The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

They didn’t chain her to a rock; after all, they weren’t barbarians. Weyderchi had been the cultural capital of Nestromand for over a thousand years. They weren’t going to abandon that status over a single overgrown lizard.

Of course, they hadn’t leapt straight to human sacrifices, either. First they’d tried to kill the creature, sending four separate armed expeditions over the course of as many years. Every single soldier had vanished, as did the occasional wandering adventurer who still tried his or her luck.

The dragon never retaliated for these intrusions, but it never let Weyderchi forget its presence either. High up on Mount Enwyf, the mouth of its cave burned ceaselessly with a red-orange glow. Weyderchines learned to anticipate the dragon’s moods through the intensity of that glow. When the creature was sated, its fires were visible only at night; but when it was hungry, its cave blazed even at midday.

Unfortunately, the dragon’s hunger was the only thing about it that Weyderchines could predict. It didn’t care about the state of its victims’ hymens, only their age and gender; and its hunting grounds ranged from the foothills beneath Mount Enwyf, almost to the walls of the city. Women might be abducted from their fields, the streets the traveled, or even from their beds.

The dragon must be a powerful mage, to manage that last. Thank gods it only hunted once a year, and that it stayed in its cave otherwise.

That was why the priests instituted the Lot: to keep the dragon in its cave. Send its meals to it, they said, and the city wouldn’t have to worry about a monster running rampant. So every year, when the cave mouth brightened, the priests brought a golden chest to the city hall and drew some poor girl’s name.

They never called what they did a sacrifice. No, the girl was “sent up the mountain,” as though she were visiting a recluse or, at worst, going into exile. She could even take weapons and armor, if she wanted them. After all, the dragon hadn’t minded the expeditions or adventurers. It certainly didn’t care if a peasant girl showed up with her father’s sword.

Somehow, they were always peasants or working class women. The priests never admitted to excluding nobles from the Lot, but Rolanne had done her homework. In all the seventy-five years of the dragon’s rule, they’d never sent a highborn Weyderchine up the mountain.

This gave Rolanne, who was the city’s Crown Princess, a guilty sense of comfort. The only way she’d be sent up the mountain, she told herself, was if she volunteered; and she wasn’t about to do that.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to.

When Rolanne was sixteen, the glow brightened early in the dragon’s cave and remained bright after the usual sacrifice. Then, for the first time in living memory, the beast emerged to hunt. It took it took two women and five animals the first night; and after a hurried second sacrifice failed to appease it, it took five more women the second night.

And still the cave mouth blazed.

On the third day Weyderchi’s priests called a Council, gathering all the noble families into the Great Hall of the palace to discuss the problem. Rolanne and her siblings had sat through dozens of Councils before, but they’d never seen other children in attendance. Today, though every girl over the age of fifteen sat nervously with her parents.

Rolanne understood right away; everyone did. All they had to do was look at the Temple Guard, ringing their masters in a picket of swords and blocking every exit.

The Weyderchine monarchy had always been figureheads, but at least the priests had allowed them the illusion of power. Today, however, no one could question the Hierophant’s rule. He told the nobles that the dragon’s tastes had changed, that it craved richer food. The priests had no choice but to draw Lots from the nobility.

Murmurs and curses swelled through the hall, but no one could oppose the priests openly. Council law had demanded they leave all arms at home, and they couldn’t have defeated the Temple Guard in any case. The priests’ army were notorious zealots. They were raised in the Temple and trained to fight to the death for their masters.

Staring down the length of so many holy blades, the nobles could do nothing but pray the Lot fell to another family.

Rolanne’s eyes darted around the hall, taking in the pale faces and tight-clutched hands. She was probably still safe, she thought, but her heart pounded like a temple drum. Someone she knew was about to be sentenced to death.

The priests had just brought out their chest when a lone figure from the tiers. “I’ll go,” she called, and shook off her parents’ arms. “All I need is a good sword.”

The girl was tall and blonde with a long, proud neck; and she was almost exactly two years older than Rolanne. Rolanne knew that because the girl was one of her two closest friends.

Watching her walk down the steps, Rolanne almost leapt to her own feet. How could Burda be so stupid? The girl had always fantasized about fighting enemies and saving her city; but she didn’t really think she could do it, did she? Sword or no sword, she’d just volunteered for suicide.

Rolanne tried in vain to catch her friend’s eye. The appointment ceremony had begun and Burda was staring resolutely the Hierophant. She didn’t even look at her family, who were practically wailing in the tiers. When she was in this mood, Rolanne knew, she wouldn’t even acknowledge a counter-argument. Damn hard-headed fool.

Rolanne looked to her right, to the third member of their inner circle. Ehlen was a small, dark girl whose face had gone almost literally gray with horror. She met Rolanne’s gaze and she shook her head, then turned back hopelessly to Burda.

A scream built in Rolanne’s throat. She pressed her hands tightly to her mouth and kept them there until the ceremony was finished.

Then there was nothing left but sending Burda up the mountain.

Naturally, Burda didn’t come back.

Ten months later Rolanne and Ehlen stood on a parapet at midday staring at the bright, bloody eye of Mount Enwyf.

“Do you think anyone else will volunteer?” said Rolanne.

Ehlen tipped her head. “Maybe,” she said, “if the priests push the patriotism angle hard enough. Nobles do love to be noble.”

Rolanne shuddered. " I just hope Burda got a few blows in before the dragon killed her.”

“I don’t think it would have made any difference. If the thing could be killed by a sword, it would be dead already.”

Privately Rolanne agreed, but she had to believe something would work, and what else was there? “They say every dragon has a vulnerable spot.”

“They also say dragons need virgins,” Ehlen answered bitterly. “Well, they used to say that. And they used to say swords would work, too. That was before the expeditions failed. ”

“All right, then, if you don’t think swords can kill the dragon, what you try?”

“Poison. I’d buy every herb and chemical that had ever been used to kill a reptile, have a mage increase their potency, stuff everything into tiny bladders, and stuff those in my clothes and body cavities. I’d even swallow a few.”

Rolanne gaped. It was the most disgusting thing she’d ever heard of, but in a way it was brilliant too. “You’d really do that?”

“Sure,” Ehlen shrugged. “The way I see it, the moment I step into that cave I’m dead anyway. I might as well try to take the dragon with me.”

“Don’t talk like that. You sound like you’re expecting them to draw your name.”

Ehlen gazed sadly at Rolanne. “I think they will, eventually. And I think they’ll draw yours too.”

Ehlen wasn’t chosen that night, but the girl whose name was drawn bought Weyderchi only six months of peace.

By this point even the most stubborn Weyderchines would have abandoned the city, but it was no longer even an option. Weyderchi lay between the Bay of Belmehr and the Menaline Mountains. The location allowed for easy defense, but it also made evacuation difficult when all the mountain passes were blocked and all ships in the bay torched in a single night.

In the next few days, traders who sailed into Weyderchi took one look at the smoldering wrecks and turned around. They all knew about the dragon, and guessing the truth of the situation, they didn’t even stop to take on refugees.

A few days later, no traders came to the bay at all.

Weyderchi was alone with the dragon.

The next time the cave light brightened, the Lot fell to Ehlen.

By now Rolanne had seen and heard too much of death. She leapt up, screaming, but the Temple Guard stood between her and her friend, and Ehlen’s own family couldn’t keep her from them.

Ehlen kissed her loved ones, then walked shakily down the steps. When she reached the floor she stopped to look at Rolanne. “Don’t worry,” she called, though her own face was drenched with tears. “Remember what I told you! I’m ready!”

Then she turned to face the Hierophant. “I don’t want a sword,” she said, “but I will need a mage. Just for an hour or two.”

The flames died down after Ehlen climbed the mountain, but they didn’t disappear. Five months later they rose again, and then four months after that.

It was then, almost two and a half years after Burda’s sacrifice, that the Hierophant drew Rolanne’s name for the Lot.

At first she was too surprised to stand, but her mother leapt up screaming and Rolanne realized the truth. She’d been chosen. She had to face the dragon.

Rolanne rose in a daze, glancing left to the Queen, who was haranguing the priests; and right to the King, burying his face in his hands. Her siblings wailed and clutched both their parents.

Her walk down from the dais seemed to take hours, and with every step she grew more certain that her name wasn’t drawn by chance. Maybe she really had been exempt from the Lot until now, but the dragon was obviously still unsatisfied. Who was left to send up the mountain, except a royal? And who among the royals met the dragon’s criteria? Only Rolanne.

She’d almost reached the floor now, and the Queen was still raging at the Hierophant. “You can’t do this, Merdin! You can’t do this! She’s the Crown Princess!”

Merdin held out his hands to Rolanne, but his eyes remained fixed on her mother. “You have other children, Majesty,” he said calmly.

“Oh, gods!” screamed the Queen. “You’ll die for that, you bastard!”

Struggles sounded behind Rolanne. She turned and saw her mother being wrestled to the floor by five Guards. Then, even as she watched, they bound her, gagged her and shoved back on her throne.

Something bloomed in Rolanne’s chest, dark and vicious and strangely tinged with relief. She didn’t have to wonder or worry anymore; she’d been chosen and that was all there was to it. But her mother didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. The priests would pay for that.

As a Queen, Rolanne would have been no more than a figurehead, but they’d trained her in the arts of politics and showmanship anyway. She drew herself up to her full height and speared the Hierophant with her glare. “How dare you?” she snarled, pitching her voice to the back of the room. “This is the Queen of all Weyderchi, not some common rabble rouser! She is your Monarch, and she is the mother of your chosen sacrifice. You will treat her with respect!”

Merdin’s face paled; she’d caught him completely off guard. He gestured his men away from the throne and bowed to his chosen victim. “Our apologies, Highness,” he said. “Difficult times are no excuse for cruelty. The Queen deserves our utmost respect...as do you.”

“I do?” Rolanne intended to hold onto her anger as long as she could. Terror was waiting just behind it. “Why? I didn’t choose to be sacrificed; you chose me.”

Her thoughts were racing, but they were still ahead of her tongue. She knew better than to accuse the Hierophant openly of conspiracy. If she did that, Weyderchines would riot and die on her behalf and the priests would still be in charge. They were too powerful to topple.

Still, Merdin didn’t want a riot any more than Rolanne did. He ruled like all his predecessors, with a combination of veiled threats and promises of protection from the dragon. When the promises failed he had to rely more heavily on threats, but he’d gone too far with the Queen. Rolanne had called him on it, and now he had to tread carefully to keep the peace.

The Hierophant spread his hands. “Weyderchi respects every sacrifice we send up the mountain. And Weyderchi respects its Royal Family. We will support all of you through this difficult time.”

Rolanne turned away from him, back toward her loved ones on their dais. Someone had untied Mother’s hands, thank goodness, and she was removing her own gag and crying quietly. Father met Rolanne’s eyes and nodded as if to say. “Well done.”

Rolanne nodded back, then turned to her siblings. Her oldest sister had just turned eleven, which made her five years too young for the Lot, but that wouldn’t stop the priests when the time came. Whether it be five years or two months from now, they’d send Ora straight up the mountain when the cave mouth brightened again.

Rolanne wanted to beg them for her sister’s life, but she knew it would be useless. The priests didn’t care about Ora, and anyway, they were trapped just as much as the rest of Weyderchi. They’d do whatever they had to do, to survive.

No, begging was useless...but there might be another way to help Ora, to help them all. It was a Burda-like thought, but Rolanne realized she might actually be able to save her city.

She whirled back to face the Hierophant. “I understand my duty,” she told him. “I’ll go up the mountain, and for my weapon I’ll have The Sword That Never Struck in Vain.”

The hall erupted. Every noble knew the legend of the Sword, how it had helped found Weyderchi and then vanished like the myth it was. No one really believed the story anymore—no one except the priests, the Temple Guard, and the royal family.

Rolanne had been twelve years old when they showed her the Sword. The Temple Guard had come to the palace and taken her away, alone. They’d presented her to the Hierophant, and he and all his guards had taken her into the Temple treasury. There he’d shown her the Sword That Never Struck in Vain, and he’d told her its secret history. The Priests had held it in trust all these years, he said, against the day someone tried to wrest Weyderchi away from its rulers.

Twelve-year-old Rolanne, alone in a room full of armed strangers, had nodded mutely. She understood what he hadn’t told her, and she took it to heart. Even now, merely mentioning the weapon brought a swell of fear to her chest.

No other sacrifice would have thought to ask for the Sword, because none of them knew it was real. The priests would have lied in any case. They were so afraid of rebellion that they hadn’t even offered the Sword to the expeditions.

But now Rolanne had the gall to demand the thing. In public.

She watched the Hierophant weigh his options. He could deny the Sword existed and hope she backed down, he could admit the Sword existed but find an excuse to keep it from her, or he could give her a weapon she could turn against him.

Rolanne knew the Hierophant was good at reading faces; he had to be, in his position. She looked him straight in the eye and willed him to trust her. “I don’t want to start a riot, Merdin,” she said. “What I want is that Sword. And I think you see the wisdom of giving it to me.”

He drew out the silence as long as he could, but they both knew he had no choice. He was a much better politician than Rolanne, and he understood that necessity trumped fear. “Indeed,” he said at last, “I see the wisdom of the Crown Princess herself.”

He turned to face the hall and raised his voice to the tiers. “Crown Princess Rolanne, you may take the Sword That Never Struck in Vain, and may the gods give you victory with it.” Then he added, for her ears alone, “But if they do, you will return the Sword to us the moment you leave that den.”

And now she stood there, at the mouth of that den. They’d let her walk freely up the mountain, if “freely” included being covered by two dozen archers. They were stationed above and below the cave entrance, where the Sword had been left for her to find. If Rolanne tried to take it anywhere except into the cave, she’d be dead before she could swing it.

No one came with her up the path. A sacrifice’s loved ones traditionally came with her to the entrance, but Rolanne had made an exception of herself. Because she’d demanded the Sword, her family was imprisoned gods-knew-where and she’d never see them again unless she killed the dragon and then surrendered the weapon.

The city knew none of this, of course. They’d been told the royal family was in mourning, and if any of them guessed otherwise, they couldn’t prove it and wouldn’t dare try.

Rolanne wondered how long it would take, if she died, before the priests released her family. But thoughts like that were useless. All she had to consider right now was how to kill the dragon.

The Sword That Never Struck in Vain stood propped against a rock. She picked it up and, half fearing a trick, drew it from its sheath.

There was no mistaking a blade of pure diamond.

She breathed in carefully, as though the Sword might evaporate. How much magic had it taken to craft a weapon like this? How many ordinary diamonds had been melded into this single glittering blade? Everything about the Sword was impossible, yet here it was in her hands.

They priests had kept their word; they’d given her The Sword That Never Struck in Vain. Maybe they thought she really stood a chance against the dragon.

Then again, maybe they’d given up all hope of rescue.

Rolanne wasn’t sure how much hope she should feel, but she laid the scabbard aside and took a few practice swings with the Sword. The sensation was exquisite. Rolanne had been in weapons training since age five, and she knew the balance of a good sword. The Sword That Never Struck in Vain made even the finest steel blade feel like a block of wood.

Experimentally she eyed the rock where they’d left it for her; then she brought the blade down on top of it. The stone split neatly in half. She swung at the mountain face and the Sword cleaved it like butter.

Rolanne smiled grimly. Maybe she had the right to hope after all. She resheathed the Sword, buckled it around her waist, and stepped into the den.

Rolanne had expected the temperature to climb once she moved beyond the wind. After all, she’d grown up in the glare of a red-gold eye that almost every Weyderchine associated with fire. She’d chosen leather armor in part because she’d expected to sweat.

But the temperature stayed constant long after she’d lost sight of the sun. Something flickered in the air around her, but it wasn’t firelight. It was totally directionless, and up close she could see a full spectrum of colors, distinct but constantly shifting. Rolanne felt dizzy, as if she were standing inside a mirage.

Focus, Rolanne, she told herself. She tried concentrating on a single spot on the wall, but the rock was flecked with mica that scattered the light even further. She shook her head and looked back down the passage, this time willing her gaze not to follow the flicker. If she unfocused just a tiny bit....

A faint chime rang, right on the edge of hearing. It was the kind of noise the dragon might make if it shifted on its hoard.

Rolanne’s heartbeat quickened, blotting out the fainter ringing sound. Her hand drifted toward the Sword but she didn’t draw it. Instead she flexed her fingers and breathed slowly, calling herself into the state of poised awareness she’d learned from her swordmaster. When the time came, she’d draw the weapon instantly; but in the meantime she wouldn’t risk the noise or waste the energy.

Rolanne wondered what the previous sacrifices had done when they’d heard the chime. Burda had probably drawn her sword. She’d trained with Rolanne, and although she’d been faster and stronger than the Crown Princess, she had a tendency to lead with her emotions.

Thinking of that, Rolanne almost chuckled for a moment. Then she imagined how Burda’s walk must have ended and her mind snapped to the present.

Ahead of her the passage turned sharply. She put her back to the wall and eased around it shoulder-first, her hand resting lightly on the Sword hilt.

The new stretch of tunnel was just as empty as the last, and just as dizzying; but now Rolanne had a partial explanation for the effect. Thousands of gems studded the rock, reflecting and multiplying the native glow of the air. Every jewel was unique in size and shape and color, and the largest of them were nearly as big as her fist.

Rolanne didn’t want to be amazed. She didn’t want to stop and stare and run her hand along the gems. But who had ever seen anything like this? Who ever would see anything like this?

Burda. Ehlen. Every other victim the dragon had claimed over the years.

Guiltily she dropped her hand. Then she stepped back and took a deep breath to clear her head.

Strange. There was a scent in the air that she hadn’t noticed before. It was musky and exotic like the smell of ancient spices. Any perfumer who could bottle it would have made a fortune.

Rolanne inhaled again and felt her body loosen. Her eyelids drooped and her hips began to sway. It seemed the most natural response she could think of.

clink

Rolanne’s eyes flew wide. Her hand fumbled for the Sword and she spun around, looking for any sign of movement. But the uncertain light made everything seem to move; and the flickering combined with the scent and her own motion to make her dizzier than before.

But still, somehow, she liked it.

That was just so wrong. Rolanne had expected to be terrified, and she was; but she hadn’t expected to be aroused. The dragon was doing something to her. She didn’t know how far away it was, but it was close enough to play with her mind.

What if she still had a long way to go? If she did, how would it affect her when she got closer?

Rolanne remembered the passes above Weyderchi, blocked now by avalanches. Maybe the dragon had missed one of them. She could try to find out. Or she could just use the Sword to carve a way through. It might take days, but at least she’d escape.

And then what would happen to her family?

No. She had to get control of herself. Rolanne took another reflexive deep breath, but it only spiraled her back into wet-hot giddiness.

Dammit. Ehlen wouldn’t have been this foolish. She’d have kept a clear head and—what? What would Ehlen have done? Even she couldn’t stop herself from breathing. And whatever she’d tried, it hadn’t saved her life.

But that was another useless train of thought. All Rolanne could do right now was breathe shallowly and keep moving.

Around the next bend, the scent was even headier and the gemstones even larger. Rolanne tried not to notice, fixing her eyes on the middle distance where the flickering was least bothersome. If she did that, and if she stayed calm, she could keep her head.

Fortunately, staying calm grew easier by the second.

You couldn’t hold onto fear, Rolanne told herself. It made you fight or run, but if you couldn’t do either, it gave up and drained away. That’s what was happening to her now. Anyway, the passage was so beautiful and soothing that she couldn’t help but enjoy herself a bit.

The pattern of flickers reminded her of light bouncing off water. Warm water, she thought. Hip deep and swirling between her legs just so. She ground her thighs together as she walked.

The tunnel kept curving, inward and downward, inward and downward.

Now the jewels were as big as Rolanne, stacked against one another like slabs when they couldn’t fit on the walls. Sometimes she thought she saw movement within them, but she didn’t dare investigate. She couldn’t spare the concentration.

The chimes were constant now, a babbling brook of sound that was easy to ignore...until it stopped.

Rolanne sensed something behind her, or maybe someone. She turned.

The tunnel was full of people.

Almost all of them were female and most of them were nude, though a few wore bits of armor or scraps of clothes and ornaments. Those didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that the people were jewels. They weren’t wearing jewels, and they weren’t painted like jewels; they were jewels. Some were all one color, like sapphire or amethyst or topaz; others were veined like onyx or flecked like opal. Some had smooth, opaque skin; others were transparent and faceted.

Each body was smooth and polished, each face serene. Each pair of unblinking eyes was featureless as a statue’s.

They began to move again, drifting toward her as fluidly as dancers. Cave light gleamed on the of the smooth-skinned thralls like slow rolling oil; on the faceted ones, it flickered like sunlight on water.

Rolanne stared, half weeping at the beauty of the sight; but as her limbs relaxed her hand brushed the pommel of the Sword. Remembering herself, he drew it clumsily and waved it at the crowd. “Don’t come any closer!” she warned. Her voice was thick and halting. “So help me, I’ll cut you down, every last one of you!”

The jewel-people stopped beyond her reach.

Shaking, Rolanne tried to collect herself. The shock had cleared her head a bit, and now she could study the thralls more carefully. There must have been over hundreds of them: all the girls who’d been sacrificed to the dragon, and all the warriors who’d tried to kill it or steal its hoard.

But this dragon didn’t hoard treasure; it hoarded people. Then it turned them into treasure.

Burda and Ehlen must be in the crowd. They were still alive, or something close to it. Rolanne might even be able to rescue them if she didn’t succumb to the magic herself.

But what if she did succumb? Rolanne wondered what kind of jewel would the dragon make of her. Would she be one color or many? Would her skin be smooth or faceted? How would it feel, to have all her doubts and fears replaced by blank serenity?

Dammit, the cave was getting to her again. Rolanne gritted her teeth and reminded herself of her mission. She had to kill the dragon; and now that she’d seen its victims, she had to save them too.

Again she scanned their faces, wondering what was left to save. She was sure she could see glimpses of the people they once had been. A rose-red thrall still wore, somehow, the look of a prostitute. A rough-hewn woman of lias had been an adventurer or an expeditionary.

Yes, something of the victims remained after their transformation. Something would remain of Burda and Ehlen.

Rolanne scanned the crowd again, but she still couldn’t find her friends. The light was too uncertain and the thralls’ coloring made their features blend together.

She gave up and risked a glance over her shoulder. The way toward the dragon was empty even of gemstones, and for the first time she could tell the light was brighter in that direction. I’m almost there now, she told herself, and turned back to the enchanted crowd. It’s sent out an escort.

The thought carried no fear now, only a grim acceptance. She turned again and let herself be herded toward her fate.

Around the next bend the floor rose suddenly, hiding most of the track but revealing the ceiling of a gigantic cavern. This must be the heart of the dragon’s den at last.

Golden chains hung overhead, curving toward one another as though they supported a heavy weight. Rolanne couldn’t see it until she’d taken several more paces, but then it loomed above her like a rose-tinted moon. The dragon had taken a giant pearl and hollowed it out to form a lamp. A garnet spun within it for the flame, sending flickers back down the passage behind her.

And what was beneath the lamp? Rolanne tried to look down and was shocked to find that she couldn’t. Her arms were nerveless, her legs stiff as posts—though the fork between them fluttered constantly. This lamp, said her cleft, was the source of every moment of light and sound and bliss she’d experienced in the tunnel. How could she fight anything as wonderful as that, it asked. Why would she even want to?

Nevertheless, she tried.

Behind her, muted clinks and chimes said the thralls were on the move. Rolanne wanted to turn and protect herself, but the lamp was just too powerful. She stood quietly, letting her will seep out between her thighs and loving the sensation. When a stray beam of lamplight hit her eyes, she couldn’t even blink—and the knowledge that she couldn’t blink made her cleft thump even harder. She longed to reach between her legs and reveled in the fact that she couldn’t.

Rolanne knew what was happening. She was on the brink of succumbing, just as everyone else who’d walked this path had succumbed. Even the toughest adventurers, barbarian heroes with hundreds of victories under their belts, had set out to kill the dragon and ended up enslaved to it. How could she resist?

Besides, the lamp wasn’t even the most powerful thing in this cavern. She still hadn’t seen its maker. Would she have enough mind left to recognize it when she did?

Sparks leapt between her nipples and her clit.

It was such a relief to know the dragon didn’t want her dead. No, it wanted to preserve her for all eternity. It wanted to treasure her.

But Rolanne had treasured ones of her own, didn’t she?

Oh yes. Her family.

Rolanne managed to shake her head, and that gave her the strength to grip the Sword more firmly. It was her anchor to reality, and just as importantly, it was her weapon. Knowing that, she was able look away from the lamp.

A gem-thrall stood directly in front of her.

This one’s skin was a deep, rich blue with a few sinuous veins of gold. Lapis lazuli, Rolanne thought. She couldn’t help noticing it was the finest quality lapis she’d ever seen.

The thrall tilted her head, and though her expression never altered, something about the gesture sparked a memory. This, Rolanne realized, was Ehlen.

Rolanne shivered, trying to move or speak or do anything but gape at the sight of her lost friend. It was Ehlen, really Ehlen, somewhere beneath the spells. But she was buried as deeply and locked down as tightly as a fossil. The thought of it was...was....

Horrifying, Rolanne thought, but the spasm between her legs said otherwise.

Ehlen regarded her with mindless serenity. A thin curve of gold ran through one of her areolas, drawing Rolanne’s eyes straight toward the nipple. She couldn’t help noticing that it was literally hard as a rock.

The thought made her cheeks flush, but the vein swirled on down and Rolanne’s eyes followed it, all the way to the vee between Ehlen’s legs. It was just as swollen as Ehlen’s nipples.

Now the traitorous lamp-thoughts were back in force. This wouldn’t be such a bad fate, would it, they asked Rolanne. Wouldn’t she like to be aroused and happy for all eternity?

Rolanne shook off the thought with some effort, then reached for Ehlen’s arm. Maybe, she thought, she could shake her back to something like awareness.

It was a ridiculous notion, and Ehlen proved it when she reached out in turn and grabbed Rolanne’s wrists. Her hands were smooth and cool, and they were as intractable as stone.

“Ehlen!” shouted Rolanne, “no!” But Ehlen just tipped her head in the opposite direction and went on smiling.

Meanwhile, another gem-woman had stepped up beside her: Burda. The dragon had transformed her into tiger-eye, and her skin glimmered with bands of gold and black. The locks of her hair fell like ribbons, each a different color and texture.

Burda reached down carefully and took the Sword from Rolanne.

No! Rolanne hadn’t fought so hard to reach this spot, with this weapon, to lose it all like this. She tried to kick, but another thrall had grabbed her ankles from behind. She tried to jerk, but she might as well have been standing still. The thralls were strong as stone.

Burda stepped back and stood to attention with the Sword, holding it point-down with her hands atop the pommel. She tilted her head to match Ehlen’s and the two of them stood there, watching Rolanne in total silence.

Their expressions never changed.