At the top of Mount Crag, among the highest peaks, in an ancient cave that existed long before recorded time, there lives an almost equally ancient Wizard. It is rumored that once per year, during the shortest day of the year, if an earnest seeker climbs to the top of this mountain, he or she may find the wizard, and the wizard shall grant him or her One True Wish...
"I feel sick."
"If you throw up, me throw down...you," replied Gartandyl, the Troll on whose neck I perched. I've always found that, despite the limited breadth of their vocabularies, Troll speech was extremely persuasive. Especially when the speaker is carrying you, and down is thousands of feet below.
"Be still my beating stomach," I thought to myself. Three years in preparation, and all my inheritance bribing the Troll to serve as carriage, and we were nearly there. If the ancient map were correct, we were less than a hundred feet below the entrance to the wizard's lair. And thence my days of being "Runt" and "Shorty" and "Get lost you little creep!" would be forever behind me.
Meanwhile, inside the lair, the wizard, whose name even he had long forgotten, wearily continued his work. "The burden of science," he thought to himself.
There had long been a debate amongst scientific magickal practitioners as to the difference in efficacy between using the left or the right eye of newt when called for amongst different classes of spells. The wizard had long held, as did most of his distinguished colleagues, that there was no difference, that one eye was as good as another in all cases. This was not true for certain boisterous juvenile members of the profession, however, who claimed that the left eye was superior for all forms of darker incantations, whereas the right eye was best preserved for more positive forms of spellcraft. The debaters rangled endlessly, both in peer-reviewed journals such as The Journal of Spellcraft, as well as Yhoo inter dimensional mailing lists. Even the prestigious Magick! had letters at least once per year in its column. Dgo knows how many more had been submitted they didn't bother to print.
So the wizard determined to settle the issue once and for all. His first attempt failed. Separating the eyes and using identical spells under identical circumstances hadn't been enough to silence the critics. They'd claimed that his awareness of which eye he was using overrode the "inherent energetic laterality" of the eyes, rendering the experiment moot. So, he'd carefully divided up 1000 newt eyes, placing them in identical containers, with 10 left or right eyes per container. He then summoned an appropriate demon and had it label each container in a script visible only to the demon. After the laborious process of casting spells using the eyes from each container and carefully noting the results, he summoned the demon again to reveal the letters, only to find the demon had labeled all the containers the same. Ten thousand years roasting on power level nine convinced the demon of the errors of its ways; new containers were forged and correctly labeled; the experiment was underway again.
So the wizard wearily continued casting the same spell, the same way, over and over again. To avoid side-effects, he'd chosen a Stupidity spell and aimed it across the universe. Its target turned out to be the President of some unknown country on some queer world on the other side of wherever. The wizard doubted that the country noticed the spell's effects, but to the wizard they were both obvious and consistent, meeting the requirements of the task at hand.
Still, the task was tedious. So, he greeting the interruption at his gate with some enthusiasm.
"Who dares enter the portal of the mighty Wizard..." (Damn, now what did I call myself again?)
"It is I, Jonathan Smith, who calls upon you to honor my wish on this, the shortest day of the year!" cried the odd little man atop a rather splendid example of Nordicus mythodela, the common Troll.
"Is it that time already? Oh, my. Well, hurry up, then, tell me your wish. I'm in the midst of an important experiment and cannot be bothered with your mortal trifles more than necessary. But say, you didn't bring any chicken wings with you, by any chance? I've always liked them, especially the really hot ones."
"Uh...no..."
"Oh, well, then. Speak your wish."
"I wish to be the strongest man alive, a hero unable to be defeated by any opponent in battle, whose might appeals to all women, and makes men grovel in fear!"
"You climbed all the way to wish for that? Your species is even more tedious than I remembered. Very well."
The human weakling leapt from the Troll's shoulders as the wizard gestured. Without seconds he grew, his frame lengthening, his muscles growing broad and bulging as his clothing magickally grew to accommodate his new body.
"Yes!" the now heroically physiqued man exclaimed. He strutted and posed in front of a mirror strategically placed nearby, as the wizard thought, "I should really put that way." Without shame, the man groped himself, checking if all his anatomy had been equally been expanded. "Yes!" he repeated. "I shall rule the world!"
"Not another one," the wizard thought. "I must honor his request...but I can augment it a bit." A small gesture amended the man's situation.
"You should be aware of one caveat. Your strength holds only so long as you hold your wind. Should you break, it will depart, and you will return to your previous form for a time."
"You mean if I..."
"Yes. But don't try it here. Leave."
"Thank you, O mighty Wizard! Now, Troll, depart, for I need you not. But know within one year's time I shall return to you to collect my family's treasure. Even you posses not the strength to resist me. Return it to me unharmed and I shall leave you intact."
"Big body, big head...big dick," muttered the Troll, wishing he'd never taken a contract position as he departed.
So the now mighty Jonathan Smith repelled down Mount Crag, laughing as he clenched his gluteal cleavage.
"Ya!" screamed the band of warriors as they advanced on their enemy.
Wielding a hardened metal staff as thick as a man's thigh (swords kept snapping) Lord Smith did not bother replying as he swung, bashing a dozen of his opponents on the first blow. Two swings, three, and the pack of Iqari ran, at least those not already cleaved atwain.
"Another successful liberation," Lord Smith later exclaimed, posing with his mighty staff for the artists and journalists who followed, part of the embedded Facts Network News team. "See how all the people welcome us!" The journalists nodded, ignoring the terrified farmers hiding in what remained of their toppled houses and poisoned land.
"Now you'll excuse me. I must offer thanks to Dgo for appointing me as His divine leader." Lord Smith strutted off, staff in hand, as the journalists conferred with his generals as to what the facts of the battle should be.
A quarter mile away, safely hidden behind a hill, Smith allowed himself to relax. "Ahhh," he expressed, releasing the foul wind that so vexed his lower tract while giving him strength. His armor skirt safely on the ground (he remembered what happened the first time he'd forgotten to remove it), his arms akimbo, the force of his venting shook him whole until his stature was reduced by half.
"No more beans before battle!" he reminded himself, picking up his now-heavy armor as he slowly walked about, tooting with each step. He'd trained his retinue well. No one would miss his presence, or question his absence, until he appeared at court a few days hence. As much as relished his strength, the strain became too much at times. He actually looked forward to these times when he could walk about unknown, although he seldom released enough to return completely to his prior appearance.
But as he rounded the hill, he spied Her. Her form unmistakable: tall, blond, musculature enviable on most men, appropriate only given her other extraordinary endowments. He'd often seen her from afar, heard of her taunts. Never did he expect to stumble upon her so.
Poets praised her hair: golden; the very sun, shaped and pulled to crown the perfect maiden face; a light extraordinary; the perfect crown, with waves the ocean envies. It so complemented her darker brows. Others were entranced by her facial features, her high cheekbones covered with flawless skin. Her eyes entranced many, the grey orbs that arrested all see-er's vision in their perfection. Her throat garnered praise as well, both for its length and strength. And no man, however silent he might be in court, would fail to notice her the sheer incredible size and gravity-defying appearance of her torso. Her waist was enviably slender; her legs, heavenly pillars. But her asset that most filled Smith to his length, were the globes so perfectly displayed as she bent over to fetch another cup of water from the stream in front of her.
"Omydgo! What an ass!" He checked himself, hoping not to have uttered the words that appeared in his mind. He had to have her, and stealth was essential.
All the world knew of Cafren's beauty. And her prowess in battle. She'd vowed never to be taken by any man who could not pursue and catch her, then defeat her in unarmed combat. Any man who failed became her slave. She had lots of slaves; an army worth. Smith had sought Cafren's aid in the war against the Iqari. "I've naught with you, ignorant cow herder." was her official reply. While she'd not aided his enemy directly, her presence her was worrying.
But now...less than 100 feet away. He'd follow her, and when his strength was fully restored, take her. He drifted back to his steed, determined to find the will to track her without having his manhood at full staff the entire way.
She was not easy to follow. She doubled back twice. Once, he saw her walk her horse sideways in a manner he thought impossible. Perhaps the other rumors were true as well, that she was a sorceress as well as a warrior princess. No matter. Filled again with his power, albeit uncomfortably so, he was ready for her. And it showed.
After a time she came to a clearing and dismounted to stretch. He was ready for her, and broke from the woods without further attempts to hide.
As her arms returned to her sides, she turned and addressed him. "So, you appear at last. No more skulking. Are you ready to kneel and worship me for the rest of time?"
"I'm ready...to take you," Smith flatly stated, his body aflame, as if each breath inhaled some potent elixir that ignited all his members. He dismounted and did not try to hide his excitement.
"At least you're proportional. Doesn't that chafe with the armor?"
"You're right; there's no need." With a twist of his wrist, he disconnected his armored skirt from his breastplate. It hung, suspended for a moment, until he removed it, discarding it in front of him. Her turn to be entranced; the wizard knew his business. A few moments later, and the rest of his armor joined it. Clad only in a tunic, he extended his arms as he stepped toward her.
She removed the small dagger at her side. She wore no armor. She wore hardly anything: what looked like a loincloth, though it was somehow connected between her legs, and a simple top that must have stayed atop her by magick alone. She also extended her arms, widened her legs, and stepped forward crouching slightly; a wrestler's pose.
They touched. It felt like lightning when their hands grasped each other's arms, both slightly damp from the exertion of riding. Her strength was impressive; an easy match for any man. Any other man. He let her push one arm back, as if to pin him, before stepping forward and shifting positions, bringing both arms behind her. In a moment it was over; he had her. His chest pressed against her breasts, almost nipple to nipple as her height matched his. With a pull he grabbed her wrists and eliminated the space between the two of them, a stiff reminder of his intention poking her in the belly. She was astonished at his strength; it was obvious that she could struggle but she would not be moved.
She'd never met a man this strong. This tall. This handsome. Who radiated this much power, vitality, and ugh! Her inner reservoirs opened, a tiny tide before the coming flood.
With one hand he firmly grasped her wrists. With the other he enclosed one perfect buttock. A press forward and their tongues touched, then lips, then whole bodies. A battle of tongues, but even there the victor was obvious. She relaxed in his grip; one hand left her, and with a sudden toss he yanked her loincloth from her throwing it to the ground. His other hand released her as his arms encircled her, pulling her to him tightly. She moaned and she pressed her mouth against his with a strength that would have snapped the neck of most men.
Fuck foreplay. He reached down to lift her up and onto him when he felt something slip. There was a moment's pause as she shuddered with the force. He couldn't help himself. With a blast as loud as a trumpet, his inner wind came out, filling the air with a strangely sweet stench. (Damn raisins!)
But in that moment after her shock, she reacted. Reaching up, she pressed down on his shoulders. His strength gone, he collapsed to his knees, head in front of the temple he so badly wanted to worship in. Perhaps...
His momentary masculine thought perished as she continued to press him down, stepping back as he hit the ground.
"Oh! Gdodam!" The pain consumed him.
Her laughter equally possessed her. One foot planted firmly on his back, she nevertheless rocked with it, as if she might collapse. This continued for some minutes as he continued to vent uncontrollably while he fell to half mast and less.
Empty, shrunken, again a weakling under the foot of the most beautiful woman on the planet. His humiliation seemed complete...but had only begun.
Hours of reflection later had not made it easier. Manacled, his hands and neck embraced by iron and joined together in a giant yoke with other slaves to make an even dozen, he served as a beast of burden. Smaller than his fellow slaves, he was practically dragged at times, scrambling to keep up with them. Worse: she'd found a way to preserve his weakness.
Had she known all along of his secret? She retrieved a brass cylinder of fiendish design: an almost pointed tip flared into a wider ring that quickly narrowed. She'd shown it to him for a second before making some other preparations. At least she'd done something to reduce the friction. A thought of how lengthened him a bit more.
She'd pulled him up on his knees and with a forceful twisting inserted the object into him. At first the pain was extraordinary. Then, well it pressed on some interesting places. Especially when he walked. That, and the occasional breeze carrying her scent kept him strangely stimulated. But most fiendish: the device had a small tube running its length. Any gas that built up escaped with an embarrassing whistle.
Walking with this thing, in irons, whistling...it should have humbled him. Yet he found himself oddly exhilarated, still aroused. Magick, no doubt.
They reached her camp and the yolk opened, allowing him to fall to his knees in exhaustion, though still chained.
"Come, slaves, gather round. Witness the birth of your new brother!"
He was too exhausted to move, to care what happened next. Soon he was the center of a large circle of men, all dressed in loincloths with gold bands circling their neck. How many, he could not say; he could not turn his neck. But the count in front of him reached the hundreds.
"See: the great Lord Smith. Champion of the Su. Undefeated warrior...until now. He has come to make a decision: to stay as my slave, or go as a free man. What shall he decide?"
The crowd laughed. What had she planned?
"If I choose freedom...?"
"Ah, but there is just one thing you must do to be free. You, of all men, will appreciate this. Show him the flask!"
In front of him, one of the slaves held a large flask, perhaps five nolgals in volume with a long tube emerging from the bottom.
"Empty this, and you shall be freed."
"You want me to drink all of that?"
"Drink? Not quite." She laughed as the slave moved behind him and...connected it.
A sudden rush of warmth filled him and he understood. Leaning forward, until his elbows dug into the ground, he hoped for the best. And honestly, at first it really didn't feel bad at all. Kind of relaxing. Then the cramps started. She gestured and the flow paused.
With a finger under his chin, she raised his head until he looked into her. Her eyes...grey, no silver, eerie. Kneeling there, exposed, humiliated, facing something dreadful...yet looking in her eyes he felt utterly at peace, accepted, encouraged. As if she wanted him to take on this last labor, as if she hoped he'd win his freedom. In that moment, he'd do anything for her. She nodded. The flow continued.
For how long, he didn't know. He lay on the ground, doubled over, stretched out, no position was comfortable. Nauseated, shaking, he could not take any more. "No...no...no more."
"I understand," was all she said. Then, someone on each side of him lifted him up and carried him to the side of a large latrine. With a twist and a yank, somehow the slave pulled whatever was in him out. He'd never felt so relieved as in that moment.
Time passed. In spurts. He was finally emptied. Other slaves poured bucket after bucket of water over him until they were satisfied. Still exhausted, he was no longer thirsty, no longer aroused. Sore. Weak. They'd won, for now. They put him in a cage this time. His neck was freed, but long chains bound him to the cage. His feet were tightly manacled. His waist was tied to the top of the cage. He could not move around, and could only lift his arms to neck height.
"I give you one more hour. Place the band around your neck when you are ready. I will come for you in an hour. Do not disappoint me."
Her words were flat as she handed him a ring of gold, his collar, and walked away. She'd won; after the day, there was no way he could gather his strength in an hour. He was defeated.
He stood there, holding the band, for some time, staring at the ground in front of him. His mind was blank when someone's feet came into his view. He looked up.
In front of him was the only female slave he'd seen. He presumed she was a slave; she was dressed as such, although he could not see any collar. In her hands was a pitcher of water.
She had long, dark brown hair, dull and straight. Her face was plain, with a few blemishes. She was short, the same height as I in my current condition. A little overweight, little muscle tone, small breasts, even a slight paunch. She was perhaps the same age as me, perhaps even a bit older. Her hips flared out nicely, although there was too much padding there for her frame. Her eyes, like her hair, were brown: common. But her face expressed concern. I looked in her eyes and felt a strange mixture of compassion, interest, and oddly enough fear coming from them.
"Thirsty?"
I nodded. I leaned my head back and opened my mouth as she gingerly poured the water into my mouth, soaking me in the process. I didn't care.
"Enough? Good." She looked at me for a long time, then asked. "What will you do?"
"Do I have a choice? When my time is up, I'll be her slave, whether I want to or not."
"And if you had a choice? If you could flee here, leave your powers behind...could you leave her?"
I looked at her for an equal time. "Yes," I said.
"I could...we could...I know how to get out. But understand: this is a dangerous and uncertain path. It is a way past magick. The only certainty is that you'll never see her again, and you'll never know the strength you once had. You'd have to trust me. We'd have to leave together, now, before she returns. Could you do that?"
I looked in her plain brown eyes. "Yes."
"Will do you this?"
With nothing: no strength, no magick, no resources...no clothes! Naked, weak, helpless, with only the strength to look her in the eye. "Yes."
In the cave, the breath of the Troll behind me...
"Well, what are you waiting for? Go. She's out there somewhere. Find her."
"Huh...what happened? I didn't...what happened?"
"Foolish man, do not tire my patience. On this, the shortest day of the year, I grant One True Wish to any man with the courage to seek me. You now have yours. Go! I have an experiment to finish."
Dazed and confused, I turned to leave. The Troll, sensing my confusion, picked me up and returned me to his shoulder, a full fair having been paid.
I pondered my fortune as we descended.