Bondage/angel
                        Darren Bloomquist & Michael Raleigh
                                        Angel
                                Copyright 1991 All rights reserved.
                       The Dark Lord made certain he was early for dinner, taking
                     his place at the head of the table half an hour before his
                    guests.  He ignored the youngsters setting the table as they
                  paused in their work to bow when he entered.  There was much to
                  discuss, and the Dark Lord was eager to be gone from the luxury
                    and dull security of Dark Hold.  He needed the excitement of
                  another campaign, he could only tolerate leisurely decadence for
                   so long.  He was unsure why he begrudged himself the pampered
                    life that so many of his nobility enjoyed.  He did not know
                  whether he was afraid it would wear away at him like salt water
                 on the metal of a good sword, or that he would become addicted to
                    such a life if he dallied with it too long.  He knew such an
                  addiction would sap his vitality, and reduce him to the type of
                 lapdog courtier whose fawning and petty schemes he only permitted
                 to exist because he needed their money to finance his ambition of
                   seeing the entire continent of Quapu come under his banner of
                                      blood-stained midnight.
                             Addiction was what he dreaded, he realized; the
                  relinquishing of his will to something else.  He had worked hard
                 for all the power he had achieved, and he would not sacrifice any
                  of it.  But was it the lifestyle he worried about, or something
                  else?  The image of Rhea intruded on his thoughts, as if on cue,
                  as it had been doing so often lately.  For a change, he dwelled
                 on it instead of dismissing it with the usual contempt.  The girl
                 had been coming to his mind far too often and he knew it was time
                   to address the possibilities of why; that was the only way he
                                        could be rid of it.
                       Having his permission, his memory lingered on the beauty he
                     had just left in his bed chamber, his collar on her pretty
                   throat, and a chain around her ankle.  The fingers of his left
                  hand idly stroked the arm of the chair, recalling her curves and
                   how she had felt when she pressed herself to him in her wanton
                    eagerness to please.  Rhea had been with him longer than any
                   other pet, and during that time she had been subjected to more
                 than her fair share of pain and pleasure at his whim, but she had
                 well-earned everything she had received, from her beatings to the
                     limited power she held over the rest of his harem.  A more
                   complete slave he had never had before, nor since, and he had
                 owned many.  Could it be possible that she did indeed love him as
                  she protested so often?  More disturbing was the thought that he
                               might actually be growing fond of her.
                        The Dark Lord's hand clamped down hard on the arm of his
                  chair that it had been stroking.  Love--such an empty word.  The
                   bards had exhausted it in their songs, using it to explain an
                 emotion that enthralled whole populations.  True, he did care for
                  Rhea, just as he cared for his hounds or other animals, but love
                                 was unthinkable, even intolerable.
                          Love was an emotion, and emotions promoted feelings. 
                 Feelings could complicate or poison his thoughts.  His precision,
                 perception and intuition were all that kept him one step ahead of
                  his enemies: alive and seated on his throne.  He knew that those
                  who let their hearts rule their heads lost the head in question,
                  just as he knew that if he lost his head it would end on a pike
                        somewhere, overlooking the usurper's victory feast.
                       Rhea was a slave, a mere toy to satisfy his every whim, and
                     nothing more.  The feelings that were causing her image to
                  intrude upon him so often were most likely only generated by the
                   fact that she had pleased and satisfied him the most of all of
                  his slaves.  She had always served well, except for the incident
                  Ferone One-hand had set up for her with the poisoned needle, but
                      even this was changing of late.  She had recently become
                   careless.  She had permitted Gold-lily to become bruised, even
                 though the elf had caused the bruises herself and inflicted worse
                  on Rhea.  This could almost be excused, perhaps with only light
                    discipline since it was the result of Gold-lily refusing to
                  accept her place as a slave.  Then, she had not educated the elf
                   in her new duties to her master.  Gold-lily was resistant and
                  obstinate and had nearly thrown him out of bed the last time he
                  had summoned her.  This too was almost excusable, since she had
                    not spent more than a day and a half with the elf.  Finally,
                   there was the matter of that miserable priest.  Rhea had never
                  failed in a seduction before, and the Dark Lord did not like the
                   look of the pattern that might be developing.  But she had not
                  lost her talent for pleasing him, as the languid feeling in his
                   limbs reminded him.  Her most recent performance, less than an
                   hour ago, had more than adequately reassured him that she was
                                         still serviceable.
                      The servants completed their tasks and bowed out of the door
                 when he dismissed them.  Left alone, with not even a guard or one
                    of his hounds for company and protection, he stared blankly
                 across the delicate crystal goblets, molded off of the delightful
                 breasts of a long-sold slave, and the silver dishes.  He reserved
                 the gold plates for very formal occasions.  A sigh escaped him as
                   the empty chairs suddenly filled with ghosts of the past; most
                  gone to their graves, but a select few still able to look at him
                          each time he passed through the Hall of Skulls.
                        One of the costs of building an empire is living with the
                 ghosts of those who fell to make the construction possible, and I
                   have indeed paid heavily.  Among the shades sat his father and
                  older brothers, the very first victims of his imperialism, some
                   of the very few that fell by his own hand.  He sneered at the
                  image of his father, wondering Have I proven myself a man to you
                   yet, Father?  Now that I hold sway over an empire greater than
                  anything you could have dreamed of?  An empire I have carved out
                  of the land and its people, with my own hands, and paid for with
                  my own blood?  Am I finally good enough to be the fruit of your
                 loins?  And what of you, my brothers?  What pale glories of yours
                 could compare with the splendor I have created?  What magnificent
                  destiny could any of you have brought our tiny kingdom of Guhrya
                      to?  Not the majesty I hold now, not, I think not!     
                       Next were the nobles and ladies of his father's court whom
                      he had known since childhood.  They were pillars of the
                  moralistic, pure-hearted and enlightened society, who had turned
                    against him to side with his older sisters in a short-lived
                 rebellion.  Fools, he admonished them with a scowl as he recalled
                    some of the more prominent faces, both before and after his
                 ascension to power.  The superstitious contempt they had held him
                   and Zara in, as if they could have helped being twin-born, the
                   arrogance behind their facades of righteous chastity when the
                  twins were revealed, the pompous dignity as they fawned over the
                     more favored princes and princesses crossed his mind.  The
                  burning rage he had felt most of the time he was growing up came
                  back, only to be quenched and soothed by the memory of how they
                 had begged and whimpered so pitifully before him, and pleaded the
                 virtues of mercy before he had sentenced them to the hands of his
                                  new executioners and torturers.
                       Beyond those sorry shades, the Dark Lord found the faces of
                    the people he really missed, whose loss was deserving of his
                  grief.  The soldiers of the Old Guard, who stood along side him
                  against the empire's early enemies, his very first legionnaires,
                  who had believed in him and spilt their blood in his campaigns. 
                  There were dukes, an admiral or two, distinguished officers and
                   common soldiers who held their ends of the imperial line when
                  enemy ranks closed upon them.  They were men who had never left
                   those first bloody battlefields, whose lifeless bodies adorned
                   great funeral pyres in the streets of the first city-states to
                  fall to him, or sank into the muck at the bottom of the river or
                                    sea to feed the myriad fish.
                        The silent multitude haunted him.  There were a few whose
                 faces he saw, those who had died near him, a few, like the sandy-
                  haired drummer boy of eight, who had died in his arms.  But most
                   of the helms covered only emptiness.  I made myself a promise
                  when we began this great work.  I vowed I would remember each of
                 you who fell in the name of my Empire, for it was yours as well. 
                     But as the wars went on and the losses multiplied, I just
                   couldn't.  All I can do now is lift a goblet to the memory of
                  your deeds, and hope that somewhere, someone remembers, because
                   I, the man you died for, cannot.  He picked up his wine glass
                  from the table before remembering he had ordered no wine set on
                  the table before the meal.  He had expected to be occupied until
                  the last minute.  His cup remained as vacant as the faces of the
                   phantoms around him.  "We shall drink a toast to you tonight,"
                  the Dark Lord promised aloud to the empty room around him.  "To
                   that I swear."  The spectral company nodded in reply and faded
                                     back into the nothingness.
                         Alone again, he turned his thoughts to the matters that
                   would soon be at hand, namely explaining to his council their
                   parts in his most recent plans of conquest.  King Fionn would
                 also be joining them for dinner, alone save for his bodyguard, so
                 that the council could appraise him and decide if he would make a
                   better friend or foe.  Dinner was for getting reacquainted by
                 good food, excellent wine and even better old memories.  The real
                   planning would take place in the war room upstairs, a conclave
                              which King Fionn would not be attending.
                       After a time, the bell began to toll the first hour of the
                   evening (sixth hour will put it about 2 am!) and a respectful
                 knock came at the door.  Moving to sit up straight, the Dark Lord
                    gave the command to enter, and the door opened for the elite
                   honor guard.  They were dressed in their best parade armor and
                 marched around the perimeter of the chamber in a precise fashion,
                   assuming their posts at very precise intervals.  The Dark Lord
                    watched as the Captain of the Guard gave the orders and his
                   troops came to attention and turned to put their backs to the
                    walls.  Satisfied, the Dark Lord nodded and, after a hearty
                   salute pounded off his shoulder, the captain took his place to
                    the right of the chair at the foot of the table.  It was his
                     privilege to occupy this seat whenever the elite guard was
                                        required for meals.
                      After the guards, Lem followed, leading in all of the girls,
                    except Rhea, Chandra, Morgan, Alia and Gold-lily.  The girls
                    quietly entered the room and situated themselves around the
                     table, each selecting a pair of chairs to stand behind and
                   between.  Darlene and Dara, having their orders, took the head
                   and foot of the table, standing behind and to the left of the
                  chairs.  All knew they would serve the men who sat in the chairs
                     they had selected, providing them with anything that would
                    satisfy them, including private entertainment later if they
                 desired.  Each wore a sheer two-piece garment of rainbow hue with
                  a flattering glitter of jewelry and expertly applied cosmetics. 
                 Each was a vision of loveliness, presenting her best features for
                                    the pleasure of her master.
                      Elna entered last with a psaltry and a large pillow from the
                   harem.  She would not be tending the table tonight, but rather
                    providing the only formal entertainment.  She positioned the
                  pillow in a corner across from the door to the oil reservoir and
                  knelt trying not to look nervous.  Her performance would have to
                                            be flawless.
                          The Dark Lord surveyed his arrangement proudly.  The
                   symbolic uniformity and hardness of the guards contrasted well
                   with the softly subdued individual beauties around the table,
                 making a splendid visual representation of his power.  A sweep of
                    his hand dismissed the eunuch to the harem to watch over his
                  master's prize trophy who would be displayed after the banquet. 
                  All was in readiness, and he turned to watch the door, taking an
                    appreciative glance at Darlene as she stood shyly behind his
                                               chair.
                         She was lovely, not as achingly beautiful as some, but
                   pretty in a way some beauties never had.  Any other girl might
                  have dared a tentative look up at him, but Darlene kept her eyes
                  to the floor, not in fear like Gold-lily, nor out of respect or
                    worship, like Alia and Zandra, but from innocent longing to
                   please.  She was his innocent flower, untouched and unspoiled,
                    whose nectar would soon bear sampling.  She was the only one
                    whose affections he trusted as genuine.  She was thoroughly
                 trained now, and he had toyed with her on occasion, but had never
                   taken her completely.  She was also the only one who had never
                   felt the explosive slap of his hand or the burning kiss of his
                   whip, the only one who had experienced nothing but his gentle
                                               side.
                       Footsteps from the stairs broke his sentimental yearnings,
                  and he watched the first of the commanders arrive.  Duke William
                  James IX of Guhrya commanded the elite First Legion, as well as
                  governing much of the Empire's eastern half.  He was one of the
                   few men left from King Leonyir's reign, and had been with the
                      Dark Lord from the very beginning.  He was a judicious,
                   moralistic and traditional man, and as fine a politician as a
                  soldier.  He had no ambition to do anything more than serve his
                   emperor, as his family had generations before, even beyond the
                   memory of the Time of Darkness.  The Dark Lord's ancestors had
                  ruled the area of Guhrya beyond memory or history, and there had
                    always been a James at their side.  The duke would speak for
                  nearly half of the Empire in the council, and his counsel, would
                                      be especially important.
                      Duke Zuberbier followed him, a flamboyant lethargic man, the
                       misbegotten product of noble inbreeding and hereditary
                    succession.  Since his father was a duke, and he came from a
                 noble family of great affluence, he assumed the military rank and
                 status upon his  father's death, regardless of his personal worth
                   or competence.  It was one of the few traditions the Dark Lord
                  had not opposed, since to do so would have cost him the support
                   of much of the nobility.  It was easier to merely relocate the
                     useless ones to calm, insignificant provinces, instead of
                 deposing them and giving his nobles a cause to unite against him. 
                   They kept their pretty titles and trappings, but held no real
                  power and fatal accidents could always be arranged if he needed
                   to replace them quickly.  Rima was such a sleepy province, and
                    although blessed with the princess for whom it was named, a
                  prince, and Duke Zuberbier as well, the real power rested in the
                  hands of the admiralty, headed by Rima's husband, Paloken, a man
                  who had spent most of his life on the sea before his age caught
                     up with him.  This new campaign promised to make Rima more
                  significant, and although Duke Zuberbier commanded only a single
                    legion, he would need briefing as much as the more competent
                                  dukes who commanded five or six.
                       General Cartwright, another of his senior officers entered
                 chatting with General Garza.  They were an unlikely pair at best. 
                   Cartwright was tenacious, traditional and wise.  He had served
                  the Dark Lord's father and grandfather with the same unswerving
                   loyalty that he bore his emperor.  He was of the old nobility,
                  widely respected and as fine a fighting man as most men half his
                  age.  Garza, on the other hand, was living proof that the empire
                  discriminated only against the weak.  A towering unsightly giant
                  of a man, in whose veins was rumored to flow the blood of ogres
                  and trolls, as well as that of his human mother, a slave in the
                    exotically vicious Chained Collar brothel in Ellanya, he was
                   utterly ruthless.  He commanded the southern outposts, holding
                  them against the Ice Queen and her hordes.  The spring thaw ran
                  red with the blood of legionnaires and Winter Wizards each year
                  since he had been posted, and through his efforts, the southern
                  border had advanced more than fifty leagues.  Unlike Cartwright
                   who would support the Dark Lord's plans unhesitatingly, Garza
                    would most likely voice his grievances against the upcoming
                   campaign, since it would draw on the resources needed to keep
                                        back the Ice Queen.
                         General Victor "Victorious," of the renowned Lightening
                   Legion followed them, hiding his amusement at the conversation
                   topic.  He was boisterous, cunning and proud; one of the more
                     ingenious of the military chiefs.  He was able to make and
                   execute snap decisions, based almost entirely on his unerring
                  combat instincts.  He and his Lightening Legion, the only legion
                   that operated completely on horseback, would be crucial to the
                    Dark Lord's ultimate designs in securing the Elven Kingdom.
                       Warlord Toggle Fingerbiter entered and chose his seat with
                  no ceremony and an approving glance at Phyllia posted beside his
                  chair.  He was no tactician, but he and his people would follow
                 orders and fight to their dying breath, since death in battle was
                  their way of assuring great rewards in the next life.  He would
                    speak for many and support anything the Dark Lord proposed.
                       Admirals Thomas Ekert of Londarus and Charles Stout of Rima
                  were carrying on their customary friendly feud over whose river
                    forces were more effective at pirate hunting: Rima's, where
                  quality troops were needed to keep the smugglers, and the ships
                   from Lupa and Tavect in line, or Londarus' forces who clashed
                   with river pirates and barbarian raiders, in situations where
                      numbers were of more use than strategy.  They were both
                    argumentative, determined and resourceful, and each knew his
                   river, its shores, and the opposing forces intimately.  Their
                 special knowledge would be as invaluable as the Lightening Legion
                 to the success of the campaign.  This would be the first time the
                   imperial army and navy had worked in direct cooperation.  The
                  Dark Lord disliked first times because too much could go wrong,
                          so there was much to plan to ensure nothing did.
                          General Timothy Oakleaf, the empire's only half-elven
                   general followed the debating captains, looking bored at their
                  conversation.  He was taciturn and spiteful, and like most dark
                 elves had spent his life trying to live down his elven heritage. 
                 He was fiercely competitive with his peers, a character flaw that
                 the Dark Lord had molded from a liability to an imperial benefit. 
                   His hatred for his elven blood, like that of most half breeds
                  cast from the light of Eslil, had become a driving conviction to
                  destroy the race that had borne him and cast him out when he did
                   not conform.  He was the expert on elven society, customs and
                  mind-set, and always requested stations near the Elven Kingdom. 
                     He had personally led several of the reprisals against the
                      infrequent elven raids.  His support for the plan would
                          neutralize much of Garza's expected opposition.
                      General Ravensblood, the youngest and newest of the generals
                  entered last, leading Morgan on a leash.  The brazen display of
                   his loaned bedwarmer only confirmed the reports about him.  He
                   was said to be impulsive, inexperienced and lucky; a rogue in
                 imperial uniform.  He was already a folk hero, based on his short
                   career.  His tactics were spectacular, haphazard and based on
                  surprise, novelty and great risk.  None of the more established
                  generals were comfortable working with him, and no one was sure
                        if he was a greater asset or danger to the military.
                          The eleven men stood, anticipating the arrival of the
                 missing three that the table was set for, quietly conversing with
                   each other and admiring the slave girls that would be serving
                  them.  The Dark Lord noticed that Morgan was kneeling perfectly,
                   even if her bound hands were clenched into angry little fists
                   behind her back.  It would be amusing to watch her during the
                                         interplay tonight.
                       Moments later, Balkar arrived, escorting King Fionn and Sir
                   Edward.  The company was seated with a simple motion of their
                 host's hand, a casual show of dauntless supremacy which mortified
                   Sir Edward.  Introductions followed, and the Dark Lord watched
                 the reaction slyly.  The Tavectans had probably never seen a real
                 hobgoblin before, and Generals Garza and Oakleaf hid their scowls
                       poorly under the formality, as if sensing a new enemy.
                       Dara, at the end of the table, moved to the wooden panel at
                 a snap of her master's fingers and signalled the cooks to send up
                  the food.  Elna, reacting to the same snap, began a lively tune
                   she had heard sung around the barracks.  It was an unorthodox
                   choice for a formal banquet, but since it was not ribald, she
                     doubted there would be objections.  Approving glances from
                 Ravensblood and Admiral Stout confirmed her belief.  She knew her
                   master hated dull, sleepy melodies when he was among friends.
                        The slave girls went to where Dara had received the first
                   platters and began the task of serving their master's guests. 
                    More than one shot Elna a glance of envy.  She could sit in
                   whatever position she found comfortable while she played, well
                  out of reach of the greedy hands many of them would feel before
                  the end of the evening.  They would be standing and moving about
                  all night, and then if selected for private duties, would likely
                   get no sleep.  Elna would be excused to rest her sore fingers
                 after the meal was over, they would clear the table and report to
                              the various suites, chambers and tents.
                       During the first course, among the fried curds and chicken
                 patties with almonds, was circulated an elongated divided platter
                 stocked with what appeared to be large brown peas with dark spots
                 on the sides and a curiously fermented odor.  The other side held
                   long segmented strips and smaller round bits of meat.  Toggle
                  Fingerbiter smiled favorably and hungrily eyed the platter as it
                   was started at the head of the table, as were all the dishes. 
                     The Dark Lord, noticing, and not wishing to offend, took a
                   healthy spoonful of the dark spheroids and an ample helping of
                    the meats.  Balkar followed suit, but most of the other men
                    passed it by or took only a modest helping from it.  Toggle
                   spooned a triple portion of both foods onto his plate and ate
                                            with relish.
                         When the tray finally reached Sir Edward, the Dark Lord
                   intentionally slipped a large spoonful of the spheres into his
                 own mouth and smiled encouragingly as he chewed, while discreetly
                  swallowing them without letting his teeth touch them.  The young
                 knight took a careful, but large helping from the girl who smiled
                                down at him, never meeting his gaze.
                         Having never seen such food, the Tavectans sampled the
                    dishes cautiously.  They were salty, with an unusually tangy
                   flavor and a stringy interior texture which differed from the
                  smooth, slightly wrinkled exteriors on which their tongues could
                 detect tiny ruffles.  Still, they were interesting and palatable,
                  but clearly not vegetable as first thought.  The long strips of
                 meat were tender, while the small round bits were somewhat chewy,
                                but flavorful, like excellent beef.
                        Curious and considering making the dish a centerpiece for
                   the next masked ball, during the approaching Harvest Festival,
                    King Fionn asked his host what they were, just as Sir Edward
                   beckoned the girl back from Toggle who had just taken another
                  large helping.  The Dark Lord only smiled as he cleared the last
                   of the meat from his plate, followed by the remaining spheroid
                  and washed them down quickly with a large gulp of wine.  He was
                       glad to be done with them and on to the more appealing
                 appetizers.  After a bite of the chicken patty, noticing the cook
                  had been heavy-handed on the rosewater again, he commented, "You
                                        like them, do you?"
                       "Oh, quite," King Fionn returned, noticing the some of the
                      other diners who had taken them had not even touched the
                  appetizer.  "You set a fine table, Great Lord, but please, what
                   are these called.  I'm sure I've tasted something similar, but
                                       I'd like to be sure."
                      "Pooshnok," the Dark Lord answered, gesturing with his wine-
                  glass to the brown spheroids Sir Edward was adding to his plate,
                         "served in accompaniment with Javooka-du-Shagga."
                        "Is special hobgoblin delegate," Toggle added from across
                  the table between enthusiastic bites.  General Oakleaf stifled a
                     snicker in his wine-glass as Sir Edward blanched, his jaws
                                 momentarily ceasing their chewing.
                      "Delicacy, Toggle," the Dark Lord corrected.  "We can't have
                 our guests thinking they are eating sentient beings.  The word is
                  delicacy, not delegate."  The hobgoblin nodded and shrugged and
                   apology.  Sir Edward regained his composure somewhat, but ate
                                  with noticeably less enthusiasm.
                        Now more curious than ever, King Fionn persisted, "We may
                  have to rethink our initial evaluation of your humanoid allies. 
                                   But please, what is Pooshnok?"
                      The Dark Lord gestured to General Garza who had been leaning
                   forward, eager to explain.  "As the Warlord said," the general
                  began formally, "they are a hobgoblin delicacy.  Most humanoids
                  from the Mountains of Menace live underground, hence their diets
                 have developed along a very restricted track from limited natural
                    resources.  In fact, Pooshnok was extremely rare until only
                    recently when our new trading policies opened them up to the
                   outside, but even now they are still considered a delicacy, at
                    least to some palates.  But in answer to your question, Your
                   Majesty, Pooshnok is pickled goose eyes, and Javooka-du-Shagga
                      are worms sauteed in butter with crack-shelled snails."
                       Duke Zuberbier roared with laughter as Sir Edward turned an
                      unhealthy shade of green and slumped in his chair, but a
                    withering glance from the Dark Lord silenced his ridicule. 
                     General Ravensblood, having unwittingly taken a fair sized
                  portion of the buttered worms and snails also felt a sudden knot
                 in his stomach, but avoided reproach, by feeding the remainder of
                    his food to Morgan, who shuddered at every mouthful.  It was
                    permissible to feed the slave girls unwanted food, and as a
                          slave, Morgan could not refuse any such favors.
                         "An interesting menu, Great Lord," King Fionn answered,
                  taking a moment to let his own stomach settle as Ursala refilled
                  his wine-glass.  "Snails are a delicacy in Tavect as well, but I
                            had never considered worms, or goose eyes."
                       The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow at the admission, but said
                   nothing.  He in turn let his stomach settle at the thought of
                 civilized humans eating snails.  Humanoids he expected it of, and
                    he had only had the cooks prepare the repulsive dish for the
                    benefit of Toggle and to watch the Tavectans choke when they
                  found out what they had been eating.  Only Sir Edward had given
                    him the pleasure, and now it had been turned upon him with a
                   vengeance.  He found himself wondering how hard it would be to
                      lay siege to a people who could resort to eating snails.
                       Dinner progressed nicely, and the talk invariably turned to
                  the military prowess of Tavect and the treaty.  Tavect's rivalry
                  with Lupa was well-known to both Admirals who had made their own
                 assessments of both kingdom's navies.  They had been called on at
                 times to escort imperial vessels through the disputed waters, and
                     had lost potential smugglers and pirates to the safety of
                 either's ports, where they could not pursue without international
                   incident.  They believed that while Tavect and Lupa were well
                   matched to each other, neither could stand against an imperial
                  fleet.  Lupa's ships were faster, while Tavect's were sturdier,
                  but the Empire had both and in far greater numbers than even the
                                          combined forces.
                       General Oakleaf noted that Tavect's army had not engaged in
                  any major conflicts for generations, and that its fortifications
                   along the borders were antiquated, more serviceable as watch-
                 towers than as credible strongholds.  He added that Lupa was more
                  progressive, and their ongoing fortification construction was a
                                     matter of national pride.
                         King Fionn readily agreed to all of the facts, only to
                 stress again that his kingdom was dedicated to peace, but capable
                 of defending itself if attacked, with an army that was constantly
                      on the move, making its size impossible for invaders to
                                             calculate.
                        "None of those invaders," Sir Edward quickly pointed out,
                 "have ever managed to take and keep Tavectan ground for more than
                                a few weeks before being destroyed."
                         "And none of them," Balkar countered, "have ever been a
                             particularly large force in all my years."
                        "That is fortunate for them," the young knight returned. 
                    "Our enemies have learned that any force sent against us is
                  doomed.  It is not our fault that they are intelligent enough to
                      prefer the certain destruction of hundreds over that of
                                            thousands."
                                "Thousands?"  Balkar immediately probed.
                      "The army of Tavect does what is required of it," King Fionn
                 interceded, determined not to let the wizard call his bluff.  The
                 belief of an invincible army was all Tavect had to protect itself
                 with, and King Fionn knew it all too well.  Brianna's spendthrift
                   habits had resulted in his neglect of national security, yet a
                  fortuitous marriage could bolster that security as never before,
                 but he would have to maintain the hoax for a while yet to bargain
                                    from a position of strength.
                       "Perhaps, Good King," Duke Zuberbier ventured, "you are too
                   lenient with your taxes?  The only way to live well is through
                  the purses of others, and really, what use have the peasants for
                 money?  They certainly aren't smart enough to spend it properly.

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"
                      "My taxes are more than sufficient," Fionn replied, looking 
                  suspiciously at the golden apples that Camille was offering him
                  before taking one.  It's my management of money that's to blame,
                  he added silently.  His mind drifted to his daughter's wardrobe,
                   filled with gowns and accessories that went out of fashion far
                       too quickly for what they cost, and her lavish jewelry
                  collection.  Magpies and youngest daughters adore shiny things,
                        but a quarter of my girl's baubles could finance the
                 refurbishment of those antiquated castles and the construction of
                  a dozen new warships!  The golden apple turned out to be a ball
                         of pork encased in some sort of egg-based coating.
                          After several slave girls had set the main course of
                  cockatrice on the table, to appropriate noises of approval, they
                  returned to their places behind the diners' chairs.  Two of the
                  beasts were set out, and closer tasting revealed that they made
                   of suckling pig and rooster, highly spiced and endored with a
                        red-brown coating before having the feathers added.
                      "A most clever subtlety, Great Lord," commented King Fionn. 
                     "There are records of such feasts being held in my great-
                     grandfather's court.  I fear our cooks have become simple-
                                              minded."
                        "This is a trifle," the Dark Lord returned, resolving to
                    compliment the cooks.  "For my last birthday they created an
                 entire dragon."  He stretched luxuriously as Darlene's soft hands
                      rubbed his shoulders.  He noted disapprovingly that Duke
                 Zuberbier seasoned his food very liberally with kaniba taken from
                                    an ornate silver dispenser.
                      Further discussion proved fruitless in gaining an account of
                     the numbers in Tavect.  Known battles were reviewed as the
                   chroniclers had recorded them, and minor information gaps were
                  filled by either the king or his knight, but precise numbers and
                   tactics were never discussed.  Even if an enemy's numbers were
                    known, Tavect's were never disclosed.  Although none of the
                 battles had been waged against opposition the size of an imperial
                     legion, which was promising, if Tavect was indeed hiding a
                  skilled massive force behind inadequate exterior defenses, they
                 might easily give the Dark Lord his first major military disaster
                  since Ocara.  This time there would be no secret allies to call
                                    on, and he just might lose.
                       Getting nowhere, and not wishing to offend his guests, the
                   Dark Lord directed the conversation to the proposed alliance,
                 especially the difficult point of how many troops might be paired
                    with his legions.  They could keep their advisors and their
                  banners, he merely wanted numbers equitable to what the kingdom
                  could spare.  King Fionn again held to the original offer of one
                     hundred, refusing to be swayed by either glory or spoils,
                          claiming his kingdom's only interest was peace.
                       Resisting the temptation to crush the wine-glass he held to
                  ease his frustration, the Dark Lord began working his situation
                   through silently.  He's hiding something, but I cannot risk a
                  miscalculation against him when I'm already taking a large risk
                   with the elves.  Damn if he's not about to force an alliance I
                 don't want, and maybe even find some way of holding me to it so I
                  cannot turn on him.  We're too much alike, this king and I, far
                 too much alike.  That means I need to find his weakness if I'm to
                           exploit him before he finds a weakness in me.
                       The banquet finally drew to a close, with the appearance of
                 the olikuken and the wine in bottles instead of carafes, a signal
                 it was time to toast the night before retiring.  The small raisin
                 and current studded bread puffs were eaten in near silence, while
                   the girls lucky enough to be kneeling near a benevolent guest
                 were permitted to sample dessert, although more than one paid for
                 the privilege by having their breasts fondled or a nipple cruelly
                  pinched through the sheer fabric.  Morgan, who had been fed more
                   in this one meal than she was accustomed to eating in two days
                  appeared bloated.  Her ample breasts served General Ravensblood
                  as a seemingly endless source of amusement as he toyed with them
                   and forced her to accept food from his mouth with his kisses. 
                     Several of the older and more established men were rather
                 displeased with his seeming lack of discretion, but the Dark Lord
                  took a certain measure of satisfaction in watching his spiteful
                    bandit being humiliated before the entire harem, knowing she
                  hated the watching eyes as much as her own inability to resist.
                      Neither the twins, kneeling obediently beside the Tavectans,
                 nor Phyllia, serving the frightening Warlord, received any of the
                  dessert.  In Tavect servants did not eat at the table, and were
                    definitely not fed from it like animals.  Phyllia had eaten
                 little, since Toggle had been enjoying his meal too much to share
                   with anyone.  A few of the other generals, noting the lack of
                  attention, had fed her when she had served, but she could still
                 hear her stomach rumbling at the smell of the honey the hobgoblin
                 had drenched the olikuken in.  The others were more generous, and
                    most of General Ravensblood's dessert found its way from his
                 mouth to Morgan's.  General Garza nearly gave his, plate and all,
                   to Lucy, since he disliked anything sweet.  Olikuken were not
                     especially sweet, but the raisins were not to his liking.
                      Darlene had served well, and was rewarded with several small
                  bites from her master's own fork, and a long sensuous caressing
                   of her throat and shoulders.  He gently lifted her chin so he
                  could look at her pretty face, noticing the soft imploring eyes,
                    and the way she ran her tongue lightly along the side of his
                  thumb as it brushed her lips.  The delicate arching of her back,
                    that presented her breasts to him in a display of submissive
                 longing intrigued him.  The Dark Lord ran two fingers through the
                  honey that remained on his plate and brought them to her lips. 
                    She licked his fingertips lightly, savoring the sweetness on
                 them, before moving to encompass them with her mouth.  She closed
                 her lips very slowly, stroking his fingers with her tongue before
                  he withdrew them.  He smiled approvingly down at her.  Rhea had
                 trained this one well.  Very soon now, she would be ready for his
                                                bed.
                          Returning his attention to his guests, the Dark Lord
                      refilled his wine-glass and stood.  Elna stopped playing
                    instantly, her sore fingers going promptly to her mouth.  "A
                 toast," he declared.  "One from each of us, and then the night is
                    through."  The company smiled and took up their own glasses
                     expectantly.  It was a visionary close to a perfect meal.
                        Drawing a deep breath, the Dark Lord gazed out across the
                   table, looking past the live guests, to the faceless phantoms
                   beyond the walls, as he raised his glass before him.  "To all
                     those whom we had to leave behind on the battlefields, and
                    beneath the waters, without whose courage and sacrifice the
                 Empire would not stand as it does today.  And especially to those
                 whom we know served with us, and died for us, but whose names and
                                     faces we cannot remember."
                       A prolonged silence filled the air, each man seeming to see
                  his own ghosts reflected in the crystal of his wine-glass.  The
                 Dark Lord watched the smiles of appeasement on the faces he could
                  not remember as his own ghosts faded away.  Lightly chiming his
                   glass against Balkar's to break the commemorative silence, he
                    moved his arm left, to touch King Fionn's glass, and drank a
                   measured sip, leaving plenty for the other toasts.  His guests
                      followed suit and the hall filled with ringing crystal.
                        Balkar stood next, and presented his own glass.  "To the
                    alliance between Tavect and the Empire: may it be forged as
                    strongly as the swords in the hands of the soldiers who will
                                    stand on either side of it."
                       Duke Zuberbier followed, standing beside the wizard, as it
                   was the custom to remain standing after one's toast was drunk,
                   and cleared his throat in a poor attempt to hide a belch.  "To
                 health...and wealth...stealth.... and...and...uh, well, what else
                  matters?"  The Dark Lord blinked and held his eyes closed for a
                        moment too long, but drank the oafish toast anyway. 
                   Unfortunately the duke's military talent's matched his courtly
                     graces.  It galled the Dark Lord to think that his younger
                  brother, Prince Jame, was being exposed to this man as a proper
                                         social influence.
                          Admiral Stout rose quickly to make up for the Duke's
                 ineptitude.  "To the spirit of cooperation between the kingdom of
                     Tavect and the Empire: may our ships never need to meet in
                                             conflict."
                        Admiral Ekert offered a more ominously pragmatic toast to
                    follow him.  "And if that spirit of cooperation between our
                  nations should ever fail, and our ships do meet in conflict, may
                    the contest be quickly ended."  It was a double-edged sword,
                          gilded with words sweet enough to hide its bite.
                       General Garza shoved away from the table and brandished his
                   wine-glass like a weapon.  "To all those who have fallen," he
                 began, following his lord's example, "defending civilization from
                  the forces of chaos on our borders, and especially to those who
                 will continue to fall if we ever permit our ambitions to call our
                             armies from where they are truly needed."
                       The Dark Lord pondered the challenge to his authority as he
                   sipped his wine.  At least he now knew Garza would oppose him,
                  and he would be able to prepare his presentation around it.  The
                  challenge was permitted since it came from the man's heart, with
                    a genuine concern for the imperial citizens and legionnaires
                   along the frontier.  The challenges to him from personal pride
                        and jealousy were crushed without a second thought.
                        General Ravensblood stood, appearing at a loss for words
                  when his turn came until inspiration landed on him like a great
                   bird.  "To the Lady Ariadne of Keep Theda:  May Blessed Maira
                   grant her tortured spirit rest that the good people of Ocarina
                   may be spared her mournful hauntings."  The Dark Lord quietly
                   promised King Fionn he would explain the young general's very
                                       personal toast later.
                        The remaining toasts proceeded with no real distinctions,
                   mostly hopes for the alliance and well-wishes on the Empire or
                  Tavect or both, until only King Fionn was still seated.  He shot
                        a thoughtful look at Balkar, and then slowly stood.
                      "Before I lift my glass," he began after a short silence, "I
                   should first like to make an honest observation, then a grand
                    announcement, and finally my toast."  The room fell into an
                      anxious calm, and several men leaned forward in curious
                  anticipation, while the Dark Lord felt the warning tension cross
                    his shoulder--usually a warning that the enemy was about to
                  strike from behind in a battle.  He shrugged it off, knowing he
                                    was safe in his own castle.
                           "Through all of our discussions here, and your own
                  deliberating assessment of my kingdom, it should now be apparent
                  that Tavect is indeed a mighty nation, not by any means as great
                  as your empire, but still the dominant authority in our region,
                  rivalled by only one: the coalition of Lupa and Nikka across the
                  river from us.  War between your empire and this hated coalition
                  appears imminent, but it is my understanding that in future wars
                     of conquest you would consider it wiser to have my kingdom
                 aligned with you than against you.  Your bid for such an alliance
                   is hereby accepted, as understood and set forth in the treaty
                  your emperor and I have been discussing the past few days, with
                         but one condition that will be beneficial to all:
                        "At this time, I am pleased and proud to announce to this
                  assembly the betrothal of my only daughter, the Princess Brianna
                 Anastasia Theresa Fiona, to your Emperor, the Dark Lord.  A toast
                   to their happiness together, and to the strength and security
                          their union shall bring to both of our nations!"
                       The silence was like a thunderclap, knocking the breath out
                   of Sir Edward and a number of the generals.  It was broken by
                 simultaneous gasps from Phyllia and Darlene as the two girls felt
                  their hearts nearly stop in their chests.  The silence wore off
                 quickly, and was immediately followed by an almost joyous ringing
                  of wine-glasses and a rush of applause and congratulations from
                   everyone at the table, almost startling the Dark Lord a second
                  time.  He had not realized his generals were so anxious for him
                                          to take a wife.
                        "Congratulations, Sire!" Balkar beamed at him.  "I had no
                                               idea."
                      The Dark Lord glared at him before turning to King Fionn who
                 held his glass expectantly, waiting for him to seal the bargain. 
                  Instead, he locked eyes with the King, and poured the remaining
                  wine onto the floor, before planting his wine-glass upside down
                                           on the table.
                          "Neither did I," he answered his wizard dangerously. 
                                          "Neither did I."
                      The cheers and congratulations ceased abruptly, and all eyes
                    followed him as he left the dining hall.  Suspicious glances
                    began to fall on King Fionn and his knight.  Clearly anyone
                 capable of springing such an announcement without the approval of
                   one of the parties involved was no one to make a treaty with. 
                 The imperial leaders left one by one, going up to the war room as
                   they had been informed.  Soon the Tavectans were alone at the
                                    great table with the wizard.
                     "I thought you said he would take it well," King Fionn snapped.
                         "Your forgiveness, Great King.  Perhaps I can talk him
                       around to the idea," Balkar attempted to placate him.
                       "I hope you can.  We shall retire for the evening.  Let us
                    know of any progress that is made."  Beckoning Sir Edward to
                  follow, they retreated through the waiting room to their suite.
                        Caught in the middle, and not really wanting to go to the
                 war council, Balkar wondered if he could beg off on the excuse of
                   dinner not agreeing with him.  The guards were leaving and he
                    remained sitting.  Dara brushed next to him to retrieve her
                     master's inverted wine-glass.  "Tonight, my chambers," he
                                             whispered.
                       "Captain," she answered briefly, indicating the Captain of
                                  the Guard wished her attentions.
                         Balkar sighed and swirled the dregs of his wine in the
                  glass.  He lifted it briefly to the picture that appeared in his
                    mind's eye.  General Ravensblood had given him an idea, and
                   perhaps the alliance with Tavect would be made after all, only
                   with his signature at the bottom instead of the Dark Lord's. 
                   Knowing it was time to go, he left the dining hall for the war
                        room, hoping his absence would not be remarked upon.
                            Arriving, he found the discussion of King Fionn's
                   announcement loud and growing more heated by the minute.  The
                   Dark Lord had been backed into a conversational corner by his
                   married generals, while the unmarried ones hovered around the
                          edge, making pointed comments about succession.
                       "But I can't abide the chit!" he bellowed as Balkar walked
                                    in.  "Why now and why her?"
                         "Sire," Balkar began, nervously trying to smooth things
                   over, "You grow no younger, and you insist on taking needless
                 risks, like riding with your troops.  You have named no heir, and
                   we worry about the future of the Empire should you not return
                                          from a battle."
                        "That's what they've been telling me.  Besides, you knew
                   this was coming.  I saw the look King Fionn gave you before he
                   spoke!  Suppose I were to wed the princess, and fill her belly
                 before this next campaign, but some elf nails me from the trees? 
                 She would bear the child in late summer, well after I'm gone, and
                     then spend eighteen years raising it until it can take the
                   throne, and there's no guarantee it will be a boy!  My sister
                    Zara is my heir and after her comes Jame as all of you well
                   know."  There were dark looks from the Vanadan generals and a
                   mumbling about being ruled by a sorceress.  "Enough!" the Dark
                 Lord bellowed again.  "I will consider an Empress, but I will not
                  marry the Princess Brianna.  Not for all the swords in Schwerter
                 or all the doxies in Pergamum.  Balkar, you are not needed.  Give
                     apologies for my rudeness to King Fionn and tell him I am
                      considering his proposal.  Now enough about succession. 
                       Gentlemen, your assessments of the Tavect situation."
                       Balkar strode down the stairs, pleased to be away from the
                   discussion, but peeved at being dismissed like a footman.  He
                   would not visit the king tonight, he decided, let both rulers
                  stew for a while.  He swept through the cool evening air toward
                  his tower, a look of serene calm on his face.  He passed a pair
                  of orcish guards that grumbled quietly in their native tongue. 
                   He was amused to hear complaints about the food, as well as a
                              comment about a cheater in a card game.
                       He drifted up the stairs to his apartments, dispelling the
                  magical ward on his dorr with a single sweep of his hand before
                  opening it, the languid smile on his angelic face giving lie to
                  the trophies that were illuminated when he entered.  Some he had
                   collected, and others he had fashioned himself to perfect his
                           magic.  He closed the door softly behind him.
                       General Ravensblood had given him an idea, now if he could
                  just implement it.  He walked to the bookshelf, lightly running
                  his fingertips along the spines of the books, some hot, some icy
                 cold, and some, the most powerful, having no temperature at all. 
                   Not finding it, he dropped down, shelf by shelf, until he was
                  kneeling and searching the very bottom shelf.  As if seized, his
                   fingers stopped on the book he had been searching for.  It was
                  faded and musty, and the edges showed signs of fire, but it was
                                               there.
                        Carefully pulling the aged volume from its place, Balkar
                    stared at the golden symbols on the cover with a mixture of
                   triumph and dread.  He stood, trying to recall the language to
                    his mind.  After a full minute of intense concentration, he
                  deciphered it, although he knew the title as he had always known
                  it.  Almost reverently, he breathed the name.  It was a language
                  humans were not made to speak, and no tongue but his had used in
                                        over half a century.
                               "Ariadne's Antithesis," he repeated softly.
                       Although slightly scorched around the edges, and rippled by
                  rain, the volume was in remarkable shape.  Carried from the Keep
                 before its destruction by one of the lady's harem slaves whom she
                   had freed, it had been kept secret for years.  It was believed
                   destroyed in the cataclysmic battle, when Silver-eyes, the elf
                   who owned it, fell on the side of the Light.  It was the last,
                   and most complete, work of the Lady of Ocarina, and a premier
                    work on wizardy, the black arts, and other occult mysteries.
                       The few who knew of its existance had zealously guarded the
                  secret, since the book would have made them the target for every
                 meglomanic hedge wizard and holy paladin on Quapu.  The Furyblade
                    family, a most formidible group of paladins and priestesses,
                   especially would stop at nothing to destroy the book, as would
                      the Elf Queen, on whose family name Ariadne was a blot.
                        Using great care, Balkar cleared a space on his cluttered
                  desk and gently set the book down.  Contained in this volume was
                  the sum of three hundred years of knowledge, amassed by the lady
                   both before and after her casting out from the elven kingdom. 
                    And although her life had been cut short, her last work was
                    complete, if a bit random.  Magic spells and ceremonies that
                  could channel awesome destructive power lay but pages away from
                  prosiac herbal remedies.  Recipes and elaborate instruction for
                   potions, poisons and magical paraphenalia were included among
                     various entries on her daily life and sexual adventures. 
                   Advanced necromancy kept company with curses for chronic male
                  impotence, and favorite dinner recipes with plans to bring ruin
                                  to entire geographical regions.
                       Surely, Balkar thought as he blew the dust from the volume
                 and opened the heavy cover, there must be something in here I can
                 use against my lord.  Something that will alleviate the situation
                  that grows more intolerable with each passing day.  I am through
                 being his lackey!  It is time for me to forge my own destiny, and
                  time for a change in imperial order.  Time for a new emperor to
                 seize the ebon throne, one who will not appoint a mystic witch as
                  his heir to be succeeded by a bleeder.  Time for my order and my
                                               reign!
                      The Lady Ariadne will see to that, somehow.  But even when I
                    find the perfect item it will take me weeks to decipher her
                   writing and then translate out of this language that was dead
                    even when she affected it.  Perhaps even more weeks will be
                 needed for preparation, and I do not know if I have enough time. 
                   He suspects something, I can feel his eyes watching me.  It is
                                only a question of who moves first.
                         Balkar's eyes strayed momentarily from the page to his
                  dagger, a lissome anlance given to him personally by Nikodanb of
                 the Many Faces when he had summoned the being for a contract.  He
                  envisioned himself planting it deeply in his lord's back, taking
                   the satisfaction of making the kill personally.  Unfortunately
                  simple assassination was out of the question.  The Dark Lord was
                        too much of a physical opponent for Balkar to risk a
                 confrontation, and even if he succeeded, by some cosmic stroke of
                 luck, there would be the guards to deal with.  The human regulars
                  were loyal beyond question, and nearly impossible for a would-be
                 usurper to win over.  The humanoids would be entirely impossible,
                  and the ShetaRra would either martyr themselves in their lord's
                   defense or never rest until his death was avenged.  Also to be
                  figured in were the army of Shadowmen, Zara, and the Dark Lord's
                  numerous personal allies.  At least one of them would eventually
                  avenge him, and any assassin would live in fear of that for the
                            rest of his miserable, and very short, life.
                       Overt magic was not feasible.  While a well-placed fireball
                 or lightening bolt could be counted on to fell a dragon, it would
                  be worthless against the emperor.  In his paranoia and knowledge
                   of magic, the Dark Lord had fortified himself with an unseemly
                   array of protective charms and talismans, mostly disguised as
                   jewelry, which could take the brunt of any magical attack.  He
                           was practically invulnerable from that angle.
                       Balkar knew his options were limited.  He was no paladin to
                 slay the Dark Lord and die a martyr.  He wanted his former friend
                 dead, but without any repercussion falling on him.  Poisoning was
                 likewise out of the question.  If the Dark Lord died from poison,
                   Balkar knew that his neck would go on the chopping block right
                   beside Lem and the entire family of cooks.  That policy forced
                     those in the best position to attempt such an act to guard
                                            against it.
                       It would have to be a curse, or perhaps, just a hex, given
                    the time constraint.  A hex might not be powerful enough to
                   accomplish the Dark Lord's demise outright, but if cast at the
                 right time, it could weaken him enough that someone else, like an
                   anonymous elven archer, could accomplish it.  It would be less
                 awe-inspiring than a curse, but easier and less-time consuming to
                                               cast.
                        Still, he mused maliciously, leafing to the page where he
                 had deciphered the heading of "Curses" almost a year ago, if I am
                    to aspire to the ebon throne, and since I will only have one
                  chance, why should I not use this text to its full potential?  A
                   hex is only good against one victim, but a curse could strike
                 down many, including those who would oppose me, solving all of my
                                         problems at once!
                        His glee dissolved into dread as he comtemplated the task
                   before him.  The casting would be simple compared to acquiring
                   the means and wherewithal to cast it, namely perusing the book
                    beyond the first few pages.  Ariadne's Antithesis had a long
                    history of being the undoing of those who had read it, even
                 Silver-eyes to whom she had given it personally.  The adventurers
                    who had retrieved it from the battlefield all died horribly
                  bizarre deaths shortly thereafter, setting a grim precedent for
                                       the later possessors.
                         Balkar had aquired it through just such a tragedy.  His
                  former master, the wizard he had been apprenticed to, had owned
                  the volume before him, and Nikodanb only knew who had it before
                  the old man.  Balkar remembered the stormy night he had awakened
                   to a ghastly piercing scream, and the tower seeming to rock on
                  its foundations.  He had followed the screams and weird maniacal
                  laughter to the library.  He arrived in time to see his teacher,
                  engulfed in flames, laughing and screaming like a lunatic, throw
                   himself out a window and plummet like a shooting star into the
                 waves below.  the book was lying open on the writing desk, almost
                  the only piece of furniture not burning, and Balkar had snatched
                    it and several other precious books and scrolls and fled the
                 castle before it slid from the cliff and joined its master in the
                                        waters off Vorsorge.
                        After much wandering and research in all of the remaining
                 libraries, Balkar finally stumbled upon the language the book was
                 written in.  It was a variant of Old Minotaur, which showed heavy
                   ogrish influence.  He had deciphered the title and few pages,
                 shaking his head at the complexity.  What had possesed a dark elf
                   to write in such a language, he had no idea, but realizing the
                  treasure he had, and finally understanding his master's fate, he
                 locked it in a chest beneath some clothing.  When he had moved to
                  Dark Hold he had put it on the bookcase, since few thieves look
                  for valuables in obvious places.  He had dabbled with it, like a
                  miser playing with his gold, but only briefly, before losing his
                  nerve and putting it back on the shelf.  He had almost forgotten
                  about it, but tonight General Ravensblood's toast seemed to ring
                  purer than the sound of crystal and the book had seemed to call
                          him, even when he was inside the castle's keep.
                      After a brief instant of toying with the idea of putting the
                  book back, being content with his lot and living a long healthy
                  life in the service of his lord and friend, Balkar clenched his
                   fist in firm resolve.  He began reading, chanting a continuous
                     incantation of protection.  He paused only momentarily to
                 concentrate on the occasional symbol he could not remember and to
                  copy it out for later reference.  Always watching for an unusual
                  glyph that might destroy him as one had his master, he committed
                   each listing to memory, fascinated by the variety of virulent
                 influences he could invoke.  His throat was dry and the syllables
                  of the incantation were sticking, but he dared not stop lest he
                   lose his resolve.  Swallowing was painful, and his vision was
                    blurring, but the book compelled him onward, dominating his
                              attention and relentlessly draining him.
                      Word after word sank into his memory as the archaic language
                   began to creep back and become increasingly prevalent, almost
                  intimately personal with each block of script.  He hungered for
                  more, his blood pounding faster as he read on, marvelling at the
                  crooked genius behind each individual selection.  He pressed on,
                   unable to decide, ignore the fever that swept over him and his
                   irregular breathing.  More hours passed, night moved into day,
                               with the first dim rays of false dawn.
                      A rooster crowed in the outer courtyard, almost inaudible in
                      his chambers, but breaking Balkar's concentration like a
                    thunderclap.  A bone-numbing chill washed over him, and the
                  enchanted light dimmed for a moment before returnign to normal. 
                  Impulsively, he slammed the cover shut, and pushed himself away
                 from the desk, suddenly aware of how weak he felt and the wetness
                   in his mouth that indicated he had not been chanting for some
                                               time.
                         He glanced out the window trying to guess the hour, not
                  remembering hearing the castle bell since he left the keep.  He
                   leaned on the desk to support his unstable legs, but drew back
                  quickly.  Ariadne's Antithesis lay open agains, although he had
                  distinctly closed it.  Mor intimidating was the fact that it was
                  well over two-thirds of the way through, to a page he had never
                   seen before.  The was no wind in his chambers, and even so, no
                 breeze could have flipped the heavy cover and stiff pages without
                                          him feeling it.
                        Balkar reached over to shut the book again, aware of the
                     chill that still permeated his body, but he could not help
                    glancing to the page it was open to when his hands found the
                  volume's covers too heavy to close.  The inscription at the top
                 alluded to a curse, and he became aware that he was smiling as he
                  effortlessly read the title and summary of the effect.  Perfect,
                    my Lady.  Exactly what I wanted, and precisely what I need. 
                   Knowing his services would not be required for several hours,
                  Balkar collapsed on the bed, exhausted from his night's labors.
                      She is small and fair.  Her green eyes sparkle as she kisses
                 him, trailing her long golden hair over his body.  The white gown
                 she wears dissapates into the mists around her.  A tinkling laugh
                 escapes her as she removes his robes.  It has been too long since
                   he took a woman, and now he comes to her gladly, enjoying her
                  small body and gentle words of encouragement.  Her pointed ears
                  poke through the shower of gold she bathes them both in, and she
                    whispers to him in the old arcane language of her book as he
                                         makes love to her.
                                                 --
                                                  
                                                   
                                                  
                                                  
 

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