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From: David Shaw <david@f-email.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "DRAGON SWEAT" (M/F/F: sex, swords and sorcery)
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Date: Sun, 25 Jun 2006 00:10:01 -0400
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"DRAGON SWEAT"
(M/F/F: sex, swords and sorcery)
By

David Shaw

david@f-e-mail.com

THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some kids get to be apprenticed in the sorcery business by going to a 
posh school -- others have to do it the hard way. But then again, 
there are games you can play in a dragon's riding net which are a 
bloody sight more interesting than chasing a winged ball on a broomstick . . .

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The early morning sun shone down on the ancient walls of Giant's Pass 
castle. It fell on patches of green moss clinging to the weathered 
stone blocks of the Outer and Inner Wards. Shards of light sparkled 
uselessly against the only window in the castle, the stained glass 
panes now covered in dirt and hiding the long disused Royal Chapel 
from view. But the glittering day made a brave showing of the banner 
of King Argud the Defiler flying high above the keep and reflected 
brightly from the string of wind polished skulls hanging below the 
flag. A few rays of shimmering sunlight even penetrated the arrow 
slits of the prison tower, to be instantly snuffed out amidst the 
dark stench of despair and corrupting flesh within. More glittering 
rays were wasted in falling on the steaming surface of the castle 
moat and its covering of rotting turds.

King Argud and his Master-At-Arms were no fools. Any attacking 
soldier who fell into that reeking gray-blue semi-liquid with even 
the smallest of wounds on his body would soon be dying a most painful 
and poisonous death. True, the smell on a warm day like this was 
truly awful but since everybody in the royal household stank like a 
dead goat anyway it was of no great consequence.

The King should have been in his counting house, counting out his 
money. Unfortunately, there was hardly any to count, since there was 
nobody in marching distance who had anything left worth stealing. So 
instead, the monarch had taken a newly arrived serving wench into the 
buttery, bent her over a table and applied double handfuls of butter 
to her bared hindquarters. The girl was mystified by his actions but 
in a few seconds time she was destined to find out two things: why he 
was called Argud the Defiler, and also the real reason why the 
buttery was called the buttery.

The Master-At-Arms, on the other hand, was dealing with more delicate 
business. A matter of negotiations which called for diplomacy and 
cordiality. Not easy qualities to summon up in a proud old soldier 
covered in scars and past glory: in his time the Master-At-Arms had 
killed and raped more victims than a boatload of Ice Land Warriors. 
He resented having to be unduly deferential to any other official of 
the royal household. But even he had to respect the authority of Sir 
Tarquin as royal tax collector and keeper of the castle torture chamber.

"A fine day, Sir Tarquin."

"A fine day, Master."

Sir Tarquin reluctantly laid aside a series of woodcuts left behind 
by a visiting trader of tormenting equipment. He often gazed at them 
wistfully, especially the ones showing the young lady with the long 
legs stretched out on a rack, the legs getting longer and longer in 
each succeeding picture. What he wouldn't give to have a bit of 
glamour like that spread eagled in his own tormenting implements 
instead of the dreary peasants that were all that ever came his way 
in this backward apology of a backwoods Kingdom. Not that he'd ever 
dare to let such words pass his lips, not if he didn't want them sewn 
together with a hornet in his mouth. On matters patriotic King Argud 
was so right wing he was almost a Tiberian Republican.

"How can I help you, Master?

"I'd like to book a session in the torture chamber, Sir Tarquin."

"Certainly -- a personal one, Master? Ha, ha, the old ones are always 
the best, hey?"

The Master smiled dutifully with a twitch of his lips as the head 
torturer reached for his appointments diary, a movement which paused 
halfway as an earsplitting scream came from the direction of the 
buttery. Sir Tarquin cocked his head to one side and listened with 
professional judgment.

"She'll be able to carry around the mead tonight, but I hope it's not 
at my table. Her hands won't stop shaking for a week. Now, Master, 
was it a group booking?"

"No. Just the one, thank'ee, my lord."

"Fine. Any particular torments in mind? Male or female?"

The Master-At-Arms grinned, displaying his ill colored teeth like a 
wolf finding a sheep caught in a briar patch: "Definitely male, Sir 
Tarquin. It's the castrating vice I want to use. Could I have a 
couple of hours, if that's agreeable to you?"

"A couple of hours? That's a long time for such a simple little job. 
Is this business or pleasure, Master?"

"Oh, both, Sir Tarquin -- both."

The old soldier looked as if he'd seen a divine vision of a thousand 
virgins, each one more beautiful than the next, and all driving carts 
heavily laden with wine barrels.

Sir Tarquin felt a touch of unease. As a normal thing, letting 
enthusiastic amateurs loose in the torture chamber was a mistake. 
Blood everywhere afterwards, and all the tools bent out of shape with 
overmuch heating. But as an officer of the Royal Household there was 
no way the Master-At-Arms could be decently refused access to the 
in-castle tormenting facilities.

"The day after tomorrow? From the third emptying of the water clock 
until the fifth emptying?"

"Thank you, Sir Tarquin. You co-operation is appreciated."

The Torturer fastened his weak blue eyes on the Master's vicious brown ones.

"You'll appreciate that you'll still have to raise an 
inter-departmental invoice for the hire of the chamber. Two florins 
an hour, four florins in all. You'll need to make six copies of the 
invoice, all signed by yourself or your deputy and counter-signed by 
myself or my deputy. One copy for your files, one for mine, one for 
the routine-of-the day clerk, one to the Royal Accounts Office, one 
for the Royal Archives, and one for the Bureau of Births, Deaths, 
Marriages and Castrations. And, naturally, it's your department's 
responsibility to ensure the removal of all bodies and bodily parts 
from the chamber at the end of the hire period. All equipment used is 
also to be cleaned and lightly oiled afterwards."

"You know me, my lord. I always leave the torture chamber the way I 
would wish to find it."

Sir Tarquin suddenly realized that the Master-At-Arms wasn't looking 
at him, but over his head and through an arrow slit in the wall. He 
turned in his chair and glanced out of the narrow gap himself. On the 
other side of the moat were the straggly lines of filthy wooden 
shacks where those of King Argud's subjects unfortunate enough to be 
still alive eked out their wretched existences. But one building at 
least was well built, the size of a barn, close to the protection of 
the castle walls, with a patch of scorched grass outside it. Playing 
happily together on the bare ground was a young boy and a young 
female. The female was much younger than the boy, but a great deal 
bigger. About thirty paces longer, in fact, bright pink in color -- 
at the moment, anyway -- and gently weaving her snout and her sinuous 
body like a giant ferret as the boy tickled her underneath her left 
wing joint.

"By the Gods, Master, I still can't believe it -- not even after 
seeing it every day for nigh on five years. A living, breathing 
dragon. And when I was a boy we all thought they'd never existed. 
Even the witches and warlocks said the old carvings were only make 
believe. Just dreams and mind pictures from nearly forgotten stories. 
And then a dirty little sniveling son of a night soil spreader comes 
out of the forest with an great egg he says he found in the roots of 
a fallen tree."

The Master nodded absent-mindedly. Everybody from far and wide knew 
the story, and how young Hal O'The Shitbuckets had not told anybody 
about the egg but hidden it inside a pile of warm dung near to his 
family's hut. How the boy had come out a few weeks later and found a 
newly hatched dragonet frolicking around on top of the pile of shite. 
And by the time anybody of importance had found out about any of 
this, it was too late. The dragonet and Hal had instantly developed 
the same kind of affection as between a man and his dog, and any 
attempts to part them had sent the young dragon into such a state of 
fretful decline that the companionship had to be restored 
immediately. But otherwise the hatchling seemed perfectly healthy and 
had grown at an astonishing speed. And of all its mysteries, three 
had continually dominated King Argud's thoughts.

The first: was there was any truth in the old legends about dragons 
breathing fire?

The dragonet had never shown any sign of being able to do so but 
there had been a lingering hope in King Argud's breast that the 
facility might develop as the creature reached adulthood. A hope 
which had found triumphant resolution one night when a pack of 
starving wolves had slipped into the dragon hut and attacked the 
dragon and Hal. The resulting flames had not only burnt down the hut 
but also a dozen others belonging to peasants unfortunate enough to 
be living nearby. As the suddenly dispossessed poor fled for their 
lives the King had capered wildly in delight in his night shirt, 
calling for his pipe to light it from the burning fragments of the 
huts, and then for his trio of fiddlers to provide music for his 
pyromaniacal prancing. At dawn he'd demanded that Hal demonstrate the 
dragon's incendive skills again by burning down more huts, clapping 
his hands like a delighted child as the dragon had coughed out tiny 
spitballs which flew for hundreds of paces and then ignited into 
raging fireballs whenever they hit anything.

"By Odin, I love the smell of dragon spit in the morning!" King Argud 
had roared in ecstasy at the sight of so much destruction inflicted 
so quickly.

The second mystery was whether the promise of the pup's nascent wings 
would eventually be proven. Could a dragon fly?

The answer had been yes, a fact finally determined in the last few 
weeks. Although, in truth, the dragon only flapped her wings barely 
long enough to be airborne before locking them into outstretched 
sails and seemingly riding the currents of the air upward and ever 
higher, then gliding across great distances before turning and 
turning like a falling leaf in the sky. Yet instead of drifting down 
she would drift upwards again. Nobody could explain how this could 
happen, except through magic. Apart from Hal O'The Shitbuckets, who 
thought that the air rose in bubbles from pieces of hot ground, like 
the bubbles in water coming to the boil, and that somehow the dragon 
could see or sense where these air bubbles were rising.

Under normal circumstances nobody would have paid any attention to 
young Shitbuckets ideas. The one thing which did get them something 
of a hearing was that Hal was the only person in the whole kingdom 
who had ever flown with the dragon. At least that was what most 
people thought, but four people knew differently. Hal, the 
Master-At-Arms, and two of the Master-At-Arm's daughters. 
Unfortunately for all of them, the Master had accidentally overheard 
Chelinde telling her young sister how she had twice been aloft with 
Hal and how he had rewarded her with what he called a frequent flyer point.

It was Chelinde's candid description of where young Hal had inserted 
his point whilst they were together in the dragon's riding net which 
had resulted in Hal's recently arranged appointment with the 
castration vice. The next item on the Master-At-Arm's daily schedule 
was arresting the still unwitting boy and explaining in great detail 
about what was soon going to happen to him. Hal might have spent most 
of his life emptying latrines but if he'd thought before he was in 
the shit, he was soon going to know better -- or worse.

Sir Tarquin shook his head in sorrow as he watched the boy and the 
dragon at play: "Such a shame. Worse yet, a tragedy. Is there 
anything sadder than the sight of a promising life destined never to 
know true fulfillment? The King comes near to weeping every time he 
thinks of it. What say you, Master, are you still of the same opinion?"

The Master-At-Arm's expression was one of bewildered surprise, until 
he realized what Sir Tarquin was talking about. It was the third 
great mystery about the dragon, the impasse which had King Argud 
groaning with despair during sleepless nights for a solution.

"Absolutely the same opinion, my Lord. As things stand our tiny army 
had no chance at all of defeating the Imperial Legions. One dragon on 
its own might win us a battle but never a war. We'd need a whole 
flock of them to be assured of destroying the Emperor's forces and 
capturing the great cities of the plains."

"A rise, Master. The collective noun for group of dragons is 
apparently a rise of dragons. So the Chief Warlock tells us of the 
High Council from his reading of the ancient writings. And no wonder 
the King weeps when he looks down from these hills onto an empire he 
could easily conquer -- if only we could find a single male dragon to 
mate our female with. Nature can be so cruel."

Sir Tarquin sighed heavily in quiet despair.

"How many peasants have we worked to death digging up the forest 
floor seeking another egg -- a male egg, in all love? How many spells 
has the castle warlock cast, seeking a trace of other dragons in the 
great wide world? How many spies have we sent out seeking news of 
such beastlings? And not one trace, not one rumor, not even one 
tavern tale about such creatures existing. No, what you see 
innocently playing there, Master, are two virgins, and destined I 
think to stay that way for a long time."

The Master's face was pale, only two red spots on his cheekbones 
revealing the pure fires of anger burning within him. "My Lord, I 
intend to make sure one of them will certainly never have need of a mate."

He tapped the cover of the torturer's diary with heavy significance 
and Sir Tarquin's eyebrows rose in sudden concern. "Hal? It's our 
young dragon handler you've a mind to geld? Nay, I think the King 
must know of this first. Why do you want to do such a thing?"

The Master-At-Arms had no intention of shaming his family by telling 
the truth on that subject. Nor did he think that he needed to.

"My Lord, my duty is to the security of the King and the Kingdom, and 
that dragon is a menace to both. It cannot defeat our enemies but 
should Hal ever decide to turn on his true lords and masters that 
beastling would be a formidable threat to us. Many of us would perish 
and much damage would ensue before he and that confounded dragon were 
killed. Since we cannot breed from it, better to destroy the monster 
and its handler's spirit now before they acquire a taste for more 
than they can ever be given."

Sir Tarquin shook his head: "A sound argument, Master, but not 
sufficient to achieve your purpose. Leave our dragon handler alone 
for a while yet."

"Dragon handler? That's not his substantive rank on the household 
rolls. He's a privy purveyor, he empties the shit pans into the moat 
and he was only allowed to work in the castle at all because he tends 
the beastling a few hours each day. The dragon is of no use to us, 
only danger, and the sooner we get rid of it and debollock that young 
upstart, the better."

The Royal Torturer waved his hand at the chair the Master had 
recently vacated: "Sit you down again, Master, and breathe no word of 
what I am about to tell you. For you have unwittingly touched upon 
decisions recently made by the High Council and it were better for 
you to know something of them and thus keep discreetly silent."

Sir Tarquin leaned forward across his desk and spoke in lowered terms.

"The King and council in secret session have decided that now the 
dragon has reached true maidenhood there is one last turn of the 
cards we can yet play. If we can't find a male dragon, perhaps the 
young female dragon may. She can fly, and she can seek, if we let her 
go hence to try her fortune."

The Master tried to absorb the implications of Sir Tarquin's 
statement: "Go? Go where?"

"Out into the wide world, wherever the winds may blow her. Into the 
northern mountains perhaps, or southwards over the provinces of 
Lyonesse to that great city itself and beyond. Or the east, to the 
forests of Prydein, or westwards, into the sea mists of Tintagel. 
Wherever it be that the beast may feel drawn to go. Like calls to 
like, Master, and if there be a scaly and horny mate for her 
anywhere, surely that female dragon will be drawn to him like a 
homing pigeon to its nest."

"But what use will that to be to us? We shall never see the dragon 
here again."

"Our young duke Hal will go with her to bring back a clutch of 
fertile eggs. Let the dragon go hang, if only he can find dragon 
hatchlings enough for us to breed a rise from."

"But . . . but . . . what young duke is it that you speak of, my Lord?"

"Why but think, man! The dragon obeys only Hal O'The Shitbuckets, so 
he must go with her. But if a dragon or dragons be anywhere in the 
world, surely they will be owned by the King of those parts. Can we 
send a mere shit-carrier's offspring to negotiate on behalf of the 
Kingdom of Argud with another royal court? No, of course not. Know 
you, Master, that in the next issue of the castle gazette there will 
be a notice raising young Hal O'The Shitbuckets to the aristocracy. A 
lifetime peerage." The Royal Torturer's lips tightened in sardonic 
amusement. "However brief that lifetime may be."

The Master-At-Arms looked as if he'd taken a crossbow bolt in the 
stomach: "That ugly little piece of trash is to be ennobled!"

"Aye. A strange world we live in, hey? But you know yourself that the 
boy is the only human in the Kingdom who has the dragon's obedience 
and love, so he must go with her. The King sought our advice on a 
suitable title for him and I suggested Duke Skyrider as being apt to 
his station, yet the Chief Warlock would have none of it. He said it 
sounded too foolish to be believed. So we have had to seek further 
afield. The Chamberlain said we should simply use the boy's family 
name, but the Warlock laughed at that."

"I never even knew he had a family name. Why, he wasn't even born 
into his family. The stinking brat was found newly born wrapped in a 
shawl and abandoned at the forest's edge."

"True, but he was bought up by the Shitbucket emptying clan. 
Apparently they were given a Tiberian family name by those 
interfering monks before the King finally drove them out. One of the 
holy men must have had a sense of humor though because the family 
name is Merdinus. The Warlock thought the notion of a Duke Merdinus a 
great jest because the word in the Tiberian language for dung is 
merdus. So it was proposed the boy be dubbed Duke Merlinus instead. 
And in a few day's time Duke Hal and his dragon will leave on his 
quest. What think you, Master?"

The Master-At-Arms snorted in anger mixed with disbelief at what he 
was hearing.

"What do I think? To speak truth, my lord, I think the whole council 
must have been sniffing that white powder the traders bring from the 
Happy Isles. I think the young tosspot will sell that dragon as soon 
as he is safely out of the Kingdom and spend the gold on bribing 
serving wenches to let him fuck them."

Sir Tarquin snorted with brief laughter: "So think we all, Master, so 
think we all. It was also said that a duke who spoke not a word of 
Tiberian, knew nothing of magic or ceremony and who stinks of the 
privy would have much trouble playing the part of a nobleman. Someone 
must go with him, someone able to educate Hal to courtly ways as they 
travel together, someone who will be respected in any land by any 
ruler. We have now decided on a suitable escort and consort for our 
aspiring Duke Merlinus."

The Royal Torturer leaned forward, even closer to the Master-At-Arms 
and spoke even more confidentially: "Tell me, Master, have you any 
lingering desires to see more of the wide world?"

The Master, the victor in a score of killing fights, whimpered like a 
beaten dog: "Me, my lord! Go up on one of those things? I beg you, 
no, no, a thousand times no! I'm a man, not a bird!"

"Ho-ho-ho! Your face, Master, your face!" The Royal Torturer slapped 
his thigh in glee. He was a man whom dearly loved a joke above all 
things, well accustomed at taking full advantage of a captive audience.

"Be calm, Master, be calm. Did we need a bulldog for an honest fight 
you would be our choice, but the Chief Warlock has found us something 
much better for our needs. A cunning serpent able to fly as well as 
that dragon, a serpent of fascinating wickedness and as full of venom 
as a lawyers' tavern. A serpent well versed in all kinds of magic and 
courtly behavior, a speaker of many tongues and a convincing liar in 
all of them. Best of all, a serpent whom both enchants and terrifies 
every man she meets. And I say enchants in the full meaning of the word."

"Enchants?" The Master-At-Arms stared at Sir Tarquin. "A witch? You 
are sending a witch with Shitbucket? Which witch -- I mean what witch?"

"Look at my finger, Master."

The torturer traced the outline of three letters on the desk in front 
of him. The Master-At-Arms blinked, blinked again, and then smiled a 
little. So did Sir Tarquin. Both of them looked at each other and 
smiled even more widely.

"So, Master, have we not found you a better ball-breaker than 
anything I could provide in my torture chamber?"

The Master-At-Arms laughed aloud, clapping his hands together as 
though applauding a play or an execution: "The bitch-witch! The 
bitch-witch herself!"

Sir Tarquin stood up again, his belly heaving at the same joke as he 
looked down at the antics of the boy and his pet, both of them 
completely unaware of the terrible fate speeding towards them.

"But what could bring her to this small kingdom, my lord? What does a 
lady of her powers care about our dragon?"

"The lady has the King's sworn promise. Bring back the eggs which 
will create an army of warrior dragons for him and she will be 
rewarded, even unto half of the Empire once he has seized it. But if 
ever that should come to pass, Master-At-Arms, be assured I'll make 
sure that I'm living in the other half of the Empire."

Had Hal been able to overhear this conversation he would have been a 
thoroughly frightened eavesdropper. Though one part of it would have 
given him at least a moment's satisfaction. For, if a member of the 
High Council should talk so lightly of his selling the dragon, it 
meant that none of the great men of the kingdom knew about the most 
profound of her mysteries, one of far more value to a growing boy 
than mere tricks like flying or flame throwing. A mystery he had been 
taking advantage of under any watching eyes from the castle walls in 
his pretence of playfully tickling the dragoness. What he had 
actually been doing was soaking a piece of rag near glands underneath 
her wing joints where a colorless liquid sometimes seeped out -- a 
liquid which drove all those who touched it into a flaming desire to 
couple as madly as any March hare.

Hal had only noticed the liquid appearing in the last few weeks, as 
the dragoness reached her maidenhood. He supposed that it was 
intended for male dragons to lick and thus encourage them to mount 
the female. Certainly he had never suspected such a thing at first. 
He'd believed the liquid to be sweat, the first sign that the dragon 
was as other creatures.

Before then, in all the years since he'd first found it, the dragon 
had seemed to live on a higher level than other life forms, including 
men. It never ate, but spread its wings out under the sun whenever it 
could, as though it drew life from the great fire like a growing 
flower. Thus, it never dropped dung either, a great relief to Hal. 
All the beastling seemed to need was a daily drink of water and lots 
of affection. And now it seemed able to create affection itself, 
uncontrollable affection in all who were touched of the dragon's sweat.

By great fortune the first trickles were of a weaker potency than 
flowed later. But such as they were, the dampness on his fingers had 
driven Hal into a corner of the dragon hut with his breeches around 
his ankles and his hand continually jerking at his lance, a lance 
which refused to droop in tiredness after the first, second, third, 
and even fourth eruption. It had felt as if the fires of hell itself 
were burning in his loins and would never be doused.

The boy had almost killed himself before collapsing onto the straw 
and suffered so much soreness afterwards that every movement for days 
had been torment. He had quickly learned from his experience though, 
and took great care now never to touch the liquid directly and to mix 
it with plenty of water before use. A power intended for dragons was 
far too strong for humans without it being much weakened first. But 
what wonders even a trace of the sweat produced!

Carefully holding the rag by a still dry corner he led the beast back 
into the hut which housed it. Blotches of yellow appeared on the 
dragon's neck from its head to its front legs like daisies appearing 
after rain. Hal quickly answered the unspoken question.

"Be content, Josephine, I see all the colors of your coat. We shall 
fly this morning. But first I must prepare."

As soon as the dragon was inside Hal pulled the doors shut and put a 
bar across them. The thousands of cracks in the planked roof and 
walls let in enough light for the shed's interior to become as 
twilight, a million straw motes floating through the intruding rays 
and then disappearing from sight in the darker areas. The dragon 
ambled over to the largest pile of straw at the far end of the hut 
and sniffed at it. Girlish laughter and cries of mock fear came from 
the depths of the straw.

"Come away, my lady," Hal said severely. "There are terrible 
creatures hidden in there, and I fear for your safety."

More giggles, and a mass of blonde curly hair popped up out of the 
straw: "It's true, you do speak your dragon as though it were your 
heart's love. Chelinde told me it was so but I didn't believe her, so 
I came to hear myself."

"A good day between you and evil, Caelia," Hal said, little bothered 
by the girl's banter. "And is it that long tongued sister of yours 
who is hiding with you?"

Another head came out of the straw, another head of tangled fair hair 
filled with straws and the two faces both of a kind, round and rosy, 
with bright blue eyes full of mischief.

"Why here I am indeed, mighty dragon master, and have been since we 
crept in before dawn."

"And what of your father? How would our Master-At-Arms deal with me 
if he knew you two were here in Josephine's shed?"

"He'll never know," Caelia answered lightly, brushing the problem of 
her parent aside, and none of the three with the slightest foreboding 
of the dangers rushing in on them. "And anyway, I wanted to see the dragon."

"See it, girl? And haven't you seen it every day for years past, just 
as all hereabouts have done?"

"I haven't seen it the way Chelinde has."

Hal himself blushed furiously and unable to stop from casting a 
guilty look at Chelinde's face: "And what way would you be talking 
about, Caelia?"

The straw pile parted and Caelia emerged from it, pale skinned and 
much freckled, hot eyed, wide mouthed, a cupid's bow on the upper lip 
which was made for laughing and kissing. Her pleasing shape was akin 
that of her elder sister, short in body and leg, but as well curved 
as any piece of fruit sinful Adam ever plucked, and as fully endowed 
in the bust and bottom as Eve herself must have been. The forest 
green gown Caelia was wearing was much worn, overdue now to be passed 
down to another sister, for the wooden buttons on the bodice were all 
but popping off, and as her fingers stroked it, removing wisps of 
straw, she knew full well what effect she was having on Hal.

"Why, I haven't been for a flight with your dragon as Chelinde has."

Hal was speechless, not knowing how much Caelia had learnt and 
whether she could be trusted to keep quiet. Bad enough she knew as 
much as she did already, after he'd sworn Chelinde to silence by all 
the Gods in the mountains.

"Chelinde!"

The straw broke apart again like the pool of Venus and Chelinde rose 
out of it to stand beside her sister. Two buttons on her bodice were 
already undone and Hal remembered -- as he would remember all his 
mortal days -- what was concealed below them, and how Chelinde had 
squealed with excitement as he'd taken her budding womanhood in both 
of his hands. Now she was back again, her sister with her to boot, 
and the pair of them looking like bear cubs that had found a dripping 
honeycomb to lick.

"No need for hard words, Hal. Wouldn't you like to take the both of 
us for a flight? Didn't you say yourself I could bring another girl 
next time if I wished?"

True it was indeed he'd said some such thing -- or rather, his balls 
had said it through his mouth when they possessed him body and soul.

Had Chelinde not the slightest suspicion of how she'd been tricked 
into washing with water tainted with dragon sweat? But why would she 
think of such a thing when only Hal himself knew of the power of the 
dragon's sweat? No, she could know nothing of the mind affecting 
power at his command and must still believe her seduction had been 
fully consummated by her own desire, a desire as uncontrollable as 
Hal's own. But to bring her own sister to another meeting! Had it 
truly been Chelinde's idea or that little minx Caelia? Another of the 
Master-At-Arm's daughters! Lunacy!

Yet when Hal looked at both pairs of bright eyes, both pairs of red 
lips, and at the taut female flesh underneath those gowns he knew the 
argument was lost before it was even debated. If Josephine could lift 
the three of them into the air he cared not whether Caelia and 
Chelinde were the Master-At-Arm's kin or the devil's. He could no 
more resist them than refrain from breathing.

"You -- you have the price of your flights with you?"

"Here," Chelinde said and held out a small white muslin bag. "I took 
them from a batch that our mother has just finished drying."

Hal moved forward, took the bag from her fingers, opened it and 
carefully spilt the treasure inside into his hand. Three pieces of 
treasure in truth, three small squares of ash speckled potash mixed 
with fats and essence of herbs. Three pieces of soap! Hal held one of 
the squares to his nose and breathed in the smell from it as if he 
was standing by the rose gardens of Paradise. The great head of the 
dragon loomed over his shoulder, Josephine sniffing at Hal's hand in 
her curiosity. Both girls cowered back as if they feared being bitten

"Ah, you need none of this, my lady. You are not condemned to do my 
filthy work. But heed me now."

Hal carefully pointed to himself, then to Chelinde and Caelia, held 
an hand on each side of his head, and flicked two fingers on each one 
up and down. Then he made a hooked question sign with one finger: 
"Can you carry the three of us aloft, Josephine?"

Outbreaks of pink blossomed along the dragon's belly, running into 
each other like spilt paint. Like her namesake, her coat was always 
of many colors, colors which displayed meanings as clearly as words 
to those who could read them. An ability which only Hal had. Now he 
cocked his head in some surprise at the boldness of Josephine's display.

"So sure, hey? I hope you may not be topping it the phoenix. But on 
your own wings be it. Please to step this way then and oblige."

Hal pointed to the large drinking trough and plunged his fingers into 
the water inside the trough, then quickly pulled them out again and 
shook his hand to show how cold the water was. Afterwards he tapped 
his nose and stood back. The dragon waddled forward, dipped her snout 
into the trough and made a coughing noise. Then she apparently lost 
interest in the trough and slithered away. The two girls clung to 
each other as the water in the middle of the trough swelled up in a 
great boiling and moiling, with jets of steam spurting out of it and 
waves running along the length of the trough to splash over the ends.

"Tis nothing to fear, sister," Chelinde reassured Caelia. "Only a 
little dragon spit being used to warm the cold water for us. For Hal 
says that the dragon cannot abide the smell of strange humans close 
to her unless we are freshly washed."

Hal had indeed told her that. A lie of course, but a most convenient 
one. As soon as the dragon's spit had been quenched he picked up a 
stick, plucked the rag from his belt, pushed the rag deep into the 
trough, then used the stick to swirl the boiling and colder portions 
of water into a comfortably warm mixture. Only he knew what else was 
also being spread through the water from the sweat stained rag.

Two buckets Hal then filled from the trough, put a ladle in each and 
carried the buckets to the dragon's washing place. The dragon had 
scratched out the earth there and carried in sacks of sand that Hal 
had spread, for the boy hated mud almost as much as he hated dung.

In the middle of the sandpit was a waist high pile of straw from 
which Hal drew handfuls of stalks to rub Josephine down with after 
her daily bathe. He set the buckets down behind the straw.

"So, do you girls wash yourselves most carefully. You may crouch down 
as necessary, though I will have no eyes to spare for you as I 
prepare Josephine for her flight."

Chelinde giggled, and then Caelia too, exchanging knowing looks, the 
four rosy cheeks flushing even redder. Hal handed one of the precious 
pieces of soap to each of them.

"Go to it, girls," Hal urged. And if the dragon sweat worked as well 
as before, even much diluted, the sisters would soon enough stop blushing.

 From the wall Hal took down a net made of ropes, of the finest 
quality the castle ropemaker could provide, furnished on the King's 
direct orders. To try to ride on Josephine's back was impossible, for 
along her spine were a single row of fins, each half the length of a 
man's forearm, and each fin tipped with a needle as sharp and as 
strong as the tip of an Iberian legionnaire's spear. Any saddle 
placed on Josephine's back would have been ripped to shreds within 
minutes, and the rider's arse along with it.

As soon as she saw the net the dragon crouched down eagerly on her 
belly, eyeing the door of the dragon hut like a dog waiting to be 
released from a kennel. Hal laughed and fetched four sheepskins which 
he impaled in a row on her fins, each skin pressed well down so the 
tops of the fins stood proud above them. Then he threw the net over 
the sheepskins, carefully arranging the ropes to ensure none were 
twisted and each fin projected through one of the wide mesh holes in 
the net. The load must be properly spread along Josephine's body and 
the sheepskins were to protect the net ropes from chafing, not the 
dragon's hide from harm. Her scales had never been pierced to Hal's 
knowledge, not even with when the wolves had snapped and bit at her 
like puppies trying to chew through chain mail. Her anger and her 
fire had only exploded when the pack had drawn blood from Hal.

At each corner of the net was a wooden ring, triple sewn into the 
ropes, the rings hanging level with each wing joint, both front and 
back. Hal fetched a second net and laid it flat on the floor, then 
spread more sheepskins along the middle of it.

"Come, my lady, come."

The dragon rose on her legs, scuttled forward over the second net, 
then crouched down again. Like the other net, the belly net had rings 
sewn into each corner and Hal had four lengths of rope over his 
shoulder, the 'Fria und Odin!' lashings. They were called that 
because if they came undone those would be the last despairing words 
he'd have time to shout. As he secured each set of rings together Hal 
totally ignored the laughter coming from across the straw pile. Only 
when the nets were safely secure above and below Josephine did Hal 
turn and look towards Chelinde and Caelia. And as he did so his lungs 
seemed suddenly emptied of air.

Chelinde was standing behind the straw pile, visible from the hips up 
and wearing nothing but her necklace of painted wooden beads. Her 
expression was one of pure mischief as she rubbed a piece of soap 
over and around her taut young breasts, showing particular care to 
the dark plums on the tip of each wet and wobbling mound. Behind her 
was Caelia, not even wearing as much as a necklace, and grinning at 
Hal as if he were the castle jester. He stepped towards the straw, 
mouth agape, hardly knowing what he was doing. Caelia laughed in 
delight at his obvious stupefaction, then reached around Chelinde and 
began massaging the trails of soap on her sister's paps into a 
lather. The front of Hal's breeches jerked upwards as quickly as a 
disturbed viper rousing itself. Both of the girls giggled anew at the 
visible proof of their effect on him.

"Come on, Hal, time for you to wash as well," Chelinde called out. 
"We've water enough left for you."

He stumbled forward, as dazed as a man hit with a club in a tavern 
brawl. The more he tried to undo his jerkin, the bigger the toggles 
seemed to get and the tighter the leather loops around them. But when 
he was behind the straw pile the girls crowded close to him, each 
taking on the task of loosening his clothing. And neither of them 
wearing a stitch.

The smell of the soap on their warm bodies was the finest aroma ever 
known in his life, even better than roasting pork. And when he found 
four pillows pressed against him, four pillows of white flesh 
sprinkled with freckles, pillows softer than any on the King's bed, 
Hal nearly fainted.

The sisters had no more interest in teasing the boy's weaknesses 
though, only in exposing his strength. Both of them held onto a 
sleeve of his jerkin as they removed the dirty garment, and then 
Caelia pulled his shirt out of his breeches as Chelinde undid the 
wooden buttons at the neck.

"Ha, you're too tall for us, Hal," she chuckled, her breath brushing 
against the exposed skin in his opened collar. "Kneel down, dragon master."

He would have jumped into a bonfire if they'd asked it of him -- even 
into the moat, perhaps. On his knees in the damp sand, he held up his 
arms again and his shirt was lifted high and over his hands. Directly 
in front of his face as this happened was Chelinde's loins and the 
blonde patch of hair set above her sweet cleft. Hal pushed his head 
forward and his tongue further forward yet, the tip of it not quite 
reaching its target as Chelinde laughed and retreated half a step, 
keeping her hands clasped around Hal's raised wrists.

"La, Caelia, this monster is as fearsome as his dragon. He wants to eat me!"

Her sister squealed in mock alarm: "Odin save us! What are we to do?"

"Never fear. I shall sacrifice myself to save you. Hal, lie down -- 
on your back."

He did so, stared up with bulging eyes and saw Chelinde appear over 
his face, each of her feet almost touching one of his ears, her 
smooth legs and exquisitely shaped thighs wide apart, right up to the 
furrow of the delectable man trap between them. She brushed some 
strands of loose hair away from her knowing eyes, then looked along 
the length of his body to Caelia.

"Sister, while I hold him down, do you remove his breeches and wash 
him most thoroughly."

Caelia giggled: "How can you hold down such a beast?"

"Watch and learn."

Chelinde lowered herself, putting a knee where each of her feet had 
been before, then leaning forward over Hal's chest. The entrance to 
the promised land filled his gaze, and then nuzzled against his lips. 
He snorted in delight and tongued away at her sex like a pig hunting 
truffles. The fat bulges of Chelinde's rump quivered in response, 
pressing the join between them down onto his nose, until he was 
compelled to put a hand under each buttock to help support her 
weight, lest she stifle him.

It was something like death Hal decided, in some far corner of his 
mind which still had a measure of calm. The last rites of pre-burial 
washing and cleaning being performed on the body he could no longer 
see but still feel. Half suffocated, blood pounding in his ears, and 
above him the moans and gasps of an excited girl. Moans, sobs, and 
warm water splashing over him, and a feeling beyond compare of four 
busy little hands rubbing soap all over his grimy skin.

They went everywhere they could reach: chest, stomach, legs, feet, 
Caelia washing his soles as Chelinde bounced up and down on his face, 
scratching at his lean flanks with her finger nails. Until all that 
was left uncleaned was his jutting cock and tight drawn balls. Then 
the ladle was emptied over his private parts, soap swiftly applied by 
twenty vigorously active fingers and thumbs, all of them seemingly 
rubbing his foreskin simultaneously, and Hal was writhing as if he 
was on hot coals as Chelinde rode on the tip of his tongue. She let 
out a great cry, and another, and then a fearful scream. Suddenly the 
girl was off his face, sprawled on the sand, knocked there by a push 
of the dragon's head, and Josephine's eyes were staring into Hal's, 
seeking assurance that nothing was amiss. A string of filthy curses 
came from Chelinde's mouth in her anger at being interrupted during 
her moments of satisfaction.

"Damn your eyes, be quiet, girl. You'll upset Josephine. Patience for 
only a few minutes more, my lady, and we'll fly."

"Damn you and damn your vile dragon," snapped Chelinde in a spat of 
temper. "Get down on your hands and knees, Hal, and seek my forgiveness."

Hal knew better than to argue with any girl gripped with the sort of 
passion inflaming Chelinde. He did as she bade him and was instantly 
gripped with passion himself as she knelt behind him, put a hand 
between his legs and rubbed his cock as if he were a stallion being 
put to a mare.

"Wash his back, Caelia."

"Wash his back yourself. I want to hold him by his tupper -- 'tis my turn."

Chelinde laughed: "So be it, sister. Here, get down by his side and 
take whatever you may seize on."

Caelia crouched down, put her hand underneath Hal and caught hold of 
his shaft. She stayed there, holding him like a groom holding a 
waiting horse as Chelinde poured more water over Hal and rubbed soap 
over his back and legs. The effect of the dragon sweat was passing 
into his own body now, and every time the younger sister moved her 
tightened fist up and down his rampant cock he moaned and scratched 
out holes in the wet sand with his fingers. Caelia was delighted with 
the power she had found in the palm of her strong little hand.

"Ah, Hal, you men may be masters most of the time, but not always, hey?"

Again, in that faraway corner of his mind, Hal wondered at being 
called a man. Surely he was still only a boy in age, even if he had a 
man's lusts? But whatever he was, this was no time to ponder on the matter.

"Let me go, Caelia. 'Tis time we flew."

"Rinse him off, Chelinde."

The older girl emptied the two buckets over Hal's back. He shook the 
water from his hair like a dog emerging from a stream, then staggered 
to his feet.

"Bring your clothes."

Hal grabbed up his own filthy rags, ran to the side of the dragon, 
pulled out the side of the bottom net and dropped the garments into 
it. Then he took Chelinde's clothes from her hand and did the same 
with them, followed by Caelia's.

"Chelinde, show Caelia how to get into the net."

The naked girl moved against the dragon's side, in front of 
Josephine's left wing joint. She reached up and seized handholds in 
the top net, put her feet into mesh holes on the bottom net and 
scrambled upwards with the nimbleness of a squirrel climbing a tree. 
As soon as her feet were at the upper edge of the lower net Hal bit 
her lightly on each side of her rump. Chelinde stopped moving and 
hung giggling as Hal pulled out all the slack in the bottom net and 
guided her feet into the narrow gap. His hands reached up, underneath 
her arms and helped her to slip down between the net and Josephine's 
scaly side. Once inside the net Chelinde lay on her back on top of 
the row of sheepskins, her face and teats scarcely half an arrow's 
length below the belly of the beast.

"Caelia, do you still want to fly?

The pink and swaying girl almost elbowed him aside in her eagerness 
to follow her sister into the net. Only this time, after Hal had 
nipped at her buttocks like a playful dog, he left her in place as he 
put his hand up between her legs and rubbed his top finger along the 
outer lips of her maidenhood. Caelia's knuckles went white as she 
wriggled around with the feverish energy of a landed fish, sprawled 
half in and half out of the bottom net.

"Hal! Hal!" she cried out.

A hand came out of one of the net holes. It squeezed Hal's prick, 
then rubbed it.

"What are you doing with my vexing sister, Hal?"

"Why, nothing but returning her a favor and showing that 
master-is-as-master-does. Down you go, Caelia."

In a few seconds the belly net was full of girls. Full enough for 
Hal's modest wants anyway, as overwhelming as they were. He rushed 
towards the door, Josephine following behind on tipclaw, with girlish 
squeals coming from beneath her as the slung net bumped on the ground 
a time or two. Hal removed the bar from the doors, pushed one of them 
open a head's width and then looked out and about.

There was no one else in sight. Only the glint of a polished helmet 
on top of the castle walls where a sentry stood guard. Hal partially 
opened the doors, but not much, being careful to keep his nakedness 
from view. Josephine needed little enough room to slip through 
anyway, for she was as lithe as a stoat. When he returned to the 
dragon's side the flickers of purple running along her flanks showed 
her eagerness to lift off.

With the skill of practice Hal hauled himself up, wriggled his toes 
and then his feet into the belly net and let himself down handhold by 
handhold from the upper net. But as his waist slipped past the top of 
the belly net a warm palm moved up the inside of his left leg and 
then held his erection tightly at the base. Something damp and warm 
encircled his cockhead. It probably tasted of soap, but whether or 
not, the flavor must have been deemed acceptable, for a mouth 
followed the tongue. A mouth that spread itself around his cock head 
and lower yet, sucking at him fiercely. Hal gasped and clenched at 
the top net. Somebody was paying him back in his own coin, and he had 
little doubt who it was. A string of muscles behind Josephine's left 
front leg tightened as the dragon trembled with eagerness to fly. 
Trying to tell the beast to continue waiting was like ordering a dog 
to sit still as a coney ran past. Anyway, he was as impatient as his 
dragon was.

"Let go, you silly bitch!"

Josephine took a step, a leap, a bound, a girl's voice squealed, his 
cock was unmouthed and unhanded, he slipped into the net, down and 
sideways, on top of warm and trembling bodies, the net flexed upwards 
as Josephine cleared the hut and leapt into the air. Hal's head hit 
the dragon's belly, a curly haired head bounced against his chest in 
turn, a soft belly shot up to slam against his cock and balls, a 
groan was forced out of his mouth by pain, and the great wings lashed 
at the air.

Then, as suddenly as the dragon had first lunged forward, the net 
steadied and swung gently. A breeze blew in along the dragon's belly 
like water flowing down a river bed, the great wings appearing and 
disappearing on either side in upward and downward beats. As they 
swung down into view with the regularity of sails turning on a 
windmill harder gusts of wind simultaneously slapped into the net 
from either side, the waves of rough air clapping together as though 
applauding Josephine's efforts.

Staring down, Hal could see that the dragon's boasts about being able 
to lift the weight of all three passengers seemed well founded. 
Already the ground was as far underneath him as it would be if he was 
standing on the castle ramparts. Both of the girls were squealing in 
fear and delight and Hal cursed them as the dragon passed over the 
town huts: men, women and children alike lifting their faces upwards 
like frogs surprised in a well.

"Be quiet, you silly bitches, they can hear you down there," he 
snarled, trying to quieten his passengers.

Hal knew well enough how easy it was to hear even the smallest sounds 
from the ground when flying low above it, and also, he supposed, that 
the opposite was true. The only small mercy was that Josephine was 
still beating her wings, so perhaps the voices had been muffled by 
their drum roll. At least none of the staring eyes below could pierce 
the bottom covering of sheepskins which he and the girls were lying on.

But worse was to come as Josephine's wings stiffened and she began 
turning in a tight circle as if chasing her own tail, one wing tip 
high up, the other held low, akin to a man stooping sideways with a 
yoke across his shoulders to hook on a bucket. As Hal stared along 
the underside of the lowered wing the thatched roofs it pointed at 
seemed to turn in circles as though they were on a giant potter's wheel.

 From some of them the smoke of cooking fires was still rising from 
holes in the roofs, roofs still so close below he could not only see 
the smoke but taste it in his mouth as well. Then the dragon's shadow 
was moving away from the huts as Josephine kept dancing widdershins 
in the air, slowly getting higher, and moving just as slowly across 
the ground as she followed the air currents -- back towards the castle.

There was nothing Hal could do about that. A dragon could not be 
ridden like a horse, nor yet guided like one. To even try to tell the 
beastling how to lift herself into the sky would be like a blind 
rider trying to follow a path by pulling on his mount's reins. 
Josephine alone decided when to circle and when to fly straight -- 
and only when she was high and flying straight could he seek to alter 
her destination by tapping on her belly on the side he wished her to 
favor. Down here amongst the sparrows she had no interest at all in 
his desires, she flew entirely according to her own mind. And 
whatever it was that was going on in the dragon's mind, at least he 
she wasn't being distracted as much as he was, because Chelinde and 
Caelia had already become used enough to the sensation of flying for 
the dragon sweat to regain its unstoppable domination over their desires.

One of the girls still partway underneath him had wriggled her way 
down to his loins and was forcing him to lift himself up by nipping 
at his sides with her sharp nails. Her tongue had started licking 
around his balls as her sister had begun nibbling Hal's toes.

Again that distant part of his mind which was still unaffected by the 
dragon's sweat and by Chelinde and Caelia's enticements warned Hal to 
stay low lest the girls were seen by the sentry atop the castle. It 
was sensible advice and as capable of holding back his dragon sweat 
raised lusts as a toddler was of penning a mad bull. He rolled over 
onto his back and Caelia was dragging herself on top of him in an instant.

"Hal!"

Her mouth was against his, her tongue into his throat like an hedge 
hog sucking out an egg, the pressure of her body forcing him deeper 
into the sheepskins as she more than filled the gap between him and 
Josephine. Odin, keep those lashings secure! Caelia's tits were so 
squashed between his body and hers that he could feel their softness 
spilling out against his upper arms, yet even so she writhed against 
him as if she was a mating snake, his straining cock rubbing 
uselessly against the girl's cleft. And then a hand took hold of it 
and did his work for him -- Chelinde was guiding him into her sister's muff.

Hal took his mouth from Caelia's, gasped, and felt himself slide all 
the way inside her, every tiny muscle clamped around his cock holding 
him tightly and rubbing against his flesh as though it was plunged 
into a sack of baby eels. The boy shouted out his delight as Caelia 
squealed and jerked herself against him even more frantically. One of 
the sheepskins was pulled aside and Hal saw they were a little higher 
than the castle's ramparts but hardly more than a short arrow shot 
from them -- and the sentry.

He was a tall, thin man with his hand shielding his eyes and the 
shriveled speck of reason still left in Hal's head cursed as it 
recognized the figure and stance of Will Spearshaker, a long limbed, 
long sighted and long tongued fellow who delighted in spreading 
gossip around the town. He was a particular nuisance because the less 
facts there were for his stories, the more imaginative he became in 
devising them. Thank the Gods nobody had ever taught him to write or 
he would have been dangerous.

But all Hal's thoughts turned into fading vapor when Chelinde's 
fingernails scratched underneath his balls as Caelia screamed 
triumphantly in ultimate satisfaction. The sweat from her face was 
falling on his, her eyes stretched wide open, perhaps seeing him, 
perhaps not, and her hands were clenched into the netting above his 
shoulders as she slapped her belly against his. Then he knew his seed 
was spurting and he clutched Caelia's shoulders as his loosed himself 
into her with the explosive force of an overdrawn long bow. Another 
scream and her mouth was by the side of his throat, biting into him 
as every muscle in her body went as rigid as Josephine's wings. 
Eventually she gave out one last cry, sprawling on top of Hal as if 
she was a doe exhausted unto death by hunters.

The net swayed and groaned in its lashings as Josephine's wings 
leveled and she flew towards the mountains. The advantage in height 
she had gained was being quickly whittled down again as the rising 
ground came closer. Hal eyed the mass of approaching treetops with 
fear but also with great pleasure. Pleasure, of course, from what had 
happened between Caelia and himself, and how she had been dealt with 
so satisfactorily, but perhaps even more purely distilled pleasure 
from simply being alive, in breathing the pure, pine scented air and 
seeing the world in a way no other mortal could. Happiness seemed to 
be springing from the depths of his soul as naturally as the streams 
he could see below were springing from the hill sides. Then 
Josephine's left wing dipped and she was turning and rising once 
more, at the same moment as Chelinde began licking the bottom of his feet.

Surely, he thought, surely nothing could spoil an experience like this?

Unfortunately for Hal, the answer was yes, something could spoil his 
flight, his day, and his life and it was coming towards him from over 
those blue-misted mountain peaks which made a perfect backdrop to the 
summer's day scenery of Giant's Pass.

A golden eagle circling amidst the highest of the peaks was the first 
to see the interloper. As black as a raven's wing, flying as fast as 
a diving hawk, zig zagging between barren rock outcrops as if for the 
pleasure of the twists and turns, now rapidly growing in size until 
it could be seen to be as big as the eagle itself. The King of birds 
was also emperor of the mountains, a fierce eyed defender of its 
territory from anything which flew, even if it was flying in a way 
unlike anything in the eagle's previous experience. The giant bird 
prepared to stoop down in challenge. Prepared, then hesitated. Unlike 
a great many other monarchs it had very sharp eyes and a well 
developed sense of preservation. And there were things about this 
strange black creature which suggested that it was much better left alone.

The eagle had no words to shape its feelings exactly. But had it 
possessed them, 'evil' and 'dangerous' would have been the ones which 
would have been uppermost in describing them.

So the majestic bird decided on an alternative course of action. It 
looked away from the black thing and decided not to look back until 
there was every chance that it had flown past and disappeared. It 
even ignored the distant whine of the passing broomstick. Which in 
some ways was a pity, for it was a masterpiece of its kind.

To operate a witch's broomstick requires many years of training in 
both symbolic magic and in a deep understanding and continuous mental 
control of extremely complicated algorithms designed to keep reality 
at bay. There is no way in which any outsiders can learn such 
algorithms unless they become practicing witches or politicians.

The broomstick itself must remain in some way reminiscent of its 
origins, but can be much modified to suit the owner's personality. 
This one had the pillion seat sized bundle of twigs but a broom 
handle much cut down in length. A special edition H-D (Hag-Driven) 
chopper with customized high rise crossbar handles carved from a 
hangman's gibbet.

The brush was being flown solo, but carried a bed roll and two 
massive leather saddlebags with brass studs marking out the owner's 
initials: 'MlF'. The very same letters which Sir Tristan had 
indicated so discreetly to the Master-At-Arms. It would not be true 
to say that the witch's name was well known to her friends, for she 
had none. But her many enemies knew all about Morgana le Fay. And 
perhaps the greatest reason for her multitude of ill-wishers was 
evident in the words marked out with more brass studs on the back of 
her leather jacket: "COVEN CHEATERS".

It was Morgana's gang of willful wiccans that had led a revolt 
against the established order of witch precedence in their own coven. 
A revolt which had attracted many supporters: promotion is slow in an 
organization where senior members live many hundreds of years. But in 
the final battle tradition and numbers had won and most of Morgana's 
faction were now settling down to even more discontented lifestyles 
as cockroaches and mice. Morgana alone had fought clear and was 
realist enough to know that a lot of melted snow would have to flow 
down these mountains before she could begin another campaign in the 
witch wars. In the meantime she would amuse herself by making life as 
miserable as possible for as many mortals as possible, especially the 
male ones.

The body she had handcrafted for the purpose was ideally suited to 
its task, designed to attract the absolute best of the male breed to 
her like hounds smelling blood. After all, there was no longer any 
point in bothering with female lovers if she was going into a world 
run by men. But Morgana was far too clever simply to make herself 
look beautiful. Beautiful she was indeed, but that was only a part of 
the presentation, for everything about her newly minted body was a 
walking challenge to the male ego. And never had she encountered male 
egos as inflated as those dressed in armor, wielding swords and 
calling themselves knights.

These were men who had never known anything but submissive damsels 
dressed in hampering gowns, silly hats and wimples. Women brought up 
from birth to believe themselves as something rather less important 
to men than horses or hounds. Women who knew -- knew absolutely -- 
they existed only to serve their men as child carriers and domestic 
slaves. This was the state of the world, and at the first sight of 
Morgana the men who ruled it were dumbfounded. The largest of them 
stood lower than the top of her hair, few of their shoulders were as 
wide as hers, and the sight of her tightly cut leather jacket and 
breeches dropped every jaw. Firstly, that any woman would dare to 
dress in such style and, secondly, because she had created for 
herself a figure which could bring a holy hermit running out of his 
cave in hot lust.

Every one of those proud knights was scandalized and outraged at 
Morgana's dress, her presence, her style, her insolent manner of 
speech and -- above all -- because of her powers. Easy enough to 
accuse an harmless old woman of being a witch and pass a pleasant 
afternoon dunking her in a cesspit or rolling her through the streets 
in a spike lined barrel. But a real witch, a witch who could knock 
down a war horse with one punch, or tie a man's entrails into knots 
without even touching him, well, that was a curse of a different 
color. So the knights muttered in anger and, deprived of the use of 
their swords, turned to the only other weapons they could think of to 
conquer an overly proud woman who challenged all their beliefs.

It was a game which Morgana delighted in playing. Any man who was 
good looking enough was welcome to share her bed and if he satisfied 
her, he was allowed to walk -- or stagger -- away from the 
tournament. There were few such winners though, and nailed along her 
broomstick handle were a growing collection of small shriveled 
objects which had once been the most treasured possessions of proud 
knights who had jousted in the lists of love with her: jousted, but 
not satisfied, and had forfeited their manhoods as the price of 
disappointing Morgana le Fay. Not for nothing had Morgana carefully 
studied the standard treatise on witch-mortal relationships, "The 
Male Eunuch And How To Make Him Into One."

Over the mountains but very far from over the hill, Morgana dipped 
the nose of her customized broom and gathered speed in the direction 
of Giant's Pass Castle. She knew a lot about many things. What she 
didn't know were how the fates were chuckling at the rendezvous 
they'd appointed for her.

Nor were the fates alone in chuckling. Hal was as near to heaven as 
he ever expected to be whilst still breathing, as far above his 
normal stinking life as a privy emptier as the King was above him. 
The King! Hal wouldn't have changed places with the Tiberian Emperor. 
The trees which had seemed so close had shrunk to the size of 
porcupine quills, the rushing mountain streams to silvery snail 
tracks. The entire length of Giant's Pass was his to look at in a 
single leisurely glance from over Chelinde's right shoulder as he 
thrust his cock into her with equal leisure.

With one sister already shagged he was now calm and relaxed enough to 
spin out the task of giving the other one long, steady strokes that 
had Chelinde sobbing in gratitude. Not that Hal wasn't grateful in 
his turn to Caelia for the way she was gently stroking his balls as 
he fucked her sister. It was exactly the kind of family support which 
helped families grow.

Hal changed his position slightly, grunting as he found a new angle 
at which to plunge into Chelinde's welcoming loins. Now he was 
looking over her left shoulder and could see the dragon's midday 
shadow almost directly below, skimming over cultivated fields as 
Josephine glided along the line of the valley. A minute more and she 
would be directly over the castle. A vision came into Hal's mind's 
eye, a vision in glorious detail, a vision of that bastard of a 
Master-At-Arms shouting and bullying everybody in sight and totally 
unaware that two of his daughters were being shagged directly above 
his head by one of the despised Shitbucket clan!

So inspired was Hal by the thought that he suddenly found himself on 
the short strokes, the net flexing like a rope bridge underneath a 
galloping horse and heaving Chelinde back up against him until his 
own back was thumping against Josephine's belly. Like a fiddler at a 
village dance Caelia instantly changed her own timing to meet Hal's 
new pace, scratching him frantically just behind his balls.

"Pull out and put down!"

The movement in the net instantly stopped. Three heads flicked over 
in gaping disbelief. Hal's brain simply refused to accept what he was 
seeing, a tall man in tight fitting leather clothes with long black 
hair streaming back from underneath a silvery helmet decorated with 
wings. Then Hal saw the arched eyebrows, the glittering eyes, the 
perfection of nose and mouth and knew he was looking at a woman -- he 
knew it even before his eyes were seeing the shapely curves of her 
breasts. A woman on a broom, as strange a broom as could be imagined 
but a broom, flying along as though it had every right to be in the 
sky with all the creatures which Odin had given a home there. A witch!

"Put down!"

The intruder appeared angry, her eyes apparently aimed directly at 
Hal. One of her hands jerked down towards the ground, as though 
indicating that she wanted Josephine to land. She also seemed to be 
having trouble steering her broom, wobbling from side to side, the 
handle of the brush gradually lifting higher as though it was 
uncomfortable at the dragon's slower pace. Hal had another sudden 
vision, of an accidental collision between Josephine and the witch. 
The dragon's wing might be damaged, or the net torn. He suddenly 
realized he was more terrified of the death drop below than of 
anything else, even a flying sorceress.

"Fuck off, you stupid witch!"

It was from there that things went very wrong very quickly. The witch 
aimed her hand at Hal with fingers extended. A flicker of light 
showed around them like a glimpse of summer lightning and Hal was 
writhing in agony, as if a thousand red hot needles were jabbing all 
over his body. As he screamed he heard the girls screaming too. Hal 
also heard Josephine bellow in pain.

Witches travel a lot on broomsticks but rarely use them as fighting 
platforms. Which is understandable. Just persuading a broomstick to 
fly from A to B with U on it is hard work enough, without trying to 
make the task more difficult by encouraging other broom jockeys to 
knock you off what is a pretty precarious perch to begin with. And so 
it had been aeons since most witches had encountered anything else in 
the sky which was a threat to them, the occasional bird strike excepted.

Had she known more about dragons, Morgana would not have been 
surprised by the way Josephine tilted her wings and instantly applied 
them as airbrakes. The witch would have known how maneuverable a 
dragon's light wing loading made it. Most of all she would have known 
that the last thing you do with an angry dragon is to get in front of 
it while still traveling in the same direction. Because that offers 
the dragon a simple nil deflection aiming solution right up your twigs.

Hal felt Josephine's cough through the beastling's belly muscles. 
Just the one but it was more than enough. The spitball exploded 
directly on the back of the broomstick in a giant yellow unfolding 
petal surrounded by a ring of black smoke which instantly blew away. 
Fragments came flying back through the air towards Josephine, a 
burning unrolling bedroll, a saddlebag shedding a myriad of colored 
lights and smells as the lotions, potions and spells inside flared 
up. Then a coal dark figure with outstretched limbs whirling head 
over tail -- literally, head over tail. The giant tom cat slammed 
into the front of the net and hung there, claws fully extended, 
spitting with anger and green eyes blazing.

The broomstick itself was spiraling down leaving a thin trail of 
black smoke behind it. Keeping gravity at bay is never easy, even for 
the most strong-willed of witches. It's especially difficult to 
concentrate your mental powers while sitting on a bundle of burning 
twigs. Which was probably why the witch was dropping much faster than 
was safe and apparently heading straight for the castle walls.

So indeed was Josephine, her wings furled as she came swooping down 
after her prey. Her entire body had turned a vivid shade of red, a 
color Hal had only seen her display once before, when the wolves had 
attacked him. It meant that Josephine was spitting mad and furious with it.

In this case bad news could be described for her opponent as ending 
up with a choice between a high speed impact with several thousand 
tons of stone walls or jumping into the open sewer that was the moat. 
Even a witch has to make difficult decisions sometimes. But no one 
who witnessed the scene had anything but total admiration for 
Morgana's timing: her cat couldn't have fallen more neatly. The witch 
dropped off the broomstick while she was still twenty paces or so 
away from the outer edge of the moat, calculating exactly how far she 
would be flung by her forward speed. The stick hit the wall and 
splintered at exactly the same time as there was a disturbance on the 
moat's surface. It couldn't be described as a splash, not in that 
substance: more like a heavy stone being dropped into a cow pat.

"Oh, Odin!" Hal wailed in despair as a mud coated head emerged from 
the hideous depths of the moat. A witch, a powerful witch, a bad 
powerful witch, a bad powerful witch who was up to her neck in shit 
because of him. Things couldn't get any worse.

There was movement on the lowered drawbridge. It seemed like every 
soldier in the castle was streaming out along it, all carrying 
crossbows, the Master-At-Arms leading them. And beside him was the 
gangling figure of Will Spearshaker, an accusing arm pointing 
skywards at Josephine. An indication followed by the soldiers aiming 
their crossbows at her as the Master-At-Arms shook his fist in rage. 
Oh, Gods, now things couldn't get worse.

Josephine's wings began beating the air as she hovered low over the 
moat, apparently savoring her moment of victory over the bitch witch 
in the ditch. Hal rolled onto his back and thumped his fists against 
her belly.

"Fly, my lady, fly. Leave this accursed place and we'll never return."

Both of the girls began wailing in despair at the idea of being taken 
away from their home; if they thought they could find any mercy from 
their father by staying they had much higher hopes than Hal had. The 
cat seemed to be deeply unhappy as well, going berserk in its efforts 
to reach in far enough through the net to rip open the boy's face.

"Fly, Josephine, fly!"

The witch raised her hand and again there was a flicker of lightning 
that was somehow there and not there at the same time. The 
supernatural disturbance ran around the left front net rings and they 
had gone as if transformed into smoke rings. Hal actually saw the 
lashings fall clear, still tied and untouched, before the corner of 
the net fell open. Even as he tried to accept what had happened the 
right front rings vanished as well, the front of the belly net 
falling down as if to pitch them all into empty air.

Chelinde and Caelia screamed in fright, twisting around exactly as 
Hal was doing and clutching at the sagging net with hooked fingers. 
Hal screamed too, not only for fear but because the cat was still 
hanging on the opposite side of the net and now it had him within 
claw reach. The first slash took a deep bloody furrow out of the top 
of his leg, barely missing his balls. Hal was as terrified as he 
could be and more angry than he'd ever dreamed possible. He drew back 
his fist and drove it with every shred of strength in his body onto 
the tip of the cat's nose. There was a scream which was louder than 
Chelinde and Caelia combined and the cat was falling, turning, 
spreading its legs, slapping down into the weed speckled crust of the 
moat, disappearing from view, except for a black tail sticking 
straight up into the air. But the screams continued.

It was the witch, one hand clasped to her face and apparently in 
agony. It was if she'd been hit in the same way as her cat but Hal 
had no time to worry about either of them. Josephine was landing on 
the edge of the moat, letting the net fall slowly onto the grass. Hal 
hit the ground first, crawled out from under the net, looked up and 
saw the Master-At-Arms staring at his daughter's bare bodies hanging 
from the net before they tumbled down as well.

"Kill the little cunt!"

Only the front rank of the soldiers could aim at Hal because he was 
down so low, and they were hampered by having the Master-At-Arms and 
Will Spearshaker in front of them. Josephine coughed and spat, the 
Master-At-Arms burst into flames like a wax doll dropped into a fire 
and Will Spearshaker was running for the moat with his breeches burnt 
off and his chain mail glowing red. When he jumped into the mire a 
cloud of evil smelling steam shot up around his head. The other 
soldiers gaped at him, then at the calcinated remains of the 
Master-At-Arms and finally -- and reluctantly -- at the dragon again. 
There was an unmistakable air about them of warriors for the working 
day definitely deciding that it was quitting time.

Hal seized his chance: "Drop those crossbows, you bastards, or I'll 
flame mail the lot of you!"

Some of the palace guard fingered their weapons and looked sullen, 
but there were good reasons for standing still. The first was the 
pile of ash where the Master-At-Arms had stood, the second was Will 
Spearshaker's cries of mingled pain and relief as the moat cooled his 
hot armor. The third and fourth good reasons were the gleam in each 
of the dragon's eyes as her snout swung back and forth across their 
ranks in continued threat. Hal followed up his advantage.

"Two of you, get your cloaks off and give them to the girls."

Hal's hand pointed towards Caelia and Chelinde, huddled together in 
their nakedness and staring at their father's powdery remains gently 
blowing away in the wind. An upsetting sight, slightly softened by 
the fact that the Master-At-Arms had always been a total bastard to 
everyone who'd had the misfortune of knowing him, especially his own 
family. But before anybody could move a patch of air between the 
soldiers and Hal clouded over as though a tiny fog patch was forming 
there, no bigger than a man -- and forming into the ghostly outline 
of a man's figure.

An old man, a hunched man, a man with no hair above his ears and a 
white beard down to his belt, holding a long staff and wearing furs 
that belonged to no animal that had ever prowled in these mountains. 
Gaunt Gregory, chief warlock to King Argud, somehow appearing to them 
all as a shadow of his real self. Instinctively, every soldier 
glanced at the castle where the warlock had lived as long as any 
could remember, as homebound in his tower chamber as a miller's 
donkey tethered to a grinding stone.

There, on the nearest castle wall, was the hulking figure of the 
King, waving his arms in great excitement, and beside him still stood 
the dwarfish figure of his sorcerer. They saw the smaller man lifting 
his staff, as tall as himself, and point it down towards the moat. At 
the same moment the warlock's apparition also raised its staff and 
pointed. At the place where both staffs were aimed was a head and 
flailing arms, the arms desperately struggling to support their 
owner's head above the filthy ooze of the moat. None of the witch's 
supernatural skills seemed to avail her now as she fought to keep her 
mouth and nose out of the squalid slime she was slowly sinking into.

Gaunt Gregory's orders came not through Hal's ears, but like some 
message drifting into his mind from an already forgotten dream: "Save 
her, boy, save her! The King commands it!"

Not only was Hal made aware of the warlock's appeal, so were the 
soldiers. They stared at him, then snapped to attention, as though 
the fools expected Hal to start drilling them. What orders did they 
think a bollock naked shitbucket emptier could give them? Yet 
suddenly he was doing exactly that.

"Who's senior rank leader?"

A gray mustached veteran clapped a hand to his cross-bow. "I am, boy."

Corporal Clint O'The East Wood would have died rather than take 
orders from Hal but that wasn't an option on offer. Subjects who 
failed both the King and the Chief Warlock in important matters 
suffered far worse fates than simply ceasing to exist.

"Get that net. Use your swords to cut it apart. Tie three of the long 
lengths of rope together. Then give me one end with a loop in it. I'm 
going to try to walk out far enough on the dragon's tail to throw it 
to the witch. Keep hold of the other end of the rope and when the 
witch has got hold of the loop, haul her in. You understand?"

"Aye, boy, aye."

It wasn't in the Corporal's training to throw a weapon onto the 
ground but he put down his crossbow with the greatest possible speed, 
pulled out his blade and went at the net as though it were a living 
enemy. Hal turned to Josephine, pointed at the witch, and then at the 
dragon's tail.

"Can I walk along your tail to help the woman?"

Josephine growled, then snorted, a hint of flames as insubstantial as 
the warlock's phantom presence flickering around her nozzles. The 
dragon was usually in a good humor, but apparently not where witches 
were concerned. Not witches who handled their broomstick like a tipsy 
gypsy aloft on an unbroken colt, nor yet witches who treated 
everything else in the sky as unimportant flying objects. Josephine 
was still deeply in the grip of sky rage.

"Please, Josephine, the King and the Chief Warlock have commanded me 
to save the witch. Will you help me?"

A sickly shade of green appeared on her skin: Hal understood her 
doubts only too well. The further he moved down her tail, the harder 
it would be for Josephine to support his weight on it.

"Well, the best you can do, my lady. And quickly!"

Her colors flickered and changed on her coat of scales again, and 
then she was backing her haunches over the edge of the moat, 
reluctance showing in every movement as she came into contact with 
the filth. Her tail she held as high as she could until she was half 
lying on the bank and half floating in the moat, and then she let it 
drop straight down on top of the partly dissolved turds floating on 
the scummy surface. Hal noted with surprise the depths and intensity 
of the shades Josephine was now displaying: he couldn't imagine where 
a nice young female dragon had learnt so much bad language. Then his 
attention was broken by two men-at-arms running up to him with the 
looped end of a rope between them. With them was Corporal Clint.

"All ready, boy."

"Get your men to on the other end and to be ready to haul like oxen. 
I need a man here at the moat's edge to put a turn of rope around one 
of the dragon's back spikes if you need her help in hauling the witch out."

"Aye, boy." Corporal Clint O'The East Wood turned and pointed to one 
of the soldiers. "You, when I shout, go ahead -- make my belay."

Hal grabbed the loop and stepped onto the base of Josephine's tail. 
Which was a big problem itself. The needle sharp spikes that ran down 
her back extended along her tail as well, gradually getting smaller 
but no blunter. Right here they were as long as dagger blades and he 
had to step between them with his toes pointed inward like a 
pigeon's. An uncomfortable position, rendered much more uncomfortable 
by the thought that if he slipped and fell astride the dragon's tail 
the spikes would instantly make sure that Caelia and Chelinde would 
be both the first and last girls he'd ever fuck.

"Fria and Odin, Fria and Odin, help me, please!"

He began moving. One step, two steps, three, with the slime of the 
moat lapping around his ankles, the dragon's scales becoming more 
slippery under his feet. Exactly as they had both feared, the further 
along Josephine's tail he went the harder it was for her to keep it 
up above the moat's surface.

Hal stopped to regain his swaying balance and stared slack jawed at 
what was happening out in the moat. For now the warlock's mirage was 
hovering directly in front of the witch, arm and staff outstretched above her.

Somehow he seemed to be supporting her because both her arms were 
raised above the mire, one pointing towards the castle and one 
towards Hal. And close to the castle wall her broomstick was rising 
again. Splintered and broken in the middle, the front half drooping 
down, the bundle of twigs mostly burnt off and spattered in filth, 
but still rising up into the air as lightly as a feather floating 
over a fire. The broomstick stopped at knee height above the moat and 
swung around like a rusty weathercock touched by a summer breeze.

Then, close to Hal, a great bubble of air burst amidst the floating 
scum, close to where the witch's cat was still buried, the tom's tail 
marking its last resting place. Hal hoped so anyway, since it was his 
fist which had sent the feline familiar tumbling down into the deep 
shite and the memory of its malevolent green eyes would haunt his 
nightmares for a long time. Yet even as he looked the thickly furred 
tail began to disappear into the moat as if it were a plant which was 
shriveling instead of growing. Strange . . .

As the tail vanished more bubbles broke on the surface of the moat 
like farts from a cart horse's bum, each one releasing smells which 
were even worse than those from the privy buckets Hal spent so much 
time emptying. Then a head appeared in amongst the bubbles and green 
eyes opened which regarded Hal in pure hatred. Yet this wasn't a cat 
which had surfaced, but a toad: a toad as big as the cat had been, a 
toad of brown and yellow, with masses of red tinged warts and spikes, 
an apparition so unlike anything in nature that one look was enough 
to know it as a perverse parody of anything the Gods had ever 
intended to live on the earth.

Hal shivered in fear as he realized that nightmares were nothing 
compared to seeing a terrible enemy resurrected. The toad came 
swimming and slopping on its belly towards him, as near to being in 
its own element as any creature could be in this foul bog. It stopped 
about four paces from Hal and opened a mouth which seemed to be the 
ugliest part of the whole swollen monstrosity. A sack of living venom 
perched on a lake of poison, and a pair of emerald eyes looking at 
Hal with a promise of agonizing revenge. He longed to run home. But 
he could run nowhere from where he was and instead waited like a pig 
penned for slaughtering as a tongue as long and red as a scarlet 
tippet flicked through the air -- and stopped short of the loop of 
rope in Hal's hand. Again, the same thing happened. And this time the 
toad raised a webbed paw and pointed towards the witch.

Suddenly, and incredibly, Hal felt almost gratitude towards the 
hideous creature. Because now he knew what it wanted him to do. Much 
more importantly he knew what he might no longer have to do himself. 
As well as he could he threw the loop towards the toad, watching as 
it landed just short of the witch's creature. The foul creation went 
forward in one quick movement before picking up the rope in its mouth 
as carefully as a cat holding a kitten. Then it turned and began 
dragging the rope behind it as it paddled towards the witch. Hal paid 
out the slack, swaying on Josephine's trembling tail, still terrified 
but at least hopeful that he need go no further into this shit filled slough.

The remains of the broomstick reached the witch first, the upright 
handles on the broken front piece bent down towards her like a 
grazing deer's horns. At the same instant the dim figure of Gaunt 
Gregory disappeared, as if the two magics could not exist together. 
The witch began to sink again, her hands shot up over her mud choked 
hair and grasped the broom between the twigs and the break in the 
handle. Then the broomstick bobbed up and down in her desperate grip, 
as though it was floating on rippling water, but to no avail in 
lifting the witch from the clinging mud. A handhold on life she had, 
but nothing more. Unless her familiar could reach her with the rope. 
And, as big and strong as it was, the toad seemed to be struggling to 
pull out the ever increasing length of rope from Hal.

In desperation he hauled out yet more line from the hands of the 
soldier on the bank and took another step along Josephine's tail. The 
dragon groaned, a startling thing for somebody so used to her normal 
silence. Nothing could show more plainly how painful it was for her 
to keep supporting him on her tail: it was as if Hal was trying to 
hold aloft a horseshoe on his little finger. He felt her trembling 
underfoot and the tail sink lower, so that he was up to his knees now 
in filth. But the toad had reached its mistress!

Hal thanked his Gods as he saw her take one hand off the broomstick 
in a hasty snatch at the rope and then lift up the dripping loop. 
With one deft movement she dropped it over her head and wriggled the 
free arm through it before seizing the broom again in a double handed 
hold. Then she removed her other hand, pulled down the free arm and 
slipped it up through the other side of the loop whilst grabbing at 
the broom again. The loop was safely under her arms and now they could act!

Hal waved to the Corporal and the soldier on the bank. A twirl of 
rope around one of Josephine's spikes and she was pulling on it, and 
so were the soldiers, stamping their feet into the turf as though 
they were trying to pull the castle walls down. The problem was that 
everybody was worried about the witch, not about Hal, and even 
Josephine moved so quickly he was left behind in the mire as her tail 
jerked forward. He lifted his feet clear of her spikes, then toppled 
sideways with a cry of despair and grabbed at the rope. It was 
certainly moving, moving too quickly, piling up waves of slime and 
shit into his face as he clung on to the slippery strands. The only 
recourse left to him was to roll onto his back and clutch the rope 
desperately to his chest, the back of his neck then taking the impact 
of the crusted filth.

A brief glimpse of the witch behind showed her in much the same 
situation, but at least luckier than him by being able to lift her 
upper body higher because the broomstick was traveling with her, 
still offering the woman as much support as it could. Not that 
anybody could have recognized her as a man, woman or demon, not with 
the slime plastered over her limbs, her face, and her hair -- and Hal 
was in no much better condition when the Corporal's men hauled him 
onto the bank. The expressions of their faces as they had to touch 
him showed that: not that he had any sympathy for their 
fastidiousness; they should try his privy bucket emptying job once in a while.

On the other hand he had every sympathy with the reluctance the 
soldiers showed in hauling the witch out of the midden. A dislike of 
scraping shit off somebody is one thing, getting up close and dirty 
to an enraged witch was akin to putting a muzzle on a mad dog. Worse, 
in fact, much worse. A mad dog might bite your balls off, but with a 
mad witch you could end up pissing out of your ear for the rest of 
your life. Which is an embarrassing place to have your cock put on 
display. But already the King was galloping out over the drawbridge 
on his white stallion and, whatever the witch might do, everybody 
else knew what Argud the Defiler would certainly do if his orders 
weren't carried out to the letter. So the soldiers helped the woman 
out onto the turf, where she shook them off her arms as easily as if 
they were half grown children. Then she strode across the lumpy turf 
to Hal, the broomstick drifting after her at waist height and two 
steps behind.

Like a dutiful wife following her husband in a public place, Hal 
thought, a hurt wife yet silent and submissive in showing off her 
injuries. But there was nothing submissive about the hot coals 
glowing in the witch's eyes behind her mask of mud. And behind her 
and underneath the hovering broomstick was that revoltingly ugly 
toad, hopping along in great leaps which almost reached the 
broomstick at their highest points. Hal's reckoning was that in about 
five seconds he was going to be transmuted into something just as 
revolting. Unless he was fated to mix his ashes with the 
Master-At-Arm's. How odd if he should die the way he was now, as 
naked as when he was born -- and never of any more importance to the 
world than a coney born in a burrow and eaten by a fox.

He looked around for the last time with mortal eyes and saw Chelinde 
and Caelia now wrapped in soldier's cloaks, staring at him with pity 
on their faces. Caelia waved at him, sadly, on this moment of 
parting. Perhaps it was some consolation that the girls seemed more 
upset about his fate than their father's.

So when the witch turned, plucked the broomstick from the air and 
then knelt down in front of Hal, holding it in front of her as if it 
were a sacrificial offering to a Druid, every onlooker was stunned. 
Soldiers, girls, Corporal Clint and, most of all, Hal.

"Take it, Master. Take it, as I have promised the warlock."

"What?

She lifted her face, those hot eyes fanned into blue burning coals 
with anger: "Put your hand on this broomstick, you bum ugly little 
fucker, or I'll skin you alive!"

Hal instantly stretched out a trembling hand and touched one of the 
hand grips. It was like holding onto part of a water mill built over 
a raging torrent, the fierce energy of the rushing waters below 
passing through the structure for a curious bystander to feel. But 
before he could learn more he snatched his fingers away again as a 
shriek of anger came to his ears. Behind the King's magnificent 
stallion was an old donkey, the thin legs of Gaunt Gregory astride 
it, his even thinner voice cawing like a squabbling crow. Completely 
disregarding all the normal rules of the court he hacked at the 
donkey's side with his heels and rode past the king, limbs flailing 
and jerking in his haste like a scarecrow dancing with the wind, the 
long staff held out over his mount's big ears in a parody of a knight's lance.

"What, Morgana -- you break your oath given to another who has 
crossed the Abyss between the worlds and returned? You dare to defy 
the Great Ones themselves?"

"I gave my word to you to yield my person and my powers to my 
rescuer. This boy was my rescuer and I have kept my word, you jumped 
up little shit of a half achieved adept. I have submitted and 
forsworn myself to him. Now go hence and lick your own mortal 
master's backside!"

Nobody present had ever heard or seen the like, a witch and a warlock 
squabbling like urchins over a wind fallen apple. And there wasn't 
one of the watchers who didn't wish to be many safe leagues away from 
the scene. But one at least had no intention of remaining a mere 
spectator. King Argud swung out of his saddle, dropping as lightly as 
a feather despite his huge bulk and large belly. He thrust the 
horse's reins into the hand of one of the soldiers, a man who 
blanched with fear as he realized that the strange events had lured 
him into a fatal error of lese majesty by not acknowledging his 
sovereign's presence until now. The soldier hastily dropped to his 
knee and bowed his head, an example followed equally quickly by all 
present save the two sorcerers, still bristling at each other.

"Come, Gregory, what's amiss here? You promised to tame this hawk for 
me. Yet she sits not quietly on your gauntlet."

There had once been a court jester unwise enough to make fun of the 
King's appearance by reddening his cheeks, puffing up his cheeks and 
somehow bulging his eyes so they seemed twice their normal size. The 
secret of how he'd managed that had died with him, in a unusual and 
distinctly revolting way, and since then nobody else had taken any 
gambles on finding King Argud in a good mood. Which was clever 
reckoning, because he never had any good moods. The best that could 
be said for his temperament was that sometimes he managed to control 
his blood lust if there seemed to be a good enough reason -- but that 
was never more than a temporary deferment of his appetite for death 
and agony. Even the warlock acknowledged the monarch's worldly power 
and presence by awkwardly dismounting from the donkey and bowing low 
to the wearer of the crown.

But not so the witch. For all the scum and shit on her, she stood 
like a queen, arms folded in open contempt of King Argud, warlock and 
soldiers. Hal's eyes moved towards the now abandoned donkey which 
seemed uninterested in anything but eating grass. Would he have a 
chance of escaping on it if trouble erupted? Odin alone knew what 
this business of the witch and her broomstick was all about but, 
irregardless, Josephine had killed the Master-At-Arms as the court 
official was getting ready to kill Hal for tupping his daughters. 
That was enough to have Hal impaled on a spike in the market place 
for as long as it took to die. Better to perish trying to run away 
than wait until the King got around to passing the death sentence. 
Let the magicians fight each other and then he and Josephine could 
flee behind a curtain of dragon fire none would be able to pass. Left 
and right Hal glanced, awaiting his chance.

Then a sword tip touched his bare flank and Corporal Clint whispered: 
"You'll stay here, dirty Harry."

"Harry's not in this story -- Rowling would sue us to hell and gone. 
My name's Hal."

"Whatever."

The King's impatient voice called out: "You said you could make her 
your slave, Gregory. What happened?"

The spindly legged little warlock was almost dancing with anger: "She 
promised to yield herself, body and soul, to whoever rescued her from 
the moat. But now she says it was the boy who rescued her and has 
pledged herself to him."

"What!" The bulging eyes swung towards a trembling Hal. "First the 
dragon and now the witch. The Gods are making a plaything of this 
shithouse emptier. But what I saw was that it was your help, Gregory, 
which aided the witch long enough to call forth her own magic to her 
aid. All the boy did was to pass her a rope and even in that he had 
help from the dragon and that -- that thing."

King Argud stretched out a boot towards the hunkered down toad, then 
jerked it back as a stream of steaming spit landed next to his toe, 
instantly turning a patch of green grass into brown stalks. The toad 
leered at him and noisily cleared its throat again.

"Threaten my familiar once more, mortal, just once more, and I will 
turn you inside out through your own arse hole." The witch's voice 
was low and sharp -- and to be believed. "Twas the rope which settled 
the matter and had it not reached me when it did I would surely have 
perished. And without the boy that rope would not have been there. So 
I proclaim him my rescuer and anyone who disagrees may call on the 
Great Ones for judgement."

The King looked at Gregory for his advice and the warlock bit his 
beard in frustration then threw up his hands: "Your majesty, nobody 
calls on the Great Ones without taking great risks. Their judgements 
are not to be reckoned on in advance and Morgana has -- I have heard 
-- some influence with them. She is now pledged to the boy and he is 
a pledged subject of yours. Let us be content with that. Hal, stand up."

Hal did so, naked and frightened, and acutely aware of all the eyes 
regarding his skinny frame. Not to mention the Corporal's sword point 
pricking his backside. So this was where taking young girls for 
dragon rides had gotten him. Then he looked at the Master-At-Arm's 
daughters again and suddenly relaxed a little. To blame himself for 
wanting them was as pointless as blaming himself for wanting food -- 
he had a stomach and a prick, and both made demands on him that had 
to be satisfied.

"Hal, tell Morgana to kneel down in front of the king."

"Morgana!" Even he had heard of a witch with that name, a witch with 
a reputation that made the fiercest of warriors huddle close to the 
fireplace on dark nights.

The warlock nodded in satisfaction: "Yes, the greatest witch of them 
all, Morgana le Fay. Your slave, Morgana le Fay. Now bid her kneel."

The witch still stood as proudly as ever, and her eyes fastened on 
Hal's with a strength of character he could never begin to match. Nor 
could he forget for an instant the pain he'd already felt from her 
magical powers and was still feeling from that damned cat's claw 
slash. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to try to give 
her any orders. Then he saw the King's face and remembered the spike 
in the market place. No, offending Morgana was the second last thing 
in the world that he wanted to do. What totally passed his 
understanding was why it should be expected that any witch who 
treated a warlock and a monarch with contempt would obey the lowest 
and least of all the King's subjects. But it seemed he had to try.

"Morgana! Morgana le Fay, I command you to kneel for the king."

Never before had any words of his been so attended to by so many 
people. Hal felt like an actor in a May Day festival, the one playing 
the part of a prince with a paper crown and a wooden sword. Yet 
though his words ended on a silly sounding squeak the witch did as 
she was told. Not only did she kneel, she knelt as an obedient woman 
should, on both knees, then demurely lowered her head until it almost 
touched the grass. The King laughed and clapped his hands in 
satisfaction, releasing a great sigh of tension amongst the soldiers 
as they suddenly felt much safer. Safer, but greatly puzzled. They 
looked at Hal's soiled and scrawny body with questions on their lips. 
Yet none had so much need of asking them as Hal himself.

"Sire . . . Sire Gregory."

The warlock beckoned him forward: "Give him a cloak, someone."

In an instant Hal had a fine woolen cloak to pull around himself, a 
cloak instantly ruined by the filth he was spreading on it. But that 
was a matter of little consequence right now. Gaunt Gregory looked at 
Hal, at the still prostrate witch, then back to the boy again. Then, 
incredibly, he smiled, revealing a row of rotten and yellowing stumps 
in lieu of teeth.

"Why, 'tis a simple thing that's happened, boy. Morgana here was nigh 
on drowning in our moat and I made her promise on pain of her witch's 
power to obey forever anyone who rescued her. I assisted her and so 
did you, and rather than give herself up to me she chose to yield to 
you. So now you will compel her to do whatever the King commands. You 
understand?"

Hal nodded: "Yes, sire -- I understand." But did the warlock 
understand? If he was telling the truth Hal could command both 
Josephine and Morgana. With luck he could break free with both and 
leave this kingdom forever. Or better yet . . .

"Boy, look around you."

The King's voice was always a surprise to those hearing it for the 
first time, a high pitched squeak from such a bulk. But it was a 
small voice never used for small talk. Hal looked. Every man-at-arms 
had picked up his crossbow again and each one was aimed at him alone, 
from soldiers so widely spread out that Josephine could never burn 
them down all at once.

"Boy, understand me. I can kill you whenever I wish. The witch would 
be delighted to be free again and she'll soon teach your dragon to 
behave herself. So be a loyal subject and bid Morgana to do my 
bidding, and all will be fair weather between us. As a token of 
which, I order you to kneel beside Morgana to be declared a Duke 
before all present."

"To be . . ? " He must have misheard the King, but at least the 
gesture towards the ground was unmistakable. Hal knelt, and dared to 
do it on one knee, as the soldiers had done.

"When you arise, Hal O'The Shitbuckets, you will be Duke Merlinus. 
But before I raise you up I would know what happened between the 
witch and yourself. How came she to fall into our moat?"

Hal answered the King's question as well as he could by telling what 
had happened But, like Hal himself, the monarch had more questions to 
ask about his uncertain explanation.

"So, she saw you tupping one of the Master-At-Arm's little beauties 
in the dragon's riding net. Why should she wish to interfere with that?"

"Your Majesty, I do not know."

"I can answer that," Gaunt Gregory said. "When mortals couple they 
sometimes reach a level of ecstasy which is a form of primitive 
magic. Since magics cannot exist side by side any practicing adept 
who comes close to an act of mortal tupping may find his or her 
spells much diminished and perhaps even completely canceled by the 
tupping effect. Their magic becomes -- how can I describe it?"

"Fucked up," the King suggested dryly.

The warlock bowed again: "Your Majesty has it in a nutshell. Yes, I 
believe Morgana flew close to the dragon to examine it without having 
the slightest suspicion that a mortal male could be taking a mortal 
female in the riding net. By the time she realized her broomstick 
magics were being, as you say, fucked up, there was no time to flee 
before she must fall from the sky, so the only thing she could do was 
to frighten the pair into abandoning their act of passion."

King Argud chuckled: "Ha, boy, some rise by sin and some by virtue 
fall, but here was a great fall by a great witch because of your 
sinning. And were my Master-At-Arms still alive you might have 
smarted for your sins with his daughters." His voice paused as he 
looked long and carefully at the two sisters. "But a handsome pair of 
bolsters for any bed, I grant you, and since they wish for 
experience, I myself shall see they have as much as they can take."

He chuckled again and drew his sword. "Boy, have you heard anything 
of my plans for you and your dragon -- and for this witch?"

Hal couldn't stop himself from looking up in uncontrollable 
curiosity: "I know nothing of any plans, your Majesty."

"Then tonight you will learn more, because I'm going to make you an 
offer you'll have to peruse. For there are good reasons why I now 
proclaim you Duke Merlinus of this kingdom."

The tip of the sword tapped lightly on each of Hal's shoulders: 
"Arise, Duke Merlinus."

Hal stood up and waited for Argud the Defiler to finish off his joke 
by decapitating him with the huge sword. But it didn't happen. 
Instead the King drove the tip of the sword into the ground and 
rested his hands on the handle, which was still almost as high as 
Hal's head. The boy found himself staring at the incredibly fine 
stitching along the sides of the Monarch's deerskin gloves.

"Well, Duke Merlinus, you have bought the wickedest witch in the wide 
world with you as a dowry for your peerage, which is well to your 
credit. But you are still the dirtiest and vilest smelling peer that 
ever has stood before me. As for the mighty Morgana, she looks and 
smells like dog shit. Even your dragon has the stench of a midden 
about her. What's to be done with you all?"

Hal gulped: "There is a stream in the hills, not far away. Josephine 
can clean herself there, under the waterfall. I would be happy to go 
with there with her."

"Ho, my fine Duke, no doubt you would, but you won't. The dragon may 
go there and return presently. You, I have heard, have betimes bathed 
yourself in the drinking trough in the dragon's shed. You may do so 
now, and take your bitch witch with you. And we shall see if you are 
indeed fit to be a peer. For the two girls will wash both of you 
clean and afterwards you may finish your business with the one you 
were fucking before -- if you're man enough to do it with a squad of 
soldiers and a king watching you perform!"

Hal stared dumbfounded at the smile on the King's face.

"What's the matter, Duke Merlinus? Have you turned shy now you're a nobleman?"

Even the soldiers were giggling like schoolgirls. But they didn't 
know about the dragon sweat, and they didn't know that there was 
enough of it left in that drinking trough to set a whole village 
heaving and humping like a boatload of Ice Land warriors let loose in 
a nunnery.

Gaunt Gregory sneered at the filthy boy: "All your vigor gone already, Duke?"

Hal stood tongue tied. He could tell them, warn them -- but dragon 
sweat was his great secret and he wanted to keep it his own. But the 
alternative! Master of Morgana le Fay -- and in the grip of the storm 
lust that dragon sweat brewed up. Odin alone knew what he might do, 
and should Morgana free herself afterwards she'd send him to hell for 
it. But afterwards, he might not care.

"Why no, Warlock," Hal suddenly found himself answering with a grin 
to match the king's. "All I ask is a favor. If I start chasing your 
donkey after I've finished with the girls, for Odin's sake, please 
have me shot."

king Argud bellowed with laughter and gave Hal a slap on the shoulder 
which almost sent him down on his knees again. "Why, my young Duke, 
perhaps you'll serve my needs better than I might have hoped. Let's 
put you to the test and see if your tupping can match your words."

Somehow Hal found the presence of mind to look for his garments 
amidst the torn remains of the riding net, only to be swiftly rebuked 
by his monarch.

"You no longer need those rags, Duke Merlinus. The cloak will suffice 
until you reach the palace and then we shall outfit you better."

Merlinus -- Merlinus? Why that name? True, the Shitbucket family had 
a Tiberian name of Merdinus, now almost as forgotten as the long gone 
monks who'd bestowed it. A suitable name, since merdus was Tiberian 
for shit. But Merlinus -- was it because he was going to be allowed 
to fly with Josephine again, allowed to fly like a hawk? May the Gods 
make it so, for this seemed to be a day on which anything might happen.

But the sight of Morgana le Fay's luscious hips swaying ahead of him 
was enough to make his glowing hopes fade like the sun hidden by 
gathering storm clouds. The likes of her were for warlocks and 
knights and persons of royal blood. Now he seemed to be trapped 
between king and witch and as sure as cats ate mice, one or t'other 
would have his balls spit roasted ere long. Perhaps she'd laugh at 
his love making attempts with the girls so much that he'd fail, 
despite the dragon sweat. Perhaps the trough water had made the sweat 
so weak by now that the power had completely gone and king, warlock, 
witch, soldiers and girls alike would jeer at his cock as it drooped 
like a willow branch. A boy's ending for all of his proud boasts of 
manhood, and with all the kingdom to hear and laugh about it afterwards.

He sidled over against Josephine, the corporal close behind him at 
every step, Clint O'The East Wood's finger never leaving the trigger 
of his oversized magnum bolt crossbow. Hal desperately wanted to slip 
his hand underneath the dragon's wing to seek for a trace of sweat 
but there was no chance of doing it unobserved. Hal felt a sudden and 
unexpected anger burning inside him at being so closely guarded. 
Mayhap he'd teach these soldiers another lesson in dragon power 
before long. He spoke to Josephine.

"My lady, go and clean yourself. When you return I may wish you to 
warm the water in your trough for me again. If so, you must make it 
as hot as you can."

A twirling pattern of interrogation lines swirled around her neck. 
"Yes, Josephine, as hot as you can. Now fly -- and return quickly."

The dragon lurched forward and upwards, her wings smacking against 
the air once more. The ever alert corporal noticed Hal's sad 
expression as Josephine flew off.

"What's amiss, young Duke?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders: "Why, to see my dragon fly whilst I 
cannot leave the ground."

Clint O'The East Wood laughed: "Duke, how can a man want to fly? Do 
you want a nest with eggs to sit on as well?"

Not for he first time Hal realized that he was closer to Josephine 
than he was to many of his own kind. Why, perhaps he was even closer 
to the witch as well. She might be evil incarnate but at least she 
was a flier too. Not that her broomstick seemed good for much right 
now, but perhaps it could be repaired and remagicked. If it could be 
-- oh, what a thought!

For a second Hal dreamed of learning how to fly a broomstick. To 
flash over rooftops and meadows, around trees and across lakes, 
overtaking gaggles of geese and flying so high that the mountains 
themselves crouched down beneath your feet. All the filth and cruelty 
and everyday battles of life left below as he explored the kingdom of 
the sky, a kingdom which over-arched and over-reached all earthly 
ones. A fine notion, especially for a shit smeared boy who owned 
nothing in the world but a borrowed cloak. And then his high flying 
dreams fell back to earth as he found that the group had reached the 
dragon's shed.

For some reason everybody else hung back and let Hal walk in first, 
even though Josephine was only a faraway dot in the sky. Yet the 
caution which most other people showed in approaching a dragon's den 
still seemed to be having its effect because only the girls walked in 
close behind him. Hal stepped into the sandpit and drew his toes 
through the still damp sand, then looked up, exchanging rueful looks 
with the sisters. How much had changed so quickly. Truth to tell, he 
was in no obvious position to complain. Dubbed a Duke, gaining a 
witch for a slave, praised by the King -- whatever the dangers to 
come, it was still far better treatment from the Gods than Caelia and 
Chelinde had received: orphaned, unprotected and lusted after by a 
ruler who treated his dogs far better than his women. Hal had never 
intended their misfortune but it left a bitter taste in his mouth 
after the joy the girls had given him.

"What are we to do?" Chelinde asked him, looking suddenly grown up 
and serious.

"Why, only what we did before. But first you'd best serve as 
Morgana's hand maidens. There are two pieces of soap left. One for 
her, one for me."

"And afterwards? What we did before, Hal? With all these soldiers watching?"

"Aye, and the King too, lass -- tis a Royal Command performance."

The boy smiled and lifted his hand to chuck her under the chin, but 
paused as he saw the filth on his fingers and the momentarily 
revealed loathing in her eyes as she glanced to where the King was 
entering the barn.

"Be of good heart, girls. What matters who watches if we enjoy 
ourselves? And what I can do for you later, I promise I will."

Hal went to the trough, splashed his fingers in it, pondered. The 
water was still luke warm -- that was indeed a measure of how quickly 
his life had changed course. He filled two buckets and set them down 
in the sandpit. Then he turned towards the witch and gulped.

For the first time since his one swift glimpse of her riding the 
broomstick Hal had a chance to run his eyes over the magnificent 
shape underneath the clinging mud. Morgana's breasts were perfection, 
her unskirted legs promised delights beyond belief; Hal gulped again, 
and decided that perhaps the diluted dragon sweat was still potent, 
even with the merest splash of it on his hands.

"Lie down on the straw, Morgana. On your back."

Her eyes glittering with repressed emotions, the witch obeyed.

"Take off your cloak, Chelinde. Spread it over her."

The girl's face was almost as angry as the witch's as she undid the 
throat cord, but she obeyed, her and her sister spreading the cloak 
over Morgana's body. Then Chelinde stood self-consciously, hands by 
her side and eyes downcast as she tried to ignore the soldiers lining 
each side of the barn, each of them grinning at her nakedness and 
with no threatening dragon around this time to distract them from 
leering at her body.

"Your cloak too, Caelia. Strip Morgana and then clean her with the 
water and the cloak, as well as you can. Mayhap some straw will help as well."

The King grinned but raised no objection at taking another look at 
the sisters in her raw state. Nor did he seem to mind that the girls 
were reaching underneath Hal's cloak to get at the witch's indecent 
attire. Argud was a hunter and enjoyed the thrill of a drawn out 
chase. His soldiers also licked their lips as they saw the swaying 
tits and taut bottoms of the figures kneeling at either side of the 
cloak to fumble with Morgana's tight fitting leathers.

"Aid them, witch," Hal ordered.

She looked at him, for a second only, and it was like being forehead 
to forehead with a mad bull. But her hands moved swiftly under the 
cloak, undoing the laces and straps which held her garments in place, 
then rolling from one side to another as she helped Caelia and 
Chelinde tug her jerkin over her arms. Hal would have liked to have 
kept watching but the desire to start removing the filth from his own 
body was even more compelling than staring at Morgana's movements 
underneath the cloak. So he took his own cloak off, seized two 
handfuls of straw and began rubbing down his arms and legs.

Straw and sand and water, straw and sand and water, over and over, 
tickling and scraping and soothing his skin in turn as black rings of 
removed corruption spread around him. The King's voice boomed out in glee.

"Plenty of sand for her as well, girls, all over her tits. I want 
them as smooth as your arses."

At the king's jest several of the soldiers closest to the straw pile 
also dared to smile in approval. They were gaping at Morgana and when 
Hal stared at the wet cloak adhering to the witch's now naked body he 
understood why. There were curves and hollows and a sheer symmetry of 
female promise underneath the damp wool that was more magical than 
anything a warlock could conjure up, be he the greatest adept ever. 
Chelinde and Caelia put their hands beneath the cloak again to rub 
Morgana's perfectly shaped dugs, setting them gently swaying. The 
witch whimpered as her nipples were scoured and every soldier lucky 
enough to be able to see her instantly summoned up his blood and 
stiffened his sinews. In fact most of the men were already more 
tightly cocked than their cross bows.

Hal grabbed his cloak and began wiping the traces of sand and wisps 
of straw from his skin. But his eyes stayed on the females, noting 
the increasingly coy glances the once proud Morgana was casting 
towards the crowd of watchers. Surely a witch couldn't be affected by 
the dragon sweat like a normal human? But there hadn't been any 
dragons around since time out of mind and maybe witches knew no more 
about them than anybody else. Morgana had certainly badly 
underestimated Josephine's abilities in their aerial bitch fight. 
Maybe the sweat did work on her. Certainly she'd had enough of the 
treated water splashed and rubbed onto her body to give it every chance.

As for Caelia and Chelinde, just having their hands in the bucket 
seemed to be affecting them like piglets suckling on a barrel of 
mead. They were giggling at each other now across Morgana's body and 
blatantly shaking their own freshly budding teats for the audience's 
appreciation. The witch began twisting her legs and hips from side to 
side as the sisters scrubbed at her hidden body, her mouth half open 
as she began moaning. Morgana's long fingers rose up to stroke the 
girl's arms as though encouraging them to inflict more pain on her 
--- and Hal's own prick reared up like a stallion sniffing a mare in 
heat. He held the bundled wet cloak in front of him and rubbed it 
against his straining flesh as he decided what to do.

"Morgana, stand up. Chelinde, Caelia, hold the cloak around her."

The witch put her hands down beside her and sat up, got on her knees 
and stood, the sisters keeping the cloak up around the top of her 
swaying breasts, the damp fabric displaying the perfect contours of 
the unsupported flesh and the hard nipples, each as perfectly round 
as a Tiberian groat. Morgana's legs up and even beyond her knees were 
bare, showing off smooth thighs made in heaven for a man to slide his 
hand along.

"Go to the drinking trough. Step into it. Then take off the cloak and 
the girls will soap you. All over."

She obeyed, still walking with infinite pride, head and shoulders 
above her escorts, the girls beside her holding onto the cloak, their 
eyes darting from one male spectator to another. But always returning 
to Hal -- and the King. His Majesty was breathing even more heavily 
than usual and he seemed fascinated by the display being unfolded in 
front of him.

There was scarcely a ripple in the water as Morgana entered it 
gracefully. Looking directly at Hal, she shrugged the cloak off her 
shoulders. Without a stitch on, she stood before them with one hand 
flat by the side of her leg, the other one between her legs. And what 
might have been thought an affection of modesty took on a different 
meaning when the spectators saw that the fingers pressed over her 
patch of dark hair were gently moving as she felt herself. The witch 
giggled at the open mouthed astonishment of the soldiers, lifted up 
both hands and held up her Eve's pair to the spectator's eyes. 
Certainly Hal's eyes felt as if they were popping out of his head as 
he watched her proudly displaying a body of pure wantonness. Then 
Caelia and Chelinde began working their hands over Morgana, leaving 
trails of suds and pure white skin behind them in spreading patches.

Hal stumbled forward, stepped into the other end of the trough facing 
the witch and threw away his cloak, letting her see his rampant 
lance. Morgana smiled at him: "Shall the girls wash you now, Master?"

"One of them," he grunted.

He was grunting because Morgana's hand had reached forward and gently 
tweaked the tip of his cockhead. This was unbelievable, to have a 
woman like this in thrall of him, doing his every bidding. Then she 
moved back, holding her hands up behind her head for him to better 
see her body as Caelia continued soaping it. Chelinde in turn rubbed 
her hands over Hal, cleaning him quickly but thoroughly, arms, chest, 
back, legs and then rubbing her slippery palm up and down his shaft. 
Caelia laughed and applied her hands just as thoroughly to Morgana's 
milk white curves and the red roses tipping them.

There was a vicious sounding twang and zip from nearby. Hal glanced 
around to see that one of the soldiers had accidentally fired his 
cross bow in his excitement, the bolt sticking out of the straw 
littered dirt floor only a few paces from the trough. But nobody 
seemed to care, not the King, not even the Corporal. In fact it 
seemed as if there might soon be some more accidental discharges 
amongst the watchers. None of them said or did anything as Morgana 
knelt down in the trough, water slopping around her waist, and put 
her hand with Chelinde's on the boy's throbbing pride. Together the 
two woman stroked it, and then Caelia joined them, her fingers 
tickling his balls. Hal called out in pleasure, his arms around each 
sister's shoulders and then something very large and fat plopped into 
the water between himself and the kneeling witch. The toad sank out 
of sight, down below the foam covered water and Hal's toes curled up 
in readiness for a savage bite or sting.

It never came. What did come was a string of bubbles breaking between 
Morgana's opened legs and her response, a wild cry with her eyes 
rolled back in apparent pain. Hal wondered why the toad was attacking 
its mistress. And then he realized what was really happening as 
Morgana bent forward, pushed Chelinde's hand aside and took him 
deeply into her mouth in one swift movement. There was a gasp and a 
stir around the barn as everybody saw the boy's stiffness disappear 
between the witch's scarlet lips and her cheeks contract with the 
effort of sucking off her master. And all saw how her body was 
quivering and jerking as though she was being eaten from below. Which 
she most surely was. Now they all knew why a witch's familiar was so named.

It was the King who moved first. He bellowed, unbuckled his sword 
belt, threw it aside and swayed forward like a bear untimely woken 
from winter's sleep. He seized Chelinde first, from behind, kneading 
her damp teats in his huge fingers, squashing them up with only the 
stiff tips standing proud of the royal knuckles. Caelia instantly 
bent forward to suck on her sister's nipples, sending Chelinde 
squirming and pressing her bare bottom against the King's crutch. He 
roared again, pushed her away and began tearing at the lacing in the 
front of his breeches The girls knelt before him, wild eyed, their 
fingernails tugging at his cords with the same urgency. Out from 
behind the loosened restraints came a cock that seemed as thick as 
Hal's wrist and almost as long as one of Corporal Clint's overlength 
bolts. Caelia still went down on her knees without hesitation to 
suckle on it as well as she could, her lips stretched out like an 
snake swallowing a rat. Yet the King was watching the trough, not the 
girl at his feet.

"Fetch the witch out, boy, fetch her out! I'm going to give her a 
royal tupping!"

It would have meant death to argue with the monarch at any time. 
Right then was certainly not a good time to even think about 
hesitating. Even when Hal was getting ready to empty himself over 
Morgana's tongue: "Out, witch, out. The King wants you."

The King did indeed. He was already lying on his back and holding his 
thick veined scepter steady for one hand as Chelinde and Caelia 
licked the shiny red length like cows at a salt lick. As Morgana 
stood up he beckoned her to come forward. She glanced at Hal, he 
nodded and she obeyed, trickles of water and foam running down her 
beautifully proportioned legs before she stood astride King Argud and 
squatted down, her arms behind her back on either side of his legs to 
take her weight as Caelia and Chelinde rubbed the head of the king's 
donkey sized dick against Morgana's sex. Then she squealed and 
dropped down hard on top of the royal battering ram as if stopping it 
from trying to escape.

Her hips jerked up and down and she leaned forward on her arms again, 
with a girl on each side of her,each girl holding onto one of 
Morgana's large teats, keeping the bags of flesh steady for Argud to 
squeeze. Morgana screeched again but Hal cared nothing for that in 
his need to finish what he'd begun with her. He stepped close to the 
writhing bodies, grabbed a tuft of Morgana's pitch black hair and 
thrust his hot flesh between her cupid bow lips again. She sucked on 
it as eagerly as before but Hal hardly noticed. He was staring wide 
eyed at the trough as the water in it splashed over the wooden sides 
and something moved inside it, something standing up where the toad had been,

This was no toad though, nor was it a cat. It was something akin to a 
child, about as high as a grown man's waist, brown skinned, bald 
headed, large ears, green tinged eyes which glittered like iced moss 
in sunlight, a squashed nose and lips that seemed more horn than 
flesh. The small though wide shouldered figure leapt over the side of 
the trough, landed neatly and sprang forward.

One thing about the goblin which was definitely a prominent feature 
was the prick and balls it displayed, a prick rampant for action and 
much larger than a normal one, for all the goblin's smaller size. It 
was more like a cock with a body attached than a body with a cock 
attached. But whatever the arrangement the body moved swiftly, the 
hard on in front bobbing up and down as short but hard muscled legs 
carried it forward to where it wanted to be. Which was behind 
Morgana, the glittering eyes staring at her jerking buttocks as the 
goblin rubbed some wet soap around his massive erection. He slapped 
her ass lightly with both palms as if to let her know she was there, 
guided his bulging shaft between Morgana's quivering crescents and 
then forced it deeply between them. Air spurted around Hal's wet 
shaft as Morgana screamed out in passion and Argud roared in 
satisfaction. He was so busy sucking and chewing on Morgana's nipples 
that Hal wondered if the monarch had even noticed he was sharing his 
feast with uninvited guests.

Then the boy yelped with his own uncontrollable pleasure as he 
spurted into Morgana's mouth, making her splutter as droplets of 
white fluid rolled down the witch's chin. Chelinde put her arm across 
the top of Morgana's neck and began licking the spilt liquid up like 
a kitten cleaning a platter of milk, a licking which ended with a 
passionate kiss between the two females. Then Caelia put a hand up to 
Hal's shrunken organ and lapped at it with her tongue. All three of 
the females seemed to be mad with lust and as soon as Morgana and 
Chelinde saw what Caelia was doing for Hal they joined in 
enthusiastically. The boy turned one way and another to let each of 
them have equal access to him.

It was, he thought, something which ought to make an entry in the 
Mead Brewer's Book of Records. One king, one goblin and one 
shitbucket emptier all fucking one witch at the same time, with a 
couple of hand maidens keeping things going. Not something you saw 
very often. The soldiers certainly hadn't. A group of them were 
standing within arm's length of Hal, eyes and knobs bulging at what 
were witnessing. Hal grabbed both of the sisters by the hair, lifted 
them and pushed them towards Corporal Clint and his comrades.

"Go on, boys, help yourselves."

It wasn't really what he wanted to do but he needed a distraction to 
throw those crossbows off their aim. And it worked. Bows and swords 
and belts fell to the ground as the soldiers grabbed the girls and 
threw them on their backs on top of the straw pile, bedding them down 
in convenient fucking positions. The rest of the guards saw what was 
happening and rushed to join the queues. The only thing which 
distracted them at all was a sound like a giant owl hooting, a sound 
coming from the goblin. Within seconds the sound was mixed with 
another yell of triumph from the King and a long drawn out yelp from 
Morgana. The trio of bodies collapsed in a tangle, the goblin and the 
king to lie undisturbed, but not Morgana. Clint O'The East Wood 
grabbed her arm, lifted her up and then dropped her on the straw pile 
next to two hairy backsides jerking up and down on top of Chelinde 
and Caelia. Very quickly the Corporal's arse was on public display as 
well as he fucked Morgana with all the expertise of a seasoned 
campaigner and military trained rapist. The accumulated lust in the 
air could have been set off by a candle flame and nobody even noticed 
Josephine slithering back into the barn. The men were either fucked, 
fucking or anticipating a fuck, and the females -- well, the females 
were otherwise occupied. Dragon sweated out of their minds and 
getting drilled from all directions

So nobody saw the dragon enter: nobody who cared, anyway. And 
certainly nobody noticed Hal's nod towards the drinking trough, nor 
his wink to Josephine. The dragon bowed her head, put her snout into 
the water and snorted -- not once, not twice, not thrice, but four 
times. Hal grabbed a discarded sword, reversed it with his hands 
holding tightly to the scabbard, then ran around and up to the top of 
the straw pile. The Corporal was gasping in satisfaction as he pumped 
his seed into Morgana's body. He gasped even more loudly as Hal hit 
him behind the ear with the sword handle, but only once. Then Hal 
grabbed at the witch's hands to pull her out from underneath Clint 
O'The East Wood's stunned body.

"Come with me -- now."

"What?"

"Come with me -- I order you."

One of the waiting soldiers stepped forward and raised his fist to 
threaten Hal. There was a kind of thumping sound, water from the 
trough flew up and a bank of steam twice Hal's height rolled outwards 
as all the dragon fire in the trough mingled with the water and 
turned much of it into hot vapor. Visibility within the barn became a 
few paces, then scarcely one or two. Hal began hauling the witch in 
the direction he knew the door was. He knew because he'd noted the 
draught coming from it beforehand and simply followed the gap in the 
steam cloud. Or at least he would have if Morgana didn't seem to be 
taking so long to get moving.

"Hurry up, you dozy bitch!"

"Oh, Master, it's such fun . . . "

"You stupid fucking woman, it's the dragon sweat in the water that's 
got us so excited. It's magic, we're spell bound, and we'll both be 
dead if we don't escape from the King. Run!"

Morgana's normal iron will seemed to emerge again as she began to 
understand what had happened to her. Hand in hand they ran out 
through the doorway, then stopped, panting. Hal had never known a day 
like it for exercise. And before he could make another move he was 
astonished to see the goblin come running out the steam filled door 
as well, the tip of his now slack prick halfway to his knees and 
pulling Caelia alongside him by a long strand of her hair. But Hal's 
surprise at that was nothing compared to seeing Chelinde also 
emerging, squealing, jumping and being forced along by the splintered 
end of Morgana's broomstick jabbing at her bum. It suddenly occurred 
to Hal that when he grew up and started getting drunk at taverns he'd 
have at least one good story to tell in his cups.

"Get into the castle, quick," Hal urged Morgana. "Josephine is coming 
with us. If we can get the drawbridge raised now we'll be inside and 
the King and most of his soldiers will be outside. Then we'll have a 
chance to parley."

Morgana shook her head: "Better to tell the dragon to burn down the 
barn and have done with them all now."

"No! If they die I'm a Duke no longer. There'd be no witnesses. The 
King must sign my letters patent and proclaim them. Seize the castle 
and we can negotiate with him."

She nodded, still panting: "That warlock. He's not here. He could stop you."

Hal knew she was right. And if Gaunt Gregory wasn't here he had a 
bloody good idea of where he would be.

"Josephine, go to the castle. Put a fireball through an arrow slit in 
the top of the tower, Burn Gaunt Gregory's chamber right out and him with it."

"No -- no!" Morgana shook her head. "My magical supplies are 
destroyed or lost. I need his. I must go now, take him by surprise. 
My broom will almost support my weight, even though it's damaged. Let 
me ride it and hold onto one of the dragon's claws. She can lift me 
to the top of the tower and leave me there to deal with Gregory. Then 
the dragon can help you in the courtyard to get the drawbridge lifted up."

"So be it. Josephine, take Morgana up to the chamber's lookout platform."

Some of the dragon sweat tainted steam was drifting out of the 
dragon's shed: half a dozen warriors inside were now visible, their 
breeches around their knees and all of them frantically jerking 
themselves off.

"Huh", Morgana snorted as she swung her bare legs astride the 
broomstick. "I always did say that the military were a load of wankers."

Then a giant figure came running out of the steam with a raised sword 
that glittered along its length in the high sun. The King was 
berserker angry, the dragon was spiraling upwards towing the naked 
witch on her broomstick and an equally naked group of two girls, one 
boy and a goblin ran for their lives towards Giant's Pass castle.

Will Spearshaker was still sitting by the moat, stinking, scorched 
and sour at life as he watched the passersby without any great 
interest. You couldn't weave a good story out of happenings which 
seemed to make no sense at all. Which was about Hal's thinking as 
well, because now the moment of decision had passed he had no idea at 
all why he'd hit Corporal Clint O'The East Wood and provoked the 
king's anger. But he had an idea about somebody who might have cast a 
spell on him to make him do it.

Not all the guards had been left behind in the barn. Two were at the 
far side of the drawbridge, gaping up at Josephine and the intriguing 
shape of the naked woman holding onto the dragon's claw. The view of 
the witch's buttocks was well worth squinting into the setting sun to 
see. The sort of scenery guaranteed to make a man feel that the Gods 
were feasting and all was right with the world. The guards were 
completely distracted -- not to mention dumbfounded. So Hal had a few 
precious seconds to give orders to Caelia and Chelinde before they 
were noticed: "Run up close to the one on the left and push him into 
the moat, and then both of you run inside the castle."

The girls had to work as a team, only the two of them together had a 
chance of sending a fully grown man toppling over the edge of the 
drawbridge. But that left Hal to deal with the other sentry, and bare 
handed at that -- well, bare everything. All he could do was to pick 
up a couple of large stones from the side of the road and then dash 
onto the drawbridge behind the sisters. Who got about halfway across 
before they were noticed. Noticed by one of the two soldiers, anyway. 
Hal could see the totally incredulous look on the guard's face as he 
lowered his eyes from Morgana's sunlight uplands to find himself even 
further into a world gone mad -- not enough to have bare arsed 
witches on broken broomsticks being towed around by dragons, now he 
was being charged by two naked girls, a boy as lean-ribbed as a 
skinned rabbit and . . . a goblin. A goblin proudly displaying a 
prick so long and loose that it was in danger of picking up splinters 
from the drawbridge planks underfoot.

Fortunately the King's Guardsmen had been taught how to deal with 
this sort of situation. It was the way they'd been taught to deal 
with every situation that came up on sentry duty: the soldier 
presented his spear and shouted: "Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?"

Which, Hal thought briefly, was a fucking silly question: who was 
going to yell back 'Foe'? So he shouted "Friends."

It had been the soldier on the right side of the drawbridge who had 
challenged: the one on the left was still half lost in dreams of 
tying Morgana's stripped body to a stake and then lighting her fire. 
A disturbed state of mind stirred up even further by the onrushing 
approach of a double pair of well developed young bubbies swinging 
and swaying towards him with nothing covering them except a 
scattering of freckles. The soldier should have prepared himself to 
fight; he would have, except that most men want to be friends with 
every pair of self supporting tits they meet, especially uncovered 
ones. And the guard paid the usual male price for his weakness as 
Chelinde and Caelia rammed their opened hands against his chest and 
dropped him into the shit.

The teat fancier staggered back completely off balance, swayed on the 
edge of the drawbridge, and then fell off it into the shallow edge of 
the moat. Shallow or deep, it smelt no better, but at least he was 
lucky enough to be able to wade ashore by the castle wall. Not that 
anybody cared about him anyway. It was his comrade, the one with the 
leveled spear, who was the problem now. He made a lunge at the girls 
but they were already past him so he aimed his next thrust at Hal instead.

Hal skipped back and threw his stone as hard as he could at the 
sentry's head. It wasn't a very effective throw as the stone hit the 
man's helmet on the side and glanced off without having any apparent 
effect on him. In retaliation the soldier jabbed at Hal with the 
clear intention of spitting the boy like a suckling pig ready for 
roasting. The only thing which saved his young life was that the 
sisters came back at the sentry from one side, yelling and squealing 
and shaking their tits at the soldier with their hands cupped up 
underneath the tempting poonts. It was a brave and inspired thing for 
the girls to do, and it distracted the man enough for his glittering 
spear point to graze the side of Hal's hip instead of piecing the 
boy's belly. Hal hurled the stone in his left hand, aiming it at the 
guard's knees and missing completely. The sentry recovered his 
balance, went forward on one foot to lunge again -- and a hawk with 
outstretched talons came stooping down out of the sky, apparently 
intent on tearing the soldier's eyes out.

The sentry flung up one arm to protect his face, Hal grabbed the 
extended spear, pushed at as if he was pinning a sheaf of hay with a 
pitchfork and the man holding the blunt end was forced to take a step 
backwards onto empty air. As he fell down the end of the spear shot 
up fast enough to almost break Hal's arms and to slice his nose off 
as well. It wasn't so much a case of Hal letting go of the spear as 
leaping away from it like a terrified animal.

"Aaaah . . ." Splash. Two sentries down among the turds.

"Look out, Hal, the King!"

"Huh!"

"Run, Hal, run!"

It was a never ending nightmare. Both guards disposed of, the 
entrance to the castle wide open in front of them and King Argud was 
already on the drawbridge, shouting with fury and waving the royal 
sword over his head: a sword that few men would have been able to 
lift off the ground with both hands. The girls fled into the castle, 
Hal ran through the entrance after them, and the goblin . . . well 
the goblin had disappeared from sight, unless you counted that timely 
intervening hawk, which must be his -- its -- latest transformation. 
Hal wished he had the power to turn himself into something with 
wings: right now he'd happily settle for becoming a blow fly. Because 
there was nowhere to hide from the mad monarch -- shit!

Stretched down the right hand side of the gateway against the stone 
wall was a rope under tension. The end of the rope was looped around 
a wooden becket, thrice knotted to keep it secure, and hanging from a 
hook on the wall next to the becket was a small hand axe. Everybody 
who lived in the castle had seen the Guardsmen regularly practicing 
their emergency procedure with the rope and everybody knew what 
happened when it was cut. Hal grabbed the axe and took it from the 
hook underneath the warning notice: 'ACCESS DENIAL! AUTHORIZED USERS 
ONLY! CLEAR AREA BEFORE USING!'

No need to worry about that, there was only one thing moving in the 
area, a huge demented figure only a few steps away, glaring at Hal 
through blood red eyes. The boy slashed at the rope desperately, the 
keen edge of the hand axe sliced through the rope strands and a 
clattering noise overhead so loud that both Hal and the King leapt 
backwards as the huge iron portcullis slammed down into the row of 
holes it had already worn in the granite flagstones, this new impact 
sending fresh chips of stone flying from the pointed tips at the 
bottom level of the grating.

Hal was done for, utterly exhausted and utterly uncaring about 
whatever might happen now. He set his back against the wall and slid 
down until he was sitting just beyond reach of the portcullis. He 
didn't even move as King Argud came up, dropped his sword and leaned 
forward with both of his huge hands gripping two of the portcullis 
bars, puffing and gasping like a over ridden stallion. The boy and 
the man stared at each other through the iron grid as if unsure of 
what had brought them to this situation. Then their ears were rattled 
by a thunderclap and Hal looked to his right to see streaks of red 
and gold flames shooting out of the top of Gaunt Gregory's Dark Tower.

"W . . . what's happ . . .ening, . . . boy?"

"Light . . . ing. In . . . Gregory's tower. 'Tis the witch . . . and 
the warlock . . . fighting."

"Curse . . . all . . . sorcerers."

Chelinde and Caelia seemed to have disappeared somewhere, probably 
hiding from all the evil spells that were being thrown around the 
castle and Morgana's familiar had presumably flown off to help his 
mistress in her battle with Gaunt Gregory. The King and Hal kept 
sucking in deep breaths until they could talk freely. The noises from 
the tower continued to bounce around the castle's interior like the 
clash of giants' hammers. King Argud eyed Hal balefully.

"Boy, why did you hit Clint O' The East Wood and run away?"

Hal answered truthfully: "I don't know. I think I was made to do it 
by the witch."

King Argud seemed puzzled: "But she swore to be your slave."

"If she is, she may do what I tell her, but I suppose she can still 
do whatever I don't tell her not to."

The King's brows wrinkled in furrows as he thought this through, but 
he eventually nodded: "Damn all sorcerers," he said again. "The only 
way to deal with those foul scum is to sic lawyers onto them. Rats 
fear nothing but bigger rats."

The castle court yard echoed to a long drawn out howl of anguish 
which fell out into a series of heart rending sobs, and then died 
away altogether.

"One of them is down and out, for sure," the King said in somber 
tones. "If it's the witch, all my plans to become Emperor of Tiberia 
are rendered naught. And if it's Gregory, mayhap my life and kingdom 
are gone too -- unless you can still control Morgana, my Duke 
Merlinus. By Rhiannon, look at these idiots coming along half a day late!"

The King's guards had finally emerged from the mad lust of the dragon 
sweat laced steam they'd inhaled. Now they were arriving in a kind of 
bowlegged half rush, some still clutching their sore cods and 
gallions, others holding up their torn breeches, looking like nothing 
more than a gang of sheep shearers who had just fornicated away a 
season's wages in a single bout of debauchery.

The mob of guards stopped moving instantly when the King bellowed at 
them to stay at the other end of the drawbridge. The odd thing was 
the way all the soldiers seemed to avoid looking at each other, as if 
they were all deeply ashamed of themselves.

"Well, boy, if you were bewitched, you were not the only one that the 
bitch witch drove mad. Those knaves were sent cunt struck by her 
spells -- when the girls ran away my fighting men were so desperate 
to tup they were fucking each other up the arse, turn and turn about, 
like a pack of mummers and actors. Who could have believed that any 
witch could have cast a spell like that over my own bodyguards?"

Hal blinked and swallowed. Surely the old monster must have realized 
that it was the steam that Josephine had brewed up which had sent his 
men cock mad? Hadn't any one of these fools realized that he and 
Josephine were the ones responsible for all the mad lusting? Had 
nobody else ever even heard about the irresistible cock stiffening 
elixir which seeped from underneath a dragon's wings? Well, if nobody 
had yet realized the truth he had best speak of other matters.

"Your Majesty -- you said you had plans for me. Believe me, I am your 
loyal subject. What is it you wish of me?"

The King nodded and himself sat down on the other side of the 
portcullis, settling his own back against the gateway wall: "'Tis 
simple enough, boy. I would be Emperor, but I rule nothing more than 
a small mountain kingdom. To defeat the Imperial legions I need a 
pack of dragons like the one you found. But how can I breed dragons 
when I have only a female? No one knows if there be any other dragons 
left in the world, and if there are, where they might be. But perhaps 
your female can find a mate for herself when no one else can. And 
since she answers only your commands, I have decided to send both of 
you out into the world to seek out a mate for your pet."

"But -- but the witch, Morgana le Faye? What of her?"

"Boy, I can proclaim you a Duke easily enough, but 'tis not so easy 
to make a royal ambassador out of a shit smelling whelp without even 
the learning to sign his own name. So, the witch was meant to go with 
you, as protector and guide, aye, and teacher too. She has been 
promised that if she finds me my dragons and makes me the Emperor I 
will give her half of the Empire as a reward. And so might all have 
turned out had you not played the fool in your dragon's riding net 
with the Master-At-Arm's daughters."

It was on the tip of Hal's tongue to reply that had anybody told him 
what was being planned then nothing would have gone astray anyway. He 
even thought of asking what reward the King intended for Duke 
Merlinus should he return to Giant's Pass with a litter of dragonets. 
But caution bade him say naught of such things. For if Morgana had 
been defeated in the Tower, then Duke Merlinus would probably become 
Hal O'The Shitbuckets again right quickly and revert once more to his 
privy emptying chores.

At the very thought of that tears began stinging his eyes -- and, 
strangely -- not only for his own fate but for Morgana's as well. 
Cruel, haughty, frightening . . . yes, she was all of those things 
but she'd also been a kind of female he'd never imagined possible 
until he'd seen her pride and her strength, both of mind and body -- 
especially body. Whether from Asgard or Hell, the witch had been 
something absolutely apart from all normal life: she had given him a 
glimpse of a world even vaster and more exciting than anything he'd 
ever seen aloft with Josephine. If Gregory had killed or imprisoned 
Morgana that world and her fascinating womanhood had gone from his 
ken forever. All that remained was to be left in the service of this 
evil King who ruled by treachery, butchery and torture.

"Well, my young Duke, you'd best go and spy out the land. See what's 
befallen in Gregory's tower, find out who's vanquished, and who's victorious."

Hal gaped at the King in shock: for as long as his memory had recall 
no one save Gregory himself had ever gone into the Forbidden Tower. 
No one else, not even the King, had ever dared to invade the 
warlock's sanctuary.

"Go into the Forbidden Tower, your Majesty?" he quavered.

Ancient rumors insisted that the Ice Landers themselves could provide 
no worse punishments than a angry wizard -- and if there was one 
certain fact in this world gone mad, it was that by now Gaunt Gregory 
was either dead or very, very angry. Though the stories also said 
that magicians were never killed in battle, not even by better 
magicians: the worse fate that could befall them was imprisonment in 
some kind of sorcery sealed trap, there to howl out their anguish 
until the evil day when some foolish mortal unwittingly loosed them 
into the world again.

The King growled angrily: "Of course, into the tower, boy. Mayhap 
witch and warlock have both destroyed each other like two spurred 
fighting cocks. Go and see what's happened. Then bring some of the 
servants out of their hiding holes and raise this portcullis again. 
Be of good cheer, young Duke, my anger is past and I will not harm you."

Hal believed the King as much as he would have believed a cuckoo 
singing on mid-winter's eve. Yet it mattered little, because if he 
went into that tower without leave there would probably be little 
enough left him afterwards for the King to do aught with. But if he 
didn't do as he was told then it was surely the spike in the market 
place for him. A thought to make anybody's arse muscles tighten as 
hard as walnut shells. Mayhap he should never have wished to be 
anything else than a jakes emptier: why, in a year or so he could 
have been promoted to being the night shift shite porter.

"Yes, your Majesty, I'll go and look."

Hal glanced up at arrow slits in the corner tower and at the wisps of 
greasy black smoke drifting out of them. Then he hauled himself back 
on his weary legs and trudged across the courtyard towards Gregory's 
sanctuary. There were glimpses of white faces fearfully peering 
around corners and from almost closed doors, but Hal ignored them. 
He'd almost forgotten that he was naked, and cared nothing about it. 
After the sort of day he'd already endured having to walk through the 
castle bailey in his nakedness was a trifle -- and then there was a 
comforting rustle of leathery wings from overhead as Josephine 
dropped into the courtyard like a falling leaf, raising one wing and 
then another as she skidded back and forth between the high walls 
before landing with a clatter of claws against cobblestones. It was 
as neatly done as a swallow swooping up to a nest underneath the 
eaves. Hal ran towards the dragon to put his arms around her neck: 
first, last and always, she was his only friend, and the vivid 
flashes of color which ran around Josephine's body showed that his 
affection was returned in full measure.

Moreover, in his pleasure at being reunited with his pet, Hal 
suddenly realized that he didn't have to go into that accursed tower 
now. Mayhap the magicians were too injured or weak from fighting each 
other to interfere if he and Josephine should make an escape. He 
tried to work out his plans as quickly as he could. Perhaps the 
dragon could fly again out of this narrow place, perhaps not, and 
probably not if hampered with his weight. But that mattered for 
nothing because both of them could run up the stairs which led to the 
battlements. And if the Josephine's spikes stopped him from riding on 
her back, he could at least cling to her neck while she launched 
herself from the walls, overflew the moat and landed him on the other 
side. Then, into the forest, and he would run as never before with 
Josephine circling the treetops above him -- and it would be a brave 
soldier indeed who risked her fireballs to come in pursuit

Yes, it would work, but if it were to be done, it were best to be 
done quickly, with the King's entrance still barred by the portcullis 
and the sorcerers still locked in mortal combat.

"My lady, come, follow -- "

There was a sound like a whip a league long cracking its tip: white 
lights swirled in a circle at the base of the Forbidden Tower, 
spreading outwards. And where they spun the massive foundation stones 
turned to dust, trickling down as if spilled from some giant 
hourglass. Then the lights vanished in the flicker of an eyelash, the 
castle was deathly quiet again and Morgana was stepping out through 
the hole which had appeared in the bottom of the Forbidden Tower.

Morgana, the winner of the duel, that was obvious, triumph in every 
line of her bearing and appearance. Her hair was neatly combed, every 
speck of dirt had gone from her face, and her body was tightly 
wrapped in a white robe which somehow went around her stunning form 
in several different directions but still managed to leave Morgana 
completely bare from her toes to the tops of her shapely legs. A gasp 
echoed around the courtyard from the onlookers: both sexes were 
shocked, the women were scandalized, and every watching male knew 
instantly why even a shriveled up old man like Gregory had been 
unable to concentrate on his spells with such a sight to distract him.

The only watcher who didn't care less about the alluring display was 
Josephine: vivid primary colors flared across her throat pouches, 
clear signs of renewed anger to anybody who could read her body 
language. Hal had never realized before how long resentment could 
linger in a dragon's breast when somebody really provoked it. 
Josephine was ready to roast Morgana at the drop of a claw.

"Nay, my lady, nay, no disputation now, I beg. Give me time to think 
and all will be for the best, I promise."

The colors faded, though not as quickly as they had appeared. Still, 
Josephine seemed willing to be restrained by Hal yet awhile. As for 
Morgana, she walked directly towards him holding a piece of cloth in 
front of her, a shimmering piece of black cloth decorated with stars, 
suns and all kinds of magical talismans. Hal's heart leapt in his 
mouth as he saw that it was Gaunt Gregory's own gown of sorcery. 
Something the warlock would have parted with as willingly as a wild 
sow would have moved aside to let a fox eat her litter.

Incredibly, the witch bowed like a courtier before kneeling down on 
one knee in front of the boy. Her hands proffered up the gown to him, 
as though she was a squire yielding a fallen knight's shield to a 
newly triumphant champion. But not yet held so high up that it 
obscured his view of her magnificent breasts fighting each other for 
breathing space at the top of the tightly knotted robe.

"Master, I have rendered that miserable warlock as helpless as an 
infant. If we but find time to complete the chains on his sorcery as 
they should be done, he will be bound for years beyond counting."

"Good . . . ah, yes . . . good." Hal tried to think which of the 
questions beyond counting in his own head he should ask first. "But 
if Gregory is defeated, why are you still calling me master? Surely 
that promise you made no longer matters?"

She lifted her head to look up at him, her eyes as empty of emotion 
as a cat's: "Nay, master, I gave my word and sealed it by an oath 
which would rob me of all my powers if ever if I should break it. The 
only way I can return to the freedom I had is if you release me from 
that bargain. But the Great Ones must know that you do so through no 
compulsion of mine, or . . . or I am thrown forever into the Abyss."

"Oh." Hal felt stunned and picked his words with care: "Then I order 
you to never again use your spells again to make me do something I 
didn't want to."

"I understand your order, master. But I have never yet made you do 
something against your own nature."

Hal scratched the back of his head: "That can't be right. In the barn . . ."

An angry voice swept through the gate like a rampant bull's 
bellowing, reverberating back and forth from the castle walls: "Come 
here, boy, and wind this portcullis up!" The King was clearly 
impatient at having to tarry outside his own castle like a wandering tinker.

"Witch -- Morgana," Hal spoke quickly. "I must let the King in. 
T'would offend him to see you kneeling for one of his subjects but 
not to him. Behave towards me for now as no more than a . . . "

Hal wasn't sure of what he was trying to say because he wasn't sure 
how he wanted Morgana to treat him. The brief moments of power he'd 
already had over her had whetted his appetite for more of the same. 
But there was only one real master in this castle and that was the King.

"You mean, perhaps, I should behave as a dutiful and obedient maid 
servant who quickly kneels for her master when he feels the need for 
her mouth?" She looked directly at Hal's nakedness and ran the tip of 
her tongue around her pouting lips. It was sight enough to make any 
man's -- or boy's -- toes curl.

Another bellow from the King overrode any answer Hal could have made, 
even if he'd had the wit to think of one, which he hadn't. Nor did he 
need to, for the effect of her words was already plain to her and 
would soon be clear to all the watchers unless he could somehow 
prevent his uncovered flesh hardening further. He quickly turned to 
walk towards the portcullis and away from Morgana's temptations. But 
her urgently spoken words found his ears:

"Master, I ask you, pause and consider. Why should you obey that fat 
fool? Let him stay out there until his boots turn green."

"But he's the King!"

Morgana sneered: "Only since he killed the last bandit chief who 
glorified this miserable valley with the title of a kingdom. And now 
he's on the outside with his guards and you're inside his castle -- 
inside his moat and his castle walls with a witch and a dragon at 
your command. Why be a duke when you can be a prince? Or perhaps 
something even better?"

Hal gaped at her, then around the bailey yard as if the castle was a 
vision newly sprung out of the ground: the ancient walls, the 
decaying towers, the faces of the servants cautiously peering out of 
doorways and through arrow slits, gaping at this bare arsed boy who 
dared to keep King Argud waiting.

"A prince, you say? Or something even better than a prince?"

Hal wondered how it was possible for him to be asleep long enough to 
be dreaming such a long drawn out fantasy. And would he be able to 
remember it all when he was awake and emptying the jakes again? He 
hoped so, because he'd need all the laughs he could get by then. When 
he looked down at Morgana again he was so distraught that this time 
the deep divide between her udders might as well have been a rat hole 
for all the interest he could spare for it.

"Master, I found yonder warlock casting a horoscope. There are 
powerful matters afoot here, matters which have roots far beyond the 
mortal world. The runes Gregory were casting showed the name the King 
gave to you, my Master. I think that the warlock told him to select 
the title of Duke Merlinus instead of Merdinus because he foresaw 
into the future to divine your fortune and to advise the King as to 
your chances of success in finding another dragon. But what should 
have been a small ray of candlelight sent out into the darkness has 
lit some great beacon which will blaze like a flaming comet in the 
years to come. With the wizard imprisoned I threw the stones again, 
but with far greater skill than Gregory was ever capable of doing. I 
have discarded the dross and kept the gold, or so I perceive. Now I 
would test it with this robe."

Hal held his hands apart and shrugged his shoulders: "I understand 
nothing of what you say."

Morgana's eyes flashed: "Then let me show you!"

Her hands flew up and so did the robe, spreading itself out and then 
hanging in the air above Hal's head as though pegged to an invisible 
washing line.

"Open this portcullis or I'll split . . ."

The roar of outraged royalty died in the King's throat as Gregory's 
robe stayed where it was, like a hovering eagle, with its edges 
fluttering gently in the breeze. Hal stared up at it, slack jawed, 
listening to Morgana's urgent words.

"Master, that garment is a symbol of powerful magic, handed down from 
wizard to wizard as each is proved worthy of the sorcerer's craft. If 
any ordinary mortal dared to touch it, let alone wear it, the result 
would be an agony worse than boiling lead. But the signs in that 
sorcerer's horoscope show that you are one of the chosen, one of 
those permitted to learn from the Great Ones. If I have read the 
truth aright, raise your arms above your head and we will see if the 
robe will settle on your body without causing harm."

Hal stood motionless, struck anew with fear. Not enough to have a 
King berserk with anger at him, not enough to be made unwilling 
master of the most evil witch between mountains and far distant seas, 
now he was being invited to meddle with sorcery, well known as the 
most dangerous thing any mortal could dare. Only the cleverest, 
bravest and most cunning of mortals risked bringing down occult 
curses on their heads, and only such vainglorious idiots would run 
such perils for the very heights of power and wealth. Hal had no such 
vaunting ambitions: well, he had, but all he really cared about was 
not having to empty shite pots anymore and to be free to fly in the 
sky with Josephine. No, he wanted no part of any wizardry, and he 
especially wanted no part of anything that had belonged to Gaunt 
Gregory, not for any temptation.

His gaze flickered from side to side, again seeking escape. A row of 
figures had appeared on the ramparts of the Great Tower, the tower 
where Argud and his most powerful subjects lived, the high and mighty 
nobles who knew and cared no more of Hal than they did of any other 
peasant. And with them were their snobbish wives who'd made his life 
a misery, and also, of course, the well born sons who'd so often 
pushed his head down one of the shit pots whenever they'd felt like it.

But Hal's attention was not on them but on the lace capped high bred 
girls, the daughters of all those privileged families who'd treated 
him as an animal -- no, even less than an animal, as something 
dirtier and stupider than a dog or a hog. Unlike Caelia and Chelinde 
those sneering chits up there had never deigned to speak a fair word 
to him, had never even looked in his direction except by accident and 
then immediately turned their faces away from his filthy rags with 
obvious disgust. But now they were looking, by Gwal, and only the 
father of the Gods himself could know what they must be thinking as 
they tried to understand the incredible scene below. A beautiful and 
barely dressed woman with supernatural powers kneeling before a naked 
urchin of a shithouse cleaner, offering up to him the very robe of 
the greatest wizard within a month's ride. Where, they must be 
wondering, was Gaunt Gregory? And how dare this boy and woman leave 
the King himself ignored and unheeded at his own castle gates?

Hal suddenly knew the iron truth buried beneath the softness of his 
skin: he would fry in that robe before he'd turn coward in the sight 
to those fucking nobles and their bastard bred families! His arms 
went up and he stared the witch straight in the eyes, something he'd 
never before dared to do.

"Give me the robe, witch."

"You are ready, Master?"

"Aye, ready."

The magicians robe swirled down to engulf him, around his arms, down 
over his shoulders, unrolling down the length of his body and beyond: 
Hal cursed at his own stupidity, for the robe was piling up around 
his ankles because he was so much shorter than Gregory, so all he'd 
done was to make a scarecrow of himself in front of all the watchers. 
And then he felt the first touch of the forces held within the robe 
-- a blue radiance surrounded him, like an instantly rising marsh 
mist, the smell of lava pits was in his nostrils and he waited for 
his flesh to be seared off his bones. Yet instead of hot coals on his 
skin he felt something almost as frightening, a sensation as though 
every ant in the forest had suddenly crowded together on his body to 
cover him in tiny claws -- and then that sensation also vanished as 
the blue halo around him faded like a doused candle. He seemed to be 
unharmed by what had happened, unharmed and unchanged. Not so the 
robe though, for somehow it had changed its length to fit him 
perfectly, the hem of the garment now hanging at a comfortable level 
halfway down Hal's thighs. Yet strangest of all was the touch of it 
on him, light and warm, as smooth and pleasant as the strokes of a 
girl's loving hands.

"By Gwal and Clud!" He raised his stupefied face toward Morgana's. 
"You did that?"

Morgana seemed almost as surprised as Hal himself. "No, not I. The 
robe it was which yielded and molded itself to your desires. There is 
much mystery here and I see now that the Great Ones have bound our 
destinies for some purpose. I have no choice but to accept you as an 
acolyte in the mystic arts and help you become an Adept, if so the 
Great Ones decree your fate."

"An acolyte?"

There was a roar of outrage as the King recovered from the shock of 
seeing Hal wearing Gregory's robe. The castle's ruler clenched the 
bars of the portcullis as if he could shake the tons of iron grating 
loose from the gateway. Morgana raised a hand and flicked it in his 
direction as casually as if shaking drops of water from her fingers. 
Sparks flew up and along the bars the King was clutching, the bars 
glowed red hot and cooled again as quickly as cinders dropped into a 
puddle, King Argud screamed like a ravished woman and reeled 
backwards, holding up blackened stumps at the ends of his arms. 
Morgana didn't even glance in the direction of the ruined monarch's 
agony and Hal knew yet again the stomach curdling fear of their first 
meeting. This female who could so rouse his youthful blood was more 
dangerous than a pack of winter starved wolves. She continued 
speaking as if nothing at all had happened.

"An acolyte, a novitiate in the magical arts. It means that you would 
become my apprentice in all matters of spells and sorcery. And in all 
such matters my duties as teacher of the mysteries would overreach my 
promise to obey you. No novice performs magic or casts spells without 
permission of the instructing Adept. Do you understand and accept 
those conditions?"

The boy felt like screaming as loudly as Argud was doing. All he 
wanted to do was to get out of this castle, to fly away with 
Josephine, away from rulers and torturers and soldiers and mad 
magicians, and especially away from this beautifully beguiling witch 
and her bloodlust. But his chance hadn't come and now she wanted him 
to bind his cringing soul to the black arts, to dark forces no sane 
soul would ever willingly interfere with. Yet, as ever, what choice 
did he have but to yield to circumstances? Choice! Ever since Morgana 
had appeared alongside his riding net on her broomstick he'd had no 
more choice in where he was going than a fallen leaf blown along by a gale.

But even in his fear a shining thought had suddenly risen in his mind 
like a gleaming salmon seen through dark waters. For one thing at 
least he knew, and that was that anybody having any association at 
all with sorcery was regarded with awesome respect by all 
non-magicians. No, whilst Hal was wearing this robe nobody would dare 
to scorn him as they had scorned Hal the turd collector. Certainly 
nobody who had just seen what an unleashed spell had done to King Argud.

"I understand and accept all the conditions for being an your acolyte 
and will obey any command you give me as my teacher," he said firmly.

"Then I name you as the novitiate Merlinus . . ." Her voice broke off 
as the bird shaped familiar above them screeched and stooped down low 
over her head. Then Morgana nodded, as if understanding.

"So, it's no accident that Ymir has shape changed to a hawk's form, 
nor that it is a merlin's. The Great Ones send me a message that I 
must do as they command, and that you shall not be called Merlinus 
but Merlin. So be it, I name you my apprentice in the deepest 
mysteries, to be known to all in the realms of sorcery as the wizard 
Merlin, the beholden and nominated of Morgana le Fay."

Merlin! Of all the stupid names! A wizard named after a bird, and not 
even a very big one; Morgana might as well have called him sparrow or 
starling. She tapped him on both shoulders with her long fingers. 
Again he felt the same hidden rush of power as when he seized hold of 
the broomstick. Only this time it seemed to be coming out from within 
his own body, out and into the witch, and he swayed on his feet, eyes 
closed. Already bone tired, he now felt as weary as a ford foundered 
horse being pulled into deeper water by an irresistible current.

"Yes, I understand your weariness, Master. There is much to do but 
first you must rest."

Morgana beckoned impatiently with her fingers: "You two, come hither."

Hal forced his fluttering eyes open long enough to see the 
Master-At-Arm's daughters approaching, their faces glancing 
apprehensively at Morgana. No, that wasn't right, he reminded 
himself, they were now the Master-At-Arm's orphans. If it had been a 
difficult day for him it had been a lot worse for others -- the 
Master-At-Arms for one, and for Gaunt Gregory, and certainly for the 
King himself. In fact a very, very bad day for King Argud the 
Defiler, now likely to be known as Ex-King Argud the Defingered. No 
wonder the tower ramparts were lined with white faces knights, 
shocked to the core as their privileged world seemed ready to 
collapse around their ears. For if a powerful King could be deposed 
and disposed of so easily, what was their fate to be?

Admittedly, nobody had really enjoyed being a subject in Argud's 
realm, not even his nobles, but at least he'd been a ruler who'd 
never left no doubt at all about who was giving the orders. Now all 
was confusion and doubt and the inheritor of power seemed to be the 
midnight haired sorceress brazenly showing off her half naked body. 
She had driven both ruler and wizard from their throne and tower as 
easily as a dairymaid taking a stick to a pair of laggard cows, and 
yet she herself was to be seen kneeling in homage before a castle 
shit house cleaner, a scrawny little rat daring to wear a wizard's 
robe as if he had a right to such a thing.

Oh yes, the world was mad and Loki the ice warriors' trickster god 
loose in it, but this was play acting no watcher felt eager to take 
any part in, for it was being performed on a perilous stage. Strong 
hands were grasping sword hilts in instinct, but not even the vainest 
or bravest liege lord felt any urge to step forward and claim power 
by right of title and muscle. A single glance downwards at the 
crippled Argud staggering away over the drawbridge with long brown 
stains down the back of his britches was enough to convince even the 
highest born to stay hidden in the audience until the world became 
sane again, and women and boys were safe once more for the 
aristocratic pleasures of fucking and kicking. What you did to which 
depended on your choice of pleasure, of course.

Morgana beckoned her finger at Chelinde and Caelia: "Your master is 
tired. Carry him to the royal bedchamber: you know where it is?"

Heads nodded: "Yes, mistress," Caelia said doubtfully.

She knew very well where the royal bedchamber was, having lived in 
nightly dread of being sent there for the King's pleasure ever since 
she'd flowered into maidenhood. What made her hesitate now in obeying 
Morgana's orders was in wondering what the witch meant by 'carry'. 
She and Chelinde could both see how tired Hal seemed, but even as 
thin as he was, carrying the boy across the courtyard and up the 
narrow spiraling staircase of the inner keep was a task that seemed 
beyond their joint strength.

"Take hold of him, you wenches. You'll find him no burden."

Chelinde reached out gingerly to take Hal's hand and gave a shriek of 
fright as he slid towards her at a touch. It was a cry that Hal would 
have echoed save for his tiredness, for he was as astounded as the 
girls. He seemed to be sliding over the cobblestones as if he was on 
one of the ice slides the castle boys fashioned in the depths of 
winter. And when he looked down he could see why, for the soles of 
his feet were no longer touching the stones but floating a little 
above them. Only a finger's width mayhap, but that small distance was 
enough to make him as helpless in walking as a newly born foal; he 
could stay upright only by putting his arms around the girls' 
shoulders and letting them walk him towards the tower as if he was as 
drunk as his father on market night. And if he wasn't drunk, he was 
certainly helpless; a glance over his shoulder showed Morgana walking 
behind with a smile on her face -- perhaps a sardonic sneer at yet 
another demonstration of her incredible powers was a more accurate 
description.

"Have no fears, Master, your feet will touch the ground again. After 
you have slept."

"After I've slept? Why only then?"

"Because without the burden of weight on your body you will rest 
better than on any feather filled mattress. And the girls will serve 
as your maids-in-waiting, for whatever help you may need."

His newly appointed servants of the bedchamber suddenly suffered an 
immediate and intimately shared attack of giggles. Hal didn't have 
the slightest doubt that both of them were thinking of various 
experiments they could carry out on a weightless male body entrusted 
to their lustful care. Well, they could forget any such ideas for the 
time being, he was too tired for any tupping.

At least that was what he thought then, especially with his mind 
distracted by Caelia's and Chelinde's inept attempts to maneuver him 
around the corners of the tower's narrow corridors. It wasn't their 
fault, it was simply the discovery that even though Hal was suspended 
above the floor he wasn't weightless after all, and if pushed too 
quickly in one direction it needed just as much effort to stop his 
body as it did to start moving it. Neither could the boy complain 
about their female inability to understand cause and effect, for he 
did something far more stupid than either of them when he slipped 
from their grasp and went sliding towards the wall again. He put up 
his arms and fended himself as hard as he could. Which sent him 
flying clear of them as if running ahead, but slowly spinning like a 
top and heading down the corridor at an angle which meant an even 
more violent impact about ten paces further on -- if paces entered 
into the calculation for somebody whose feet weren't touching the floor.

The girls gave little screams, Morgana was further back down the 
corridor and out of sight in the gloom, leaving Hal with his arms 
stretched out and flapping like a fledgling getting ready to leave 
the nest as he fought not to lose his balance. He was lucky enough to 
get one hand on the wall before he hit it and then fended himself off 
with another violent effort, his mind still not able to work out the 
obvious result in advance. If he'd been brought up working on boats 
he'd have understood the ways of dealing with floating bodies, but he 
hadn't been, and didn't. But at least the course he'd sent himself 
skimming along put him clear of the corridor and out into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall, where setting sunlight was streaming in through arrow 
slits onto the flag stoned floor, the benches and tables hurriedly 
drawn aside to make room for the aristocratic families scurrying into 
the Hall to bow and kneel to Morgana and whosoever she favored, be it 
even a shitpot boy and a pair of chits.

Grizzled warriors wearing hastily donned leather jerkins and polished 
chain mail were coming together in groups, still panting wives were 
fluttering fingers around the curls of their hair, sullen sons were 
scowling darkly at having to play attendance on some accursed witch 
and even more darkly frowning daughters warned of the sudden need to 
curtsey to a boy who, yesterday, they wouldn't have deigned to pour 
the contents of their chamber pots over if he was on fire.

All the arrivals still gathering, still assembling in order of rank, 
still babbling to each other about the incredible scenes they'd just 
witnessed. And, at the far end of the Great Hall, a sudden yelp of 
fear and the sight of a boy dressed in a wizard's robe popping out of 
the corridor entrance as if fired from a slingshot, legs motionless, 
arms waving madly and skimming over the rush mats towards the crowd 
like a wooden ball hurled at a stand of skittles.

Nobody did anything, except stop talking though leaving their mouths 
agape. Even the quickest witted were left bemused by such a sight, 
and anyway, to avoid the onrushing figure would have needed reactions 
fast enough to dodge a lightning strike. Only Hal himself was able to 
manage the briefest of thoughts and that was about the identity of 
the figure looming up ahead as his inevitable area of collision. 
Because the Gods themselves must be laughing at what they were 
seeing: a spell bound boy flying as straight as an arrow towards the 
double target of the biggest rack of meat in Great Pass Castle.

The family group was standing directly ahead of him, as motionless in 
their surprise as statutes: on the left, the hulking figure of Baron 
Gorlas, known behind his back as 'Gormless' Gorlas: low forehead, 
flattened nose, eyes like pissholes in the snow, so stupid that even 
his hounds got bored talking to him and strong enough to lift a 
blacksmith's anvil over his head.

On the right, Orla, Gorlas's wife and, fittingly enough, a woman with 
a figure like a sack of horseshoes.

And in the middle, their surprisingly handsome daughter, Mary, aged 
sixteen and universally known throughout the kingdom as 'Dairy' Mary. 
For there was no other maiden in Giant's Pass who proudly carried so 
much before her, nor took greater pains in the arts of displaying her 
finest parts. Mary's notion of a disaster would have been to walk 
past a man or boy and not receive a second glance. But since she 
virtually always did get a second glance, and then several more long 
and lingering ones besides, she was usually content, especially when 
she could quietly torment the watcher with the sure knowledge that he 
was never going to see anymore of her huge tits than he had done 
already. It was a game she'd even played on Hal a time or two, as far 
down on the pecking order as he was. And now those two magnificent 
mounds of milky richness were between him and Mary with nothing to 
shelter them from the impending impact but a low cut dress already 
straining at the seams.

 From Mary's point of view, of course, it was a case of having a boy 
throwing himself at her, which was certainly not a new experience, 
but it was the first time one had approached her like a swan landing 
on a frozen lake and then skidding across the ice. As for the fact 
that it was a privy cleaner wearing a magician's robe, she had no 
time at all to consider that as Hal's chest thumped up hard against 
her own, bringing a look to her face that caused a self satisfied 
smirk on Hal's own features whenever he recalled the happy event.

In his long life he was destined to see many marvelous things, many 
awe inspiring sights, but never any vision more breathtaking than the 
way he clung to Mary's bare elbows and looked down at her magnificent 
udders twitching and trembling with aftershocks like a pair of giant 
salmon trying to leap up a waterfall. Considering the situation 
afterwards, it was always a wonder to Hal how he managed to spare 
enough attention to realize the danger that was approaching. Or, 
rather, the danger that he and Mary were approaching. In fact it was 
the sudden heat on his calves which made him take stock of his situation.

He'd assumed that holding onto this substantial piece of maidenhood 
would have been as firm an anchor as a body could need, but 
apparently not his body, for it was still gliding along. It took a 
second or so for his bemused mind to understand that whatever magic 
it was in him that made him float, it was now being shared by Mary, 
and the pair of them were drifting because her own feet were also 
dangling a finger's span above the rush mats. True, the thump against 
her tits had hurt her a lot more than it had hurt him, and the impact 
had slowed his previous mad rush through the air to a gentle walking 
pace, which was all good news: the bad news was that he still 
couldn't stop moving and the impact with Mary had swung him around so 
his back was to the way they were travelling: the really bad news was 
that the massive fireplace in the Great Hall had already been lit 
against the night's chill, a fireplace as high as a tall man's head 
and wide enough to roast three boars at once, nose to tail. And the 
really really bad news was that in about two seconds he and Mary were 
going to be in the flames themselves.

There was no time to think, only to act, and Hal never really 
understood why he did what he did -- if it was a guess, it was an 
inspired one, if it was simple lechery in the face of danger, well, 
that was to be applauded too. What he did was to let go of Mary's 
elbows and immediately her heels thumped down onto the flagstones. 
She yelped, and then prolonged the noise on a higher note as Hal 
jammed his fingers down the top of her dress and pulled on it as hard 
as he could to keep from touching her skin again. She stayed set 
solid on the floor, the front panel of her dress came apart on the 
left and right side in a popping of stitches, bringing Hal to a dead 
stop. The bottom of the torn out section of dress was still holding 
together at Mary's waist and hanging down in front of him, topped off 
with nipples like horse chestnuts, were a exposed pair of mounds big 
and warm enough for a squirrel to bed down between for a winter's hibernation.

"Grrrr," Hal groaned in ecstasy and clamped a hand over each of 
Mary's huge teats, totally unable to resist the chance of a lifetime. 
At last he could die happy. And with Baron Gorlas putting hand to his 
sword, dying was surely the next thing on his agenda. But other 
things were happening as well.

For one, Morgana le Fay, the deadliest, most evil, most wicked witch 
in the world, was having a fit -- of laughter. She was doubled up, 
slapping her hands against her thighs as if doing some kind of folk 
dance, her eyes almost closed and mouth wide open as she fought for 
enough breath to laugh and keep alive as well. And, again, in years 
to come, that was a sight which the Wizard Merlin would remember with 
affection. Whatever his later troubles with Morgana, he would always 
recall that once, at least he'd seen her helpless with mirth. Even 
though nobody else would ever believe it when he told them, 
especially not the that po-faced, pain-in-the-arse, born-again 
Christian, King Arthur.

Another thing that was happening in the Great Hall was that Chelinde 
and Caelia were rushing past the red faced Baron and his whey 
featured wife. But neither of the girls was laughing because they 
could see Gorlas's grip on his sword and how an ell's length of steel 
blade had already been drawn from the scabbard. The only two things 
which were keeping the good Baron from fully drawing his weapon and 
splitting Hal asunder were his wife's restraining hand on his brawny 
arm -- that and the black robe the boy was wearing. The Baron didn't 
want to risk the sort of magic that had been used on the King, not 
even to stop his precious daughter from having her points handled in public.

Neither did Mary; she lifted up her own hands once to push Hal away, 
but the sight of the glittering symbols on the robe effectively 
deterred her from touching his body. Better to have her tits publicly 
fondled than to have her own hands burnt off. And then she was 
squealing and helplessly, trying to regain a footing on the floor as 
Hal spun her around, making sure he kept at least one hand on her 
bare flesh at all times to hold her up in the air with him. He was 
grinning with joy at this chance to get his revenge on all these 
upper class bastards who'd humiliated him so long and so often. And 
there they all were, all along the length of the hall, gaping at the 
sight of Dairy Mary swaying in front of them, Hal behind her, holding 
each of her elbows again and the Master-At-Arm's daughters running to 
serve him.

"Grab her girdle ends, girls," he ordered. "And then tow us away."

Chelinde and Caelia saw what he wanted. Mary had a girdle around her 
waist, a gold colored cord with two loose ends, each longer than one 
of Hal's arms. The sisters each caught hold of one of the girdle 
tassels and began pulling Hal and Mary away, towards the far end of 
the Great Hall. And as they moved, Hal chuckled, took one hand away 
from Mary's elbow and seized hold of a nipple again, with all of the 
noble families able to see what he was doing. Then he did the same 
thing with his other hand and gloated at the stricken looks on the 
watchers' faces, and especially the ones on the faces of all the 
young esquires. The privileged striplings may have used his hair as a 
shit house cleaning brush before today, but now he was the one with 
his hands on Dairy Mary's luscious measures, and he was the one who 
was going to make her shake them around for him in frantic 
excitement, even if he had to give her a double dose of dragon sweat 
to get her in the right mood.

What Hal wasn't expecting was to suddenly begin bouncing up in the 
air, Mary with him, as though they were shuttlecocks being hit with 
rackets. He looked down and saw they'd reached the steps of the tower 
stairway: as he almost touched each tread with the back of his heels, 
he and Mary were shooting up to the next step, bobbing along behind 
the girls towing them up the spiral staircase.

Before he was pulled out of sight of the Great Hall Hal put his hands 
underneath Mary's plumpers and waved them at Baron Gorlas and his 
wife. It took a little careful timing to get his hands on the upswing 
at the same time as Mary and he were jerked up another step, but the 
result was well worth the effort; by about the fifth step her pair of 
abundantly fleshed milk churns were going down halfway to her waist 
and then bouncing back up almost up to her chin. Mary screeched like 
a barn owl at midnight and her scarlet faced father seemed about 
ready to try tearing the chain mail from his chest with his bare hands.

"Good night, my lords and ladies," Hal called out above Mary's yelps: 
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I've got to rush off and take a flying fuck."

It was only after ascending the stairs far enough to be beyond the 
view of the audience in the banqueting hall that Hal realized 
something had changed. His heels were no longer bumping against the 
steps; indeed the staircase was further below than before. An 
observation matched by the decreasing distance between his head and 
the apex of the arched roof. He was floating higher and higher. And 
every squirming movement of Mary's fat bum against his rampant cock 
seemed to be somehow pushing both of them even further into the air.

"Hal, come down!" one of the sisters called out in alarm.

Twisting around he found Caelia and Chelinde's heads lifted up to 
look at his own face as if he was as tall as Argud himself.

"How can I come down, you stupid bitches? I don't even know why we're 
going up!"

"Then I will tell you why, Master."

Morgana still wore a smile on her face, though now it was exactly the 
sort of smile a mere mortal might expect from a witch; the white 
toothed smile a ferret showed when it slithered into a nest of baby conies.

"Remember what Gregory told the King? That even mortals can make 
magic when they couple. Are you not yourself feeling the urge to fuck 
that fat wench in your hands? And can't you feel her own excitement 
in the movements of her body?"

"Yes . . . " Hal tried to calm down and collect his mind. "But he 
said that such magic cancels out other magics nearby. That was why 
your broomstick went down. So, this is the same situation now as 
then. The spell you cast on me to lift me off the floor should be 
failing, not getting stronger."

Morgana struck her palms together lightly, as though applauding a 
child which had learnt its lesson properly: "Well done, Master. But 
the levitation spell affecting you is no longer mine. 'Tis yours now 
-- it has been ever since you picked that big titted maid up."

"I picked her up?" As much as he was in awe of Morgana's learning, 
Hal couldn't help but smile at her suggestion. "All I've ever been 
able to lift up is a shite bucket. I know no magic, I've never been 
taught any. How could I cast a spell?"

"I didn't say you cast it, Master, I said you took it over. Before 
then, I think you had a talent for sorcery born in you, yet still 
undiscovered. Now I think your mind has been sharpened by wearing a 
garment bewitched with past magics. So when you seized those 
overfilled udders you were instantly excited enough to able to take 
control of the spell and widen it enough to levitate the fat cow 
you'd laid your hands on."

"What?"

Hal felt the cold touch of the stone floor on the soles of his bare 
feet before his eyes had time to look down. All they did was to 
confirm what he already knew, that his -- and Mary's -- weightless 
condition was swiftly ebbing away. Now they both stood one their 
toes: lightly, but on their toes.

"Duh!" His confusion was clear to all.

"Master, while we have talked, has not your cock slumped down? Have 
you not been distracted from what you were thinking of doing to that 
sweating mare?"

"Well . . . yes."

Morgana's tone was still laced with amusement but her words were 
true. Hal's passion and his rutting member had drooped at the first 
distraction, as easily as an old man falling asleep on a summer's afternoon.

Indeed, he was so tired after such a day that had passed that he felt 
as old as any man still living. Even with Mary Gorlas's nipples still 
clenched nut hard in his hands he doubted he would recover his desire 
to fuck her this night. What he would normally have hungered for he 
scarcely had any more desire for than a drowning man would want a 
beaker of water. Hal released his hold on the girl and felt his heels 
settle on the cold stone like a bird's claws on the last beat of its 
wings. If the levitation spell had belonged to him, briefly, he had 
completely lost it now in his weariness and confusion.

"Return to your family, Mary," he said. "Before your reputation is 
spoilt beyond repair."

"You are letting her go, Master?" Morgana asked sharply. "I can give 
you strength enough to fuck her all night long."

"Aye, and mayhap have her father slice my head off with his sword at 
dawn while I sleep. Baron Gorlas is no coward and will have his eyes 
full of blood already for what I've already done to his daughter. No, 
she goes back downstairs now."

Morgana bent her head forward in acknowledgment: "As you wish, then, 
Master. To bed, to sleep deeply and wake refreshed. All arranged in 
the blink of an eyelid."

She raised her hand, as if to cast a spell.

"No, no, not yet. I need to use a night bucket first."

Morgana wriggled the tip of her smallest finger: "No, Master, you don't."

"Of course I . . . " Hal's voice faded in amazement as he realized 
what she was saying was true. His bowels were empty, his bladder no 
longer under pressure.

"Where did it go to?" the boy asked in wonder.

There were advantages in sorcery that he'd never ever dreamt of. And 
all these years he'd thought Gaunt Gregory never needed a turd pail 
taken out of his tower because the wizard was doing his business with 
a long drop straight into the moat!

"Your piss and shit, Master? They can go wherever you like. How about 
inside Baron Gorlas's bed?"

Chelinde and Caelia laughed at the suggestion. So did Hal. But the 
loudest laugh -- well, the loudest squeal -- came from Mary, even as 
she was struggling to haul the front of her ripped dress up over her 
breasts. She seemed delighted with the idea of befouling her parents' 
bed. Odd, how Chelinde and Caelia had seemed so unaffected by their 
father's death and how a Baron's daughter seemed to scorn her father 
and mother so much. Yet he, a mere foundling, would never have 
dreamed of playing such a joke on his own low bred foster parents. 
Perhaps there was some law of nature here, that the higher ranked a 
family the more the members of it disliked each other.

Well, no time now to muse about such things. Gorlas could have his 
daughter back with her maidenhead intact, if so be Mary's present 
condition, but it would do the Baron good to know that a spell could 
strike him from anywhere at anytime. Mayhap it would persuade him to 
keep his sword sheathed.

"Yes, inside the Baron's bed with my shite," Hal ordered. "Leave us 
now, Mary."

Her well rounded figure slipped from his grasp, then took a few quick 
steps to the top of the staircase. The Baron's daughter stopped 
there, as if pausing at an opened door. Half turning, she faced Hal 
again and looked directly at him, still holding up her torn dress 
giving no sign of what she was thinking. Then she was gone down the 
stairway in a rustle of skirts. Hal wondered if she would warn her 
father about examining his bed tonight before getting into it. He 
rather thought not.

Morgana raised her hand, fingers apart: "Sleep, Master."

Even as the irresistible darkness closed around him Hal suddenly 
realized that this abode of the powerful was not for him, not with 
the nobility being granted time to recover their wits and their 
courage. Morgana or no, magic or no, he knew where his best protection lay.

"The dragon hut -- let me sleep in the dragon hut. "

The corridor, Morgana's shining eyes, her hand, her fingers, they all 
came together as if they were petals of a closing flower . . .

As always, it was the dawn chorus of the birds in the trees behind 
the hut which woke Hal. Without having to open his eyes he knew that 
the very first colors of dawn were beginning to stain the blackness 
of the eastern wall through the chinks in the planks. Yet, even 
though he knew where he was, Hal's head was still full of the most 
incredible dream of any night of his life. A beautiful witch, a shape 
changing familiar, the same beautiful woman kneeling at his feet 
calling herself his slave -- and that was the least part of his 
imaginings! Gregory beaten down in a sorcerers' duel, the King's 
hands burnt off, Hal standing under the eyes of the collected 
nobility as Gregory's robe had fallen upon him! What fever must he 
have been in to have culled up such madness?

Indeed, it seemed he had not yet entirely broken through out of night 
fevers for his body seemed to be clad in some garment of impossible 
smoothness whilst underneath him was a bed so deep and soft that only 
a god lying on a cloud could ever have known its equal.

Hal's sleep glued eyelids suddenly broke open. Darkness still 
enveloped the interior of the hut. He stretched out a hand and felt 
around him. A pillow underneath his head almost as big as himself, a 
pillow of a softness and depth to match the bed he was resting in. 
His fingers touched a thin wooden post rising high above the bed, 
with whorls and twists cut into the surface.

He must be still dreaming, still far away in another world, for how 
else could he be waking up in a noble's canopied bed whilst still 
inside the dragon hut? Perhaps he could no longer tell the difference 
between real and false. But mad or bewitched, Hal knew he needed a 
piss with a desperation that made his groin ache with pain.

He didn't so much get out of the bed as slide over the side, like an 
otter slithering down a steep river bank, into the loose straw on his 
hands and knees. The stabbing ends of the stalks and the beaten earth 
beneath them were reminders of every other day he could remember 
since he'd begun sleeping in the hut -- reminders that at least 
something in his life was still the same. He stood up and shook his 
head in bewilderment. Whatever he was wearing, it felt as fine spun 
as a spider's web and was hanging like a monk's cowl around his rock 
hard cock. He moaned again -- he needed to break his locked flesh 
quickly before his bladder burst.

Something else was moving behind him in the shed, something between a 
shadow and a sinuous presence, something which padded more lightly 
than a stalking lynx over and around the piles of straw. Hal strained 
his arms to lift one of the sagging doors and swing it open. 
Josephine's head nudged against his back as the gap widened, and then 
she was brushing past him, her wings stretching out as soon as there 
was room enough. As the dragon launched herself into a sky littered 
with slowly fading stars Hal seized the bucket on the side of the 
well, dropped it down the shaft and quickly hauled it up again after 
hearing a splash below. The chill water inside the bucket he slopped 
over his prick, the sudden shock making him gasp and softening his 
stiffness. Within seconds he was standing against the hut, resting 
his forehead on the planks, sighing with relief as he let out a 
stream of sharp smelling piss.

Then he looked down and saw a blur of white patterns on the black 
material ruffed up around his wrists. A silky black gown with white 
markings on it? A bed inside the hut? Why couldn't his mind wake up 
with the rest of him and simply admit that he'd spend yesterday 
emptying shit pots, in just the same way as he was going to spend 
this day and all the other days of his life?

A drop of piss splashed back from the wall and landed in the deep 
scratches at the top of his right leg. Hal gasped at the burning 
sensation in his red raw flesh, cursing Morgana's familiar and its 
claws. Fully awakened now yet frozen with shock, Hal stood like a 
statute, his cock still held between his fingers, working through a 
chain of logic he couldn't break. He had the pain, so he must have 
the wound, so everything he remembered about that fucking big cat 
trying to claw off his balls must have happened. And if that had 
happened, then every other impossible thing he was remembering must 
also have happened. Either that or he completely barking mad, madder 
than a March hare.

Hal looked up at the mountain peaks looming clear and sharp against 
the dawn's advancing red banner. No, if madness it was, it was still 
lodged inside his head refusing to go away. Especially the madness 
that was Morgana le Fay. With sudden decision Hal pulled the robe up 
over his body, over his head. He walked back to the well, laid the 
robe gently on the surrounding wall, then dropped the bucket and 
hauled it up again, brimming to the top. Nearby was a crude table, 
made of trimmed branches split in half and lashed together with 
strips of leather.

Hal put the bucket down on the table, leaned forward, pushed his face 
deep into the icy water, letting it claw at his cheeks and eyes. Air 
bubbled out from his mouth, out of his nose. His body tingled from 
the shock. He stood up, eyes still closed, lifted up the bucket and 
sluiced half of the contents over his naked body, gasping and 
grunting as shivers spread out from his spine.

Hal reached inside the leather bag hanging from the side of the table 
and took out a scrap of soap and a rag. As he soaped himself he 
decided he wasn't mad after all -- so why was he suddenly smelling 
hot bacon and freshly baked bread?

He picked up a wooden mug hanging beside the bag and sluiced the last 
traces of lather from his skin, then began to rub himself dry with a 
piece of sheepskin. A gentle breeze curled cold fingers around his 
balls as he wiped them. The wind didn't bother Hal, but the aroma of 
freshly prepared food mixed in with the moving air continued to tease 
and puzzle him. Wherever it was coming from, the source was very 
close. Hal's eyes moved downwards, onto the washing table. Next to 
the bucket a square shape had appeared, square and white at the top. 
It was still too dark to see exactly what it was but there seemed to 
be a arch above the square shape. Hal touched the shape with gently 
exploring fingers -- wickerwork. A wickerwork basket with a carrying 
handle and a pure white cloth tucked over the appetite arousing 
contents of the basket. So who had carried it here?

"A good morning to you, Master."

Morgana! Standing with a few paces of him, yet still cloaked in the 
darkness so that he could only see her outline. As tall and wide as a 
Icelandic warrior and yet reminding Hal of a swan, somehow graceful 
even when not moving.

"Your dragon, Master. Does she dance every morning?"

Hal looked up, far up into the sky, where the rays of the sun were 
beginning to fan out above the peaks. Alone in the shining heavens 
was a tiny shape, twisting and turning on silver wings set on a 
silver body. Morgana's word was well chosen. Josephine did seem to be 
dancing, although he'd never thought of that of it that way before.

"No, not every morning, though more often of late. But only in the 
last few months. She never did it before. She would flap her wings 
like a cock when the sun rose, but not fly. And 'tis only when she 
flies so high and so early that she takes that look of polished steel 
on her skin. I know not why, though I've tried to find out."

"Eat, Master, before your food cools. Unless you would have it served 
at a breakfast table in the castle by servants."

"No need for that."

No need at all for anything but the food -- he was ravenous. Hal's 
hand moved towards his robe to dress his nakedness, then checked 
itself. What might happen if he should accidentally soil it with 
grease? A robe woven with magic was clothing which might take revenge 
for such disrespectful treatment. So Hal stayed in his state of 
nature as he seized meat in one hand and bread in the other, one and 
the other hand raised alternatively to his mouth as he reveled in the 
quality of the food. Meat and the best of rich wheat ground bread! A 
whole basketful of it. The King himself wouldn't be eating any better.

Morgana suddenly laughed and Hal felt a shiver that owed nothing to 
damp skin stroked by a cold breeze. It was unlikely that Argud was 
eating anything at all this morning. And there was nothing at all 
about Morgana which promised anything good from any laugh of hers. He 
looked warily at her with shreds of bacon fat hanging from his lips.

"Well, Duke Merlin, there is much work to do before I can present you 
to foreign courts as a diplomat and a courtier. Especially in 
improving your table manners."

Hal felt his face crease in puzzlement until he could swallow the 
food in his crammed mouth and answer.

"I, a courtier? I think you speak in riddles to make mock of me. 
Though I know that King Argud named me a Duke so that I could go with 
Josephine to any place where she might find a mate. I believe he 
wanted me to be of some rank to negotiate with foreign nobles for 
stud rights for a male dragon, if there be such a thing in captivity 
anywhere."

"That is true, Master. You were to control the dragon and I was to 
control you. And when we had found a male dragon we were to bring 
back eggs enough to breed fighting dragons for Argud. Then he would 
defeat the Empire."

It was Hal's turn to laugh. "Yes, something of the same sort he said 
to me as you were fighting Gregory. Even with the portcullis between 
us I dared not tell him what I thought of his madness. Fight the 
Empire! As well try to knock down yonder castle with a straw. No, 
none of that madness for me. I seek no foreign courts, nor fancy ways."

"And what about Josephine?"

"Josephine?"

"Why do you think she is flying so high, and with such coloring? Is 
it not clear that's she's displaying herself thus every new day in 
the hope of finding a mate?"

"Oh."

Hal blinked and looked upwards again as Josephine begin a long spiral 
earthwards. Again, what the witch had set had put his mind along a 
new path, but seemingly a true one. If a dragon wanted to be seen by 
another dragon what better way than to fly high at the start of each 
day and cavort in the brightest of light in a blazing silver coat. If 
there was another dragon with forty leagues looking skywards. . . 
another dragon. A pang of regret closed around his heart.

"But there are no more dragons, I'm sure of it. There haven't been 
any dragons since the old legends were written."

"Perhaps. But you found one, Master. How did that come about?"

Hal hesitated. This was something he had never told anybody before, 
for it was not a story which any mere turd hauler could tell without 
being the butt of a thousand jests.

"I had a dream. About a great tree with red and white leaves. The red 
leaves were as bright as blood and the white leaves like fresh snow. 
Then I woke up, in the middle of the night and a gale of wind was 
blowing, so strongly I thought the roof would blow off my family's 
hut. And then I heard a faraway noise in the forest, a sound like a 
big tree being blown over."

The first beams from the climbing sun to find a gap through the 
mountain passes fell across Morgana's face. On her tresses of black 
hair, on her perfectly shaped high arching eyebrows, on dark lashes 
which somehow seemed to curve up at the corners in a way he'd never 
seen on any woman's face before. But most of all the beams fell on 
two golden sparks set deep between the dark lashes: eyes which 
reflected the sunlight like crystal shields. Eyes which saw 
everything but showed nothing. The words stuck in Hal's throat as he 
struggled to continue his account.

"Yes, Master? What then?"

"It -- it seemed strange, to dream of a falling tree and then to 
awake and hear one toppling over in the forest. I got up and went 
outside the hut. It was a full moon and the tree tops were bent over 
by the howling wind like reeds in a river's flood. I picked up a 
stick and laid it in the direction the wind was coming from. I 
thought the noise had been blown along by the wind so that would be 
the way to go to find the fallen tree. I didn't know why I wanted to 
find it. I went back to my bedding skins and back to sleep. I thought 
it wouldn't matter to me any more in the morning. But somehow it did. 
I woke up early and it was so calm there wasn't a leaf fluttering. 
But I went in the direction the stick pointed."

"I walked a long way -- or at least, I walked for what seemed a long 
time. There were lots of bramble patches, rotten tree trunks to 
scramble over, a swampy area. I tried to use the sun to keep going in 
the right direction. I had a large sack of rags I tied to branches to 
mark my trail. I had a axe as well but I was frightened to use it to 
cut guiding cuts on the trees in case a bear or a pack of wolves 
heard the noise and came after me. I was getting very frightened at 
how far I'd gone into the forest and I'd almost run out of rags when 
I found the tree I'd heard fall."

Hal noticed that although Josephine was still circling downwards she 
was doing it over the castle, as though she wanted to make sure 
nothing unusual was happening there. The nothing, perhaps, being a 
crowd of nobles in full armor getting ready to make a dawn attack on 
the dragon hut. The dragon was clever, clever, and once again he 
wondered what had happened to the rest of her kind. Probably they had 
been hunted to extinction when some human had found the same secret 
of dragon sweat's power to arouse lust that Hal himself had discovered.

"And then you found the egg -- just one?"

Hal hastily summoned his wits back to answer Morgana's insistent questions.

"Yes, inside the earth that was in the middle of the tree's roots. 
Only one. I took it and came away. I was frightened and had much work 
to do in the castle, so I came back as soon as I'd picked up the egg. 
And I hid it away in a pile of dung where it would get warm. But I 
never thought anything would hatch from it."

"And yet you told nobody?"

This was no self professed slave talking, this was a master 
addressing to an inferior. A sorcerer talking to an apprentice, 
mayhap. But Hal had no interest at all in seeking a dispute with the 
witch in whatever role she wanted to act out. That would have been as 
sensible as jousting against an armored knight with a pea pole for a lance.

"I'm a shit carrier. I don't have anybody to talk to. And if I'd told 
anybody in my family about it they'd probably have boiled the egg and 
eaten whatever was inside it."

"But after the dragon hatched you showed the King where you'd found the egg?"

"Yes. I had to and the rags were still on the branches to show the 
way. Hundreds of men were sent into the forest and dug all around the 
tree but they found nothing."

"What about the leaves on it? Were they as you dreamed them?"

Hal shook his head: "No, they weren't red and white, just green. It 
was only an ordinary beech tree. A high one before it fell, but there 
was nothing different about it from all the other beech trees in the forest."

"Red and white, red and white," the witch repeated, apparently 
thinking the matter over.

The bar of light across Morgana's face had slipped further down. A 
nose, not snub, but nearer that description than any other, high 
cheek bones, a touch of gold in the lobes of close set ears, the 
gleam of the earrings matching that of the witch's eyes. Eyes that 
never seemed to blink.

Behind Morgana's brooding figure, Josephine had flown away from the 
castle walls, apparently getting ready to land outside the hut. No 
longer silver, now she was dressed in casual day wear of light green 
with traces of yellow along her flanks. Hal knew enough about the 
dragon to know she yearned for something, and now he could guess well 
enough what it was. How long had he himself stared helplessly at 
desirable girls who only laughed at him? How much worse for 
Josephine, with no other dragon at all for company, let alone to couple with?

It was a thought which matched the final illumination of the bottom 
part of Morgana's face. Small and pouting lips, a dimpled chin, full 
cheeks. Somehow she reminded Hal of a young maid sulking over some 
childish tiff. Which led to a further and worrying thought.

"Chelinde and Caelia: where are they?" Hal asked. "Are they all right?"

"Certainly, Master. They're with their mother. I sent them home 
because I could not risk you coupling with them now, as I'm sure you 
wish to do."

"Mmm."

Hal hadn't thought at all about settling back into that big soft warm 
bed with the soft warm bodies of the sisters on each side of him. But 
now the suggestion had been made -- wait, what had the witch just said?

"You can't risk me having a fuck?" Oh Odin, was he going to end up as 
frustrated as Josephine again?

"Not just yet. We have a powerful spell to cast today -- no, you have 
a powerful spell to cast. To strip Gregory of his powers and lock him 
out of this world."

The bread inside Hal's stomach seemed to be swelling, as if still in 
the oven, growing and pressing against the walls of his stomach.

"I can't do anything against Gregory -- I'm not a warlock. You may be 
stronger than he is but I'm nothing."

"Which is what you'll stay unless you take another adept's power. 
There is only so much magic in the world. None of it ever disappears, 
none of it ever appears. The only work to become a worker in magic is 
to take over the hoarded power of another magician. I can help you 
conquer Gregory but you must play the vital part in the ceremony."

Again, as often of late, Hal was completely baffled by the turn of events.

"What is it that you think I can do?"

"You must take over a spell I shall cast, make it your own, and then 
blow on it as if it were a burning twig until it has become a mighty 
fire. And there is your bellows waiting to be used."

Now there was another smile on Morgana's face, an even more twisted 
one than usual. She held her hand up, palm outward, and a flicker of 
sunlight seemed to turn in midair, as if hitting a mirror, falling 
directly onto Hal's groin. He stared down in horrified fear of seeing 
his most precious possession suffer the same awful fate as Argud's 
hands. But his cock was still there, and not only present but 
stirring as if it could draw energy from the sun like Josephine.

"Oh, Odin," Hal muttered.

He wasn't thinking about anything to do with girls, he was thinking 
about how much breakfast was left in the basket. Well, all right, 
just a quick thought about sharing that big bed in the shed with 
Caelia and Chelinde, a very, very quick thought, but that was all. He 
lifted his eyes, tried to pretend the rearing head and neck down 
there was nothing to do with him. But the warmth and the tingle 
coming from the witch's palm -- by all the gods and trolls, that 
wasn't pure innocent sunlight. It was like water laced with dragon 
sweat. Was that what the witch was doing, letting him know she had 
seen through his childish tricks?

Morgana lowered her hand, the ray of light faded away, but his 
cockstand was still up and sniffing the wind as keenly as before, as 
if hunting for the scent of a hot cunt.

"Master, do those scratches from Ymir's claws still pain you?"

"Yes."

"Then sit on the well wall and spread your legs so I can apply some salve."

Hal threw the damp sheepskin on top of the wall and perched his 
skinny buttocks on it. As the witch moved closer he stared at her 
face, and then at her long fingers as she lifted a tiny pot up into 
the light and touched the contents of the container with their tips. 
His hard cock stayed as firm as a scepter resting in a monarch's lap. 
The long fingers and those lightly smeared fingertips pressed down 
gently between his balls and the top of his leg. At their touch the 
pain from the scratches faded away as if by magic -- well, yes, by 
magic. And Hal's manhood quivered with raging lust on his boy's body.

"Is that better, Master?"

By Gwal's beard, she smelt sweeter than flowers and mead and new mown 
hay. The lightest of the witch's caresses had him quivering like a 
hunting hawk seeing prey. He wanted above all to seize hold of her 
with both hands -- except that he wanted even more to keep his hands.

"Master, I would tell you something and then ask you a question. You 
understand?"

"Yes."

His voice sounded to Hal's ears as if it came from a throat which was 
being slowly strangled.

"Very well, then listen. Every magician has only so much power 
available. If they would cast a spell which needs more magic than 
they have within themselves they must use what is known as free 
magic. This free magic is spread loosely throughout the world as 
finely as . . . as . . . "

The witch nodded towards a patch of grass beaded with drops of water 
that glittered in the newly minted sunlight.

"Why, as finely as dew in the morning. To gather a powerful amount of 
free magic together and control it needs a special attraction."

"An attraction?"

One set of fingers kept moving with his groin. Two others slowly 
nipped the very tip of his shaft's helmet. Hal gurgled like a baby.

"An attraction. In the same way that a smear of jam attracts wasps. 
Is that clear?"

Hal grunted and nodded his head.

"And Gaunt Gregory almost spoke the truth when he said that mortals 
fucking each other made magic. What he really meant was that mortals 
fucking each other attract free magic like jam attracts wasps. Free 
magic which can be used by a skillful adept to enhance his or her own 
magical strength in casting powerful spells. Do you understand all that?"

The fingers which had touched his cock's eye moved further down, 
fluttering as lightly as thistledown against Hal's rampant snatch 
rammer. He sucked in air and tried to prove he was listening.

"Does it make any difference how many couples there are?"

Morgana's free hand cupped his balls and squeezed them gently. Hal 
hoped very, very much it had been the right sort of question.

"Well done, master, well done indeed!"

Thank you Fria, thank you, Hal's mind whispered in secret triumph 
within his head.

"Yes, the more humans that are fucking each other in the ceremony, 
the more powerful the incantation. And the harder they fuck, the more 
free magic is harvested. But if it sounds easy to arrange such a 
thing, learn better. For the human couples must be doing it out of 
genuine passion for the free magic to gather around them. Paid whores 
can go through the motions but with no real feelings, and the males 
who tup them know they are only dealing with tavern drabs. There is 
no real passion to be had with such scum. Decent couples in a sober 
condition are oft times ashamed to perform in such a ceremony, even 
if forced into it at sword point. And to overcome such scruples with 
wine deadens the senses of the mortals and makes them poor attractors 
of free magic."

Morgana's right hand slipped out from his groin. Fingers still 
smeared in grease gently encircled the base of Hal's proud tower. 
"So, Master, can you guess now what the question is that I would ask 
most urgently of you?"

A fingernail of the witch's other hand scratched behind his balls as 
if they were a cat's ear. Hal's legs trembled as his mind raced. Talk 
or try to keep the secret? No, it was too late for secrecy, unless he 
was much mistaken. Morgana already knew much and had perceived more yet.

"Is it about what happened in the shed yesterday?"

"Oh, wise Master! O upright Master! How truly you speak. Yes, I would 
know what spell was used in your dragon's lair. Those two chits were 
sent mad with desire, I was put near to melting with lust and those 
soldiers did things to each other when we three females were no 
longer there that I would never have believed. Was not the power 
which affected us all so much somehow held within the water of the trough?"

A gradual tightening of the fingers, a small but forceful tug, the 
scratching fingernail digging just a fraction deeper. As a 
questioner, Morgana was in a class of her own, even before she 
started hurling lightning bolts around. Well, true, she wasn't in the 
same class as Sir Tarquin, the Royal Torturer. Not yet anyway, but 
Hal had no doubt that it could be arranged if that was what the witch 
felt was necessary to get the answers she wanted.

"Yes. It was in the water," Hal admitted. "There was dragon sweat 
mixed in it."

"Dragon sweat?"

The witch's fingers had stopped moving, her eyes were staring into 
Hal's as if seeking the very depths of his soul. Like a cat, there 
was no telling what was going on the other side of such eyes.

"Dragon sweat?" she repeated.

"From Josephine. From underneath her wing roots. It began trickling 
out very slowly about two months ago. I found out that if I mixed it 
with water anybody who even had a drop of that water touch them went 
completely off their head -- totally fucking mad, I mean. They'd tup 
any breathing thing within reach or wank themselves into exhaustion. 
The stuff is more dangerous than a ghost spider's venom."

Morgana looked as stunned as if somebody had hit her with Thor's own 
hammer of the Gods. And then a smile even more brilliant than the 
rising sun spread over her face.

"By the Great Ones themselves, this is the greatest discovery in 
sorcery for a score's score of years! To be able to collect free 
magic as easily as netting eels in a trap . . . "

Morgana's voice trailed away as her eyes continued to glitter at Hal 
as if deciding whether to kill him like a mouse in a eagle's claws 
now she had plucked his great secret. He was also in great pain 
because her grip around his prick had indeed tightened like that of a 
bird of prey. Eventually he was forced to squeak in protest as if he 
was indeed a mouse.

"Master, forgive me. I was lost in my dreams."

The smile had returned, even wider than before, though the glitter in 
the witch's eyes remained unchanged. But at least Morgana's fingers 
were playing gently with him again.

"Master, have you any notion of how important this dragon's sweat is? 
No, of course not, how could you? But hear me when I say we can now 
become the most powerful adepts of the black arts in the whole wide 
world. And I at least have many debts to repay with such strength. 
And you, a stripling, a mere emptier of filth buckets, have had this 
gift bestowed on you by the Great Ones themselves. Is this not all 
strange beyond belief itself?"

"Yes."

Saying yes to whatever a witch suggested was a natural instinct for 
self preservation. Just as natural as it was to agree with anything 
any woman said whilst she was pulling him off. But then Morgana took 
her hands off Hal's quivering cock, to his great disappointment. 
Perhaps she'd been expecting a more intelligent or enthusiastic 
answer. Whatever that might be.

Morgana produced a bright red ribbon from somewhere inside her 
leather jerkin, an incongruous affection set against such warrior 
garb. He watched in fascination as she tilted her head back, shook 
her long black tresses, then did that thing that only woman can do at 
the back of their heads, securing the loose hair with the ribbon. 
Hal's mouth went dry as he saw Morgana's lip flicker between her 
pouting lips, as if it were a threatening snake seeking prey. Outside 
the shed Josephine had settled on the grass, wings fully stretched 
out to catch the sunlight, her eyes watching the scene at the well.

"Master, do you know what a coven is?"

The woman moved closer, her sweet smell in his nostrils again.

"I've heard it's a group of witches come together to work their magic."

"Not necessarily witches. If a warlock wishes to draw free magic into 
himself he may take some women of any kind he chooses and assemble 
them under the rules of Actaeon, the horned god of the forest. 
Actaeon's rules allow him to declare the meeting of such women and 
himself a unique coven, to meet once and then to part forever. And 
the male adept appoints himself the Magister, the leader of the coven 
for the meeting."

Both of Morgana's hands were sliding up the inside of Hal's legs. He 
had never felt such smooth palms in his life. But even as his body 
stirred with pleasure the boy's mind was wishing that Morgana was 
wooing some Ice Warrior in the frozen North, far, far, away.

"Then the Warlock -- the Magister -- will join the female members of 
the coven together with a fascination spell."

"A fascination spell?"

"It joins together all the minds of all the females. Sometime called 
a glamor spell. A circle cast sunways around the group, beginning and 
ending with the Magister."

"So what does that mean?"

If this was his first lesson in magic, Hal was in a class of his own 
already and it was the dunce's class.

"Why, Master, tis simple enough. A group of women in a room, all 
enchanted, and whenever you touch one of them, they will all feel it. 
Like this."

Her fingers touched each side of his erection, stroking it softly. 
But even that treatment failed to take Hal's mind from the image she 
had conjured up.

"They'd all feel whatever I do to any one of them?"

"That's right, Master. So if you sheath this proud sword into one of 
the covendom's female scabbards they all share the feeling together 
-- and the free power garnered from all the women flows to the 
Magister. To you, Hal, to use as you will."

"But . . . but I thought it was necessary to have couples to attract 
this magic."

"That is one way. But if the adept can do all the fucking himself he 
can directly channel all the free magic to himself. It's much the 
best way to perform the ceremony, provided the Magister can make love 
as a coven master should. And with this magic wand you have here to 
wave around and some dragon sweat to arouse the females -- well, you 
should be able to work miracles, Master. Magical miracles."

Now the witch's fingers were tickling and rubbing and stroking, 
somehow all at the same time. Hal grabbed at the top of the wall to 
prevent himself from toppling backwards into the well as he began to 
bounce up and down to Morgana's timing.

"This method . . . this way of doing it you talk about, with several 
women and one male. Can it really work?"

Morgana smiled with a freshness to match the sparkling air of the 
morning itself: "Of course it will work, Master. We witches even have 
a technical term for it in teachings of sorcery -- we call it cutting 
out the middle man."

The witch laughed, bent forward, rested her hands on Hal's thighs and 
put her lips around the helm of his prick. From the back of the 
dragon shed a cock crowed to greet the rising sun. So did Hal.

"Master."

Hal didn't want to hear the voice. He didn't want anything to intrude 
on whatever level of life he was now floating on. Eyes closed, a bed 
of unbelievable softness underneath him, the distant but comforting 
sounds of Josephine's claws scratching on the dirt floor -- and, best 
of all, the utterly satisfying feeling of having had his seed 
thoroughly drained out of his balls by the expert mouth of a beautiful woman.

"Master."

He was experiencing a feeling he'd never known before -- complete and 
total happiness wrapped up in warm shroud of satisfaction. Or perhaps 
it was a feeling of complete and total satisfaction wrapped up in a 
warm shroud of happiness. Whichever it was, and wherever Hal was 
between waking and sleeping, the one thing he was sure of was that he 
didn't want to be disturbed.

"Master!"

There was a tone of sharpness in the witch's voice at the third word 
which Hal's sense of self preservation could no longer ignore. His 
eyelids parted to see the bright bars of light poking down through 
the dusty rafters from chinks in the roof of the dragon shed. The sun 
was no longer new born; now it was a full of shining vigor. Unlike 
Hal, who was fully aware that the one certain thing the coming day 
did not hold for him was any further peace and quiet. And even in his 
previous state of content distant voices had been calling out to him 
in anguish.

"Morgana, there are things we must do."

"Of course there are, master. I let you rest so you would be ready 
for the ceremony in your body, but calm in mind. Now you must collect 
some of your dragon's sweat to take with you."

"It's not that simple. We must talk about something."

"What is this 'something'?"

Hal stared at the smooth lines of the witch's body under her tight 
fitting leather clothes. The notion of any woman venturing out of 
doors wearing such immodest attire was still incredible to him. But 
perhaps no more than the idea of any woman at all calling him her 
master. Even one who said the word as if she was spitting out a piece 
of rotten meat.

"The prison tower. The prisoners that Agrud keeps in it. I mean, the 
prisoners he used to keep in it.  No, I mean the prisoners that are 
there because Agrud put them there when he was king."

Morgana's finely drawn features crinkled in vague amusement at the 
boy's tongue tied awkwardness: the kind of amusement a cat enjoys 
with a mouse trapped underneath its paw.

"What of them?"

"They must be released and cared for."

"Why, master?"

"Because . . ." Hal found it difficult to find words for something 
which was so obvious it shouldn't require any explanation. "Because 
Agrud no longer rules here and there is no need to continue his 
cruelty. Let them out and let them be comforted."

Morgana shrugged her shoulders -- broad shoulders, for all the 
suppleness of her body: "If you wish, master, but not today. The 
ceremony must needs be held today."

Hal gritted his teeth, remembering the stench that hung around the 
prison keep and trying to imagine what it must be like to exist in 
such a place.

"You say you promised to obey me, you call me master. Then do as I bid you."

The witch shook her head: "No, you do not remember all that was said. 
In matters of sorcery you are my apprentice and do as I say. The 
ceremony to strip Gaunt Gregory of his powers must be held today and 
all other matters are subordinate to that great matter. The prisoners 
will stay where they are for the present. Come, arise and to your task."

Hal lifted his upper body to obey -- then stopped in mid movement as 
another thought came into his mind. Part and parcel of his first 
words, two impulses somehow linked together in his mind while he was 
half asleep, and only now had the second one been snagged and dragged 
out as the first was unfolded in his speech.

"No, wait, the two things are connected."

"What do you mean?"

"The ceremony with the women. Where have you planned to hold it?"

"Inside the castle tower which was Gregory's quarters," she answered.  "Why?"

Hal sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his tangled hair.

"Witch, think about what you want me to do. To gather together the 
dozen most desirable women in the castle and treat them like camp 
following whores. Can you imagine what their fathers, brothers and 
husbands will do once they have any inkling about the sort of magic 
you want me to help you perform? You may think yourself in no danger 
of being harmed because of who and what you are, but I'm still only 
Hal the shit bucket boy to these people. Turn your back on me for a 
minute and without your protection I'll be at the bottom of the moat 
with more knifes in me than the castle armory. If we must have this 
ceremony there needs to be some discretion in the arranging of it."

The witch folded her arms with the air of a tavern mistress ready to 
deal with a brain befuddled drunk: "And you have found such a pathway 
to discretion, Duke Merlin?"

The tone was tinged with unconcealed sarcasm but Hal cared not, for 
everything had suddenly fallen into place in his mind like the pieces 
in a winning chess game.

"Yes. Or at least the path to the Devil's Arsehole."

He saw Morgana's brows furrow in puzzlement.

"It's a cave, in the forest, about a league and a half from the 
castle. If you go deep into it, without getting lost in the different 
turns underground, there's a place where hot mud and water come 
bubbling up. From somewhere deep in the ground. And the water and the 
mud are supposed to be good cures for all ills. The mud to lie in and 
the waters to drink. But it's a difficult place to get into and only 
the rich and the brave dare go inside."

"Why so?"

"Because there are many false turns and because, as you go further in 
and the air grows warmer, the mould on the sides of the caves gets 
thicker and many poisonous spiders live in it. But the real problem 
is the darkness. Or perhaps I should say the real problem is the damp 
air inside the cave which puts out torches made of wood. The only way 
to light your way inside the Devil's Arsehole is with a wax candle 
inside a glass lantern. Things that only the rich can afford to use. 
And, sometimes, even such lanterns will go out and not relight in the 
dampness. Which leaves any travellers lost in the dark with only the 
red eyes of thousands of spiders to show the way."

"So nobody goes there, then?" the witch asked, apparently interested.

"A few only, seeking whatever good the mud and water within might do 
them, though only if they be desperate, or perhaps so ill they no 
longer value their lives much anyway. Years ago three brothers began 
a business by bringing out the mud in wicker back packs to sell to 
the sick and elderly. The Gulburton brothers they were called and 
they thought to make themselves so familiar with the all the turns 
and trails of the cave that they could never get lost, even without 
any torches and candles."

"And did they?"

Hal shrugged: "I think not. At any rate they all went into the 
Devil's Arsehole one day and never came out again. Nobody knows what 
happened to them."

Morgana chuckled: "I daresay the castle ladies would need to be 
driven with whips to persuade them to venture inside such a place."

Hal tugged nervously at his fingers. He was unused to playing the 
advocate, especially for his own ideas. Until  yesterday he'd never 
been important enough to have ideas.

"That depends on your powers, Morgana. If you could provide them with 
light enough for the journey and led the women in yourself, promising 
to protect them from all harm or any danger of getting lost . . . 
well then, they might come along peacefully enough. But no mention of 
any ceremony, not to them or to any of their menfolk. Give the women 
buckets and shoulder yokes and tell them you want mud brought from 
inside the cave to help ease the pains of the released prisoners. 
Tell them it is my command."

He was surprised to hear Morgana chuckle; even more surprised to see 
what looked like a flicker of respect on her face.

"Well, who could believe that a lowly castle valet could be so 
tricky? But why should women be used for such a job when surely the 
men of the castle could carry heavier loads?"

"By Odin's sword, are you not a witch, a sorceress, a magician 
powerful enough to make all tremble? Tell the silly bitches you're 
going to use spells that no man must witness, tell them you don't 
want their delicate eyes offended by the sight of dirty and naked 
inmates being carried from the Prison Tower. Tell them whatever fancy 
comes to your mind, it matters naught. You'll be believed instantly 
and obeyed without question. Provided only you can find a way to 
light up the caves."

The witch smiled: "That is an easy enough task I warrant, Master. Can 
this cave be reached by a cart?"

"The high born ladies of the kingdom can't be seen riding in a cart," 
Hal protested. "It would humiliate them beyond all measure before the surfs."

"The cart is only for the mud to come back in. And to carry those 
buckets you speak of. The women may ride their palfries if they wish. 
But is there track enough for oxen and a cart?"

"Yes, there's a good enough track. An hour's journey from the castle 
should suffice."

"Then all that needs to be done is for you to travel to the cave and 
wait for us to arrive. I shall summon Ymir to guide you to a place 
inside the cave where I shall bring the women to you."

"Ymir? I'm to go into the Devil's Arsehole with your familiar to 
protect me from the dangers within? Perhaps the Gulburtons will soon 
have some company wherever they are because I'm sure Ymir hates me."

Morgana's eyes were as distant and cold as the stars on midwinter night.

"So do I, Hal O'The Shitbuckets, never doubt it. Calling a half grown 
boy my master sticks in my throat like a bundle of dry fish bones. 
But we all serve the Great Ones and none of us dare disobey their 
commands. Ymir will keep you safe. And forget not your vial of dragon 
sweat, no matter what. That is my order to you as my apprentice in sorcery."

"Yes, witch."

"And best leave your warlock's gown here. It would be lacking in 
respect to your craft to wear formal dress in such a place as you 
describe to me."

"Yes, witch."

With his heart filled with apprehension Hal began his duties for this 
strangest of days by laying out the dragon riding nets ready for his 
journey to the cave entrance.

If there had been any clouds in the sky at dawn Hal could not 
remember seeing them. And if there had been any since, they were gone 
now. The sky arching over the tops of the trees was a unmarked mantle 
of blue. There were traces of white visible though, along the upper 
flanks of the mountains where patches of snow struggled for existence 
under the sun's noonday power. From Josephine's belly net the views 
across the forest and out to the mountains had been more beautiful 
than Hal could ever remember.

Probably because he'd never looked at the scenery of Giant's Pass 
before with any notion of one day perhaps being free to roam wherever 
he wanted over it. Yesterday he had been a slave who carried shit 
buckets, today he was in thrall to a witch, but perhaps soon he would 
be free to soar with Josephine up to the tops of those mountains, to 
breathe the crisp high air and walk with Chelinde and Caelia amongst 
the glittering white patches of the fading snowline. Or better still 
. . . Hal had a inspiring vision of  reaching out a hand to drop a 
snowball down Mary Gorlas's ample cleavage and suddenly felt better. 
Until his eyes turned again to the reeking entrance of the Devil's Arsehole.

Oh, wonderful! The grass was green, the air was sparkling, his 
stomach was full of good food, he was clean  and Josephine 
frolicsome. What a day to fly to the very peaks. And where was he to 
go instead? Into that foul dungeon of a cavern where so many who went 
in never came out. On the other hand -- on the other hand he knew 
very well what would happen to him if the men of the nobility ever 
suspected him of tupping their fine ladies, even if only by sorcery. 
Having his balls cut of and fried in front of his eyes would be the 
least of their revenge.

Josephine flung up her head, the flashing red stripes along her neck 
sounding a warning. Hal squinted up at the two black dots circling 
overhead which had suddenly spoilt the sky's pristine perfection. 
Then the high flying objects plunged together, dropping towards the 
clearing beside the pile of boulders which marked the entrance to the 
cave. It seemed as if they were racing towards the ground, seeing 
which one of them could reach it first, Ymir the shape changer in his 
guise as a hawk, his wings half folded, and Morgana astride her 
broom, handle up and twigs down, her knees bent as if jumping down a 
hayrick instead of dropping from half a league aloft like a plunging 
arrow. Josephine's colors turned to an optimistic shade of green and 
Hal knew exactly what was going on in the dragon's mind: a keen hope 
that both witch and familiar would slam themselves into the grass -- 
or better yet, the boulders -- with killing speed.

It didn't happen. Ymir used the falcon's shape as skillfully as any 
true hatched member of the wild's most gifted fliers. Wings flung 
open, the speed of the fall somehow converted into a short, steep 
climb, a second where the falcon hung in the air level with the 
bottom branches of the nearest tree, a flutter of wing tips and the 
familiar passed out of sight by diving straight into the cave's dark 
entrance. It was an impressive performance but not nearly as 
impressive as the witch's fall to earth.

She was just low enough for Hal to begin taking a interested look at 
her leather bound legs when a sound like a chorus of fast beaten war 
drums sounded, blasts of hot air slapped against Hal's face  and a 
circle of grass three paces across directly below the falling witch 
turned red, flared up, then blew outwards in an expanding ring of 
fine ash. Hal coughed, shut his eyes against the particles of fine 
dust and wiped his eyelids with his hands. When he opened them again 
Morgana was standing in the burnt circle, those lust creating legs 
opened wide enough for the broom to fly out from between them and 
then hang level  like a patient horse waiting to be mounted again.

Hal grunted in surprise and rubbed fragments of ash between his 
fingertips. He remembered how carts being eased downhill with their 
brakes jammed on became hot at the wooden brake blocks and along the 
edges of the restrained wheels. Had something like that happened 
here, with the falling weight of Morgana's body somehow being 
turned  into noise and heat so she could land safely?

Oh, the idea of his ever becoming a magician was ridiculous. Every 
time he saw magic performed he gained no insight into how it was 
done, only a childish desire to ask endless questions.

"So, master, you have the dragon sweat ready?"

Hal held up the glass vial she had given him, handling it with the 
care such a rare piece of craftsmanship deserved, showing the clear 
fluid inside to Morgana. Then he wrapped the vial up again inside a 
piece of sheepskin and stowed it away in the drawbag slung around his neck.

"Your dragon had best depart now. Has she enough sense to return here 
when the evening shadows are long, if you so bid her?"

"She is no dog, to be needs taught tricks," Hal answered sullenly. 
"She lives and thinks as do you or I. Speaking to her with my hands 
is as easy as speaking to anybody else with my tongue."

He passed on Morgana's instructions to Josephine, to be answered with 
green and yellow patches of understanding, mixed with purple patches 
showing indignation and unhappiness. The dragon was in just as surly 
a mood as the boy at having to take orders from the witch. Hal nodded 
in agreement, then shrugged his shoulders. Josephine took one final 
baleful look at Morgana before she leapt into the air as spritely as 
a frog off a lily pad, flapped her wings twice thrice, and then 
wheeled away on their outstretched length.

"Something amiss with your girlfriend, boy?" the witch asked, a sneer 
in her tone. Hal realized that there were some movements in his 
dragon body language which were no secret to any human onlooker.

"Only that she regrets not having burnt your tits off while she had a chance."

Morgana smiled more openly: "Don't be stupid, Master. You can't kill 
witches that way."

"You can't?"

"Of course not. When did you ever hear anybody say the weather was as 
hot as a witch's tits. Ha, ha!"

Hal looked at her slantwise: "Come to think of it, I've never heard 
anybody say that a joke was as good as a witch's jokes. Now I know why."

Morgana's very appealing lips snapped shut as tightly and quickly as 
a sprung bear trap.

"Into the cave, please. As quickly as you like, Ymir is waiting."

"How am I supposed to see where I'm going?"

"Look into the hole and see the shadows being cast inside. Ymir has 
taken the shape of a giant glow worm. All you have to do is to follow him."

"A giant glow worm . . . right. You couldn't just give me a magic 
lantern or something?"

"There is no need, my familiar will see you safe. Now leave, quickly, 
before the women get here."

Hal took a final breath of crisp fresh air and walked boldly into the 
cave. At least he hoped he looked bold: going underground with no 
companion save an oversized worm was an event he hadn't anticipated 
and didn't relish at all. Five heart beats later he leapt out of the 
cave, skipping over the litter of fallen rocks as if the Christian 
Devil himself had been waiting in the gloom to drive a red hot spear 
into his backside.

"Morgana! Inside . . ." He struggled for breath. "Legs! Claws! Fria und Odin!"

"Legs, master?"

"A dozen of them! There's a cockroach as big as a hound in there!"

Morgana shook her head in open despair at her pupil's stupidity: 
"Master, didn't you know that glow worms are really beetles with 
shiny patches on their backs?"

"What?"

"Glow worms are not really worms -- they are not worms." The witch 
seemed to be trying to speak through clenched but perfectly white 
teeth. "Glow worms are beetles. Luminous beetles. So Ymir has taken 
the shape of a beetle; not a worm, nor yet a cockroach, but a beetle. 
A perfectly harmless beetle. Now will you please follow him and stop 
wasting our time?"

Hal swallowed a mouthful of the mountain air as if it were a lump of 
stone and gripped his hands together to stop them trembling.

"Oh, sure, I'd love to. There's nothing I'd rather do than crawl into 
the Devil's Arsehole with a bloody big beetle for company."

"This was all your idea, remember? And if you think to see nothing 
worse than Ymir as an apprentice magician, you have much to learn, young Hal."

The boy struggled to make light if his panic. If the witch could 
joke, then so could he.

"Call me master when you're calling me an idiot."

"Yes, master."

She bit the words off as if  they were rats and she was a terrier 
breaking their backs. Hal had a sudden flash of memory, of the 
streaks of shit on King Agrud's royal rump as he staggered away from 
his castle with smoldering stumps where his hands had been. By Loki's 
drawers, he must be mad to be playing the fool with this woman!

"I'm sorry, Morgana, I was just startled, that's all. Now I know what 
to expect I'll get on with it."

He crept cautiously back into the cavern entrance, back into the 
gloom and towards the glowing patch where a green glow threw a ring 
around the cave's interior, casting strange shadows amongst the 
overhead rocks, the almost circular walls and the sandy floor. Though 
none of the shadows were anywhere near as strange as the humped and 
glowing wing case standing nearly as  high as Hal's knees and 
supported on several pairs of hairy, many jointed  legs. Legs that 
were moving up and down the gigantic beetle's body in a sort of 
ripple effect, as if they were all taking turns to stamp down on the 
sand with impatience.

Hal cleared his throat and spoke: "Uh, sorry, Ymir, you took me by 
surprise. I'm ready now, though."

The words came bouncing back at his ears from different directions, 
somehow louder and much distorted in the humid air. Much more 
disturbingly, tiny red eyes were beginning to appear in the 
surrounding darkness like embers carried out of a bonfire on a strong 
wind. Ymir scuttled forward, Hal said a rude word and had to rush 
forward to keep up with the familiar.

"Slower, slower, or I'll fall over on these rocks."

If the beetle slowed, it wasn't by much. Which wasn't surprising. 
Ymir was probably still bearing a grudge for being blown out of the 
sky and into the turd filled moat.

"Hey, Ymir, if I break a leg I won't be able to perform at this 
ceremony the way that Morgana wants me to."

That line of argument seemed more successful. The beetle's pace 
dropped, although the sarcasm evident in the deliberate movement of 
each pair of legs was obvious. Of all the humiliating things that Hal 
thought might happen to him in his life, it had never occurred to him 
that one of them might be having the piss taken out of him by an 
insect. Still, there were worse fates than that around: just ask the 
Gulburton brothers.

Hal only hoped he wouldn't have any such chance. He kept glancing 
over his shoulder, afraid that three skeletons with backpacks of 
rotting wickerwork might be tiptoeing up behind him. But there was 
nothing except the dwindling circle of sunlight at the cave's 
entrance, quickly lost from sight as Ymir came to a junction in the 
passageway and turned left. Now there was only the light cast by the 
beetle on the surrounding walls and a roof which came lower and lower 
as they moved onwards. Underfoot, more and bigger rocks appeared and 
the sand became wetter, oozing out from underneath Hal's sandals.

Another turn, and then another, the cave growing ever smaller, the 
air becoming as hot as the castle kitchen with every spit roasting, 
as damp as rising fog, and smelling of exactly the kind of smell your 
nose would expect to find in a place called the Devil's Arsehole.

"Oh, yes, very romantic," Hal muttered in self scorn under his 
breath. "What a wonderful place this is for a lovers'  rendezvous. I 
chose really well here, didn't I?"

The beetle suddenly stopped, its stag like antenna poking out over 
the edge of a pool of pitch black water. It was as if a puppy had 
pushed its nose into a bed of stinging nettles and didn't know which 
way to turn next. Some measure of pleasure came back to the boy.

"Go on then, you clever little bastard, show me how well a beetle can swim."

Ymir turned left, walked up the wall with a clatter of claws, hung 
upside from the top of the cavern and walked forward again as easily 
as he had done down on the ground.

"Fuck me," Hal said in disgust and waded into the water.

It was like stepping into a slab of polished black marble: at least, 
until the ripples from his movements began to disturb the absolutely 
smooth surface of the pool. He was wet to the top of his thighs when 
he came out the other side. Ymir continued to show his contempt for 
the human's clumsy steps by keeping to the cave's roof as he moved 
on. At least it was easier to see the way with the light above Hal's 
head; what he didn't enjoy was noting how many more of those 
glittering red eyes were lurking in the patches of moss growing on 
either side of the cave. Fria und Odin, there were more spiders here 
than ants in a nest!

If walking along this pathway without a light was what the Gulburton 
brothers had been willing to do to make some quick florins, they 
deserved every penny of whatever they'd earned before fate foreclosed 
on their borrowed luck. Hal wouldn't have come back into this cave a 
second time for a backpack of gold coins, let alone one filled only 
with medicinal mud.

More turns, more pools, two of them, the second up to his waist 
again, another turn . . .  Hodur, god of darkness, he'd never be able 
to find his way out of here on his own now. Then ahead, two or three 
steps further on, there was a pile of boulders, with a trickle of 
water running over the top and down the front of the lowest of them. 
The rocks made a barrier right across the width of the cave and came 
up to Hal's chest. The thing which immediately caught his eye was the 
grove worn into the top of the rock by the gentle runnel of  water -- 
this wasn't the wear of years, this was a mark left by passing centuries.

Ymir passed over the barrier of the rocks, dipping up and down as his 
beetle shape crossed the gap in the roof the boulders must have 
dropped out of, so long ago that perhaps giants had still walked in 
these mountains when the fall had happened.

Then the familiar stopped, illuminating a rough dome shaped section 
of cavern overhead. A myriad of other lights sprang up around the 
glowing wing case, but not spider's eyes, not these. Blue, green, 
yellow, from the size of a fist down to a tiny speckling, all 
different kinds of minerals or precious stones which caught the 
faintest of  light and returned each ray brightly burnished in a 
shiny new color. It was like looking up into a cloudless night sky 
filled with a mass of many hued stars. And it was a beautiful sight.

Hal could have stood and stared with his mouth hanging open a lot 
longer than he did. He would have done so except that the beetle's 
legs began dancing with impatience again.

"All right, all right, I'm coming."

He splashed into the puddle at the bottom of the rocky barrier and 
found several projecting ledges where he could place his hands and 
feet. One step up and Hal was looking out over a circular pool 
trapped between the barrier of fallen rocks and the wall which marked 
the end of the tunnel. Perhaps ten paces across and as dark as the 
other pools he'd crossed, but not as smooth, because there seemed to 
be some kind of disturbance in the middle of this one, where every 
few seconds a bubble or two would emerge and break, sending out a 
hatching of ruffled water. That must be were the spring water came 
up, still hot, for wisps of vapor hung above the pool. And all around 
the water's edges was a ring of mud, as black as the water itself and 
only distinguishable by the lack of tiny ripples which the breaking 
bubbles threw out.

Obviously, the trickle of rising water had been bringing up silt 
since time out of mind, silt which had settled down as the mud 
deposits while the water itself had continually escaped over and 
down  the rocks he was standing on. Hal leaned forward and cautiously 
put the tip of his finger into the mud pressed up against the 
barrier. It was not cold, not hot. He reached out further and dabbed 
just as cautiously at the edge of the pool: the water was warmer, as 
warm as milk straight out of a cow's teats. Overhead, the glowing 
beetle was hanging like a full moon, a moon which was still quivering 
with impatience.

"All right, I'm coming. Watch me!"

Hal undid his jerkin, his shirt, and took them off. Then his sandals 
and breeks. Wrapping all together, he added the drawbag from around 
his neck and used the cord to secure the bundle. Then he carefully 
eased his naked body over the rocks and into the mud. An exploring 
foot found a shallow rocky bottom on which he easily stood, his knees 
about on a level with the top of the mud. Which was fine, though 
taking a step forward set Hal waving his arms to keep his balance.

"Fria!" he grunted, in fear of falling over.

The beetle walked down the wall, stopping just above the mudbank on 
the far side of the pool. It was clear that Ymir was showing the boy 
where he was to wait for the women. A goal easier indicated than 
reached, at least for somebody handicapped by a human body.

Hal struggled to keep steady on his feet as he moved forward. He felt 
happier as he reached the water and the top of the pool rose up above 
his waist to his chest. Now he had something to help him keep 
upright. Which was fine until the water was almost level with his 
shoulders while his legs were still half buried in the mud. It was 
impossible to make progress through such a morass by walking.

Fortunately, he could swim, after a fashion, a few desperate strokes 
with his arms as he dragged his legs free and let them trail behind 
him, until he was across the pool and sprawled out on his stomach on 
the mudbank at the end of the cave. Hal felt like a spawning eel 
trying to crawl along a riverbank past a blocking weir. And even land 
bound eels didn't have the problem of dragging a bundle with them. 
His scraps of clothing were now no more than a tangle of mud 
plastered rags, dirtier even than when he'd worn them whilst emptying 
the castle shit pots.

Grunting with the effort Hal crawled forward on his hands and knees, 
his fingers spread out wide to keep them as much as possible from 
sinking into the mud under his weight. Luckily, the rocky edge at the 
back of the cave was only a pace or two away and he was soon able to 
haul himself onto it, though his arm and leg muscles had to work hard 
to break free of the mud.

In fact a lot of it came with him, stuck to his body, and with no 
clean water within reach to wash it off with. Furthermore, it wasn't 
the kind of mud he was used to, the usual clumpy admixture of water 
and earth. This cave mud had no lumps in it at all, it was as smooth 
and consistent as a bowl of rich man's porridge, only black instead 
of white. And, like the pool water, it smelt of sulphur but not 
strongly enough to be an irritant. Yet, with his bare buttocks trying 
to find somewhere comfortable on the stone ledge, and almost all of 
the rest of his body plastered with the gooey mud, Hal was having 
trouble in believing that this place was at all healthy -- except 
perhaps for a boy who needed a totally secure tupping place.

And even that idea dwindled as rapidly as the overhead light when 
Ymir suddenly spun around and scampered back up the tunnel roof in a 
rustle of legs, leaving the pool and the surrounding walls in the 
dark. Dark!  What was left behind wasn't any kind of normal darkness, 
it was as black as the bottom of  a filled grave, a suffocating 
blackness so complete it filled Hal's eyes, his ears, even his mouth 
as he bellowed out in shock.

"What the fuck! Come back here, Ymir, you little bastard!"

Nothing, no answer, no response, only the memory of a last quenched 
out flicker of light as the beetle shot around a far bend of the 
tunnel like a hunted hare dodging a close running hound.

"Oh shit! Oh, Fria!" Hal wailed.

It had never crossed his mind that Ymir would leave him down here in 
the bottom of the Devil's Arsehole. But within a quarter of the time 
it took for a snowflake to melt in a fire it occurred to him that the 
witch had found an excellent way of ridding herself of an unwanted 
Master. And he'd been the fool who had made it so easy for her. A 
mouse who had walked up to a cat and bitten its nose would have been 
smarter than Hal had been.

"Oh, fuck!"

Oh, fuck indeed.

Here was a tale indeed to take to the halls of the dead. Hal imagined 
himself standing on a high stage, looking out over an audience of 
faces extending to the very edge of infinity, the face of every 
person who had ever lived and died, and having to explain to them the 
details of his own demise.

'Well, there was this witch who had to do everything I told her to. 
And she wanted me to fuck a whole lot of the best looking women in a 
castle to cast some spells, and we were going to do it inside a 
magician's tower where their menfolk wouldn't dare enter. But I had a 
better plan, and it worked out so well I ended up dying of starvation 
in the bottom of a cave without even being able to see a single ray 
of light, let alone a woman.'

Odin himself would fall off his throne laughing at such a tale -- 
nobody had ever been such an idiot before, not even Hagar the 
Hungless, who'd drunk so much ale one night he'd gone to sleep in the 
pig pen and woke up at daybreak to find himself lying in a pool of 
bloody ice. Aye, and with his cock at the other end of the pen being 
chewed between the teeth of his biggest sow. But on a measure of 
stupidity Hagar's mishap didn't even weigh in as a grain of wheat 
compared to the orders that Hal had given Morgana. From now on, 
whenever the name of  Merlin was mentioned amongst wizards and 
warlocks they would all piss themselves laughing at the memory of the 
stupidest apprentice ever to don a magician's gown. There was no way, 
no way at all that things could be worse than they were.

And just as he thought so, Hal's cock hardened, stiffened and reared 
up like a knight's lance being raised aloft at a joust.

"Fria, please, no. Not that, not now."

Hal's fingers tore open the top of his bag and felt inside. They 
found the vial, but not the cork which should have been stoppering 
the end of it. Somehow it had come loose as he'd been fighting his 
way across the pool and all the dragon sweat had leaked out. Leaked 
out into the sheepskin wrapping, through the sheepskin and the bag 
and into the pool. Where his body had touched it as he'd floundered 
through the water. Which was why he was now entering a state of 
raging arousal with no means of satisfying it except the one means at 
hand --  his own hand. A relief he would have to use over and over 
again every time he attempted to cross the pool.

So now he couldn't even die peacefully of starvation. He couldn't 
even talk in the afterlife of being tricked into death by a witch. 
No, what Hal was going to have to confess to the assembled multitudes 
in eternity that he was the first male ever to masturbate himself off 
the mortal coil. The first case ever of a boy who beat himself to 
death with his own club. He, Duke Merlin, Hal O'The Shitbuckets, was 
going to be entered into Heaven's Roll as the biggest wanker of all 
time. In a Valhalla full of heroes who had fallen on their own 
swords, he was going to be renowned as the numb nut who committed 
suicide by falling on his own prick. Great!

Hal stared into the complete curtain of surrounding blackness, 
sighed, and spoke to himself: "Well, if I do go blind, at least it 
won't matter now."

But what he was really pissed off about was that he hadn't given Mary 
Gorlas a good seeing to when he'd had the chance. Oh Odin, the sight 
of her huge tits falling out of her torn dress and the feel of them 
in his hands. If only he'd known he was going to die next day he'd 
have had her there and then. . . Hal's fingers worked against his 
tightly drawn shaft as he dreamed about what might have been. If only 
he could be there in the hall again, he'd sit down on the King's own 
high chair with Mary impaled on his lap, shaking her fat bum at all 
the assembled aristocrats and her gigantic teats bouncing in his face . . .

Or if he'd known how to work that levitation spell properly, like 
Morgana could, he'd have arranged Mary floating at waist height, face 
down and  hanging onto the edge of the table as he took her from 
behind with her udders swinging around underneath every which way . . 
. Oh Gods! What a chance he'd missed!

Somewhere in the back of Hal's mind a voice spoke, small but clear. 
Hadn't Morgana said something about him being responsible for lifting 
Mary off the floor? That somehow he'd been able to expand and use the 
levitation spell that Morgana had created? And hadn't she insisted 
that he had the makings of being a great magician -- could there be 
any truth at all in that? Or had she just been totally bullshitting him?

And what about all her words about sex and magic being connected? 
Certainly, he was in no position to do any fucking right now but if 
just thinking about sex was any help the dragon sweat certainly had 
him in the right frame of mind. Was there any chance of maybe using 
magic to help himself in this situation. And, if there was, what did he want?

That was easy, what he really wanted a female to fuck. But creating a 
girl out of thin air was probably not the sort of thing he should try 
for his first attempt at magic. Even if he could do it, you wouldn't 
want to stick your cock into the first result, not in the dark 
without any idea of what you'd actually made. Even Hagar the 
Hungless's sow might be a sexy good looker in comparison.

No, light of some kind. That was what he most needed, here and now. 
Wasn't what that one of the things the Christian monks used to read 
from their book? Yes, that was it, that was one of their sayings, 
'let there be light'. And their god was called Jesus Christ, so maybe 
Hal should pray to him as he tried to make light.

But how to do that? Especially as he couldn't stop wanking himself 
off and his mind was full of pictures of a gasping, shrieking Mary Gorlas.

All right, he was tupping Mary, and she was on her back on the dining 
hall in the great hall and a brilliantly strong light was shining 
down into the hall -- the roof had disappeared, a summer sun was 
directly overhead, not a cloud in the sky, the sun was getting 
bigger, getting closer, the rays were pouring down, filling the room 
with a light that was so bright, brighter than anybody had ever seen, 
as bright as the rainbow bridge that led to the home of the Gods . . .

There was a kind of a popping noise and a big fat spark shot out from 
the slit of Hal's straining prick, hit the tunnel roof, bounced off 
it, hit the cavern wall, shot away like a falling star, hit the 
opposite wall, flew off again at a crazy angle, slammed down into the 
pool and disappeared in a puff of steam.

"Jesus Christ!" Hal gasped. The shock had been so complete that for 
that second he'd even forgotten about Mary Gorlas's body.

He realized immediately that it was a turning point in his life. For 
the first time ever, Hal had totally impressed himself by his own 
abilities. After all, there he was, only an ordinary shit pot 
cleaner, and it turned out that all the time he'd had some kind of a 
raging thunderstorm swinging around between his legs.

What about those nights at the tavern when Karl the Head House Carl 
had filled himself up with ale and proved it by bending over in front 
of a candle and letting loose a fart which burst into a jet of flame? 
Hadn't he impressed the shit out of everybody? By Odin, the next time 
he tried it Hal would laugh, pull out his cock and jerk off a shower 
of sparks to go flying around the taproom. That would leave high and 
mighty Karl with his breeks and his jaw hanging down. Hal might only 
be a poor surf but what was being poor when you had more lightning in 
your donger than Thor had in his hammer? If that wasn't a trick that 
got you invited to parties, what would? And wait until he showed 
Josephine, she'd go white and orange spots with laughing at a human 
coming it the flame throwing dragon!

But, impressive as it was, a single spark wasn't going to get him out 
of the Devil's Arsehole. He needed something different. So what by 
Fria's skirts could he do now to create a sustained light. Think of a 
girl, think of fucking her, think of light. But maybe a different 
girl -- or girls. Maybe two cunts were better than one . . . the 
riding net, with Chelinde and Caelia.

Which one had he had first -- Caelia, that was right, jammed in 
between him and the dragon's belly, with Chelinde scratching his 
balls as he rammed her sister. Oh, Fria, it had been so good, as good 
as being a god himself. The sky, the sun, the suns, all around the 
dragon, all beaming so brightly as he fucked Caelia, all lighting up 
every strand of her hair, every freckle, reflecting back from her eyes. . .

A pearl of glittering light popped out of his cock this time, an tiny 
incandescent pearl which floated upwards as lightly and erratically 
as a butterfly. But as small as it was, it lit up the mud ring and 
the nearer part of the pool water. Overhead, the blackness became 
speckled again from the minerals reflecting in the rising light.

"That must be what they call ball lightning," Hal giggled, as near 
his wit's ends as any village idiot. And then the drifting bead of 
light winked out like a closing eye.

"Oh, shit!"

This was no good. He needed something which would glow like a candle 
long enough to crawl out of this stinking cave -- and if ever he did, 
he'd be into Josephine's riding nets and away over the mountains 
quicker than a fiddler's elbow playing at a wedding. But not until 
he'd fucked Dairy Mary Gorlas first. Hal seized his cock even more 
firmly and then found himself distracted even from the pressing need 
for self release by something impossible. For he could hear voices 
singing -- female voices!

By the Gods, the Valkyries themselves were coming to bear him up to 
Valhalla and singing a chorus of heavenly music as they arrived.

"We dig dig dig dig dig dig dig in a cave the whole day through
To dig dig dig dig dig dig dig is what we like to do."

Huh! This was the sort of song the Gods sang?

No, of course not. There was one dominating voice pitched pure and 
clear above the others and Hal  was certain it was Morgana's. She was 
leading the women into the cave and encouraging them to sing to keep 
up their spirits. But where she'd learnt the song, the Gods alone 
knew -- certainly Hal had never heard anything like it sung in these 
parts. But it had a nice tune to it. And Hal had spent enough time 
working around high born females' apartments to know that many of 
them, surprisingly, had a rather wry sense of humor. Probably a 
necessary survival trait because even the worst of the aristocratic 
dames and damsels didn't seem to deserve the sort of so called 
noblemen they had to live with.

Whatever, the approaching voices were singing along with Morgana as 
lustily as the crowd following the ale cart back from the fields on 
the last day of harvest gathering.

"It ain't no trick
To get mud quick
If you dig dig dig
With a shovel or a pick
In a cave (In a cave)
In a cave (In a cave)
Where we'll get what we crave."

Light was suddenly flooding the far bend of the cave and figures came 
around it. Female figures, each carrying a yoke pole with wooden 
buckets hanging from them. Each pole was also carrying something else 
as well, halfway between each bucket rope and the shoulder yoke, and 
that something was a glass lantern with a burning candle inside it. 
For fuck's sake, all the effort he'd put into getting Morgana to give 
him some magical means of lighting the cave and he'd never even 
thought to just ask for a couple of top quality lanterns.

And what would Morgana do to him when she discovered he'd already 
spilt the entire vial of dragon sweat? Even Hal's raging lust 
couldn't entirely douse his fear about the answer to that question. 
Morgana was likely to leave him underground and bound like Loki the 
fallen god, with serpent's poison dripping into his face forever more.

And then Hal forget everything else as he saw how clear was each 
curved silhouette between each pair of lanterns -- silhouettes with 
nothing on to protect their naked charms from his gloating eyes. By 
the Gods, the witch must have warned the gentlewomen against spoiling 
their fine clothes in the mud and told them to them to strip off at 
the cave entrance. And they'd done it!

"Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho
It's off to work we go."

Overhead, the colored stones above the pool began glittering again in 
the approaching lights. There were so many women, so many lanterns, 
the cave was filling up with light. And there, leading them, as 
completely naked as her companions, was Morgana. But as desirable as 
her body usually was, there was something disconcerting about it this 
time. Perhaps because of the tiny bubble of pure light which hung 
above her head and stayed in that position, moving as she did. Even 
in his dragon sweat induced passion Hal wondered if the witch had 
created the light in any way akin to his own unexpected experiments.

"We dig up mudpies
By the score
A thousand shovel fulls,
Sometimes more
We don't know what we dig them for
We dig dig  . . ."

The voices trailed as Morgana stopped leading the song. The witch had 
halted at the barrier of rock holding back the pool.

"Take the buckets off the yokes, ladies. Just reach out and take the 
handles in your hands. And don't hesitate, no matter what happens around you."

The woman standing behind Morgana was a sulky faced young wife called 
Sirit Plunketburg. Her dark hair was piled high on top of her head 
and hung down her back like a horse's tail, her tits were as perky 
and pointed as brass candle snuffers, the black bush between her legs 
matched her hair coloring and every hair was damp curled from the 
pools she'd already waded through. But the most arousing thing about 
Mistress Plunketburg was the way she screeched in alarm as she lifted 
the buckets off her yoke and the ropes which had been supporting them 
wrapped themselves around her wrists. Around and around, in a tangled 
mass, as if each rope was trying to strangle itself , the buckets 
falling discarded to the cave floor, then lying there. And when the 
bucket ropes finally finished moving as well, both of Sirit's wrists 
were securely tied up against the ends of the yoke pole still resting 
on her shoulders.

In which matter, she had been served out exactly as all her 
companions had been. The whole row of them were now lashed to their 
shoulder poles -- in fact, they were all yoked like oxen to their yokes.

"Grrrr . . . " Hal's eyes were bulging almost as much as his cock at 
the sight and sound of the women calling out for explanations. 
Morgana's response was a snarl of anger.

"Be quiet, you bitches. You'll find out what's happening bye and bye."

She pointed to Plunketburg. "Step forward to these rocks, climb up 
them and into the pool. Don't worry about your weight, just grab the 
ends of your yoke and it will help lift you up."

By all the Gods, but the witch was right. Indeed, it was much as Hal 
had already seen before, when Morgana had used her broken broomstick 
to keep from drowning in the moat. Now the pole across Sirit's 
shoulders seemed possessed of the same uplifting power, for as she 
held onto the wooden ends the woman seemed able to step up over the 
pile of rocks as if they scarcely more obstacle than a stairway.

Hal noted with great joy that the sneering expression on the young 
wife's face had turned to one of astonishment and fear. But not as 
astonished and afraid as she was going to be within seconds. And she 
had no idea of all how much pleasure a certain hidden watcher gained 
from watching Sirit being forced down by Morgana's remorseless hands 
pressing on the wife's shoulder pole, which suddenly seemed to have 
become as heavy as lead instead of lighter than air.

"Bend forward, your face in the mud and your knees on either side of 
the stream."

Mistress Plunketburg had no choice but to comply. She sprawled 
forward, one cheek resting on the mire as she struggled to keep her 
nose and mouth clear, the thin trickle of water which ran over the 
rocky barrier directly beneath her body, her knees deep in the mud on 
either side of the tiny stream.

Hal's lungs felt as if they'd stopped breathing and would never start 
again as Morgana also knelt down, onto one knee, directly behind 
Sirit Plunketburg. The witch dabbled her fingers in the clear water 
of the stream. Then lifted them up into the light of the lanterns 
still burning on the yoke.

"By the power invested in me by the Great Ones, I Morgana le Faye, 
declare you a sister in this coven assembled under the auspices of 
Actaeon, the horned one."

Morgana's damp fingers were up between Sirit's opened thighs, 
stroking the lips of the noble born  female's sex as she cast her 
spell. There was a faint spurt of mud from underneath Mistress 
Plunketburg's fallen tresses as the woman made an involuntary shout 
out of her half buried mouth.

"Until this coven dissolves, your duty as a sister is to think only 
of men, of being pleasured by them and of pleasuring them in any way 
they desire. You will think of nothing else, you will care for 
nothing else. Walk into the pool and wait."

Hal felt like screeching himself as he fought like a demon to take 
his hand off his cock until there should be female flesh ready to 
appease it. But never in his life had he needed to struggle so hard, 
especially when Sirit was more or less lifted up by her yoke pole and 
then waded out into the water until she was up to her waist in it, 
her eyes shining wide in the lamps hanging from the pole she was 
carrying. Whether by the power of Morgana's incantations or by that 
of the dragon sweat spilt in the pool, some kind of a strong mood had 
certainly been aroused in Sirit's breast. In fact, in both her 
breasts, if the state of her nipples were anything to judge by.

Probably it was fear of Morgana's likely reaction to anything which 
would spoil the ceremony which enabled Hal to take his fingers away 
from his shaft. Fear, and the fact that his body was no longer wet 
from the pool water. And, perhaps above all, that he had to sense to 
close his eyes as the rest of the women were each dealt with in the 
same way by Morgana, as briskly and impersonally as a shepherd dosing 
a flock of sheep. Time after time it happened, usually accompanied by 
feminine cries of outrage, and Hal knew he could not have watched 
even one more woman being inducted into the coven without sending a 
jet of spunk shooting through the damp air.

Instead, he tried to find something else to think about and lit on 
the inspired choice of the question of who was going to have to empty 
out the castle shit pots now that the previous pot emptier had been 
elevated to the rank of a resident magician. And since he was that 
magician Hal could select anybody he liked to haul the turd 
receptacles around, even one of the high class sons and squires who 
had made his own life such a misery when he was the resident shit 
boy. The only problem was in deciding which of the young arseholes 
most merited the humiliation, and it was such an almost impossible 
yet pleasing puzzle to solve that it nearly took Hal's mind off the 
squeals and cries coming from the other side of the pool.

But no mortal male could hope to avert his eyes from such scenes for 
long. And when Hal looked again the array of lanterns stretched 
across the far side of the pool revealed a scene stranger than his 
eyes could readily accept. A mass of naked women, standing waist deep 
in the black depths of the pool, all with their bodies streaked with 
mud and with their mouths hanging open as they bellowed like cows 
with full udders waiting to be milked: an idea compounded by the 
sight of a rank, no by the Gods, two ranks of quivering tits. Small 
ones, pointy ones, just right for a handful ones, tits that hung down 
like overfilled saddlebags, tits high borne and perky, big tits and a 
pair of monster sized tits with Mary Gorlas standing behind them.

And just like the other women, her eyes were wide open, and she was 
wailing in despair, tugging in vain at the ropes at her wrist. 
Actions which were perfectly understandable to Hal, knowing what mind 
tearing frustration the females must be suffering because they 
couldn't use their fingers to relieve the all enveloping lust whipped 
up by the dragon sweat in the pool. If the witch's intention was to 
raise as much excitement and frustrated desire in the coven as 
possible, she was certainly going the right way about it.

Come to think of it, where was Morgana? And, as an aside, since the 
only light inside the cave was coming from the lamps the women had 
brought in, where was Ymir? There was no sign of the shining beetle 
now, so where . . .

Hal heard a strange chittering sound, echoed by another bouncing off 
the cave walls, as if animals were calling to each other by gnashing 
small sets of teeth. Two otters appeared on top of the fallen rocks, 
both pure white, and both far bigger than any otters Hal had ever 
seen before. They slithered down the rocks and across the mud without 
a speck of it marring their pristine furs, then vanished into the 
dark water. There was no doubt at all the creatures were Morgana and 
Ymir in yet other transformations.

For about a second Hal was completely puzzled, before he remembered 
what Ymir had done to Morgana in Josephine's drinking trough. Could 
it be  . . .

Maid Kendra Hundt, seventeen or so, betrothed to a knight from 
Lyonesse, wide open blue eyes, a mass of blonde curls on her head, 
and suddenly shrieking as if the pool water around her body had 
somehow come to the boil. Arms dipping madly from side to side, head 
thrown back, her body shuddering so violently that Kendra's neat 
little plumpers were slapping against each other like applauding hands.

Hal might have been the first to realize what was happening, because 
he'd seen it done before, but the white backs of the otters broke the 
surface often enough for the other women to quickly realize that the 
otters were positioned in front and behind Kendra. And if at first 
they believed the animals were attacking the girl, they soon realized 
from her rising cries of ecstasy that she was being tongued, not 
bitten. Tongued very expertly in the warm water from both directions. 
Being tongued and lifted to a state of passion Maid Kendra's Lyonesse 
lover had never come with a giant's step of achieving for her.

As the watchers' understanding  of the situation developed a chorus 
of feminine excitement and wails of envy echoed over the pool. Two of 
the oldest, Rowena Aelfgar and Felice Oxhead, stepped back onto the 
mud bank. Hal watched in a state of near disbelief as fat Felice 
dropped on her back and spread her legs wide. Tall, slender Rowena 
knelt down, bent forward from her waist, took her weight on her 
elbows and forearms and crawled awkwardly over the prostrate body of 
Mistress Oxhead. Within seconds Mistress Aelfgar's bottom was 
twitching frantically as Felice licked her cunt and Rowena returned 
the favor between Felice's thick thighs.

"Odin!"

Hal couldn't, just couldn't stop himself from putting his fingers on 
his prick. His fingertips at least. Because as soon as they touched 
the hot flesh sparks flew up and down the entire length from balls to head.

"Bloody hell . . . " His fingers were tingling as if he'd caught a 
hard flung stone in them. "What the fuck?"

On the other side of the pool the otters had emerged to nip at Felice 
and Rowena's toes, biting hard enough to draw blood and to force the 
women to stand up and apart again. Both of them wailed with 
frustration like starving wolves.

Another pearl of light sprang out from the tip of Hal's shaft. Bigger 
and even more brilliant than the first one. But this time it didn't 
rise. It hung over the top of his cock in exactly the same way as the 
light above Morgana's head stayed in the same place. Hal stared at 
his most intimate piece of anatomy in total bewilderment, wondering 
whether he still had any control over it at all. Then he lifted up 
his eyes in response to a squeal which somehow sounded familiar.

Morgana and Ymir were both nuzzled up to Mary Gorlas, behind and in 
front, and both licking her where the sensation was most felt. Mary 
was jumping around as if she was a puppet with a dozen lunatics all 
pulling on her strings at once. As for her outsized udders, it seemed 
impossible that so much flesh could swing around so much without 
something tearing loose. What the girl desperately needed was a pair 
of steadying hands.

It was an idea which had an impact on Hal's mind like poking an 
hedgehog with a stick. His thoughts  seemed to curl up into a tiny 
ball and the brilliant bead hovering above his lap spread out into a 
bright white hollow ring which completely encircled the head of his cock.

"Fur Fria's sake . . ." Hal mumbled, again completely astonished at 
what was happening, let alone what was causing it

The boy was suddenly aware of how the grunting and cries inside the 
smelly interior of the Devil's Arsehole had died away. It was like 
the audience of a mummer's play suddenly becoming lost in a 
dreamworld as the gaudily dressed actors stepped out onto the stage. 
Only this time the audience was all looking at him. Six women and two 
otters. All staring at the straining cock with the halo of shining 
light around it which had suddenly appeared in the dark shadows on 
the other side of the pool. And the first thing Hal noted about this 
audience was that the eyes of the women staring at his prick were 
much beadier and more animal like than those belonging to the otters.

"Huh . . . hello, ladies. Huh . . . this week hasn't turned out at 
all like I expected it too. Have you noticed that as well?"

THE END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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