for him. He was more than physically ready, his cock straining and throbbing, but he didn’t want to take her quite yet as he traced small circles from her neck lower and lower until he reached her breasts and then bent his mouth to them. Her nipples were rigid buds, tight and swollen, and he flicked his tongue roughly across one, marveling at its hardness as Sara let out a shriek and arched against him. He moved to the other, worrying the taut peak with his tongue and teeth as he gripped the full firmness of her other breast in his hand, his thumb brushing and rubbing at the nipple while he simultaneously stimulated the other with his mouth. Sara cried out, clutching at Arystan’s hands, trying to draw them away from her, the mixed pleasure and pain almost unendurable. He captured her hands, bringing them above her head as he slowly rolled his body over onto hers, his cock fully erect, pressing into her belly. Her hands still restrained, he rolled his tongue in circles around her areolas, lapping and sucking at her nipples before he brought his teeth over one and tugged on it, causing Sara to let loose a string of obscenities as she bucked against him, almost angrily. He pulled back, looking at her with amusement. “You know, Sara,” he said, biting the other nipple hard as he pumped against her with his hips. “The first time I ever wanted to fuck you, you were restrained. Almost exactly like this.” He eyed her hands above her head as he sucked on her nipple again, rolling it in his teeth as she cried out and arched so strongly, she lifted his body slightly. Arystan looked at her, surprised. He was considerably larger than Sara. “You are strong for such a small woman,” he admitted. “But still,” he said, pulling at the flesh on her neck, kissing her lightly, teasing her as she strained, one hand holding her wrists effortlessly against the furs, “I never did get the chance to explore you, much less fuck you when you were bound.” His eyes flicked to the pole in the center of the yurt and her eyes widened yet again.

“Of course,” he said, kissing her chin and letting his free hand slide down her side, over her navel, until it rested lightly on her clit, causing her to hiss, “as much as I would enjoy it, I think that will also have to wait for another time. It’s time to demonstrate our mutual gratitude.” Without releasing her wrists, he slid inside her fully, feeling her warm sheath immediately clutch around him as Sara reacted powerfully to his words and his possession and shuddered, releasing a gushing climax around his cock, brokenly screaming his name. “Oh gods!” Arystan managed gutturally as he stroked into her, her pussy shuddering, gripping, sucking at him as Sara moaned and panted as she pulled at his lips, trying to get him to kiss her as she drifted down from her climax. He obliged her, snaking his tongue into her mouth, scouring it, entwining with hers as he continued the powerful thrusts of his cock, unable and unwilling to stop, even as she continued to pulse weakly around him. Her response to his penetration was heady indeed. But gods, she felt so good and the headiness went straight to his loins, a deep urge to possess and consume her suddenly racing through his body like an inferno, a liquid fire flowing through him. Why, Arystan did not understand, but he subconsciously needed this woman to be his, needed her as if she were the sun that warmed him, the blood that flowed through him, the air he breathed. Sara felt the change in his body as Arystan tensed, suddenly driving deeper, seized by the powerful urge to claim her responses for him alone. His fire poured over her, flames licking up her thighs and coursing through her body. She wrapped her legs around him, allowing him greater access, unable to move her arms, but welcoming and straining against him with her hips, her belly, her breasts, her soft body gliding under his hardness, the distant sensation of discomfort mixed with gratification. Sara loved the fact that Arystan would give himself to her this way . . . tender, passionate, teasing and affectionate at times, but at other times . . . oh, gods, she wanted all of him, his length, his girth, every inch, the pain with the pleasure. He began to deepen his thrusts, watching her as he buried himself to the hilt, his balls slapping forcefully against her thighs, their bodies merging, melding, fusing as he pounded unmercifully into her deep, sucking, hot, wet orifice. Arystan was losing himself, falling to his brutal nature again. He knew that she was strong, that she could take him even though she was small, that she loved the way he gave into his dark side, taking his pleasure of her with abandon. But still he tried to hold back, finding it difficult to separate his heart from his lust, not knowing quite yet how to merge the two. Arystan saw Sara’s need in her eyes, encouraging him, and slowly allowed the curtain to roll back as he bent to her greedily, control receding as he pistoned even faster, hitting her cervix so hard she screamed with each contact, but did not beg for him to stop. Instead, she continued to open herself to him, crying out his name, alternating curses with cries of pleasure. He released her wrists and wrapped his arms under her shoulders, pulling her into him, forcing himself even deeper as he tried to drive right through her,

every muscle tensed with concentration, sweat flying from his body, coating both of them in the sweetest oils of passion. Sara gyrated against him as he rose up on his hands, his dark, gleaming body flexing over hers, her body bouncing roughly under each stroke, heat driving them both, a scorching burning flame consuming them, setting them ablaze in their frenzied, raging ardor. Sara’s voice was lost now, as was her mind, she was totally, completely Arystan’s, wanting more, hoarsely calling to him, her declarations of passion only serving to drive him wilder. She swirled her hips, winding her pelvis against his and he growled, changing directions midstroke, wanting to feel, scour and touch every part of her. He plunged into her again and again and felt her nails raking over his back, the slight pain adding to his pleasure. He could feel the sweet pressure building again, but wanted to bring her with him. He ravished her, brutalizing her, as Sara took him and loved every stroke, every hurt, every thrust and then he hit a spot with his cock that made her sing like a siren around him and he focused his thrusts there, driving into her harder, hitting the spot again and again, as he felt her sleeve begin to clutch inward on him. Sara closed her eyes, feeling herself drawing up onto a plateau, a plateau of pleasure from which the only release was ecstasy, Arystan pouring it on, laying it to her like a battering ram, and he was feeling himself rising further and further and then Sara exploded beneath him and the suction and pull on his cock was too much and he went over with her, falling, tumbling together into an abyss of bliss, a turbulent release of gratification as Arystan felt his balls empty powerfully, squeezing his white, hot creamy release into Sara as her own fluids gushed around him, mixing with his. Arystan stroked strongly, but gently into the squishy softness, feeling his cock deflating, but still pressing himself fully into Sara as the final reverberations of his powerful climax washed over him. They both lay spent, their breaths slowing in tandem, each thinking thoughts of affection for the other. Arystan felt Sara’s heart racing against his chest and swore he had never felt anything more beautiful. Finally, he rolled to his side, withdrawing, hearing her sigh, and then drawing her into him as he wrapped his arms securely around her. He kissed the top of her head. “Sleep now,” he said tenderly. “Yesterday is behind us. Forever.” Sara sighed against him, comforted by his words. “Thank you, Arystan,” she murmured as she drifted off. “Forever . . . behind us.”

CHAPTER 19 Be Still Your Heart The mist curled and uncurled aimlessly in its dimensionless space. It had had enough of being a mist – an ‘it,’ no matter what it was, even if it was powerful, and controlling and immortal and all that. Whatever. It was nothing like being a warlord. Nothing like hearing the sounds of battle echoing in your ears, men shouting, fighting, screaming, dying, the feel of the cold handle of a blade, its balanced heft, or the warm shaft of a pike, the smell of blood, metal, fear, defeat and victory in the air, the feel of killing a man, of draining his lifeblood, swinging the axe into his body with a satisfying whump. The mist twisted, violently. Yes, being a mist paled in comparison to being a warlord. After the last meeting of the others, it decided it had better keep its thoughts and actions to itself. So they didn’t like ‘meddling’ as they called it. Well, what did they think they were doing? Meddling in the affairs he had painstakingly set in motion. It swirled, the mist darkening a bit. Did it just call itself a ‘he’? The transformation must be close. Very close. It was a bit displeased, however. Nothing had really happened with the mortal. Things were set up well, but the mortal wasn’t moving fast enough. Mortals were supposed to accept being trained. That was the purpose of those annoying two-hundred year challenges. Oh, it supposed the challenges themselves were entertaining, but thank the mists, now that it finally had a mortal under its power, eternity would be damned before it would give that power up. As far as it was concerned, the mortal’s “training” had already occurred. She only had one simple undertaking to accomplish. Considering what the mortal went through to become worthy of its training, the task was the play of a child. The mist was impatient. It had manipulated the mortal, influenced, commanded her, obscured her memories, but she had not yet succeeded at the charge to which it had put her. It was time to do more, regardless of the warnings of the other mists. They were pathetic and weak. It would not be leaving such an important matter to chance. The mist would control Sara directly and force the matter. ***** Arystan awoke with a start, throwing aside the hides. “What, what is it?” asked Sara sleepily, pulling the white snow leopard furs from over her head where Arystan had tossed them. He sat up alert, not answering. Then he leapt out of bed and threw on a leather skirt, buckling his sword over it. He pulled a wolfskin fur over his shoulders, not bothering with chest armor and thrust his feet into leather boots.

“What, Arystan?” asked Sara, sitting straight up now, alarmed. She drew the furs around her a bit. It was getting colder during the nights. “I’ll be back,” Arystan said shortly, leaving the yurt without kissing her. ***** When Arystan returned two hours later, he found Sara asleep with her head on the table, fully dressed with all of the torches ablaze. He came around slowly behind her, lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. She awoke with a small cry, looking around frantically with wild eyes until she saw him. He sat down next to her on the bench and drew her into his arms. “Shhh,” he said, kissing her temple. She leaned into him. “What happened?” She had heard the sounds of a skirmish a distance away and later agonizing screams coming from within the encampment. He stroked her hair, enjoying the feel of her life and warmth against him. “A contingent from General Bayuan’s army found our camp tonight.” She twisted in his arms to look up at him, her eyes worried. They washed over him, making sure he was unharmed. “Are you all right? Will they tell him? Will he know where to find us?” He looked down at her, resisting the urge to kiss her. “Yes. No. And yes.” Her brow furrowed. “Arystan –” “All right, all right,” he said placatingly. He turned her to face him on the bench, caressing the back of one of her hands. “Yes, I am unharmed. No, they won’t tell him. None of the soldiers will be telling anyone . . . anything,” he said meaningfully. “And yes, General Bayuan will know where to find our camp. When his contingent doesn’t return, he will know why. And he will know where they searched for us.” Sara looked thoughtful. “We’ll have to move the camp.” “Yes. The plans are already in motion. Before they departed this earthly world, the soldiers were generous enough to divulge where Bayuan’s army is encamped. They are a week’s ride from here. We will break camp in three days’ time.” He captured her hand, a gleam in his eyes. “Sara, they are camped very close to the River of Blood.” She let out a little gasp, her eyes fluttering. Arystan was reminded of how Sara reacted when he hit her cervix very deeply. “Oh. Do you think it’s possible to convince them to camp at the clearing, Arystan?”

He looked down at her. Her eyes were literally glowing with excitement. Her skin was flushed a pretty pink and she was breathing just a little faster. Gods, what a woman. He smiled. “Not only do I think it’s possible, Sara, I think it’s almost certain. And here’s how,” he said, explaining his thoughts to his spellbound lover. ***** The breaking of the large encampment went smoothly, the excitement in the air palpable as the men realized they were moving closer to attaining their goal of attacking and defeating General Bayuan’s army. Enclosures and corrals were broken down, supplies sorted and packed, and the slave girls turned loose, either to find their way back to their villages or become food for the hungry snow leopards gorging for the upcoming winter on the steppes. There would be no time for ceremonies, no time for fucking, no room for women on this ride. This was to be a march for the sole purpose of engaging their enemy. There would be a camp at their final destination, but not a long-term, comfortable camp such as this. The remaining livestock were to be slaughtered and eaten in the last few days. Sara would be the only woman traveling with Arystan’s army. Not a single word was grumbled against it. She was good for the leader. Every man could see that. On the last night before they broke camp, Sara felt nervous and headed out for air, feeling drawn to the patch of juniper woods where she had so often run. Her breath left trails of fine white mist in the night, the crispness filling her lungs, the shock of the chill as it met the warmth of her organs invigorating. She heard a twig snap behind her and then powerful arms wrapped around her, a familiar dark mouth nibbling on her ear. “Don’t worry, Sara. Everything will be fine,” Arystan said, holding her strongly. She turned in his arms, finding her way under his heavy fur cloak, running her hands up the back of his thick leather vest. She gave him a half-smile. “I know.” But her eyes were troubled. “Really, you worry too much woman. At least I know how to make you stop worrying,” he growled, his black eyes hot. He bent his head to her neck and took the skin in his mouth, sucking gently and then biting into the flesh with his teeth. Sara moaned, thrusting herself against him. Arystan released her throat. “Yes, I see it’s quite easy for you to become . . . distracted,” he said, gently taking her lips in his, teasing, nuzzling them, tracing the entrance to her mouth with his tongue. She panted. “Arystan. More,” she said weakly. “More?” he said, taking her lower lip into his mouth and sucking hard and then biting it. Sara cried out in his mouth.

“Or more like this?” he asked, thrusting his tongue forcefully into hers and running it in a circular motion over the top of her palate, her cheeks, under her own tongue and then back again. “Or more like this?” he hissed as he wrapped his hands in her hair and brought her roughly back against a tree, grinding his erection into her, pulling up on her skirt as he humped against her, simulating the sex act, his breathing harsh, his mouth hovering above hers, their bodies surrounded now by the white mist from their breath. “Oh, gods, here? Now? Arystan – the camp –” He continued moving against her, bringing his hand up under her skirt and pressing two fingers into her wetness. Her head fell back as she emitted soft cries like a kitten, her eyes half-closed with pleasure. The spirits knew, she felt so warm, hot, tight. He had to have her now. He worked himself free from his leggings. “Yes, right here, right now, just like this. Of course,” he said, positioning his cock at her entrance, “you’ll have to control your ‘volume.’ There are no other women in camp right now and a vocal projection of our encounter would likely be poorly received.” She held onto his furs, one leg bent at his waist, her mouth falling open as he entered her with a single, powerful stroke. He checked her hard, pushing her back up against the tree and held her there, like a fly pinned to the wall. Then he withdrew and plunged deeply again, watching her gasp, enjoying the fact he could drive all other thoughts from her head when he possessed her like this. Arystan began to fuck her in earnest, one arm braced against the tree, the other wrapped in her hair, whispering her name, grunting and straining with his passion as he relentlessly pounded through her wetness, the heat of their coupling driving back the chill of the night. Sara was lost to him, to his possession, all worries and thoughts driven from her mind as she felt only him, his enormous cock pistoning into her, wrenching her body, his longing and desire for her washing over her in waves of stickiness, burning, melting, turning her to liquid need, liquid fire racing through her, as everything receded but Arystan and his turbulent, impassioned handling of her. Her head fell forward to Arystan’s chest as he continued to drive into her, her body bouncing and jerking under his pummeling thrusts, listening to the surge and gush of fluids as he stroked in and out of her, his head locking over the top of hers. She tried not to cry out, but could not help whimpering as she clung desperately to him, her fingers wrapped in his furs as if holding on for dear life as he continued to pummel her against the tree. She twisted her head back and looked into his eyes. They were blacker than the night, burning through her soul as she said his name over and over, and then she bit her lip as she felt the familiar sensation of sweet pressure building within her. Their faces were moist from perspiration, their hair soggy from the clammy autumn night. Arystan’s black

hair swung damply around his face, Sara’s hair curled and stuck to her cheeks; she felt as if she were covered in steam, the cold night growing both humid and hotter. Arystan felt Sara’s velvet sleeve begin to clench, felt her tighten and knew she was close. He sped up his stroke, eliciting more gasps and small cries from her, bringing forward his own release so that he would take flight with her. They were both lost to everything but each other now as their sensations built together, separately, but simultaneously, as the world started to spin and they each took deep, desperate breaths before they were cast outward and upward, clinging to each other as if they would be lost to the blowing, blinding storm without the other as a ballast. They floated for a moment together, hovering, suspended in that beautiful moment of elongated time before they drifted separately down to return to the earthly feelings of their bodies. In that brief moment of suspended time, they could not have seen the gossamer mist of their breath turn a deep black, a dank, fetid vapor, that swirled in on itself until it formed a small, whirling sphere and then zoomed into Sara’s next inhaled breath so that when she came down from her release, still panting and exhilarated, she reached her hand under Arystan’s furs to the belt around his waist and in one, quick movement, found the hilt to his short sword, unsheathed it, drew it back, and plunged it toward Arystan’s heart as he still quaked inside her. The force of Sara’s thrust sent Arystan staggering backwards, as if she suddenly possessed some extraordinary strength. He looked down at the blade protruding from his chest, unable to process what had just happened. Then he looked up at Sara who was advancing toward him, a threatening look in her dark blue eyes, her breathing still labored. Arystan grabbed the sword by the hilt and grunted, pulling it free from the leather, the mail, and the bronze breastplate that he had been wearing to get used to the heavy armor of open warfare. The blade was sharp and her thrust was powerful. He was sure that the plate had dented. But gods, what was going on? He flipped the sword forward, holding Sara at bay as she circled him, trying to come after him. There was something very malevolent about the way she moved. The clouds shifted for a moment, allowing a shade more of moonlight to drift through the trees, and he saw her eyes more clearly. They weren’t dark blue as he had originally thought, they were black. Completely black. Her irises had merged into her pupils with no contrast whatsoever. He knew of only one thing that could cause that. “Sara, I’m sorry,” he breathed and then brought the blade of his sword behind him, let her charge at him and then rammed the hilt into her head, knocking her out cold onto the frosted ground.

CHAPTER 20 Witch in the Mountains Arystan gave two shrill whistles and within a minute, a black horse thundered from the vicinity of the camp, wheeling up short before him. Some of the horses at the camp were kept fully bridled and saddled in case of emergency. This was such an emergency. He dragged Sara’s unconscious body up before him as he mounted and whirled in the direction of the camp. “Tebur! Sabalak!” he called as he rode past the front entrance, now all but dismantled. Tebur was out front, tending to some last minute details. “Arystan!” he cried, shocked at his leader’s frantic demeanor. Arystan quickly told Tebur where he was going. He instructed the chieftain to break camp and lead the men out in the morning. He would catch up. He didn’t expect to be too far behind. “Consider it done, my lord,” said Tebur. “Spirits be with you.” Arystan nodded and galloped at full speed across the plains to the foothills behind the camp. ***** Arystan rode late into the night, forcing the horse up steeper and steeper terrain, pressing far into the mountains that loomed behind the camp. The granite crags eventually became too treacherous for the horse to navigate and Arystan abandoned it, whispering for it to return to the camp and then slapping it, sending it running. Perhaps it would make it before it became lion food. Arystan lifted Sara’s limp body into his arms and continued climbing. Eventually, it became so precipitous, that he hefted Sara over his shoulder and used his free hand to pull himself over the rocks, balancing her body with the other. The night, already cold, became bitter the higher he climbed, but he was warm, sweating with the exertion. He did not stop once for rest, but climbed relentlessly toward the pinnacled heights. Long spires began to form from the rock and the crags became triangular, jutting out in harsh relief against the coal-black sky. Finally, Arystan faced a tall, sheer pillar of granite. High above, he could see a ledge. He knew he had to climb to it. He ran his hand over the faceless rock and then set about climbing upward. His fingers found the smallest of nubs, his boots the tiniest cracks. He wrapped his left arm around Sara’s legs and used both hands to assist him, the woman hanging low over his back, her hair sweeping his boots. Finally, he reached the ledge and pulled himself to it, swinging Sara up as well, panting with exhaustion and relief.

The pillar was narrow and the ledge even more so. A few paces before him was a blank wall. He rolled Sara from his shoulders carefully, setting her as far as he could from the edge of the precipice behind him and dropped to his knees. “Mother of the Mountains, Great Spirit of Life, Diviner of Death, I beseech you to help me. I am Arystan, from the village of Kuybykshet.” He looked at the blank wall. Nothing happened. “I bring a woman, Sara Aster, from a land far from our own. I believe she has been inhabited by. . . the chernyi tuman . . . the black mist.” Arystan looked desperately toward the rock face again. If this didn’t work . . . . Suddenly, the wall dissolved and evaporated, leaving a large, gaping blackness where before there had been only gray stone. Arystan gathered Sara in his arms and, without hesitation, walked forward into the darkness. He stopped a few paces in. It was still dark, but he had the sense he was in a cavern. Light flared abruptly and he was standing before a fire in a circular cave with a low roof. There were no entrances or exits. He looked behind him. The gap in the stone blurred and the wall reappeared. He looked forward again and sitting cross-legged before the fire was an old woman with olive skin, long thinning white hair and piercing blue eyes. Arystan blinked. She had not been there before. She sat on a soft rug made of snow leopard fur. She gestured for him to sit and soft skins appeared beneath him. Arystan laid Sara before him next to the fire and sat cross-legged also, facing the old woman, the witch of the mountains. The woman closed her eyes and was silent, as if listening for something. Arystan did not know what to say or do, so he simply sat there watching her. At least he had been allowed access to her presence. He knew that she was very difficult to find and even more reluctant to grant an audience. Many who had succeeded in locating the pillar to seek her wisdom, begged and pleaded, sometimes sitting for days or weeks before the blank wall which never opened. The witch wore a worn brown cloak which she clutched about her with bony, but graceful fingers. Studying her face, Arystan realized she had probably been quite beautiful at one time. Perhaps she still was, presenting an appearance of age only for effect. Suddenly, her eyes flew open, their sharpness disturbing. “You were wise to come, warlord. The woman has indeed been inhabited by the chernyi tuman. This particular mist is of an evil mien. It is disobedient, but also resourceful. It has no respect for the timeline, the natural order, its own place in the universe,” she said disdainfully.

Arystan swallowed, looking down at Sara. A lump was starting to form on the side of her head where he had hit her with the hilt of his sword. He touched his fingers to it gingerly and then looked at the old woman. “What can we do, Mother?” he said softly. “You care for this woman?” asked the witch simply. “You have previously cared for no woman. Felt yourself incapable of it.” Arystan wondered where she was going with this. “Yes,” he answered truthfully. Her eyes seemed to pierce through him as she looked into his black eyes. It was uncomfortable; he felt as if there was a presence within him, probing, testing, assessing his innermost energy. Then the witch looked away as if mulling over something. “Can you help her?” asked Arystan hoarsely. “Can you cast it out of her?” She returned her gaze to Arystan. “No,” she replied. “I cannot cast it out. I have no right to tamper with the power of one greater than I, no matter how malevolent. It is a law I will not and cannot break.” She looked through him with her clear, blue eyes, her expression unreadable. Arystan’s eyes hardened, his heart thumping in his chest. He felt anger swelling within him. Surely the witch did not grant him entrance simply to tell him Sara’s soul was lost and then think to turn him out. The witch spoke again to him, her voice more soothing. “Although I cannot cast it out warlord, the woman can choose, herself, to remove its influence,” she said, still staring at him as if he was made of something intangible. “But Mother, she tried to kill me. She is not herself. She is fully taken over. I do not see how she could or would be able to choose,” Arystan said deferentially, trying not to let his frustration show in his voice. The witch sighed. “I will show her – no, I will show both of you – and then she will make her choice. After her decision, you may both have another choice to make.” Arystan nodded as the ancient woman slowly got to her feet. It seemed difficult, almost painful, for her and she teetered a bit when she was finally standing. She waved her hand and the fire in the center of the room spread outward in an arc which passed through them as it widened, forming a low, warming circle of fire around the perimeter of the cave. Arystan gasped as he felt the flames move through him. It felt as if something had occupied the same space as the cells in his body for a brief moment, not crowding them but co-existing. It was an odd sensation. The woman waved her hand again and a large circle appeared in the center of the cavern, as if drawn with chalk. She stood just outside the circle next to the flames. “Lie down in the circle. Next to the woman,” she ordered.

Arystan picked Sara up and laid her gently on the granite floor. There were no furs. He tried to make her as comfortable as possible. Then he lay down next to her. He had thought the ground would be hard, but it was almost as if there were no sensation. He swallowed, turning his head to look at Sara. Her eyes were still closed and she was breathing slowly and regularly. He turned his head back to the roof of the cave, the firelight dancing in relief against the rough stone. He reached for Sara’s hand and drew it within his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old woman walk forward. She circled them, chanting and saying various incantations, casting her arms about and thrusting her hands forward over them several times. He tightened his hand over Sara’s as slowly he felt the walls of the cave close inward, moving through them as the fire had, sharing space with their cells and then the sensation of nothing. For a moment there was no sound, no light, no thought and then Arystan could see again and he was relieved to find he was still holding Sara’s hand and it was warm within his grasp. He turned to look at her. They seemed to be floating in nothingness, suspended, no, not really floating; they didn’t seem to need the support of air, gravity or breath, they simply existed. But Arystan knew he could still feel because his heart clutched as he saw that Sara’s irises were lake-blue again. She smiled at him and it made him feel dizzy and then something caught their attention and they both turned to the scene in front of them. There was a lake, a wide beautiful blue lake, the color of Sara’s eyes, nestled between mountains of gray granite and fields of heather and flowering plants. A small, darkskinned boy ran from a cluster of small wood and skin huts down a long trail to a rock overlooking the lake. He scrambled to the top of the boulder and sat taking in the landscape, his black eyes mature and thoughtful. A great rumbling suddenly filled the valley, breaking the pristine silence, and the boy looked around frantically, trying to determine the source of the sound. From his perch, he saw thousands of horsemen sweeping down the valley above his village, great clouds of dust billowing from their thundering hooves. He stood up on the rock, shading the sun with his small hand and watched as the lead rider paused at the village and a man walked forward to greet them on the trail. He could hear an exchange of voices, but could not make out the words. He watched as the horseman pulled a flail from behind his back, swung it, and cracked open the skull of the man standing in front of him, sending him sprawling, dead, to the ground. The man then gave an order to his troops and rode on. As the riders passed, they set fire to the huts, speared those they could reach from the trail and detoured to run down and run through the remainder of the screaming villagers almost as if for sport. As soon as he saw what was happening, the boy leapt from the rock, intent on running as fast as he could back to the village to help and to fight, but his small feet slipped as he scrambled down in his haste and he fell, hitting his head on a sharp rock. The impact knocked him unconscious and he rolled until his body lay partially in the lake, behind and under the boulder and out of view of the trail. The blue water lapped gently at his side as the army thundered past unmindful of him.

Arystan felt his hand being squeezed harder and tore his eyes away from the scene of his childhood to Sara who was openly weeping, tears flowing freely down her face. Arystan turned back to the scene, his gaze impassive. He had long since come to terms with what had happened that day. It made him who he was and he had brought the opportunity to kill the man responsible within his reach. He and Sara continued to watch his life play out, most of it a fast blur, bits and pieces more conspicuous, as if time slowed for the portions critical to their journey together. Arystan’s life replayed up until the time when he entered his yurt to find Sara lashed to the center pole, her body glistening in the torchlight, her eyes challenging and unafraid. He felt, even now, in his supposedly sensationless floating, that he was getting a powerful erection. He wondered whether it was possible to fuck in the current state of their bodies. He cut his eyes over to Sara who was watching the scene, her mouth slightly parted, her skin lightly flushed, her arousal clearly evident as she watched Arystan’s calloused and guarded interior suddenly brought up short by his unbridled responses to her. She knew now why he tried so hard to block out affection, to block out love. He had done it to protect himself after the terrible pain he had suffered as a child, losing everything and everyone he had ever known, brutally murdered by someone she believed to have been General Bayuan. Before Arystan had a chance to act on his lustful urges, the torchlit scene dissolved and they were watching Sara grow up, her sheltered childhood, the manicured lawns and white pillared houses of the suburbs, her focus on her studies to the exclusion of nearly all else. They watched as Sara attended college, selected by her parents; chose fields of study, suggested by her parents; dated John, encouraged by her parents; and then told them all off as she headed to Tajikistan for fieldwork and abandoned her last semester of college. Arystan smirked as snippets of Sara’s relationship with John appeared before them. She certainly didn’t learn the passion she showed him from John. It only vaguely occurred to both of them that they were not only experiencing a different country, but a different time. Finally, the images from Sara’s past coalesced into the night at the Horoshaya Yeda, Sara laughing and talking with the group of young people and flirting with the professor. Then they watched as a black mist entered the restaurant, swirling and dipping above the round florescent lights hanging from the ceiling before it dove at dizzying speed into Sara’s mouth as she went to take another drink of jazi. Sara’s body seemed to freeze instantly in time, as did her university group, and all of the patrons and employees in the restaurant. Then, Sara’s trials in the stone room were replayed. They watched as she entered the two pools, Arystan hardening again as the scene from the Desiderium Lacus swept before them. He was both surprised and moved by what he saw there. Before he could react, the images showed Sara escaping the burning cistern and confronting the mist, demanding to be released. They both watched as the black mist entered her again and she stood swaying, now controlled by it.

“What is your will, Great One?” “You must kill Arystan before he reaches the River of Blood. How you accomplish this is up to you. This is your only task.” “I understand. I will do so.” The image blurred and then General Bayuan appeared, addressing thousands, upon thousands, of troops. “We have defeated the last of the resistance. Arystan is dead. There is no one else to oppose us. Victory is ours!” Shouts and cheers broke out in deafening chorus from the triumphant army and then images flashed of entire villages destroyed, fields, crops and livestock burned, soldiers raping, torturing, mutilating, murdering, the lives of men, women and children taken in brutal, unimaginable ways. Sara turned into Arystan, sobbing, as they found themselves back on the cave floor sitting in the circle, Arystan’s arms wrapped around Sara, comforting her, his face like stone. The circle disappeared and the fire moved back to the center, passing uncomfortably through them again. The old woman appeared opposite, sitting cross-legged on her white furs. “So,” she addressed Sara, her voice creaking a bit. “Did you see what you needed to see to make your choice?” Sara gently pulled from Arystan’s embrace and turned to face the woman. She nodded. “Yes. I will do it. I will return.” Arystan looked from Sara to the witch, uncomprehending. “What do you mean, return? Return, where?” he demanded. Sara turned to him, her blue eyes liquid, full of emotion and pain at what she needed to do. She took his beautiful, dark hands in hers. They were so strong, powerful, talented. She knew what his hands could do to her body. She forced those feelings back, trying to bury them deeply. “Arystan, I have to return to my home. To restore the timeline, restore the balance. It is the only way to defeat Bayuan’s spirit, to prevent his evil from inflicting harm on your people, to bring peace to your land.” “NO!” he said with such fierceness that both Sara and the witch stiffened. He squeezed her hands in his fists so hard that they began to hurt. He squared his shoulders. “No,” he said again. “I will not allow it.” “Arystan,” Sara said softly, “you don’t have a choice either. It is the only way. If there was any other way – any way at all – I would do it in a single beat of my heart. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to live without you. You are . . . you are . . . my love, my

true love.” Sara couldn’t continue as warm tears slid down her face, falling to the white skins below them. He grabbed her roughly to him, drawing her into his chest, running his hand gently over her hair as she clung to him desperately. His face was expressionless, his eyes hard. The witch watched the display silently. Arystan’s black eyes flicked to hers over Sara’s head. “What if she doesn’t go back?” he asked evenly. The witch looked at him a long moment before responding. She would explain and then they would understand. “The challenges you saw Sara face are tests orchestrated by beings – mists – of unfathomable power. Bayuan – or more correctly, Bayuan’s essence – is one of those mists. The mists test mortals every two hundred years in hopes of finding one worthy to train as a Guardian. Guardians keep watch over this world and other mortals.” Her eyes became distant for a moment. “I know, because I was once myself, tested. And trained.” The old woman considered Sara, weeping quietly in Arystan’s arms. “When Sara passed the tests and was considered worthy, she should have been trained as a Guardian. But somehow . . . Bayuan’s greed or arrogance, a part of his mortal spirit must have contaminated his essence and he instead tried to manipulate her for his own purpose.” The witch shifted her gaze suddenly to Arystan. “Your death.” Arystan did not flinch. He waited, saying nothing. The witch looked to the fire, staring at it, thoughtful. “What Bayuan’s essence did to Sara is far beyond the realm of his power, far outside the scope of laws governing transcendence and time. I do not believe he initially intended to control Sara. The other mists would have sensed his motives and never allowed it. But once done, it was done. No other mist can interfere. Only Sara, herself, can repair this.” The old woman looked back to Arystan, her eyes reflecting the capering flames. “To answer your question, warlord, there is already a rift in the timeline. Bayuan created it when he forced Sara into this one. If Sara chooses not to return and Bayuan succeeds at the River of Blood, the timeline will be irrevocably broken as he will live when he should have died.” The witch looked slightly pained. “I honestly do not know what will happen then. It may be that Bayuan will simply reign until the end of his days as a terrible, feared, bloodthirsty warlord. Or it may be that he will receive a transfer of unimaginable power, power both from his mortal self and the immortal transcendence of the chernyi tuman. In such a case, the entire world might end as we know it. The Bayuan-spirit might be . . . unstoppable.” Sara was still leaning against Arystan, but had turned to listen to the witch, softly sniffling. There was a long silence. Finally the witch spoke again, slowly, a note of reluctance in her voice. “There is one other possibility that is within the realm of my power as a Guardian even though it

requires an alternation of the timeline. It can only be invoked when the timeline has already been broken.” She hesitated. “Please,” said Arystan sincerely, a bit of gravel in his voice. “Please tell us what it involves.” The ancient woman mused. Perhaps she could help. She had gone through much to become a Guardian and rarely had an opportunity to fully use her talents. Too often she was beset upon by mortals who camped for days on her ledge, complaining that their favorite cow had died, or that insects had devoured their crops (a perfectly natural, cyclical occurrence), or that they were seeking inner peace, apparently willing to disturb hers. But this – now this was a matter worthy of her skills. She began to flush a bit with excitement. Yes, she was a Guardian after all. She had been given intense training, knowledge and long life. Not to mention she had survived the same testing which Sara had. Her eyes went rather hot as she remembered facing her greatest desire. No, it wasn’t every day that she was able to use her powers to prevent real evil and also . . . she looked across at the couple . . . to do real good. She had been with them on their journey through their lives and knew that if anyone deserved a chance at happiness, it was them. “All right,” she said, coming to her decision, her eyes glowing copper in the firelight. She told them what it entailed, cautioning that it was impossible to know whether it had worked until the timeline closed. Sara looked up at Arystan, trembling, wondering whether he could make it work. She knew that she could do her part. “It will work,” he said shortly, drinking her in with his black eyes. “It has to.” And he lowered his head and kissed her. The witch’s eyes suddenly rolled back in her head. She knew dawn had already broken outside the cave and now she felt the gathering of Arystan’s forces as they sped away toward the River of Blood under Tebur’s command. There was a sense of crumbling, a sense of unsteadiness. Arystan was needed. The timeline was weakening. Her head snapped back. “Time is short,” she rasped, startling Sara and Arystan out of their passionate embrace. “We must act now. Arystan must return to command of his army immediately. The timeline depends on it.” She waved her hand. The circle re-drew and the fire receded. “Lie down, now. Both of you.” They quickly did as she asked, taking their places in the circle and clinging to each other’s hand, hoping it would not be the last time they ever touched each other. The

witch circled them, saying more incantations and then stepped between them and knelt, reaching for Arystan’s left hand as he unclasped it from Sara’s. She hissed, noting the ragged scar that was already there, feeling the residual taint of evil, crude, weak, petty, but still evil. She waved her hand and healed the original scar and then made a fresh, clean cut by drawing her finger over Arystan’s palm. She did the same to Sara’s right palm and then she placed their hands together again, and reached into the pocket of her robes, drawing out a rare and beautiful purple flower. She whispered for Arystan and Sara to squeeze their hands together and the witch held the flower under the stream of mingled blood that dripped from their embrace. The woman withdrew from the circle, wrapped the flower in her hand, walked to the circle of fire and held her fist over the flames until the petals dried and crumbled to powder within her palm. Then, she returned to the head of the circle, chanted further, and released the powder into the air, where it fell gently over Sara and Arystan, finely coating them with its residue. As it settled, Sara felt a great tug, a pull that seemed to reach within her, sucking and drawing at her very soul, pulling her outward strongly, and suddenly she was alone, far, far away from Arystan, far from the cave, away, but somehow also . . . close.

CHAPTER 21 River of Blood Arystan looked out across the broad valley, his heavy lionskin cloak draped around him as the cold wind whipped through the pass. A long, snaking river was visible in the distance. Tebur and Sabalak edged their horses closer to his. Behind and below the three warriors, six thousand horsemen and foot soldiers gathered in formation, shifting slightly as they waited for instructions from their leaders. “Bayuan’s army will be over there.” Sabalak pointed to a distant range. “We are moving quickly. We could reach it in three, perhaps four, days. It will be at least a week’s ride to the river under your plan. Are you sure you want to meet Bayuan there? We could ride directly to his camp and engage him now. It’s unlikely he has yet learned we have killed the regiment he sent to rout us. The element of surprise will be in our favor.” Arystan shook his head. “Bayuan knows too well there was a chance we would kill the regiment. He will be as prepared for us as he is for the return of his own men. He has had time, much time, to prepare the area strategically. We would be at a strong disadvantage.” He shifted on his horse. “No, we will lure him to the site we have designated by the river. Then, we will have time to prepare strategically, although he will not suspect it.” “The location you have in mind for the General is not the wisest place,” said Tebur. “Bayuan will see that. The river is too high to ford there and the terrain on both sides hems in the camp in the case of a flank attack. He is no fool.” “No,” Arystan responded. “He is no fool. But he is arrogant.” The men were silent for a few moments as they surveyed the landscape. Then Sabalak said, “I trust you with my life, brother.” “As do I,” said Tebur. The three chieftains positioned their horses so that they could clasp their arms together tightly. Arystan looked from one to the other. “You have been my most devoted chieftains. If anything happens to me after the battle . . . after I kill Bayuan . . . if I am gone for any reason, know that I have loved you as my own flesh and blood.” Sabalak scowled. “Such talk,” he said gruffly. “Why would anything happen to you after you kill Bayuan?” “Why indeed?” returned Tebur, looking obliquely at Arystan who simply sat on his horse staring across the open steppes. “Let us ride,” said Arystan, spurring his horse.

Tebur and Sabalak each led a band of warriors down opposite paths, following the hills, skirting the plains. Arystan, and one-third of his army, headed directly for the river, across the center of the steppes. ***** “Across the open steppes? Are you sure of this, Itkul?” “Yes, my lord. Our scouts report they have seen it with their own eyes.” Itkul’s black eyes were bright. “Then tell me, Itkul. How many men join Arystan in his ceaseless attempts to engage me?” “Two thousand sir, no more,” the man replied. “And the squadron we sent to find Arystan?” Itkul’s eyes fell. “I am sorry. They are dead, my lord. All dead. And –" He hesitated. “And?” Bayuan’s eyebrows rose as he eyed his advisor expectantly. “And a note, my lord. A note was returned.” The man shifted, looking very uncomfortable. “Returned? How?” The general leaned forward in his large throne-like chair, his great bulk made even more impressive by the heavy bearskin cloak that hung around his shoulders. Itkul blanched, his dark skin noticeably paling. “I – I will have it brought it for you, General.” He backed out of the pole and skin structure, his head lowered. Two minutes later, he returned carrying a basket. Ulzhan and Jalus entered with him. Ulzhan shuffled to a bench, lowering himself to it. Jalus remained standing, pacing, his fists clenched, clearly angry with the message his general was about to receive. Bayuan arched an eyebrow. “A basket? Itkul, bring it to me.” “Yes, my lord,” the man replied, walking forward stiffly. He handed the basket to the general and then backed up as quickly as he could manage without appearing too obvious. General Bayuan removed the lid, reached inside and withdrew a sheet of parchment which he scanned quickly, scowling as he read it, his expression growing blacker. Then he reached further into the basket and held up a small object, consisting of two shriveled blackened balls attached to a floppy, purpled snake-shaped piece of flesh. His jaw tightened, his face white with fury. “Break camp immediately,” he said through clenched teeth. “I want Arystan dead.”

Bayuan continued to stare at the disgusting object in his hands as his three advisors practically ran from the tent and began giving the orders. ***** “Here, General? Are you sure we should camp here for the night?” asked Jalus. He so hated questioning the leader, but the location was not ideal. Bayuan leaned back in his saddle and gave the young man an appraising look. “Jalus, remind me again why you are one of my inner circle of advisors? Is it because your father was my most trusted servant until his death? The son must earn, not be given, what the father had.” “Yes, General Bayuan,” said Jalus, deflated. “See there,” said Bayuan, pointing to a still-smoldering depression in the earth. “Arystan’s forces were here just last night. He broke camp in one day. A great army cannot break camp properly in one day. Despite his vulgar show of insolence, he is afraid. Afraid of my superior forces, superior strength, and superior bravery.” He looked around the campsite. “It is perfect. Arystan has unwittingly trampled the ground for us, even arranged wood for our fires.” He gestured to bundles of saplings and stacks of chopped wood bordering the sides of the site. They looked to be hastily abandoned. “Our scouts report Arystan has crossed the river and headed up into the hills. I tire of the cat and mouse game. Tomorrow, we will find a ford and crush them. But for now, it is late. We will set up here for the night.” “Yes, my lord,” answered Jalus. He went to do his master’s bidding. ***** Sweat dripped down Arystan’s brow, stinging his eyes, but he made no movement. He watched Bayuan jerk the pole arm at him, trying to unnerve him. He held his broad sword steady, unfazed. So much was riding on this, so much more than Bayuan’s defeat. He distantly registered the screams of those drowning in the river, the culmination of his planning with Sara. The damming of the river had been her idea. It had worked brilliantly. She was his focus now and he must succeed. Yes, Bayuan had killed his family, destroyed his village and his childhood, murdered countless others, and would continue to do so if not stopped, but he was fighting for more than revenge, more than success, more than peace. He was fighting for his own heart. He knew that now. The witch had told him that he and Sara could be reunited when the timeline closed if their love for each other was strong enough. Sara was worried because she knew he thought himself incapable of love. He had never told Sara that he loved her. Even now,

it was hard to even think about those words, but deep down he knew it to be true. He did love her, with his very soul. This had to work. Arystan readied himself, counting on Bayuan’s arrogance to underestimate him, to assume that his opponent would do no more than charge blindly and stupidly at him. He raised his sword and ran toward Bayuan, holding tightly to thoughts of Sara, her voice, her softness, her breath and life, and then he saw Bayuan’s pole sweeping before him and leaped from his low crouch at the precise second, over the staff, and he drove his sword deep into Bayuan’s throat. Distantly, Arystan registered the sounds of his men chanting their victory and he knew that he must have given the signal to Sabalak to flank Bayuan’s camp. Now what? He was still here. Was there something more he needed to do? Did it not work? He tugged at the leather armor around his neck, suddenly feeling very constricted, his breath tightening, his hands shaking. A slight flush of despair began to creep over his black eyes as he absently watched several bodies lodge and dislodge against the bank of the river, bobbing in the flowing water, his limbs turning leaden, his heart becoming heavy. He glanced back at Bayuan’s body and saw, to his horror, black mist rising from the general’s mouth and being drawn skyward. He remembered the witch telling them that they could not prevent Bayuan’s spirit from being taken by the other mists. But the mists would prevent what had happened to Sara in the future. They were not constrained by linear time and would never allow Bayuan to test and take her again, now that they were aware of his motives. Arystan doubted the ‘mists’ would allow Bayuan to do much of anything. He certainly wouldn’t if he were a ‘mist.’ Thank the spirits and gods he was not. Arystan watched the black mist rise higher in the sky. And then he felt a strange tugging sensation inside him, as if something was wrenching and drawing at his very essence. As the effect increased, he realized with intense relief that the timeline was closing and he was being pulled into it. He desperately hoped to end up where they had planned. He felt as if the cells in his body were shifting and then a horrible, animalistic cry of rage rent the sky. Was this a part of the healing the timeline? Great spirits! Arystan heard another loud noise, similar to a retching and belching, and then he watched the black ball of mist fall back from the heavens and slam into Bayuan’s body, causing it to jerk slightly upwards and then fall back to the ground. One of Arystan’s soldiers rode up at that moment and began to drag the general’s body away just as Arystan was swept through the restoring timeline. His last thought was that Bayuan, and his spirit, really, truly were dead.

CHAPTER 22 Horoshaya Yeda “Sara!” The young woman with long, dark hair snapped her fingers in front of Sara’s face. “Hey! Snap out of it!” “Knocket off, Ming. Now, if you ask me,” said a man slumped across the table, waving his finger in the air, “Miss Aster’s had one too many margaritas!” He was clean-cut, with curly blond hair and wore a black t-shirt. “You’re the one who’s had too much to drink, Jasper. Besides, she’s not drinking margaritas. It’s called jazi. A local beverage,” frowned the woman next to him. She was attractive, with soft red curls, offset strikingly by the gold tank top she wore over a floral skirt. “Well, whaddever you say, Trish,” said Jasper, leaning forward, trying to give her a kiss which she easily avoided. “But issa potent ‘local beverage’ if you ask me.” “Which we didn’t,” said Trish worriedly, turning slightly from Jasper to take a better look at Sara. She wouldn’t mind kissing Jasper, but he had the worst timing. There really did look as if something might be wrong with her friend. Sara was staring straight ahead, one hand resting on the table wrapped around a small wooden cup, and the other in her lap, not appearing to be aware of anyone or anything. Over the past several years, Trish had become good friends with Sara. They had the same major and took most of their classes together. Sara could come across as a bit uptight due to the way she focused on her studies, but she had seemed to let down her guard and relax a bit in Tajikistan. Trish knew Sara didn’t drink much. Perhaps she did have too much of the local wine. “She does look kind of out of it,” said the young man sitting next to Ming. He had dark brown hair and a handsome cast to his features. He looked around the restaurant at other tables, searching for the professor. “Maybe we should let Justin know.” “Yeah, Felix. You lettum know,” said Jasper, poking his finger in Felix’s direction encouragingly, as he edged his chair closer to Trish. Sara suddenly stirred, her glazed blue eyes clearing as she looked around the table. “Shit, Sara,” exclaimed Jasper loudly. “You look like you’ve seen a fuckin’ ghost!” “Shut up!” hissed Trish. “Are you all right?” asked Ming, placing her hand on Sara’s arm. Sara jumped. “Wow! That jazi must be powerful stuff,” said Ming. She took Sara’s cup and peered into it. “How many did you say you had anyway?” “I’m prettisure I had some too,” said Jasper. “It wasgood.” Everyone ignored him.

Sara looked down at herself. She was wearing a white, sleeveless sundress that looked clean. She moved back in her chair examining it. There was no bloodstain on the right side, no dirt. She felt her hair. It felt clean, normal, hanging loosely around her shoulders. “Um, what are you looking for? Are you sure you didn’t have some magic jazi, Sara?” asked Trish, the hint of a smile in her eyes, relieved now that her friend seemed to be recovering. “Oh my God,” said Ming, her hand flying to her mouth. “What if someone spiked her drink?” “Now why would anyone do that?” asked Felix, scowling. “We’re all here together as a big group. It’s not as if were going to go off and leave Sara.” “Well, she does look as if she’s been on a bad trip,” said Trish consideringly. Sara brought her hands to her face. Everything felt normal. Normal? What was normal and what had just happened to her? She forced herself to reality, scooting her chair toward the table. She looked around it and then looked around the room. Yes, she recognized most of the faces. Still confused, but trying to stem the tide of endless speculation, Sara gave everyone at her table a half-smile. “Guys, I’m fine. I think I might have had . . . er . . . maybe, one too many glasses of jazi, but really, I’m fine. I’ll – I’ll switch to lemon water.” Her voice shook just slightly, but she tried to sound believable. Felix relaxed, wondering how he could trade places with Ming so that he could sit next to Sara. She sure looked as if she could use some comforting right now. He had always had a crush on Sara at university. And god did she look hot in a tank top and shorts working on this dig. And that sundress? Wow. He knew she and John were having problems before she left. He wondered if she would make up with John when she returned home. Maybe not if he could help it. Suddenly, the eyes of every female around the table went hot and the jaws of every male dropped. Sara stared. Everyone was looking above her. Someone must be standing behind her. She didn’t feel like turning her head to look. She was still trying to come to terms with the strangest daydream or trip or whatever it was, she had ever had. The heads of everyone at the table lowered, following whoever was behind her down to the level of Sara’s head. She looked around irritably. Now, they all seemed to be staring at her. Then she felt arms reach around her shoulders and hands running down her arms. They were a man’s arms, very dark, muscular and strong. The man wore a gold watch around his left wrist. She tensed, thinking for a moment she was being attacked, but that couldn’t be possible based on the intense, dazed looks worn by her friends. But still,

someone was touching her without her permission. She went to fling off the contact when the man suddenly grabbed her right wrist. Sara sputtered, trying to protest, but he held her firmly against the back of the chair and flipped her hand over, tracing the faint, white scar running the length of her palm gently with his thumb. Then he turned over his own left hand and gently brought it to her right one. She saw the matching scar before tears blinded her and then she couldn’t see anything at all, except a blur of water, the hotness of it scalding her eyes and burning her face. She slowly raised her head and through the curtain of tears she glimpsed the hazy outlines of her tablemates, the mouths of both men and women now hanging open, shockdumb expressions on their faces as they continued to stare toward her. The man behind her gently raised her to her feet, turning her toward him. She still would not look at his face. This could not be happening. She found herself pressed against the muscled chest of a man in a buttoned, collared shirt and fitted pants. He was obviously well-built and filled his clothing to the approval of every female in the restaurant and the envy of every man. The room fell away as Sara forgot about everyone in it. He drew her right hand in his left again and squeezed it tightly, pressing it to his heart between them. With his other hand, he drew Sara close to him and leaned down to growl in her ear. “You worry too much, woman. I told you it would work.” She shook against him uncontrollably, her mind still refusing to believe what her senses and her heart told her was true. “Look at me, Sara,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. She continued to tremble. “Look at me,” he hissed, impatient now, his voice demanding, not asking. She slowly lifted her head to him, her face streaked with tears and flushed with emotion, her blue eyes widening as she took in Arystan fully. She gasped slightly. “It’s really you,” she whispered. “Better me than Bayuan.” He smirked. “For some reason, I ended up here a few days before you. It gave me some time to acquaint myself with Dushanbe as it is now and acquire some ‘modern’ clothing. Things are a bit . . . different, but I can adjust to anything as long as I have you.” He glanced over her head. “Anything, except perhaps your friends’ stares. Are you sure the mist didn’t turn them all into zombies?” Sara tried to laugh through her tears, but then she grew serious. “Arystan, since you’re here . . . this means . . . well, this means that you . . . you –” she faltered. “That I love you?” She nodded.

Arystan sighed. “Yes, I think that is safe to say. But do you know what else it means?” Sara looked into his black eyes, falling in, losing herself in those dark depths, at peace now with the entire world. Her eyes widened as she saw them flare with heat as he looked down at her, his eyes predatory. “What?” she breathed. He bent down and whispered in her ear. “It means – I watched the Desiderium Lacus with you in the cave . . . and I know what your greatest desire is.”

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Tasha began writing when she was a child, completing her first screenplay when she was just seven years old. She continued to write profusely throughout her childhood and into her adult years. Spending time in Alaska, Tasha received her bachelor’s degree and went on to obtain a law degree, graduating at the top of her class. While in law school, Tasha continued to develop her writing skills as an editor of the law review and by assisting her professors who sought her writing expertise for their published textbooks. After a successful legal career, Tasha moved to Maui and turned her complete attention to her true love of writing fiction. Tasha now writes solely from her home on Maui and routinely draws inspiration from the beautiful Hawaiian scenery. She lives on Maui’s North Shore with her husband and son. www.templefiction.com

ALSO BY TASHA TEMPLE

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