The Raven Warrior Read Free

gold, trees to green, and the water to a multicolored gem as it cast back the reflection of the surrounding forest.
    He bent his head and drank, troubling the absolutely smooth surface with his tongue. When he raised his head, he found the fatigue of the long night’s trip weighed heavy on him. He was not used to traveling so far so fast as a wolf.
    And then he reflected that, while lonely, he was at least now free of the thousand constraints that had beset him as a human being. He could return to the forest, seek a warm nest in bracken and dried leaves, and enjoy the luxury of sleeping as long as he liked.
    He stretched as languorously as a cat, stiffening each of his hind legs in turn, yawned, and just about then . . .
    He felt the weight of a big, heavy hand on his neck . . . and every hair on his body stood straight up at the sound of a triumphant crow of savage, evil laughter.

    Igrane knew from the slightly withdrawn, preoccupied look in his eyes that he was up to something. They had, after all, been lovers now for over thirty years. But since he was far older and smarter than she was, she was unable to guess what.
    She hoped the bright lechery she saw in his gaze would prevail over any magical experiments he wanted to undertake. Hoped that he would dismiss the servants, throw her on the floor, and possess her violently.
    Sometimes he did it that way. At others he played with her, tormenting them both for hours, until they both reached a frenzy of desire before he allowed her fulfillment and release. Both memories were erotic in the extreme. But they were shadowed by other, darker occasions when his de-sire to cause her pain and punish her for (as he saw it) ensnaring him into an erotic commitment he despised overrode all other considerations in his mind.
    The strongest part of his being was his desire to dominate political events. Women—even boys from time to time, he took both—were mere amusements. But she drained his powerful magical abilities like a leech. She clung to him, she pleasured him as no other ever had. And in return, he kept her young and beautiful.
    But sometimes . . . sometimes he forced her to contribute the unguessable. . . .
    When they were both stuporous with food and wine, he said, “I have a gift for you.”
    It was growing cold on the terrace above Tintigal. Her women were gone and his menservants had rather thankfully melted away into the dusk. They, too, felt the tension between the two adepts at the table.
    Over the sea the cloud spires were lifted into flame by the sun’s last rays. They burned over the dark water like the towers of a city in flame.
    She shivered. “Let’s go in. You can give me the present as we recline before the hearth. Come, my love.” She reached for his hand.
    Suddenly he wasn’t empty-handed any longer. A cup was in his left. The stem and footing were of gold, which girdled the coiled spiral of a shell, a white shell glowing inside and out with mother-of-pearl.
    “It’s beautiful,” she said, but her heart was hammering and she could barely breathe.
    “Yes. Now take it in both your hands and drink.”
    “Wine,” she whispered. “I’d rather not. I’ve had . . .”
    “Drink!”
    The word had the force of command. At the same moment, she felt his right hand encircle her neck, her long, regal neck. He stroked the hollow at the base of her throat with his thumb. She’d seen him kill men that way, crushing the ridged cartilage of the larynx with his thumb, leaving them to kick and gasp their lives away while he watched with evident enjoyment.
    She seized the cup with both hands and brought it to her lips. Its contents filled her mouth and nose both, so she couldn’t even scream when she was drawn into the spiral coil of the vessel.
    She seemed to move down a glowing white, curve-walled corridor filled with pale, diffused light. The inner shell was not transparent but translucent. She fled along a rough pathway like one following an ever-narrowing