House of Freya: A Viking Lore Erotic Tale (Viking Lore Erotic Tales Book 1) by Gwynn Jones Page B

themselves, rose up onto their hind legs, and shifted before her eyes into men. They were still very large — tall, broad-shouldered, massively muscled — but not as huge as when they were boar-shaped. They wore their hair short and had short, bristly beards. The one she had ridden glanced sideways at her and flashed a quick smile.
                  Sigrun smiled back. Shifters! Well, why not. Of course.
                  They emerged from the tunnel into a vast space, and her escorts paused to let her take it all in. This was no hall: it was a citadel. The interior walls were honeycombed with rooms and terraces. Staircases rose up vine-like, twisting and separating to crisscross the entire face. The entrance opened onto a vast square, beyond which rose a cluster of towers beside a tremendously large mead hall.
                  The erstwhile-boar nodded toward the towers.
                  "Freya's Keep."   
                  Sigrun's heart jumped.
                  "Is she there? I've been sent to ask her counsel."
                  "On what? Is it magic that you seek? The goddess no longer teaches the Vanir ways. And she has little trust for strangers."
                  "No, not magic — I mean — it's personal. Please, how do I seek audience?"
                  "I will take you to the keep. She will decide whether she will see you."
                  They crossed the square. Sigrun glanced up at the dark night sky blazing with stars. It felt remarkably still here. Out on the plains the wind had been howling. In here it was calm. She felt much less cold. They stepped inside the entrance to Freya's Keep, a squat, round tower from behind which the others rose. A fire blazed in a large hearth, and the room was comfortably warm. But it was empty, only the spacious vestibule to whatever lay beyond. Another set of doors stood opposite them, huge and heavily carved with intertwining vines, birds, and beasts.
                  "Please remove your sword and helmet and leave them here. You may leave your cloak as well."
                  Sigrun hesitated for a moment. But of course she could not meet the goddess fully armed. Good guests set aside their weaponry. She pulled off her helmet and handed it to her escort. Tendrils of silvery-white hair tumbled around her face. She unbuckled her scabbard, pulling her sword off her back, and handed it to him, as well. It was a large, heavy sword, and she could tell that he was admiring it.
                  "Take care with that. It is ancient, and special," she warned.
                  She unfastened her cloak, revealing her long, thick braids and close-fitting dragonskin garments. Whether the two men were gaping at the rare, remarkable material or how it revealed her form, she couldn't be sure. It was probably a bit of both. Sigrun had long since grown accustomed to men being amazed by her beauty. Though for some time, when she was young, she had managed to stay aloof from all advances — as though forces beyond her had protected her from the uncouth hands of men — in the end, her preternatural beauty had made her an outcast, had been her doom. And yet, also, that doom had offered a rebirth. It had set her on this path. Now if only Freya could help her learn who she really was.
                  While the one boar-warrior placed her cloak and weaponry inside a solid, ornate cabinet on the wall opposite the fire, the other disappeared behind the great doors. He was gone for several minutes. Sigrun stood quietly, eyes on the door, tracing the scrollwork and the braided lines of interwoven flora and fauna.
                  After a few moments of gazing, she realized that there were human figures in the interweave as well, male and female, tangled in one another's embraces. A man — a god? — crouched in one corner, his