She had been quite surprised – pleasantly surprised – by how different it was when two women made love. With men, it was all rush, rush, pant, pant, grunt, grunt, stick it up you, spurt and go. There was no time for finesse or hardly even talking. Even discounting the various rapes she had allowed herself to endure since leaving Hell with her father's instructions ringing in her ears, men who had no violent intent still came across like animals to her, rutting and snorting and farting and slobbering all over her. It was like men needed to assert their dominance, had to be the ones in charge, and this almost seemed to preclude any tenderness or even regard for the woman, who was seen basically as an object and not a person. Male sex was all about gratification of the man, all about his needs and his desires, and hers came a very distant second or possibly even third.

With women, she had found, it was a totally different story. The experience had been shared, not forced, a glorious coming together of two individuals, both of whom cared for the other, or pretended to, and in the time that a man would have already have been turning over in the bed, his work done, she and Beatrice had not even finished the elaborate and sensual foreplay of which she had previously known nothing. Tongues figured a lot in this, as well as fingers, and they probed her secret places, places men were unaware of, where hidden treasures were to be found, feelings and emotions set in motion, sensations activated that no man had ever managed to come close to achieving up to now.

The main thing about female lovemaking, she had discovered, was that they took their time. There was no rush, no hurried charge towards climax. She and Beatrice had spent what seemed like – and possibly was – hours exploring each other's body before any real intimacy had taken place. Whispered compliments, soft breath sighing in her ear, the musk of heady perfume, the meaningful exchange of glances. The eye contact, something men knew very little about. Most of them entered through the rear anyway, so all they really ever saw was her arse, which, gorgeous as it was, did little for her self esteem.

She had had men stick their rough tongues down there of course, as she spread her legs and hoped for intense pleasure, and was always disappointed. Men did not seem to know how to work the labia, the clitoris, any part of her genitals, and this was not too surprising, as this really primarily gave pleasure to her, and they were not interested in that. Pushing, shoving, slapping and belching, they would rut and roar and oink and grunt their way through the encounter, concerned only with their own climax, and that to be achieved as quickly as possible, so that once it happened they could turn over and lose all interest in her, an object used for the purpose it had been built for, and no longer of any value.

There was always an end with men, a goal to be reached, a triumph, a conquest. It was primal with men, and she could enjoy that, certainly, on one level. But what Beatrice had shared with her was something far beyond all that, so different to what she had been used to. It was as if she had subsisted on bread for all her life and suddenly been offered the finest caviar. She had kept waiting, as they embraced, as their soft lips met and kissed, and eager tongues explored inside the mouth of the other, tickling the teeth as they flicked along their even edges, for the sudden push, the urgency, the campaign to be, like her, mounted. And yet it had never come. Softly, slowly, unhurriedly, Beatrice had given of herself all she had, and instead of taking from Shirley, the Darkling found that she was responding in kind, not because she had to or was being forced to, or used without any regard for herself, but because she wanted to.

It had truly been a magical night, but it was several days in the past now, she reminded herself as the pulsating tube in her mouth drove in and out, a final gasp from somewhere beyond presaging a flood of hot semen that burned her throat as it forced its way down, she working to swallow it, her breathing a little laboured. A moment later he was withdrawing, and sinking back on the bed rolled to the side and picked up a packet of smokes. Extracting one, he struck a match and touched it to the paper tube, inhaling with a massive sigh and then blowing the thick smoke out as he looked up at the ceiling.

At that moment, Shirley felt an abiding and eternal hatred for all men.

“That were fuckin' great!” Her paramour raised his body to expel a loud fart, grinned, finally deigning to acknowledge her presence. “Not many of the local lasses take it in the mouth,” he told her. “Fuckin' enjoyed that!” This last was almost spoken as if, again, he had forgotten she was there, or that, more likely, he didn't care. She raised herself up on one elbow, forced herself to be polite, even though she wanted nothing more than to ram that stupid flaming tube down his stupid coarse throat and watch him choke on it.

“So did I,” she lied, adding another one to the pile as she remarked “Really big cock you got there.”

Halfway between accepting this as a compliment and just taking it as a fact, he grinned. “Aye,” he agreed. “I do, that. No complaints so far!” He lazily placed both his hands behind his head and leaned back, leaving the smoke dangling from his mouth and making it even harder for her to resist shoving it down his throat. She decided instead to have some fun with him. After all, he owed her, him and that stupid fat cock of his. Her mouth hurt, and despite what she had told him to bolster his already obese ego, she had not enjoyed it at all. But her father had given her a command, and she was determined to take advantage of any and every opportunity that came her way, no matter how innately repulsive they might be. When she returned home in triumph, she would know how to please him, and he would be proud of her.

But he had said nothing about not having fun.

“Man like you,” she purred, “big cock like that, bet you're really strong and brave.”

Of course he could not deny it, nor resist the urge to boast. “Not many lads down 'ere as can take me in a fair fight!” he admitted.

“Ever been to war?” she asked, forcing her eyes to widen as if in anticipation of stories of courage and heroism, but as she knew he would, he disappointed in that also.

“War?” he snorted. “Nah. Too many fools go off t' fight foreign wars, gets themselves killed, an' for wot?” He didn't wait for her to answer, snapping “So some king ye never 'eard of can add another few acres t' 'is land, or stick 'is enemy's 'ead up onna pike! Waste o' time, war,” he told her, grinning. “I prefer fuckin'!”

As he reached for her, she managed to move away without looking as if she were doing so. “I was just wondering,” she went on, her eyes still shining, “if you ever went up to the Castle?”

The grin slipped from his face, replaced by a dark brooding look. “The Castle?” he repeated, as if unsure of what she had said. The smoke was stubbed out as he shook his head. “You mean that dark 'orrible place, Castle o' Forever? The lair o' that mad wizard? Like fuck I 'ave! Told yer: got more sense, I 'as!”

She nodded, looking away as if disappointed. “But ... I thought you said you were brave!” She reached out to fondle his admittedly muscular arm, but he shook her off angrily. He did not like where this conversation was suddenly heading, and found himself wondering, for the first time since she had caught his eye at the Rabbit's Foot, who the hell this crazy bitch was?

“Brave, yeah!” he blustered. “Not fuckin' stupid though! No man who's ever gone into t' Grey Forest 'as ever returned. Listen,” he told her, sitting up a little straighter in the bed and drawing up the covers, his erection, on its way to round two, now having thrown in the towel and lying dormant, his eyes darting around as if afraid someone might hear. “I knew a guy once, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who heard tell of a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who ...” He stopped, counting out guys on his fingers, as if the relationship of all these people to him was somehow important, “knew a guy who had a friend once who heard a guy tell him that he knew a guy who knew a guy who went up there, you know, for a dare? He didn't mean no 'arm, like. Simple chap, no threat t' anyone. Well, let me tell ye, missy.” He paused for effect, looking around again. “We all 'eard 'is screams for three nights straight, even down 'ere so far away from that damned castle. 'orrible it was, fair make ye shiver in yer bed, make ye draw the curtains an' curl up so tight ...” Aware he was not exactly doing his chances of getting to fuck her a second time much good with this confession of abject fear, he coughed and amended his story.

“Uh, not me, y'understand. I raised a rescue party, we was ready to go in there sword swingin', me and a few of the lads.”

“Oh yes?” She made herself sound interested, leaned towards him as if eager to hear more. His eyes slid away from meeting hers, his voice dropping to a mutter.

“Yeah, well, see, thing is ... night before we was goin' to go in, I gets me a really awful dose o' the squirts, y'know? Couldn't move ten yards from t' privy. Really sick I were, 'ad to take to me bed.”

“How horrible!” she breathed, though her thoughts were how convenient and also how ironically appropriate. He nodded, trying to bolster up his flagging image.

“Yeah, yeah,” he went on. “Guys 'ad to leave me an' head out t' the castle on theys own.”

“What happened?” She was not rapt. She was far from rapt. But she wanted to convince him she was, and she did. He narrowed his eyes.

“More screams,” he whispered, almost reverting to a child for a second, his eyes white with fear. “Longer, worse, more 'orrible than before. Six nights they lasted for...”

She interrupted him, asking “And, how long were you ... sick for?”

He frowned at her. Was she mocking him? She had better fucking not be! But the question needed an answer. “Um, seven nights,” he replied. Again she smiled inwardly at the convenience. He went on. “By then, it were too late. Like I says,” he told her again, “no man 'as ever come back from that cursed place.”

She looked away from him, out the small window. “No man,” she repeated. “But perhaps a woman might manage it?”

He looked at her strangely, then let out a guffaw of derision, reaching for his smokes again. “A woman?” he chortled. Then he stopped, the smoke halfway to his mouth as understanding dawned in his slow brain. “Oh fuck!” he gasped. “You're talkin' 'bout yerself, ain't ya?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“But ... but ... but ...” He seemed to be lost for words. Eventually he managed “Why?”

“I have business there.” The tone of playfulness was gone from her voice. Now she was all professional, ready to do her job.

“What kind o' business,” he asked in half wonder, half scorn, “could a slip o' a girl like you 'ave... there?” A shudder he tried, and failed, to conceal.

“Business that is none of yours,” she retorted coldly. She forced a smile, and some warmth back into her voice as she offered him a chance at redemption. “Perhaps you'd like to escort me? I'd welcome your company.”

He almost physically drew back from her, as if she were some sort of monster, something to be avoided at all costs. “Oh,” he said, the box of matches still in his hand, the match unlit. “You know, I would, but well, thing is, I have this ... this thing ... with ... my kid ...”

She pretended to be shocked. “You have a child? You're married?” Although the two were not mutually inclusive, he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, me wife would ... kill me.” He trailed off as he realised how pathethic that must seem to her, but it was an excuse that had its basis in truth. Mira would string him up by his balls if she knew he had been with this sexy honey, much less rode off with her on some crazy quest or other. He couldn't go. She wouldn't hear of it. It deflated his pompous manhood to admit that he bowed to the wishes of his wife, but at the same time it offered him an escape that, while not quite honourable, at least was not as cowardly as saying he was scared to go. Which of course he was. In fact, he felt like he needed the privy, like, really badly.

She eyed him coldly. “And yet, here you are, in bed with me.”

He squirmed like a worm on a line. “Yeah, well, y'know ...” he mumbled, “she ... don't understand me ...”

Of course not. It was always the same with these humans, it seemed to Shirley. Blame your wife for forcing you to be unfaithful. In her travels through it, one thing had become crystal clear to the Darkling Princess of Hell: the world Above was, very much like her own home, a male-dominated one. But perhaps she could make a small difference here, now. Having intended to get dressed and leave him wallowing in his self-pity, she instead sunk back on the bed, pillowing her head on his chest, and asked him “Tell me about her.”

“Huh?” The scratch of the match on the table was quickly followed by a thick cloud of smoke as he pulled on the tube, exhaling expansively. “Wot d'ye want t' know 'bout 'er for?”

She looked up at him, eyes he could drown in. Eyes which, had she the choice and the means, she would drown him in, and happily too. “Humour me.”

Somehow, it was not a request, and though Mira was the very last thing he wanted to be discussing with this sexy naked fox lying beside him, he felt compelled to talk about his wife. Strange: you could have pulled his teeth and not made him do that, and yet, one look from her and there he was, blabbing on about the woman he supposedly loved.

“Well,” he began, a little hesitatingly, “she ain't what ye'd call pretty. Not like you are, now!” He clapped his hand to her naked buttock, giving it a squeeze. She resisted the urge to shiver and forced herself to move closer to him, snuggling into him. Control. It was all about control. The closer she was, the more influence she could exert upon him, bend his will to hers. Of course, the fact that she was a smoking hot walking sex trap helped too. “She's more, well, more yer 'omely type,” he went on, as he searched for a way to describe the woman he had been married to for so long. “She cooks a great meal, she's very good with t' kid, and she 'ardly ever talks back. Not if she knows wot's good fer 'er, if ye know what I means!” He grinned, and Shirley did not, envisaging the woman named Mira receiving another cruel beating for some imagined offence or remark. The closer she got to this man, the less she liked him. “Yeah, old 'Arry knows 'ow to keep 'em in line!” he chuckled. Again, she did not share the laugh but asked seriously

“Do you love her?”

He seemed taken aback by the question, as if he had never considered it before. Scratching his head, he shrugged. “Love?” he repeated the word as if it were foreign to him, at least in reference to his wife. “Well, I makes sure she gets a good fuckin' once a week,” he offered. “Does me duty, like, as an' 'usband.”

“Does she enjoy it?” Again the question seemed to stump him, as if he had never given it any thought prior to this.

“Fucked if I know!” he laughed. “Who cares? We're married. Me duty's to stick it up 'er, 'er duty t' take it. That,” he informed her knowledgeably, “is wot marriage is all about, girl.”

“Is it?” There was a hidden challenge in the question which he entirely missed, nodding.

“We gets on fine,” he said, more it seemed to convince himself than her. “Long as she keeps that big fuckin' trap o' 'ers shut. Can't stand that whinin' voice she uses when she's tryin' to get 'er own way.”

“Get her own way...”

“Oh, ye know!” he snapped irritably. “Buy me clothes, these ones is 'angin' off me. Ye never take me out nowhere. Where's me money for the food? Fuck that! I needs me beer, I does.” He grinned. “So she might 'ave to stretch the food out for a few days. Gotta 'ave me beer!” He looked at her for agreement, but she was looking away now.

“It doesn't sound like you love her very much,” she commented, then reeled as the slap hit her across the back of the head. He had taken her very much by surprise with the violent outburst; had she been facing him that blow would never have landed, nor would he have ever raised his hand to any woman as long as he lived. As it was, she fell half off the bed, steadied herself, turned to face him with fire in her eyes.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me I don't love me wife?” he thundered, swinging a leg out of bed, a furious look on his face, his true nature now revealed. “Just let me grab me belt an' ye won't sit for a week, ye little tramp!”

She could have knocked him out. She could have killed him. It would have been easy. But too easy, and she wasn't finished with this worm yet. What had begun as a simple teasing game had, on the basis of the information she had now received from him, turned into something more serious, and more important. She needed to keep him onside. She forced tears to drip from her eyes, a trick she had learned by herself, though Darklings did not cry as a rule, and touched his arm.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “It's none of my business. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just ...” She began to turn on the charm now, infuse him with her Darkling equivalent of pheromones. He was defeated before he even took one step. He slumped back into the bed, the belt hanging over the chair forgotten now. He took her in his arms, his sleeping cock beginning to rouse itself, ready for action. “I really like you,” she lied, “and I want to know all I can about you. I just wondered why you stay with her if you're not happy. Is it,” - she made herself flinch, as if she expected another blow, but he was done with that particular mode of communication, at least for now - “the child?”

He sighed, shook his head. “Eric's a fine lad,” he mused, “but ... I don't know. Maybe I just weren't meant t' be no father. Too much 'ard work.”

“So then?” she prompted. “Why not leave her?” For emphasis, she blew the hair on his arm gently. He shivered with the thrill, but shook his head.

“Only way I could legally leave 'er is to divorce 'er,” he told her. “An' that would cost me a pretty penny, I can tell ye! I needs me beer money.”

“Yes,” she reminded him, ensuring he could not see how she rolled her eyes. “You said.”

“Well it's true!” he snapped. “If I divorced 'er she'd get 'alf of all I got, and let me tell ye, that ain't all that much! But I'll be damned if I'll give 'er a single Common! No,” he muttered darkly, almost to himself. “I'll snap 'er fat neck first!”

She affected a shocked look. “Would you?” He looked at her strangely. A short pause, and she wondered if he were considering it. Then his face split in a sour grin.

“Nah,” he admitted. “I don't want to end up in one o' the king's nasty dungeons. The things they does to a man there, so I 'ear.” He shivered, and she relaxed somewhat. He was a bully, yes, but like all bullies he was a coward. He would not kill his wife, not because he loved her or because it was wrong, but because he was terrified of being punished, of facing the consequences of his actions. Still, she pushed.

“And what would happen if you did grant your wife a divorce?”

For a long moment he looked at her, and she thought she saw something flit across his face. Eventually he said “Who are you, anyway? What's with all t' questions? I'd 'ave said ye were a friend o' 'ers, tryin' to get information outta me, 'cept all 'er friends're fat ugly pigs like 'er. She don't know any lookers.”

She ignored the backhand compliment, shrugged. “Just hypothetically,” she assured him. He looked blank.

“Hypo what?”

“Theoretically,” she amended. Still the blank look.

“Uh?”

She sighed. “Just for the sake of argument. Say you did divorce her. What would become of her. And your child?”

He turned in the bed, uncharacteristically chivalrously aiming away from her as he farted loudly. “Ah, she's got some fancy man, teacher I thinks. I seen 'em together few times. Guess she thinks she'd live 'appily ever after with 'im.” He snorted.

But she had come now to the endgame. Getting out of the bed, she padded across the wooden floor to where her clothes were scattered on the floor. Hunkering down, she fished in the pocket of her trousers, extracting something, and returned to the bed, though she did not climb back in. She presented the object to him. It was a key.

“What the fuck is that?” he asked, his eyes screwing up in suspicion.

“The key to my heart.” She couldn't resist having one last joke at his expense. It was the last time he would laugh at anything for a very long time. “No, just joking,” she admitted as she noted his blank look. “I want you to hold on to this key until I return from The Castle of Forever.”

As if he had forgotten her intimation earlier, he started like a man asleep over whom ice water has just been thrown. He sat up in the bed, frowned at her. “You're really planning to go there?” His voice was a mixture of awe, disbelief and scorn.

“I really am,” she confirmed. “And when I come back, you will return that key to me.”

“Sure,” he shrugged. What the hell was the crazy bitch getting at? Gorgeous tits though. And that arse!

“If I do not return within seven days,” she went on, pulling on her boots and allowing him a last look as she bent over to fasten them, his now rampant cock protesting in the strongest possible terms, “you may keep the key. Take it to the local bank here. Present it at the front desk. The manager will take you to my strong room where you will find more money than you could ever spend in a lifetime.” She frowned, calculating in her head. “In many lifetimes,” she amended. “Suffice to say that your life will change for the better and you will never again worry about where your next meal is coming from.” She watched him as he turned the key over in his hand, the object having suddenly become very important and precious to him.

“There is one condition,” she warned him. “As soon as you have used the key, you will grant your wife her divorce. If you do not,” she flashed her eyes dangerously, “certain people are under instructions to make sure you do not live to enjoy your newfound riches. Am I clear?”

His eyes, now bright with greed and cunning, flicked from the key in his palm, literally the key to a whole new life, a life he had dreamed of but never expected to be given a chance at, to the strange, heartbreakingly and cockburningly gorgeous woman who stood half-dressed before him, pulling on her tight leather trousers. He sighed as that wondrous backside was once again sheathed in leather, but it wasn't such a loss, the leather being so tight he could easily make out the contours of her delectable rump still.

“Seriously,” he breathed, “who the fuck are you? You come in 'ere, let me fuck you without hardly a word, when you could 'ave yer pick o' any man here - fuck! Any man in the kingdom! (She smiled thinly at the clumsy compliment) - an' ye quiz me about me 'ome life and then offer me riches beyond me wildest dreams? Why? What do you get out o' it? An' why should I trust you?” The thought seemed to have dawned upon him suddenly, caution fighting avarice and the former winning out for now. “You coulda set it up so that soon as I goes to the bank with this key they arrest me!”

“What for?” she asked reasonably, but he was ready with a plausible answer.

“Maybe you tells them you lost your key, or it were stolen,” he hypothesised, without ever knowing the meaning of the word. “Maybe you leave word, someone comes in and tries to use the key, call the guards. Maybe,” he slipped out of bed now. His sword was hanging on the chair in its belt. "Maybe I oughts t' turn you in to the Blues. 'Appen they may just be lookin' for ya, little slut."

She doubted he even knew how to use the sword, but she was becoming bored with the game now, and time was moving on. Looking deeply into his eyes, she told him in a very deliberate voice that seemed to brook no argument “I'm not trying to trick you. What I say is the truth. You have no reason to doubt my word.”

His tone was immediately concillatory. And more than a little afraid. “S-Seven days, y'say?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Seven days from today, if I have not returned from The Castle of Forever, you may take that key and build a new life for yourself, with my compliments. Do not,” she warned, “try to use it before that time or you will be arrested. I have left strict instructions at the bank that the vault is not to be opened, nor anyone attempt to get them to open it, before that time. Do you understand?” He nodded, quite compliant now. She shrugged into her blouse and did up the buttons, aware he was watching her but no longer caring. Her interest in him was done; now, it was his long-suffering spouse she was concerned with.

“However,” she went on, “should I return from the castle before that time, then you must swear to do something for me.” She looked at him, he said nothing. “Either way, whether I come back or not, your wife gets her divorce,” she stated, “and you undertake never to see her again, not to interfere in her life. You will not undermine any new relationship she decides to engage in. You may see your son, but only if she wishes it and if so, you will abide strictly by any conditions she sets thereon.”

A trace of his old belligerence returned, and he sulked “Why? Why should I agree t' that?”

She smiled. “Don't be stupid, Harry. I'm not coming back, am I? You said it yourself: nobody returns from the Castle of Forever. So what have you to lose? You're going to be a very rich man in a week's time. Why jeopardise that? Because you see, the usage of the key is dependent on your agreeing to the entire proposal. Refuse to accept my conditions and you get nothing.”

“I ... sees.” He seemed to be thinking it over, and all the while the key was tightly held in his hand, as if he was afraid she would take it back. “Well, as ye say, 'tis yr funeral, so wot 'ave I t' lose? I agrees to yer con-dish-yuns. I'll give Mira 'er divorce, never see 'er again, long as I lives.”

“Good. Now, one final thing. You don't lie very well, Harry. You weren't sick that day, were you? The day your friends all charged off to the castle and left you behind?”

“I was,” he insisted stubbornly, like a guilty man who knows he has been caught out, but is determined to stick to his story. “Terrible, it were! Couldn't leave the vicinity of the -”

She cut him off firmly. “No,” she said. “That's not true. I see it in your eyes, Harry. You were lying then, and you're lying now. You've been lying,” she told him, “for a long time, haven't you?”

Jumping onto the defensive he snarled “What the fuck are ye: a witch? That it?” he leered towards her. “We burn witches round these 'ere parts. If I were to tell someone in authority ...” The leer became a nasty smile. She shook her head.

“No Harry, I'm not a witch,” she denied the charge. “And you won't be trying to sell me out to anyone, will you? Because then they'll say you lay with a witch, so you'd be cursed, wouldn't you? And no other woman would look at you, never mind sleep with you, for as long as you lived.”

There was panic in his eyes. “I – I'd tell 'em ye entangled me!” He swore. She rolled her eyes.

“Enchanted,” she corrected him. “You'd tell them I enchanted you.”

“Um, yeah. Enchanted. That's it. I'd tell 'em ye enchanted me.”

“No you won't,” she assured him in a cold voice. “Because the law “round these 'ere parts” (mockingly mimicking his accent) holds that any man – any man – who sleeps with a witch is cursed, whether he was forced to, tricked into it or did it of his own free will. The law holds no favourites, my dear, and accepts no exceptions.” She allowed this to sink in for a moment before flashing him a disarming smile. “But that doesn't matter, does it, because as I say, I'm not a witch.”

In this she was certainly telling the truth. Although they were supernatural creatures, none of the daoine dhubh had any real magical powers. They could not cast spells, they could not control the weather and they certainly could not turn people into other things. Truth to tell, the lowliest wizard Up Here had far more magical power than any Darkling, and could easily defeat one. In theory. But what she did have was superior cunning and intelligence, coupled with a sexual energy and magnetism that could virtually defeat any foe on its own. Her eyelashes were lethal weapons, her tits were avatars of destruction, her long slim legs deadly and even her smile was a tool she could turn to her own advantage. She and her sisters were well the match of any mortal, males especially but females were not safe by any means, as she had ably demonstrated earlier with Beatrice.

Well, all but trolls. Damn those rock creatures! She had no power over those sexless beings, which was one of the reasons why she had come to this town on the edges of the Grey Forest.

“So 'ow do ye know – think ye know I'm lyin' then?” Harry's coarse voice cut in on her ruminations, and she grinned at him.

“Like I say, Harry, you're not a good liar. I have ... something of a talent for spotting the truth in people's eyes.”

He drew back. “Ye is a witch!” he accused her. She rolled her eyes.
“Let's not start all that again! Look, just accept I know you're lying. Now, if I do return, I want you to gather everyone in the town square, the market or wherever announcements are traditionally made, and admit your guilt to the whole town. I want you to apologise for your cowardice, especially to the families of the ones you were supposed to ride with. I want you to tell them you were not sick, but afraid, and left your friends – their loved ones – to face Moribund alone.”

After a long silence he asked “Why would ye ask me that? Wot does it matter to you?”

She gave him a very cold stare. “The truth matters,” she told him. “And to ensure that you will do as I ask, if I do return, I want you to swear on something you hold dear that you will honour our agreement.”

He nodded, muttered “I swear on me wife's life.” She laughed harshly.

“I said something you value, Harry! You've already made it quite clear that you don't value your wife, so think again.”

With a red face burning with anger and resentment, he growled “Fine, then! Fuck ye! I swear on me kid's life.”

She tutted, waved a finger at him. “Wrong again,” she told him. “You don't really care for Eric either; you told me you weren't cut out to be a dad. Let's see ... oh I know!” She brightened as she looked down at him. “What's the thing, the one thing you value, the one thing all men value above everything else?” She gave him a stare of pure ice. “Swear on your cock,” she all but ordered him. “Swear that if you try to weasel out of this, I can cut your cock off. And I will,” she promised him with a tight smile.

For a moment he held her stare, almost impressing her, then he sat down heavily on the bed, his head in his hands. She wasn't sure, but she thought the fucker was actually crying! Sounds emerged from behind his palms, eventually resolving into words. “ ... to deserve this ... only wanted t' fuck ... beautiful woman ... me wife ... why me?”

She leaned down, and with surprising gentleness removed his hands from over his eyes. “Don't take it so hard,” she soothed him. “Look on the bright side: I'm never coming back, am I? I'm just some crazy bitch who thinks she's going to walk into the lair of the most powerful wizard in the kingdom and come back out alive, do something nobody has ever done. You're perfectly safe and so is your cock. Remember the upside: seven days from now you're going to be a very rich man, and all you have to do to ensure that is swear this oath, which won't even take effect unless firstly I make it back and secondly you try to cheat me. It would be humiliating, sure,” she agreed, “to have to tell all your friends and neighbours that you are a coward, but then, that's not going to happen, is it? The chances of me coming back here and making you do that, why, they're laughable, are they not?”

He nodded miserably, but a cunning smile, long absent from his face, was beginning to creep back onto his features, and at the reminder of the riches that awaited him he brightened up. She was definitely out of her mind; no possible chance of her returning once she crossed the threshold of that awful place. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost. What a waste. Still, if it made him a rich man he would allow a thousand sexy girls to walk to their gruesome deaths. What did he care?

“All right then,” he agreed. “I swear on me cock that I'll do all ye ask.”

“Good boy.” She almost patted him on the head. “Remember, all you have to do is wait seven days. You'll never see me again, and you'll be a very rich man indeed.”

A sudden thought seemed to occur to him as she made her way to the door. “Hey!” he jumped up, a frown on his face. “How do I know ye'll even go t' castle? What's t' stop ye from just headin' off somewhere, waitin' for a week and then comin' back, takin' yer key back an' forcin' me to 'umiliate meself in front o' all me friends?” As the idea took hold, he strode towards his sword, still hanging on the chair. “That's the catch, innit?” he snarled, his fingers closing around the weapon in a way that demonstrated to her that, as she had surmised, it was there largely for the purposes of intimidation and display, but had seldom if ever been used. “You're one sick bitch, ye know that?” he told her, advancing on her.

But she only smiled at him, stopping in the doorway. “You're welcome to accompany me as far as the threshold,” she told him. He spat on the floor.
“Yeah, where yer mates in the forest are waitin' t' strike me down! Ye think I'm stupid, bitch?”
She let that pass without comment. Heaving a wounded sigh, she said, "Harry, you're a hard man to please. All this money can be yours if I don't come back, and you're still not happy. But don't worry." She flashed him a wolfish smile, which caused him to lose his grasp on the blade and stagger backwards, falling against the bed, looking at her like a trapped animal that suddenly realises just exactly what it is facing.
"I'll bring you back a souvenir, never fear," she promised, and then, to his intense relief she was gone, and his bowel, unwilling to wait for him to lurch to the privy, emptied itself.