Lord of the Deep by Dawn Thompson Page A

haze of drug-induced euphoria, Meg breathed a ragged sigh. Her preparation, as the handmaidens had called it, was over at last. Preparation for what was still vague, for it was as if her mind had become unhinged—as if it had become separated from her body—and all that had happened since the eunuchs dragged her through the Mount gates had happened to someone else. At least that is what she thought until a cold draft snaked its way down the narrow stone staircase announcing the arrival of another. The heavy iron-hinged door slammed shut behind the tall, muscular man descending.
    He was too attractive for a shaman, though that is what he was—a striking figure with chestnut hair and eyes so deeply sunken beneath the ledge of his brow Meg could not tell their color. He was wearing a long black cote-hardie , and he was naked underneath, his thick, bulbous erection exposed, protruding through the opening in front. He made no move to tuck it away, but flaunted it, instead, coming nearer. Nodding toward the cobalt-blue glass jar, he cast a slow blink toward Zeona, who scrabbled up out of the tub and dipped her fingers in the oil. Jutting his shaft, he stood arms akimbo while the handmaiden massaged it into his penis from its root along its long veined shaft to its burgeoning head.
    After a moment, he groaned, and turned hard eyes upon the handmaiden. “Enough!” he bellowed, backing Zeona up apace. “Leave us, all of you!”

8
    T he three handmaidens fled, and the shaman strolled closer, stroking his penis absently. Meg barely stifled the gasp rising in her throat. His eyes were visible now. They were as black as sin, staring down dilated with desire.
    Meg shrank back from the formidable image towering over her. Did her aunt know this was what would happen to her when she summoned the eunuchs? She must have. Would Uncle Olwyn have prevented her? He had been kinder, less rigid, in the short time she’d spent on the Isle. Perhaps that was why Aunt Adelia had given her up.
    And good riddance! Adelia’s parting words ghosted across her memory. And she had said she wanted to get shot of her before Olwyn returned. Could she have been jealous? It never crossed Meg’s mind until now, but it was a distinct possibility. It hurt her heart, but it didn’t matter anymore. Her fate was standing over her, reeking of stale sweat and strong drink. Instead of becoming a priestess of the Isle of Mists, she was about to become one of the shamans’ whores.
    He laughed. “Come, come, do not shrink from me,” he said. “It is no use in any case. There is no escape. No one ever returns from Shamans’ Mount. I am sure now you see why. But that is of no consequence. It isn’t a bad life, servicing us. You shall want for nothing. You shall bathe in the most precious oils—wear the finest silks—eat the most delicious delicacies—live in the most sumptuous dwelling, all for the pleasure of lying beneath us in our turn.”
    “Please, I beg you, let me go,” Meg pleaded. “I have been brought here against my will….”
    “It is a privilege to lie beneath us,” he said. “It isn’t as though you are an innocent. Your virtue has already been taken, else-wise your fate would have been quite different. Now, you have two options. You become a temple whore or a blood sacrifice to the gods of Arcus. I presumed this would be your preference. Have I presumed wrong? Because if I have—”
    “I belong to another,” Meg persisted. “I do not even know you!”
    “That hardly signifies,” the shaman said through a wry chuckle. “You didn’t know him either, your lover, yet you spread your legs and gave him your virtue easily enough.”
    “ Gave, yes,” she sallied. “He did not force me.”
    “I shan’t force you, either, little whore. Before I’m through, you will beg me to take you. And since it seems to be a point of contention with you that you must have the intimacy of a name to go with this face, I am called Seth, but you will