An Oath to Mida

16 A battle is joined—and the dark god encountered

I stood to the left of the line of huddled, weeping females, placing myself as close to the males as possible. Some stood, yet many more sat or lay upon the shininess of the floor, their leathers slick with the redness of blood. Telion and Lialt crouched, paying no heed to their own wounds, for Ceralt lay on the floor between them, his face pale from the gaping wounds in his chest. My fists clenched as I crouched as the males did, staring at Ceralt’s life ebbing away. So swift the attack had been, and so completely overwhelming eight or nine had faced Ceralt alone, their swords tasting his blood, their voices demanding his surrender, their anger striking him down when he refused to yield. There had been no time to reach his side before he fell, little time to remain there afterward. With so many riders wounded Lialt had called out their surrender, and once all swords had been taken, the females had been separated from them, to form a ragged, pathetic line. I had attempted to remain with Ceralt, yet the victors would have none of it; had I persisted in defying them, Ceralt’s throat would have been cut. I crouched in silence as near as I might be, perhaps three paces from where he lay, burning with fury and kill lust. Had Ceralt been accompanied by Hosta rather than males, his life would not have been forfeit.

“Ah, captives!” came a voice, a female voice filled with great satisfaction. “Our males will need to be healed of their wounds first, of course. How stand the wenches in your eyes, Tastil?”

“Well enough,” answered a male, and I turned my head to see the two standing to my right, examining the weeping females. The male was large and light of hair and eye, clad in leather breech and leather boots, a swordbelt firm upon his hips. The tall female also wore the same, her large breasts unashamedly exposed, her brown hair worn loose and long to her thighs.

“Could there be one in which I would find interest?” murmured the female, moving her dark eyes over the village females.

“Vanin, leave them be!” snapped the male called Tastil, his annoyance clear as he looked down upon her. “The females are ours to toy with, not yours!”

“There will obviously soon be one male lost to me.” She called Vanin shrugged, gesturing unconcernedly in Ceralt’s direction. “I am therefore entitled to choose one of yours, to test my blade or wet it. Do you wish to protest before the Golden One?”

The female had turned to lock eyes with the male, mockery and supreme confidence clear in her manner. The male regarded her in silence a moment, then made a gesture of disgust.

“To what purpose?” he growled, resting hand upon sword hilt. “All know you to be the Golden One’s favorite. Take what wench you will and be damned.”

The female Vanin grinned, her mockery increased, then she turned from the male to look again upon the females lined before her. Each wept and shook and clung to another, all appearing wide-eyed and miserable—save one. Famira stood perhaps a pace to my right, dry-eyed and nearly calm, no more than concern for Ceralt filling her large, dark eyes. She stood alone as she had stood alone for all of the journey, refusing to mix with the village females, unwilling to disturb my silently demanded solitude. Vanin, grinning, moved slowly till she stood before Famira, causing the village female to look up into her eyes with bewilderment.

“You seem the largest here,” remarked Vanin to Famira, examining her with an insolent gaze. “How long do you feel you might stand against me with sword in hand?”

“I do not understand,” stumbled Famira, her skin paling. “I do not know the wielding of a sword.”

“You will soon wish you had studied the matter,” laughed Vanin, pleased with Famira’s fear. “The largest is ever my choice as opponent, and you are largest.”

“You are mistaken,” said I to Vanin, rising from my crouch. “She is not the largest among us.”

Vanin’s head turned quickly toward me, her grin becoming a frown. She and I stood eye to eye, obviously of a size. Even with a pace separating us this was clear, and then the female’s grin returned.

“Much more to my liking,” said she, leaving Famira to stand herself instead before me. “I dislike striking down the small and the helpless. There is little effort needed and little sport to be found. How am I to prove my prowess when she who stands before me cowers?”

“To strike the small and helpless requires no prowess,” said I, folding my arms. “It requires only fear.”

“Fear!” raged this Vanin, immediately taking insult. “I fear no mortal being! I am a warrior, and not to be spoken to so!”

“Warrior?” I echoed with raised brows, allowing a faint smile to touch me “In what manner have you proven yourself warrior? Through the murder of innocents? In the swagger of your walk? In the dishonored blade you wear at your side? Such are not the qualities of a warrior.”

“I am a warrior!” screamed Vanin, her fists raised high, a madness in her eyes. “You will die slowly for those words, horribly cut to ribbons by my blade! That you will have a blade of your own matters not! You will fall before me! Tastil, give her your blade!”

The female stepped back, nearly foaming in her fury, allowing the male Tastil to approach me. He drew his sword and proffered it by the guard, the look in his eyes calling me fool for having spoken so. I turned my head from him to look toward Ceralt, seeing anger and fear on the faces of Telion and Lialt, pain and distress upon Ceralt himself. Armed males stood close about them, preventing Telion’s attempt to intervene, preventing Lialt’s attempt at protest. Again I smiled, partly at the fact of Ceralt’s continued existence, then looked again at the male Tastil.

“I choose not to take the sword,” said I, continuing to keep my arms folded. “Proceed with this farce in any manner you wish.”

“Take it, you fool!” hissed the male, again proffering the sword, yet his anger was naught compared to that of Vanin. The female shouldered by him, bringing a small growl to his throat which she took no note of, and put herself again before me.

“You will not refuse!” she shrilled, nearly beside herself with rage. “Take the sword! Take it!”

“I do refuse,” said I, unimpressed with her anger, and then her hand flew toward me, striking me across the face, sharply, with a good deal of strength. I staggered, caught off balance, and her other hand came, striking even harder in the backswing. I went to the ground, a buzzing in my ears, a blurriness in my sight, a trickle of blood at the corner of my mouth. I shook my head to dislodge the difficulty, angered almost beyond bearing. The female begged to have her blood spilled, yet it was not I who would be privileged in the doing of it. Sounds of dismay came from all about, sharpening as I prepared to regain my feet, and then another sound came, no more than a whisper, no more than a rustle of nearly dead leaves.

“Jalav,” called Ceralt, all strength gone out of his voice. “Jalav, I release you from your vows. Do not allow her to harm you. ”

I turned quickly to search Ceralt’s face, disbelieving the words I had heard, seeing only that the effort to speak had cost him consciousness. Lialt quickly sought the spark of life in his sprawled, motionless body, seemed to find it, yet wept at how low it was. The chill of the shining floor entered me, feeding my grief and anger, driving me again to my feet. Vanin stood but two paces distant, impatiently awaiting the return of my senses. When she saw I had regained my feet, she gestured toward the male Tastil.

“Bring her closer to me,” she commanded a male who stiffened in anger. “I will beat her to bloody ruin if necessary, to convince her to take the sword. Then I will strike her down!”

“Such is to be seen,” said I, my voice harsh, the blood-lust tinge in it keeping Tastil where he stood. With one motion I removed my leather chest covering, hurling it from me in disgust, leaving me with breech and boots, just as Vanin wore. Again a muttering arose all about, and Vanin sneered.

“Do you think emulating my dress will save you?” she asked, placing fists on hips. “My skill with a sword does not depend on it.”

“Nor mine,” said I, walking forward to take the sword Tastil yet held. The hilt fit well in my long-deprived hand, its balance easily to be found. The male smiled as he walked to stand with others, and I turned full to face Vanin.

“It is time,” I informed her, keeping my point low. “You spoke earlier of warriors, therefore allow me to introduce myself. I am Jalav, war leader of the Hosta, foremost of all the clans of Midanna—who are warriors. I spit on your concept of warriorhood, on your concept of honor. Face me if you dare, for I mean to have your life.”

“War leader?” she scorned, reaching to her sword and unsheathing it. “Of the Midanna? What a fool’s tale you tell, wench. I am of the Midanna, chosen favorite of Mida the Golden. I shall soon have your blood upon my sword, dedicated in whole to the glory of Mida.”

“Such is to be seen,” I said again, advancing to where she stood. “Do you mean to slay me with words?”

The jibe brought her anger as I knew it would, causing her to cut at me as though I stood weaponless. It was a fool’s move, easily blocked and easily riposted, leaving her with a thin line of blood down her arm as she retreated.

“You fiend, I will have your life!” she screamed, the fingers of her free hand finding the blood I had caused to be. She rushed at me again, swinging her sword all about, much like a young warrior-to-be, determined yet unskilled. Again I met her flurry of swings, turning them with little effort, again I left a line of blood on her, felt deeply when she retreated.

“Where is the skill you spoke of?” I demanded, seeing her chest rise and fall with agitation. “Am I expected to be as you and strike down the helpless? Do you mock me with pretense at sword skill? If such is the case, go to your knees now. Should you attack me again, I will claim the balance of your blood.”

“You cannot defeat me!” she shrilled, wildness heaving her chest. “You speak only to frighten and I will not be frightened!”

Again the fool of a female came at me, clearly believing desire for a thing would win that thing for her. She swung left and right as she had before, her teeth gritted, her eyes blazing, at last reaching the bottom of my patience. I caught her swing on my blade and stopped it clean, jarring her to the teeth, then began a swinging of my own. Had I faced one of skill my edge would have sought the flesh behind the blade; with Vanin it was enough that I struck her weapon. Back and back I forced her, she hard pressed to retain her footing, fear clearly beginning to enter her eyes. When I saw she knew she faced a superior warrior, I struck her blade from her hand, sending it spinning and clattering away. The female then sobbed in despair and threw herself to her knees.

“I yield!” she cried, putting her face in her hands. “I cannot best you and do acknowledge it here before all these others!”

“It is not enough,” I said, causing her to raise her head to see the point poised before her throat. “Earlier I offered you your life and you chose to throw the offer in my face. I do not choose to make the offer again.”

“You cannot slay me!” she choked, her widened eyes on the point so near to her. “I am Mida’s favorite, chosen above all others!”

“Not quite above all others,” said I, feeling more disgust than amusement. “Send Mida your final greeting and prepare yourself.”

“No!” she screamed, throwing herself backward. “Mida, I beseech your aid!”

I began to step after her, to spit her where she lay, yet a golden haze began to form to the right, beside the female craven’s body. I halted to watch the golden haze, hearing gasps and moans from those who watched behind me, feeling the pulse quicken in my body. Surely the time of my release from capture was at hand, for the haze quickly formed about the person of Mida, golden and glorious in her presence.

“Mida, send her from me!” screamed the female Vanin, attempting to crawl to the golden presence. “Do not let her slay me!”

“Greetings, Mida,” said I, standing proud and, straight before her. “The blood of this one is soon to be yours.”

“Greetings, Jalav,” said Mida, sending golden radiance all about with the smile coming to her lips. “I am pleased to see you here at last.”

“Mida, no!” gasped Vanin, cringing where she lay. “Do not give her my life, I beg of you!”

“Vanin, Vanin, my foolish daughter,” crooned Mida, turning gentle, concerned golden eyes upon her. “Did you not announce yourself the equal of any of my wild daughters? Did you not beg the presence of one to prove the contention? I fear you and your sisters have dwelt here overlong, making of yourselves more pets than warriors. The war leader Jalav stands before you, greatest warrior of all my wild daughters. Why do you not best her?”

“Mida, I cannot,” whispered Vanin, paler by far than she had been. “She fights as a male might, not as a warrior.”

“All warriors fight as I do,” said I, looking down upon her with Mida. “Those who fight as you do are called wenches.”

“No!” Vanin howled, throwing herself about upon the floor. “I am a warrior, not a wench! Mida, take me from her!”

“Jalav, you are the challenged,” said Mida, turning from the form upon the floor. “As you have bested her, her disposition is yours. Do with her as you will.”

I looked from Mida to the female Vanin, howling and screaming in a frenzy upon the floor. I touched the life sign which hung between my breasts, seeing that Vanin wore none. To slay the female would be fitting and satisfying, yet little honor would adhere to the act.

“I cannot leave an enemy behind me,” I mused, speaking to Mida. “Nor do I care to sully my sword upon one such as she. I have learned a thing from males, Mida, a thing termed mercy. Do you wish to see the cruelty of it?”

Mida smiled, a smile filled with full understanding, therefore did I turn to those others who stood watching us.

“Is there one among you who would have a female pretending to warriorhood?” I called. “She is no more than comely to the eye, as yet to be taught obedience in the furs. Is there one who would teach her such a thing?”

“I am one,” the male Tastil called back, grinning amid the laughter of his males before coming to stand beside me.

“No!” shrieked the female Vanin, sending venom toward the male with the single word she apparently still possessed. “No, no, no, Mida, no!”

“Ah, but yes, little one,” laughed Tastil, advancing to where she lay upon the floor. “As the Golden One’s favorite you were untouchable, yet now that you have fallen from grace—I have waited long for this moment.”

Vanin turned and attempted to scramble to her feet, thinking, perhaps, to run from the male. He, however, had no intentions of allowing her escape. As she turned he moved quickly to put his hands upon her arms, pushing her to the floor with the weight of his body.

“There is another thing I have long wished to do,” he said, gathering her thigh-length hair in his hands. Once captured, he held her hair in one hand, drew a dagger from his boot, then proceeded to cut the hair from her at shoulder length. The female screamed and twisted beneath him, yet her hair was cut, each strand in its turn, till all hung in a knot from his hand. “I shall bind your hair and braid it,” said he, thrusting the mass through the sides of his breech. “The whip I form will be used each fey to teach you your new lot in life, that of a wench subject to a man’s will. You will find yourself much beaten and much used—and well repaid for every insult ever given me.”

He then rose to his feet, drawing her up with him, taking her from the spot by a fist in her shortened hair. Her wailing cry to Mida could be heard far across the vast chamber, even when shadows no longer showed their forms. I took a breath of weariness, remarking again upon the mercy of males, then turned to see how Ceralt fared.

“No, Jalav,” said Mida, before I might begin a step. “I have waited long to speak with you, and wish to wait no longer. Come with me.”

I was about to ask but a moment’s time, yet before I was able to do so, the golden haze about Mida spread to encircle me as well. The air itself glowed golden about me, filling my lungs with the color of life. I felt I floated there, in the golden haze, between one step and another, and then it was gone and a chamber stood about me, Mida’s chamber beyond doubt. All was golden, the cloth beneath my feet, the silks upon the walls, the seats, the platforms, the furs upon the thing called bed. Mida herself seemed to step from the haze of gold, sending it elsewhere, turning at last to face me. Her skin and hair and eyes were gold, soft and radiant, giving her a beauty beyond all others. Her large, full breasts were bare, and about her hips was draped a golden covering, long to her ankles, much like that which Keepers wore. She gazed upon me in silence for a moment, then gestured toward a seat.

“Divest yourself of that sword, war leader, then sit yourself there,” said she. “There are many things to be discussed between us, not the least of which is my reason for calling you here. There is much for you to do and I would have you begin as soon as possible.”

“I shall be pleased to do so,” said I, cleaning the blade I had used upon my thigh before throwing it to a corner. “However, there is first the matter of the male Ceralt. Is his life yours or mine, Mida?”

“His life?” she frowned, meeting my eyes. “Of what interest is his life? His life has served my purpose and is now no longer necessary. In another hin it will be gone.”

“I do not wish it to be gone,” I persisted, watching as she turned from me to walk to a tall, golden seat, much like that called throne. “I wish his life to be mine.”

“For what reason?” she demanded, turning to seat herself and once again gaze upon me. Her eyes probed deep spearing me with golden radiance, and then a smile returned to her lips. “Ah, I see,” she breathed, placing her arms upon the seat arms as she leaned back. “The male has bred the desire for revenge in you, raising a fury I feel clearly. You mean to hold him captive again, or perhaps give him to a sister clan for use. I approve your intentions, Jalav. A pity they cannot be.”

“Cannot be?” I frowned, diverted from correcting Mida’s impressions. I had often thought of Ceralt as she had described, yet not for some time had those intentions been mine. “Naught is impossible to you, Mida. Heal him as you healed me.”

“The matter is hardly that simple, Jalav,” she laughed, in some manner pleased. “You are a warrior and a daughter. The male is a male—and primarily in Sigurr’s province, who is unlikely to give up his blood. He has had me bring you here for other purposes than to give you the gift of a male.”

“He?” I blurted, again feeling the whirl of confusion. “Mida, I do not understand.”

“You soon shall,” said she, no longer seeming pleased. “The matter begins with the pending arrival of these strangers from the stars. They think to take you from us, yet it shall never be! Never!” A great anger had taken her at mention of the strangers, yet she soon had control of her voice again.

“All you need know is that these strangers are evil, beings who must be fought with and conquered,” she continued. “Sigurr and I, between us, hold the obedience and loyalty of the two greatest warrior forces on this world, the Midanna and the Sigurri. As it was long ago destined that you make the journey here, Sigurr considers the decision to send you forth to his Sigurri, raising them in his name to battle beside my Midanna. It is his thought that his males will triumph over all about them, and after the victory over the strangers, my Midanna as well, yet this will not be. After victory is ours, it is his Sigurri who will fall, never to rise again. It is for this purpose that I have prepared you Jalav. Are you prepared?”

“How have I been prepared, Mida?” I asked, standing yet, in the clouds of uncertainty. “Through being the war leader of your Hosta?”

“Not that.” She laughed, humor apparently restored. “Your position as leader of warriors held by males will allow you to be war leader for all of my Midanna. Nearly all of the Hosta carry the quickened seed of males, rendering them unfit for battle. The sole Hosta will be you, Jalav, a war leader without partiality, a war leader all may follow without prejudice.”

“Then how have I been prepared?” I whispered, ill to know the Hosta would not be beside me in battle. Ever had my clan sisters fought by my side, yet now I was to abandon them to their fate. Though Mida had not said so, I knew this to be in her thoughts.

“You have been prepared by your captivity by males,” said she, great amusement evident upon her face. “Do you now feel a proper hate for males, Jalav? Are you able to remember the shame given you at their hands? Many times you called to me in your misery, demanding to know why I allowed the capture to continue. It was for this reason, that you would learn to hate and despise males, all males, even those you will fight beside. When the battle is done, you will take all their lives, giving me their blood as you have ever done.”

I turned without words and went to a seat, turning again to numbly seat myself. The reason Mida spoke held little reason for my mind, for was I not a Midanna warrior? Had I been bidden by Mida to end the lives of certain males, would I have hesitated in the manner of a city slave-woman? In the full flush of battle lust, what need has a warrior of hate?

“Sigurr will soon present himself to speak with you,” said Mida, a small, pleased smile upon her lips. “We will, of course, say naught of our true intentions, allowing him to believe all is as he wishes it. Do not allow his manner to disturb you—you stand beneath my protection.”

“What of the two left at his Altar?” I asked of a sudden, not knowing why I spoke the question. “The slave female and the male—what has become of them?”

“The female Sigurr tasted to her soul,” laughed Mida, much pleased with the thought. “He holds her close to death in his domain, continuing her use, disallowing her end. The male is here in my domain, already having felt his use, burning in the throes of the sthuvad drug. His use is mine alone, therefore does he burn with none other to see to him while I concern myself elsewhere. He has long since begun to beg my presence; he will live long enough to do more.”

I nodded slowly, somehow having come to expect naught else. My hand went to my life sign, feeling the worn wooden carving, communing with the guardian of my soul. My mind whirled in a manner I was unused to, with thought rather than confusion. All about me seemed suddenly clear, yet I knew not what might be done about it.

“Ah, Sigurr comes,” announced Mida with a purr, sounding much like a city female anticipating the arrival of a suitor. The golden air to my left began to darken, a thick black fog surrounding a growing presence. My flesh chilled as a male formed in the fog’s depth, his body and face as dark as Mida’s was golden, his eyes so black and hungry they made one want to flee his sight. I darted a glance to where I had thrown my sword at Mida’s behest, and Mida’s laughter rang out, light and golden.

“You threaten my warrior’s peace of mind, Sigurr,” said she, speaking to the fully formed, black-misted male. “Yet, see how her thoughts go, to a weapon rather than to fearful homage. Are not my warriors here mere children in comparison?”

“She laughed at my displeasure,” breathed the male, a deep, low, breathy chill to his voice. “When she thought she lay dying, she laughed at my desire.”

“She is wild and untamed,” smiled Mida, finding no discomfort in the male’s ice-tinged fury. “Would you have her behave as do those who are chosen to satisfy your lusts? Would you have her grovel at your feet, shuddering in terror?”

“Yes,” breathed the misted male, his eyes taking the measure of my soul. Mida laughed to hear the single word, yet I found the need to grasp the arms of my seat, the desire to cry out in fear beating a mad pulse in my body. The male stood upon the mist covering Mida’s golden floor, his form larger than any male I had ever seen, his desire covered with the blackest of breeches. As he gazed upon me his hand moved to the breech, and Mida stood quickly out of her seat.

“In my domain, your lusts will remain covered!” she snapped, cold authority in the command. “You now see Jalav before you. Do you accept her as courier to raise your Sigurri?”

“They will take her and sell her as warrior-pleasure,” growled Sigurr, his large, square hand yet at his breech. “They will tie her by that thigh-length hair to a post and ravage her body as it is meant to be ravaged. They will not heed the words of a squirming wench, hot in her need.”

“She will require a sign of sorts,” mused Mida, deaf to the balance of the male’s words. “A sign your Sigurri cannot doubt. It will be necessary to think upon what this sign should be.”

“With a sign it may perhaps be done,” grudged the dark male, his eyes continuing to rest upon me. “These wenches of the forest have knowledge of my warriors, yet know naught of where they dwell: Will she go to raise them to fight by her side, or will she lead others in attack upon them? It is difficult to know what a foolish female may do.”

“Jalav is a warrior above all else,” said Mida with scorn. “Her desire would be to attack, yet her obedience is to me. Should she give her word to raise your Sigurri, she will not be forsworn. ”

“Is this so, wench?” asked the male. “Do you stand ready to give me your word?”

“Perhaps,” I allowed, not knowing how my voice had achieved such steadiness. “For this service, however, you have not yet asked my price, male.”

“Your price?” the dark male breathed, the blaze heating in his eyes. “You dare to put a price on service to me?”

“You are naught to me,” I answered with flatness. “For what reason would I do you service without a price?”

“For your life,” growled the male, “for your soul and sanity. All are mine should I wish to take them.”

“Take them, then,” I shrugged, forcing my body to lean at ease in the seat. “Find another to raise your Sigurri to meet the strangers. ”

Mida laughed at the male’s silence, seeing that he realized death held no fear for me. That she would not allow him my capture was also clear, for madness peered from his eyes as he fought to speak.

“So I must meet a wench’s price,” he breathed, the breathiness ragged. “What will you have, wench? Jewels for your fingers and throat? Silks for your body? A beauty greater than any other wench may possess? What small, puny thing will you have?”

“Jalav is a warrior,” I growled, angered by the male’s manner. “It is no city slave-woman thing I desire. I will have the lives of the males and females who accompanied me, that and their health. They are all to be healed and released, clad against the cold, armed against danger, mounted and with their possessions intact. They are to be given adequate provender to allow them to return to their village as they left it, healthy and whole.”

“For what conceivable reason do you ask this?” demanded the male, eyes narrowed with lack of understanding. “Mida has assured me you do not suffer from this mortal disease of concern for those not of your clan.”

“It is not a matter of concern.” I shrugged, using the gesture to hide my discomfort over speaking other than the truth. Truth, in that instance, would have doomed them all. “The females look to me as leader, therefore are their lives mine to consider. The males I wish to have free and whole, for a debt stands between us that only swords will see to. When this matter of the strangers is done, I will lead my warriors against their villages.”

“Ah, it is their blood you wish,” said the male with a breathy chuckle. “Once free they will think themselves safe, then you and yours will swoop down upon them, burning, torturing, raping and killing. I had not expected so worthy a purpose.”

“You will meet my price, then?” I asked, showing naught of the burning hurry I felt within me. Less than a hin of life did Ceralt have, too little to be wasted in talk.

“Perhaps,” chuckled the dark male. “Their terror would be amusing, their capture and torture and use most diverting. Were they pledged to me you would not have them, yet as they are—perhaps. For I, too, have a price.”

The words had been spoken, the words I had feared above all others, yet I sat as I had been, seemingly unconcerned. The thing would require my consent—would the strength be mine to see it through?

“A price for a price?” I murmured, speaking low to keep hidden the tremor in my voice. “For my price you receive a service. What am I to receive from yours?”

“For my price you will have their minds,” he laughed, a deep breathy laugh of black pleasure. “Without my price you will have no more than that which was asked for—their bodies whole just as they were when they left their village. They will believe they have not yet sought my Altar—and will come again in search of it, placing themselves again in my power. Without my price, their lives will yet be mine.”

His laughter spread and pushed upon my ears, insolent, demeaning, arrogant and evil. Mida, too, laughed at my plight, at the way the male had snared me in his trap. Should I insist upon my price, his, too, must be paid.

“Jalav, give over the thought of the male,” Mida urged, amusement sparkling in her golden eyes. “There are other things before you, things of greater moment than the capture of a male. When you are victorious I will give you many males.”

“Yet none who first had the capture of me,” I said, nearly faint with the need to dissemble, the need to appear calm. “What is your price, male?”

“You know my price,” he answered, growing larger in the mists of black, his hot, black eyes boring into me. “I whispered my price when another lay upon you, taking your use as mere mortals do. Do you pay my price or do you fear to meet it, mortal wench? Your survival is no sure thing.”

Again his figure grew in the mists, throbbing as his carving had seemed to throb. I felt the silk and wood of the seat beneath and behind me, felt the smoothness of the wood beneath my hands, and yet it seemed the black mists spread to envelop me, touching and clinging. Sigurr it was who grew before me, dark god feared by all who knew of him, justly feared, justly shunned.

“Speak to me, mortal wench,” he breathed, so close, the smell of his desire made my head spin. “Do you meet my price, or do I, alone, meet yours?”

I sat in the chair, caught in the gaze of the male, my tongue like leather in a sand-filled mouth, terror beyond description consuming my insides. Had my muscles not been locked full tight, surely I would have soiled myself. Had another asked the deed of me, I would have fled to show my refusal, yet no other had demanded the act of me, no other would have considered the asking. For that other, then, one who never would have asked, did I swallow the sand and force movement upon the leather.

“First their wounds,” I croaked, finding it impossible to back any farther. “First heal their wounds and then your price . . .”

“It is done,” breathed the dark voice in exultation, moving forward with the mists. “And now my price.”

The mists surrounded me, smothered me, lifted me from the golden room to another place, one I dared not look closely at. Hands touched my arms, the breech was torn from me, and then was a price paid in full.