THE BARGAIN


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, August 2000. All rights reserved 
under the Bourne Convention, but permission granted to keep 
one copy for personal use.


   WARNINGS:  You know the drill -- all rights protected 
under the Bourne Convention, all resemblance to persons 
living or dead is solely coincidental and unintentional, 
nothing here is intended to advocate any of these acts, etc.
   Another warning before you go diving right in for the 
naughty bits: 
   This is psychologically a very cruel story, even though 
the physical brutality described is fairly mild. If you're a 
survivor of rape, particularly homosexual rape, this might 
arouse unpleasant feelings or memories, so think twice 
before you read it. I don't want to upset anyone that way. 
Really.
   Also, think twice if you're the type who considers Harry 
Potter books "Satanic", or if you have an aversion to 
knives.;-)
   This story -- it's a story with spooge in it, not a 
spooge story -- takes quite a while to reach the sex part, 
so please be patient; the second half *is* mostly spooge. 
You may also think the human sacrifice scene is gratuitous, 
but trust me, it *does* belong there.
   AUTHOR'S BORING NOTES: My thanks once again to Ron, who 
gave useful critiquing and encouragement, and also to 
Partran, who gave technical advice on medieval matters.
   Some of the hints and allusions here may seem mysterious 
if you haven't read my earlier story about Raven, "The 
Price". You can find it, along with my other erotic tales, 
at Maureen Lycaon's Velan Archive of Erotica at:

http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/




"Fires work in me
A lithe supremacy
I tear asunder heaven as I would all enemies
Impaler Lord
Flesh upon the sword
My lower lusts are sated, the greater herald war"

Cradle of Filth, "Queen of Winter, Throned"
   


   Normally, the real battle for a city was won before the 
invaders ever reached the city walls. Dorgeyzhim had been 
different.
   The slaughter in the field outside the city two days 
before had been bloody enough. The defending army had 
included not only the city's guardsmen and nobility but 
also detachments of forces from nearby Teriskor and even 
mercenaries. Bayerghim would have sent forces, too, but it 
couldn't spare them; it was on the border between the 
country of Zhoven and the lands that had already fallen.
   Nevertheless, the defenders were utterly defeated.
   With most of them dead or prisoners, the walls were 
easily breached -- but after that battle came another, 
equally fierce.
   When the Dark Legions' human and nonhuman soldiers 
poured into the city, Dorgeyzhim's Bright Mages began their 
last-ditch defense. Theirs was not a skill that could be 
wielded on the battlefield; instead, they took refuge 
inside the fortress-like Chantry, daring the attackers to 
break in.
   The next day, the Dark Warrior had led his mages in a 
battle of adepts against them -- and prevailed, though at 
heavy cost.
   After that, the mundane soldiers entered the Chantry 
uncontested, took the surviving mages captive and hauled 
out the bodies of the dead.
   Now the bodies of Lord Gurnadey and the other nobles of 
Dorgeyzhim hung from the city walls, stripped naked and 
suspended by spikes driven through their wrists, along with 
those of the mercenary commanders who had stood beside 
them, like the corpses of common criminals.
   They were the lucky ones; the captive Bright Mages and 
Priests were destined for slower, more painful ends.
   The Torgelin -- those of the Priests who were trained in 
warfare in the city of Torgelin, far to the north -- still 
held out in small pockets here and there, mostly in the 
Temple of Light, but the fate of Dorgeyzhim was already 
settled.


   Bright Archmage Tirnal stirred and groaned. As he came 
to full awareness he realized where he was, and allowed 
himself a few breaths of time to wish he didn't.
   The cell was barely five paces on each side, furnished 
only with a wooden bench and a chamberpot; the floor and 
three of the walls were gray, rough-hewn stone, with the 
fourth being a wall of iron grillwork. He recognized it as 
a cell in the Dorgeyzhim gaol, normally used for accused 
heretics and criminals, now pressed into service for 
holding war captives. The irony was not lost on him.
   The only window was an iron-barred one high up over his 
head near the ceiling.  Now it revealed the bluish-gray sky 
of evening. He had lain unconscious for several turnings.
   The heavy grill separated the cell from the bare room on 
the other side, with a sturdy oak door beyond it. He tried 
instinctively to use his mage-sight to see if the iron bars 
had been spell-treated, but found he could not -- and then 
he felt the cold iron rune collar on his neck.
   He reached up to touch it and found more mundane 
shackles held his wrists and ankles. There was enough slack 
in the chains to let him move around, even walk at a 
hobbled shuffle, but not enough to let him run. The wrist 
shackles kept his wrists pinned with only a little slack.
   Without the rune collar, he could have freed himself 
with but a few Words of Power. As it was, he couldn't even 
perform a simple cantrip.
   He thought back, remembering how today's battle had 
ended.
   The magical duel had been a close-fought thing, but in 
the end the Dark Warrior's victory had been as sudden as it 
had been complete, and the backwash of collapsing power had 
knocked Tirnal and his surviving fellow mages unconscious. 
Doubtless they were now also collared prisoners; he doubted 
anyone had escaped.
   Jahl and some of the other apprentices had been captured 
early on as they tried to flee through the supposedly 
hidden passageway. He'd watched it happening via a 
witchball mounted in the corridor. The sick feeling he'd 
felt at the sight gripped again his stomach as he 
remembered.
   Now, with the rune collar around his neck, he couldn't 
even block a magical probe. He had no doubt he'd be 
subjected to one.
   His one hope was that the Saelgarim's spell would hold. 
Right now he could do nothing to strengthen it.
   And if it didn't hold . . . then all hope for the Light 
was truly lost, along with Jahl.


   Suspecting what the outcome of the battle would be 
several days before, Tirnal had taken a desperation measure 
-- one whose nature he had confided to no one else. His 
fellows knew he was attempting a summoning; what they 
didn't know was its precise nature.
   Fortunately, he had confided to no one else the prophecy 
he had received regarding Jahl, not even to them.
   It had cost him much to call the Saelgarim to intervene, 
and then the angel had had no better scheme.
   "Is there any hope?" he had asked, after he had 
explained his plan to it.
   He could almost swear there was regret and pity in those 
golden eyes.
   "No," it said, its voice more like bird song and chimes 
than any mortal voice. "This city will fall."
   And then the angel had placed a cool hand on his brow. 
He'd felt it work to forge the mind-block, so much more 
subtle than anything any mortal mage could create, and 
stronger as well. He watched the process with a feeling of 
awe; though he was one of the most powerful mages ever 
born, he could never hope to duplicate that supernatural 
skill, and to his trained eye it was a beautiful thing to 
see.
   Even the Saelgarim hadn't been able to promise that the 
spell would escape detection by a mage of the Dark 
Warrior's caliber.


   All Tirnal could do now was hope and pray as the last 
light through the window faded with the coming of night, 
drowning the cell in blackness.


   The final battle for Dorgeyzhim took most of the 
following day. The surviving Torgelin and city troops 
fought with the fanatical savagery of desperation, but in 
the end they were all rooted out and slain or taken 
prisoner.
   When the Temple of Light was taken, a hush fell over the 
city.
   The sinking sun cast long shadows over the quiet 
streets. The scent of burning hung in the air, and veils of 
smoke drifted past the buildings that still stood.
   Underneath the acrid reek was another smell -- the stink 
of death from the hacked and gutted bodies that lay here 
and there in puddles of coagulating blood. Scavenging dogs 
nosed among the corpses, three of them gathering for a 
feast around a disemboweled Torgelin.
   The human scavengers were nowhere in sight; even they 
dared not stir, dreading what the night would bring.


   After sunset, the marble-paneled Great Hall of the 
Temple of Light was lit by the flickering yellow glare of 
torches.
   The majority of the hundreds of beings filling the vast 
hall were of the Black Legions -- soldiers both human and 
orc. Some still wore their dirt-smudged, bloodstained armor 
from the day's fighting. They bore expressions that ranged 
from stony watchfulness to intent, eager excitement as they 
waited for the Archpriest of Light to be brought out, but 
they did not even murmur to each other; they were too 
disciplined for that.
   A few here were not of the Legions -- they were the 
guild leaders and the merchants of Dorgeyzhim. Each of them 
had been taken from their homes where they had been hiding 
after the fall of the city and brought to witness the 
ceremony, whether they wished to or not. Each was now 
surrounded by a little knot of guards ensuring they 
remained for the entire ceremony.
   Most were silent, cowed, radiating palpable fear. They 
already guessed what was to happen here tonight. They had 
heard the stories, even the eyewitness reports from 
refugees of the cities that had already fallen to the Dark 
Warrior.
   Later, there would be other ceremonies in the open 
plaza, where the common peasants and laborers could witness 
them and know the utter defeat of the Bright Priests, but 
tonight it was the merchants who were to bear witness and 
to learn fear.
   The Dark Warrior stood motionless by the east wall, a 
little in front of the black-clad priests.
   Raven was a tall man, but surprisingly lean; where most 
fighters' bulging physiques suggested the raw, crude power 
of an ax, his called to mind the slender efficacy of a 
sword, with no wasted mass. His long, thick blond hair, 
spilling well below his shoulders, made a striking contrast 
with his black leather armor.
   That armor bore no metal studs, no adornment or 
insignia, and its suppleness meant it could be more form-
fitting than normal leather armor would be -- but it was 
endowed with enough protective magic to make it equal to 
full plate with helmet. Yesterday, he'd dispensed with it 
while leading his mages in the attack upon the Bright 
Mages' Chantry, but he had worn it again during today's 
final battle -- and now, tonight, for this ceremony.
   The three Archpriests of Darkness in their black ritual 
robes stood behind him like a waiting trio of proud 
vultures. They would play their part here tonight, but only 
after he had personally performed the first sacrifice.
   It was his privilege. They didn't resent it.
   Afterward, they would send word of the proceedings to 
the Grand Archpriest of Darkness in distant Fariskoll.
   Raven watched silently, arms folded, as Dional, 
Archpriest of the Light for this city, was unceremoniously 
dragged forward by two soldiers.
   Dional, a gaunt man whose years showed in his thinning 
salt-and-pepper hair and lined hollow-cheeked face, had 
been stripped naked. One could almost count every one of 
his ribs; like many of the most dedicated Bright Priests, 
he fasted often. His manhood dangled limply below a 
scraggle of graying pubic hair as he was pulled to the dais 
upon which the altar stood.
   The gleaming white marble altar, with its gold-covered 
bas-relief panels depicting scenes from the life of Rashke 
of the Light, had cost a fortune in taxes laid upon the 
people of Dorgeyzhim. It had been the center of their 
religious life, and a great source of pride to the arrogant 
Bright Priests.
   Now it was magically stained a deep, velvety black. The 
bas-reliefs were gone, part of the war booty, but new 
additions had been made in the form of four stout iron 
rings screwed deep into the marble itself.
   Dional appeared to have been stunned into silence. Even 
the sight of the desecrated altar where he had so often 
officiated brought no reaction from him.
   He had been taken prisoner today when the Dark Warrior 
and his human and orcish soldiers had stormed the Temple to 
finish off the surviving Bright Priests. Dional was no 
warrior and had no training in arms; once the guards 
defending him had been killed, he had been quickly subdued.
   The Torgelin had put up more of a fight -- few of them 
had been taken alive. By now, the Torgelin everywhere knew 
what their fate would be if the Dark Warrior took them 
captive; they almost invariably fought to the death.
   There had been fewer Bright Priests than usual in 
Dorgeyzhim. It was one of the few cities in which the 
Bright Mages held enough power, and were sufficiently 
independent from the Bright Priests, to have a separate 
Chantry.
   Five of the Dark Mages had died in the battle against 
them. Three had perished outright; the other two, their 
minds blasted, had had to be killed.
   Raven and the other mages were exhausted. His powers 
were still at their lowest ebb in months . . . but only 
later would he allow himself to feel his weariness.
   In the morning, after he had slept a few turnings, he 
would deal with the matter of the other high-level 
prisoners -- in particular, the Bright Archmage.
   For now, this was his moment of triumph after every 
victory, and a battalion of Chareum angels could not have 
persuaded him to forego it.
   As the soldiers reached the dais holding the altar, four 
black-robed lesser Dark Priests stepped forward. With well-
practiced skill, they seized Dional by the arms and legs 
and lifted him to the top of the waist-high altar. They 
pinned him on his back, spread-eagled.
   Other acolytes emerged from the ranks, quickly binding 
his wrists and ankles to the iron rings with rope. He 
offered no resistance.
   A Dark Mage walked up to Raven, bowed and handed him the 
black-hilted ritual knife. It was small compared to a 
dagger, but honed to a razor's edge for precision work.
   He accepted it in silence, lifted it to his mouth, 
kissed the blade in homage to the Powers he was about to 
pay tribute to.
   He walked slowly to the platform holding the altar and 
mounted it. He stopped by Dional's side and looked down at 
him.
   The Bright Priest had the stunned look of a man far gone 
in shock; he was beyond all speaking. Rings of white 
surrounded the irises of his glazed blue eyes as he looked 
up into the Dark Warrior's face.
   Raven spoke not a word, but he smiled coldly down at the 
Archpriest, thinking that it was a pity this weak man would 
never truly understand the ironic justice of what was 
happening here.
   He leaned over him and, with a practiced eye, selected 
the proper spot on that clapped-in belly.
   He made the first ritual cut a little above the navel. 
The wound he inflicted wasn't deep; it sliced only through 
the first few layers of skin -- just deep enough to draw a 
narrow line of blood.
   The Archpriest's scream spiked the tensed silence, a cry 
more of horror than of pain, as the blade's kiss pierced 
his catatonic shock. He jerked futilely against the ropes.
   Soft laughter rippled through some of the watching 
soldiers. One of the Dark Archpriests grinned broadly. The 
Black Gods preferred their gifts to be crying as they were 
offered up; they hadn't had to wait for long this time.
   Raven carved the second cut on Dional's thigh, the third 
on his chest, working with the leisurely manner of a man 
with all the time in the world. Dional's body tensed and 
jerked.
   Each succeeding cut sliced a little deeper, drawing a 
little more blood. Soon it was freely trickling down onto 
the blackened marble.
   Absorbed in the rite now, half in trance, Raven breathed 
faster, dragging deep breaths into his lungs. He sliced 
again and again, never hurrying, as all eyes watched the 
sacrifice.
   There was a certain sensuality in the ancient ritual as 
he worked, bending over the altar with his face so close to 
Dional's flesh that he could distinguish the fine dark 
hairs on his chest and belly even by the flickering 
torchlight, could see every twitch and spasm of his muscles 
in response to the pain. The Archpriest's cries rang in his 
ears, barely heard.
   The rank, acrid smell of the priest's sweat and the 
growing aged-meat stink of fresh blood mingled in his 
nostrils as the ritual progressed.
   Soon Dional was screaming in earnest, continuously, 
unheeded. The swirling cuts covered his arms, his legs, his 
entire torso, and as the ritual went on, even his genitals.
   An electric sense of power filled the room. The orcish 
soldiers and even many of the human ones felt it; their 
eyes glittered with excitement.
   Only the Dark Mages and Priests with their special sight 
could glimpse the shadowy cloud filling the Hall as 
something of the essence of the Dark Gods joined in the 
ritual, feeding upon it, accepting the tribute.
   A guild leader, his face pale, doubled over to vomit on 
the white flagstones of the floor. The soldiers guarding 
him glanced at each other and exchanged a few chuckles.
   As the ritual cutting went on, the Archpriest began to 
slip into shock. His screams were weaker, less frequent, 
slowly dwindling down to half-unconscious groans.
   At times Raven had to practically lie across the altar 
to reach his target; eventually, he climbed up onto its 
surface to crouch on hands and knees over his victim, 
almost giving the sacrifice the appearance of a sex act.
   His black leather armor became splotched and splattered 
with wetly gleaming blood, his arms dyed to the elbow with 
it.
   Dional did not die until a full turning had passed, when 
his still-throbbing heart was finally cut out and held up 
in offering to the Darkness.
   As the last life departed the twitching corpse, Raven 
once again experienced that moment of ecstatic self-
abandonment, of oneness with the Dark, that he had known so 
many times before. He *felt* the unseen presence in the 
room respond, and he gloried in it, sharing its emotions -- 
joy, cruel pleasure, a brief moment of satiety before it 
hungered again with a hunger more eternal than his hate.


   After the ceremony, the soldiers were given free reign 
for the span of a night and a day. They made full use of 
it, roaming Dorgeyzhim at will in search of rape, pillage 
and plunder.
   Thanks to the orcs, the bodies that had lain in the city 
streets were almost all gone. The beast-soldiers had a long 
tradition of grisly victory feasts, so they had better uses 
for the corpses than the funeral pyre.
   Meanwhile, their weary Commander slept.
   Archmage Tirnal was unable to sleep, for all his mental 
discipline. He paced in his cell, his leg shackles jangling 
discordantly, until early in the morning.
   In other cells, other Mages and Priests of the Light 
awaited their fates in helpless fear, as did their students 
and acolytes, including the girl Jahl. There would be 
another round of sacrifices tomorrow night, and on into the 
next few nights.
   There was speculation among the soldiers as to what form 
the Archmage's agonies would take before he was sacrificed. 
Many had expected that Dional would be subjected to at 
least some of the tortures that the Bright Priests meted 
out to convicted heretics and worshippers of the Darkness 
in the Hall of Justice, as had been the fate of other 
captured Archpriests elsewhere; but they had been 
disappointed this time.
   Now they wondered if the Dark Warrior was instead saving 
that public spectacle for the Archmage. Some whispered that 
he planned the same fate he had inflicted upon the 
Archpriest after the conquest of Irulli -- rape on the 
Altar of Light itself.
   

   Raven made a point of meeting his most important 
captives face to face after each victory, for more 
compelling reasons than cruelty. It was always worthwhile 
to take the measure of his foes; it helped him decide what 
their exact fate would be, and whatever knowledge was 
gained could prove useful later.
   Some reacted with panic or pleading; others attempted to 
bargain; rarely, one offered to defect, which only amused 
him -- he knew better than to trust in forced conversions.
   Still others blustered and threatened divine 
retribution, which he found even more amusing. It appeared 
that the Bright Gods did not enlighten their Priests with 
the true limitations of the Powers, a matter Raven was all 
too well versed in.
   Trained warriors and nobles sometimes -- not always -- 
put up a better account of themselves.
   Archpriest Dional had not been amusing or even 
interesting -- but then, the Bright Priests seldom 
impressed him. In his case, Raven had not even bothered 
with the usual public tortures; the man was simply too old 
to make it worthwhile.
   In any event, in Dorgeyzhim, the Bright Priests were not 
the chief power -- instead, the mages had held primacy 
under Archmage Tirnal's guidance.
   This would be the first time Raven had dealt with a 
defeated Mage of the Light of such power. And Tirnal had an 
intriguing reputation.
   Against long-standing tradition, over the past five 
years he had begun to train women as mages -- something 
that had not endeared him to Dional. The Grand Archpriest 
in Talsun had not yet handed down any edict against him.
   And then there were the rumors of his preferences in 
bedmates.
   As Raven walked down the prison corridor, his two orc 
bodyguards keeping pace silently at either side, he hoped 
that Tirnal would prove more interesting than Dional had 
been.


   Tirnal awoke as the key rattled in the lock, and then 
the door creaked open. He pulled himself up into a sitting 
posture on the wooden shelf.
   The gaoler entered, key ring dangling from his hand. He 
was followed by two massively muscled orcs in chain mail, 
their doglike faces expressionless as they stared at 
Tirnal, each one holding a saber in a clawed right hand.
   And then someone else entered the room, almost hidden 
behind their burly forms. The orcs parted to take up 
positions on opposite sides of the room, standing guard. He 
stepped forward -- a tall man in the prime of life, wearing 
black leather armor, who moved with the easy grace of an 
athlete or a leopard. His lean body looked all the more 
slender compared to the orcs' hugely bulging forms, but 
there was no mistaking their deference.
   Tirnal looked up at the Dark Warrior.
   During their combat, he'd seen him with mage-sight, but 
only from a distance. Then he'd been almost completely 
hidden by the nimbus of black energy surrounding him and 
the other Dark Mages, giving no hint of what he looked like 
in the flesh. Tirnal had caught a flash of blond hair, no 
more; only the mage-warrior's incredible power had been 
apparent.
   He was pretty much as public report had described him. 
Under that magical leather armor, his movements suggested 
the lean, hard muscles of a trained athlete. His 
magnificent wavy blond hair fell long and free below his 
shoulders, glinting with gold highlights in the morning 
rays from the window. His fine-boned, clean-shaven face was 
that of an aristocrat, the nose just slightly too long -- 
the kind of slight imperfection that only adds to physical 
beauty. His brooding eyes, so dark a brown they were nearly 
black, gave away nothing of his thoughts.
   *Face of an angel. Bright Gods, what irony . . .* Tirnal 
thought.
   The famous darksword was sheathed in a baldric on his 
back, the hilt protruding from behind his right shoulder. A 
black-handled dagger hung from his belt, at his right hip.
   He looked down at the mage, his expression measuring but 
otherwise unreadable.
   Tirnal felt the stirring in his own manhood as he looked 
back at him.
   *I could lust for him, if I did not know what he is,* 
Tirnal found himself thinking. *He is beautiful.*
   But dread lay heavy in his belly as he faced him.


   Raven looked down at the Archmage, seeing him in the 
flesh for the first time.
   During the combat, Tirnal and his fellows had been 
obscured by the brilliant, multicolored light of the powers 
they called upon, a brilliance so intense as to be painful 
to the eye, like looking into the sun. Now as Raven took 
his measure, studying him through the bars, he mused that 
the mage was as attractive as the spies' reports made him 
out to be -- and as compelling.
   Tirnal was just entering middle age, with dark brown, 
nearly black hair as long and flowing as Raven's own, shot 
through with just a few white strands. The lines around his 
eyes and mouth were still few and shallow and only accented 
an open, honest face, with strong bones and a hint of laugh 
lines around the mouth.
   He'd always disdained the flowing robes of most Mages, 
preferring simple, informal breeches and shirts, and that's 
what he was dressed in now. Underneath them, it could be 
seen that he was a fit, slender man, not with the muscular 
development of a fighter by profession, but hardly frail 
like many mages.
   Perhaps it was those penetrating hazel eyes, or the way 
he carried himself with poise and strength even now, but 
Raven could sense the charisma with which he'd managed to 
get the respect and admiration of his fellow mages and even 
many of the Bright Priests.
   With mage-sight, Raven could see the aura of power about 
him, even though it was weakened from the magical struggle 
and utterly restrained by the rune collar.
   He returned his attention to his mundane senses, and now 
he saw the well-controlled fear in the set of the 
Archmage's mouth, his shadowed eyes, his tense, controlled 
breathing.
   This man knew he was to die, and die painfully, and he 
had resigned himself.
   Raven felt an impulse of admiration for him. He seldom 
saw that kind of courage.
   "Tirnal," he stated rather than questioned.
   Those intent hazel eyes gazed into his, and he knew he 
was being studied in turn.
   "Raven," the reply came. He said nothing more.
   "You know my name, then?" Raven was only mildly 
surprised; it wasn't impossible to find out, simply very 
difficult.
   Tirnal nodded.
   Raven waited, but he made no attempt to plead or beg.
   "I've heard much of you also," he finally said. "You 
fought very well."
   Tirnal lifted his eyebrows. "What have you heard of me, 
Commander Raven?"
   Raven smiled as he eyed him carefully. "That you and the 
Bright Priests have had . . . your differences, despite 
your position."
   Tirnal smiled faintly. "Your sources speak the truth."
   "You're quite composed, for a man who is about to die by 
torture. You have no wish to bargain? To plead for your 
life?"
   Tirnal looked, if possibly, even more directly into his 
eyes. "Not for myself," he said.
   "For whom, then?"
   "My student, Jahl. A young woman."
   Raven studied him. "I doubtless hold many of your 
students prisoner, Bright Mage."
   Tirnal nodded. "I know. I also know you will not permit 
me to bargain for all of them."
   "I will not permit you to bargain for *any* of them, 
Bright Mage." Raven smiled coldly. "Why should I? Perhaps I 
will go kill her now."
   Tirnal rose from the shelf, chains jangling. The orc 
guards tensed, sabers quivering, but he paced up to the 
iron grille, still looking unwaveringly into Raven's eyes.
   "I know I have little to bargain with," the mage 
admitted. "But I have heard you have a certain sort of 
honor, Dark Warrior."
   Raven felt his eyebrows lifting. This was indeed proving 
interesting.
   "You have, then?"
   Tirnal nodded, eyes never leaving Raven's.
   "Then let me tell you in detail of what I intend to do 
with you -- what I have done to other Bright Priests and 
Mages in the past, in case your spies somehow failed to 
inform you.
   "First, you will be stripped naked, and certain of my 
minions who value such a reward will quench their lust in 
you until they are weary.
   "Now that I have looked upon you, I think I will enjoy 
you myself. You are attractive, and there is a special 
pleasure, I've found, in taking a man thus -- especially 
one sworn to the Light.
   "When we tire of you, I will have you publicly tortured 
for as long as I choose -- anywhere from several turnings 
to several days. My henchmen are inventive and skilled, and 
you seem a strong man who will not break too easily.
   "After that, you will be sacrificed to my patrons. That 
is not a swift affair, either. I will wield the knife -- as 
I did with the Archpriest. He took a very long time to die, 
by the way."
   Tirnal blinked at that last. The fear was more obvious 
now in that handsome face . . . but it was still kept 
firmly in check. There was none of the stark disbelief or 
panic Raven usually saw in a prisoner's eyes.
   Unwilling admiration grew in his heart.
   The Bright Mage swallowed almost imperceptibly, then 
nodded.
   "I suspected as much," he said. His voice was steady.
   Raven narrowed his eyes. "Knowing this, you still call 
me a 'man of honor'?"
   "I have heard that, on those rare occasions when you do 
enter into a bargain, you keep to it no matter what the 
cost. Witness those pacts by which you summon demons to 
battle."
   Raven felt as if he had been struck in the belly with an 
orc's mace. He knew the mage had seen his eyes widen in 
shock.
   The two orcs remained impassive, their ugly faces 
displaying no emotion, after the manner of their race. Even 
so, he'd have to cast a spell of forgetting later.
   Cold rage welled in him as he stepped up to the bars, 
eyes boring into the Archmage's.
   "What do you know of -- such things?" he demanded, and 
his voice was as icy as a Phlegazeum demon's phallus.
   Tirnal didn't blink, even though Raven was practically 
nose to nose with him. "You might wish to send your 
bodyguards out of the room first."
   Raven stared at him, eyes still narrowed. Then he 
stepped back, squelching his anger.
   He whirled to look at each orc in turn. In moments, the 
spellcasting was done, leaving them with only vague 
memories of the conversation thus far. They blinked their 
muddy eyes, but knew better than to question what had just 
happened.
  "Go now," he ordered. "Wait outside the door."
   When they had obeyed, he turned back to the Archmage, 
who didn't wait for him to speak again.
   "You thought none but the greatest Dark Mages knew that 
secret, did you not?"
   "So I did. How is it that *you* do?"
   "Let us just say . . . there was a time when that method 
of giving power to the Black Realm was better-known. My 
library, which you now doubtless will have burned, has a 
few books from that time. Rest easy, few have ever seen 
them -- they are the most heavily guarded tomes in our 
entire collection. We have no more interest in revealing 
the secrets of the Dark than you do."
   Raven's eyes were bleak and savage. "You are doubly 
doomed now, Archmage. Do you hope to enrage me into giving 
you a quick death?"
   Tirnal didn't blink. "Your alliance costs you much. Yet 
each time you pay the price without flinching. You keep 
your vows to the Dark Realm, no matter what the pain, and 
once you have sworn by the Black River, you have never been 
known to go back on your own word, even to an enemy.
   "That is why I say you have a certain honor, and I seek 
to bargain with you even though I know I can do nothing at 
all to ensure that you keep your word."
   Raven stared at him.
   "Why this one student? What makes her more important to 
you than all the others?"
   "I love her."
   Tirnal must have seen his reaction, because he added, 
"Not in that way. Surely you know more of me than that. But 
she is dear to me, as a daughter."
   "You know I will mind-probe you . . ."
   Tirnal nodded, gaze never wavering.
   "What, then, do you offer? You are in a poor position to 
bargain. Surely you don't expect me to believe you would 
change allegiances."
   Tirnal shook his head.
   "No. I offer only my body, for as long as you choose to 
enjoy it."
   Raven laughed. It was a harsh and brittle sound, devoid 
of humor.
   "I hardly need to bargain for that, Tirnal. You will 
eventually be *begging* to service me in any way I can 
imagine." His smile was a demon's before it faded.
   Tirnal still didn't flinch.
   "And if that 'persuasion' were not necessary?" the mage 
asked. "If I were to pleasure you and whomever of your men 
you chose, in whatever manner you wish, freely and without 
coercion? *Knowing* what would happen when you tired of my 
flesh? How many have offered you *that* coin, Dark 
Warrior?"
   Raven actually blinked as he looked into Tirnal's face 
and saw the quiet determination there.
   A moment later, he had summoned his will and his probe 
was sinking into Tirnal's soul, roughly forcing its 
entrance, uncaring of the cost to his still-depleted power.
   He was ready for the mental convulsions of a last-moment 
attempt at resistance, but there was none: Tirnal simply 
submitted and let him penetrate, as he had offered to do 
with his body. His soul was an open book, there for the 
reading.
   Surface memories flickered: of the recent battle, of 
training students, of life in the Chantry. Images of other 
men, of sex; the stories were indeed true, but there were 
few such images.
   Raven did not concern himself with those memories; they 
did not interest him now. He burrowed into Tirnal's 
emotions instead, seeking for anything that would reveal a 
trap.
   The fear of pain, humiliation and death already filled 
the mage's mind like a sickly pale swamp, but underneath it 
his love lay clear like a sparkling pool.
   And then, bound to that love, there were images: the 
face of a girl on the threshold of womanhood, with long, 
straight ash-blond hair, and he saw through Tirnal's eyes 
as she spoke to the mage, listened to him, smiled.
   He saw Jahl as Tirnal had first known her, a painfully 
thin girl with large, sad eyes, in the wake of famine. The 
way her eyes brightened when she looked upon the teacher 
who had rescued her from the streets of Dorgeyzhim, taking 
her into the Chantry.
   He saw her being taught the lessons of magic -- the 
first and simplest lessons in quieting the mind and soul . 
. . but nothing more.  
   The girl was what Tirnal said she was -- a protégé, no 
more.
   Oh, aye, there were images and feelings there for his 
other students and his fellow mages. His mind was almost 
awash with grief over them, knowing that those that still 
lived faced fates as terrible as his own, knowing he could 
do nothing at all to help them, not even to give them 
easier deaths. He sorrowed for them more than for himself.
   But it was Jahl who he loved about all else.
   Raven forced his way still deeper, scanning the depths 
of the other man's soul. He could find no secrets, no 
hidden import to this bargain Tirnal offered, no evidence 
of any trick. What he could see was the mage's love for his 
foundling; he truly did think of her as his daughter, and 
even stronger than his dread of his own fate was his fear 
of what would happen to her, his sorrow he would not be 
there for her.
   Contemplating that love made Raven's own soul knot in a 
way he couldn't describe to himself. He could never count 
all the captives he had probed over the years by means of 
magic, but it was not often he encountered anything 
resembling this emotion among the minions of the Light.
   One of the three deadly weaknesses, the teachings of the 
Darkness called love. The Dark Gods found it loathsome.
   Yet the mage-warrior found himself feeling something 
that might be envy for the man who would soon be his 
victim, because he could still love.
   The Archmage meant to do exactly as he had said. The 
dark fear and shame and the dreadful knowledge of what 
would come told Raven all he needed to know.
   He broke contact, drained with the effort he had 
expended. There was something close to awe in his soul as 
he gazed at Tirnal.
   "You would make love to your torturers for this girl . . 
." It was a statement, not a question, yet he found he 
couldn't keep the wonder out of his voice.
   Tirnal nodded, his face impassive.
   Raven took a deep breath, exhaled. The two men stared at 
each other in silence.
   Then Raven said, "I will consider your offer."
   Without another word, he turned and left the room.


   Inwardly, Tirnal sighed in relief as the footsteps 
dwindled down the hall. The mind-block had remained hidden; 
Raven had suspected nothing.
   He would carry his secret to his grave, or whatever 
passed for one when the minions of the Dark disposed of his 
corpse.


   Jahl had lain in her cell for five or six days now, 
since she had been captured -- she wasn't sure which, 
because she was becoming uncertain of her count. The 
shackles and the heavy rune collar around her neck rubbed 
her raw.
   A silent guard brought spartan meals of bread and cheese 
into her cell three times a day. That and the waxing and 
waning of the light through the barred window were her only 
measure of time now.
   The first day, she'd tried calling out, hoping to hear 
another voice from another cell. But the door beyond the 
grille muffled her calls, and she heard no answer. Perhaps 
the rooms from which her voice could be heard were empty.
   Beginning on the second day, she had heard the sounds of 
other captives being dragged to their fate: the footsteps 
of soldiers and prisoners in the corridor outside, the 
sounds of voices screaming, pleading or weeping as their 
owners were hauled into the corridor.
   Once or twice she recognized the voices as those of 
other students, and their pleas shredded her sanity.
   Two or three times she had given in to hysteria, 
screaming, fighting her shackles in panic until her wrists 
and ankles were bleeding underneath them, kicking the walls 
and the iron grille as hard as the short length of her leg 
chain permitted.
   No one came, even to silence her.
   When her panic had run its course, she huddled into a 
ball on her shelf-bed and wept.
   Occasionally she still tried to calm her mind with the 
simple exercises Tirnal had taught her, but they never 
worked for more than a little while. Most of the time she 
alternately wept or staved off panic by pacing as best she 
could in her chains.
   At times, when the terror subsided, she wished deeply, 
painfully for Tirnal to comfort her, one of the other 
students to talk to, but she was alone.
   She wondered if it were possible to die of sheer terror, 
loneliness and grief, but she doubted it. Her end would 
probably be less merciful.
   The idle workings of her mind were her worst enemy, 
conjuring up a thousand hideous visions of what was to 
happen to her, and to Tirnal, and to the other students and 
mages.
   Like everybody else at the Chantry, she had heard the 
stories, the accounts of what had been done to the Priests 
and Mages of the Light in other cities that had fallen to 
the Dark Legions. They were enough material for the 
nightmares of countless lifetimes.
   If she had been left a knife, she would have killed 
herself. But she had nothing, no weapon at all.
   Today, panic was beginning to subside into numb 
lethargy. She guessed from the strength of the sunlight 
striking the far wall that it was near midday.
   Once again, footsteps sounded in the corridor -- four 
soldiers, she guessed, drawing near.
   Her numbness gave way to fear as the footsteps halted 
outside the door.
   What was worse, to face her fate now, or to wait still 
longer?
   There was the rattle of a key in the lock, and then the 
door opened.
   She looked up, her heart pounding savagely, as a human 
gaoler entered the room. And then, two huge forms with 
oddly misshapen faces followed on his heels, stepping into 
the little room and making it seem still smaller. It took 
her a moment to realize that their faces weren't deformed 
after all; they had muzzles like dogs. Not men at all, but 
orcs.
   They stared back at her with ugly black eyes, 
expressionless as snakes, but they said nothing to her. 
Instead, each orc stepped to one side of the room and 
assumed the rigid posture of standing guard, a taloned hand 
closed around its sword, as if rehearsing a well-known 
routine.
   Then a tall, lean blond-haired man in black leather 
armor entered.
   She realized who he was, who he had to be, from 
descriptions she'd heard. Dear Bright Gods, why had he come 
to her?
   The Dark Warrior studied her in return. His handsome 
face was as emotionless as stone, his eyes so dark they 
looked black.
   "So you're Tirnal's pupil." 
   Her breath caught in her constricted throat, and for a 
long few moments she thought she would faint.
   "Well? Are you not?" he asked sharply.
   Somehow -- she never knew how afterward -- she found her 
voice.
   "Yes, I am." It sounded as small as she felt.
   "What are you to him? In truth?" Those dark, brooding 
eyes bored into her. She felt like a mouse cornered by a 
snake, all thought frozen, unable to move.
   "An -- an apprentice. His fosterling . . ." she 
stammered.
   He did not speak another word, but his eyes seemed to 
darken even more, and they glazed slightly.
   Then she felt an indescribable sensation. It was not a 
physical touch, but a heavy, brutal pressure against her 
self, and then a fierce pain as something immensely, 
horrifyingly powerful forced its way in, penetrating her 
very soul, something that felt as dark and horrifying as a 
demon.
   Only a few times before in her life had she experienced 
a magical probe, and those had been gentle, shallow ones, 
as Tirnal had shown her what one was like. Even without the 
rune collar around her neck, she would not have known how 
to defend herself against one.
   She screamed as her mind was cruelly forced open. She 
couldn't see, wasn't conscious of the cell around her, had 
lost all awareness of everything but that intrusion. The 
pain grew worse as the darkness that had entered her began 
probing, spreading out, entering every nook and cranny of 
her soul, invading, searching, scraping her raw as it 
ransacked her.
   Surely that darkness was possessing her, blotting her 
out. It would leave only an empty shell behind, not even 
her spirit left for the Bright Gods to accept.
   She wasn't aware she had fallen and curled up whimpering 
into a ball on the cell floor, a position that offered no 
defense against the rape of her soul that was taking place.
   And then the darkness relented, slowly withdrew.
   She lay there for several long breaths, then slowly 
opened her eyes, shivering, her throat raw from that 
scream. She was still alive. Her soul was her own again.
   She lifted her head slowly, cautiously, terrified the 
assault would be renewed.
   The Dark Warrior was looking down at her through the 
bars like a judge from the Black Realm. He nodded, as if 
satisfied at something. His face was as impassive as ever.
   "Very well," he said. "It appears Tirnal told the 
truth."
   He turned and walked out, followed by the orcs and the 
gaoler, leaving her there on the floor to recover. There 
was a rattle as the door was locked again.


   It was late -- near midnight. Only a single candle to 
mark the turnings still burned in Lord Gurnadey's 
bedchamber, casting thin, wavering light on the tapestries 
lining the walls.
   Dominating the great room was its dead lord's bed, a 
massive, canopied affair with four sturdy oak posts and a 
dark green silk coverlet that must have cost a fortune in 
itself. The rest of the furniture consisted of several 
chairs against the walls, a wooden dresser beside the bed, 
and the great cedar chest that used to hold much of his 
funds.
   The wool rugs and sheepskins covering the wooden floor 
had a new addition, a small, plain white rug with a single 
adornment: a black circle. It was the rug Raven normally 
used for meditation and sorcery, which was how he was using 
it now.
   Weariness weighed like lead on his shoulders. Two mind-
probes in one day had further drained his magical reserves, 
and he needed sleep to even begin recovering. Right now, he 
should be savoring the comfort of that magnificent bed.
   Instead, he sat cross-legged on the rug, gazing out into 
the darkness of the room as he considered Tirnal's offer.
   The wisest course of action, he knew, would have been to 
slay the girl out of hand -- preferably with his darksword. 
To take no chances whatsoever.
   So why did he not do it?
   *I have never seen one of the Light like him*, he 
thought, and knew it for a part of the truth. He was forced 
to admit it now: he was dealing with a man who was his 
equal.
   The other part of the truth was the love he'd glimpsed 
in Tirnal's soul.
   Raven remembered all too well when he had last felt that 
emotion, so many years ago. The memory seemed from another 
life, as if it belonged to someone else. He had never felt 
it since. Not for a woman, not for another man.
   He knew now, as he stared into the darkness of the room, 
that he would never do so again. The place in his soul that 
might have felt it was only ashes.
   He closed his eyes, but he did not weep.
   After a time, he returned his thoughts to Tirnal's 
offer.
   *Maybe it really is as it looks,* he told himself. *He 
had no way to deceive me, after all.*
   It would be better to consider this again in the 
morning, after he had slept.
   Even as he thought this, he knew the unwisdom of the 
choice he was making, but he knew also that he would not 
unmake it.
   

   Tirnal looked up as the messenger entered, flanked by 
the gaoler.
   "A message from Commander Raven," the youth stated, his 
face expressionless. He walked up to the bars and offered a 
sealed and rolled-up piece of paper.
    Tirnal rose and walked over to meet him, chains 
jangling, and accepted the scroll in one shackled hand. The 
messenger turned away, and they departed without waiting to 
see if he opened it.
   When the door had closed and the footsteps were 
dwindling down the corridor, he broke the seal, and 
unrolled and read it.
   *I accept your bargain. So sworn by the Black River. Be 
ready tomorrow,* it read, in elegant, flowing script.
   That was all, except for an ornate "R" sigil underneath.
   The page quivered; he became aware that his hand was 
shaking. He carefully lowered it to the wooden shelf, 
feeling his stomach churning with mingled relief and fear.
   He closed his eyes and prayed to the Bright Gods for 
strength, feeling hot tears begin to run down his cheeks.


   The next morning, a pair of guards brought him a bucket 
of warm water and other supplies for bathing, and the 
gaoler unshackled him. Evidently Raven preferred his 
victims cleaned up before using them.
   Tirnal forced himself to ignore the guards' stone-faced 
gaze as he stripped naked and bathed. There was no sense 
wasting time on being ashamed now. They watched him in 
silence.
   When he had dried himself off, one man held his wrists 
pinioned painfully behind his back while the other removed 
the bucket. He was not shackled again; the gaoler took the 
chains with him as they departed, locking the grille and 
the door behind them, without bothering to see if he 
dressed.
   He looked distastefully at his soiled clothes but 
eventually put them on again.
   He only picked at the breakfast they brought him a 
little while later.


   "It is time, Tirnal."
   Raven stood in the open doorway of the room. He was once 
again dressed in his leather armor, wearing his darksword 
and dagger. His handsome face showed no emotion as he gazed 
at Tirnal.
   With him was the gaoler -- and two other men, also in 
leather armor, though theirs was studded. One of them was a 
crude-looking, well-muscled man with a shock of red hair, 
who he recognized from descriptions as Raven's chief 
cavalry commander, Algarn. The other was a taller one -- 
almost as tall as Raven, but raw-boned and graceless -- 
with black hair barely to his shoulders and a nose that 
appeared to have been broken and reset at least twice; 
Tirnal guessed he was Zhourn, who commanded a division of 
foot soldiers.
   The Archmage rose, his guts knotting, as the gaoler 
unlocked the grille. He concentrated on controlling himself 
-- not allowing himself to tremble, keeping his breathing 
steady -- as they entered his cell.
   Raven stepped in front of him, looking directly into his 
eyes as he spoke.
   "Before we begin, Archmage, let me be clear. If you try 
to escape, even by suicide, or if you lift a hand against 
us, I will consider the bargain to be at an end, and your 
pupil's life is forfeit. If by some chance you *do* escape, 
she will suffer in your place. Do you understand?"
   "Yes," Tirnal replied, managing to keep his voice even.
   "Good."
   Algarn and Zhourn smirked openly as they eyed him, but 
Raven's handsome face was still an impassive mask, his dark 
eyes revealing nothing. Tirnal could not tell if this were 
giving him pleasure or pain, or neither.
   "Take off your clothes," the mage-warrior ordered. "You 
will not need them again in this life, rest assured."
   Dear Bright Gods, they were going to march him naked 
through the city streets . . .
   And there was nothing he could do but endure it.
   He obeyed, eyes lowered, feeling their gaze on his 
exposed flesh as he removed his shirt and breeches and 
dropped his boots on the floor. He ignored the sudden heat 
he could feel rising in his face.
   When he had finished, Raven took a step closer to him, 
looking not at his bare flesh but directly into his eyes. 
There was the feeling of magic being worked, of pressure on 
his soul -- not a probe, but some other spell being worked 
upon him. With the rune collar around his neck, he could do 
nothing to stop it.
   Then Raven stepped back. If the spell had cost him any 
effort, he didn't show it. "Do you know what I have done to 
you?"
   "I can guess," he answered. "Some sort of spell to make 
sure I cannot fight you."
   Raven nodded, a brief hint of a smile teasing his mouth 
before fading.
   "If you try *anything* -- to strike out against me or my 
companions, seize a weapon, anything at all -- you will 
experience more pain than you have ever known before in 
your life. And I will know what you tried to do."
   He took another step backward, then:
   "Go ahead, test it, Archmage. Think of harming me."
   Tirnal realized Raven wouldn't be satisfied until he 
complied, and so he obeyed. The dagger at the mage-
warrior's right hip -- if he could seize that and strike --
   There was no time to carry out the thought, even if he 
had really intended to. Before his arm muscles could 
contract, the agony struck, starting at his groin but 
spreading instantly through his entire body, and his soul 
was similarly wracked by an unbearable feeling he couldn't 
describe.
   He wasn't even aware he'd screamed and fallen to his 
knees until the pain eased and he opened his eyes to see 
the stone of the floor, feeling the rawness in his throat.
   Now Raven really did smile.
   "Good enough. I trust that will discourage any thought 
of desperate action on your part. Now, get up and put your 
hands behind your neck. Keep them there until you are told 
otherwise."
   Tirnal got to his feet with some difficulty, his body 
still remembering that horrible pain and not wanting to 
move. He clasped his hands on the back of his neck, feeling 
the cold metal of the collar under his fingers.
   He felt more naked than naked, knowing what was to 
happen. Every inch of his body that mattered was exposed to 
their view, and that awareness sent a chill feeling over 
his skin. He didn't even have the mercy of being chained, 
of being unable to disobey by trying to cover himself with 
his hands.
   He drew a shaky breath.
   The gaoler appeared embarrassed, averting his gaze from 
Tirnal's nakedness. The two other men were still smirking, 
but Raven only eyed him briefly and turned away.
   "Let us go," he said.


   Red-haired Algarn walked beside him, while Raven and 
Zhourn paced behind. They didn't hurry him, but they didn't 
let him slow down. Algarn's hard hand was on his left arm 
now and then, guiding him in the way he should go.
   The little group of soldiers outside snapped to 
attention as they saw the Dark Warrior and the two 
commanders emerge. Tirnal saw their curious quick glances 
at him, and it cut him to the bone, but they were too well-
disciplined to waste time staring.
   While Raven looked on, Zhourn spoke to them. "I require 
six of you to accompany us to the Lord Commander's 
quarters."
   Tirnal permitted himself an inward sigh of relief -- his 
rape, at least, would not be a public spectacle. His 
torture and death later would be.
   The soldiers arranged themselves, four of them behind 
Raven and Zhourn, two walking ahead, as they stepped out 
into the street.
   The sky had turned overcast, but with no promise of 
rain, and underneath that brooding cloud cover the city of 
Dorgeyzhim lay silent. The smell of smoke still hung over 
everything, but he couldn't see where it was coming from. 
He wondered how widespread the destruction was.
   No one moved on the streets; the townspeople were all 
still in hiding. A small mercy for himself, he thought. But 
he wouldn't turn to look; he kept his head up, his back 
straight, refusing to show what he felt. The cobblestones 
were cold and bruising-hard under his bare feet. A cool 
breeze caressed his skin, raising goosebumps on his arms.
   *Jahl will escape*, he reminded himself, but he didn't 
dare dwell on the fact. He wasn't sure what Raven could 
pick up on.
   No one spoke to him. Their only sounds were their boots 
on the cobblestones and the rustle and creak of their 
leather armor.
   They passed two more groups of soldiers en route: one 
small group walking briskly down the street in the opposite 
direction; the other, a detachment of orcish guards in 
front of the low, squat brick façade of a guild 
headquarters across the street.
   Both times, Tirnal braced himself for laughter and 
catcalls, but the sight of their commander seemed to deter 
them; they stiffened, saluted Raven and remained silent. 
Even so, they stared; he could feel their eyes burning into 
his back and buttocks after he passed.
   He felt what he knew was ill-founded relief as they 
approached the stone wall around the fortress-like hold 
where Lord Gurnadey had lived.


   *He is a strong one*, Raven admitted to himself as he 
watched Tirnal.
   The walk naked through the streets must have been 
grueling, but the Archmage had never hesitated or flinched, 
let alone had to be forced on. He hadn't spoken, hadn't 
lowered his hands from the back of his neck.
   Raven's bodyservant, a silent young man with short mousy 
hair whose name was Laj, unlocked the bedchamber for them.
   Raven turned away to unfasten the baldric bearing his 
darksword -- he always did that himself, preferring not to 
leave the task up to a servant. He laid it carefully across 
the large wooden chest, scabbard and all, then unsheathed 
the dagger and laid that on the dresser.
   Only then did he motion Laj forward to help him remove 
his armor. While the young man did so, he turned and faced 
the naked, collared Archmage, studying him again.
   Tirnal was as lean as Raven himself, and almost as tall, 
though without his well-defined muscles -- let alone the 
bulging ones of Zhourn or Algarn. Still, there were bands 
of sinew along his arms and legs and his flat belly. He'd 
already seen his small, muscular buttocks during the walk.
   The mage was looking around the room, perhaps for a clue 
as to what forms his degradation would take. Now, as he 
turned to face Raven again, he revealed dark nipples and 
nearly black pubic hair that encircled his long, pale 
manhood, extending up a narrow trail leading to his navel.
   Even now, his fear showed only in his pale, serious 
eyes, the strain-deepened little crows'-feet at their 
corners, and more subtly in the set of his jaw. His hands 
were still clasped at the back of his neck.
   "Kneel," Raven commanded, putting no harshness into his 
voice. There was no need.
   Tirnal obeyed, carefully getting down on his knees on 
the layers of rugs lining the floor.    
   Raven simply let him wait, letting his fear build with 
anticipation, as Laj finished removing the armor. It didn't 
take all that long, not nearly as long as removing plate 
armor would have required. When it was done, the 
bodyservant turned his attention to the other two men, 
helping them with their own armor.
   Raven now stood revealed in breeches and shirt as 
unrelieved black as his armor had been. He stretched 
comfortably, and then looked deep into his captive's eyes, 
boring in, commanding his attention.
   "Know this, Tirnal: you are in my power, and the Bright 
Gods cannot help you now," he told him. "There is no need 
to pray for deliverance, because there will be none."
   He waited. Tirnal took a deep, ragged breath, then 
nodded reluctantly, acknowledging the truth of his words. 
His hands stayed locked in position.
   "From now until I permit your soul to pass to the Bright 
Realm, I am the only god you know, because I hold your life 
in my hands and I dictate your fate. I am your lord and 
master."
   The mage swallowed, but he did not look away.
   "Let me hear you say it." Raven held him pinned on his 
gaze like a skewered lamb. "Say 'You are my god and my 
master.'"
   Tirnal inhaled deeply, the lines around his nose and 
mouth tightening as his jaw clenched, and then he 
swallowed.
   "You are my god and my master." His voice was low and 
hoarse, but it didn't break.
   Raven nodded. "Good." He paused briefly, then: "If I do 
order you to speak, you will call me "Lord" or "Master". 
You may call either of my two companions here "Sir". If I 
do not command you to speak, you will say nothing at all. 
Do you understand me, Archmage?"
   Tirnal took in another deep breath, nostrils flaring. 
"Yes, Lord."
   "Now, come here, kiss my boots. Show me your 
subservience." When he started to get up again, Raven 
corrected him. "No. Crawl to me. Crawl on all fours."
   The mage's cheekbones colored with shame, but he showed no 
reluctance, no hesitation. He lowered himself to hands and knees 
and crawled across the floor.
   Raven savored the feeling of power that welled in him as his 
captive reached him and planted a kiss on each of his boots. He 
didn't smile; something about this moment was too deep, too 
profound, to permit common gloating. It was like what he felt 
when making a sacrifice to the Dark Kings.
   Already he felt a growing warmth in his groin, his lust 
rising more quickly than it ever had before.
   He had had more men than he could count at his mercy, 
many of them begging and pleading for their lives or to be 
spared further abuse or torture. Some had been as naked as 
Tirnal was now, and as humiliated.
   None of them had affected him in quite this way.
   But then, none of them had ever offered themselves 
freely.
   Perhaps this was what the demons felt when they took their 
payment from him . . .
   He pushed that thought away as he looked down at the 
humbled Bright Mage at his feet.
   He could never explain his impulse later, but he didn't 
question it then. 
   "Get up now," he ordered Tirnal.
   Tirnal began to obey, his hands once again going to the 
back of his neck -- but he had no chance to finish before 
Raven's arms were slipping around his torso, under his own 
arms, pulling him up forcibly to his feet. And then Raven 
held his head in both hands, kissing him full on the mouth, 
his tongue forcing its way in.
   Moments later, he pushed the mage away to stare at him 
at arms' length, taking in his expression.
   He had expected to see abject shame in his face. 
Instead, he found he couldn't read the look in those 
shadowed hazel eyes.
   Once again he forced himself into the mind behind them, 
only far enough to see what the other was feeling. He 
sensed Tirnal's humiliation and fear -- but also, 
unexpectedly, a tinge of lust mirroring his own, a lust 
that was creating still more shame.
   A lust that focused uneasily on him.
   He smiled coldly. He glanced down between their bodies, 
seeing the darkening of Tirnal's organ, the first stirring 
of arousal.
   He withdrew from the mage's mind, lifted his head, 
looked over at his companions.
   Algarn was watching with lust and curiosity mingling in 
his expression; he sensed something unusual in this rape. 
Zhourn's face held only lust -- he lacked the imagination 
for wondering.
   Laj, crouching to remove Zhourn's leg guards, did not 
look back at all.
   Raven stared at each of his commanders in turn. *Do not 
dare to question me*, his expression said, and they looked 
down, away, quickly.
   He smiled coldly, feeling the savage possessiveness of a 
wolf claiming a fresh kill, and returned his attention to 
Tirnal.
   He released the mage's shoulders and began to fondle 
him, his hands roving up and down that handsome body.
   That flesh was exposed, accessible -- vulnerable. He 
could explore it as he wished, and he did, slowly and 
thoroughly. Tirnal only closed his eyes, his hands still 
clasped on his neck; he knew he could do nothing to defend 
himself, only helplessly endure the fondling.
   Behind him, Raven heard Zhourn order Laj to fetch them 
some wine, and then the soft footfalls of the departing 
youth, the closing of the door.
   Tirnal's skin was delightfully smooth, unmarked by the 
scars of physical combat. Raven gently squeezed his 
uplifted arms to feel the long muscles underneath that 
skin; he ran his fingertips through the dark tufts of hair 
underneath the arms, feeling the moisture there, then took 
both dark nipples between his fingers and teased them 
softly until they stiffened into hard nubbins. He lingered 
there for a time, enjoying the reaction and the feel of the 
swollen flesh that couldn't help but respond.
   Tirnal closed his eyes; his expression was a study in 
mingled shame and sensuality, but he endured in total 
silence. His hands stayed at the back of his neck.
   When Raven felt ready to move on, he took a slow 
eternity to run his hands down the ribs. Finally he took a 
small step closer and squatted down to reach behind to the 
rounded swell of the buttocks, where he squeezed and 
kneaded, feeling soft-skinned, resilient flesh with taut 
muscle underneath.
   Tirnal could control his fear and shame, but not his 
organ -- it was darkened and half-lifted, almost touching 
his tormentor's cheek.
   At last Raven tired of his explorations. When he rose, 
he was close up against the other man, feeling his heat, 
their bodies almost touching.
   Looking into those hazel eyes again, he felt a cruel 
little smile form on his lips.
   "You enjoy this, Bright Mage? Do you enjoy my touch?"
   Tirnal blushed, pink suffusing his face. He closed his 
eyes, half-turning his head to avoid Raven's gaze.
   Raven reached out one hand, seized his chin, firmly 
pulling his head back.
   "Answer me," he commanded, his voice low, deadly.
   Tirnal swallowed hard. "Yes. My body does, at least," he 
admitted.
   Raven smiled again. "Good."
   He released Tirnal's chin -- and then he squatted down 
again before that shameful erection, taking it in his hand, 
feeling the enticing heat of it. Slowly, gently, he began 
to stroke it teasingly along its length, from root to tip 
and back, as he would have pleasured himself.
   The organ in his hand warmed, stiffened further. Soon 
his efforts were rewarded with a small, barely audible 
gasp. Then another, louder.
   He glanced up at Tirnal's face. The mage's eyes were 
closed, his face suffused with mingled humiliation and 
arousal, lips parted.
   He released that heated flesh and stood up.
   "Open those eyes, mage," he commanded. "Open them." His 
voice was soft, caressing -- a lover's.
   Tirnal obeyed, unwillingly meeting his gaze.
   "You find Those I serve horrifying, do you not? Be 
honest, now. Do not try to avoid my anger."
   A wary look came into Tirnal's eyes. He took a deep 
breath.
   "Yes. Yes, I do," he said.
   "You would never agree to pay homage to them, would you? 
No, no need to answer -- I already know the answer you 
would give.
   "And yet, tonight you will be giving them, and me, a 
fine gift."
   Raven paused, enjoying the puzzlement in the Bright 
Mage's face.
   "You see, pain and death are not the only gifts that 
give my patrons joy. Those things are indeed their 
mainstay, but there are a thousand other ways to honor and 
delight them. The shaming and defilement of those who 
oppose them, for example."
   Tirnal's eyes widened as he half-understood his meaning. 
His breath caught. Raven went on:
   "Rest assured that your humiliation here in this room 
does not escape their notice, any more than will your 
suffering later. I had planned merely to rape you 
repeatedly, enjoying your flesh . . . but now I see that 
you can serve me, and them, still better. And you will.
   "Before this day is over, I will have you literally 
begging on your knees for the release of your passion. 
Think of it, Archmage -- a high mortal servant of the 
Bright Gods, groveling at the feet of the Dark Warrior, 
whimpering in need, actually pleading for his own 
violation! That will be a succulent offering indeed for 
them."
   As horror filled the other man's eyes, Raven felt an 
incredible wave of warm, cruel, powerful joy.
   He leaned forward and again kissed Tirnal's mouth 
deeply, possessively; for a moment, it seemed the mage 
would draw back, but then he visibly restrained himself 
despite his revulsion, opening his mouth to the blond man's 
probing tongue.
   Raven's hands roamed his flesh again, teasing up his 
nipples, stroking his sides, his flat belly. He thought he 
might never tire of touching him, feeling his helplessness, 
his submission, and at last his mouth released the mage's 
so that he could once again toy with that humiliating 
erection.
   This time, he did not cease his caresses until Tirnal's 
gasps had become open and shameless and his hips began to 
flex, body tightening.
   When he released him and stepped back, he was once again 
all command, staring at him with savage intensity.
   Tirnal's face was a study in abject shame and passion, his 
eyes screwed nearly shut, color suffusing his cheekbones. Beads 
of sweat sparkled on his cheeks and brow.
   Raven turned to look at the other two men. "Algarn!" he 
called.
   The red-haired commander stepped forward, eyes 
glittering with hopeful lust.
   "Would you like to touch this slut?" Raven asked, a 
cruel smile quirking his mouth. Tirnal winced almost 
imperceptibly at the last word.
   "Yes, sir!" and Algarn grinned.
   "Do so, then." Raven gave him a nod and stepped back to 
give him room.
   Algarn was less leisurely in his explorations than Raven 
had been. He did not kiss his victim, only pawed him 
roughly, and he paid his maleness no attention. He groped 
Tirnal thoroughly and with obvious enjoyment, and then he 
stepped behind him, squatted down and fondled and squeezed 
his buttocks.
   Raven watched, his face impassive again, his arms folded 
across his chest.
   Tirnal never lost his erection, but the look on his face 
said more clearly than words what an effort of will it took 
for him to remain still. He stared resolutely straight 
ahead, refusing to flinch or move his hands from his neck.
   Finally, Algarn looked over at Raven, wanting to do 
more, wondering whether he could.
   Raven shook his head in refusal. "Zhourn," he called.
   Zhourn did kiss Tirnal, but roughly and crudely, licking 
his neck, nuzzling. Like Algarn, he pawed him thoroughly. 
He felt that swollen erection with equal thoroughness, 
savoring its heat, drawing a small moan from him.
   Finally he moved to squat behind him as Algarn had done. 
He gripped the small, tight buttocks and pulled them open, 
taking a closer look at the rear passage.
   "From what I've heard, he's no virgin," he commented, 
"but he looks like he'll be nice and tight."
   Algarn chuckled. Raven smiled tolerantly.
   Tirnal's blush turned nearly scarlet, and his hardness 
lessened a little, drooping.
   "Enough," Raven told Zhourn.
   As Zhourn retreated, the mage-warrior stepped in again, 
reclaiming the mage's attention.
   "Kneel again," he commanded. "Then take your hands off the 
back of your neck and open my breeches and pleasure me. I'm sure 
you are no stranger to this act."
   He looked down at Tirnal's face as he obeyed. The mage's 
expression showed his reluctance, but no distaste; clearly, 
he'd done this before.
   Tirnal began stroking and caressing, fondling Raven's 
manhood. The dark-haired man's skill was evident, and the 
sensations of those knowing hands slipping up and down his 
flesh gave him little jolts of sheer pleasure --
   But he had had something else in mind.
   He backhanded the mage, casually, the sound breaking the 
quiet of the bedchamber. Tirnal jerked back, one hand going 
up to his face reflexively. The blow had left a red mark on 
his face.
   "No, not your hands. It is your mouth I want to enjoy," 
Raven corrected, his tone level, unchanged. "And cross your 
wrists behind your back as you work. *Please me*, Tirnal."
   Tirnal stared at him, swallowed . . . licked his lips. 
Then he visibly steeled himself, fighting down his anger 
and his shame in order to obey, moving his hands behind his 
back as he'd been bidden.
   He leaned forward, and Raven was enchanted by the sight 
of his mouth opening wetly, but he began not at his organ 
but at his testicles, nuzzling under the already-swollen 
member to reach them. He softly, slowly kissed each one 
before licking them for long breaths.
   *And after I have struck him*, Raven thought. *What 
beautiful self-control he has . . .* The mage was indeed 
submitting as fully as he possibly could, just as he had 
offered.
   And then that skilled mouth was slipping around his 
organ at last, kissing, then licking all over, up and down 
-- and, finally, suckling.
   Raven gasped at the sweet sensations before he could 
stop himself -- he honestly hadn't expected to react so 
strongly.
   He found a moment to be grateful that Algarn and Zhourn 
had long since proven to be utterly trustworthy and 
discreet, that this wasn't going to be a source of gossip.
   He tilted his head back and gave in to the urge to 
thrust his hips into that sucking mouth, its warmth and 
wetness. He felt Tirnal gag slightly, but the tongue never 
wholly retreated and it quickly resumed its work. He wanted 
to thrust harder, to moan and gasp at the pleasure, to 
seize Tirnal's head and move it back and forth, but he 
resisted, only putting his hands on the mage's shoulders, 
feeling his muscles flex with the rhythm his lust demanded.
   He was able to keep from crying out as he climaxed, but 
he did groan with ecstasy through gritted teeth, eyes 
tightly closed, head thrown back. His fingers dug into 
Tirnal's shoulders as his seed filled his mouth.
   The dark-haired mage showed no reluctance at all -- he 
swallowed, then held his relaxing organ gently in his 
mouth. At last Raven pushed his head away, with a 
gentleness that he wondered at himself.
   Tirnal looked up again, licking his lips. That nearly 
unreadable expression was on his face again.
   "You *are* good at that," Raven allowed, and enjoyed the 
renewed blush that brought to his face. "I might not tire 
of using you for some time."
   He smiled, relishing the languor of satiation as he retied the 
dangling laces of his breeches, loosely enough to be comfortable, 
leaving his still-slick member exposed.
   Then he glanced over at his companions. They stood 
against the wall, waiting patiently, as they'd long since 
learned to do while he took his pleasure of a victim. Both 
men shifted restlessly, faces hopeful as they looked back.
   An idea came to him.
   "Algarn, bring over the oil, please."
   Algarn's eyes lit with anticipation. He went over to the 
small dresser to get the small glass bottle.
   Raven looked down again upon his captive. The mage swallowed, 
closed his eyes for a long moment, opened them, taking a deep 
breath.
   He wouldn't have been surprised to see Tirnal in tears at this 
point, but the dark-haired man did not weep, would not plead even 
with his eyes.
   "Put your head on my boot," he ordered him.
   Tirnal obeyed in silence, lowering himself to hands and 
knees, then leaning down carefully to press his right cheek 
against the leather of Raven's boot.
   Raven gazed down upon him, admiring the long dark hair 
fanning out over his boot toe, the lean muscles of the 
shoulders and back, the proffered rounded buttocks. His 
eyes were closed, as if to remove himself from the 
indignity he was suffering.
   Algarn stepped up to them and looked down at Tirnal's 
exposed form, smirking. When he looked back up at Raven, 
his expression was a question.
   Raven smiled faintly in return. "Not yet," he said. 
"Simply prepare him for us, for later."
   "A pleasure, sir!" Algarn's grin broadened still more. He 
knelt behind Tirnal, opening the bottle and greasing his fingers.
   Tirnal did not move, even as Algarn's fingers entered 
his rear passage. He must have been wishing to die of 
shame, but he would not disobey -- or sob. Only once did he 
make a small sound, so faint as to be indistinguishable, as 
those fingers made obscene squelching sounds inside him. A 
shiver ran down his back.
   Finally Algarn withdrew, wiping his hands on his 
breeches as he got up.
   "Would you like to use his mouth as well?" Raven asked.
   Algarn's grin seemed ready to split his face, and Raven 
saw the crotch of his breeches was bulging. "Oh, yes! Need 
you ask, Commander?"
   "Then do so. You also, Zhourn. Tirnal, go to your other 
masters, please them as you did me."
   As the mage began to service Algarn, Raven withdrew to 
an ornately carved chair beside the dresser to relax. The 
dresser bore a flagon of wine and three goblets, laid there 
by Laj before he had departed to leave his master to his 
pleasures.
   The blond mage-warrior poured himself a drink and sipped 
it, sprawling comfortably in the chair, as Tirnal pleasured 
Algarn, and then Zhourn.
   *No question*, he mused as he watched, *I am going to 
enjoy him for all the time I can spare.*
   Zhourn actually cried out as Tirnal brought him to his climax. 
The mage released his sex, leaving him to sag against the wall 
for support, the glazed look of satiation on his ugly face.
   Raven rose slowly from his chair to rejoin them, then stopped 
to stand by Tirnal's side and look down at him.
   Tirnal looked up at him, putting his hands on the back 
of his neck again, ready for another order. He was once 
again fully erect, his organ dark and red.
   Raven felt a playful cruelty well up in him. He lifted one 
foot, touched that swollen organ with the toe of his boot, 
prodding it gently.
   "Archmage," he questioned softly, "do you enjoy this so 
much?"
   Tirnal flushed again, but his expression was calmer . . 
. almost serene. It wasn't the blankness of withdrawal. He 
had steeled himself again, even in the midst of such abject 
humiliation, and Raven found himself with curiously 
conflicting emotions -- admiration for him, annoyance that 
he wouldn't break.
   The mage appeared to be pondering his answer, and then 
he spoke:
   "I suppose . . . a part of me does, lord."
   Raven's boot moved slowly, rubbing the side softly along 
that stiffened organ.
   "How so, then?" His voice was still soft.
   Tirnal closed his eyes, opened them again, slowly, as 
the rough leather rubbed his manhood. He seemed about to 
answer, but then he tensed and shivered, gritting his 
teeth, his hips flexing slightly.
   Raven's gaze lowered to the swollen erection. A small 
dark spot from seeping moisture now glistened on the dark 
leather of his boot. He withdrew it.
   "Well?" he pressed, and he squatted down beside his 
victim to get closer to eye level.
   Tirnal breathed deeply, gathering his composure.
   And then he surprised Raven with a wry smile.
   "I am, as you have said, no stranger to this act, lord."
   Raven felt his own smile turn warm, much against his will, 
before it faded. "So I see. You're a strong one, mage . . . Tell 
me, have you ever been taken from behind?"
   Tirnal hesitated, eyes widening slightly, then 
responded. "No. Never -- lord."
   "Then today I am going to take your virginity. But I am 
not yet ready, so first you will awaken my lust again. 
Slowly."
   A delicious sense of abandon welled in the mage-warrior 
as he slowly unlaced and pulled off his shirt, dropping it 
carelessly to the floor.
   "Get up," he commanded. "Face me."
   Tirnal's movements as he rose were slow, uncertain. His hazel 
eyes searched Raven's face, looking for a hint of what he wanted.
   Raven stepped closer to him, close enough that he could feel 
the mage's breath on his face. Close enough to feel the heat of 
that naked body over his own bare chest, and know Tirnal felt 
his. He felt his own arousal, somewhere far underground, slowly 
rising again.
   His voice was a soft purr, a stalking leopard's, as he 
placed one hand on Tirnal's shoulder.
   "You find me desirable, Bright Mage, don't you." It was 
a statement, not a question.
   Tirnal's gaze flickered, slipping to one side.
   "Answer me." Raven did not raise his voice above that 
purr, but its note turned lethal as his hand tightened on 
the mage's shoulder.
   Tirnal looked back, licking his lips uneasily. His gaze 
flickered downward over Raven's body, then back up again.
   "Yes -- yes, my lord. I do. You are -- beautiful." He looked 
as if he feared what the response would be to that statement.
   Raven smiled.
   "You are going to make love to me, as you have sworn. 
Come, don't be afraid -- take the initiative. I will not be 
angry at you for touching me, not when I have commanded 
it."
   Then Tirnal understood, and his eyes reflected his 
shame, his helplessness -- and his fascination. He sighed, 
resigning himself.
   "Come with me to the bed," Raven ordered.
   He walked over to the bed and sat down on its edge. At 
his direction, Tirnal knelt, removed his boots and set them 
aside.
   He lay down on his back then, sprawling with his arms over his 
head in an attitude of limp abandon.
   And then Tirnal was crouching beside him on hands and knees, 
looking down into his face. Raven looked up at him and smiled, 
savoring the sheer complexity of the emotions mirrored in the 
other's face.
   Shame was still very much there, and a tinge of sorrow -- he 
hadn't forgotten his fate. And his hazel eyes also held 
unmistakable lust and fascination as they gazed down at Raven's 
lean, hard body.
   The mage took a deep breath. After only a moment's hesitation, 
he lowered his head to put his mouth against the blond man's.
   The first kiss was only a reluctant brushing of lips 
against lips. Raven opened his mouth invitingly, 
encouraging him. Tirnal's tongue flickered in, uncertain, 
tentative, making no demand.
   Raven sucked gently on that timid tongue, making no return 
parry to Tirnal's cautious probing. Emboldened, the tongue probed 
deeper into his welcoming mouth, and they kissed for long, 
voluptuous moments, making soft wet sounds.
   Tirnal's mouth slipped from his, moving down his neck, 
and Raven turned his head to one side, his eyes half-
closing with pleasure.
   "A good beginning," he breathed. "Go on."
   Those hands, softer than his -- they'd never held a sword -- 
moved up and down on his bare skin, stroking, caressing, feeling 
his battle-hardened muscles, lingering curiously over the 
occasional scar. Then they were joined by that skillful mouth.
   Raven closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations as his flesh 
was explored -- a hand running through his long blond hair, a 
tongue flicking against his left nipple . . .
   He seized Tirnal's shoulders again, dragged him down close for 
yet another wet kiss, his tongue running deeply into the other's 
mouth. Then he released him to continue his work.
   His lust had at last returned, was beginning to stir as the 
dark-haired mage's head finally lowered to his exposed organ.
   Those knowing fingers were loosening the thong again, opening 
his breeches wide. And then once again that wet warm mouth was 
surrounding his member, coaxing it into rut again.
   As Tirnal sucked him back into hardness, Raven found 
himself reaching with one hand to stroke his hair. He felt, 
oddly, as if he were not raping but comforting the 
Archmage, and he wondered at himself, but he didn't 
refrain. Tirnal's mouth paused a moment -- as if he were 
surprised -- then went on working.
   Raven closed his eyes, ignoring the soft murmur of 
voices from the other two men.
   *Let them wait*, he thought idly, dropping his arm back 
on the bed.
   ("What's so special about this one?" Zhourn murmured 
into Algarn's ear as they watched the two figures on the 
bed.
   Algarn shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps it's something 
between mages.")
   The return to full arousal took longer this time, but he 
enjoyed every moment of it. His hips began to flex as the 
sensations became still sweeter, reawakening his hunger, 
his erection slipping back and forth between Tirnal's lips 
as he thrust into his mouth.
   When at last he was ready -- more than ready -- his 
hands went to Tirnal's head again, this time to push him 
away.
   The mage pulled back obediently, and then Raven had pulled 
himself up to seize his wrists in a quick smooth motion, forcing 
him down and onto his back. He pinned him spread-eagled on the 
bed, covering the dark-haired man's mouth with his own in a kiss 
intended to smother any sound or exclamation he might have made.
   He was the stronger; there was no way Tirnal could have 
thrown him off, and he gloried in that strength as he held 
him down. After a moment of startled resistance, the mage 
relaxed, submitting.
   Raven's tongue darted deep, deep, into the captive's 
mouth and throat, as far as it could go, before he 
withdrew. He felt him gag, but there was no resistance.
   Raven released his hands, got up on his knees to look down at 
him. He reached out one hand to Tirnal's collared throat, as if 
he meant to choke him, and enjoyed the sudden instinctive fear in 
the mage's eyes; but his touch was gentle. *I hold your life in 
my hands,* it said.
   Slowly, he stroked his hand down the neck over the entire 
front of Tirnal's body, slipping down over the mage's chest and 
flat belly. His fingertips trailed through the dark pubic hair, 
finally slipping around the mage's half-erect organ.
   Tirnal gasped.
   Raven smiled, a smile rich with mingled cruelty and 
lust, and he began to stroke. Softly, slowly at first, he 
commanded the dark-haired man's passion, and that erecting 
organ grew warmer and harder in his hand as the long 
moments passed, until its heat surpassed his own.
   Tirnal's body tensed, muscles tightening as his arousal 
increased. His hands clenched on the coverlet. Raven continued to 
stroke.
   Now the mage's head was thrown back, his long dark hair 
spreading across the coverlet, and his teeth were bared and 
gritted. His hips thrust greedily, pushing his craving 
member into Raven's stroking hand. The blond man felt drops 
of moisture wetting his fingers but never ceased his slow 
stroking.
   He leaned closer as he caressed.
   "There is another rule I have forgotten to tell you," he 
murmured, enjoying the sudden consternation that brought to 
Tirnal's face. "And that is that you are not to touch 
yourself, to do anything to release your passion, even as 
we use your handsome body to slake ours. You will let me 
torment you, and you will suffer for me without pain."
   He looked down into his victim's face, enjoying the 
frustration there, the powerless need.
   Tirnal groaned and nodded, closing his eyes, his 
expression a study in shamed despair.
   Now that body was tight as a drawn bow, muscles standing 
out in relief. Raven reached down with his other hand and 
cupped the tight-drawn testicles. They were heavy and full. 
Tirnal moaned.
   He continued his ruthless stroking. He won another 
whimper, and then another from Tirnal.
   "Go ahead -- moan. Beg. Your cries for mercy are sweet to me."
   Tirnal was on the very verge of climaxing now. Raven 
released his grip on his organ, and then the captive mage 
couldn't help but utter a small cry of unfulfilled longing 
and despair. He clutched at the coverlet, squirming, all 
his will focused on not reaching down to touch himself.
   Yet he would not beg for release. He whimpered, once.
   And now at last Raven's own passion was in full and 
raging life.
   He got off the bed. He quickly peeled his black breeches off 
and let them drop to the floor, leaving him as naked as the mage, 
a nakedness that felt not vulnerable but powerful, his body and 
his lust bared like an unsheathed sword, ready to take this man, 
conquer him, possess him.
   He pounced on Tirnal, seizing his arms in an expert 
grip, pulling him off the bed to his feet. Forcing his 
wrists behind his back, he pushed him down to his knees on 
the floor facing the other two men.
   Tirnal's dripping, burgundy-colored erection bobbed 
helplessly; there was nothing he could do to conceal his hunger, 
his need. The craving and humiliation was plain on his anguished 
face and taut muscles.
   "I think" -- Raven's voice was low and savage, and he 
felt as if he could climax there and then -- "that this 
slut is ready to be used. *Aren't you, Tirnal?*"
   All Tirnal's composure, all his pride, seemed lost; his 
skin was glistening with sweat, his hips jerking against 
his will. As Zhourn laughed and Algarn joined in, 
chuckling, there was something like a choked sob from him, 
shaking his entire body.
   "Yes, lord!" he cried, almost a wail.
   Raven gave his wrists a warning squeeze, then released 
him, to take his dagger from the dresser.
   And then, returning to the kneeling mage, he seized a 
handful of that long dark hair, pulling back slowly but 
irresistibly. Tirnal somehow managed to keep his hands 
locked behind his back, but Raven's grip was forcing his 
head back. He had to arch his entire body in an effort to 
maintain his balance.
   He desperately straddled his thighs wide to keep from 
falling, muscles quivering with the strain, in a position 
of obscene offering. His throat was offered up like that of 
a sheep pinned for the slaughter. 
   Raven lowered the dagger to that proffered neck, placing 
the tip of the blade precisely against the jugular, where 
the life throbbed visibly under the skin. His captive's 
ragged breathing filled the room.
   "I could end it for you right now, Tirnal. No more 
shame. No more pain." His voice was soft.
   Slowly, slowly, just touching the skin without cutting 
it, he drew the point across the throat, underneath the 
jaw.
   "Think of it. You could escape the torture, the altar of 
sacrifice. A quick death. Would you like that?"
   Tirnal closed his eyes, opened them again. His teeth 
were gritted with the effort of keeping his balance. Sweat 
glistened on his face.
   The dagger's point inched down to his chest, then slowly 
circled one nipple. With a quick wrist movement, Raven 
nicked it, just enough to draw a bead of blood. The mage's 
body jerked.
   "Well, *would* you? Would you like the mercy of a quick 
death?"
   Tirnal swallowed painfully, larynx jumping.
   "My lord?" he asked, his voice uncertain.
   The dagger descended slowly to his navel, the tip 
lightly caressing the skin just below its rim where the 
last straggling line of dark pubic hair faded out on his 
lower belly.
   "It can be, Archmage. I can do that for you. All you 
need do is renounce our bargain. Jahl is mine."
   "No!" Tirnal cried, trying to shake his head, unable to 
because of Raven's tight grip on his hair. "No . . ."
   The dagger descended, through the tangle of dark pubic 
hair (and the passage of the blade severed a few little 
curly hairs that drifted down to the floor), to Tirnal's 
stiffened, throbbing maleness. Raven lifted it on the flat 
of the blade, pushing it to one side, caressing it 
teasingly, and then he probed very gently at the swollen, 
reddened testicles underneath.
   Tirnal's entire body shuddered. His arousal began to 
soften.
   Raven withdrew the blade, released his grip on his hair, 
letting him straighten up. Then he actually squatted down 
in front of him to tease his genitals with the dagger, 
tickling with the tip, caressing. Once he even dealt the 
softening penis little slap with the flat of the blade, 
cold metal smacking against the heated skin.
   Tirnal was very careful not to move. His jaw was still 
clenched, but his breathing actually steadied a little as 
his lust eased.
   Finally Raven stood up, the dagger still in his hand, 
and looked down at the kneeling man.
   "You are magnificent!" he said, quite sincerely. "Naked, 
used, degraded -- and still you don't plead for mercy or 
beg back your bargain. Where did you come by such 
strength?"
    Tirnal lifted his head to look up at him. His face was 
pale underneath the beads of sweat, but he seemed to dredge 
up some remaining reserve of pride as his gaze met the 
blond mage-warrior's.
   "Not all of the Light are weak, Lord Raven." His voice 
was hoarse, strained.
   Raven studied his face, seeing the resolve underneath 
the shame and pained need in those intense hazel eyes. He 
couldn't help but smile a little as his admiration grew.
   "You are a better man than the Light deserves, Archmage. Would 
that I could spare you."
   He turned away, laying the dagger back on the dresser.
   "Over the edge of the bed," he commanded. "I am ready to 
use you."
   Once again Tirnal obeyed.
   Raven braced himself with one hand on the mage's lower 
back as he used the other to guide his ramrod-stiff organ 
between those rounded buttocks. He felt Tirnal shudder as 
he pressed against the rear passage; that ring of flesh was 
clenched tight, quivering at the shock of threatened 
intrusion. He didn't hurry; he just kept up the steady 
pressure, waiting for the inevitable moment when those 
muscles were forced to relax.
   It came, and he forced his way in, ignoring the mage's gasp of 
pain, the sudden stiffening of his body.
   That orifice was so tight it was almost painful, and 
very, very hot; Raven uttered a gasp of his own as he 
slipped in, burying part of his length in those helplessly 
accepting bowels. Tirnal abruptly cried out, shivering; he 
clenched his fingers in the coverlet and buried his face in 
it, straining not to cry out again.
   *If he had ever suffered what I have, he would not call 
this pain,* Raven thought. *This is child's play.*
   The memories that thought aroused were ashes in his 
mouth, and he quelled them before they could spoil his 
pleasure, forcing his way in still deeper.
   The mage was shaking, sweating, as he strained to accept 
him. His fists were clenched into knots.
   "Please . . ." he breathed. It might have been against 
his will.
   "No."
   And then the final inner resistance gave way, opening up 
to accept the rape, and Raven slid into Tirnal to the hilt, 
and the mage actually screamed as his hips pressed against 
his sweat-slick buttocks.
   Raven held still a few breaths -- not to permit his victim to 
get used to the intrusion, but to savor that inner heat and his 
own anticipation. Algarn and Zhourn were eagerly stripping naked; 
he could hear the rustlings of clothes being removed, the soft 
thump of a boot being dropped to the floor. He ignored them.
   He lay down on top of the mage, his chest and belly 
pressing into that sweat-drenched back, slipping his arms 
around the other in an embrace that had nothing of 
tenderness in it, only lust. His head rested on Tirnal's 
neck; he felt the hard coldness of the rune collar against 
his cheek. His own long blond hair mingled with the other's 
silver-streaked dark mane. The other man's scent was 
mingled male musk and anguish, filling his nostrils with 
each deep breath.
   His first few thrusts were slow, shallow, getting his 
flesh used to the tightness of that passage. Tirnal's 
exhalation was a near-whimper through gritted teeth, his 
entire body one pain-tensed muscle.
   The thought of taunting his victim further came to him, but 
Raven spoke not a word. The act was enough; it said everything 
that was necessary.
   *You are mine now. My property. Something to be violated and 
to slake my lust in, nothing more.*
   Cruel ecstasy filled him, so strong it was almost 
painful. He found himself kissing the back of Tirnal's 
neck.
   He had sodomized other captives before -- in private, in 
the torture chamber, in public spectacles before his own 
soldiers and cowed townspeople. There was no better way to 
bring home, both to himself and to others, the utter defeat 
of his foes -- not even the altar of sacrifice.
   But seldom had it been as satisfying as this, as 
powerful, as intense.
   The tightness holding his hungry organ eased as Tirnal's 
painfully stretched inner passage relaxed, submitting to 
the inevitable.
   Raven was breathing harshly through gritted teeth now, his 
thrusts deeper, more insistent. He gave up his embrace of the 
dark-haired man to clench his own fingers in the coverlet, simply 
lying on top of him as his passion mounted.
   He would never know how long it took; he didn't care. He 
enjoyed every moment of rising pleasure until once again 
his body tightened with impending climax, and then he threw 
back his head, crying out with ecstasy as his seed flowed 
into those helplessly accepting guts in one of the most 
powerful orgasms of his life.
   And then he sank down, relaxing onto Tirnal's back, every 
muscle limp.
   For long moments, he refused to move, his fists slowly 
unclenching. There was no need to forsake this delicious 
languor; his companions would have to wait until he chose 
to step aside.
   *For that matter, I could order them out, and have him 
to myself for the rest of the day and night.* Raven smiled 
at the thought, and pressed his mouth against the mage's 
neck again.
   At long last he withdrew, pulled himself off Tirnal, then 
stretching with the shameless sensuality of a panther. He stepped 
back, nodded at Algarn to take his turn.
   Zhourn stepped out of his way with a wry smile as he padded 
toward the nightstand and its pitcher of wine.
   After cleaning himself, and pouring another goblet, he 
sat down once again and watched his cohorts sate 
themselves.
   Tirnal didn't cry out again, but his fists were clenched 
tightly in the covers and he kept his face hidden in them. 
He might have been weeping. His assailants' clutching hands 
left visible marks on his hips and his flanks.
   Raven wondered idly if he would be able to use him yet a 
third time.
   *And in any case,* he mused, *we could gain much pleasure 
simply by binding and teasing him.*


   In the end, that was what broke Tirnal. Not the rapes, 
although he was used repeatedly, but the gentle torment of 
their hands on his swollen organ, teasing him toward a 
climax he was never quite permitted to reach.
   As he stood bound to one of the sturdy bedposts with his 
hands over his head, he burst into tears, literally sobbing 
with need, as Raven gently stroked his manhood into yet 
another futile erection.
   He pleaded with him to stop -- and then he pleaded to be 
fulfilled. No longer a man, only an animal in helpless, 
hopeless need, an animal in heat begging to be bred.
   Both pleas were useless. Raven caressed his dark hair and 
laughed gently in his face.
   Algarn and Zhourn joined in his laughter -- and later, in the 
teasing.


   Raven called a halt to their sport as the candle showed 
it was dawn. He stretched again, eyeing the exhausted, 
sweat-drenched mage sagging in his bonds.
   "Enough," he ordered his cohorts. "Let him recover 
himself a little."
   Algarn ceased his fondling of Tirnal's swollen member 
and straightened up, a resigned but sated smile on his 
face, a smile that was echoed by Zhourn standing nearby.
   Head hanging, Tirnal continued to sob, still thrusting 
his hips in helpless craving. Perhaps he had not even 
understood the words.
   Raven walked over to his clothes and began getting 
dressed again.
   Algarn and Zhourn followed suit. By the time they were 
finished, Tirnal had come to some awareness of his 
surroundings, lifting his head, his sobs easing.
   Raven walked over to his side, looked at him. The 
Archmage looked back, licked his dry lips, seemingly unable 
to speak. His eyes were haunted.
   "Zhourn, give him some wine."
   Zhourn fetched a goblet from the dresser, filled it. He 
walked over to the captive and lifted it to his lips. 
"Drink," he ordered.
   The command seemed to bring Tirnal further out of his 
daze. His hazel eyes cleared a little. He gulped thirstily, 
throat moving with each grateful swallow.
   When the glass was drained dry, and Zhourn was returning 
it to the bedstand, Raven stroked the mage's sweat-soaked 
hair. Once again he felt that pang of regret.
   "It is time to take you to the torturers, Tirnal," he 
said quietly.
   The mage closed his eyes, swallowed, nodded. He 
shivered.
   "Algarn, unbind his hands."
   As this was done, Zhourn stood before the mage, ready to 
catch him if he fell, but he found his feet immediately. 
Algarn moved quickly to pin his wrists behind his back, the 
black-haired man helping him bind them.
   Tirnal's member was still swollen hard. His eyes turned 
to Raven's, filled with shameless begging.
   Raven shook his head slowly, refusing that silent plea 
for a last fulfillment.
   "No," he whispered almost tenderly, and wondered at the 
regret he felt. "Your apprentice will be set free tomorrow, 
as I promised. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain. 
I will hold to mine."
   A tear ran down Tirnal's cheek, but he nodded, 
swallowing hard. There was gratitude in his eyes beneath 
the shame and need.


   Jahl roused from her lethargy to the sounds of multiple 
footsteps approaching, stopping outside the door. At the 
sound of the key turning in the lock, she raised herself 
up, pulse hammering in her throat as her shackles jangled. 
   The gaoler entered first, holding the key ring. Her 
worst fears seemed confirmed when he was followed by the 
two saber-clutching orcs and the blond man in black leather 
armor behind them.
   *They're taking me to the torture chamber, or the altar 
of sacrifice --*  
   No one spoke as the impassive gaoler opened the iron 
grille and stepped into the cell. He seized her right arm 
and hauled her upright, and then he bent down to unlock the 
shackles on her ankles. She found herself shaking, and 
tried in vain to suppress it.
   The Dark Warrior watched, his handsome face a mask, as 
she was hauled out of the cell.
   Her wrists were unshackled, then shackled again behind 
her back. The gaoler didn't wait for her to get her fear-
numbed legs working; he just shoved her past the others 
into the corridor, and then both orcs were behind her, 
making her skin crawl from their nearness.
   The tall blond man fell into step with them, walking a 
little ahead of her, on her left.
   She struggled with the panic that threatened to choke 
her, finally regaining enough control so that she could 
walk on her own, and the gaoler's shoves ceased; he merely 
led her with one hand on her arm, behind the Dark Warrior. 
They forced her down the narrow corridor, past the closed 
wooden doors of other cells.
   Twice she heard terrified voices behind those doors, 
other prisoners calling out; mercifully, she didn't 
recognize them. Her captors ignored the calls.
   They took her past the hallway that she thought led to 
the torture chamber, and relief brought her near tears for 
a moment. They would not torture her . . . at least, not 
there.
   Instead, they went on to the main doors of the gaol. The 
gaoler turned back, but the tall man and his orcs passed 
through, leading her out, into the blinding morning light 
of a cloudless day. She blinked.
   The mail-clad guards at the entrance looked curiously at 
them, then went into stances of rigid attention as they saw 
their blond commander.
   "I need four of you to accompany me to the North Gate," 
he ordered.
   There was no discussion, apparently no need to choose 
who the escort would be; four men stepped forward and 
quickly, smoothly fell into formation around him and the 
two orcs. If they were curious about Jahl, they didn't show 
it; they wasted no time looking at her.
   The North Gate? Why was she being taken there?
   But now they were walking again, down the cobblestoned 
street.
   One orc placed a clawed hand on her shoulder to push her 
along or guide her down the correct turn every now and 
then; she was too afraid to dawdle. They kept a steady 
pace, but slow enough to avoid tiring her. She was even 
able to look around now and then. 
   No one else was in sight; the streets looked utterly 
deserted. She wondered fearfully if anyone was even alive.
   A faint smell of old burning still hung in the air, and 
she understood its source when they passed what must have 
once been shops, now piles of ash and charred logs.
   As they passed an alley between two surviving but 
unoccupied shops, she caught a glimpse of motion -- a 
beggar, from what little she saw of his ragged clothes, 
scurrying out of sight behind some trash barrels.
   Now that she was looking for it, she also spotted 
occasional pale faces peering through the windows of the 
still-standing houses, then vanishing.
   So everyone was not dead after all, only hiding.
   She had never been in this district before, but she knew 
this was not the way to the Temple. Did they not mean to 
sacrifice her?
   On and on they walked, passing three more detachments of 
human soldiers. They responded to the sight of their 
commander the way the ones at the gaol had, stiffening to 
attention. With the Dark Warrior just behind her, she 
couldn't see if he nodded to them or not, but he spoke not 
a word to them.
   When they turned a last corner and she saw the North 
Gate two blocks away, her breath caught in her throat. She 
did not dare let herself hope as they walked her toward it.
   A dozen or so soldiers stood guard. As they drew up to 
them, the Dark Warrior stepped forward, saying simply "Open 
the gate."
   One man quickly unlocked and opened the gate as the 
others stepped aside, and Jahl was guided through onto the 
hard-packed dirt of the road beyond, her guards following.
   When they had gotten just outside the gate, the orcish 
hand on her shoulder yanked her to a halt. She heard the 
tall blond man's voice again, ordering the four human 
soldiers to return to their posts. She craned her neck to 
look back as they muttered acknowledgements and turned 
around, walking back through the gate, and she was left 
with only the Dark Warrior and his two orcs.
   She was pushed only a little ways down the road -- still 
within easy sight of the soldiers if not their hearing. 
Then they stepped off into the rank grass beside the dusty 
path, and halted again.
   She hadn't noticed that one of the orcs had a key ring 
like the one the gaoler wore, but now he handed it to the 
tall man.
   He stepped behind her and unlocked the shackles on her 
wrists. They fell away with a jingle of metal.
   And then he stepped to her left, laying one hand on the 
side of her neck -- over the rune collar, in fact. She felt 
a thrill of fear again, wanting to wince away from his 
touch . . . but then the heavy collar loosened, and fell 
from her neck.
   He caught it one-handed as it fell, and stepped back, 
his dark eyes unfathomable.
   "I'm letting you go," he said simply. "You're free."
   It was so hard to grasp that Jahl found a small store of 
courage and looked directly up into his face, but she could 
gain no answers there.
   "Why?" she finally asked.
   And then, unexpectedly, the stone was broken by an odd, 
almost embarrassed smile. Those brooding eyes warmed ever 
so little.
   "I am asking myself that right now," he said. "Some of 
the answers I know. Others -- I'm not certain of. Your 
teacher was a brave man. I hope you appreciated him."
   *He killed Tirnal*, she thought. Later she never knew 
why she risked her next words, but they were out without 
her thinking.
   "I thought you without honor."
   His smile turned rueful. There seemed no anger in it at 
all.
   "I have thought the same of those of the Light. I wish I 
could have spared him."
   He nodded quickly at the two bodyguard orcs.
   A clawed hand seized her arm, and pushed her back toward 
the road, away from Dorgeyzhim. She looked back one last 
time at the Dark Warrior, but the smile was gone now, even 
from his eyes.
   "Go," he told her. "Before I change my mind."


EPILOGUE -- RAVEN'S RITUAL CHAMBER, TWELVE DAYS LATER

   The Gate was open, a great circle the height of a tall 
man hanging in midair, revealing the demon on the other 
side.
   With its white-feathered wings, its beautiful face and 
perfect body, the Phlegazeum looked not unlike an angel 
from the Bright Realm. Its voice was smoother, more 
melodious, than a man's could possibly be.
   Only its strange violet eyes revealed its suppressed 
fury. It took all Raven's formidable will not to shiver at 
that inhuman gaze.
   When he had cast the Gate spell, he had expected to face 
the anger of the demons about what he had done.
   He had not expected to face a Phlegazeum -- a Chehezrim, 
perhaps, but not a Phlegazeum.
   "What foolishness possessed you to do this?"
   He licked dry lips, felt the hammer of his pulse in his 
throat and chest.   
   "You know that I mind-probed both the Archmage and the 
girl," he said carefully, his voice betraying none of his 
fear. "I see no way there could have been any deception or 
trick. Do you?"
   The demon blinked.
   "We do not," it confessed after a moment. "But this 
could still have been a trick. You did not merely snatch a 
morsel from our plate; you took a grave risk.
   "Now, answer the question. I will not ask a second time, 
mortal."
   Raven drew a long breath, feeling a trickle of sweat run 
down the back of his neck. The demon expected a reply, and 
he did not really have one. Only the knowledge that he 
would not have changed his decision if he could.
   "He was a courageous man," he said. "He earned my 
respect."
   "You offer that as an excuse?" The very flatness of its 
tone was frightening.
   "No. I offer no excuse."
   And then he lifted his head, defiance mingle with his 
fear. "I will not beg your forgiveness, V'lakhadrael. I did 
as I saw fit. And what of his torment at my hands? The way 
in which I toyed with him? Did it give your lords no 
delight?"
   The Phlegazeum paused and actually seemed to consider 
that for several long moments. Then it smiled, the sweet, 
cold smile that had so often sent shivers down Raven's 
back.
   "You are as insolent as you are beautiful, Dark Warrior. 
But yes, that was indeed unexpectedly and delightfully 
original. You deserve praise for your ingenuity there."
   Then its smile faded.
   "Nevertheless, I and my kin will punish you for your 
error. You will submit yourself to us, now, and you will 
make up with your own suffering for what you deprived us of 
when you let the apprentice go. You will make up for it 
threefold, mortal. I have merely played with you before; 
this time, I will punish you. You will beg for mercy before 
we are done."
   Raven believed it.
   "As my masters wish," he replied, his voice still 
steady. "I will submit."
   And he stepped through the Gate into the Dark Realm.
   He had warned his generals and his servants not to 
expect him to emerge from the room for the next two days. 
He would need every turning of that time.


EPILOGUE TWO -- THE ROAD TO TERISKOR

   "Shh. It's safe. It was just a dream." A strong but 
gentle hand was shaking Jahl's shoulder. "Just a dream, 
that's all."
   Jahl opened her eyes to the lingering darkness of pre-
dawn, realizing she must have woken up screaming again. The 
man loomed over her, visible only in silhouette against the 
stars, and for a moment her heart froze before she realized 
it was only the farmer whose family she had been traveling 
with.
   Tirnal's face, his voice, had haunted her dreams every 
one of the six nights she'd spent on the road to Teriskor 
so far, leaving her feeling all the more desolate when she 
awoke. Sometimes his dreamtime presence was joined by those 
of others she'd known at the Chantry -- fellow students, 
other mages, those who had died when she had somehow been 
spared.
   Often, before the family awoke, she would give way to a 
spate of quiet weeping that never brought true relief. Her 
sorrow was too great to be exorcised so easily.
   This time, the dream had not been of Tirnal. Instead, 
she'd relived the mind-probe -- the Dark Warrior standing 
over her, his blackness filling her mind, raping it.
   Her vision cleared, and the dark shadow looming over her 
was only that of the farmer.
   Pazen, she remembered. His name was Pazen.
   Jahl smiled weakly as she pushed down her remembered 
terror, her brimming grief.
   "I'm sorry, Pazen," she mumbled, and then her voice 
became clearer as her mind did. "Did I wake you up?"
    He smiled -- a brief little smile, but a smile 
nonetheless. "It's time to get moving anyway. Daybreak 
comes." The sky was paling, from blackness to that washed-
out colorless note it gets just before true dawn begins.
    She rose slowly, stretching stiff muscles. The blanket 
had been little comfort on the hard ground. She rolled it 
up and went to put it back in the cart.
   Though they surely noticed the marks of tears on her 
face, Pazen, his wife Reis and their three thin, weary 
children had too much tact and kindness to say anything 
about it. In any case, they had their own troubles. It was 
too late in the summer to replant, and the pathetic sum of 
money they had would not be enough to see them through the 
winter. What awaited them at the end of their journey in 
Teriskor was most likely not fresh farmland but slavery.
   Nevertheless, they shared what little food they had with 
her, a generosity that sometimes almost moved her to tears 
even past her own overwhelming grief.
   There was nothing she could do to return the favor, 
other than her share of the work. Just as there was nothing 
she could do for the dead. She tried to focus her mind the 
way she'd been taught, thinking only of what lay ahead.
    Teriskor. Tirnal had told her of a friend and colleague 
of his who lived there, Jovhis. Perhaps she could find 
shelter with him -- if not as an apprentice, at least as a 
servant.
   As she put the blanket back into the cart, she heard a 
small cry from one of the children as Reis awoke them. 
Pazen had gone to fetch the hobbled mule.
   It was already warm. The road to Teriskor would be dusty 
and hot today.

   

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More of my work may be found at Maureen Lycaon's Velan 
Archive of Erotica at:

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