not call me thus. You will address me as ‘my lord.’”
“You have plenty of whores,” Meg argued, scrambling out of the tub. “Willing ones. I will never give myself to you of my own free will, and if you force yourself on me, you will be shamed before the others.”
The bottle-green gauze kirtle the handmaidens had brought lay draped over a bench in the shadows. She reached it in three strides and wriggled into it. Looking down, her breath caught. She may as well have been naked for the coverage the flimsy thing gave her. It was slit in front to the navel in a wide V that barely covered her nipples. There was virtually no back to speak of in the garment at all. Despite the long flowing sleeves and voluminous skirt, her skin showed right through the gauze. It was sheerer than spider silk.
“I’m glad you’re coming to your senses,” Seth said, strolling closer, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “That gown is much more provocative than naked skin. Wise decision.”
“They have taken the kirtle I arrived in,” Meg defended. “I have no other.”
“Ah, but you will, Megaleen, the moment you accept this,” he said, exhibiting his penis. He’d been pumping it since their conversation began—slow, lingering strokes through the ring he’d made of his thumb and middle finger. The engorged shaft was blue with distended veins, the head a threatening shade of purple. It trembled in readiness, wet in anticipation.
Meg backed away. “I told you, I belong to another,” she snapped at him. Maybe that would shrivel the menacing penis, reduce it to a flaccid state. But no, it only seemed to grow thicker—longer. She took another step back from him.
The shaman continued to stroke his sex. “The Lord of the Deep?” he scoffed. “The selkie lecher of Arcus…Have you any idea how many maidenheads he’s taken? And you accuse me a whoremaster!” He threw his head back and convulsed in riotous laughter. “You think he will be faithful to you—a selkie be faithful to a mortal? Never—not unless she possesses his sealskin, and you do not. Already he strays.”
“I am not his whore!” Meg insisted. “And even if I were, he is not a priest of the temple! You are a sacrilege to the Arcan gods you serve.”
Again, the shaman flaunted his penis. “You waste our precious time together,” he said. “Do you see what I do? My cock is ready. If it comes in my hand and not in you, you will be the worse for it.”
Still skirting his advance, Meg ignored him. “How do you know these things,” she said. “How could you know so much about me…so much that no other knows? How do you know he strays?”
The shaman hesitated. “Tiresome little bitch!” he seethed, seizing her arm. “That’s got your attention, has it? You want to see how? Will that persuade you that you are better off right here with me? So be it!”
Hauling her up the narrow staircase, the shaman dragged her out the same way she had entered with the eunuchs, only this time, he took her behind the folly, where an ancient copse fringed the rear approach to the temple complex. How strange, Meg thought, that trees grow here and not on the Isle of Mists proper. But then, a peculiar, mystical atmosphere prevailed about the archipelago. Mainland folk had long since spoken about it in hushed whispers, about the water world beneath the waves that served as the deep lord’s subterranean island, and the dark lord’s isle, lonely and barren, that none dared trespass; about the enchanted forest isle, home of the Lord of the Wood and the forbidden fire lord’s volcanic domain; and in their midst, about the mysterious Isle of Mists, where, like an arm flung into the bay, stood Shamans’ Mount, the seat of Arcan clerical power, cloaked by the fogs unless the shamans chose to expose it to mortals, view. Not once since she’d come to the Isle of Mists had she seen the Mount until now…when it was too late to be forewarned of the true danger, of the shaman’s
“You have plenty of whores,” Meg argued, scrambling out of the tub. “Willing ones. I will never give myself to you of my own free will, and if you force yourself on me, you will be shamed before the others.”
The bottle-green gauze kirtle the handmaidens had brought lay draped over a bench in the shadows. She reached it in three strides and wriggled into it. Looking down, her breath caught. She may as well have been naked for the coverage the flimsy thing gave her. It was slit in front to the navel in a wide V that barely covered her nipples. There was virtually no back to speak of in the garment at all. Despite the long flowing sleeves and voluminous skirt, her skin showed right through the gauze. It was sheerer than spider silk.
“I’m glad you’re coming to your senses,” Seth said, strolling closer, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “That gown is much more provocative than naked skin. Wise decision.”
“They have taken the kirtle I arrived in,” Meg defended. “I have no other.”
“Ah, but you will, Megaleen, the moment you accept this,” he said, exhibiting his penis. He’d been pumping it since their conversation began—slow, lingering strokes through the ring he’d made of his thumb and middle finger. The engorged shaft was blue with distended veins, the head a threatening shade of purple. It trembled in readiness, wet in anticipation.
Meg backed away. “I told you, I belong to another,” she snapped at him. Maybe that would shrivel the menacing penis, reduce it to a flaccid state. But no, it only seemed to grow thicker—longer. She took another step back from him.
The shaman continued to stroke his sex. “The Lord of the Deep?” he scoffed. “The selkie lecher of Arcus…Have you any idea how many maidenheads he’s taken? And you accuse me a whoremaster!” He threw his head back and convulsed in riotous laughter. “You think he will be faithful to you—a selkie be faithful to a mortal? Never—not unless she possesses his sealskin, and you do not. Already he strays.”
“I am not his whore!” Meg insisted. “And even if I were, he is not a priest of the temple! You are a sacrilege to the Arcan gods you serve.”
Again, the shaman flaunted his penis. “You waste our precious time together,” he said. “Do you see what I do? My cock is ready. If it comes in my hand and not in you, you will be the worse for it.”
Still skirting his advance, Meg ignored him. “How do you know these things,” she said. “How could you know so much about me…so much that no other knows? How do you know he strays?”
The shaman hesitated. “Tiresome little bitch!” he seethed, seizing her arm. “That’s got your attention, has it? You want to see how? Will that persuade you that you are better off right here with me? So be it!”
Hauling her up the narrow staircase, the shaman dragged her out the same way she had entered with the eunuchs, only this time, he took her behind the folly, where an ancient copse fringed the rear approach to the temple complex. How strange, Meg thought, that trees grow here and not on the Isle of Mists proper. But then, a peculiar, mystical atmosphere prevailed about the archipelago. Mainland folk had long since spoken about it in hushed whispers, about the water world beneath the waves that served as the deep lord’s subterranean island, and the dark lord’s isle, lonely and barren, that none dared trespass; about the enchanted forest isle, home of the Lord of the Wood and the forbidden fire lord’s volcanic domain; and in their midst, about the mysterious Isle of Mists, where, like an arm flung into the bay, stood Shamans’ Mount, the seat of Arcan clerical power, cloaked by the fogs unless the shamans chose to expose it to mortals, view. Not once since she’d come to the Isle of Mists had she seen the Mount until now…when it was too late to be forewarned of the true danger, of the shaman’s
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