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Broomfield, CO 80038-0385

Revenge of the Serpent Priestess

Book 2 of the Spellslayer series

Copyright © 2011 V. Greene

Cover art by Coyote Shadow Studio

Edited by Helen Ravell

Copy Edited and Proofread by Michael Barnette

Book layout and Design by Coyote

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S

pellSlayer

2:

r

evenge

of

the

S

erpent

p

rieSteSS

By V. Greene

Spellslayer 2: Revenge

of

the

Serpent Priestess

Page 1

Chapter 1

For Want of a Table

A small man bent over a black bowl of water

in the cheapest room of the Tavern of Good

Cheer, a place more used to serving beer to local

farmers and merchants than housing travelers. A

larger man—much, much larger, and rich with

muscle—watched with a hopeful air. “Find us

rich pickings,” he suggested after a time.

The small man straightened and pushed his

knuckles into the small of his back. “I’ll be lucky

to find us anything at all. I should have wheedled

Theravian’s scrying recipe out of that hedge-

smoker as part of our price. Maybe a potion

would counter my magic’s contrary streak.”

The big man chuckled affectionately. “Or we

can wait around until the magic feels cooperative.

She seems more likely to be than that errand-

devising old hack.”

“True enough. However, she only shows me

what she feels is important, and increasing the

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contents of our belt pouches might not be on the

list.”

“One or two more days, it might start being

important, Gaz,” the big man said. “Even your

pocket-picking skills don’t seem to be breaking

even.”

Gazriel chose to ignore the affectionate

shortening of his name, though he did give his

partner a look over the pocket-picking comment.

“For the same reason, dear Turak, you haven’t

slithered in a decent window or beaten up a

relatively-wealthy highwayman for weeks. If the

town is poor, the pickings are poor.”

“We could rob the duke.”
Gazriel curled his lip. “Let’s save that for a

last resort.” The local duke had an unsavory

reputation, due perhaps in part, perhaps entirely,

to his steep tax rates. The area held mostly farmers

and a scant few artisans, but even fewer sheriffs

or roving wizards. It had been a cozy place for

the two men for as long as they could afford it.

With a sigh, Gazriel leaned over the bowl once

more.

This time he thought he saw a shape. He tried

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to squint it clear without tensing, letting the

faint stir of magic in his skin have her way. A

dark line formed on the shimmering surface of

the fluid, a slitted pupil in an increasingly yellow

eye. And then it blurred, the pupil rounding to

human, the iris shrinking and becoming hazel. A

woman’s eye, and then a woman’s face, grew clear,

staring back at Gazriel with dislike and anger. He

knew this face. Last time he had seen it, Turak

had just killed their god.

“Ianthe,” he said aloud. The vision swooped

back to reveal a circle of women chanting,

holding hands, while Ianthe viewed him in a

bowl much like his own.

His companion touched his shoulder. “What

do you see?”

Gazriel blinked himself free of the scene. “Us

getting traced again. Our serpent-loving priestess

friend is not happy with us.”

“I suppose that counts as important.”
“Turak, my friend, you have a talent for the

understatement.”

Turak shook the small man gently. “I suppose

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that means we have to get un-traced once more?

I wonder who we can annoy in the process.”

“In case the Wizards’ Guild of Thallia and a

temple full of serpent priestesses isn’t enough?

I’m sure we’ll find someone. We do just seem

to rub powerful people the wrong way.” Gazriel

rubbed his jaw, where a beard refused to grow

despite his few gray hairs. “Oh, yes, and the odd

tavernful just for fun as we go.”

Turak chuckled again. “That is rather fun. I’m

a little disappointed it hasn’t happened more

often.”

“You barbarian, you. I could do without that

sort of fun.”

“I could tell you weren’t enjoying it last time.

That savage grin and the barstool you were

wielding like a madman gave it away.” Turak’s

hand still rested on his friend’s shoulder. “Ah

well, I suppose it’s the map and blind luck for our

direction again tomorrow.”

“Perhaps so.” Gazriel stared at the wall for a

moment. “How do you suppose the pickings are

on the way from here to Far Urmia?”

“Probably much the same as the pickings in

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any other direction, but less heavily dressed.

You have a sudden craving to see Far Urmia’s

jungles?”

“Not really.” Gazriel sighed and patted the

hand on his shoulder. “I won’t swear to it, but I

suspect we won’t have a moment’s peace until we

give the priestesses another serpent.”

Turak pulled him close and nuzzled the top

of his head. “I’m willing to test that for a while

rather than go to those jungles. I’ve never been

fond of hot weather, nor of traveling with a

poisonous snake for company for the odd few

hundred leagues.”

“No wonder they’re upset. It’s probably hard

to get a replacement.” Gazriel settled in against

Turak’s chest muscles. “I understand, though, I

think.”

“Do you? It seems to me there must be an

easier way to find a reptile than search out the

two of us.”

“It isn’t just about a replacement. They

wouldn’t need one if it wasn’t for us. Wizards

and priestesses work magic in different ways, and

that’s most of what I know about priestess magic,

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but there are elements in common. They have

rules to follow, including foregoing the company

of men, because while the wizard marries his

female animus, the priestess marries the object of

her worship. We didn’t just kill a snake; we killed

the temple’s husband. See?”

“I see. And I still don’t like it. And I’m still

very glad your magic, erratic and whimsical as

she is, seems to like me.”

“Me, too.” Gazriel turned his head to nuzzle

the globe of shoulder behind him. “I can’t

imagine life without either of you.”

He ran his hand over Turak’s bare and well-

muscled thigh. The bigger man put his lips

to Gazriel’s neck. “Do you think they’re still

watching?” he said, his breath hot, his mouth

almost touching Gazriel’s skin.

Gazriel squeezed one of the cables of flesh.

“Do we care?”

Turak pursed his lips in thought, which

pressed them against the pulse point below

Gazriel’s ear, then gathered the earlobe gently

into his mouth. That seemed like an answer:

No, not really. As always, the gentle caresses

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went straight to Gazriel’s fertile imagination,

reminding him that this teasing flick of tongue

and slither of lips would also be very nice on the

tip of his prick. His fingers explored the peaks

and valleys of leg muscle, tending upward, as he

leaned back against his companion.

A loincloth was a surprisingly tricky thing to

remove, knotted and wound as intricately as an

Aljiphad’s turban. For now, Gazriel didn’t bother.

His slender fingers just fitted at the edge, sliding

under to touch curled fur. He stroked, pressing

inward, finding a jumble of soft hot flesh, folded

cock and its tip, firm fuzzed curve of testicles.

Turak stopped his attentions and rested

his chin atop Gazriel’s head. “Little man,” he

rumbled, “you’re teasing.”

“Yes.”
The barbarian opened his mouth once more,

but this time bit a mouthful of curls and tugged,

not too hard. Gazriel chuckled. Left-handed, he

reached back to undo the crucial knot. He felt

the cloth slither against his own loose robes on

its way to the floor. Turak rewarded him with

licks and nips to the other ear.

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Gazriel edged sideways for a better hold.

Turak bunched the robes in his vast grip, then

pulled them off. They tugged Gazriel wrists-first

from his work, and then they were out of the

way. Gazriel steadied himself against the table,

making ripples in what was now just a plain bowl

of water.

Turak turned him. They faced each other

now, skin against skin, chest hairs a bristly sort

of softness against Gazriel’s beardless cheek. He

took care of his own smallclothes, letting them

drop around his ankles. They fell from his feet as

Turak lifted him suddenly onto the edge of the

table.

This was puzzling only for a moment. The

table compensated for their differing heights,

and when Gazriel spread his legs the tips of their

pricks touched. He hoped the table could take

his weight. Turak seemed unconcerned by the

strength of the furniture, leaning in to clasp their

cocks together in his hands, tonguing Gazriel’s

ear and neck once more. Gazriel felt at a loss,

both hands free to rove where they would. One

on a handful of muscular back, one on a hard

ridge of buttock—that suited his purposes for

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the moment, and he could bury his nose in the

curve of Turak’s neck.

The table creaked as Turak rubbed their pricks

in the warm cave of his hands. Gazriel could feel

a line of moisture drawn by the next thrust and

shivered, feeling an answering drop urged from

him. The fingers clasping him made swirls of

that wetness and spread it, turning the rough

stickiness of skin against skin into a slippery ease.

The table rocked slightly and crashed back to the

floor. Cool water trickled against his seat, but it

didn’t distract him from the need gathering for

its release.

The abused furniture squeaked and groaned,

two legs banging repeatedly against the plank

floor. The common room’s furniture was

sturdy enough to withstand anything short of a

brawling wizard, but that of the bedrooms was

rather flimsy. Gazriel wondered in a distant way

if it might collapse, thought a brief and thrilling

thought of moving this romp downstairs to

a better table, and clung to Turak for safety.

Seizing the other man’s thighs in his own felt

natural. Anchored on the other’s body, it was

easier to thrust into his hand. The bowl he’d used

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for scrying fell and broke, the splashing clatter

the last sound plainly audible before Turak’s cry

covered such mundane distractions.

Fresh slick wetness on Gazriel’s prick felt

good; the loss of their shared rhythm did not. He

tried to say something, managing only a whine,

and shoved himself upward from the table in

a desperate attempt to satisfy himself. With a

gasp, Turak braced him with one arm, resuming

his brisk strokes with the other. Heat raised a

tempest in Gazriel’s senses. The storm broke.

So did the table, creaking its last and falling

away from his buttocks with a clatter. Turak’s

supporting forearm tightened against Gazriel’s

hams and his firm back muscles hardened.

Gazriel felt the adrenaline of a close escape as a

fine sheen over the rush of good sex. “I think,”

he said, and stopped to catch his breath. “I think

we owe Sara another table. Pity I gave her a gold

for the chair last visit. She’ll expect me to do that

again.”

“I think that means we have to rob the local

duke after all.”

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* * *

And that, Turak reflected, was how they found

themselves scouting the manor house a mile

from town. The guard dog had been easy enough

to manage, a matter of a snared rabbit seasoned

with some poppy extract Gaz always carried.

Something about the apparently unwatched

walls made him edgy, though. The duke had a

dodgy reputation in local gossip, and his people

paid their steep taxes promptly while making

signs against evil.

He checked his tools once more, lockpicks

and grapnel and glass-cutter. All seemed in order.

He counted on his tools in most situations, but

not with the blind faith of many of his barbarian

brothers. Ropes could break, cutters dull, or

grapnels slip from magic-warded railings. He

expected nothing of that last sort here. Dukes

tended not to bother with the Wizards’ Guild

for their eldest sons, and the younger tended

not to come home once they’d been sent for

apprentices—whether they had passed or not.

Gazriel elbowed him lightly in the dark and

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pointed. A shadow passed in front of one of the

few remaining lit windows, and it too went dark.

A different shadow crossed and recrossed in the

gap between two heavy curtains, a pacing lord

up late while the butler quelled unneeded lights.

Fairly solid gossip put the household strongbox

in the drawing room, half the length of the house

from the wakeful party and a floor below. Even

if the strongbox were not there, something of

value (ideally something which could be melted

or taken to valuable bits) surely would be.

The two men flitted through the shadows

on the lawn. Turak had spotted a likely-looking

drainpipe along the corner of the house not far

from the window he desired. As he tested it with

a light push and shake, wary of a noise that never

came, Gazriel sidled along the stone facing of

the building. At each window he edged a hand

up along the join of left and right panel, pushing

lightly. His outline tensed in visible surprise as

one gave. While Turak preferred to stay outside

a building he meant to burgle for as long as

possible, Gazriel much preferred solid floor

beneath his feet. Turak knew he was an excellent

climber; most likely, the preference came from

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the fact that small saleable items were rarely

found tucked into a drainpipe’s brackets.

Turak pointed up to express his choice. The

shadow that was his friend nodded, held up

a finger to indicate

one floor up, and slipped

through the narrow opening, closing the window

behind himself. If nobody had noticed the loose

latch before, nobody was likely to now, though

an open window might create a suspicious and

investigation-worthy draft. Turak wondered

once more just how dodgy his companion’s past

had been, then shelved the thought for later. For

now, he had a bit of climbing to do.

Between the convenience of the drainpipe and

the roughness of the stone walls, it was an easy

climb, and yet again he felt a prickle of wariness

at the sheer simplicity of it all. If the manor was

so pitifully unguarded, how was there still a coin

left within it?

The latch on his chosen window lifted for the

slender blade of his knife. The faint clink as it

fell free made him hesitate a long moment before

trying to swing the panes. The hinges were inside,

making it easy to push the panels inward but

impossible to use a bit of oil against a squeak. He

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supposed it also allowed servant or duke to close

the window without leaning out into the rain.

There was no squeak. Only the faintest

disturbance in the air marked the swinging of

the pane. The silence began to feel oppressive.

Turak studied the deep shadows of the room

for hazards or movement. The carpet was plush,

the furnishings tidy and without foot-snagging

embellishments. The pale shape of a white cat

sleeping on a chair flicked an ear at the subtle

air current from the window. Once his eyes had

adjusted to the dark, Turak slipped in as quietly

as the air itself. The cat slumbered on.

A shadow moved at the door, a fuzzy-headed

outline immediately recognizable as Gaz. Turak

saw him reach reflexively for a knife, then relax.

Both of them had made it in without incident,

then, which somehow only made the whole

enterprise feel more wrong.

The strongbox had to be inset in the wall

behind the lone painting in the room. Turak

removed the ancestor gingerly, wondering to

himself whether the pale craggy man had been

painted before or after death, then let his friend

probe for magical traps. Such things were rare,

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but not unheard-of. Gazriel spread his fingers

and drew them through the air before the door

of the box, sensing heaven-knew-what. Then

he turned to Turak and shrugged, a gesture

suggesting that whatever magic he currently had

at his command had found nothing.

That didn’t mean there was nothing to find,

only that Gazriel’s magic hadn’t concluded that

there was any threat to her associate. Turak

wished his companion could have kept ordinary

and reliable wizard powers while breaking the

vow of celibacy, at least at moments like these.

The brown hairs of his arms stirred and rose,

making him all the more aware of the faint air

currents in the room. He would have expected

stillness, not these weak stirrings as though each

window was open just a bit.

He put his ear close to the strongbox and

began to fiddle with his picks. At first it seemed a

normal lock, and not a difficult one, but the last

tumbler felt glutinous, a peculiar nonmetallic

give to its workings. The hairs on his arms and

back stirred in more mysterious drafts. Locks

were not supposed to make him squeamish.

The heavy door swung open on well-oiled

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hinges. Inside there were neat stacks and rolls of

coins, mostly copper and silver. This was to the

good; where gold was a rarity, gold was easily

followed. A pouchful of silver and copper coins

could have come from anywhere. Gazriel began

to stash several rolls of each in his plentiful and

well-muffled pockets. He seemed jaunty and

undisturbed by any eerie airs. Turak turned his

back on the process, watching the room.

The cat woke abruptly and fled with its tail

thick as a Goldeboran sausage, its white fur

murky in the growing dark. Flat black shadows

flowed and rippled on the floor. One, then

another, rose round and heavy and spiraled

toward the two men. Turak drew the greatsword

at his back, hoping Spellslayer was able to cut

such unnatural foes.

At the soft sound of the sword, Gazriel shifted

audibly. “I hate necromancers,” he breathed.

“Feeling at all magical?” Turak murmured

back.

A soft snort could have meant anything. Turak

stabbed the tip of his sword into the nearest of

the advancing shadows. The black tendril split

and frayed with a thin scream, ruining their

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near-perfect stealth. The other shades gathered

strength and mass as the first ebbed away,

slithering forward with more energy. Turak

made a hasty judgment. He could defeat this

monster if he moved very fast indeed, but a

moment’s stumble would let it grow strong and

swift enough to engulf them both.

He didn’t want to discover what would

happen if it did.

He struck for the thickest tentacle again and

again. Each fell into shreds with its eerie howl

floating almost tangibly through its wreckage.

Sweat dewed his thick arms, chilling at the

roots of hairs that stood up at the threat of this

unholy foe. He let no slithering thing pass him,

unsure what his companion might do to protect

himself. And then his own shadow threw itself

boldly across the room as a strong red light burst

into being behind him. The tendrils froze as

though stuck through with pins, worms nailed

to the floor, and their shriek must have awakened

everyone in the house.

“Quickly!” hissed Gazriel behind him. “They

can’t move in this much light.”

Turak sliced a few more to clear a path,

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reluctant to touch even immobile shadow-

worms. He felt a hurried exit was called for; silver

and copper weren’t worth killing for, though

necromancy might be, and they certainly weren’t

worth dying for. As Gazriel advanced behind

him, the foul shades slid from the light rigidly as

paper cutouts. Though it was risky, Turak chose

to depart by Gazriel’s earlier path, unsure either

of them could make the awkward escape by

window without being seized by their peculiar

foe.

Turak’s foot brushed against the soft limp form

of the cat just beyond the door of the drawing

room, the poor beast caught in its master’s trap.

Despite the screams of the shades, nothing

moved or stirred in the house as the two men

edged watchfully to the lower floor, the servants

no doubt quaking in their beds. The black threat

pressed and gathered, hovering just out of reach

of sword, inflexible in the light, not dispersing.

As they passed through the first floor, leaving

the broad stairway behind, Turak felt a growing

sense of some dire menace behind them. Gazriel

had said nothing, maintaining his lurid torch

to keep them clear of the terrible shadows and

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moving with his back almost against the big

barbarian’s. At the window, there was a short

and silent debate about whether the shadow-

shredding sword or the shadow-pinning light

should guard the rear. To Turak’s distaste, he

found himself on the grass first, covering his

friend’s retreat and watching in all directions for

new enemies.

Gazriel backed out the window beside him

under the clean light of the moon. It seemed

brilliant as day by comparison with the tangible

and aware darkness within the mansion. “Run,”

the small man muttered, adding a push to get the

message across and pushing the pane into place

behind himself.

They did, reaching the shelter of the

welcoming shade of healthy trees. Turak looked

back at the inky mirrors of the house windows,

picking out the one they’d left by the faint slant

of its reflection. “Is there something...?”

“Probably. It—the duke, I suppose—was

watching us from the stairway as we went across

the ballroom. He seemed to find us amusing. He

has fangs. Let’s settle up at the inn, since that was

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the whole point of this mad mission, and get on

the road as soon as possible.”

Turak shrugged against the prickling feeling

beneath the sword-sheath across his back and

kept Spellslayer naked in his hands. “All right.”

The walk seemed much longer on the return

trip, Turak checking behind them every few steps

for a following shadow or other threat. Gazriel

seemed to look up as often as back, eventually

drawing Turak’s gaze to the heavens as well. He

saw only wind-tossed leaves in the night and

high wisps of clouds limned in the moonlight.

Still he could not shake the feeling of something

watching, something following, something far

more immediate and dangerous than a distant

serpent priestess.

The inn lay at the near edge of town, but

Gazriel kept walking. Turak glanced up once

more, wondering what his companion knew

that he only sensed, trusting that if words were

necessary they would have been spoken. A

modest home nearer the central markets had

a large rowan tree standing before it, and here

Gazriel turned up the walk as though it were

their destination.

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What seemed an icy whirlwind of leaves

stormed down. Turak raised Spellslayer

reflexively, tangling the sword on a leathery

cloak which sliced to ribbons on the keen edge.

Above the edge of the cloak rode a face more or

less human, more or less that of the portrait, pale

and sneering with keen-edged fangs. Though the

moon was behind the thing, its eyes gleamed

with a pallid blue fire. Turak heard a cracking

sound, and then was engulfed in the fleshy

mass of tattered wings. He chopped downward

inelegantly, gashing the creature’s shoulder as

that shoulder developed its shape from blowing

edges. The gaping mouth only laughed, striking

at him as he tried to dodge. He managed to

thrust the creature from him enough to score on

it once more with his sword.

And then it howled. Incongruously, a broken

end of a branch stood out from its chest. The

creature lashed and fought, but could not

free itself faster than Turak could swing for its

straining neck. The spine resisted his stroke,

but Spellslayer’s steel was true and her edge was

keen. The head rolled on the beaten earth of the

walkway. The body lashed about in a final spasm

and took fully human form.

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Gazriel released the rowan branch, letting the

limp remains of their foe slump to the ground.

“So much for the duke.”

Turak shuddered, badly wanting a bath. “I

didn’t know necromancers could do that.”

“They can’t.” The wizard poked at the carcass

with his toe. “This was a puppet, an undead

creature set to the task of being His Lordship

while his younger brother, most likely, stayed in

the shadows and enjoyed the benefits. I expect

his was the shadow I took for a butler when we

first looked the place over.”

The duke’s body aged and withered before

them. “And will he follow?”

“I doubt it—but let’s not assume so. I think

we should still settle our accounts and camp as

far from here as possible, perhaps tomorrow in

full daylight, definitely on the other side of some

strong running water.”

Turak rolled his shoulders, considering. The

creature had left no blood behind on his blade,

but he wiped Spellslayer to a fresh gleam all the

same before sheathing the sword. “I also think

we should settle accounts.

All of them. I dislike

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leaving another enemy behind. We have plenty

of them already.”

Gazriel’s expression was hard to see in the

dark, but could be guessed. “I should have

known you’d say that. Can I at least suggest that

we pay Sara for her table before we charge back

out there? She’s been good to us.”

Turak chuckled, then began to laugh outright.

Gazriel took his arm and pressed him gently

but firmly down the walk, away from the bones

crumbling on the breeze and the family no doubt

attempting to sleep in peace on the other side

of the door. “Quite the start for an adventure,

though, wasn’t it?”

Gazriel gave him a snort and let him find his

own way down the dry mud of the main street.

“There’s some sort of moral lesson entangled in

that, I’m certain.”

Paying Sara took almost no time at all. She

already knew what they were paying her for,

which saved a good deal of explaining within

earshot of her regular clientele, which probably

saved a brawl. If Turak hadn’t felt some need

to hurry, he would have regretted that, and he

suspected Gazriel was also wondering whether

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a roomful of suspicious half-drunk louts might

not be more fun and less risk than a recently-

robbed necromancer.

Back on the street, Turak began a gentle jog

toward the manor house. Gazriel grumbled but

kept pace. “I thought we should try to get back

before he can be certain his creature is dead,”

Turak commented softly, meaning it as both

explanation and apology.

“Smart. Annoying, but smart.”
“If you think we shouldn’t do this...”
“No, I think you’re probably right. That doesn’t

mean I have to like it. You’re the adventuresome

one, remember?”

Turak bit back another laugh, keeping his

breath even for trotting. Despite Gazriel’s

protests, the smaller man seemed to thrive on

adventures and to land the twosome in a fair few

of them. Stealing the golden weathervane atop a

town hall two months and a national border ago

had been entirely his idea and largely his doing.

“Strategy?” Gazriel whispered.

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It wasn’t a bad question. “Any idea where he

would be hiding?”

“Do you think he was pacing, or putting out

the lights?”

“Or neither, which doesn’t help? I think I’ll

bet on pacing. The other seems too menial.

However, we may get a better idea when we get

there. This time, though, I think maybe you’d

better come up the drainpipe with me.”

Gazriel grumbled a bit under his breath.

Turak kept his expression carefully bland while

secretly enjoying the other’s reaction. They had

worked together on climbing skills, each having

a few tricks the other hadn’t learned in his own

childhood or training, the little thief out of

practice from years of respectable wizardry.

He’d seemed to like Turak’s reward system well

enough. The lascivious payoff for climbing higher

than his mentor had also taught him a secure

grip under distraction. Going up the drainpipe

wasn’t beyond him, though his own assessment

might differ, and surely he had already pocketed

anything worth pocketing on the other route.

Turak hoped for a leisurely exit by way of the

front door when their task was done.

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They crept through the cover of the trees for

the last furlong, watching the road and the air

as much as their footing. Turak felt the spine-

prickles of lurking Undead, or perhaps only

those of suspicion. His quick ears heard too

much sound as they approached what they’d

hoped would be a sleeping house. Barely visible

through the last branches, a lantern bobbed

across the grounds to someone’s rapid step.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Gazriel

breathed.

“What’s he preparing?” Turak whispered

back.

“No idea.”
And then Turak heard a familiar sound—the

blowing snort of a horse surprised to be taken

out at such a time of night. Hooves pranced

irregularly in the distance. Without pause to tell

his partner his suspicion, the barbarian charged

the road as the dust-muffled steps of the horse

grew canter-quick and louder. Spellslayer sliced

through a branch as he drew the sword, slowing

him hardly at all.

It was enough. He burst into the moonlit

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road just in time to see a frightened pale face,

wispy silver hair, and a commotion of reins and

saddle. The horse lurched sideways in midstride

at his sudden appearance, and the swift crack of

a riding crop sent it hurtling forward at a gallop.

The pale face was visible once more in profile,

glancing back fearfully over the animal’s high

rump, and then the old man disappeared into

the night.

Gazriel caught up, cursing the brambles, the

night, and necromancers impartially. Turak

reflected that such language was probably

frowned upon in a wizard’s apprenticeship, and

that it had been suitably imprisoned in an oaken

cask to bring on extra pungency with age. “Just a

frightened old man,” he said.

Gazriel cocked his head. The hoofbeats

dwindled and faded to nothing, still at a gallop.

“You don’t get to be an old necromancer by

hanging around waiting for every sword that

comes your way.”

“You really think that was him?”
“I’d bet on it. If he had servants, he wouldn’t tell

them anything of his business and they wouldn’t

be told to flee. I may have guessed wrong about

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the younger brother thing, or partly—he could

have been the uncle or great-uncle of the lord

lately collecting the taxes. Whatever the relation,

they probably had a spat at some point, so he

made the lord more... compliant. Is he worth

chasing?”

“At that speed? Probably not. Are

necromancers immune to heart troubles?”

“You mean we probably just caused some?

Not that I’ve heard, but I’ve never made a study

of necromancers.”

“Maybe you should. We keep running across

the dratted things.”

“Or not. I seem to end up living my research.”
His tone was bland. Turak looked down to

see a faint smirk in the moonlight, and didn’t

his partner have a talent for making sure of the

lighting? “You know how to make a man feel like

a bug pinned to a board, my friend.”

Gaz gave a self-chiding tongue click. “I

suppose I should make that up to you.”

Something about adventures seemed to have

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that effect. “You’re carrying the money; can we

afford another table?”

Gaz turned away, probably to hide a smile

with a shadow. “I can think of better uses of

money and abuses of furniture.”

Turak forced himself to be practical for a

little longer. “And tomorrow—tomorrow, I

suppose, we move on. I don’t like being spotted

by our priestess friends, speaking of enemies left

behind.”

“Me neither—hst! What was that?”
Turak let his awareness drift into his hearing,

listening to the soft sounds of a wood putting

itself back in order after a disruption. Something

four-footed, not terribly large, was blundering

near them, sounding unlike any wild animal he

could think of. There was something familiar in

the rustling headlong movements all the same.

“Sounds like we’re being trailed by a small and

exceptionally clumsy hound,” he whispered, then

wished he hadn’t.

He disliked having impossible things

happen around him. He particularly disliked

necromancers. He outright hated the thought

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of those who were lost and dead being brought

back to torment those who loved them—and for

some reason he was exceptionally offended to see

the puppy he and Gazriel had traveled with for a

short time shamble from the woods with a wag.

Under other circumstances, he would have been

glad to see a long-lost beast, but the pup had

died in a moment of uncharacteristic usefulness

months before, died and been buried. He’d dug

the hole himself.

Gazriel swore beside him. That helped,

somehow, knowing that both of them saw it.

Knowing his magic-studying friend also saw

something wrong.

“What should we do?” Turak whispered. The

puppy obligingly turned to him, bending its body

in the heartiness of its greeting, then vanished.

Gazriel bit his lip for several seconds before

answering. Though he’d denied it stoutly, he’d

been fond of the little cur too. “Natural ghosts

are rare, and animal ghosts rarer. If that was a

parting shot from the necromancer who just

fled, he thought he had more focus than he did,

and lost control after a moment. Otherwise,

the sending was from quite a long way away, by

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someone with far too much power for our good

and far too much knowledge of our affairs.”

“Wizards’ Guild?” Turak asked, hoping for an

agreement. Though it wasn’t a good possibility,

all others were worse.

Gaz shook his head. “Wizard magic isn’t

terribly useful for illusions of the dead. It’s too

heavily dependent on life energies, unless the

practitioner has strayed. The wizard would have

to be nearby, in which case he’d have been back

at the inn, comfortable, knowing we’d be there

sooner or later. Haring around in the dark when

we’re not where we’d be expected isn’t their

style.”

“How about temple magics?” Turak asked,

rushing to what he considered the worst plausible

culprits.

Gazriel shook his head, in annoyance instead

of disagreement. “Most likely. The religious

leaders have the power to search the minds of

men, or so I hear, and make images of the dead

walk.”

“Only images?” Turak found that reassuring,

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though he didn’t like having his mind searched

and brought to life.

“What is anything besides images?” Gazriel

countered. “This isn’t my field; I’m largely

guessing how they do what they do. For long

distances, though, illusions are easier, especially

through a scrying glass, for wizards.”

Turak couldn’t help looking up, as though

he could see out through the scrying glass that

looked in on him. Catching himself, he then

couldn’t help making a rude gesture toward

the presumed overhead observer. While he had

nothing in general against women, he thought

he could easily grow weary of the serpent

priestesses.

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Chapter 2

The Haunting Past

Turak stared into the campfire’s flames. He’d

spent a lot of time doing that, he reflected, but

it was a new show every night. This evening, a

thread of blue ran along one branch over and

over. Though its shape was smooth and pleasing,

the color reminded him of the gleam in an

Undead’s eye. He hoped it was no omen of his

future.

A week ago he had seen his younger sister. She

had died of a fever at six years old, just before he

left home for good. When she had appeared at

the campfire, she had still been six years old, her

faded dress dirty and her hair too long as always.

She had vanished when Gazriel flicked a silver

coin to her, thinking her a genuine urchin.

Or perhaps thinking that silver would dispel

her if she were not and please her if she were.

The thief had a quick and subtle mind for such

plans.

Gaz, across from him, seemed absorbed in

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some study of his own. It was good to have a

companion who could also fall into a silence and

feel comfortable there. The night felt stretched,

as though something waited outside the light of

the fire and watched for an opportunity. Turak

found himself listening harder, waiting for the

snap of a twig. The blue flame rippled, but he no

longer focused on it. After a moment, he turned

from it altogether and stared into the darkness.

His eyes adjusted, but there seemed to be nothing

to see. Whatever he wasn’t seeing, Gazriel was

searching for it as well.

“I think the trace is making me jumpy,” Gaz

said after a minute. “You?”

“Maybe.” Turak shook his head. “How much

can a group of priestesses do at this distance?”

Gaz shifted unhappily. “Between where we

started and the jungles, this is about as close as

we ever get to their temple. Maybe that’s why I’m

on edge.”

On some level, Turak had known this as well.

Perhaps his mind only played tricks with this

knowledge. “Still, we’re not on the front porch.”

“Wizards don’t know much about temple

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magics,” Gaz said, amusing Turak. A few months

ago, if the confession would have been made at all,

it would have been

Wizards know little of temple

magics. “I can’t say,” he continued judiciously,

“this is how I would have chosen to study it.”

“It’s probably the only way, which is probably

why wizards have avoided it.”

“I suppose when it comes to self-preservation,

wizards do have a certain amount of sense,” Gaz

said. Turak gave him a smile.

He’d only taken his attention from the

darkness for a moment, but in that moment

someone had joined them. At the edge of the

firelight, a young blond man stood shyly. Turak

caught his breath. Again, the age was exactly

what he remembered; the beautiful boy hadn’t

changed in ten years. “Jilarek.”

It couldn’t be, of course. Jilarek was dead,

gone, and his bloody suicide still haunted Turak’s

dreams. This, too, had to be an illusion. “Turak.

Have you missed me?” said the copy.

His sister’s death couldn’t have been his fault;

her silent visit had not hurt so much. What could

he possibly say? He’d learned to go through his

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day without thinking of small tales to tell Jilarek

that evening, without hoping that they might

touch, and without that shy smile rewarding

him for little deeds. Those were the things he

would have missed if he’d permitted himself. He

no longer practiced the sword wondering if now

he might be able to best his friend, or whether

he deserved to carry that friend’s sword. And yet

saying

no would have been callous and not quite

true. “It’s been a long time.”

Jilarek looked away for a moment. “That’s

what I thought you’d say. Nothing.”

Turak wondered what Gazriel was making

of this. He wondered what he was making of it

himself. This was a test of some sort. He wished

he knew the rules.

“You found someone else and forgot me. I

always expected that.”

“I didn’t forget you.” It came out in a growl

from his rough throat. Turak wasn’t sure whether

he fought anger, tears, or both. “How could I?”

“You left.”
How could a mere illusion know so many

truths? Perhaps this

was more. Perhaps what

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stood there was truly Jilarek, and a ten-year-old

question could at last be asked. “Is that what you

believed?”

In the corner of his vision, Gaz stirred.
“I knew that if you carried my sword, you

would be forced to keep a part of me with you.

Then you could never really forget me, not if I

left you my blade with my blood. Was I wrong?”

He wasn’t. Turak had only learned to live with

the memory, knowing the mystery could never be

solved. He had guessed at reasons for years. Shame

and guilt had seemed reasonable possibilities;

he’d only darkly wondered at jealousy or fear, at

feelings of neglect. Those came too dangerously

close to making Jilarek’s decision Turak’s fault, as

he couldn’t help but suspect it was.

Jilarek took a step closer. “It didn’t work, did

it? You replaced me with other amusements.”

Amusements. The word pricked deeply at

already-wounded feelings. If this acid personality

was what Jilarek had hidden behind his quiet

blushing shell, it had been just as well. Turak

stood to face this devil who took the shape of

what had once been his best friend.

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“

Small amusements at that.” The apparition

twisted its angelic face in a sneer. “I should think

you’d come right out his navel.”

Whatever this was, it wasn’t Jilarek. With

a roar, Turak drew Spellslayer,

his sword, and

sought to banish the enchanted nightmare with

magic-soaked steel. At the same moment a streak

of silver crossed his path, passing through the

middle of the spirit. The form drifted smokelike

as the sword came down, then burst into

fragments. With the laughter of bitter women,

the fragments blew and dissolved.

Turak recovered his unhindered swing. Gaz

padded quietly into the night to find his knife.

The sword’s blade had struck the earth, so Turak

took cloth, oil and whetstone from his pack.

Gazriel returned and resumed his place without

speaking. The blade was undamaged and shaking

hands didn’t go well with a whetstone; Turak

cleaned the steel without sharpening the already-

keen edge.

“Illusion?” Turak asked as he ran the cloth

along Spellslayer one more time.

Gazriel said nothing until Turak met his eyes.

“I hope so. If they can do a Summoning at this

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distance, we’re alive only because they want

something from us.”

Turak nodded. He knew very little of magic,

but he knew an illusion could draw on his

own knowledge while a Summoning brought a

genuine ghost. He’d wanted to be sure that this

Jilarek had not been the real one, made free of

tongue by death. Now, though his questions

remained unanswered, he chose to leave his

memories untainted. “Jilarek was a quiet, shy

boy. He wouldn’t have said so much. Certainly

not that.”

Gaz dipped his chin once.
Turak sheathed his sword. “Think there’ll be

anything else?”

“I don’t know. That had to be exhausting.”
Spellslayer lay ready to hand once Turak had

readied himself for sleep though he expected to

be alert and pensive for most of the night. Gaz

put his knives within easy reach before curling

up in his usual spot against Turak’s chest. The

fire burned low, embers glowing in fitful ripples

of orange.

Gaz shifted slightly and sighed.

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“You seem distracted,” Turak said into his

hair.

“Hmm?”
“Exactly.”
“Sorry. Something he—they—the illusion

said.”

Turak sighed. “I was afraid you’d be jealous.

Are you?”

Gaz twisted slightly in his arms, thinking it

over. Rather than answer directly, he said, “He

was awfully good-looking.”

“He was.” There wasn’t much point in

disputing it.

“Do you think you’d still be with him if...?”
Turak rubbed his companion’s arm. “That’s

ten years of

if. Hard to say.”

“I suppose.”
Turak mulled over the idea for a while. Large

warriors didn’t tend to travel in pairs; it was

too easy for them to get in each other’s way. He

tried to imagine this simple snuggle with Gazriel

replaced by Jilarek and realized the smaller person

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went on the inside. That would have been Turak

himself. Gaz would still be alone in his tower

studying his lichens, silver-clad and innocent,

unless Slava had taken Spellslayer from Jilarek

and somehow sent both of them after the little

wizard... He disliked the path of that thought.

“Was that it?”

“No.”
“Amusements, then? I’ve had some. You’re

not one.”

“I assumed you had and hoped I wasn’t.”
An evening’s tussle, muscles and hands and

lips, a grapple that passed into other territory

than competition, now and again had been

sufficient. Turak somehow had managed never to

be traveling in quite the same direction at quite

the same time as any of the playmates between

Jilarek and Gaz. Sometimes, that had meant

reordering his quests and goals, and somehow

he’d managed never to think about that. Turak

jostled Gaz lightly, trying to shake loose more

words.

“That thing he said that broke the illusion for

you.”

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Ah. Gaz was still innocent of some things.

Hands and lips had served both of them perfectly

well so far, but the subject was bound to come

up sooner or later. Still, Turak chose to answer

the easier interpretation of the almost-question.

“Jilarek would never have said that; he was always

shy. Not just about sex, although that was a part

of it. The night we spent together, he’d relaxed

enough to congratulate me on not being the

runt anymore, and that was his confession that

he’d been looking at me.”

Gaz tucked his head to kiss a knuckle. “That

wasn’t quite what I meant.”

Turak had suspected as much, but performing

an act and talking about it were two very different

things. “I know. It’s...”

Between their spread cloaks, cozily together,

neither was wearing much. Turak let his hand

drift lower, letting his hand rest on Gaz’s hip for

a moment until the touch was comfortable for

them both. Then, instead of sliding forward as

Gaz clearly expected, he inched himself back

a little to make room for his hand on Gazriel’s

bare buttocks. This earned him a puzzled twist

of Gaz’s head.

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This was a dicey moment. The other man

might like it or rebel utterly. Turak pressed a

finger into the cleft, questing and finding, then

rubbing gently, barely penetrating the puckered

opening.

Gaz flinched away. “What by all the serpent

gods?”

“Only the one-eyed one,” Turak assured him.

It earned him an obliging sort of laugh. “All

right?”

“Yes. Just puzzled. A different puzzlement,

though. You really...? Do you

like doing that?”

“I can live without it.”
“Oh.” A short silence later, Gaz added, “That

isn’t really an answer.”

Turak chuckled. “All right, then. Say your

favorite inn offers five different dinners, then

cuts back to four, and those are all pretty good.

How much would you really miss the one?”

Gaz shook with quiet mirth for a moment. “Is

it the shepherd’s pie?”

Grinning to himself, Turak ran his fingers

lightly back to their former spot at the hip,

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getting a very different sort of flinch from his

ticklish friend. “No. Just the plowman’s.”

After a heartfelt groan, Gaz settled back into

the usual sleeping position, back to front. “I may

have trouble looking at a bit of cheese for a few

days.”

“Sorry,” Turak told him. His grim mood

had lifted a little, but he still didn’t feel sleep

coming on. Despite their small play, he wasn’t in

the mood for sex either. It was something of a

relief when Gazriel took his hand, lifting it back

to chest height and keeping hold. The grip was

reassuring in a world gone just a bit mad. He

hoped the priestesses found no more shades to

haunt them.

Guiltily, feeling miserable and dishonest with

himself, he crushed a hope that any further

shades would be Gazriel’s.

* * *

Turak woke from an awkward kick as Gazriel

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fought free of his embrace and bolted toward the

glowing remains of their fire. The smaller man

looked about wildly, crouched ready for action,

a knife drawn. The night seemed as empty and

still as before, no eerie taint hanging on the air or

mysterious sendings lurking by the embers. Still,

Gazriel’s panic radiated from him.

Instinctively, Turak brought his hand to

Spellslayer’s hilt. “Gaz?”

The small man spun to face him, knife flashing

faintly in the dim night, his face hidden by

darkness. Then the tension ebbed out of him, his

silhouette sagging. “Turak?”

“Of course.” He sat up, rubbed his shin, then

offered space under the cloak to his shirtless

friend.

Gazriel didn’t seem to notice. “No walls,” he

said, and put away the knife.

“No walls?” After watching his friend tremble

for a minute, Turak rose, tossed another few

sticks onto the embers, and engulfed Gazriel in

a firm embrace. Gazriel struggled for a moment,

then sighed and relaxed. Turak wondered if walls

were needed but he sufficed. “Better?”

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“No walls,” Gazriel repeated with more

conviction. Turak let him wriggle free. “One hell

of a dream.”

“Moving walls?” Turak hazarded.
“Have you ever been a squatter?” Gazriel asked.

Turak shook his head. “You should, sometime,

just to know. In the summer you want a spot by

the wall because it’s cooler, and in the winter you

want the middle of the room, all piled up with

humanity, so you don’t freeze. When I was very

young, there was someone who taught me that,

and my letters a little, and looked out for me. I

was dreaming about her.”

That didn’t seem to go with a drawn knife

and raw terror. Turak waited for more words to

come; when they didn’t, he asked, “A present

from our snaky friends?”

“Maybe. I don’t think so. I think they can’t

possibly have enough power left to light a candle

after their earlier effort.” Gazriel sighed. “I fell

asleep thinking about how you have a past, and

people worth remembering or missing, and I

just have things I did or other people did to me.

Maybe feeling a little jealous.”

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Turak remembered his own thoughts before

falling asleep and didn’t confess them.

“And I guess in my sleep I remembered

better.”

Turak returned to the cloak on the ground,

smoothed it, sat, and offered an edge of the

upper cloak once more. This time Gazriel came

to it and sat close, not quite touching.

“I don’t remember what I called her. That

bothers me. She wasn’t my mother. I don’t think

we were related at all.” He took a deep breath and

tried starting the story somewhere else. “See, the

thing about a squat is, it’s a lot like a dormitory.

It’s not like a family, and you don’t necessarily

like all or any of them, but there’s generally the

same couple of dozen people and you’ve all

learned to get along. But a couple of people had

died or moved on, and there was some space, and

a new guy moved in. I didn’t like him. I don’t

think anybody did, but he didn’t do anything

to make anyone run him off. He was just

there,

every night.”

Gazriel stared into the quickening fire. A

flame licked up the new wood, caught, and

pulsed on a thin vein of sap. “I woke up against

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the wall, and—he was raping her. My friend. I

didn’t understand it then. I just knew he was

doing something bad and she was struggling. She

said no a few times, and he laughed all breathless

and silent and didn’t stop. Then as he shoved her

skirt up and got on her, she took a big breath to

scream. He cut her throat so she wouldn’t. Then

he finished and rolled off as though they’d just

had a pleasant little tumble like anybody. He

even pulled her skirt down first.

“I lay there in her blood scared out of my mind.

I was so sure he would do something dreadful to

me, too. Then I realized he was snoring. She kept

a little knife at her waist, and it was right by my

fingers. He didn’t wake up when I took it. I put

my hand on his ribs, across her, and he didn’t

even notice.” Gazriel held out a hand to the fire,

first two fingers spread. “I found the spot where

the heartbeat was strongest, and I put a finger on

each rib, and I stuck her knife between those two

fingers as deeply as I could make it go.

“He woke up for that. His eyes shot open and

he stared at me. Then he twitched a little and his

eyes looked past me. He didn’t snore anymore.

In the morning everyone assumed

she killed him

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as she died, a ‘lucky’ stroke. As though anything

about the whole business was lucky.”

Turak put out his arm and squeezed Gazriel

close, an embrace not meant for the adult

recounting the tale but for the child who could

have used a strong friend. Gazriel settled against

him.

“It seems like nobody gets as angry as a small

child. I was furious with her. She’d left me, and

she’d stuck me with a dirty job to do. I figured

if everyone thought she had done it, it must

have been possible and she should have. Now

I wish I could remember something else about

her, something other than how she looked in her

blood and how terribly angry I was. She must

have been at least a little bit good to me. It can’t

have been easy.”

Turak tried to imagine the desperate life his

friend described, then trying to live that life with

a small child—someone else’s small child, at that.

He doubted he could manage it; he doubted

many people could. “She taught you to survive.”

Gaz shrugged. “She must have.”
Turak shook him gently. “But?”

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“But—I shouldn’t have had to know. I don’t

have anyone else to be angry with for that, or for

all the times I nearly didn’t make it, or for all the

people who didn’t. I don’t know why I was with

her, but I’m angry about that, too.”

After a long stretch of finding no thoughts at

all, Turak fumbled into an idea. “You would still

have become a wizard, don’t you think?”

Gazriel turned his head, looking puzzled.

“Probably.”

“So you would still have ended up here.”
“I suppose.”
“Only without a lot of the skills you’ve been

using lately.”

That earned a brief laugh. “And you would

have been entirely justified in leaving me behind

at the first opportunity, like any useless burden.”

To answer such a charge required more

imagination than Turak had on hand. “You, as

you are, certainly do keep life interesting with

those talents. Would you really want to be

without them?”

“I guess not. No.”

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They stared into the fire together for what

seemed like a long time. Turak realized he’d dozed

when his companion pushed at him, nudging

him into lying down once more. “All right?” he

asked before settling into proper sleep.

“For now. And we’ll both be more—

skillful—

if we get some rest.” Gazriel pressed his back

against Turak’s chest.

Turak nuzzled the back of his friend’s wooly

head. “I think we’ve earned a slow morning,” he

said, knowing Gazriel preferred them. It was a

cozy thought, knowing this about his friend, and

a comfortable pathway to sleep.

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Chapter 3

A Wet Adventure

Gazriel paced down the dusty road, wondering

if they might manage to camp near a stream

tonight. He wanted to wash off the travel dirt.

He had other ideas for the evening as well, some

of which would go better if they could both

bathe at will. He sneaked a glance to the side,

wondering if his companion might be thinking

similar things or if Turak was only focused on

the tasks ahead.

As far as Gazriel was concerned, there was

little enough to think about in those tasks. If

they made it to the jungles, they had a snake to

find, and he expected to improvise a bit on that

part. Then they had to come back, which trip

would have its own set of hazards, no doubt.

Worrying about all of those things would only

make him inflexible in the face of actual and

unpredictable troubles. For now, he preferred to

wonder about the new possibilities mentioned a

few days before.

He thought his musings in this case might make

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him more flexible, then grinned sardonically to

himself at the pun. The truth was, the idea was

as much a worry as a thrill. Jilarek’s image had

suggested doubts; he wondered if there could

possibly be room.

When they crested the next rise, a wandering

line of trees below suggested a creek or river

passed through the dry land. The road dipped

down to parallel it. Other travelers probably saw

a refill of their water jugs and a quick wash when

they looked at this scene. Gazriel saw potential

pleasures beyond the mere removal of dirt,

though he looked forward to that as well. As

they drew closer, he could smell mud and water

weed.

The road and river wound independently,

sometimes parting company for a longish stretch,

sometimes almost atop each other. At the edge

of a sharply cut bank, Gaz gestured ahead. “That

little island looks like a secure place to camp.

There would be plenty of water and we’d hear

anyone coming.”

Turak shaded his eyes and looked ahead.

“There’s a good hour of travel time left.”

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“Are we likely to find somewhere as secure in

an hour?”

The bigger man rumbled a laugh. “And if we

camp here tonight, then find another good spot

an hour along in the morning, are we going to

stop for the night there as well?”

“That depends.” Gaz gave him a small smile.

“Is it as private and are we in the mood?”

“Are we?” Turak grinned back. “Well, then. It

looks like a good spot to camp, I admit.”

The river seemed a bit low in its banks. The

island had a bare flat spot cupped by higher

ground with trees. A few heaps of ashes suggested

they were not the first travelers to take advantage

of the place; the sand and leaves blown into the

ashes suggested that other travelers were rare

enough they’d be unlikely to share it. A willow

dragged its long leafy branches at the edge of

the clearing, drawing strange patterns in the fine

dirt.

Once their packs were settled, cloaks draped

atop, on the flattest dry earth, Gazriel stripped

down to bathe. He didn’t miss that Turak was

watching him while gathering firewood. The

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cooking would be his job, then, but not yet.

One advantage to stopping a little early was not

needing to rush to the basic chores. In fact, Gaz

was pretty sure they didn’t need to rush anything

at all.

On the far side of the island from the road,

the water was deeper and more still than he’d

expected, warm enough for a bath without being

soupy. While it wasn’t the clearest he’d seen, it

was clear enough to remove more grit than it left

behind. Freeing himself of road dust and sweat

was almost as important to him as his other aim

that evening; one collected sensual pleasures

when possible. Still, his alert private parts thrilled

to their washing.

Turak dumped a heap of dead wood beside

the pile of ashes, stacked up kindling, and looked

once more to Gazriel. “The wood is damp.

Starting the fire may take some time.”

“It won’t get any damper if you put off the fire

for a bit, will it?”

Turak checked the sky. “I doubt the odd half-

hour or so will make a difference either way, but

no, it won’t.”

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Gazriel splashed a little, not enough to reach

the shore. “Come on in, then. It’s not bad.”

Turak smirked a little at this. “Either you feel

I’m in no fit shape for company, or you have

something in mind.”

“Or both, perhaps. Come on in.”
Turak broadened his smile. “A moment, then,”

he said, and disappeared once more behind

a large tree. This had to be teasing modesty.

There was absolutely nothing he could be doing

back there that his travel companion had not

seen him do before. Gazriel spent the time in

an unconcerned cleaning of his toes, his back

turned to that particular tree, as though he

had no reason whatever to care whether Turak

reappeared that minute, day, or week.

Soap, he reflected, would have been an asset

to that show and perhaps to any subsequent play.

He’d have to remember to pick some up by one

means or another. A man simply couldn’t dawdle

properly in a bath without being able to carefully

soap every toenail to a lather. Sanding away the

worst of the grime was just not the same.

He’d just begun to wonder what on earth

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Turak was doing when the barbarian bounded

into the river with several rainbow-casting

splashes. The big man found a deep spot to duck

himself completely under, drifting away in a

current stronger than his small companion felt

like facing and surfacing to shake water from his

hair. “There,” he announced. “The world is now a

better place, except perhaps downstream.”

“A little road dust and honest sweat never hurt

anyone, especially since it’s most likely going to

be drunk by an elk or a cow.” Gazriel lowered his

foot and steadied himself on the stones of the

riverbed. Tickling his waist, the water surged

against him when Turak drew near, making him

shift his balance just a little. Big calloused hands,

familiar by now but never taken for granted,

caressed his shoulders. A glint of humor still

shone in the big man’s eyes, though his lips held

a sober turn. Gazriel tried to decide whether to

continue their teasing game or simply melt into

an embrace where the current would rush past

his aching member and between those solid

thighs in a single sluicing eddy.

The need to be touched won. Gazriel felt

Turak’s half-erect cock against his lower belly

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and shivered with need. He kissed each nipple,

adding the slightest scrape of his teeth at parting,

then nuzzled the barbarian’s hairy chest. “Why

am I so much madder for it than you are?” he

murmured, not sure if he wanted an answer.

Turak pressed his mouth to the top of Gazriel’s

head, then answered in a soft rumble into his ear.

“A man’s age is measured in climaxes, not years.

By that measure, you’re barely eighteen at best,

and that’s a randy age.”

Gazriel chuckled. Even that simple act thrilled

through his body. “Please never tell me that

you’re older than your years.”

Turak’s fingers roved down Gazriel’s spine,

across his hip to his prick, then closed slightly in

a steering, tugging motion. “Come.”

Gazriel tipped his head up to question, found

no answer in Turak’s subtle smile, and submitted.

Turak led him from the water to their camp,

where a cloak was now spread for their sport. If

Gazriel hadn’t played at indifference, he would

have seen. A small flask sat innocently beside the

cloak. “Cooking oil?”

“Oil. Cooking is

one of its uses, yes.”

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Turak began to lower himself to the cloak.

Gazriel stopped him, then knelt. The lining of the

cloak shifted under his knees, sliding on the firm

sand. Gazriel couldn’t bear the idea that Turak

wasn’t as excited as he. He drew the bare prick

between his lips, tasting river water and Turak’s

skin, and rolled his tongue over the head. Those

giant beloved fingers played over Gazriel’s unruly

hair, then clenched slightly. Gazriel stroked the

fur of Turak’s testicles, clutching leg muscles

with his other hand to keep from simply seizing

himself. It was hard to say which was firmer,

the muscles tightening under his hand in their

thin coat of skin or the now-rigid member in his

mouth. He loved touching both. Turak wavered

slightly, as though his balance was endangered

by his lust.

Thinking very little, the thoughts creeping

from some time past and only now reaching his

fingers, Gazriel slid his hand upward, cupping a

ridge of buttock. Turak made a soft encouraging

sound, not quite a moan or a whimper. Gazriel’s

fingers explored further, across the bony plateau

at the base of the spine, then into the valley

below. He no longer could find words for what

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he wanted. The heat filling him had no direction

and no goal.

Turak jerked in his grasp, two short spasms,

and stopped him, stepping away just enough to

escape Gazriel’s lips. He gave a reassuring pat,

then crouched to offer the oil flask. Gazriel

blinked at him in sudden bewilderment. With

a half-shy smile, Turak put a few drops onto his

own fingers, then rubbed Gazriel’s prick. The

slickness, carefully worked onto every bit of his

aching member, made him close his eyes.

The hand left him. He could feel movement,

the cloak twitching and pulling under his knees,

and then a hard muscular calf to the outer side

of each of his own. His fingertips played over

Turak’s broad back, trying to make sense of this

offering.

Oh. Turak’s soft chuckle made him wonder

if he’d said it out loud. He opened his eyes

once more just as the tip of his prick nuzzled

against buttock muscles, realized there was a

small problem with their height difference, and

hesitated a moment over whether he should try

to change their sport altogether. Before Gazriel

could decide, Turak drove his knees further

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into the sandy bank, then pressed back more

insistently.

Gazriel wanted to say he wasn’t sure what he

was doing, that he was afraid he would hurt his

friend, but his body did and was sure he wouldn’t.

Carefully, nervously, he fitted himself against

the tight knotlike opening and leaned into the

possible entry.

It seemed he was too gentle. Turak pushed

back, uniting them with that rough thrust, then

groaned, his head dropping. Gazriel shuddered at

the sudden tight grip around his prick. He knew

his anatomy; he knew the sense of fitting a finger

into a glove was only illusion. Still, he reached

for Turak’s lonely penis and returned the hold,

feeling that their pleasure was somehow nested

together.

Turak moved under him, around him, thrusting

into his hand and making all the movement either

of them needed. His groans turned to short loud

pants, then sharp cries. Gazriel realized from the

depths of a flood of pleasure and need that his

partner was trying to wait for him and was about

to fail. They were linked. If Turak was coming,

then he too would...

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He’d been still as long as he could. At the

instant his climax began, he had to thrust and

scream. He felt Turak’s prick heave and spill in his

hand, felt an answering surge of pleasure in the

knowledge of his partner’s. Then the sensations

took him utterly, swirling to somewhere dark

and pungent. He returned to himself a moment

later, draped awkwardly over Turak’s trembling

frame.

“All right?” he asked, or tried to ask. Turak

nodded. Gazriel struggled to find his sense of

balance, succeeded long enough to collapse

beside his friend instead of lingering atop him.

Turak settled beside him, breathless, smiling.

“All right?”

Reasonable answers escaped him. “Yes,” had

to suffice.

Turak pulled him close, kissed him, and

offered his shoulder as a pillow. Gazriel felt very

comfortable, physically.

“I feel a little guilty,” he said after a moment.
“Don’t.”

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“You should have told me you liked that. I

should have asked. Something.”

Turak nuzzled his hair. “And you would have

been willing to try that sooner?”

Gazriel considered. He had barely learned

to believe that what they had been doing was

acceptable, still felt uncomfortable describing it

even to himself, and wasn’t sure his more ribald

moments weren’t an act, pretending an ease he

didn’t really feel. If so, he would have to ask

himself why he felt the need to pretend, and

that led to dangerous territory as well. “Probably

not.”

He could feel Turak’s breath in his hair. “Was

today too soon?”

“No,” Gazriel said because he had to, and then

decided that he meant it. He would do what he

needed to in order to spend the end of each day

in the comfortable warmth of Turak’s arms, and

he would pretend to be whatever he needed to

be. Who would know better than a wizard how

easily pretense could become reality? Nothing

could be created without first being imagined,

including his new and growing self.

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Chapter 4

Entering the Jungle’s Heart

Gazriel felt edgy surrounded by so much green.

In his youth, he’d been accustomed to walls of

stone and dead wood, trees represented as lore

on pages made of their own pulp. In more recent

years, he’d grown used to nature, or what he

thought of as nature, with tidy edges and clearly

intended purposes. He’d grown used to farms,

and to forests permitted to exist for the sake of

game and firewood. Here—these trees looked as

though they might fight back if someone dared

to raise an axe to them.

“Taste that air,” Turak commanded. “Good

and fresh, and if it’s ever been in someone’s lungs

before, it was a tiger’s.

Fierce air.”

Gazriel took an obedient deep breath, not at

all encouraged by the thought of tigers. The road

they had followed in had been wide enough for

two carts until they passed the first village, then

large enough for only one until the second, and

had been narrowing ever since, foliage growing

aggressive and pressing itself against any who

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dared to pass. They were now on something that

looked suspiciously like a game trail, though

there were crosses blazed on the occasional tree

trunk. He eyed each vine suspiciously since one

had peered at him and flicked a forked tongue.

So far they had seen green snakes, golden-brown

snakes, and a suspiciously blue-silver snake that

gaped a black mouth and fangs at them before

vanishing into the fallen leaves to one side of the

path. Anything that color had to be dangerous,

though the Wizards’ Guild would have offered

gold coins and a few eyeteeth to have one to

study. What they had not seen was the large,

wedge-headed, brown-patterned snake they had

come for.

He had a nasty suspicion they would have to

leave the path for that.

“Should be another village in here soon,”

Turak said encouragingly.

If there were not, the path probably would

have vanished by now. Gazriel had to take the

barbarian’s word for anything the locals claimed;

he knew three languages besides his own, but

none from this far south. As far as wizards were

concerned, the jungle was a nice source for

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ingredients as long as they could pay someone

else to fetch them.

They followed a curve along a hill, descended

into a valley, and smelled smoke. Gazriel squashed

his reflexive fear of fire sweeping through the lush

growth; if they had trouble starting a cooking

fire in all this moist wood, the odds of a wildfire

were extremely low. More likely, this was only the

smell of Turak’s anticipated village. A few strides

further on, the sweetish smell of roasting pig

began to color the smoke. Either the villagers ate

very well here or he and Turak were expected.

Where the path leveled off, a dozen children

of mixed ages suddenly pelted out of the forest,

spotted them, and bumped and jostled to an

amazed halt. Gazriel had thought when this first

happened, at the first village, that his freckled

and Turak’s bronze skin were the novelty, since

both were pale by local standards, but learned

quickly that the fascination was their hair.

Nobody in this jungle had seen hair as straight as

Turak’s waves or as pale as Gazriel’s ginger wool.

Gazriel had already spent more than one evening

being patted and tugged on by an interested tot,

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invariably their host’s child and not to be put off.

He hoped to avoid another such night.

Soon they were being escorted to a cluster of

huts beside a surprisingly clear river. Abandoned

looms held samples of brightly colored fabric;

similar cloths were being spread over a patch

of hard-packed earth. Gazriel realized they

were being greeted with a feast, or perhaps had

only arrived just in time for one. The cooking

smells were enough to overcome his suspicion

of any eating arrangement that involved shooing

curious chickens away from one’s meal.

Turak handled greetings and negotiations

while Gazriel did his best to smile back whenever

anyone smiled at him. This seemed to earn him

a place in the gathering: that of peculiar and

amusing exhibit. He entertained himself by

wondering if the real reason wizards didn’t come

to the jungles was the grave danger of losing

one’s dignity. It was hard to maintain silver-

robed mystery while squatting over a hole in the

ground, slapping mosquitoes, or being harassed

by a herd of small children.

Now, of course, he was garbed in the tweedy

iridescence of a starling’s wing, which let him

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blend into the trees and undergrowth if necessary

and marked him as a member of no group whose

reputation he need preserve. He could smile if

something moved him to. Given half a chance,

he could also teach the children of each village

enough sleight of hand to thoroughly and

invisibly cheat any future travelers foolish enough

to play gambling games with them. Gazriel felt it

was his duty to pass along useful skills and make

his mark in the world.

Turak cuffed him lightly on the shoulder.

“The feast isn’t for us, though they’re happy we

turned up at a good time for them to make a

good showing. It’s a last-meal sort of affair for

that young fellow over there. Tonight they stuff

him full of food. Tomorrow they send him into

the jungle and begin to pretend he doesn’t exist,

or so I gather.”

Gazriel blinked. The sentence seemed extreme,

though he supposed he would prefer it to the

Guild’s assassins and occasional contracted-out

Undead. “What did he do?”

Turak shrugged. “Something our trading

pidgin doesn’t have a word for, and I don’t have

anything like the village language in my ears.

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There’s only theft, rape, and murder in trade

language, and apparently he didn’t do any of

those things, but something obscure and local.”

“Poor fellow probably ate fruit bat on a full

moon or something, then. Oh, well, it’s nothing

to do with us. Did you manage to tell them what

we were looking for?”

“I think so. They’re discussing it. Meanwhile,

take a seat at the edge of the cloth there, and they’ll

be passing around some wild pig in a moment.

You seem to be making yourself popular again.”

Now it was the women who gathered to stare

at him, apparently in amazement that one person

could wear so much cloth. He hoped it started

a trend, and soon. While all those bare breasts

might have delighted him greatly some thirty

years ago, he found them uninteresting now

that he was weaned. He focused on eyes instead,

the doelike eyes of the young women and the

wrinkled wise-looking creases of the eldest.

Many of them seemed to find him terribly funny,

yet again. He resigned himself to an evening of

this, as their gazes were far easier to endure than

those of scrying and prying serpent priestesses.

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With luck, someone in this back end of nowhere

would know where to find the right snake.

With better luck, someone would know how

to find a new-spawned one. The adults were a bit

large to haul back, and keeping one in cows for

its meals would be expensive for two adventurers

who never seemed to manage to hold onto their

funds.

Soon they were seated side by side among the

large gathering as the black jungle night began

to press down onto the glow of the fires. The

young man who was eating his last meal, or last

as a part of the group, only pecked at his dinner.

Turak chatted comfortably with the villagers.

Watching his hands and catching a few now-

familiar words, Gazriel realized the subject had

wandered to their quest.

Two leathery looking men with gray in their

hair began a furious discussion, an argument

perhaps. Gazriel looked from them to the

moping young man and tried to decide if one

was his father. He leaned into Turak enough to

hint that he’d like to know what was going on,

and earned a shrug.

“Not sure,” Turak rumbled into his ear. “They

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jumped out of trade talk for this. I had asked if

someone might guide us to the nest of eggs or

babies—it’s the same word, for some reason—

they knew was out there.”

Gazriel studied body language for a moment,

watching where the two men’s eyes went and

where they did not. “At a guess, the person

who found the nest of eggs or babies is that

gloomy fellow who is supposed to stop existing

tomorrow, when they won’t have any power to

tell him to do anything, and they can’t very well

assign him the job now and send us all out in this

darkness.”

Turak slapped a bug. “I think you’re right.”
A moment later a third man joined in, adding

his bit more loudly. Several of the women,

particularly the older ones, looked around and

added their say in jumbled and laughing disorder.

The young man looked up from his neglected

meal, his face momentarily hopeful. After a

few words were spoken to him, his expression

went flat again. “M’wendo,” he said, and made

a gesture with cupped hands of two halves of

something splitting apart.

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One of the elders asked a question, his hands

apart by about the length of Gazriel’s forearm.

The young man thought a moment, eyes lifted

to his left, then indicated a distance more in the

measure of Turak’s shin. There were grave head-

shakes and murmurs. The elders clumped into a

group and spoke in low voices. One then relayed

the results of their discussion to Turak.

“They say that if we can stand the company of

the unclean one, he may be our guide, and there

was something about becoming clean. I think

they’re issuing it as a sentence on the poor fellow,

with our permission.”

Gazriel indicated with a lift of one shoulder

that it was hardly his place in the world to

judge the cleanliness of someone’s behavior, and

nodded that a guide seemed a good thing. Turak

turned back to the elders and said something

that sounded solid and agreeable.

Gazriel watched the young man’s face and

wondered about sentence structure in this

language he didn’t know. Apparently it put the

good news first. The dark face lifted in disbelieving

pleasure, with a quick almost-invisible glance to

a young woman nursing a baby, then fell once

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more into gloom. “Offhand,” Gazriel translated

to his friend, “they said he can come back if he

helps us catch one of these venomous creatures.”

“Actually,” Turak replied, “I think they said if

he helps us and survives.”

Gazriel grunted and stabbed up a new piece

of steaming pork with his smallest knife. Part of

his formal wizard training had been in handling

snakes, and while he had no great fondness for

the animals, he did have hands already quickened

by cutting purses and picking pockets—not that

he’d admitted it during his schooling. It would

have damaged his image, and his classmates

might have started keeping more careful account

of their coins. Now, a long discreet pouch on his

pack carried what might have looked like a wand

or a particularly light whip, a tool for catching

small quick things which bit.

He considered the proportions of the species

they sought and the length their local expert had

indicated. The loop would still fit, but he was

glad they had not taken another week to reach

this isolated spot. A jungle offered many meals

to a young and growing reptile.

There was more discussion he couldn’t

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understand. He followed as best he could—they

did have a guide, it seemed, and a direction of

travel. That was enough. There was something

mysteriously soporific about listening to

languages he didn’t understand. When women

began to gather up their children and disappear

into the night, he felt entitled to find a sheltered

spot, curl up in his cloak, and go to sleep. Turak

would find him. He always did.

* * *

Morning dawned damp but bright in some

alchemy of jungle climate. Gazriel woke in his

usual position, curled with his back against his

large friend’s chest. Some mornings he wondered

if he minded feeling like a child’s soft toy. Most

of those mornings, he didn’t. This morning, he

slipped away to find a discreet bush beyond the

camp for necessary business, regretting that they

had run out of anything stimulating to drink a

good week before. The village they had left the

previous morning, guide leading them away from

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their earlier path, had offered no replenishments.

No coffee, no tea—what self-respecting wizard

allowed himself to end up in such a state?

From there, of course, he had to wonder what

self-respecting wizard found himself a hundred

leagues from nowhere in the middle of a jungle,

keeping company with what most wizards he had

known would consider a great lout with a sword,

trying to make a serpent priestess or several happy

or at least less malevolently interested. Self-

respecting wizards tended to spend their lives

closeted in towers doing research or prowling

about near those towers for ingredients. He’d

once craved such a position and even lived in

such a tower for nearly a decade. From his current

perspective, it seemed a dreadfully boring life.

After a good yawn and stretch, he spent a

few minutes tossing a dagger at an innocent

tree trunk. There was no such thing as perfect

accuracy, especially in a pinch, so practice never

hurt. After three close-spaced holes with his first

and most easily reached knife, he switched to

another, then another. Each required a slightly

different distance from the target to somersault

point-first into the bark, but he’d worked the feel

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of those distances into his bones. Today he was

rewarded by having none of his knives bounce

embarrassingly butt-first from the tree, and

it would have been embarrassment indeed, as

several curious pairs of eyes peeped at him from

the brush. The local monkeys had proven to be

terribly critical of his efforts on other occasions.

Turak sometimes threatened to teach Gazriel

a ‘man’s weapon,’ generally in a teasing tone,

usually with a slap at Spellslayer’s hilt. Gazriel

thought the sword was longer than he was tall

and quite possibly outweighed him. Knives

suited for those occasions his magic didn’t

feel like saving him. For one thing, they suited

from farther away. He’d considered learning the

bow, or perhaps the sling, both good weapons

for making one’s enemies into former enemies

at a safe distance. So far, neither bow nor sling

had dropped into his possession. He also had a

strange suspicion that Turak might not consider

them altogether sporting and hadn’t raised the

issue.

Today, however, no battle loomed. They

hunted. They had managed this long without

becoming a tiger’s dinner. With luck, they would

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soon be retracing their steps back to cooler and

more clothed climes, bearing a snake to bribe

their tormenters into peaceful coexistence.

In all his dreams in all his life, Gazriel had

never imagined he’d be called upon to present

women with a live serpent.

Turak hummed as he handed around their

breakfast of breadfruit and salted meat. Their

guide seemed to have little to say, or at least little

to be said in the trade language he and Turak

could muddle through, but he seemed to be

hiding a smile by ducking his head toward his

food. Turak, dear great galumphing barbarian

that he was, had no talent as a singer regardless of

one’s cultural frame of reference. This had never

stopped him, and soon he was rumbling verses

regarding his past exploits both factual and

highly suspect. Gazriel and their guide doused

the small fire, put away the camp supplies, and

shared a grin or two, then started off again, Turak

happily bringing up the rear.

Some distance and many verses further along,

Gazriel took a guess at the melody, rushed into a

pause, and sang:

“O Turak Kroll is a very fine soul

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With conquests twenty and four
But his balladeer’s heart shows its finest art
When sung through a dungeon door.”
Turak chuckled. “Third line’s a bit weak, but

not bad if you just made it up. I must admit that

minstrelry was never my strong suit.”

Their guide flashed an enormous white-

toothed smile at them, clearly following the

gist if not understanding the words, then made

shushing gestures. The tenuous path through

the verdant growth was giving way gradually to

a more open area with stray boulders to either

side of the way ahead. In only a few more paces,

Gazriel ground his boot sole thoughtfully

against the heavy moss of the path and found

stone beneath. If he looked hard, he fancied he

could see the edges of giant paving stones, as the

broad patches of moss yielded strips of ground

to deeper-rooted plants. It seemed to him that as

the jungle pressed less heavily the air had grown

more stale and ominous, no longer the breath of

tigers but of lizards and other creeping things. He

also began to think that perhaps the boulders to

either side were carved, or had been a thousand

monsoons before, and that the remains of the

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chiseled designs had an unsavory feel to them.

Shading his eyes against the strengthening sun, he

peered ahead. What he’d taken for a hill in their

path resolved itself more clearly—vague outlines

of tumbled buildings, with a few strong trees and

many creepers furthering the destruction. He

hadn’t realized their path led to what had once

been a city.

Their guide said something urgent-sounding

in a low voice. Turak translated: “He says step

carefully. We may find young serpents anywhere

in the stones. And, I think,

don’t disturb the

guardian.”

Gazriel hadn’t thought the serpents needed

a guardian. Perhaps their guide only meant the

mother, which would be daunting even if half

the size of the snake they sought to replace.

As they crept further along the causeway,

Gazriel placing each soft-booted foot solidly at

the middle of a largish stone when possible, the

looming figures grew grander in size. Here and

there, the girth of a vast tree sheltered a statue

from the jungle’s persistent weathering and

grotesque carvings peered from the moss. Gazriel

felt uncomfortable things slithering beneath the

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surface of his thoughts, his back prickling as

though each carving they passed awakened to

watch their progress.

Their guide stopped, pulled a few withered

flowers from his pouch, and began to leave an

offering of small petals, one every five paces. His

chant was barely audible to the keen ears of the

adventurers. Despite this, Gazriel kept thinking

he understood the invocation, placating the dire

deity Ba’Rat and asking the guardian rakash for

peace.

Rakash? he thought, and knew instantly

that they were the grim stones that watched

without eyes.

In the shelter of a wall, the rakash had sharper

features yet, great snouts and ears, crowns of

tentacles, on hunching batrachian forms. The

jungle shadows made the tentacles seem to

move.

The relative stillness was shattered by a

troupe of whooping monkeys in the thicker

trees behind them. The animals crashed toward

them, then veered just before the stones and

sparser trees, circling around the vast ruins until

their cries faded into the background sounds of

birds and growing rustling plants. All three men

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caught their breath, rolled their shoulders, and

continued on.

They passed through a giant archway, a few

rusty shapes hinting at ancient and imposing

gates. Here the air was cooler and dryer and even

the strangler figs were struggling to grow. Vast

stretches of tumbled boulders lay open to the

sun—paradise for snakes.

Gazriel thought of other ruins he had seen,

and of the basic training in engineering and

architecture required of all apprentice wizards.

These buildings looked wrong. They had not

fallen in on themselves with age. He thought

some great cataclysm had torn into these

structures from somewhere ahead, slamming the

roof of one building into the side of the next.

As a bear who had once been an orphaned

cub might still take an interest in the kindly

human who raised it, Gazriel’s magic showed an

intermittent concern for him at dire moments.

He sent a hint to its mysterious inner lair that

such a moment might be approaching. Perhaps

that feminine presence that dwelt within him

and dealt out her whimsically powerful favors so

erratically had stirred. Perhaps not. He loosened

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the dagger sheathed at his belt and touched the

snake stick tucked at the side of his pack with

his elbow to assure himself it was still there.

They only needed one young adder. If he spotted

it soon, they could end this cautious advance

without having to see the center of this tumbled

city. He had little wish to discover how it had

been so utterly destroyed.

Then he glanced back at Turak. Naturally, the

great barbarian was drinking in every sight as

though they were touring the finest of pleasure-

palaces, though he was checking the ground

before planting his feet. He would want to keep

going even if they caught what they came for,

even if they caught ten of them, just to have seen

what there was to see. For the dozenth time,

Gazriel checked the stick and noose tucked in the

side of his pack and wished he were elsewhere.

Peering into an opening that had once been a

broad entrance to a temple or market, he spotted

a likely-looking brown slender shape basking on

a tilted slope. He paused with a “Hsst!”

Their guide held up a hand in warning, then

tossed a pebble to bounce and skitter across

the stretch of rubble approaching the slab.

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Another brown form struck at it from a nearly

invisible chink. The sudden movement woke

an answering writhe from what even Gazriel’s

sharp eyes had taken for a strangler fig’s strayed

root. With this keener awareness now tingling

through him, he took the stick and loop from

his pack, readied the leather sack, and cast the

loop out toward the slab as though fishing. The

distance the loop could reach was not great, and

Gazriel hoped he was wrong in his guess, but

when the loop struck stone, a scaly wedge of a

head darted from a cranny to strike at it. To his

relief, no others lunged as he dragged the cord

back. The young serpent, overconfident in its

venom and its secluded life, chose to coil in the

sun and regard the strangers rather than retreat

back into its den. A few patient movements, one

lightning-swift cast, and some deft juggling later,

Gazriel bound the sack of furious serpent to his

stick and nodded to his companions.

“Are you sure it’s the right kind?” Turak asked,

a question Gazriel felt was better asked a minute

or two earlier.

“It’s the right shape, and I believe the scales

are correct—a bit keeled, if I saw them properly,

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like the old snake. The colors seemed to be right,

though it’s hard to compare torchlit to sunlit and

juvenile to adult.” He considered the aggressive

convulsions of the sack for a moment. “Frankly,

if it’s the wrong kind, our Most Holy Bitches

may come get their own.”

“You don’t want to milk it and study its venom

to be sure?” Turak suggested with a too-innocent

grin. The tough sack heaved and plunged.

“It looks like I could save some trouble,

actually.” Gazriel fished a small flask from his

pack and caught the dripping venom from a fang

which had pierced the leather. “If we encounter

cold weather on the trip back, the little darling

is just going to have to shiver on its own. It’s not

going inside my shirt, even bagged up like this.”

Turak looked thoughtfully around at the

shattered buildings. “I suppose you want to leave

now, rather than find out what things might lie

in the center of the city. This is the sort of place

that’s probably full of unplundered riches.”

“With very good reason,” Gazriel replied,

without disputing that there probably were some

fine things in the bowels of this city. Though

he hadn’t pointed them out, he had seen a few

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bones in the buildings, cracked human skulls

and femurs too straight and long to belong

to any animal likely to be found in this jungle.

Whatever had happened here had happened

quickly and without many survivors to flee with

a city’s natural wealth.

Their guide looked from one to the other of

them, clearly wondering if they were content with

their prize. Turak said something and frowned

at the reply. After a full minute of exchanges, he

finally told Gazriel, “He says we have captured

one of the holy snakes and may leave if we are

permitted by the Guardian. He also says he

has been further into the city, but never dared

to take one of the pretty stones to show off to

his friends. I expect they are very pretty stones

indeed and that their Guardian is a myth left

behind to guard them.”

“Have you considered that something has to

be laying the eggs to spawn these hundreds of

young serpents?” Gazriel inquired. “That some

of them might have grown to the size of the

one we’re supposed to be replacing? I would as

soon be out of here before we meet anything

that might count as a Guardian, since there are

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so many possibilities for what it might be. Mind

you, I like gold and gems as much as the next

man, but I like them better when they haven’t

been polished with dripping venom and a scaly

touch.” He pointed back to convey his meaning

to his other companion.

Turak shrugged and looked to their guide.

The small dark man bit his lip, sighed, then

straightened his back and marched onward,

toward the center of the city. “I think it’s

something to do with a woman,” Turak said, and

followed.

Gazriel swore roundly—but softly—to

himself. He couldn’t very well stalk out and wait

for them at the jungle’s edge, not when they

were so unlikely to return without the help of

his nimble wits and sharp eyes. And he couldn’t

let Turak wander off in a moment of cupidity.

Besides, he wasn’t confident of his ability to

find his way to more comfortable climes on his

own, not speaking the trade languages. He gave

himself all of these practical reasons, knowing

none of them were the real one, and picked his

way along the paving stones behind his friend.

The air grew heavier as midday came on, stale

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stone and the breath of empty places thickening

in the travelers’ throats. Gazriel swallowed several

times against a cough, not wanting to advertise

their presence so abruptly. A few more of the

small serpents regarded them lazily from the

tops of broken walls and other sunstruck places.

A spider the size of a big man’s hand legged busily

along one of the spindly tree branches and was

taken in midstride by one of the snakes. Gazriel

began to get a feel for their sizes, he thought—

the many that were the same size as the one he

now carried were the most recent hatching, and

the next size up, represented by only a few, was

perhaps a year older. He had not seen any that

suggested the previous years and hoped that

nature kept them rare. He wasn’t sure what brave

creature would hunt such animals, but their

absence suggested that something did, unless

they starved for want of spiders big enough to

feed their fast-increasing bulk.

As he mused on natural history, his eyes

chiefly on the ground ahead but sneaking

glimpses of the weakened plants and crumbled

stones around him, a sudden movement caught

his eye. One snake strove against another in

what seemed at first a mating and then mortal

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combat. Ahead, the guide halted to watch as

well. The two creatures struck at each other until

one weakened. The victor unhinged its jaw and

began to devour its still-struggling fellow. Gazriel

shuddered. He was no longer amazed that there

were no large snakes in view; now he was amazed

there were any small ones. If they had arrived a

little earlier, the ground might have teemed with

worm-sized venomous infants.

The travelers began to climb a slope, the

paving stones roughened long ago for a better

grip under lightly shod feet. The rains of

centuries had coursed along the crafted grooves,

making the clefts deeper and the ridges rounder.

Still the snakes kept to the buildings to each side

and none barred the path. Ahead, the tumbled

stones suggested the shattered glory of a former

palace or temple, though this was also clearly

the center of whatever force had blasted the city.

One high-sided archway stood in stark contrast

to the tilted walls and broken slabs, blocking the

view of what might lie beyond. Their road led

right to it. The guide began to creep more slowly

still, his footfalls inaudible.

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He passed the arch, gliding into a shadow, and

that suddenly was gone.

A great wedge-shaped head with hooded evil

eyes loomed before them, muzzle-tip on the

paving stones. Gazriel thought he heard a muffled

yell. Turak’s sword hissed from its sheath.

Thieves, whispered a clear and alien voice in

his mind.

What do you intend with my treasure

and my child?

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Chapter 5

Leaving Lost Sondin

“We could depart with greater swiftness,”

Turak offered after a long still moment, “if you

happened to spit out our guide.”

The reply came with a tone of silken

amusement.

It’s a bit late.

Turak bit his lip. He’d grown fond of the young

man, but even Spellslayer would be hard-pressed

to reach anything vital on this vast monster, and

even he would be hard-pressed to move faster

than the serpent had struck. “We seek to bring

your child to priestesses in the north who will

tend him and let him grow fat.”

Another of my children a godlet? That will be

well. Seek not to disturb the treasure of lost Sondin,

for I am Guardian, but if you go quickly you may

go in peace.

“We came only for this serpent-child. We

know nothing of treasure or of Sondin.”

To Turak’s surprise, Gazriel nodded his similar

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ignorance. He’d thought that the wizard knew of

every city past or present at least from a book.

The snake drew her head back and up, putting

her throat out of range of even Turak’s strongest

lunge. Beside one amber eye lay the irregular line

of an old scar from some courageous opponent

past. The exposed belly scales gleamed golden-

brown. Lumps several yards further along

suggested that she had recently feasted well on

wild pigs or something of equal size, and her

glossy sides were fresh.

Nothing of Sondin the

Great? Even your legends are forgetful as they age.

Only serpents have memories. My children will

slumber in ruins such as these while men descend

into their twilight and dwindle to exist only in the

memories of snakes.

Gazriel bowed very low indeed, though with his

head tilted to catch any sudden movements from

the Guardian. “Great One, Most Magnificent of

Watchers, it is a lovely home for you that these

men have left: a jungle for hunting, old wells

and ponds for water, and fine stone ridges to rub

away one’s outgrown skin.”

It was most considerate of them. Turak thought

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he heard a note of amused smugness to the

thought.

“Our legends are forgetful indeed to lose even

the tale of what befell this place.”

The long forked tongue, blue-black in the

sunlight, danced toward Gazriel, and Turak

shifted the angle of his sword reflexively. The

vast snake head wove away a degree or two in

response.

You taste of those who destroyed it, little

one. Beyond that, I know what snakes know. There

are stones, and remains, and small foolish frogs

for my children to prey upon. There is my job as

Guardian, mine and my thousand apprentices,

against thieves. Do you wish to test your speed? I

hunger not—but neither am I full.

Gazriel bowed slightly once more, though

there was a faint feel of lightning in the air

that suggested to Turak that magic could make

a bitter mouthful. “How long one possesses

wealth is more important than the simple fact

of possession. I prefer gold which stays in the

pockets, and pockets which walk away from the

gaining.”

Very wise. The beast lowered her head to give

each a level look in the face. Turak kept his silence,

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disliking the feel of scrutiny inside his skull. The

dark tongue flickered with eerie daintiness in

the air around each.

Depart then. Make Sondin

famous once more, and send me tasty thieves to eat.

I would suggest, as you no longer have your guide

who knows the subtle signs of good footing, that you

use the path to my hunting grounds. My children

leave it clear for a brief time after my feedings.

Gazriel bowed low, though warily, and after a

moment Turak followed suit. He hoped his delay

was construed as bumpkinish bad manners, not

an attempt to make sure that at least one of them

had a sharp eye on the snake at all times. He felt

the first would be more tactful. Gazriel still had

something to say, it seemed, and no doubt it

would be dressed in as many words of flattery as

before.

“I would dare a guess, from your magnificent

coloration, that you have recently shed your skin.

While I would never dare suggest such a thing to

Your Ladyship directly, my natural curiosity as a

wizard leads me to dream of measuring that cast

skin so that your significance might be known to

the world in the enduring language of numbers

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and the legend of Sondin might be renewed. Is

it, perhaps, on our path?”

Audacious creature! The mind-tone was

amused, and perhaps a little flattered, not angry.

Turak wondered what on earth his friend really

had in mind. Usually they agreed that monsters

should be slain or left behind as quickly as

possible. Though Gazriel did have a fair heap of

curiosity, this seemed extreme.

Yes, it is at the edge

of Sondin, in one of the greater temples. The stones

grip my body well, of late. My children bask on the

steps on the sunward side. They are wasteful and

ambitious, and will strike what they cannot eat.

“Thank you for the warning, Your Elegance.”
I dislike my food cold. Go, before I change my

mind.

The intended path was clear enough, a great

groove worn in the very stones of the city by

centuries of passage of an ever-larger serpent.

Turak kept a sharp watch for the giant Guardian

as they traveled, letting Gazriel go first to spot the

smaller, but equally deadly, children. There were

few of these, whether because the groove left no

good basking spots or for some less wholesome

reason. Turak doubted the queen serpent would

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hesitate to eat her own plentiful young if they

were in her way.

He wondered what fathered them, and

doubled his already-wary peering.

They went forth into the wild terrain

surrounding the city and were stunned

momentarily by the change. A disturbed troupe

of no fewer than six types of monkey, each with

its own preferred altitude, screeched the news

of their intrusion to every corner of the jungle;

several colorful parrots joined in with mocking

cries. Gazriel stepped back hastily, warned

by some sixth sense, as some creature’s guano

spattered the ground before him. “Animals,” he

said, in a tone he usually reserved for nobles and

aggressive ladies of the evening.

The path curved along the city’s outer edge,

with the occasional branch into the deeper

jungle. A predator as large as the snake would

have to vary her hunting grounds to keep them

from emptying of game. “Are you going to insist

on the temple?” Turak asked. The sooner they

were well on their way, the sooner they would

be rid of their writhing bundle and its lethal

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contents. His taste for adventure had been sated

for the moment by the Guardian.

“I am. You’ll see.”
Soon a stepped pyramid came into view

through the vines and trees, at first a bright

patch in the forest gloom, then a broken line

of stone too regular to be natural. The sunward

side appeared to be scattered with small twigless

branches; Gazriel moved to the opposite side

of the vast square building. It was not tall; the

platform at the top would still be quite large. The

two men climbed, Turak wondering what was so

intriguing about the site. Here, too, the steps

were worn with the passage of the Guardian, and

they had to take the sides, rather than the center,

of each tread. The shaded marble was cool under

his hide boots. He felt his interest quicken as he

thought of how long it had to have been since

human feet had last touched this stone.

At the top, where four paths flanked by pillars

of sorts led crossways on the giant square, he paid

closer attention to where he placed his feet than

to the architecture until his companion began

to laugh. He looked at the two pillars closest

to him, leaning toward each other as if striving

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toward an arch, then blinked a moment at their

shape. He looked back to check his memory.

Every few paces there had been a pair of pillars,

at first no more than knee-height and squat, each

pair a little taller and closer together, angled

toward each other, striving to make an arch with

the tips touching. Each pillar was clearly, despite

the effects of weather and time, a phallus.

“Finally, a religion I could appreciate,” Gazriel

remarked lightly.

“Pity it seems to have died out,” Turak replied.

He had never seen the like.

“Someone somewhere would probably want

to claim that this festival of phalluses was the

reason for the destruction of Sondin, never mind

that the center of the destruction was a mile away

and at the center of the city.”

“Probably. Did you somehow know this was

up here, or are we here for something else?”

“I didn’t know, though I’m glad to have seen it,

and the city from up here as well. But I’m really

here for snakeskin. Didn’t you notice her belly?

Look, there’s her shedding-place, two arches

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from the end. She’s probably been moving back a

set every century.”

“It won’t be long before she’ll have to back out

instead of slithering between the pairs. What

was special about her under-scales, you snake-

studying midget? All these crawling things are

giving me shivers and making me imagine little

fangs stabbing at my boots.”

“As long as you’re only imagining,” Gazriel

said, soft-footing to the ghostly piles of pale skin

and turning the opening at the mouth right-

side-out for a little distance. “Aha! That’s what

I thought. The treasures of Sondin, and freely

given by their Guardian. Her belly is coated

from throat to whippy tail in gold dust and tiny

gems from her rich bed, and she sheds her armor

with her skin.”

Turak followed carefully, peered over Gazriel’s

shoulder, and whistled his appreciation. The

ghosts of broad flat scales seemed like thin

parchment with the finest gold leaf encrusting

it, the grooves between each scale filled with a

thicker coat of gold, silver, and glittering dust.

Gazriel carefully unfurled the wadded skin to its

full length, minding his footing and careful not to

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step on any stone which might have a venomous

resident beneath. The project took him nearly

back to the edge of the temple. Turak, guessing

his plan, took out his sharpest knife and began

carefully cutting along the dividing line between

plain pale hide and golden gleam. He wondered

how many layers of precious dust lay atop this

temple, an offering to some unknown god or

rite. Then he wished he’d brought strong shears,

or saddler’s tools. His knife would be blunt long

before he reached the end. Gazriel returned and

began to cut along the other side.

“Thirty paces, I make it, and that’s with some

wrinkling still,” he said conversationally.

“I’ll stick with barbarian measurements, and

say quite big enough.”

“That, too. If we roll this up with the gems

inside, tail to throat, will it look like a roll of hide

or a wad of wealth?”

“I think rolling a blanket around it would

make it look less conspicuous. Tough as this is,

it’s still pretty easy to see through. And what

do we do with it? Spend it in strips? Sell it as a

curiosity to the wealthiest man we can find?”

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“Hope the priestesses don’t manage to take

it away from us as an emblem of their god?”

Gazriel paused to make a face, then sawed at a

particularly tough stretch of snakeskin. “I say we

figure it out and act on it before we meet them,

or we won’t have profited by this little venture

at all.”

“Except for the part where we aren’t haunted

or spied on anymore.” Turak missed Jilarek still,

but not enough to want to see the bitter, angry

Jilarek provided by the witchery of the serpent

priestesses. Too, he suspected his beautiful ghost

had bothered Gazriel more than the latter was

likely to admit.

“True.” They were silent to the middle of their

work. “You’re thoughtful.”

“Thinking it’s time to change knives, and that

there’ll be a lot of whetstone work to be done

when we make camp for the night. You?”

“Hoping that whetstone work isn’t all we do

tonight. You know how I get after brushes with

death, and this temple isn’t helping any.”

Turak laughed, gloomier thoughts forgotten

for the moment. “Fair enough. Should we check

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where the earlier skins were, and see if anything

interesting is there for the taking, once we’ve

finished with this one?”

“Where the little plants are? I don’t mind,

though we should probably leave soon. I would

like to be well clear of anything like a hunting

ground before nightfall.” Gazriel put the skin

firmly on the ground and drew the knife along it

with the stone for backing. That worked, though

it was hard on the point, for a time, and then

blunted the edge of the knife at the tip. “Blast.”

Turak held the cut edges together in one

hand, then made a slow slice with the other,

moving the fresh knife a couple of feet along his

designated line. “This really does seem to work

the best, slow as it is.”

“My arm’s-reach slices are shorter than yours;

I’d hoped to find a quicker way.”

Finally they reached the tail tip. Gazriel

bunched the skin back to where it had been to

disguise any obvious signs of their theft from

the gems’ watcher. There was no escaping the

fact that it was now half the size it had been,

but judging by the decay of the next skin, the

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Guardian would notice nothing unless she made

a special visit.

The next skin had left only a few racks and

webs, the rest presumably a part of the thin layer

of soil and plant life atop the temple. Turak

swept his boot gingerly across the edge of the

slight hollow. Soil and water had collected into

a small wild garden in the spot where he would

have expected an altar. Gold gleamed, along

with a few gems the size of tiny peas. This piqued

his hopes, but a few careful uprootings later

he decided that he’d hit a lucky vein. Gazriel

carefully poked about near what seemed the

thickest part of the little grove, then pulled up

a small but deep-rooted plant. Faint sparkles

glinted among the root hairs, but nothing large

enough to grasp hid in the tangle.

“If we had shovels, and a few days, we might

find more,” Gazriel concluded, “but for now, I

would say we should take the rich bit you just

uncovered and go.”

“If we could burn the plants themselves,

we might make very valuable charcoal,” Turak

agreed, knowing that some plants will take up

any mineral available, “but that might awaken

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the Guardian, who is now basking on the ramp

where we left her but might grow curious if she

saw smoke rising from her shedding-ground.”

Gazriel shaded his eyes and looked into the

city. “Amazing. Whatever happened seems to

have started in almost exactly the center of the

city and rippled out, like dropping a large stone

in a small puddle.”

Turak was more interested in the live brown

shape than in the dead pale stones. He saw the

great head lift and imagined the vast tongue

flickering to taste the air. They were almost

directly upwind, and she could probably tell by

their smell not only that they were there, but also

that they had lingered for some time. “I think

we’ve been scented. Let’s go, before she moves.”

He stepped back, still cautious of his footing,

and scooped up a handful of gold and tarnished-

silver soil from his first sweep, not neglecting

the twin pearls, the tiny diamond, and the single

blood-drop of ruby that tumbled free of the

sparkling grit in his hand. It just fit in his pouch,

long since empty of any coin larger than a copper.

Washed, he thought the net take might come to

two or three coins’ worth of gold, perhaps the

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same of silver. To his trained eye, the gems were

of excellent quality despite their weathering.

Gazriel bound their one blanket around the

roll of hide and tied it tightly, and they began the

careful climb down from the ritual site. Gazriel

pulled back sharply from a sudden dart of a

small head, then struck with his knife, only to

discover he had been menaced by a harmless, and

justifiably nervous, lizard. Turak scooped up the

remains for that evening’s cooking; small though

it was, two or three might make a meal. By the

bottom of the edifice, they had two more.

“Perhaps we should have made an offering,”

Turak observed as they slipped from the now-

faint main path into the jungle. His reckoning

said they were not too far from their original

trail, and once they were some distance along

that, he would feel more comfortable camping

for the night.

“An offering?” Gazriel asked. “Oh. Perhaps.”
“I wasn’t in the mood, but you mentioned

how you felt about brushes with death.”

Gazriel laughed a short bark. “It would have

felt awfully public.”

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“Not half as public as it would have been when

that city was occupied. What do you suppose

it was all about? That was a truly exceptional

number of penises in pairs.”

“Not sure. Some tribes, I’ve read, have a taboo

against a man having sex with his wife while she is

nursing a baby, so she doesn’t get buried in babies

and exhausted to death, and many of those tribes

have ritualized homosexuality. Perhaps this city

did something similar.”

“Perhaps.” Turak followed the jungle’s faint

paths and openings more carefully than his own

thoughts for a mile or so. “I just realized. Our

guide, No!otao. The woman he parted with so

mournfully was carrying a small baby. That may

have been why he was getting banished.”

Gazriel, following, swore roundly at a creeper

that seized his foot. “If so,” he answered as

though he had said nothing in the meantime,

“that might explain why the trade language was

so hopeless for explaining it. Nobody in this

region trades nursing mothers, so there’s not a

word for them.”

“I’m not looking forward to telling them he

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was swallowed by a snake. Want to learn some

trade language?”

“No. Or rather, yes, but not for that.”
“It feels rather a lot like my fault. I was the

one who didn’t want to turn around the minute

you’d caught your new pet.” With the rush of

adventure, danger, and sudden wealth ebbing

away, there was room for guilt. Even if No!otao

was banished and for all intents dead before

they’d pulled him into their quest, he’d had a

chance to return if they’d just kept him alive.

Gazriel sighed loudly enough to be heard over

the evening jungle noises and the sounds of their

passage. “He did break the tie, if we were voting.

He started us off to the center, rather than back

out. I don’t know why.”

“He’d never seen his Guardian, only heard

stories. I think he was curious, as much as

anything. He may have been hoping for a few of

the ‘pretty stones’ if we didn’t run into her, too,

since it’s easier to dare something that two other

people are already doing.”

“It’s also harder to choose the option that looks

like the coward’s path if you have people with

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you, even if one of them has already suggested

it.”

“True, though I would have called it the

sensible but unexciting, path. Does this seem

like a good spot for the night? I wouldn’t care

to try a fire in it, but the tree trunks are too close

together for the Guardian to pass through if

she did follow us.” Turak examined a clump of

smooth-barked trunks with just enough room in

the middle for two men to sleep, though closely.

The space had a floor of dry leaves, years’ worth.

“Good thinking. Uncomfortable, but good.”

Gazriel looked back over his shoulder, then slid

into the space. “There doesn’t seem to be any

other creature to evict.”

Some unseen animal in the upper branches

chattered and scolded. “It even comes with a

watchman, at least for the moment.”

Gazriel looked up, his expression thoughtful.

“I think that’s a night bird. If it hunts from these

branches, we’ll hear about anything else it thinks

is dangerous.”

“That would be good.” Turak considered a gap

some twenty spans up. “I think we should keep

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watches also, though, in case the bird sleeps or

flies away.”

“I agree, though with disappointment. It’s

hard to keep watch and enjoy ourselves at the

same time.”

Turak chuckled. He’d been expecting that

complaint. “Would it help if I said the sooner

we enjoyed ourselves, or each other, the better?

While it’s still a little light out and your little

feathery sentinel hasn’t flown off?”

Gaz pretended to think it over, head atilt,

gaze focused on a distance not permitted by

the clustered tree trunks. “It might help,” he

concluded with a nod and a grin.

Without further preamble—he knew about

Gaz and brushes with death—Turak seized

his friend by the waist and kissed him hard. A

surprised puff of breath from the small wizard’s

nostrils tickled his upper lip, sending a soft thrill

through the skin of his face. Perhaps he too felt

most keenly soaked in his own senses when a

threat had just passed, or when it might not

have quite yet. Gazriel’s tongue parted Turak’s

lips further, stroking lightly against the ridges

of his palate. His hands clutched at the muscles

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of Turak’s back, fingers spread, cool in the hot

jungle air.

Turak clenched his own hands in Gazriel’s

light robes, wondering how anyone could stand

to wear so much clothing anywhere, ever, let

alone in this steamy climate. Pulling them off

felt like doing a favor, starting with the lower

trouserlike garment since that wouldn’t break

the kiss he was enjoying so very much.

On second thought, he wasn’t sure he’d get

around to removing the upper.

Gazriel had become adept at undoing the

tricky knots of the loincloth Turak wore, but

he seemed to be taking his time about it this

evening. Turak ran the fingers of his right hand

lightly down from the point of Gazriel’s hip

along the crease of the leg, brushed the fuzz of his

balls, and barely caressed the hard penis before

returning his hand to the small of the back. He

thought that might do for a hint. The binding

cloth was beginning to pain him.

It worked better than he’d expected. In three

swift moves, Gaz removed the swath of linen,

then broke their kiss by kneeling. Soft lips, then

the teasing tongue, crept up Turak’s shaft in

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counterpoint to subtle stroking from a single

finger. Feeling a tremor in his knees, Turak

shuddered, and was reminded that he still wore

his sword when Spellslayer’s sheath patted at

his buttock. It felt like an endorsement, not a

mistake.

And then he was too absorbed in the feelings

in his cock to notice any further tappings.

Gazriel’s natural aptitude had been improved by

practice and experience. Now he wrapped index

finger and thumb around the base of Turak’s

shaft and squeezed gently, still moving his hand

at a steady slow rhythm. His lips tightened as he

sucked. Turak thought he might scream, which

would surely frighten the bird away, and he

knew—though he couldn’t remember why at the

moment—he shouldn’t do that.

He clutched at Gazriel’s shoulders, almost

succeeding in holding back his cries of need. The

tight ring that held back his climax suddenly

loosened, working in concert with Gazriel’s

mouth instead of against it. Now Turak fought

the shouts of rushing pleasure, breathing hard as

each pulse of bliss washed through him. Gazriel’s

mouth tightened and rippled as he swallowed,

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and his moan vibrated pleasingly through

Turak’s body.

A moment late, he realized what Gazriel’s

other hand had been doing and felt regret that

he’d done so little to help. Though his knees

shook, he held himself steady and caressed the

curly-haired head that pressed against his hip as

Gaz reached his own quiet, jerky climax. After a

soft sigh, he held still a moment, then sank to the

leaf-strewn ground. Turak followed, embracing

him.

“I meant to ravish you thoroughly,” Turak

said.

“I meant to let you.” Gazriel tried once more

to catch his breath, came closer to succeeding.

“Couldn’t wait after all.”

Turak squeezed tighter for a moment, then

loosened his hold to allow for his partner’s

panting breaths. It wasn’t a moment for talking.

Above them, the bird chattered its opinion of

such irregular behavior from strange creatures

like themselves.

The darkness seemed to sift down on them

from the heavy foliage, and Turak stirred. “If we

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want to see to find food in our packs, we’d better

move.”

Gazriel groaned. “Food is overrated.” All the

same, he moved. As he put his pants on, Turak

watched with mild unhappiness before taking

up the long strip of cloth that was his own

garment. If battle did happen to loom, it was

best not to leave one’s body parts dangling about

unprotected.

They dined on grilled tiny lizards with a

handful of raisins and a plank of journeybread

each, a meal more interesting in the chewing

than in the flavor. They drained their water

bottles, since water was plentiful and could

be replenished in the morning, and agreed on

which gap in the trees, now barely visible strips

of once-pale bark against the darkness, to piss

between.

Turak took the first watch, his senses feeling

unusually keen. Leaning against the smooth

bark of the tree felt like too much pressure on

his awakened skin. Gazriel curled up at his feet,

drowsy with adventure and sex, and was soon

adding soft regular breaths to the night sounds

of the jungle. In the distance a panther screamed

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his hunting cry. Something soft-footed passed

on the game trail the two men had used, paused

downwind to snuff audibly, and moved on. Turak

found the sniffing animal reassuring; nothing

would be that serene if a large snake was within

scenting range. All that touched his own nostrils

was the jungle odor, flowers and leaf-mould and

a thin hint of damp fur, and the closer smells of

sex and sweat.

He felt unbalanced by the earlier encounter.

Perhaps in the morning he could offer a

repayment.

When the full moon stood almost directly

overhead, turning the dim tree trunks silver in

the patches of light it could splash through the

leaves, he found himself yawning. Though he

hated to do it, it was time to wake Gazriel for

a turn at watch. He patted the other man’s foot

a few times and was rewarded with the quick

awakening of a born thief.

“Anything?” Gaz asked after a quick glance

around.

“Nothing. The bird still sleeps above us –” A

sleepy chirp of protest gave proof of this. “– and

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the animals seem undisturbed. Nothing to hear,

see, or smell.”

“Good.” An owl squalled a strange cry from

just outside their grove, making Gazriel jump.

“You’ve an odd notion of ‘nothing.’”

“That’s a hunting cry, though, not an alarm

call. See?” A short squeak, cut off, gave proof he

was right.

Gazriel shifted his shoulders uneasily under

the robe. “How would you feel about a little

light? If I can get one without burning us to bits

on the only dry spot we’ve seen in days, that is.”

“If you can make one, go ahead. I won’t notice.”

Turak yawned again.

A soft red light blossomed in the wizard’s

upraised hand, then rose to the top of the grove.

It seemed almost a part of the darkness itself,

but tamed the moon’s wild shadows and shed a

steady glow on the gap that had worried Turak.

With Gazriel’s sharp but city-trained ears at work

as well, sleeping felt safe enough. He dropped to

the hollow his friend had already made, wriggled

once to enlarge it, and slept almost immediately.

He dreamed strange dreams, disorienting

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and soundless, of temples where inhuman forms

bowed before grotesque idols. The air was rich

with a peculiar dusty incense. He floated up an

aisle to the altar, realized as he was settled to the

ground that he was drugged, that he was the

intended sacrifice, and tried to struggle against

his immobility. Something blunt touched his

foot, and he fought to see what it was.

Moving, successfully, awakened him. Gazriel

had just touched him, ankle to foot sole. Turak

was on his feet, sword drawn, before thinking

a single clear thought. The jungle outside was

quiet, a breathless humid quality filling the air.

The dust-and-cucumber scent of the incense still

lived in his nostrils.

Then the gap in the trees changed shape,

subtly, seeming to bulge downward in a blunted

wedge shape. Turak realized suddenly that what

he smelled was not incense, but snake. This one

had to be smaller than the Guardian by a fair

margin, but still quite a bit larger than any reptile

had a right to be. In the faint red wizard-light he

could catch glimpses of pale belly scales where

the snake had draped itself to reach its goal.

From this one, he felt no pressure on his

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thoughts. Either it could not speak to his mind

or it felt no need to. Turak raised Spellslayer over

his head, bracing his legs.

As he expected, the snake gathered itself,

stretched downward, and could not reach them

from its perch. He and Gazriel held still, barely

breathing, as it swayed above them. It retreated

into a coil, rasping against the bark as it tucked

itself together.

Then it dropped straight into the grove.
Turak had half-expected this, and shifted the

point of Spellslayer to spit the soft part of the

lower jaw, knowing that a successful strike would

keep the thing from biting. He was almost fast

enough, the sword striking instead deep into

the neck and releasing a spray of blood which

blinded him. The furious snake thudded to the

ground, lashing in its pain. From the sounds of

the dried leaves, Turak made a guess and struck

again. This time he hit something solid, the blade

sinking deeply into it, and felt the snake biting

at the metal, one fang scraping on the guard. He

whipped his sword back and up, cutting his foe’s

mouth, feeling the sword stroke against bone.

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His blade was wrenched nearly from his hands as

the snake whipped itself free and retreated.

Now, he realized, it was trapped within the

tree trunks, unable to flee back as it had come

without exposing the length of its body. Now it

would fight all the harder. He danced back, trying

to clear his eyes against his upper arm. Above

him, the wizard-light brightened and swooped

down. The snake, perceiving a threat, struck it,

fangs spraying venom as it passed through the

intangible sphere.

This time, Turak stabbed into the curve of the

lower jaw as he’d first intended. Another spray of

blood drenched him. The snake thrashed wildly,

randomly, knocking itself against the ground

and trees. Turak held firm, muscles straining,

keeping the head pinned out of harm’s way.

The snake arched upward, nearly sliding itself

from the sword, spasmed once more, and went

limp. Turak cautiously eased the weight down

to the ground, watching for any movement.

Gazriel eyed the body guardedly, then let out a

breath and looked up at the gap. Turak realized

that their watch-bird was screeching its head

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off, late to the alarm but enthusiastic. “Not the

Guardian,” he said.

“I would guess Mister Guardian,” Gazriel

suggested. “In many types of snakes, the female

is bigger.”

“I stand by my previous measurement. Big

enough.” Turak shook the dead head free and

began to clean his blade. He wasn’t altogether

surprised when Gazriel pulled out a bottle from

somewhere and began collecting venom. To a

wizard, it was useful, valuable stuff. To Turak, it

was simply shudder-inducingly dangerous.

Gazriel sighed. “That doesn’t look at all

comfortable to sleep on,” he said, kicking the

coils of snake that took up most of their grove.

Turak looked up at the gap between the high

branches where the viper had entered. If it had

been able to fit between the trunks at ground

level, it certainly would have saved itself the

difficulty of the climb. If he wanted to chop the

thing to pieces, it might fit back out, but that

would take the rest of their meager supply of

night at the least. “Unless you can magic it out of

here, I think this is now a snake’s tomb.”

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Gazriel’s face took on an inward-questing

look, then came back to attention. He shook his

head. “Snake’s tomb, then.”

“If you want to stay a while, it probably tastes

like chicken.”

“Enough chicken for the last three villages we

passed through to feast for a week. However, I’m

not against having snake cutlets for breakfast,

and feel less wary about a fire now. This stretch

of jungle can only support so many really big

snakes. I doubt there’s another one between here

and lost Sondin, or for that matter for the same

distance on the other side. For one thing, the

Guardian would have swallowed any she wasn’t

keeping handy to mate with.”

“And even if there is, I’m not eating raw snake,

and I hate to let this much meat go completely

to waste, or to the kites.” Turak realized his best

knife for the job still needed sharpening—for

some reason he’d forgotten the project in the

evening—and took out a slightly larger one. It

sufficed for skinning and filleting a stretch of

their former enemy. Gazriel spent some time

folding the tail aside to clear a space for their

small fire, and they roasted and ate the strange

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meat as the jungle grew light. More of the beast

dried over the smoke for later meals. A wave of

birdsong swept toward them, then over them

and past, “Tok-taroo!” called and replied in some

exotic hymn to the dawn.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go to the village at all,”

Gazriel said after he folded his leaf-plate and cast

it aside.

“Avoiding the giving of bad news?”
“Avoiding giving the impression that three

men can go to Sondin and have two still come

back with a mysterious bundle and a full pouch

they didn’t have before. They would be much

safer if they believed all three of us perished, I

think.”

Turak chewed the last of the sweet flesh. A few

herbs might have improved it, and this was not

meat he would willingly hunt, but it was better

than he had expected. Gazriel had surprised him

again, the little wizard-thief who didn’t seem to

have given much of a hang about anyone before

in his life.

If he had, the serpent priestesses hadn’t pulled

those memories from his mind.

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“It’s a good thought. I feel as though we’re

avoiding a responsibility, though.”

“Same here. However, they considered him

dead already, and I’m not sure the details would

matter overmuch. If we don’t come back, then

as far as they’re concerned, the legend of the

terribly dangerous place persists and the legend

of obtainable treasure stays buried. We’ll save that

one for deserving idiots in taverns far, far north

of here.” Gazriel licked his fingers thoughtfully.

“Somewhere cold. I could be happy with snow.”

“Agreed. And I think you’re right. We skip the

village, and maybe the one before it as well.”

Gazriel nodded once. “Snow?” he asked,

running a finger down Turak’s bare chest and

abdomen to make the question clear.

“Enough to be worth furs and leather. Lots of

snow. Should we pack along some collops of raw

viper for later?”

“If you think they’ll keep until tonight, we

could smoke some more over the next fire. I

wouldn’t trust it longer in this heat—if that

long.”

Turak speared the dried flesh from their fire.

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“We should stick with this. Let the kites and

beetles have the rest.”

“And the flies,” Gazriel agreed, waving a

few away. They shouldered their packs and set

out once more, the young viper awakening to

struggle in its bag before yielding to the steady

sway of Gazriel’s march. Turak watched the

rounded shapes against the leather, dangling a

few strides ahead of him, then put his attention

where it belonged, on navigating the game trails

which led where they wished to go.

He thought of his family, and wondered if

Gazriel might consent to meeting them. They

lived on the northern plains. He hadn’t seen them

himself in years. He was fairly sure they would

consider his traveling companion disreputable.

To his surprise, he was less certain how Gazriel

would respond to that—whether he would be

insulted or flattered. After several months and

several adventures, Turak felt he should know.

And so he said nothing, and checked the sun,

and corrected their path.

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Chapter 6

Highway Robbery

Turak rested the bundle atop a warm stone.

For the last couple of days he’d carried the thing,

now that its wriggles lost some vigor and it no

longer bit through the bag. “I suppose we’ll have

to figure out how to feed the thing eventually.”

“Probably no rush on that. Snakes don’t eat

often, and he was a little bulgy when we caught

him.”

“Still, it’s been a week, and he’s not very big.”
Gaz looked around at the rocky nook where

they had settled. “I’m not crazy about the idea of

setting him free to scavenge. It looks like there’s a

mouse nest over there, though, if you want to try

catching one and dropping it in.”

Turak couldn’t keep from making a face.

Opening up the sack didn’t appeal to him, and

neither did cold-bloodedly throwing in a live

mouse with the no-doubt grouchy snake.

“Settled, then.” Gaz started gathering up the

few sticks available for firewood. “I’m more

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worried about water for the thing, myself. Maybe

if we pour some on him, he can lick it off.”

Turak eyed the sack suspiciously for a moment,

wondering if the creature could somehow know

when they were considering undoing the knot.

Somehow its predecessor had been easier to

confront, perhaps because its cow-swallowing

size suggested a bovine intelligence, while the

small one seemed lively, quick, and therefore

clever. Now, too, he had learned that some

serpents could read minds. “Be my guest.”

Gaz threw down his freshly-gathered load of

firewood, sparse gleanings in this rocky area, and

took out his canteen. He undid the knot atop the

sack with care, taking the stick up in one hand

and using it to prop the mouth of the bag open.

He splashed a little water down, then peered at

an angle that let him see in. “I’ll be darned. He

is

licking it off.”

“Poor little fella,” Turak said without much

sincerity.

Gaz dripped in a little more water, then spoke

to the snake. “Sorry. That’s all you get until we

hit another stream.”

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The knot which secured the snake in its bag

also secured the bag to the end of the stick.

Turak, when it was his turn to carry the thing,

still always felt an uncomfortable certainty that

somehow the bag would swing and the serpent

would bite him. Facing a foe in battle was nothing

like trying to live with it for days. It wasn’t the

sort of thing he was trained for. On the other

hand, there had been no more visitations from

nighttime specters since he and Gaz had started

back from the ruins of Sondin. The priestesses

had expressed their approval by leaving them

alone.

They started the fire and unpacked the means

for a stew of sorts: dried beef strips and a few very

stale biscuits. Boiled together, the mix wasn’t

bad, though it would have been hard to say

which ingredient softened first. Gaz had a small

packet of pepper he doled out night by night.

Tonight, apparently, was worth a bigger pinch

than sometimes. “Ah, luxury—extra pepper. Are

we celebrating something?” Turak asked.

“Not getting bitten,” Gaz told him.
Though the cause was good, Turak could

think regretfully of times a celebration would

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have been wine or a choice cut of beef, or perhaps

a roasted fowl. “Any regrets?”

Gaz gave him a puzzled look. “Regrets? Oh. I

do sometimes miss a good mattress.” He dug at

the flat stone slab of their campground with his

boot in a meaningful way.

“Fair enough. Perhaps next time we go through

a town we can find a way to afford a comfortable

night without letting on too much about what

we’re carrying.”

Gaz chuckled softly and stirred the stew. “They

look askance at us under ordinary circumstances.

I can’t imagine their faces when we ask for a room

for two men and a snake.”

Around them, the night darkened into being.

The beef fell apart in the pan, which was when

they generally considered it done. They were

peacefully spooning up the results, comparing it

to the day before’s stew and other meals of similar

sort, when a pebble clicked in the darkness.

Turak put down his bowl, rose to his feet, and

drew his sword. Gaz, more discreet, laid aside his

meal, knives ready but still hidden.

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“Hold,” said a soft voice from the darkness.

“Unless you can dodge arrows.”

Turak settled into his position and waited.

He didn’t believe in arrows until he saw the bow,

but it seemed wisest not to take chances in the

dark. Gazriel wore a faint sneer. “Show yourself,

phantom,” the smaller man suggested.

“No phantom.” A burly figure sidled down the

boulders, knocking more stones free to bounce

and rattle as he came. He had a sturdy crossbow

in his hands. “Just a traveler looking for a few

coins.”

“You’re looking at the wrong fire,” Turak told

him. “Unless you crave coppers.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Gaz glance

toward the sack and stick protectively. He

couldn’t imagine that anyone would steal the

snake, even if to someone somewhere it might

be worth money.

“Right.” The squat man approaching them

seemed to be dressed mainly in furs and misfitted

clothes, probably from earlier victims. He seemed

interested in Turak’s knife belts and sword.

He seemed to feel that Gaz’s loose robes must

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conceal valuables. Aside from the turquoise Gaz

had never parted with (nor admitted to since

their meeting), Turak knew of no gems or coins

hidden on his friend. The treasure-rich snakeskin

was buried in his own bedroll, wedged between

two nearby boulders and out of sight.

He wondered if this was the sort of villain

content to leave his victims their lives. Neither

of them would be easy prey, but neither of them

was bolt-proof.

“Throw everything on over here, then,” the

highwayman told them.

Gazriel drew a knife and tossed it where

indicated. “That’s the lot. The purse is empty.”

“Throw it anyway. Prove it.”
The little bag hit with an honest slap of

empty leather. The robber snorted disbelief, and

rightly—Turak knew there was a second knife

up the other sleeve and another in a boot-top,

and that one was silver. Rather than give away

the fact, he tossed his own wallet beside the

other with a suitable coppery clink. He’d long

since moved the few valuable pebbles into the

bedroll.

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“Right. And now all those pretty pretty toys,

unless you’re hiding something better.”

Gaz shifted as though to hide the robber’s

view of the bag on the stone, a tiny motion. The

robber caught it. The night was cool; the snake

was probably drowsing in the manner of a chilled

reptile, and the bag was still.

“What have we here?” the man asked,

sidling around to keep the friends in line with

his arrow as he moved toward the sack. Turak

helpfully kept himself in view. One crossbow

bolt was chancy with two men; the robber was

gambling that neither would sacrifice the other.

He gambled correctly. Too, the small movement

kept the villain’s eyes from questing about for

further goodies.

However, the highwayman was also gambling

that whatever lay hidden in the sack was

something valuable they didn’t want to lose. On

that, he was half-right. Turak didn’t care for the

idea of the snake being anywhere besides under

his eye and safely bagged, and he certainly didn’t

want to go back to Sondin for another. He saw

Gaz shift nervously and wondered if it was with

the same thought.

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“Please,” Gaz said suddenly. “Leave that be.”
The robber laughed at him, hearing a plea

instead of a warning. “Something precious,

then?”

“Quite.”
The robber scooped up the worn leather bag

and hefted its weight appreciatively. “Feels better

than coppers.”

The man now held two weapons if it came to

a fight, and Turak was increasingly sure it would.

For now, though, the robber backed away, a

gleam of cupidity in his eye. “You’ve no idea

what that’s worth,” Gaz said.

Greed won over guile. The robber found the

knot and began feverishly working for a peek.

One-handed, the project gave him trouble, but he

wasn’t quite fool enough to lower the crossbow.

The snake’s weight bumped passively against his

leg. Turak began to wonder if it had died.

Then the robber stuck his hand into the sack.

His face registered an instant of shock, and the

crossbow snapped. The bolt tore into a burning

log in the fire. Without thought, Turak moved

forward with Spellslayer in motion; equally

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reflexively, he froze as the robber shook the bag

free. The snake’s bite held. The dark scaly body

gleamed in the firelight, and then the robber fled

into the night.

There were three screams. Even the third

didn’t seem very far away.

“Should we try to track him now,” Gaz asked

thoughtfully, picking up his knife and their

purses, “or wait until light?”

“Will the snake get away?” Turak asked in

return. He didn’t like the idea of tracking the

robber and stepping on the viper.

“It won’t go far in this cold,” Gaz observed.

“Probably it’ll stick to the nearest heat source,

and for at least the next couple of hours, that

ought to be our thuggish friend. Otherwise, I’d

bet on it going for that mouse nest I spotted.”

“As long as it doesn’t join us in our cloaks during

the night, I suppose that’s good enough.” Turak

looked around the campsite and shuddered.

“There might have been easier ways to take care

of him, you know.”

“There might have been, but that was the one

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I could think of. He struck me as more greedy

than smart, and apparently he was.”

Gaz sounded almost as cold-blooded as the

snake. Turak stared into the night, hearing only

the normal noises of owls and mice about their

respective business as predator and prey. Dinner

had gone cold, and the biscuit mush had turned

to paste, but they ate regardless.

At least once they were curled up together, Gaz

seemed warm. It wasn’t an evening for seduction,

but one for comfort and contact. “Next time,”

Turak said after a moment, “just let me cut his

head off.”

“All right. Next time you can come up with

the clever plan to get rid of the crossbow and the

highwayman. Hopefully by then we won’t be

toting a serpent around anyway. That should be

a once-in-a-lifetime project.”

“I don’t care to do it again either.”
Gaz reached back and rubbed Turak’s thigh

in a companionable way. “We’ll catch the thing

again tomorrow and save ourselves a trip back to

the jungle. We’ll deliver it. Then we’ll go climb

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to the Duke of Ormond’s winter resort and rob

him blind. How does that sound?”

It sounded reptile-free, at least toward the

end. Turak approved.

In the morning, Turak hiked in the direction

of the last scream he’d heard. Gaz followed with

staff, noose and bag at ready. The highwayman’s

body lay at no great distance, the left hand black

and swollen, the face twisted and blue. Turak

reminded himself not to get bitten. In this

terrain, the bronze-and-black snake ought to

stand out well against the gray stone, and yet he

didn’t see it anywhere.

Gaz searched around the body, then carefully

turned it over. No snake. A fat purse slid from

the corpse’s pocket, though, and Gaz claimed it

without a shudder. “Fifty-fifty?” he asked.

“Later. Where’s the infernal serpent?”
Gaz looked around also, his forehead

furrowed. “The body must have been too cold

for him after all, though it feels oddly hot to me.

Or he may have gone for food...”

Turak let Gaz lead the way, since the smaller

man knew far more of snakes and their ways.

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Nearly back at their campsite, Gaz froze, then

flicked the stick and cast the noose. A moment

later, the bag was writhing and heaving with the

temper of an irate reptile. “Mouse nest,” Gaz

said simply. “That should quiet him down for a

couple of days at least.”

The sack seemed anything but quiet at the

moment. “Whose turn is it to carry the thing?”

Turak asked, knowing the answer full well and

liking it no better than the other possibility.

“Mine, but let’s have breakfast first. We can let

him get over his hissy fit and go to sleep.”

That seemed like good advice even if breakfast

was stale biscuit. Turak wondered where the

highwayman’s lair was and whether it was stocked

with more lavish fare. On this stone, there was

no tracking him. Whatever loot and stores were

there would remain there. “We should be able

to pick up some decent food with those coins

without flashing anything too tempting.”

“Assuming we ever reach civilization again?”

Gaz replied, and set out the biscuit. “This does

feel very like the far end of nowhere.”

“If I remember rightly, we’re about a half-day

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from Charlatown. It’s a border town on the edge

of nowhere, but it’ll have apples and pork, maybe

the odd fowl or two.”

“I could go for an apple.” Gaz chewed his

biscuit.

“I could go for several. They’re in season.”
Gaz nodded. Then he eyed the biscuit. “Half

a day, you say? To hell with it. Never mind the

biscuit. Let’s go.”

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Chapter 7

In the Eye of the Snake

Two men crouched in the woods, considering

a red stone temple in the clearing before them.

The larger, a muscular tower of a man with a

greatsword on his back, shaded his eyes and

remarked, “The chimneys are smoking. They can’t

all have gone to market, or wherever priestesses

go when you can’t see them.”

The smaller man shifted a peculiar burden, a

bindle holding a mercurial shape which moved

independently of his jostles. “They’re all within,

I’m sure, scrying on us. Laughing, no doubt, at

how we’ve traveled miles and weeks, and now

we’re sitting outside as though they wouldn’t be

glad to see us.”

“Are you suggesting they would be?”
The little man considered. “Possibly not.”
“At best, I expect them to make us wipe our

feet and clean up our language.” The big man

eyed the writhing object the smaller one carried.

“Ordinary women aren’t all that thrilled when

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you walk up the steps and present them with a

poisonous snake.”

“I wouldn’t know.”
“I hear they prefer flowers.”
With a wry look, Gazriel stretched for a

vine nearby, covered in orange trumpet-shaped

flowers. He broke off a strand and wound it

around the stick he carried, tossing the last foot

of the plant artistically over the sack rather than

put his hand near its contents. The lump nearest

the top of the bag lunged, and small white fangs

pierced the ratty-looking leather.

“They won’t be milking much venom out

of him anytime soon,” he remarked, gesturing

toward the faint damp patch forming on the

material. “He’s used it up menacing us for

weeks.”

Turak made a face. “I hope that doesn’t make

him damaged goods.”

“A couple of good feedings and he’ll make some

more. If young snakes could use up their life’s

supply of venom before they learned to control

themselves, old snakes would be harmless.”

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Turak chuckled. “Not entirely unlike men,

then.”

Gazriel gave him a blank look, then elbowed

him. “I guess we may as well get this quest over

with.”

Together they rose from the sheltering brush.

They found themselves walking along a familiar

stretch of ground—the path the sacrificial cattle

had taken to reach the previous snake’s lair in the

lower level of the temple. It would be a while,

Turak reflected, before the one Gazriel carried

would reach the size to need a cow for its dinner,

though its two meals of mice as they traveled had

grown it to a size where it would probably prefer

rats. “I just had a thought you’re not going to

like,” Turak said idly.

“That we’re approaching like sacrificial

animals?”

“That also. No, I was wondering if the previous

snake was about as much older than this one than

Theravian is than we are.”

Gazriel barked a laugh. “You’re right. I don’t

like that thought, although it would explain why

he knew about the snake’s usefulness and where

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to find one. How much was the old coot not

telling us, and how much of it might have come

in handy?”

“And how much of it would he have told us if

we’d gone back and demanded to know?”

“That, I can answer. None. Not in any direct

manner, anyway. I wonder if he had company on

the trip?”

At this moment, Turak would have most liked

to know the etiquette for delivering a poisonous

reptile to the possibly equally lethal women

who occupied this fortress of a temple. As soon

as his foot touched the first stone of the pavers

surrounding the base, a small horde of white-

clad acolytes ran from the columned entrance

on the upper level, cascading down the steps to

place themselves to either side of the adventurers’

path. Those placed lowest were youngest and

had two small stripes at the hem of their snowy

tunics. Turak wondered if they practiced their

choreography. Then he realized he’d clutched his

sword hilt reflexively on being rushed, and that it

might be diplomatic to let go rather than imply

he was ready to skewer young women.

An older woman, moving elegantly, came to

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the head of the stairs and waited in stiff silence.

Turak realized a step from the top that it would

be hard to follow Gazriel’s lead with the wizard-

trained man behind him and stepped to the side

to make sure they would be together. The priestess

glanced at him with a slight frown, then put her

attention entirely on Gazriel’s odd burden. Laid

at her feet, the flowers already drooping, the

stick twitched with the movements of the sack

at the end. The little viper seemed to know he

was somewhere important and put on a good

show of life.

Turak noted to himself that Gazriel had

been forced to bow to put down the snake.

He suspected it rankled, but the smaller man

stood soberly beside him without comment or

grimace. The woman—Ianthe, Gazriel called

her, though Turak had no way of confirming the

name—seemed to radiate a power sufficient to

quash even Gaz’s potential sauciness.

She lifted the bag and opened it. Turak bit

back an exclamation. The viper made a few

half-hearted strikes at her the instant its head

was free, and then she had seized it behind the

jaw. She drew it forth. It dangled and whipped

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in space for a moment as she examined it, then

coiled itself up her arm. After a moment there,

it seemed to settle, and she began to stroke its

head with broad sweeping motions that brushed

over its scales in part of a much larger arc. This

seemed to hypnotize the beast. She gave a nod

of apparent satisfaction to the snake, another to

a gray-haired woman standing near her at the

head of the stairs, and retreated into the temple

without a word.

The old woman tapped forward with her

dark wooden walking stick, eyed the two men

as though they measured up a bit less than the

snake did, and announced without preamble,

“Kneel.”

Turak could feel Gazriel’s sidelong look.

The barbarians of story and song would, at this

point, draw their swords and demand to know

why they should bow their heads to anyone. The

barbarians of story and song would then, most

likely, proceed to die in some gory fashion as

victims of temple magics, and Turak rather felt

he had something to live for. Too, he didn’t want

to test Gazriel’s counterspells against the serpent-

god’s powers, however they might be manifested

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by this stout old woman and her stick with its

serpentine carvings. The small wizard might

prefer to make his own choices about the value

of his life.

Turak knelt. By the scowl on the face of the

crone, he hadn’t been quick enough. She turned

her scowl to Gazriel and brought him to the

ground with it. She then raised her stick, tapping

each of them on the shoulders. “You are now

Knights of the Serpent,” she said.

That appeared to be the beginning and end

of the ceremony. The old woman turned and

tottered away. Turak thought he saw the staff ’s

butt land over and over in faint dimples in the

stone, evidence of years of passages regular as

clockwork. The acolytes paraded up the stairs

and back into the temple to either side of their

new knights. The last, a merry-faced blonde

who looked to be working hard to avoid giggles,

paused long enough to say, “Come.”

“What’s next?” Gazriel asked, and his tone

suggested that he, like Turak, half-expected to

be the evening sacrifice.

“Dinner,” the girl said, “and a bed for the night

if you like.”

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That sounded rather better than being

sacrificed, though there would still be plenty of

time for that in the morning.

“I’ll show you your room and the necessary. As

men, of course, you will not be allowed to attend

the dedication ceremony,” she added when they

caught up to her. “Though I am not sure why you

could not.”

“That’s quite all right,” Gazriel assured her.

“We hadn’t expected to participate.”

Turak caught his eye. Gazriel shrugged. While

they had probably each assumed there would be

some rite to dedicate their catch to the temple,

neither had the slightest idea what might be

involved. She led them to a small but serviceable

bedroom, the bar on the exterior of the door and

a lingering aroma of apples suggesting it was used

for storage far more often than for guests, and

then pointed to the small building at the edge of

the woods.

“Excuse me. I have to go serve the meal.” Their

guide gave them a quick apologetic smile, then

scurried off. Once unladen and washed in the

bowl of warm water in their room, the two men

followed the rest of the women into the back of

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the temple, where large trestle tables were set up

and full of empty plates. A few of the youngest

acolytes hurried in with roasts and loaves, bowls

of vegetables and platters of fruit.

“Either these girls eat frightfully well, or they

saw us coming,” Turak whispered under cover

of the creaking of benches and the clinking of

serving spoons.

“I’m sure they watched us as closely on the

way back as they did on the way out,” Gazriel

whispered back. “They didn’t need to hassle us,

though, once we’d done what they wanted.”

“And it looks like they chose to treat us well

on arrival.”

“I’m reserving judgment, though I admit the

wine’s not bad.”

This was probably wise. His appraisal of the

wine was fair. The two men were seated at the

foot of the table, next to the youngest acolytes,

which turned out to be pleasant. After the first

few awkward minutes, the young women proved

pleasant and chatty companions, while the high-

priestess end of the table seemed to have a chilly

and formal air about it. Two of the youngest girls,

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cheerful blonde Ygraine and her dark-haired

friend Revaka, admitted that they had sought

the temple for the comfort of regular meals and

an education, rather than the hostile streets of

Pyrdian’s great city Conyf.

Conyf was the home of the Wizards’ Guild, as

well. Turak half-expected a confession of similar

history from his companion, but aside from a

few sympathetic noises, Gazriel said little and

changed the subject, asking after the spice on

the root vegetable mix although it was clearly

rosemary. Turak was mildly disappointed; in his

rambles, he’d not visited the city. The school he’d

attended was in the northern town of Martch,

where the balance of scant civilization and

freezing wilderness better suited the curriculum.

He mentioned it, to the great interest of the

girls. They had seen only as much of the world

as lay on the path to the temple. He told them

of climbing mountains and buildings. “It’s cold

in Martch in the winter,” he said. “You have to

find good gloves for climbing, just thick enough

to keep you warm with your hand on ice without

interfering with your grip. I favored weasel-hide,

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fur side in, because it isn’t too thick. Some of my

friends preferred ox-hide.”

From further up the table, a more highly-

placed priestess shushed them. Apparently

adventures outside the temple were considered

likely to put ideas in the girls’ heads. Turak

considered how many young women there were,

how few actually elderly ones, and wondered if

they suffered attrition or snakebite. If he wasn’t

supposed to speak of the outside world in

flattering tones, he certainly wasn’t to ask such

a question.

“How long have you two been traveling

together?” The girl stumbled just a little on the

verb, as though she’d wanted to ask something

else. Turak wondered just how thoroughly they

had been spied upon.

The corner of Gazriel’s mouth twitched; he’d

noticed the hesitation as well. “Since early last

autumn. Not that long, I suppose. How long

have you been here?”

“Around the same time,” Ygraine said, and

Revaka nodded. Others offered longer times,

and even the women at the middle of the table

began to compare when they had arrived and

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what had brought them. They said little of their

duties since their arrival, aside from the ordinary

activities such as tending the vegetable patch at

the edge of the woods or the orchard hidden in

a clearing. Nobody wanted to see such prosaic

things near the center of their religion or consider

that their spokesperson to their god had to eat,

making the walk to these areas a bit longer than

it might ordinarily be.

As far as Turak was concerned, they had

missed the better part of winter by going south.

“Have you ever seen Martch,” he asked Gazriel,

“or any of the northern lands?”

The question earned him a shake of the head

that set ginger wool bobbling. “I’ve seen from

Conyf to my old tower to everywhere I’ve gone

with you. If I wasn’t born in Conyf, then I don’t

know where I came from.”

“Shall we, then? It’s good country: some

highwaymen to rob, the odd bit of ruin to explore,

occasionally some mercenary work. You never

know what you’ll turn up in the mountains.”

“Sure. The question is, do we stay in Pyrdian

or veer over into Thallia, then north into Swerd?

The Guild may not have lost interest in us

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altogether just because Theravian removed the

trace. You went and corrupted a wizard, and

I went and helped kill another one. They may

even be offended that they cannot track us at the

moment.”

Though the other girls were happily chatting

with each other, the youngest was paying far

too much attention. “Can I come too?” she

whispered.

Turak realized how much he’d come to rely on

his companion for quick and accurate answers.

Gazriel was staring in blank amazement that

would get all three of them into trouble if any

higher-ranking woman—which was any of them

at all—should turn toward them. “No regular

meals, no education,” he whispered back.

She shrugged, not looking terribly put

off. “Revaka’s the one who cared about the

education.”

“Three seems to be an unlucky number for us,”

Gazriel put in. “The third person tends to get

knifed or eaten.”

She shuddered delicately and ate a few more

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bites of her meal. “I’ll meet you on the road

tomorrow morning, about a mile from here.”

Turak glanced sideways at Gazriel, who raised

an eyebrow. “Make sure you bring plenty of food

for three,” the little thief told her. “We’re pretty

well out, and the hunting’s lousy in these woods.

It’s been a lean few days.”

Turak took the hint and a second helping of

everything, trying to look properly famished.

Gazriel, naturally lean and reliably ravenous,

didn’t have to try hard. Their businesslike work

with knife, fork, and sturdy bread quelled the

conversation for a time, and the women spoke

comfortably around them. Soon the plates and

cups were cleared away by the acolytes. Turak

made himself helpful by taking the tables and

benches to the wall. For the women, the items

were heavy, for him merely awkward in their

length. The eldest priestesses looked indulgent,

as though he had performed a trick on command,

but he could feel Gazriel’s eyes on him in a far

more approving way. Then he caught Ygraine’s

smile and realized they would have to leave

rather early, and not by the road, if they meant

to avoid a serious problem

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The eldest priestess shooed them away, letting

them know they had little time to get to their

beds if they wanted to stay out of trouble,

treating them as though they were habitually

naughty little boys. Turak chose the path of

tact after wavering between anger and laughter,

though he couldn’t help feeling that most of his

classmates would definitely have begun a small

war by now. He muttered as much to Gazriel as

they made a final trip to the building at the edge

of the woods.

“Most of them would also have ended up

cursed, throat-slitted, and chopped up for snake

food, I expect. Did you notice the bows?”

To his surprise, since he usually considered

weapons important things to notice, Turak had

to admit he had not.

“There’s one to the back of each pillar, with

two crossed arrows pretending to be ornaments

behind each. It’s not a lot of arrows, but it’s quite

enough for the two of us.”

Turak frowned. He disliked archers. He

supposed women had some excuse for putting

distance between themselves and their foes, but

it still seemed a little too much like cheating.

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Perhaps his dislike was for using a hunting

weapon in combat, he concluded, as he’d been

trained to the bow himself. “Should we just keep

walking?”

Gazriel gazed ahead into the dark shape of

the woods in the night. “I would say yes, except

we left a prince’s ransom in that tiny prison cell

of a bedroom. They seem nice enough now that

they’re back in the god business; what odds

they’ll try to kill us as we sleep?”

“Something tells me that unless their

dedication ceremony requires a sacrifice of two

Knights of the Serpent, they’ll be too busy to pay

the slightest attention to us.”

Gazriel blew through his lips to express his

opinion of being a knight. “I just wish the door

opened in, so we could block it. I don’t like

leaving our security entirely up to our hostesses,

even if they did feed us nicely.”

“Me neither, but I think we can tie it to the

bedframe so it can’t be opened from the outside,

at least not without a commotion. We’ll see in a

minute.”

Turak’s pack was undisturbed, even the

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bulging bedroll that he tried to pass off as a large

blanket for a large man instead of a treasure trove

from a serpent’s belly. He found his climbing

rope, beginning to show wear, and used it to

secure the door as best he could. “There. Now

what shall we do while our new friends perform

their mysterious rites in the night?”

Gazriel looked at him as though he’d gone

mad. “Sleep?” he suggested. “This is the closest

thing to a proper bed we’ve seen in months.”

Turak laughed, the mirth bubbling up from

low in his belly and settling in to stay. “True

enough. Wall or... well, not window, as we don’t

seem to have one. Wall or apple barrel?”

“Barrel, if you don’t mind. I like the outside

edge.” Gazriel took off his outer clothes by light

of their one torch and pulled back the blanket

on the small bed. Turak hoped it would hold

both of them without breaking.

It did, and Spellslayer too; for whatever reason,

Turak found he wanted to keep the blade close,

and tucked the sheathed weapon against the wall.

As they nestled together in the companionable

pose they’d come to favor, he heard the soft beat

of a drum begin, then the wail of an eldritch

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flute. Neither was loud, and he felt able to sleep

through whatever might come. Gazriel shifted in

his arms.

Instead of slowing into the gentle rhythm of

sleep, the smaller man’s breath sped to almost

panting, his skin warm against Turak’s. He

twisted to face in, clutching Turak to himself in

a fierce embrace, his erection bluntly prodding

his friend’s thigh.

Turak tried to look into his companion’s eyes,

but the flickering torchlight only gave him gleams

in the darkness. He lifted his head, letting Gazriel

complete the embrace with an arm under his

neck, puzzled but not displeased by this sudden

rush of feeling. Gazriel threw himself closer as

though trying to meld them into a single being.

His hand bumped the sword’s pommel. Then his

embrace changed quality, losing the desperation

without shifting a hair in position.

With a shuddering gasp, he asked, “What by

all the gods ever worshipped was that?”

Turak stroked the wooly hair covering the

nape of his friend’s neck. “What, exactly?”

Through breaths still too rapid for easy

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conversation, Gazriel tried to explain. “I was

going to sleep when the drums started, I think,

and they took me to a very odd dream. I don’t

remember it, though, I’m just guessing. There

was heat, and emptiness, and I wanted so badly,

so suddenly, for you to—”

He tucked his head into Turak’s chest,

shivering. Turak kissed the crown of his head.

“And then you bumped into Spellslayer.”

Gazriel nodded, a small and smothered

motion. Turak was aware, vaguely, that Gazriel’s

eagerness in sex was half discovery and half

bravado, and something about whatever had

just happened had frightened him badly. Back

muscles lay in knots under Turak’s roaming

hand, so he tried to soothe them.

“Better?” he asked after a moment. The drum

continued its steady thud; the flute yowled.

Gazriel took a careful deep breath and nodded,

pulling away just a little, leaving his hand near

Spellslayer’s hilt.

“I’m going to see if I can find out more about

what happened,” Turak said, and carefully drew

himself up and off the bed. With the frame

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touching his calf, his leg no more than inches

from Spellslayer’s point, he felt nothing. A single

step away, and his knees nearly buckled with

a flood of sensation. Heat seemed to radiate

through the bones of his pelvis, an erotic ache, a

profound emptiness that demanded to be filled.

He felt hollow with need. He wanted to be taken,

hard, for as long as possible. He wanted to touch

himself, to please himself over and over, while

Gaz fucked him until morning. He wanted...

He staggered back to the bed and sat, unsure

whether he wanted to lose the feeling, sure

that whether he did or not, that was where he

would find Gazriel. In Spellslayer’s small field

of influence, he found himself clear-headed and

sane, though still erect. “I think,” he whispered

once his breath permitted it, “that I see why we

weren’t invited.”

Gazriel gave a rather bitter laugh. “I’m just as

glad not to be.”

He still wanted to touch, to give and receive

comfort, in the face of that feeling of emptiness.

Though he no longer felt the hollow craving, it

had left shadows inside him. He slid Spellslayer

to the middle of the bed, then lay to his side of it

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and gripped Gazriel’s shoulder. He was rewarded

with a similar caress. “Still hard?” he asked after

a moment.

“Yes.”
“So am I. Nothing unusual in that, though. I

do like our grapples, after all.”

Gazriel chuckled more warmly than last time.

“A good word for it. I don’t want to want you

because there’s some sort of orgiastic magic

going on next door, though, or want you to want

me because of it.”

Turak sorted through his feelings carefully,

aware that this was a moment where he could

say something very wrong. “I think the magic

is nullified by the sword. That’s her job, after

all. And now I just want you to touch me

because we’re somewhere comparatively warm,

comfortable, and safe, or at least free of tree roots

and leopards, and it seems a shame to waste it.”

“And,” said Gazriel thoughtfully, “if we don’t

successfully ditch Ygraine tomorrow morning,

we might not have another chance for even this

much peace and quiet for quite some time.”

“There is that. She doesn’t seem the peace-

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and-quiet type.” Turak’s forearm rested against

the scabbard of his sword, his hand an inch from

Gazriel’s crotch, the other hand still securely on

the bony shoulder. He moved that inch, then

found his way through the layer of smallclothes

to the soft skin beneath. He ran the tips of his

fingers along the bottom of the shaft, out and

back, out and back.

Gazriel arched slightly to give him a better

angle, then turned his attentions to the complex

knot of Turak’s loincloth. After a moment of

apparently poor concentration and dexterity,

he grumbled, “Would it be outside the realm of

possibility to be truly barbarous and go naked? I

can’t imagine it would be any more trouble.”

“A bit risky in combat,” Turak observed, and

paused in his caresses long enough to escape

the garment himself. Freedom felt good after

the cramped binding of his cock. “Fine for the

bedroom, though.”

“I wonder how it would have gone over at

dinner?” Gazriel mused, which struck both of

them as funny and cleared away the lingering

shadows of enchantment. Now they could be

two men in a private torchlit room, enjoying

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each other’s touches. They stayed as they were,

face to face, watching eyelids flutter in response

to a particularly fine squeeze or circling of fingers,

bringing their mouths together in occasional

experimental kisses, tongues flicking across each

other and up to the soft spot of the palate. It was

a night to be gentle with one another.

Gazriel curled his hand around Turak’s cock

and took up a rippling squeeze, moving the

pressure of his fingers without changing the

location of his hand. His long nimble fingers

and his equally nimble mind devised all sorts

of clever tricks that made Turak feel positively

clumsy and paw-handed by comparison. He

tried to lighten the touch of his sword-calloused

hands, tried to bring his thieving skills to bear.

Gazriel groaned, thrust into Turak’s grip, and

choked out, “Harder!”

Perhaps they were well-matched after all.

Turak renewed his grip and moved into the

thrusts offered to him. He could feel his climax

building, seeming to start at the soles of his

feet and roots of his hair and rolling inward in

waves slow and inexorable as the tide. He tried

to communicate this impending event with his

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hand and the touch of his lips. Gazriel moaned

into his mouth, shook beneath his hand, and

wetted his fingers with the first burst of his own

climax, and then they were together in pleasure.

The earlier feeling, the savage and lonely hollow

sensation, was altogether banished in what

seemed an ocean of warmth.

A few contented moments later, Turak blinked

at his companion, who stirred, rose, and set one

foot against Spellslayer’s sheath as he stretched

mysteriously toward the washbasin balancing on

the other. Before Turak could form a question,

it was answered with a towel dropping onto the

bed. Gazriel folded himself back and wiped the

hard leather sheath.

“Blood stains prevent trouble. I think this sort

of stain would cause more.”

“Probably. I could use a bit more trouble,

actually. The southern lands have made me soft.”

Even in near-silhouette against the torch,

Gazriel’s skeptical expression was clear. He

ran his hand over Turak’s shoulder, then chest,

tugging lightly on the fur he encountered there.

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“And the proof is you’re pulling my hair hard

enough for me to notice. Soft.”

Gazriel snorted and tossed the towel aside,

then settled back into bed. “They’re still

drumming and fluting away out there. It’s a bit

scary.”

“Just bury your imagination and go to sleep.

I’ll keep an ear out for anything unpleasant

happening, though we don’t look to be prepared

for ritual slaughter here.”

Gazriel tried to edge into his usual sleeping

position, then swore mildly. “More predictable

than tree roots, but not a bit more comfortable.”

Turak shifted the sword up on the bed a little

more, content to sleep with the guard against

his cheekbone if need be. He imagined a hot

emptiness in his toes, but it spread no higher.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thanks. And goodnight, if you can sleep

with that bloody damn awful flute. You’d think

by now the player would have figured out how.”

Turak felt that there was some profound

thought he ought to be having, something about

sharing a bed with his current partner and his

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dead first love’s sword, possibly touching lightly

on the subject of their room in the depths of a

den of serpent priestesses which his imagination

insisted were in snake form at the moment,

a great writhing heap of long scaled forms,

but this feeling of profundity drifted into the

awareness that he was dreaming, and then into

actual dreams. The drum and flute carried on,

and he believed he heard the sound of women

screaming. He felt no need to aid them.

And then one scream, different from the

others, brought him sharply awake. The debased

music had stopped. He rose to his feet, seizing

his sword reflexively, nearly rolling Gazriel off

the bed, and stripped the rope from the door. It

didn’t open.

“Damn the bar,” he announced, and rammed

the wood hard with his shoulder. There was a

crunching tearing sound from the other side,

then the sharp rattle of wood striking a stone

floor. Another blow cleared the way altogether,

the door scraping the wreckage of the bar aside

as it fell open and drooped from its damaged

hinges.

The corridor one way led to the kitchens, the

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other to a hidden door for deliveries. No sound

came from either end. He froze, keeping even

his breath as quiet as possible. In the distance,

directionless, he heard a whispering patter as

though two dozen girls scurried to bed before

their mistress could catch them up to mischief.

Nothing suggested that the scream that had

awakened him had been anything more than

a dream. He prowled the corridors on stealthy

soles, finding nothing but a few dead-of-night

torches guttering out in their brackets. The

stone was cold beneath his feet in the practical,

functional portions of the temple, the tiles colder

still in the areas of worship. The halls were filled

with a musky dockside scent that annoyed him,

and the night air held a chill that had little to do

with simple weather, but no bowls of blood or

slithering demons were revealed by his search. He

wasn’t sure what he would say if he encountered

the high priestess or her ancient advisor as he

stalked their halls carrying a naked sword, naked

himself.

In the tiny room where the women sought

visions above the serpent in its lair, he found an

empty stool and a black void. The little snake they

had captured would have to grow fast to need a

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tenth the space it was given in Turak’s lifetime,

but the women had seemed content with it. He

wondered if the creature already dwelt down

there, and felt a moment of pity for the jungle

animal set free on those cold stones and left

to catch whatever mice or rats were daring or

foolish enough to enter. The stale venom-fumes

of the previous occupant were still strong enough

to make him feel a momentary vertigo staring

down into the darkness, and he continued his

search, discounting a small noise he thought he

might have heard from below. Surely nobody

would voluntarily enter that dank and fetid place

without a torch, and any light would have been

obvious. The snake itself could not have made

the sound; it was far too small.

What he’d heard had been quite like a slither,

though.

He avoided the main room after a swift look

inside, finding only shadows and the fish-and-

copper scent that pervaded all the building.

Returning to their room, he found Gazriel dressed

and guarding their belongings with a knife ready

to throw. The little thief looked up, down, and

pointedly somewhere near the middle, then

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tossed a bundle of cloth. Turak chose to wash up

and clothe himself without comment.

“I doubt they’ll be happy about the door,”

Gazriel murmured after a while.

“I’m not happy about the scream.”
“I didn’t hear anything. It wasn’t a dream?”
“Now, I’m not certain. At the time I was quite

certain it wasn’t.”

Gazriel nodded sagely. “I dislike screams in

the night. I dislike barred doors. In fact, if you

get right down to the matter, I don’t particularly

like women, especially manipulative ones who

treat us poorly until they get what they want. The

night is old, the morning is near, and I suggest

we take a late breakfast several miles off.”

Turak took up his pack and scanned the room

for any missed objects. The bedroll was as heavy

and bulky as it ought to be; the room was bare.

He grinned at the thought of some innocent set

to wash their towels and clean the bedding, then

wondered if there might be some magical use for

what they left behind. It seemed deeply unlikely,

and Gazriel showed no concern for the soiling

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of the linens. With a nod, he followed his friend

from the room.

A faint pink tint colored the eastern sky as

they started down the road. “Ygraine will be

disappointed,” Turak remarked.

“She’ll figure out what she really wants sooner

or later, and I’m pretty sure what she wanted, she

wasn’t going to get by traveling with us.”

“Should we leave the road for a while, or do

you think it’s too early even for her energetic

self?”

“I think—” Gazriel broke off, silent for several

paces. “I think I hope she’ll be standing at the

spot in an hour or so, saying things unbecoming

to a priestess, but I very much doubt she will be

there now. And I doubt she will ever be there.”

“I thought you didn’t hear a scream.”
“I didn’t. This is just—one of those feelings.”
Turak strode on, thinking dark thoughts. “It

doesn’t seem right, leaving.”

“I know.”
It wasn’t clear whether Gazriel meant he didn’t

feel right about it either, or whether he only

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meant he knew how Turak would feel about it.

If the latter, Turak regretted his own uncertainty

about a man who knew him so well. The light

grew as his footsteps slowed. Each step kicked

up a small amount of dust, the pavers near the

temple long since given up in favor of cheap

rutted earth road. Squinting ahead, Turak could

make out a lone figure coming toward them in

the dawn.

The stranger spotted them soon after, and drew

a sword while still too far away to accomplish

more than a telltale flash with it. “Hold!” the

stranger shouted. Turak concluded that the man

was young, suffering from more bravado than

sense.

“Hold!” said the stranger once more when

close enough for conversation. He had ink-black

hair, startling blue eyes, and a powerful build.

Like Turak, he wore the classic loincloth of a

barbarian, though his sword was belted to his

hip and a quiver of arrows dangled at his back.

That made his seeming walking-stick a bowstave.

As guessed, he was indeed quite young. If he’d

meant to be a threat, he would have used that

bow.

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Gazriel stopped; Turak took another step,

weighing his reach with Spellslayer against the

stranger’s with what seemed a plain short sword.

The other man was a little taller, but not enough

to help him. “If you seek the temple of serpents,”

Turak told him, “it’s not far.”

“I do—the sister-stealing bitches.” The young

man shifted his stance. “Are you their servants?”

Turak now wished he’d stayed back that step

for Gazriel’s opinion. How seriously would they

have to take their nonconsensual knighting? He

felt no compulsions on him from any external

source, nor from his own heart. “No. Merely two

travelers who have just completed a quest. You

seek your sister?”

“Aye, and her friend. They were supposed to

wait for me to finish my training, but they grew

hungry, or bored perhaps. Have you, then, been

to this temple?”

“We have. There are about two dozen women,

with bows and arrows ready to hand. We saw no

evidence of men inhabiting the place, though

I’m sure some come to worship and to offer their

cattle. The cattle enter through a hidden door in

the base of the temple, where the serpent is kept,

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but at present the serpent is about two feet long

and easily avoided. It is difficult to approach the

place undetected, as scrying seems to be a strong

talent of theirs, but it is not impossible, a matter

of not being where they happen to be looking.”

“In other words, luck,” the younger man

said sourly. “I have little enough of that. Did

you happen to see the girls? They’re both quite

young. Revaka is dark-haired and looks a bit like

me, and Ygraine is fair.” His voice changed and

softened on the second name, making Turak

wonder which the stranger was more interested

in recovering.

“Ygraine was supposed to meet us on the road

for protection on her way to—actually, she never

said where she was going, just that she wanted to

go. We haven’t seen her yet.”

“And Revaka was

not meeting you? Unusual.

They’ve done everything together since they were

able to do anything at all.” The stranger eyed the

two travelers warily. “Who were you to them?”

“Merely dinner companions yesterday

evening, and two heavily armed men going north

this morning.”

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The stranger cast a doubtful look at Gazriel,

who carried only a belt knife openly and who

probably wouldn’t impress the average barbarian.

“Very well. I am Aron. Thank you for your –”

The underbrush beside the path lashed wildly.

Then a small figure burst from it, throwing herself

at Aron and somehow not spitting herself on his

sword. She was sobbing incoherently, but even

after brief acquaintance the two travelers could

recognize Revaka.

“They killed her,” she sniffled, once her

tears were somewhat stanched by the familiar

presence of her brother and the sturdy sword

of Turak. “They started the rite, and everything

was good, and then they spoke words about the

need for the snake to gain in size, some kind of

incantation for growing. They took her to the

edge of the pit, slashed her wrists, and threw her

in. She screamed as she fell, and it sounded like

something had happened when she hit, as though

she couldn’t speak or move. And then—I was on

the edge, and I could just see down there. She

dissolved into smoke, or something like that, and

the snake got bigger. I mean, big enough that it

could have swallowed her body, big enough to

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be her body. And then there was some sort of

silent alarm, and I followed everyone back to

the sleeping quarters because I didn’t know what

else to do. We heard

him creeping about, and I

thought about running out and telling him what

had happened, but there were just so many of

them...” She started sobbing again.

“How many of them seemed dismayed?”

Turak asked. Aron scowled at him over Revaka’s

shoulder.

She shrugged, hiccupped, and tried to think.

“A few, I guess. It was hard to tell. Ianthe and

Culla were the ones who did it. The rest of us

weren’t thinking clearly enough to understand

what was happening until it was over.”

“Did they drug you?” Aron sounded furious

at the idea. Turak decided the young barbarian

had a great deal to be furious about.

“It was an enchantment,” Gazriel contributed,

which made brother and sister start as though

they had forgotten him. “Quite powerful. We

were caught at the edge of it, but managed to

shake it. I’m sure it was stronger in the middle

of the rite.”

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Turak found that a tactful lie; there were

some things brothers didn’t need to know about

their younger sisters. “Do you mean to take your

sister to safety now, or do you seek to avenge

Ygraine?”

“Safety? Where might that lie?” Aron said

wryly. He handed the bowstave and quiver

to his sister, who took them with no trace of

awkwardness. She strung the bow, plucked

the string, and listened to the faint hum with

the smile of a musician who has missed her

instrument. “Do you mean to join us, or go on?”

Turak looked to Gazriel, who looked

uncomfortable. Left to himself, the barbarian

was obliged to help his fellow if asked, and he

already had been tempted to do exactly what

justice now called for. The wizard might see it

differently—the thief, if that’s what Gazriel felt

he was today, might see it very differently. This

sort of mission tended to be fatal for the doer as

often as for the target. On the other hand, a band

of four stood a much better chance of success

than a band of two.

“I rather liked the girl,” Gazriel admitted after

a moment. “Let’s go back and get ourselves killed

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over her, shall we?” The brother and sister stared

at him as though they had never seen such a

creature. They probably hadn’t.

The four of them started down the road to the

temple once more, Aron leading the way, Turak

and Gazriel having a

sotto voce conference of

sorts in the rear. “You don’t have to be involved,”

Turak said.

“I knew you wanted to be, and that it’s your

sort of thing. I didn’t think you should have to

give up a perfectly good bloodbath for me.”

“Only the senior priestesses, I think, unless

the others make problems. I might not blood my

sword at all.”

“If you’re the third one into the room, you

might not. Those two seem keen enough to do

it all themselves, don’t they? I suppose I can’t

blame them.” Gazriel shrugged. “I wonder what

it’s like to have a sister? I suppose that’s part of

why I’m coming along. I wouldn’t know if I had

one, so there’s no ruling out that any fair-skinned

girl from Conyf isn’t my kin.”

Turak chuckled. “You didn’t look much alike.

Still, I liked the girl too. Perhaps not enough to

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willingly travel with her for days or weeks, but

enough to avenge her death.”

Gazriel made a face. “Yes, it really is much

easier to think about dying for her than it is to

consider living with her, isn’t it? Perhaps that’s

why I feel guilty enough to come along.”

“Regardless, I think it’s time to plan.”
“Did you happen to find a passageway from

the snake’s den to the main part of the temple? It

seems to me there must be one.”

“Go in through the livestock entry and up,

then? I would guess there is such a passage, but

didn’t find it either time.”

“Well, we have a perfectly good guide to the

place,” Gazriel observed, and called to their

leaders. “Revaka! Is there a way up from the

serpent’s quarters?”

“There is.” She grinned back at them. “It leads

right to Ianthe and Culla’s quarters, actually, the

little sleeping nooks off the main barracks room.

It’s too late in the morning for anyone to be in

there, but it seems like a good place to start. The

only problem is the snake.”

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“Is it a problem? I mean, can you charm it as a

priestess of the religion? It would be a shame to

have gone to all that trouble to get it and then

have to kill it,” Gazriel said. Turak wondered if

he’d become fond of the venomous little animal

after carrying it across a continent or so.

“Only those with the Gift of the Serpent can

calm the snake,” the girl said doubtfully, “and I

don’t know that I’m one of those. I hadn’t been

there long enough to find out.”

“Are we better off walking up to the front door

by day, or hanging back until nightfall and trying

the passage past the snake?”

She considered for a moment. “Probably

waiting until nightfall. Right now everyone

would be scattered between duties and rest, and

there’s no telling where to find our targets. At

night, we’ll know right where everyone is.”

“In that case,” Turak suggested, “we should

probably rest as well. We’re close enough for now;

if we keep going, we’re likely to be noticed.”

Aron tossed back an irritated glance, but it had

seemed natural to take charge. Turak had been

to the temple before, knew the general area, and

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had some ten years more experience in getting

into trouble and getting out alive than Aron did.

The younger barbarian led the way off the road

and to a clearing. Gazriel volunteered for the

first watch. The others settled in for catnaps in

the shade. The spring sun was pleasing on Turak’s

skin and made his eyelids glow red as he dozed.

He wasn’t sure if he dreamed or merely gathered

some very peculiar wool, but the thoughts were

forgotten instantly when Gazriel nudged him

for a turn at watch. He blinked himself back to

clarity, then spent some time watching spring

unfold around a complete lack of enemies. This

sort of quest, full of warm sun and buzzing bees,

would bore him eventually. He wouldn’t turn

down this moment, though, since there would

be enemies aplenty soon enough. Sometime after

noon, he shook Aron awake for a turn, wondered

if the priestesses had employed their scrying

glass—though there was nothing he could have

done differently if they had—and sharpened his

blades until he was ready for action.

At sunset they set out once more, creeping

more stealthily toward the temple. With Revaka’s

guidance and the gibbous moon topping the

trees, they had no need of a torch as they crossed

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the broad grassy expanse to the temple’s hidden

entrance. Turak prepared a torch, flint, and

steel while Gazriel pulled the stone serpent that

raised the stone slab door. Then, remembering

something, he cast about. The large chunk

of rock he’d used as a prop last time had not

been moved any great distance, and he rolled

it back to protect their escape route. Aron gave

him a grudgingly approving look. Revaka, as

they passed under the shelter of the lifted slab,

pointed out a lever the two men had missed on

their previous trip.

Turak thought it more likely that the high

priestess could sabotage a lever than that she

could move his boulder. Nobody objected when

he left it where it was.

He lit the torch, throwing eccentric shadows

until the flame settled to a steady burn. Aron

lit a second one from the first. In the distance,

they could hear something moving, and he

remembered the previous snake’s great bulk.

Unless the new one had been fed half a village

by magical means in the space of the past day, he

thought it couldn’t be that size yet. For purely

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practical reasons, he hoped their snake wouldn’t

bother them. He’d fought enough reptiles.

Nearer, he heard the sound of scales on stone

floor once again and cursed his vain hopes.

Gazriel stepped forward, the little fool, as

though a snake stick and his erratic magic were

proof against what lay ahead. Revaka joined

him, their shadows long in the torchlight. She

began a chant, swaying, the rhythm so hypnotic

that the whole party began to move in its grip.

The light played forward until it touched a blunt

scaly nose, and it too swayed.

Turak felt his breath stick in his throat. He

wished he’d had Gazriel carry the torch, or

that Spellslayer was a short sword instead of a

greatsword. He took his largest knife in hand.

Aron had been carrying his sword in a light

relaxed position since they had entered, but

now he was on guard and prepared to strike the

viper.

It let them pass, and it followed them. It

didn’t interfere, merely kept at the edge of their

torchlight, its enlarged scales scraping along the

stone floor and occasionally rasping at the pillars.

The sound itself made the hairs on Turak’s arms

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stir uncomfortably. Even after a month with the

serpent for travel companion, he still didn’t like

the creature.

Revaka led them forward in a swaying

chanting glide, her miniature army for storming

the might of this insane fortress. Reaching the

stairs, she paused, a fluid motion indicating that

the men should go first.

She had handled the snake; it was right that

the mad priestesses should be theirs. Aron

bounded up to the small wooden door, checking

it by light of his torch, then shied when Gazriel

silently appeared beside his elbow. Though

Turak could hear only the faintest rustle of soft

clothing or whispers, the two apparently reached

an agreement. Gazriel stepped back, and Aron

broke down the door in a sudden powerful rush.

Turak ran up after, leaping over the remains of

door and bar even as both finished their clatter

to the floor.

Ianthe and Culla, strong-faced woman and

savage-faced crone, sat up in their beds. Turak

felt a brief fury of pleasure at their astonished

expressions. He threw aside his torch into the

hanging garments beside the door and swept his

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sword free of its sheath. There was barely room

to swing without endangering Aron, who leapt at

Culla. She raised her hand in a warding gesture.

To Turak’s surprise, Aron froze where he was,

sword raised, off balance.

“Knights of the Serpent, obey your bonds!”

Ianthe spoke the words, and Turak felt a thrill

in his arms from Spellslayer. He could see

Gazriel go rigid beside him. Manipulation—and

manipulation of his friend, no less! The woman’s

triumphant smile had no time to fade or flinch

before Spellslayer struck deeply into her neck,

though again there was the shocking tingle

radiating from the hilt. Red lightnings forked

out from the path of his stroke, blinding him

for a moment. He whirled Spellslayer before

him, blinking spots from his eyes, and felt yet a

third eerie surge as a curse was cut in half. The

other woman had been on the bed now before

his feet—he barked his shins painfully on it

before it became clear to him in the glow from

the burning robes—so he slashed downward.

There was a strange resistance, then the sound

of firewood snapping. The old woman had

somehow left her staff in the bed in her place and

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fled without its aid. He turned to find her, the

room coming clear despite the green afterimages

still stabbing across his vision with each blink.

He cast about wildly, found her behind Aron.

There was a soft grunt. The immobilized young

man folded softly to the ground. Culla slipped

from behind him with a bloody knife—Aron’s

own—in her hand. With contemptuous grace,

almost slithering, replacing her earlier tottering

gait, she struck for the frozen Gazriel.

Turak struck, aware he was too late, that even

his speed was not enough to cross this small room

in time to beat her one short stroke. The rapids of

Time flowed into boggy slackness, and the firelit

knife swung in an arc for the heart. Turak could

feel the point of his sword reaching her, slicing

into her clothing, slicing into her flesh, too late

to halt her blow.

His rush brought all three of them to the floor,

the old woman gasping in rattling half-breaths as

the greatsword swung her clear of the men. The

point grounded an inch beside Gazriel.

“A bit close, don’t you think?” he asked

conversationally.

Turak, on his knees, stared at him. Gazriel’s

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hand was locked around the old woman’s wrist,

the other on the hilt of the knife he had buried

deeply in her heart. Blood spurted twice, then

trickled darkly over his fingers. “I thought she

had you.”

“Playing frozen is the next best thing to

playing dead, and in this case far more plausible.

The binding didn’t last any longer than Ianthe

did.” His face crumpled and he swallowed hard.

“Bugger knowing their names. That doesn’t make

it easier.”

Turak pushed the body aside further and

freed his blade. Gazriel simply let go of the knife,

leaving it where it was. “How about that they were

sacrificing human beings to the goal of making

their serpent large enough to give them enough

venom to have their visions?” Turak growled.

“How about that the old goat was trying to stick

a knife in you at the time and had just killed our

companion? Do those make it any easier?”

“I knew what would happen when we turned

back.”

Turak clapped him on the back, not too hard,

and squeezed his shoulder. “Poor Revaka. Her

friend and her brother in the space of a day.”

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Gazriel checked the young man on the floor,

and Turak let his hopes be raised for an instant.

Then Gazriel stood and shook his head. “Poor

Revaka.”

Neither had spoken loudly, but the temple

was still, and the name had carried down the

stairs. The fight itself, Turak realized, had made

very little sound. Revaka crested the stairs, took

in the burning fabric, the empty beds, and the

bodies, and rushed to her brother with a wail.

There was nothing to say in consolation.

Turak caught Gazriel’s eye and tipped his head

toward the small broken door by which they had

entered. Gazriel held up his hand and peered

down, then leapt back. He gestured toward the

other door, leading into the main sleeping area.

The darkness at the stairs down changed shape

and gathered substance.

Turak threw open the far door beside the

now-blazing clothing and scooped up the

guttering torch on the floor. His mind painted

fresh pictures of demon horrors before his eyes

identified the shadow as the head of the viper

following its young mistress.

“Wait,” Revaka said, her voice commanding

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enough to make Turak pause an instant, just an

instant, to see what she intended. “I would speak

with you before you go.”

Despite her tears, her voice was steady. He

found himself nodding, surprised by the force of

her presence. The fire appeared unable to catch

anything beyond the hanging clothes; he chose

to let the stone wall and floor confine the flames,

though the room reeked of burning wool.

She patted the head, dog-sized and doglike,

that had followed her up, then told the snake,

“Accept this offering, though it lives not, to give

you strength and length beyond your years.”

Turak blinked. Snakes disliked dead meat, he

thought, and Revaka seemed to be including not

only the dead priestesses in her offer but also her

brother. The serpent’s head wove, the vast tongue

flicking over each corpse in turn. Revaka spread

her hands over Culla, then thrust them toward

the snake. It finished its inspection and began to

back and arch itself down into its lair.

The elder priestess’s body glowed a dull red,

then softened into mist. The cloud flowed into

the air and down, pursuing the snake. Revaka

repeated the words and gesture over Ianthe to

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the same effect. Then she knelt once more beside

her brother, her hair hiding her face as she said

her silent farewells.

“Accept this offering, though it lives not, to

give you length and strength beyond your years,”

she said once more, her voice shaking only a little.

Her brother’s body faded and lifted, rippling

slightly in some current of air Turak could

barely feel against his skin. It seemed to hover

a moment in regret, though that may have been

only a fancy, before it too poured itself through

the broken door and down. Revaka stood, taking

up her brother’s fallen sword and its belt.

“Knights of the Serpent,” she said, her lips

now quirking slightly upward, “if you wish to

stay, a place may be made for you.”

Turak shook his head. “We have other errands

in the world.”

“I expected so. Still, it would have been handy

to have you around to secure my status as high

priestess.”

Turak sneaked a look at Gazriel, who had

one eyebrow lifted in surprise. “That’s rather a

promotion,” the little thief remarked.

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“It is. However, the high priestess must have

the Gift of the Serpent, and anyone who wishes

to challenge my claim will have to prove herself

with a stroll into the labyrinth.”

“Which no doubt reduces the potential

challengers,” Gazriel mused aloud, “and even

more so the actual ones.”

She smiled at them, though it was a weak and

watery smile. “Exactly. Do you wish to spend the

night, or would a clearing in the woods seem

more wholesome to you at present?”

“We’ll be on our way,” Gazriel said for them

both, and Turak made no objection. His knees

felt watery still from his partner’s brush with

death. He knew Gazriel took chances, and

suspected he took rather more of them when

nobody was looking. Still, seeing the knife on its

deadly path was a new experience. He wanted to

be free of the red stone temple and all its smells:

snakeskin, women, incense, death. He wanted to

hear owls and tree leaves in his night and have

his path lit by the waning moon. His skin shrank

from these history-filthed walls.

“This temple was once the home to funerals

of its worshippers, not the charnel house it has

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become. I mean to restore it.” Revaka escorted

them to the door. “I’ll try to make sure you can

treat your Knighthood—which I don’t think

you had any intention of getting?—as an honor,

not an embarrassment.”

Turak tried to think of some smooth and

plausible thing to say, and found nothing. Gazriel

elbowed him discreetly, then dragged him down

into a kneeling pose which, he realized belatedly,

was probably appropriate to knights taking their

leave. Revaka smiled at them once more, then

thrust the sword at Gazriel.

“It has no virtues that I know of,” she told him,

“besides a keen edge and good steel. You might

find more use in it than I would, and I have no

wish to keep it. May you have more good of it

than my brother.”

Gazriel took it with more wariness than he

had shown toward the young viper. “Thank you,”

he said, his voice strained. Turak tried to decide

whether the smaller man was trying to hold in

grief for a fallen comrade or mirth at what he

would believe the sheer incongruity of himself

with a sword.

Belting the thing on ruined any remaining

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sense of ceremony, as the belt needed a new hole

and the scabbard had to be adjusted to keep its

tip from the ground. A short sword for a man of

Aron’s build was not for one the size of Gazriel.

Turak smiled at the thought of teaching him

to use the weapon. His companion was a quick

learner and agile, strong enough to manage the

weapon. Rewarding good work tended to be

pleasing for both of them.

Soon they were on the road once more, the

ground striped with treacherous moon-shadows

and the air heavy with a subtle humidity that

spoke of clouds to follow. Revaka had taken them

to the kitchens with the soft-footed ingenuity of

an acolyte, citing her authority as high priestess as

reason enough to gift them several days’ supplies,

and the food weighed the pack on his shoulder

in a comforting way. Turak took a deep breath

of the clean air, smelling leaf-mould and a faint

scent of flowers. Beside him, Gazriel sneezed

mightily.

“North?” Turak asked before they reached the

crossroad. The woods had straggled to an end,

and now they entered dryer, half-bald grazing

land.

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“North. Other than that, I have no preference

whatever. Somewhere free of snakes, where the

humans are sacrificed in the name of commerce

instead of eldritch powers, perhaps.”

“How about somewhere the humans till the

soil and the snakes, while rare, are feathered and

toothless? I feel I would like to show you where

I come from, and perhaps then to see where you

do.”

“That second part might be difficult, as I’m

not sure it’s Conyf in the first place, and if it is,

there’s probably still a price on our heads from

the Guild for my indiscretion of helping you kill

Slava and your indiscretion of indiscretion. Still,

it might be interesting.”

“North, then,” Turak said, and turned

accordingly. To one side, the moon sank behind

the tops of lurking clouds, limning their edges

in pale gold; to the other, the horizon blushed.

One bird scolded, then another. Somewhere in

the distance, a dog barked, and Turak spied a

small village in a hollow on the winding eastern

road, its smoke slightly pink in the growing light.

Soon they would bring out their sheep, man and

boy leading the flock while the dogs kept the

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beasts in line and out of the village gardens. He

had once been that boy. While that life had not

been his, he still felt a deep respect for it.

His parents and brothers would neither mind

seeing him nor mind his departure once they’d

wrung all the good help from his muscles. They

might not be as welcoming to Gazriel, but they

would be polite while they figured out what use

he was. The Krolls were a practical family.

Gazriel was apparently thinking other and

impractical thoughts. “We should have camped

in the woods,” he remarked. “I don’t see anything

resembling privacy for miles.”

Turak grinned. “I know this road. Past the bend

around the hill, there’s a river bottom and any

number of good places to camp in peace, though

we may be visited by the odd strayed sheep and

collecting sheepdog. Private enough?”

“Quite.”

End

About the Author

V. Greene is a liberal in Georgia, a musician,

and an over-degreed fantasy writer. The author’s

first male/male story was for a fan fiction

challenge; it was fun and worth doing again.

Book Excerpts

Following are some excerpts of other hot m/m

erotic romance titles from Shadowfire Press.

If you enjoyed

Spellslayer 2:Revenge of the

Serpent Priestess by V. Green you might also Fire

and Water by V. Greene.

Sir Campion thinks his dragon-slaying quest

is probably a bust. What he finds jousts him out

of his complacency.

A daydreaming knight on a dragonslaying

quest finds something he wasn’t counting on.

Stripped of his usual self-defining belongings,

he must ask himself what he really wants—and

what he can do about it.

Here is an excerpt of

Fire and Water.

Sir Campion’s saddle smacked him on the

bottom as his horse shied. He returned the

favor smartly between the brute’s ears, his armor

Book Excerpts

clattering. He missed his last warhorse, much

better trained and much better tempered, but

Brutus had taken a lance’s splinter to his hind leg

and bled to death on the spot six months ago.

This one, he was about to give up and rename

Dinner.

Dinner, here, wasn’t going to be much use

on the current quest, if quest there was. Rumor

had come of a dragon near a village, toasting the

livestock and demanding the usual parade of

virgins. Campion had experience with rumor. He

fully expected a large adder. Still, a young knight

could hardly scoff at the orders of his king, so

here he was getting spanked by this brute of a

horse for days on end. His squire had abandoned

him two villages ago, there one minute and gone

the next. Campion now hoped the dragon was

only an adder. Not all his armor could be put on

without help, and some clanked in rigged-up ties

to his saddlebags.

He was getting close, if the dodgy map was

any good at all. The hills came together just so,

and the stream flowed beside the road more or

less as promised. He could see a campfire’s smoke

ahead and wondered if some other knight had

Book Excerpts

beaten him to the scaled menace whether dragon

or snake. The sun was getting low, so a campfire

and the company it promised was all the more

welcome to him.

He would have preferred an inn, and a willing

innkeeper’s daughter— or son. Being a squire

had taught Campion not to be choosy; being

a knight had taught him it was better to give

than receive. Perhaps whoever had the campfire

would be in a cooperative frame of mind, and

they could pass a bit of the evening—Campion

snickered to himself—playing Hunt The Adder.

He pressed on, leaving the road to wind

through the scrubby trees. They seemed stunted

and often made him crush himself down beside

his horse’s neck. The smoke was no longer visible;

the sky itself was barely visible. He’d set himself

on a good course, though, and felt confident of

his direction. He began to smell his goal.

The growth grew thicker, full of the plants that

like more sun. Though Dinner balked, Campion

heeled him sharply through the blackberry

canes. The infernal beast had a breastplate for

protection, after all. The horse broke into a

clearing of tumbled stone. Before Campion

Book Excerpts

could fully register what he was seeing, Dinner

screamed in panic and reared. Its left hind hoof

slipped on a stone. Campion was thrown free,

thanking his lucky stars in the instant before

he met the ground that the horse seemed to

be going the other way. His helmet rang with

the impact against a rock, rang right through

his skull, blackening out the world. He had an

instant to think he hurt, and then nothing.

Or you might enjoy

Slave to the Crown by

Katica Locke.

The heir to the goblin king, Mair’s survival lies

in the hands of a faerie captive.

Mair is the half-faerie son of the goblin king’s

sister, a product of rape at the hands of their

enemy, the sidhe, and the last person that the

goblin horde wants to see sit upon the throne.

When the king is killed in battle and all of his

sons die squabbling for the crown, Mair finds

Book Excerpts

himself the sole heir to the throne—a position

that he neither wants nor is likely to survive.

To make matters worse, he is presented with a

slave to see to his

needs—a mute sidhe soldier

captured in battle—and Mair is again reminded

of how much he resembles the enemy.

The sidhe, Zakatri, is not as stupid and

bloodthirsty as Mair expects, and they strike an

uneasy alliance. If Zak can keep Mair alive until

the coronation ceremony, Mair will grant the

faerie his freedom in return. But will his bitter

and vengeful half-goblin heart allow Mair to

keep his promise, or will Zak’s only reward be a

goblin dagger between his ribs?

Forced to share his bed with the bound and

naked slave in order to keep up pretenses, Mair

suffers a moment of weakness and succumbs

to the desires of the flesh, never imagining the

consequences of this one thoughtless act.

Here is a short excerpt of

Slave to the Crown.

Mair woke slowly, rising through the fog

of sleep to discover his cheek against a warm

Book Excerpts

shoulder, his arm around a lean waist, the scent of

sweat and yam filling his nostrils. For a moment,

he had no idea where he was or what was

happening, and then he remembered the faerie

in his bed. During the night, Zak had rolled onto

his side, facing away from Mair, and Mair had

moved across the bed and curled up behind him.

Mair’s mouth went dry and his heart began to

pound as he realized that he was aroused. He had

his pants on, but still...his erection was pressed

against Zak’s bare ass.

And worse, his hand was wrapped around the

sidhe’s shaft, Zak’s manhood hard and hot against

his palm. Mair didn’t move, not sure what to do.

He didn’t want to wake his slave and have to deal

with the accusing looks. This wasn’t his fault; it

was an accident. Before he could decide upon a

plan of action, Zak let out a breath, almost as if

he’d been holding it, and began to move his hips,

his ass rubbing against the bulge in the front of

Mair’s trousers as he humped Mair’s hand.

Mair jerked back.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded,

his voice echoing in the stillness of the room.

For a long moment, Zak just lay there, his whole

Book Excerpts

body stiff and tense. Finally, he rolled onto his

back and stared up at Mair. Even in the guttering

torchlight and the glow of the fireplace, Mair

could see the dark blush upon his skin. The faerie

licked his lips, his eyes darting to Mair’s face and

away again before he took a deep, shuddering

breath.

Please, he mouthed, and pulled at the restraints,

the chains clinking together. Mair glanced down

at Zak’s arousal, evident beneath the covers, and

he could just imagine what would happen if he

let the sidhe go.

“Forget it,” Mair said. “I don’t feel like getting

raped tonight.” Zak let his breath out in an angry

hiss, his restraints chiming as he jerked at them.

Mair watched him, lying there helpless, unable

to do a damn thing about his arousal, and he

felt himself grow harder. He also felt a stirring

of pity, though he wasn’t sure which compelled

him to reach beneath the covers and take Zak in

hand once more.

“Just this once,” Mair whispered, and Zak

gasped, tensing as Mair began to stroke him.

The faerie stared at him, his expression flitting

between lust, fear, and shame, but his wide,

Book Excerpts

dark eyes held only desperation. His lips were

parted, his breath coming in short, ragged

gasps. Almost without realizing it, Mair moved

closer, hesitantly rolling back the furs to expose

Zak’s long, lean body. He writhed, legs shifting

restlessly, his body taut as a drum as Mair’s eyes

swept over him. He wasn’t nearly as ugly as Mair

had first thought.

Bronze skin glistened with sweat, glowing in

the firelight, his muscles hard and well defined.

Breathless, Mair licked his dry lips, his heart

hammering as he leaned down and kissed Zak’s

navel, drawing a strangled gasp from the faerie’s

lips. His tongue flicked out, tasting salt on Zak’s

skin, but it wasn’t the sidhe’s stomach he wanted

under his tongue.

Or you might enjoy Kris Klein’s bittersweet

erotic contemporary gay story,

Heart & Seoul.

A game of sexual revenge on a married hunky

Asian teaches Michael the fine line between sweet

and bittersweet.

Book Excerpts

A late-night phone call, out of the blue, brings

amateur photographer Michael face to face with

The One That Got Away. Hunky twenty-seven

year old straight--and very married-- Asian

beauty Daniel, who shunned both Michael and

his potential job offer over a year ago. Now Dan

needs a favor, and with the fire between his legs

rekindled Michael is only too willing to help...

provided Dan is willing to give him a little

something in return. But revenge can be a tricky

thing, as can affairs of the heart, and Michael

learns a lesson in sweet versus bittersweet during

an afternoon he will never forget.

Here is a short excerpt of

Heart & Seoul.

Never have I spent so much time getting

ready for someone. I was up by seven the next

morning, showering and shaving and getting my

hair just right. I couldn’t even drink the coffee

I’d made—my morning staple—because I was

so nervous. As I created several different looks

in my bedroom mirror, trying to figure out what

would look the most casual yet good on me, a

glance at the clock told me time was going by

Book Excerpts

fast. Slipping on my favorite pair of faded jeans

and a deep-blue Abercrombie & Fitch tee, along

with a pair of white socks over my size-ten feet, I

noticed my hands were trembling slightly.

Shit,

this guy had better show! I thought, as I jumped

to throw all the discarded clothes I’d put on into

my closet in a vain attempt to spruce up my messy

bedroom. I was heading downstairs, glancing at

the clock that hangs over my computer desk in

the living room, when the doorbell rang and I

about jumped out of my skin. The clock read

exactly 9:01. Maybe I was in control now, after

all.

I grabbed a quick glimpse of myself in the

hall mirror, as I headed to the door on shaky

legs. Everything seemed in place, including my

normally-unruly blonde hair; in fact, I looked

pretty darn good. Wow, would I be pissed if it

had all been for nothing.

I reached the door, wrapping my right hand

around the big brass-colored knob in a tight fist.

Closing my eyes a moment to gather myself, I

took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through my

lips. Only then did I open the heavy oak door of

Book Excerpts

my town home, not even daring to look through

the peephole first.

And there he was. Looking even more

handsome, more masculine, and infinitely sexier

than he had over a year ago. He was smiling—

Daniel was always smiling—and since he’s

Korean, the effect it had on the twenty-seven-

year-old’s eyes—closing them to mere slits—

made me dizzy. I mean, this man was

obscenely

handsome. Square-jawed and close to six-feet

in height, his hair was jet black and styled

conservatively. Combed neatly but with short,

spiky bangs hinting at the boy inside. His teeth

were perfectly even and white, making his smile

luminous. Which was what had knocked me on

my ass from day one, about Daniel; he was, quite

simply, one of the best-looking, hottest men I’d

ever laid eyes on.

But the hotness didn’t stop with the face—oh

no, as he stood there smiling at me, I quickly

took in the fact that, if anything, his body had

gotten even more spectacular since I’d last seen

him. Broad-shouldered and v-shaped in frame,

Daniel wore a white and navy blue-striped form-

fitting dress shirt, the first two buttons opened

Book Excerpts

to reveal a pumped up, smooth chest. The shirt

stretched tightly over his muscular frame...as did

the deep-blue jeans he wore, which hugged him

so tightly, an erection would have been nearly

impossible. The jeans had too much work to

do already, encasing as they did his perfect, big,

bubble-butt ass and thick calves. I’d seen photos

of Daniel in nothing but workout shorts, and

trust me—the taut clothing he now wore only

hinted at the rock-hard body they barely held

in check. Shiny black leather loafers and white

socks encased his big feet, which I was guessing

were at least a twelve in size.

I smiled back, trying to hide my shaking hands

behind my back. It was like I was in love all over

again. “Hey Daniel,” I said. I did not invite him

in. “How have you been, man?”

He nodded, still grinning, though I

now noticed something darker in his eyes

–nervousness? He probably was, considering

the reason he was here. “I’m cool, I’m cool

Michael... Uh, can I come in?”

I shrugged, stepping aside; this time, I was

determined to be casual. At least, at first. “Sure

Book Excerpts

man—come on in,” I said, motioning for him to

enter.

I led the way to the living room, mind racing

with the plan I’d lain awake the night before

working on. We settled on my couch together,

Daniel on one end and me on the other, and the

game began.

You might also enjoy the cyberpunk/futuristic

erotic gay romance

Zoner, the first book of the

Through Neon Eyes series by Michael Barnette.

David Jessman has everything a man could

want... except love.

David Jessman has it all. A great job, a

wonderful home and wealth. What he doesn’t

have is a lover to share his life.

Bells is a gunwhore, a bodyguard and whore

rolled into a single, neat package. He has nothing

but his guns and a rather special set of skills.

When fate brings them together, neither man

could have predicted the startling outcome.

Book Excerpts

Here is a short excerpt from

Zoner.

The door chimed and the EnCoSet’s gender

neutral voice spoke, “You have a visitor.”

Jessman’s heart jumped.
He took a deep breath, hurried to the couch

and sat. “You may let him in.”

There was a soft click, and the door swung

soundlessly open.

He was smaller than Jessman had anticipated,

maybe 5’7”, and he was dressed all in dully

gleaming black leather. His hair was the color of

cornsilk and fell in a mass of tight braids down

over his shoulders, down his chest almost to

the archaic looking gunbelt that rode his slim

hips. Fastened in the wild tangle of braids were

dozens of tiny silver bells, a riot of feathers and

neon bright glass beads the shade of a simvideo

summer sky.

“Hello, Mr. Jessman.” His voice was a dulcet

tenor, bordering on a baritone. Low and sexy.

Book Excerpts

Jessman stared, his dark eyes widening. This

wasn’t what he had expected. Not at all.

This gunwhore was supposed to be the best

money could buy. Somewhere between a body

guard and a common prostitute, a gunwhore

was supposed to be the ultimate in personal

protection, and sexual partnership all rolled up

in one neat package. This one was reputed to be

the best his agent could locate from out of the

morass of crushing poverty that was the Liberty

City FreeZone; a lawless part of the city where

survival was determined with fists, feet, knives,

and guns. He’d expected a ruggedly scarred

man, not the beautiful boy who was standing

before him now. This wasn’t a real FreeZoner.

Couldn’t be. The boy was probably just one of

the company’s many prostitutes, all dressed up to

play at being a FreeZoner to keep an employee

happy—and safe. Jessman sighed and tried to

hide his disappointment.

Neon bright eyes the color of summer

lightning gazed at him from a behind half-closed

eyelids. The brilliant color of those eyes left no

doubt in Jessman’s mind. This boy had probably

never even

seen the FreeZone, much less lived

Book Excerpts

there. Neon color like that cost plenty of money.

More than a FreeZoner would see in a lifetime.

“Come in,” he managed to say as he stood

to greet his visitor, his momentary lapse in

composure quickly replaced with the smooth

politeness of a man used to the politics of the

corporate ladder. He was still disappointed, but

he’d make the best of the situation.

The young man stepped into the apartment,

his eyes taking in the luxuriousness of the

thick cream colored carpeting, the dark leather

upholstered furniture and the glass and brass

tables. Expensive neo-renaissance prints hung

on the off-white walls. The neon lighting of the

youth’s eyes burned over everything, as if making

permanent digital visual records of the scene, his

eyes missing nothing of importance.

Jessman held his hand out as though greeting

a business associate.

The boy’s cool gaze caused him to withdraw

his offered hand.

Well trained to his role as a Zoner, Jessman

thought.

Well, two can play the game. Jessman

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decided they would both play their roles, even if

all they were doing was playing.

“Would you like to have a drink?” Jessman

asked. “I have some scotch and a bit of

bourbon.”

“Either is fine,” the boy replied, the rich

quality of his voice softly modulated. Jessman

decided it was a cyber-enhancement too, and

he wondered what else the youth had enhanced.

Speculation sent a thrill though Jessman.

Maybe

this will turn out better than I have anticipated.

He poured them both drinks and discovered

that he was shaking a bit. Even though the boy

wasn’t what he had expected, his beauty and

grace sent a shock of wanting though Jessman.

Yes, this might just turn out all right.

You can buy

Fire and Water by V. Greene, Slave

to the Crown by Katica Locke, Heart & Seoul by

Kris Klein and

Zoner, Book One in the Through

Neon Eyes series by Michael Barnette along with

other fine m/m and gay erotic romance titles

from:

Book Excerpts

Shadowfire Press
Enter the Shadows...
Set your imagination on Fire
http://www.shadowfirepress.com