Читать книгу Dragon Desire - Lisette Ashton - Страница 6

Caitrin stole into the mage’s private offices with the stealth of a noble Greek hero on a bold and daring quest. She was Jason retrieving the Golden Fleece from Colchis; she was Odysseus plundering the harbour of the Laestrygonian’s island; she was Theseus venturing into the labyrinth at Crete. Caitrin quivered with the excitement of what she might achieve.

She had slipped past the mead-asleep guard at the base of the stairs and tiptoed up the stone steps of the tower. She had kept to the shadows of the unsconced stairwell, wary that her errand would be hard to explain if she met the wrong pair of eyes. Softly, she whispered to the gods that protected Blackheath with a prayer that her actions would be fruitful but unnoticed.

And it was as easy as sunset.

The lock on the thick oak door was no trouble. She used the pin from the brooch on the breast of her kirtles to force the tumblers into an easy acquiescence. The brooch showed three maids carrying water: gold on an enamelled crimson background.

The tumblers clicked noisily as she worked them into submission.

Accompanied by the sigh of the age-old hinge as it complained about the door’s movement, Caitrin crept cautiously into the mage’s lair.

It was a room she had visited many times before, but never alone. The air was sweetened by scents of cinnamon and spent candles. A brass spyglass stood in one window. She saw a crystal ball, an astrological chart and the paraphernalia of divination tools cluttering a central counter. Wooden shelves lined the walls. All of them were filled to the brink of catastrophe with jars, books and ancient scrolls.

Her heartbeat quickened.

Not for the first time that month, she was touched by the thrill of knowing she was engaged in a forbidden act. The blood rushed more quickly through her veins. A heated longing surged in her loins. The sultry wetness of need blossomed in her sex and its insistence forced her to hold her breath. But now was not the time to suffer arousal, she told herself. Now was not the time to be distracted by the siren call of her constant sexual excitement.

For this moment she had to remain focused.

There was enough twilight lingering in the sky to keep the room well-lit. She guessed that the windows in the east and west walls kept the tower room bright from dawn until dusk. Through the east window she could see the oncoming night sky as sable as the cloaks worn by the castellan’s Order of Dark Knights. The tower room’s formidable height allowed her to see the glow and flicker of torches lighting cottage windows up to the fiefdom’s walls and beyond. If there had been a glimpse of Jack-o’-Lantern or Jenny-Burnt-Tale in the Howling Forest to the east of the fiefdom, Caitrin knew she would have seen both of those spectres from this vantage point.

The west window stared out to the silvered waves that rippled on the Last Sea. The day’s sinking sun sizzled into the horizon beyond. She could see the silhouette masts and sails of knörr, cogs and hulc idling in the harbour. She could see a faraway crew were working on furling the sail of a large birlinn that dominated the port this evening. The west window showed the taverns and trading square of Blackheath’s commercial streets. But it was the distant harbour with the glittering seas and the lazily pitching and yawing boats where her gaze lingered.

The sky through this window was a blaze of brilliant yellows, fading up through a spectrum of darkening peaches and lowering reds. Caitrin was struck by a sudden and stinging certainty that her destiny lay in the direction of the harbour.

The idea caused a prickle of icy foreboding to tickle down her spine.

Shaking her head, knowing there was no time to be wasted admiring the view from the mage’s offices and speculating on the uncertainties of tomorrow, Caitrin hurried to the shelves on the north wall and studied the jars that were kept there.

A faraway noise made her hesitate.

It was a heavy clatter that sounded like boots on stone steps.

She swallowed down the rising taste of panic and told herself that the guard had not woken and he was not making a patrol of the rooms under his charge. Even if such a catastrophic situation was occurring, Caitrin knew the guard would not enter the mage’s offices. It was only her dread of discovery that was causing her to tremble with apprehension.

Inwardly she cursed the fact that her body was becoming excited by the idea of being caught. Her stiffening nipples pressed tight against the cotton of her red and gold kirtles. The muscles deep within her sex tingled through a greedy desire for satisfaction. She supposed the responses were all residual effects of the dragon horn that lingered in her blood. But rationalising those responses did not soften the urgency of her needs.

Ignoring the threat of faraway sounds, convinced they were nothing more than echoes from her imagination, she stepped up to the shelves and considered the rows upon rows of stoppered glass jars.

The jars gleamed in the dusk light as though they had all been recently polished. Caitrin could see the contents in each one. Some contained murky liquids, moving ominously of their own volition. Others were filled with disconcerting items such as eyeballs, tongues or locks of hair. All of them were labelled on white card written with the painstaking precision of the mage’s exact hand. The labels, Caitrin noted, were in the same order in which she’d been taught her letters as a girl.

That would make things easier, she supposed. She traced her finger along the shelves in search of the cards beginning with the letter D.

Demon Claws. Diamond Milk. Dodo Feathers.

Dog Hairs were stored next to Duck Feet.

From what she recalled of her letters, dragon horn should have sat between those two jars. But there was no jar labelled dragon horn. There wasn’t even an empty space where a jar should have been.

‘Fie,’ she muttered.

She turned to the H section of the jars and her hopes were briefly raised. There was a section dedicated solely to animal horn.

Horn: Buffalo.

Horn: Chameleon.

Horn: Griffin.

‘Fie!’

If there had been a jar labelled ‘Horn: Dragon’ Caitrin knew it would have sat between Chameleon and Griffin. She stamped her foot angrily on the floor, annoyed that she had risked so much in stealing into the mage’s office and all without achieving any gain.

‘Fie! Fie! Fie!’

‘Quite the foul-mouthed little trespasser, aren’t you?’

Caitrin glanced toward the sound of the voice.

She hadn’t seen the door open and she hadn’t seen the mage enter the room. Now she realised that Nihal stood blocking the doorway. There was no way to escape. She clutched one small hand over her mouth to contain the squeal of surprise that wanted to escape.

‘Who are you and what are you doing in my offices?’

‘I’m sorry, Nihal,’ Caitrin began. ‘I was trespassing. Please forgive –’

‘You’re not sorry yet.’ Nihal’s voice rang from the stone walls of the tower. The words were not shouted but there was no denying the authority with which they were spoken. ‘You’re not sorry yet. But you will be sorry if you don’t tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.’

The mage looked resplendent in a crimson cowled robe tied at the waist with a ceremonial gold cord. Youngest of the castellan’s household wizards, a migrant from the southernmost borders of the North Ridings, Nihal was a mage with a deserved reputation as the most powerful master of magicks in the whole of Blackheath. Nihal cast spells to end the cold cruelty of the long winter nights. Nihal made the first flowers bloom in spring. And, Caitrin had heard it said, Nihal could draw the truth from reluctant lips as effortlessly as the farm maids drew milk from the cows.

Goosebumps prickled her flesh.

Her nipples stiffened.

‘Nihal,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me, Caitrin. Don’t you recognise me?’

‘A shape-changer would likely visit my offices in Caitrin’s form,’ Nihal growled. ‘It’s known I have a tenderness for the castellan’s dark-haired daughter.’

She touched a hand to her coal-black tresses.

‘You have a tenderness for me?’

Caitrin could not stop the smile from sitting on her lips. She had never realised Nihal had a tenderness for her. The thought was warming and made her suddenly yearn for the mage. Her heartbeat quickened.

‘You should have said something,’ she began. ‘Perhaps you and I –’

‘Stand up straight,’ the mage barked.

Her body reacted instantaneously to the command. She stood stiff, as though her backbone had been replaced by a pikestaff. The idea that Nihal was controlling her actions and movements inspired a thrill of helpless excitement.

Standing rigid, Caitrin felt as though it was only her eyes that could move.

Her gaze scoured the room for some hope of salvation.

She studied Nihal and tried to silently beg for leniency.

It was impossible to see the wizard’s face. The hood of the ceremonial cowl was drawn forward to throw shadows over the mage’s features. In the dwindling light of the offices, Caitrin caught only the occasional flash of bright almond eyes and dazzling teeth fixed into a cruel smile. It was a combination she found unsettling and yet deeply and darkly attractive.

‘You do look like Caitrin, the castellan’s daughter,’ Nihal admitted. ‘So you’re either her, or you’re a very skilled shape-changer. I’m curious to discover which.’

‘I am her,’ Caitrin insisted. ‘Why would a shape-changer visit your offices?’

A wand appeared in the mage’s hand. It was a fifteen-inch length of bitternut hickory, as thick as Caitrin’s thumb and tipped with a silver cap. The silver tip glowed a dull cerise, although Caitrin wasn’t sure if it was a reflection from the settling sun, the nearness of the mage’s robes or some magical power lighting the wand.

She swallowed thickly.

The sight of the wand stirred a slick and fluid warmth in her loins.

‘By the power of all the magicks I command,’ Nihal’s voice boomed from the walls. The brightness in the offices briefly intensified.

Caitrin couldn’t imagine where the extra light came from.

‘By the power of all the magicks I command,’ Nihal repeated, ‘you will tell me now your true identity.’

‘I’m Caitrin, youngest of the castellan’s three daughters,’ Caitrin admitted. ‘I’m Caitrin, twin to Tavia and younger sister of Inghean. Don’t you recognise me, Nihal? I’m Caitrin.’

Something in the stoop of the mage’s shoulders suggested Nihal was not yet convinced. ‘I don’t believe you’re a shape-changer,’ Nihal allowed. The mage began to circle her. ‘Yet I still have my doubts. You seem different from the Caitrin who last visited my offices. Why would that be?’

Caitrin blushed.

Only able to move her eyes, she lowered her gaze.

She was a different person from the Caitrin who had previously visited Nihal’s offices and she knew why she was different. Before, she had been a girl who knew nothing of men, the pleasures of the flesh or the significant wonders of dragon horn. Now, she was a woman with a woman’s knowledge of such forbidden secrets.

But the idea of admitting as much to Nihal was unthinkable.

‘Please don’t force me to tell you the truth,’ she begged. She was going to say that she would explain things in her own way and in her own time. She was going to add that the truth was unladylike, unflattering and unbecoming.

But Nihal did not allow her to say the words.

The mage thrashed the wand through the air.

Caitrin had thought she saw a cerise glow originally. This time she was certain she saw a flash of coloured light. Its aftermath fizzled in the air behind the tip of the wand. And, whilst that would have been impressive to behold – a private display of fireworks and pyrotechnics from the castellan’s most powerful mage – she was more startled by the fact that her kirtle disappeared with the gesture.

Caitrin gasped.

Her crimson and gold brooch fell to the floor where it tinkled loudly in the silence of the offices.

Again Nihal thrashed the wand through the air.

This time her undershirt disappeared. Caitrin shrieked as the clothes were torn away by invisible hands.

Thrash.

Another flash of dark, pink light.

Her chemise, breast girdle and braies disappeared in the same instant.

One moment she had stood before the wizard in her underclothes. She had been inexplicably erect and standing as still and motionless as a child playing gargoyles. And in the next moment she was stripped bare and touched by the chill of the room’s coolness against her naked flesh.

She gasped.

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment. She glanced down at herself and saw that her bare body was completely uncovered. Her breasts, well-rounded and firm, were revealed to the mage. The secrets of her sex, the dark curls shorn into the same fashions that Robert had said were in vogue amongst revered courtiers and courtesans from the palaces of the Southern Kingdoms, were exposed to Nihal.

The mage took a step back.

‘Caitrin,’ Nihal murmured with approval. ‘It seems you’ve matured into a comely young woman.’

Caitrin wanted to wrap protective hands over her body and cover herself from the mage’s gaze. But her arms stayed firmly by her sides. When she did make a concerted effort to cover herself she was appalled to find that her hands would not move as she willed them. Through the power of some dark magicks, Nihal had an absolute control over her.

The muscles inside her sex rippled hungrily at the idea. Her nipples stiffened as though they had been teased by the mage’s long and slender fingertips.

‘Why have you stripped my clothes away?’

She tried to say the words without revealing her excitement. As panic strained her nerves she began to wonder if Nihal might hear the sexual need colouring her voice. She wasn’t sure if that was something she desperately wanted or if it was something she heartily feared.

‘I have to make sure you are who you said you were,’ Nihal explained. ‘If Gethin ap Cadwallon is a potential threat to this fiefdom he could send spies to my offices disguised as someone above suspicion. The man could even be a dark mage capable of such shape-shifting himself –’

‘Getting at codswallop?’

She didn’t know what the words meant. The name sounded vaguely like the title of one of the landed gentry discussed in her father’s politics, but it was not a name to which she’d ever paid any attention. Her brow wrinkled with the effort of trying to understand the conversation.

‘Gethin ap Cadwallon,’ Nihal corrected. ‘And if you really are Caitrin it’s a name you’d do well to remember. Gethin ap Cadwallon is High Laird of the West Ridings.’ Nihal pronounced the visitor’s name with an emphasis that was somewhere between lofty importance and cool contempt. ‘The lairds of the West Ridings want to forge an allegiance with Blackheath and there will be mutual benefits in regular trade links between our two regions. But, obviously, Duncan is alert to the danger that Cadwallon may have an ulterior motive. There’s a fear that Gethin may want to seize control of Gatekeeper Island. And I have to be constantly vigilant about the threat of dark mages. But all the parties believe a betrothal –’

‘Does this laird look like me?’ Caitrin broke in impatiently.

‘No,’ Nihal admitted. The mage seemed nonplussed by the interruption. ‘Gethin is a swarthy wretch. He’s contemptible, according to all the accounts I’ve heard. But it’s said he employs shape-changers for spies. And, as I said before, your shape would be perfect for this errand because it’s commonly known I have a long-held tenderness for you.’

Again those words made her smile.

‘It wasn’t commonly known to me,’ she murmured.

Her frown returned deeper when she realised there was a fault to the logic of Nihal’s interrogation. ‘But you’ve undressed me,’ she pointed out. ‘You had no idea what I look like naked, so seeing me without clothes wouldn’t prove one way or another that I’m me and not a shape-changer.’

The mage shrugged. ‘True enough. But I’ve always wanted to see you naked and this seemed like the ideal opportunity.’

Before Caitrin’s blushes could deepen, the mage’s wand touched her three times. The first time the silver tip graced the thrust of her right nipple. Caitrin caught her breath and tried to decide whether the silver cap on the bitternut wand was as chilly as winter ice, or possessed the searing burn of a smith’s forge. She couldn’t properly decide whether she was being stung by an extreme of heat or cold. But her body responded with the knowledge that she was enjoying an extreme of some description. She sucked breath and savoured the ripples of pleasure that eddied from her breast to her centre.

The same thrill of excitement rushed through her core as the wand brushed her left nipple. This time she was unable to contain the groan of arousal. She released a heartfelt, throaty purr and regarded Nihal with an expression of undisguised lust.

With the third touch, a soft caress of the silver cap against the lips of her sex, Caitrin realised her body was scaling the heights of ecstasy. She bit her lower lip and stared at the shadow in the centre of the cowl where the mage’s face should have sat. Of all the desires she had harboured since first taking dragon horn, she could not recall a desperate need stronger than the longing she now held for Nihal.

‘Why are you here, Caitrin?’ the mage asked. ‘I command an honest answer. Why are you here?’

‘I was looking for dragon horn.’

‘Dragon horn!’

Nihal’s exclamation was shrill with surprise and outrage. Whatever special connection had been growing between them was rent asunder before the words had finished bouncing from the stone walls of the offices.

‘What the hell would you want with dragon horn, Caitrin? You shouldn’t even know about dragon horn. You certainly won’t find any here. These are respectable offices.’

‘Dragon horn is very nice,’ Caitrin confided.

‘Nice? You’ve tried it?’ Nihal took a wary step backward. The crimson shoulders inside the robe stiffened with indignation. ‘You mean you’re no longer chaste?’

Caitrin giggled. ‘I’ve been chaste and I’ve been caught. That’s not a problem, is it?’

‘You’re no longer a virgin?’

Caitrin frowned. ‘The stories of your superior intelligence weren’t an exaggeration, were they? There’s not a lot slips past the keen observational skills of Nihal the legendary mage from the southernmost –’

‘Fuck!’ Nihal roared. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

If she had been able to control her physical responses, Caitrin would have flinched from the ferocity of the exclamation. Instead she could only stand naked and motionless and tolerate the mage’s fury.

‘No!’ Nihal shrieked. ‘This can’t be happening. Not again.’

The mage suddenly stepped close. One hand encircled Caitrin’s waist. The weight of the velvet robe was a forceful and erotic caress. She caught the fragrant scent of sandalwood and incense that always lingered on the mage’s flesh. It was a sultry combination that now made her inner muscles clench with greedy haste.

A hand pressed between her legs.

The thrill of excitement blossomed between her thighs. The rush of wanton need turned her loins to a fluid heat. From the shadows within the cowled hood she caught a glimpse of the mage’s features. There was a suggestion of high cheekbones, almond eyes and ripe, kissable lips.

Strong inquisitive fingers stroked against her labia.

The desire to be penetrated was sudden and avaricious.

She parted her thighs and grinned as not one but two fingers slipped into the smouldering confines of her wetness. In the stillness of the moment she could hear the soft dewy squelch of the penetration. She imagined she could hear her inner muscles suckling lightly against the cool fingertips that nestled in her warmth. The mage’s touch slipped into her with such ease she murmured, ‘Why don’t you glide a third in there?’

‘Fuck!’ Nihal exclaimed.

The mage tore the fingers from her sex. The exclamation and the action were so pained and unexpected Caitrin stepped back in surprise. With a twinge of sadness she realised that the spell that had been holding her in place was now spent.

Broken.

‘What’s wrong?’ Caitrin asked.

‘You’ve lost your innocence,’ Nihal snapped sharply. The mage stepped to the left and then the right. It was the dance of someone harried, perplexed and uncertain. ‘The castellan will be outraged. Heads are going to roll for this.’ With a shrill cry of despair, Nihal added, ‘It’ll probably be my head that rolls for this. Why do you keep doing this, Cait? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

‘Why is my innocence the concern of my father?’

Nihal glared at her. ‘Didn’t you hear what I was saying before? The thane is going to offer your hand to Gethin ap Cadwallon this evening.’

It was a revelation to Caitrin. She was sure that wasn’t something that had been discussed before. She stared at Nihal in disbelief. ‘He’s going to offer my hand?’ She couldn’t keep the shock from her voice. ‘He’s going to offer me up for betrothal? To a man with a name I can’t pronounce?’

‘It’s not just you,’ Nihal allowed. ‘Gethin will be allowed to choose between you and your sister.’

‘And that’s supposed to make it better?’

‘I thought you knew.’

Caitrin clutched at the mage. ‘You have to help me,’ she begged. ‘You have to do something to stop this.’

‘I don’t have time,’ Nihal complained. ‘I’m supposed to be casting protection spells around the whole of Blackheath. I’m supposed to scrutinise Gethin ap Cadwallon with my own magicks to make sure he’s not a dark mage and I’ve got to –’

‘You have to do something to stop this,’ Caitrin insisted.

The mage thought for a moment. ‘I can get your virginity back for you.’

‘What?’

‘I can get your virginity back. I have a spell.’ The mage pushed her away and rushed to the south wall to rummage through the books on the shelves. ‘I have a grimoire from the Orient,’ Nihal mumbled. ‘It’s on one of these shelves. I’ve done this for you before.’

‘Why would I want my virginity back?’

Pulling volumes from the shelves, the mage spoke without looking back. ‘If your father marries you to Gethin, and Gethin discovers you’re not a maid, it could prove catastrophic for the fiefdom. It could prove catastrophic for the whole of the North Ridings. Gethin will see it as an insult.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

Nihal shrugged. ‘I don’t make the rules for this sorry excuse for a society. I have enough difficulty following the magicks.’ With a sigh of relief Nihal pulled a large leather-bound tome from a high shelf and said, ‘Here. This is the grimoire. This is the book that holds the spell I need.’

‘You don’t have to –’ Caitrin got no further.

Nihal swiped the bitternut wand in her direction. Further words refused to pass her lips.

‘If I don’t restore your virginity there’ll be war,’ the mage grumbled. ‘Imagine if someone discovered that you’d been naked in my offices this evening. Imagine if someone learnt that I’d had my fingers inside you.’

Imagine if you were to do it again, Caitrin thought dreamily.

She wouldn’t let the idea take hold of her thoughts. She couldn’t even produce the words to tell Nihal that no one would learn of what had happened in the offices from her lips. She could only stand silent and watch as the mage pulled necessary ingredients from the stoppered jars on the walls.

‘Sit here,’ Nihal barked, clearing clutter from the central counter in the middle of the chamber.

Caitrin found herself sitting on one of the mage’s high counters. She hadn’t even been aware that her body had been moving in response to the mage’s instructions.

‘Part your thighs. Drink this.’

A flagon of honeyed wine was thrust into her hand. She sniffed it doubtfully.

‘What’s this?’

‘Wine.’

‘What does it do?’

‘It will get you drunk.’ Nihal was busying collecting ingredients for the spell. ‘Now drink the damned stuff and stop pestering me with stupid questions. Isn’t it enough that I’ve got to mess around to try and remedy all the problems that you’ve already caused?’

She could hear the irritation in the mage’s tone and wished Nihal’s upset didn’t sting. She liked the mage and hadn’t wanted to cause problems. She watched as Nihal alternated between reading from the large leather-bound grimoire and then rushing to find necessary ingredients from the shelves before adding them to a granite mortar.

Warily, she sipped the honeyed wine.

It was a heady elixir of sweetened grapes. From the first taste she knew it would be dangerous to sip any more. It threatened to dissolve her inhibitions and wash away all sense of propriety. Immediately she raised the flagon to her mouth and took another swallow. Her tongue traced softly over the remnants of the taste that lingered against her lips.

With a flourish, Nihal added a final ingredient to the mortar and then began to pound the mix with a pestle. Caitrin studied the mage’s stiff shoulders, sensing the urgency in each movement, and wondering why the mage would go to such lengths just to protect her reputation. She would have asked the question if she could have seen the mage’s face. But, even when Nihal turned to anoint her with the mix, Caitrin could only see shadows that concealed the depths of the hooded crimson cowl.

‘Sahasrara,’ Nihal intoned.

A splash of chilly oil touched the top of Caitrin’s head and she struggled not to shiver. The word sounded deliciously strange and foreign and she wanted to give herself to the echoes of excitement it seemed to suggest.

‘Anja,’ Nihal said, daubing another wet splash between Caitrin’s brows.

The movement made her close her eyes. In that moment she saw a world coloured only by a rush of rich royal purple.

‘Vishudda,’ the mage added, touching oily fingertips against the rise of Caitrin’s throat.

The caress was soft and subtle and disturbingly exciting. The sheen of viscous wetness that made the fingers slippery was how she expected Nihal’s sexual caress to feel. Her nipples had been stiff before. Now they ached with the need to be teased and suckled by the mage’s hungry mouth. As much as Caitrin wanted to purge that idea from her thoughts, she couldn’t stop herself from imagining Nihal’s mouth suckling against her bared breasts. The idea made her sigh with need.

‘Anahata,’ Nihal whispered.

Anahata, Caitrin agreed, not knowing what the word might mean.

Fingers pressed at her sternum. Although there was nothing acutely sexual about the caress, Caitrin knew that the mage’s touch could have gone to either of her breasts. She held her breath wondering whether or not the mage would be so bold as to touch her in the way she desired. If she had been allowed the chance to speak she would have begged to have the fat tips of her nipples squeezed.

‘Manipura,’ Nihal said, sliding his fingers downward.

Caitrin trembled.

The mage’s fingertips inched through the neatly shorn curls above her sex and delved toward the moist lips of her labia. She drew a slow shuddering breath.

‘Swadhisthana,’ Nihal grunted.

Fingers touched the sensitive flesh between her thighs.

Caitrin groaned.

The fingers slipped inside. They were still oily from the salve that had been used to anoint her head, brow, throat and breast. The mage’s fingers pushed her wide and stretched her lightly. It was a thrilling moment and Caitrin wondered if the mage shared her excitement from the intimate contact.

When a thumb touched the nub of her clitoris, she drew jagged breaths of amazement. The rush of pleasure soared inside her body.

‘Muladhara,’ Nihal said eventually.

One oily fingertip slipped against the super-sensitive sliver of skin between the edge of her sex lips and the ring of her anus.

Caitrin held her breath, sure that her body was resting on the precipice of an orgasm. Slippery fingers remained between her thighs, teasing the lips of her sex and cajoling ripples of pleasure through her loins. Unable to stop herself, she whimpered as the need for satisfaction grew closer. Once the sounds had fallen from her lips, and she realised Nihal was allowing her to use her voice, Caitrin struggled to speak in the most conversational tone that her body could manage.

‘Is that it?’ she asked. ‘Is that the spell cast? Am I virgin again?’

Nihal silenced the question with a kiss. A soft and silky tongue slipped between her lips. A passionate mouth pressed urgently against hers. Strong hands held the back of her head, as though there was a risk that she might pull away.

Caitrin gave herself to the experience.

Her need for satisfaction became an irresistible impulse.

Slowly the mage’s kisses moved downwards, paying homage to each of the previously named and anointed chakras.

Caitrin shivered with every kiss and caress.

Nihal has a tenderness for me, Caitrin thought wistfully. It was a thought that made her smile. She wondered why the mage had never said anything about this tenderness before, and then realised that it was probably because the daughter of Blackheath’s esteemed castellan would not have been permitted to fraternise with a mage. What would be the point of voicing the existence of such affection when it could never amount to anything?

And before she could even bring herself to contemplate a response to that rhetorical question, she realised the mage’s hooded cowl was between her legs. The caress of the velvet fabric pressed against the soft, milky smoothness of her inner thighs. The mage was mumbling something in a whispered Latin whilst strong hands pushed her knees apart. Then the slick caress of a tongue slipped against the warm flesh of her sex.

Caitrin groaned.

The mage’s mouth moved over her labia. Fingertips teased at the sensitive lips but it was the warmth of the tongue gliding smoothly back and forth that made her want to scream with mounting excitement.

Nihal trilled the tip of a deft tongue against the thrust of Caitrin’s clitoris. The tiny bead of flesh was already pulsing with the need for a surge of release. The attention of the mage’s tongue set Caitrin close to exploding with raw desire.

‘Is this a necessary part of the spell?’ she asked.

Nihal’s head tilted back.

Caitrin caught a glimpse of kind eyes shining apologetically.

‘I needed to taste you before I sealed you up for Gethin,’ Nihal explained. ‘I needed to …’

Caitrin shook her head. ‘No need to explain,’ she said softly. ‘Just carry on doing that for me.’ She arched her back so the mage could have easier access. ‘Just carry on,’ she repeated. ‘And, if the day comes when I must have this stranger as my betrothed, I can always close my eyes and pretend that it’s you and not him between my legs.’

The pleasure resumed.

Nihal attacked her sex with a ferocity that left Caitrin breathless. The fingers that had been holding her knees apart were now teasing the musk-oily lips of her sex. Nihal’s flat, smooth tongue slipped against her with the ease of a polished glass sphere gliding over oiled skin.

A rush of delicious responses trembled through Caitrin’s sex, blossoming into small explosions in each of the areas where Nihal had touched. She remembered the mystical quality of each word that had been murmured: muladhara, swadhisthana, manipura, anahata, vishudda, anja, sahasrara.

It came to her that the words were flashing through her thoughts in reverse order to the way that Nihal had said them. And then, as the remainder of the words flooded through her mind, she realised she didn’t care what order the words came in.

All she cared about was the blistering rush of satisfaction. All she cared for was the pleasure pouring out of Nihal’s mouth and into the eager wetness of her hole.

Her climax struck with a force more powerful than she had enjoyed whilst quaffing dragon horn with Robert. It came in repeated bolts of satisfaction that hit her again and again as a cavalcade of multiple, magnificent thrills of pleasure. She found herself clutching the sides of the mage’s hood, urging Nihal to continue tonguing her depths and willing her body to suffer further waves of delicious and divine pleasure.

Eventually, after a glorious age of golden bliss, Caitrin realised the mage had stopped tonguing at her sex. The light had been bleached from the room and her desire for gratification had been replaced by a tranquillity of serene satisfaction.

Drowsiness held her in a lover’s embrace.

‘Is it done?’ Caitrin asked.

Nihal nodded. ‘Yes. Once again, I’ve restored your virginity.’

Caitrin was puzzled by the comment.

The words ‘once again’ suggested they had gone through this interaction before, although she couldn’t recall when she and Nihal had previously done something so intimate. She knew she wasn’t the brightest of the daughters of Blackheath, but she figured even someone with her limited capacity for remembering details would recall something as memorable as having a mage restore her virginity.

She opened her mouth to ask the question and a flood of memories came rushing back.

Nihal frowning with disapproval.

Nihal performing the restoration ceremony.

Nihal concluding the ceremony with a memory incantation.

She trembled, saddened by the idea that the mage would force her to forget the pleasure they had just shared.

The offices were now held in shadow. Glancing out through the west window she could see that the sun had finally set beyond the edge of the Last Sea. Braziers and torches burnt in the taverns and whorehouses around the port. The silhouettes of lewd revellers began to break out into the streets as a large covered wagon was drawn down the main road leading toward Blackheath.

‘You have to promise me that you’ll give up your quest for dragon horn.’

‘Give up the quest?’ Caitrin laughed, surprised by the ridiculousness of the suggestion. ‘Never.’

Nihal’s shoulders stiffened. One trembling hand raised the bitternut hickory wand. The silver tip glowed dully. ‘Don’t say never, Caitrin. Reconsider your decision before I have to do something we’ll both regret.’

Caitrin pressed her mouth close to the mage.

‘Don’t make me forget what we just shared,’ she begged.

Nihal stiffened as though stung by the suggestion.

‘Don’t make me forget what we just shared,’ Caitrin repeated. ‘And don’t make me forget my quest for dragon horn. It’s important to me. If you knew what dragon horn was like I’m sure it would be important to you.’

‘But, Cait,’ the mage began. ‘It’s such a dangerous substance.’

Caitrin thought she liked having her name shortened by the mage. It made her feel as though there was something developing between them.

‘You’ve never tried dragon horn,’ she whispered. ‘And until you’ve tried it you can’t judge me for wanting to experience it again.’

‘But, Cait –’ the mage started.

Caitrin silenced the interruption with a kiss. She allowed the moment to linger as their tongues twisted and twined together inside the battleground of their joined mouths.

‘I’ll make you a promise, Nihal,’ she decided. ‘I’ll continue my quest to find dragon horn. And I will find it. And once I’ve got a secure supply, I’m going to bring some back here so that you and I can share it together.’

‘But, Cait –’ the mage began again.

Caitrin shook her head and continued. ‘If, once you’ve tried it, you still think I should give up my quest, then I’ll consider your point of view.’

There was a long silence from within the shadows of Nihal’s hooded cowl. Eventually the mage said, ‘You’re determined to do this, aren’t you?’

‘More than you can know.’

‘In that case,’ the mage sounded sad but determined, ‘I’ll do what I can to help you find dragon horn.’

Caitrin brightened, shocked to discover she now had an ally in her quest.

‘You should join your father at the banquet hall this evening,’ the mage went on. ‘I believe the castellan is greeting Gethin ap Cadwallon and it would serve you well to meet the High Laird of the West Ridings.’

‘I wish I could stay here with you.’

The mage’s head moved from side to side inside the cowled hood. The bitternut hickory wand was suddenly flashing bright light into the room. And Caitrin realised the clothes had returned to her body. She also realised that there was a ring now sitting on the middle finger of her left hand. It was a band of gold emblazoned with a shimmering eye of moonstone that looked like the pearl-white stone they called a mage’s eye.

Caitrin examined the ring and then glanced into the shadows covering Nihal’s face. Again, she said, ‘I wish I could stay here with you.’

‘If you ever need me,’ said Nihal softly, ‘all you have to do is call my name.’ The mage spoke with a soft and earnest conviction that could only be the truth. ‘If you ever need me, simply take yourself to the peak of a climax, close your eyes and then whisper my name. If you do that, I’ll be with you.’

‘I want more than that,’ Caitrin sighed. ‘I want to stay here with you.’

‘Go to the banquet hall, Cait,’ Nihal whispered. ‘My magicks aren’t strong enough to grant all your wishes.’