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 The following totally fictitious writings of Faibhar are intended for the
sole readership of those of LEGAL AGE.  The ADULT ONLY material contained
within is also for personal use only where local standards permit scenes of
extreme violence, torture and sex.  Please do not read further if any of
these subjects offend, or if you are not of legal age.

   The following is for your sole enjoyment and your cooperation in not
using the material in any other application without the express permission
of the author is requested.

   Thank you.

   Faibhar.





   The Passions of Zeema

   Julius the Sweet wrapped his waistcoat tighter about him.  The
temperature sank as he and his men descended the rocky stairs into the
bowels below the city.  Not only could one catch cold in such dank
surroundings, the place also stank.  The sooner he could end this nasty
business and get back up to where he belonged, the better.  There was the
matter of meeting the prisoner, however, and he wrapped his garb tighter as
they continued lower into the basement chamber.

   At last, he could see them.  Chained against the far wall stood two
females.  The tall one had raven locks, the stumpy one blond tresses. 
Crossing the fire-lit prison chamber with his party, flickering sconces
revealed the two.  They ignored his arrival and spoke in low tones with
each other.

   "...Lover..."

   "No, you luverrr."

   "Nooo, YOU Luhver!"

   "YOU Luhhhhve!"

   "YOU Luv!!!"



   "You...uhm, Sweetie-pie?"

   Julius cleared his throat and said, "Sorry to interrupt,ladies,but I am
Julius the Sweet." He noted that he now commanded the attention of both and
that each wore ancient costumes like some Grecian warriors.  That and the
short blonde had harpsichord legs as piano legs had yet to be invented. 
"B-man?  What is this "Psychomachia" reading these two are accused of,
anyway?" He looked to the stout cleric on his right.

   "Psychomachia, your Excellency, is a published book of poems by a 16th
century Spanish author that purports to write about females relinquishing
their traditional roles in favor of more male oriented pursuits all
supposedly in search of a greater good.  The two before you have donned the
costumes of ancient warriors as a result of their own aims and this poetry.
The book may be popular, sire, but has yet to make the Time's Best Seller
List."

   Julius mused as he considered the two.  There was yet to be a New York,
much less a newspaper with some list of best selling books, but then, if
the Church wanted its people to think that they could see into the future,
so be it.  The dark-haired one of the two looked the smartest.  She must be
the reader.  He liked smart women.  That, and her breast-plate wasn't bad
looking, either.  He turned his attention to her side-kick.  "You must be
the one they call the Scribe?  And your tall friend here is what?  Some
kind of Warrior Princess?"

   "My name is Galluble.  And her's is Zeema.  Yeah, I write and she kicks
butt."

   "Take care, young friend," Zeema sparkled her blue eyes, "we are
prisoners here and we know not what this oaf's intentions are."

   "But...!"

   "Shhh,Luv.  Just do as I say."

   "Your tall friend is quite correct, Galluble.  You are indeed prisoners.
MY prisoners, and it is for me to decide your fates.  Understood?"

   The impertinent blonde with the thick gams glared back at Julius but
held her tongue.

   "And I charge you both with Guilt.  Abbot?  You are familiar with
ancient executions in, say, Rome?"

   "Yes, your Majesty.  Very familiar."

   "Then I sentence the tall 'warrioress' here to her final passion.  The
scribe can write it all down.  Get her some parchment and quills.  Keep her
wrists in chains-she'll still be able to write even whilst cuffed."

   Galluble frantically twisted her head in search of some carpet to munch,
but alas the floor of their dungeon was cold stone.  Alongside of her,
Zeema stoically stood in chains.  She too glared back at the men as if to
taunt them with the knowledge that it was now too late to stop the rising
tide of Psychomachia.  Galluble could not help but believe that sisters
everywhere would be known as Psychomachianists.  Or something.


   To Be Continued