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From: david@f-e-mail.com (David Shaw)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 6 Aug 2003 11:44:36 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} "DRAGON SWEAT" (M/F/F: myth) By David Shaw
Date: Wed,  6 Aug 2003 15:10:03 -0400
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"DRAGON SWEAT" (M/F/F: myth)

By

David Shaw
david@f-e-mail.com

THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY

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

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

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

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

"A fine day, Sir Tarquin."

"A fine day, Master."

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

"How can I help you, Master?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Tarquin sighed heavily in quiet despair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Look at my finger, Master."

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

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

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

Sir Tarquin stood up again, his belly heaving at the same joke as he
watched the innocent victims below, all unaware of the terrible fate
was speeding towards them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another head came out of the straw, another head of tangled fair hair
filled with straws and two faces also both of a kind, round and rosy,
with bright blue eyes full of mischief. "Why here I am indeed, mighty
dragon master, and have been since we crept in before dawn."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chelinde!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come, my lady, come."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha, you're too tall for us, Hal," she chuckled, her breath caressing
the hair at the base of his throat. "Kneel down, dragon master."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Watch and learn."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wash his back, Caelia."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rinse him off, Chelinde."

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

"Bring your clothes."

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

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

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

"Caelia, do you still want to fly?

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

"Hal! Hal!" she cried out.

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

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

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

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

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

With the skill of practice he hauled himself up, wriggled his toes and
then his feet into the riding net and let himself down handhold by
handhold from the upper net. But as his waist slipped past the top of
the riding net a warm palm moved up the inside of his left leg and
then held his cock. Something damp and warm slithered around his
cock's helm as if it were testing the taste of it. Probably it tasted
of soap, but whether or not, the flavor must have been deemed
acceptable, for a mouth followed the tongue. A mouth that spread
itself around the helm and lower yet, sucking at him fiercely. Hal
gasped and clenched at the top net. Somebody was paying him back in
his own coin, and he had little doubt who it was. He could see a
string of muscles behind Josephine's left front leg tighten as the
dragon trembled with eagerness to fly. Trying to tell her to wait
further was like ordering a dog to sit still as a coney ran past.

"Let go, you silly bitch!"

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

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

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

"Be quiet, you silly bitches, they can hear you down there," he
snarled, trying to quiet his passengers as quietly as he could himself
but probably still too loudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hal!"

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

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

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

But all this trivia went out of Hal's thoughts as Caelia's cunt
caressed him even more tightly than even Chelinde's had. Then all his
thoughts turned into fading vapor when Chelinde's fingernails
scratched underneath his balls and as Caelia screamed triumphantly,
knowing she was no longer a maiden. The sweat from her face was
falling on his, her eyes were wide open, perhaps seeing him, perhaps
not, and her hands were clenched into the netting above his shoulders
as she slapped her belly against his. Then he knew his seed was
spurting and he clutched Caelia's shoulders as his loosed himself into
her like an overdrawn long bow. Another scream and her mouth was by
the side of his throat, biting into him as every muscle in her body
went as rigid as Josephine's wings. Eventually she gave out one last
cry, sprawling on top of him as if she was a doe exhausted unto death
in the chase of the hunters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pull out and put down!"

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

"Put down!"

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

"Fuck off, you stupid witch!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fly, Josephine, fly!"

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

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

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

"Kill the little cunt!"

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

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

THE END

(If you like this kind of story, especially with lots of pictures,
then visit www.f-e-mail.com sometime and browse around)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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