Lords of Destruction by James Silke, Frank Frazetta Page A

save us all… providing, of course, that Gath doesn’t kill the girl.”
    “Kill Robin?” He laughed. “You don’t know him.”
    “Oh, but I do, bukko… as well as you, if not better. But it is not Gath we
are concerned with, not tonight… it’s the helmet.”
    “But he’s not wearing it now!”
    “That no longer matters,” she said, a rush of childish fear pulsing through
her voice. “It’s part of him now… perhaps the strongest part.”

Fifteen
    SAVAGE HEAT

    T he black stallion bolted out of the dark body of the forest into a moonlit
clearing beside the river, Whitewater, bordering the eastern edge of the Valley
of Miracles. It pulled up, snorting steam and stomping the wild periwinkles and
snapdragons to muddy pulp, and Gath swung out of the saddle with Robin in his
arms. He dropped onto the mossy ground, and she staggered free, fearfully
averting her face and clutching the horned helmet to her breasts.
    He put a meaty hand on her shoulder, and turned her to him as easily as a
swinging gate. She gasped. Singed, tangled hair hung beside his flushed face,
brutish with raw wounds glittering wetly in the moonlight. She moaned and again
looked away. Growling, he ripped the horned helmet out of her hands and threw it
savagely aside.
    It clanged against the trunk of an oak and tumbled across the moss, splashing
to rest in the shallows of the river beside the startled horse. Cold water
lapped against its hot metal, and steam rose, drifting around the stallion’s
head. He bolted back, snorting in complaint, and waded further out into the
river to drink elsewhere.
    Robin’s shoulders twisted for release inside the grip of Gath’s hands, and
her eyes continued to avoid his.
    “What’s wrong?” she pleaded. “Why are you acting like this? Why… why did
you bring me here? I’m…”
    His thumb and fingers circled her throat. They were not gentle, and she
gasped painfully. The sound encouraged him. He pushed her back against the
sloping side of a boulder and pressed his metal-clad body against her pliant
length, bending her slowly back. Blunt steel edges burrowed into her breasts and
hipbones, and rock cut into the soft flesh of her back. She convulsed against
him and cried out, an inarticulate, wailing plea.
    The sound rang in his head like a mating call. His eyes narrowed, and he
began to pant, lust mad, like a wolf fresh from the grip of death, frothing to
defy its terrors in the forgetfulness of a sheet of flaming pleasure.
    His hand gripped her jaw, turning her face to his, and his lips hungrily
kissed her cool cheek, her open, gasping mouth, her throat. He pressed into her
with chest and driving thigh, his lips and fingers probing and exploring the
small body that twisted and cringed and shuddered like a mouse in the maw of a
cat.
    “No!” she screamed, beating at his shoulders. “Nooooo!”
    Nothing in him could have resisted her wild song; the animal inside him had
taken control.
    He rolled her over, facedown. Taking hold of her clothing at the base of her
back, he ripped both cloak and nightgown apart and fell heavily against her. His
hands held her by armpits and shoulders. One of her closed eyes and a shuddering
cheek were bright in a spill of moonlight.
    He moved against her, his body heat mingling with hers despite the separating
metal. Suddenly he held still, eyes transfixed by the moonlit cheek. It was so
beautiful it hurt.
    He snarled, and her red curls shuddered in the spill of moonlight. Her head
rolled to the side as she moaned helplessly, and eye and cheek and lips again
languished in the wan light.
    Her beauty knifed into him, and his grip lost its rage. His fingers tenderly
conformed to the soft sculpture of her back and shoulder. The savage heat in his
blood cooled. The snarl on his face withdrew slowly.
    Tears were welling from her eye, draining over her white cheek to gather in
glistening drops on her lips. Their plump red flesh trembled fitfully