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Subject: story-Ring of Fire
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--
Celtic Readings
http://www.celticfire.com/readings/index.htm
Celtic Thistle
http://www.geocities.com/SiliconValley/Park/1299
Ring of Fire
 The warrior had killed the dragon, Fafnir, and his evil dwarf brother,
Regan.  Truly
they had been brothers, in blood, and in mind, for they held in their hearts
the dwarves'
love for gold, which ran fully in the blood of their father.  Only their
brother, Otter, had
not been affected, for he  found happiness in the hunt.  This would be his
undoing.
 As the gods walked about the Earth in the forms of men, Loki spied Otter in
his
animal form napping along the river, and for sport, killed what he thought
was a dumb
animal.  For this the gods had to make a payment to Reidmar, Otter's father.
the ransoms
for their own lives was this....
 Cover Otter's true body in gold, and you may go free.
They found such a horde at the home of an elf, who had cursed the gold when
it was taken
from him.  Only Loki, Odin, and Frey knew of the curse, and since the gold
was not to be
in their possession, they let it go to it's new owner, Reidmar, King of the
Dwarves.
 Otter's body was cover with all kinds of golden, glistening treasures.
Armbands,
torcs, pendants, medallions, rings, chains, and golden armor and helms.
Reidmar was
pleased with this treasure, but his pleasure was short-lived, for his
surviving sons
worshipped the riches as much as he.  Within the week, Fafnir's dagger blade
was bloodied
when he sunk it into his father's back, and his eyes glowed with a lust for
riches.  So
strong was this lust, that his brother, a smith, took to the road out of the
dwarves'
kingdom quickly as possible.  Fafnir's lust so consumed him, that he became
something
less than what he was.  His own greed turned inward, and the magic that was
within him
turned on him, and he became reptilian.  A dragon with a evil heart, that
was only content
to coil about the treasure the gods had brought to his father's kingdom.
 While Fafnir lay in his lair, Regan searched through the kingdoms of men
for a
warrior to slay his brother, for only then would the treasure be his.
Within a few years, he
found the child he would train for this task.  He, Sigurd, was the son of a
warrior who had
found his way to Vahalla, and the last of the line of the Volsungs.
 Over the years, Sigurd would learn smithing, swordplay, horsemanship, and
all the
skills that make a great warrior.  He was lucky enough to be gifted by Odin
as his father
was.  Odin gave him a horse that would not shy, even from fire.  As the
youth on this day
became a man, Regan knew it was time.  The young warrior was golden, from
his long,
flaxen hair, across the soft planes of his handsome, regal face, brilliant
blue eyes, chiseled
jawline, and over the expanse of his mighty body, Sigurd was the epitome of
what men of
his standing strived to be.
 Regan called Sigurd to the smithy to tell him of his assignment that would
give him
fame over all the kingdoms.  To slay the dragon that held the underground
kingdoms in
constant fear would be revered greatly, for no warrior had been able to do
it.  Sigurd was
sure he was ready for the task, once he repaired damage to the unearthly
sword that was
gifted to his father by Odin.
 After preparations and a day's rest, Regan and his student headed north to
the
kingdom of the dwarves.  The journey was long, yet, Sigurd stayed ready for
anything,
wanting to make his mark on the world.
 Within the day of their arrival, Fafnir was dead, outwitted by Sigurd 's
ingenuity of
hiding in a shallow pit, and piercing him in the underbelly as he went to
the lake to drink at
dawn's first greyish light.  Fafnir's blood spilled down into the lake, and
the horde was for
anyone taking.  The dragon was dead, and magical secrets of the dwarves were
in his
heart.  Regan wanted this knowledge, and bade Sigurd cut the heart of the
dragon so he
could eat of it and learn.  When doing so, Sigurd burned his hand
momentarily from the
juices that spit out from it.  He took his hand to his mouth to cool the
burn, and tasted the
juices that were on him.  He had taken in a taste of the dwarves' magic, and
could hear the
bird talking to each other in the trees, as clearly as if they were human.
The bird's knew of
the evil lust that was in Regan's heart, and indirectly told him of it.
Betrayed by his
master, he knew this old man deserved the same treatment as his brother.
Regan came out
from the dragon's lair, and saw the hatred in Sigurd's glaring blue eyes,
and pulled his
dagger.  The sword that was still wet with the blood of the dragon pierced
Regan, and his
goldlust died, as did the lusty legacy that was once the dwarves' royal
family.  Sigurd
claimed the gold for himself, and let the golden armor be his mark, for he
would be easily
recognized in it.
 As he rode about the world on his steed, which was of the bloodline of
Odin's
horse, Sleipnir, he fought for king's, trained young warriors, and let his
fame grow.  In one
secluded corner of the world, he came across a fiery light atop a mountain
ridge.  He rode
up to investigate.  the heat became hotter and brighter as he got closer to
the top.  He and
Sleipnir encountered a wall of fire, and the bravery of man and beast was
tested.  Curiosity
won over in Sigurd's mind, and he urged the horse through the flames.  They
were
rewarded with a calm silence and cool air.  In the centre of the burned ring
was a platform
upon which a figure in chainmail  and a helm was lying.  Sigurd got off the
horse and came
closer to the figure.  Whomever they were, they were still, but not dead.
Sigurd removed
the helm, and was looking at the rosy face of a woman in a peaceful sleep.
She had
masses of  sunny, flaxen hair, and her lips were pursed as she slept.  He
then split the
chainmail.  It fell away and she was clothed only in a lightweight chemise.
Her ivory flesh
was easy to see though the diaphanous fabric.  She had the tightly-toned
flesh of a warrior.
Powerful arms, tight, high breasts, and hardened thighs.  Her eyes opened,
wet with relief.
Odin had kept this Valkyrie's promise.  Only the bravest warrior alive could
claim her, and
this was the man.  She sat up, rubbed her crystal blue eyes, and gazed for a
moment into
the warrior's.  She was his, and he was hers, and he did not even know it.
 "I certainly did not expect to find a maiden here," said Sigurd.
 "I have waited too long for such a man.  You were promised to me.  It was
the will
of Odin."
 "We have something in common.  If I was promised to you, I should like to
know
your name."
 "I am Brynhild of Lymdale.  Once a Valkyrie, until, in my folly I took a
man
destined to live to Vahalla.  The other lives on now.  My punishment was to
wait atop this
mountain, but I have been granted my wish, and my binding with Odin is over.
Who are
you?"
 "Sigurd of the Volsungs.  My deeds will known to you soon enough.  I can
see
you wish to know more."
 "I do. Remove your armor, Sigurd of the Volsungs, so I might see you
better."
 Sigurd did as ordered, covered only now with a fine tunic, and braies.  The
braies
were bound with leather wrappings, and Brynhild could see he had powerful
thighs.  She
came closer to touch him, to know he was real.  She let her fingers scan his
hard chest,
over the hard planes of his face.  She let her crystal gaze meet with his
blue one, and
pulled his head down to meet her own in a kiss of curiosity.  Her lips were
soft, pliable,
searching.  How long had she slept, waiting for a man's touch?
 Her hands searched downward, wanting to know of this man who had freed her
from the ring of fire.  Her touch roamed beneath his tunic, feeling the
silky skin of his
hardened chest, and she invaded his mouth with her wanton tongue, tasting
the experience
that was Sigurd.  He tasted of mead and mint, as his breath was sweet.
Brynhild was
curious to know if the rest was as sweet.
 Sigurd relished this blissful search as Brynhild of Lymdale continued on.
Her
fingers drew light swirls about his chest, teasing as they headed downward
to examine the
core of him.  She pulled him down to the stone, wanting to make him more
comfortable,
and laid him back onto the cool, grey platform.  "I wish to learn more of
you, for I know
even the bravest of warriors has a weakness, as do men who are artisans, or
rulers.  It is
women such as I who can drain you of this essence, if only for a short
time."
 "Is that what you wish to do?"
 "I think I may.  I do wish to taste of you, to draw yourself into me, but
for now,
the taste will do.  There is time for the other later."
 Sigurd breathed deeply as he anticipated her actions.  To taste of himself
could
mean several things, but her hunger was a simple one.  She wanted to slake
his appetite
first.  Perhaps it was to be a reward for finding her in this ring of fire
the gods had created.
He closed his eyes, and let her do as she wished.
 She loosened the waistcord from his braies, and his hardened lance sprung
forth
for her view.  She smiled at its strength and pulsing.  It grew before her
eyes, and she rang
her fingers up and down over its silkiness.  She saw Sigurd jerk with
surprise at this tender
touch, and sigh as she wrapped her hand around it.  She moved her hand up
and down as
she let the other roam up and down his thighs, and he shuddered slightly as
she caught him
behind the knee.  She knew her actions were delighting him, and it was time
to do as she
had said.
 Sigurd was ready, but not quite when her warm lips enveloped his shaft, and
he
grasped at her sunny hair as she swirled her tongue about it.  Slowly, she
would move, up
and down, teasing, but never going very far, but soon the rhythm changed,
and she went
faster, farther.  Brynhild found it very hard to smile at his reaction with
him in her mouth,
but she very much wanted to.
 Sigurd bucked his hips against her, urging her to take him all, down into
her
throat, to release his seed into her warm, lively mouth.  He grew ever
wider, his shaft
threatening to erupt, but never exactly doing that.  His body was betraying
him, not
wanting to let go, even though Brynhild was doing her best to push him over
that brink.
She took him as far as she as she could, drawing up on the hard flesh, then
plunging down,
over and over as it filled with its own bit of life.  It welled up, filling
to its excess, and
Sigurd's seed burst forth.   He arched up, and pushed into Brynhild's warm
recess, and she
did her best to take in every drop. A sweat broke out upon Sigurd's as he
let out his
anguish in a simple hiss and sigh.
 Brynhild pulled away from him, and came up to face him.  She smiled.
""Twas
sweet, as I assumed."
 "I gave no clue to as such."
 "I knew.  You are Odin's gift to me.  I just knew..."



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