STRUCK

An erotic romance novella by

MARA KELLY

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

eBook ISBN 1-59426-564-X

Struck © 2006 by Mara Kelly

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover art © 2006 by Stacey L. King

Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

www.Phaze.com

I wish Philom would just let me kill her, Rogen thought for the thousandth time as he inched along the cool stone of the calefactora under the floors of the Queen of Chemei's palace. It would have been easy to kill her, too. He had spied the queen alone at least twice in the two days he had been creeping around her palace—the last had been that morning as she had sat in her audience chamber awaiting her ministers. Rogen had been in the alcove behind a statue of the goddess Stirra, close enough to hear the rasp of the queen's embroidered train as she swept it over the arm of her throne.

Close enough to slip a knife between her ribs, as he should have been doing. But no, here he was, trolling Chemei's calefactora like a common thief. It was an insult to his profession, and only King Philom's strict orders could have persuaded him to it.

Distant thunder rumbled, and Rogen continued along the sweating stone floor. The storm outside put him on edge; rain was no friend to assassins, dripping everywhere and allowing for telltale, muddy foorprints. Perhaps an assassin with less skill than Rogen would welcome the noise of the storm to cover the sound of his movement, but Rogen hardly needed that.

At least it was summer now, and the calefactora was filled with cool air and icy stone. When Rogen had assassinated the crown prince of Tabora, it had been the dead of winter, and he'd taken weeks to recover from the burns he'd gotten from the scalding water running through the calefactora he'd escaped to after slipping poison into the prince's morning pomegranate juice.

He wondered if Philom would even care that his assassin was tired, cold, cramped, and frustrated. He probably would, knowing Philom, and that was just one of the king's weaknesses. Though, Philom had insisted on Rogen going to steal the dratted Cup, even when Rogen had tried every manner of dissuasion at his disposal. So perhaps there was hope for him yet.

I hope it's worth it, Rogen thought balefully as he twisted his shoulders through a narrowed opening leading under the corridor outside the queen's apartments. Philom had made it clear that Rogen best return with Stirra's Cup, or not return at all, a moment that had thrilled Rogen for its very unexpectedness. It was good to see Philom growing into his kingship. It was about time he started ordering Rogen around.

It was only a shame that no one else had witnessed it—Rogen went to great pains to be but a shadow in the Imtorian court. The ministers and courtiers not only didn't speak of him, they were barely aware of him. After all, he was nothing but an inconsequential third son of a minor duke, whatever his relation to the king. Only Philom, and perhaps the Minister of the Exchequer, who paid Rogen's bills, knew just how valuable Rogen's services were. A number of the king's enemies might have attested his worth as well, had they not already gone past the water at Rogen's hand.

The narrow tunnel opened again, and Rogen tumbled out ungracefully, though silently, with a great deal of chilled water. He could hear murmured chatter above him, and knew he had reached the anteroom of the queen's bedroom, where her attendants gathered. He pushed himself to the edge of the wall, close to the brass vent laid into the floor, and held himself absolutely still to listen.

"—is in fine form tonight," one of the queen's attendants was saying. "The storm makes her restless."

Another woman gave a low laugh. "'Restless.' That's one way to describe it. She's probably down in the stable, reminding the Duke of Ansala why hunting on her lands is illegal."

Rogen frowned. He had heard rumors of what the queen called her "stable." It was variously a torture chamber or a house of pleasure, depending upon whom was telling the tale. Rogen had listened from a concealed balcony in Philom's throne room as his spy had reported that the queen herself administered the discipline there, but Rogen suspected this to be exaggeration. Queen or not, he'd never known any woman to be less than squeamish when it came to the pain of others. He was certain that Chemei hid behind her soldiers, even if she did visit that torture chamber. He recalled with disgust how she batted her eyelashes at a visiting ambassador in her audience chamber just that morning.

And just think how humiliating it would be to have our armies defeated by her, said Philom's voice in his mind. That is exactly what will happen if we don't have the Cup.

The Cup, the Cup, the godsdamned Cup. Rogen grimaced at the thought of it. He had to be close to it now—he had searched every treasure room and storage area in the palace, and had not found it yet. Chemei would hardly keep Stirra's Cup, the supposed source of her power, anywhere but close at hand. There was only one other place it might be in the palace—the queen's bedchamber, beyond the anteroom. The most heavily guarded area in the palace.

Rogen listened to the attendants' low conversation with a practiced ear, tuning out their words and focusing instead on the slight shuffle of booted feet, the tiny clack of armor as its wearer shifted. There were at least two, possibly three, guards at the door to the anteroom, and surely more in the guardroom beyond. He was fairly certain that even the queen's paranoid guard captain did not yet suspect that Rogen had infiltrated the palace, so the guards would be expecting no threat. Though, if what the attendant said was true, the guards would probably be on edge because their queen was.

Woman though she was, Chemei was powerful—or at least her army was—and Rogen was not fool enough to underestimate her. She had already conquered most of the peninsula, and Imtoria, long protected by the gorge that ran between its borders and the Olivada River on the west and south, and the mountains running into peaceful Battia to the east, seemed next, now that Battia had fallen.

"We must have Stirra's Cup," Philom had told him, in a commanding tone that had made Rogen's knees grow weak and his loins throb.

Nevertheless, Rogen had argued. Perhaps he'd wanted to push Philom further, to make him force Rogen to accept his command. It was a game he had often played with the strapping young soldiers he had taken to his bed, and always—always—they wound up sobbing in his sheets, letting Rogen do whatever he pleased. Satisfying in its own way, perhaps, but never what Rogen sought.

"You know damn well that's just a moon story," Rogen had snarled, daring Philom to disagree.

Philom had dared. "The people believe it. They believe that Stirra is rewarding Chemei for worshipping only her. They believe that Chemei's armies will sweep out of a cloud any moment, riding lightning bolts from the sky, and the queen will walk among them holding Stirra's Cup. They believe that Stirra's Cup is the source of her power." He spoke with a conviction that Rogen had rarely heard from him, and it took a moment for Rogen to see the truth.

He'd stared at Philom, open-mouthed. "You believe it too," he had said in disgust.

Philom had whipped around to face him then, his eyes burning. "I am your King," he had said slowly, dangerously, and Rogen had bowed low and left the way he had come, through the window to the courtyard.

I could still kill her and take the Cup, thought Rogen as he held himself completely still, listening as the guard shift changed above him. Certainly Philom would have any number of politically motivated reasons for keeping Chemei alive—her ministers were even worse than she was, for example. But it really all went back to the fact that Philom disliked killing people. He never wanted to know details about Rogen's work, only that it was done.

Rogen knew what his own reasons would have been in Philom's place—how much more satisfying, after all, would it be to subjugate Chemei as she had done to countless other nations? Surely that would be sweeter than her death.

One of the guards above was laughing softly with the attendants, talking about the queen.

"She's excited because of the storm," said one of the attendants.

"No, this is a Queen's Storm," said a soft voice, and Rogen could see the older attendant in his mind's eye. "She has been talking to Stirra, I think."

Rogen heard an anxious stirring, and smiled in smug satisfaction as he heard the indelicate thump of boots across the anteroom. The guard paused at the far end of the room—paused, Rogen knew, to look through the door to the queen's bedroom and make sure that Stirra's Cup lay undisturbed. Rogen held his breath—the guard's foot was only inches from the vent where he lay hidden.

Satisfied, the guard turned and went back to the outer door, but Rogen ignored the chatter that resumed in the anteroom. He'd been right—the Cup was here. And the queen, apparently, was not. He could almost feel his gods smiling upon him. He almost laughed aloud as he thought of the blessing the priestess had bestowed on him before he'd left Imtoria: You will find what you seek.

Slowly, painfully, he levered himself along the cold stone, inch by inch, until he came to the turning that led under the queen's bedchamber. If the information he had gotten from the calefactorian's assistant was right—and Rogen hoped it was, or he would have killed the man in vain, and Rogen hated wasted kills—the vent for this room, larger than most, was right under the queen's bed, where the warmed or cooled air could surround Her Majesty as she slept.

The assistant had told him the truth. Most people did, Rogen found, when his knife was at their throats. He paused beneath the wide vent, listening for telltale noises in the room above, but heard only the distant thunder and the patter of rain on stone. Someone must have left a window open.

Silently Rogen slipped his tools from their hidden pouch at his waist and worked the small pry handle into the space between the stone floor and the metal of the vent. Sweat beaded on his brow as he forced the thin point of the pry handle into the joint and heaved against it, striving to keep his breath soundless. At last he allowed himself a tiny grunt, knowing that it would be covered by the pattering rain in the empty chamber above, and the vent moved. Rogen slipped his fingers between stone and metal and pushed the vent up and away.

It was a tight fit, as the vent would only lift away so much, being under the queen's bed. But Chemei's bed was raised in the manner of the barbarians, and Rogen was thin and practiced at slipping into and out of narrow spaces, so it was a matter of moments before the vent lay back in its place and Rogen was peeking out from under the curtains of the bed.

He moved his eyes over the room the way a wool merchant moves his fingers over fabric, assessing and discarding each likely hiding place. Chemei's chamber was decorated in rich velvets of dark blue and purple, with accents of gold. A huge mahogany wardrobe sat directly across from the bed, and Rogen scoffed to himself. That was the first place an assassin would hide—exactly the reason he had warned Philom never to allow such a piece of furniture into his apartments.

Glass doors at the side of the room stood open, and the rich carpet by the doors was soaked. Rogen leaned forward to see out onto the round stone balcony, surrounded by trees, and worried for a moment that he had been wrong about the room being empty.

But there was no movement in the room, except for the crackle of light at the top of the wardrobe.

Rogen's fists curled in triumph, and he pushed himself out from under the bed. He was so relieved to have finally found the damn Cup that he almost didn't register the rising conversation in the anteroom outside, or the stir of booted feet. He had only just enough time to throw himself down on the side of the bed closest to the window before the chamber door opened.

Rogen's gods might have smiled on him, but Stirra was frowning. Soundlessly he rolled himself back under the bed, hoping that anyone who noticed the swaying of the curtains would attribute it to the wind and the storm outside.

"Leave me," said a voice surging with power, and Rogen crept back to the other side of the bed to peer out from under the curtains.

The door closed behind the attendants as they left, and the Queen of Chemei stood looking petulantly around the room. Her reddish-brown hair fell down her back in soft waves, and she had pale skin and deep, dark eyes. She wore a robe of deep blue velvet, embroidered at the collar in gold.

As he watched, the sovereign ruler of Chemei and all the lands around it sighed and turned towards the window, then lifted her hands and released the catch of the robe, letting it fall from her shoulders and pool at her feet. She strode over to the doors and stood just inside, where the rain slanted onto her naked skin. She tipped her head back and sighed luxuriously.

Lightning flashed nearby, illuminating the queen's perfect skin and lending it a golden glow. Rogen watched, fascinated, even as he mentally ticked off yet another wasted chance to kill her.

Rogen had never had much use for women—weak, useless creatures, the lot of them, except perhaps when one needed trousers mended—but his eyes swept appreciatively over the Queen of Chemei. From where he lay under the bed, he could see the graceful curve of her right breast, the way her ass dipped into fine long white thighs. She lifted her arms as if in invocation, not seeming to mind that her hair was dripping water onto the carpet.

The storm grew fierce. Rain pounded on the stones outside, and one crash of thunder had barely ended before lightning sliced through the sky again. So close, it seemed to Rogen, that it could have touched Chemei's outstretched fingers.

Someone knocked at the door.

"What is it?" said the queen.

"A message from the Imtorian ambassador, Your Majesty," said a timid voice.

Rogen shuffled backwards under the bed, muffling the curse he wanted to shout when his knee scraped over the vent. Rogen saw the robe disappear from his line of vision, but did not dare to scoot closer to see more when the queen stood so close to his hiding place.

The door opened, and there was muffled talking and the shuffling of paper, and an exasperated sigh from the queen. Then the door closed again, and the talking and footsteps retreated.

Rogen remained still, not trusting his luck twice, but the room around him lay silent as a tomb. Only the pattering of the rain—the storm had subsided to a steady drizzle—filled the room above.

At last, after what seemed an hour, Rogen cautiously pushed himself toward the edge of the bed. He peered around the room and saw no one, and finally pushed himself out from under the bed. He walked slowly toward the Cup.

"Go on, take it," said a silky voice behind him. "It's what you came for, isn't it?"

Rogen wheeled on the spot, his blood freezing in his veins. Sitting in an oversized armchair in the corner was the Queen of Chemei. Her hair had dried in loose waves over her shoulders. The velvet robe surrounded her, but the catch was unfastened and he saw water beading on the pale skin of her stomach and breasts.

Her beauty—for beautiful she was, whatever the stories about her said—hurt his eyes. Or maybe that was the lightning that sliced through the air outside. The storm had returned.

"Go on," repeated the queen. She looked at him expectantly for a long moment, then sighed impatiently. She crossed her legs, knocking her robe aside in the process, revealing the perfectly hairless skin between her thighs. Rogen's groin ached.

"You are obviously a thief of some accomplishment if you got past my guards," said the queen serenely.

"Not a thief," said Rogen, his tongue loosed at last by this familiar irritation.

Chemei raised delicate eyebrows. "Assassin then. Battian?"

Rogen drew himself up proudly. "Imtorian," he spat.

Chemei nodded. "Imtoria...yes, it's a lovely little land. It will be mine soon, as the goddess wills. King Philom will be a minor addition to my stable."

Rogen's hands balled into fists; he knew she was taunting him. But he couldn't help the anger and, if he was honest with himself, a bit of excitement at the thought of Philom chained to a wall in Chemei's palace, with the red marks of a riding crop across his ass. "You don't seem concerned," Rogen forced out through clenched teeth, "to have an assassin in your bedroom."

Chemei smiled lazily. "Not especially." She fingered the edge of her robe.

In a flash, Rogen pulled the long knife he wore across his back. It was less useful than the short daggers he carried at his waist and ankles, but it was long and serrated, and worked well when he wanted to elicit a reaction from his victim. "Cry out then," he said in a low, menacing tone born of years of experience.

Chemei's smile grew broader. "No need." She stood, the robe billowing loosely around her shoulders and doing nothing to cover her nakedness. Rogen grimaced and lifted the knife, ready to end this impertinent bitch, whatever Philom said, but his arm refused to move any further. He stared at her, astonished and paralyzed.

Chemei took a step closer. "I see that your object was not to kill me. You came for the Cup."

Rogen's eyes flicked to the Cup. Sparks reached higher from its brim now, and even the stone seemed to dance as if charged with life.

"Anyone who touches it without my permission is instantly evaporated by Stirra's power. Did you not know that? Surely Philom did. See how much he values his thief."

"Assassin," Rogen croaked.

"Not today, apparently."

Rogen willed his arm to lift, to plunge the knife into the soft flesh of her breast, only inches away, but he was like stone under her gaze. His sex tingled, aware of her power over him.

Chemei stepped closer; he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. Her eyes held his, until he had no choice but to drop the knife and give into her all-consuming gaze.

Chemei was so close now that he heard her whisper above the noise of the storm outside. "Stirra protects me. I have no need for barriers of any kind. Even my guards are just for show, really."

Rogen's eyes followed her as she went to the wardrobe. He didn't see her reach for the Cup, but suddenly there it was in her hands. She set it down carefully on a table by the window and plunged her hand into the sparks, throwing her head back.

Green sparks danced along her skin, and her hair crackled with energy. Her breasts were full and plump before him, and Rogen moaned against his will.

Chemei's eyes were wild when she turned them on him again. "Go on, touch it. You have my permission." She grinned slyly.

Rogen watched his hand lift, felt his feet carry him forward to touch the bowl of sparks. Something surged through his arm and down his torso, making his already aroused member strain against his trousers. The rain pounded on the stones of the terrace, and thunder rumbled in his ears.

Distantly, he heard Chemei's voice, going on conversationally. "...some say it is an ancient weapon, forged in the time before the great library burned. We know it of course as the gift of the goddess for our nation's service to her. What do you think?"

Rogen couldn't speak. He longed to say something clever, but his mind was blank but for the pleasurable tingles flowing through his body.

Chemei met his eyes and nodded sympathetically, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. Then, not ungently, she lifted his hand from the Cup and kissed it, sending even more powerful charges running up his arm.

Rogen watched, transfixed, as she reached into the Cup again, but this time she lifted her hands as if cradling sacred oil there—only her palms were filled with little bits of lightning, crackling loudly enough to drown out the pattering of the rain outside. She raised her fingers to Rogen's face, trailing soft flesh and crackling energy across it, and he felt his knees weaken. He knew he only stood now by her will.

The queen smiled mischievously, then turned and lifted the Cup and raised it high over his head. Before Rogen could protest, he felt himself awash in sparks, felt his hair dancing on end, and realized that his clothes had evaporated.

His mind swam with panic as he realized that his boots, specially made by a cobbler in Battia, were gone, along with all of his tools and weapons. And he was at the queen's mercy, completely and totally, and she with powers he had never guessed. Chemei trailed her hands over the skin of his bare arms and chest, her touch just as charged as the energy from the Cup. He was no longer sure whether the Cup held Chemei's power, or Chemei held the Cup's.

Her lips met his with a shock, and Rogen realized that his traitorous member was pressing against the enemy queen. He could feel Chemei's victorious smile against his mouth, and knew he ought to fight her power, to at least show her that some Imtorians would stand against her.

But all such thoughts disappeared as Chemei dropped to her knees and her lips enclosed him. Her tongue danced along his shaft, igniting little fires under his skin, and Rogen's loud breath echoed in his own ears, drowning out the storm.

It should have been a sign of powerlessness—how often had Rogen looked down in contempt at soldiers and whores throating his cock? But, he knew that the Queen of Chemei was subjugating him now, just as surely as if she had chained him up in her stable. He fought briefly against the pleasure of it, drawing himself up straighter, but he saw the Cup abandoned on the floor and still crackling with energy, and gave in to the inevitability of her power. Chemei's tongue darted and swirled, sending him to delirium. Rogen whimpered aloud, both hating and loving the sensation.

He felt Chemei's smile, and a moment later she rose and took his hand. She led him, not to the high bed, but toward the doors to the terrace.

Raindrops sizzled as they struck his skin. Chemei left him standing by the door and went to stand in the middle of the terrace. She shrugged off her robe and lifted her arms, not seeming to care that her back was to him, that he might still be a danger. She didn't care, he realized. Even if he had tried to attack her now, the goddess would protect her.

Even as the thought came to him, lightning struck the stone banister, filling the air with an acrid scent and making Rogen blink hard to clear his vision.

Chemei had noticed him flinch, as she had not, and she turned, three steps carrying her close to him. She reached up to stroke his cheek and, though she spoke softly, her voice carried to him over the noise of the storm. "Those who have the protection of the goddess have nothing to fear. They will have all they desire. What do you desire, Rogen?"

He didn't know how she knew his name—no one, after all, knew of him. But he had the feeling that she could read his soul, could see every life he had cut short and every frustrated liaison. And his deepest desire.

"To serve you, my queen," he said, stumbling to his knees before her. He was shocked to realize that it was the truth. Gone were all thoughts of Philom, all thoughts of Stirra's Cup or assassination. His life was forfeit to her beauty and her power.

She smiled again, and this time it was tinged was something deeply satisfied. She reached her arms high above her, and Rogen stared in awe as lightning flashed down to meet her hands. She writhed in its grasp, like a lover on the verge of ecstasy. The lightning faded, and the air around them crackled with it. Rogen's member throbbed with desire.

Chemei dropped her hands and opened her eyes, smiling as she saw Rogen's expression. She reached down and touched his hair, pushing it gently away from his face, then drew him toward her. Obediently he buried his face between her legs and feasted there, the rain slicking his back and her massaging hands sending jolts through his scalp and shoulders.

He felt his arms grow light, and the next moment they were reaching up to cup her ass, not by his will but by hers. The realization aroused him even further. His body pulsed everywhere it connected with hers. He thrust his tongue inside her, swirled it over the sensuous button of her pleasure, the delirium of serving her lust his only thought.

She twisted her fingers in his hair and pulled him away from her sharply. He looked up, dazed, and saw her smile, glancing up and away from him. Then Rogen realized that they were in plain sight of the guards on the walls above, and that Chemei enjoyed that knowledge as much as Rogen unexpectedly did. The rain still poured around them, but he knew that his servitude was visible to the guardsmen on the east wall. He knew from his reconnaissance that there would be at least a dozen who could enjoy this show from their positions. Rogen suddenly wished that the queen would take him in front of the entire kingdom, down in the town square while he stood bound in the stocks.

Chemei, however, had other ideas. She drew him to his feet and led him to a seat carved out of the stone wall. She lowered herself almost primly into the bowl of the seat, her iron grip never leaving his wrists. Obviously, Rogen was not to sit; Chemei cared little for his comfort. At the moment, however, comfort was the furthest thing from Rogen's lust-ravaged mind.

She pulled him closer, digging her sharp fingernails into his ass and dragging him down to meet her hot, rain-slicked skin. He hung close to her throbbing warmth, but she held him off, denying him entry. He felt her watching his face with bemused enjoyment, and wondered if the pure ardor he felt could possibly be his alone. He brushed his craving lips along the perfect lines of her collarbone, kissing his way up her neck and nibbling her earlobe. He whispered incoherent pleading, pushing himself forward, but she laid one hand on his cheek, stopping him, and he pulled back to look at her.

His vision blurred with her beauty, her pure energy coursing into him through the warmth of her skin. She held his gaze for one long, soul-shattering moment, then lifted her eyes to the sky above, dismissing him like an insect. Rogen barely breathed. Surely, surely, she would not bring him to this point then leave him aching with desire. Even a barbarian queen would not be so cruel.

The Queen of Chemei closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her hands moved to clench his, and he thought he felt them shaking with suppressed power. His cock throbbed with longing, chained forever to her will.

At last, after what seemed ages, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Rogen thought he saw a flash of uncertainty in them. Surely that was impossible, said his mind, suddenly clearer than it had been since he had first seen the queen. His skin hummed with a new kind of warmth, strange and exhilarating. Then all that filled his mind was Chemei, pulling him towards her, allowing him to enter her at long long last, guiding him into her with careful fingers, cupping his ass and pulling him tight against her, sending energy into him at every point and subduing his body completely.

Rogen gasped as what felt like tiny lightning bolts traveled up his torso, down his arms and legs. He knew without checking that his hair stood on end. Again and again he plunged into her well of power, trying to speed up but checked at every turn by her, kept to the rhythm of her command. Rogen's breath came in sharp gasps, matching the queen's. The rain around them grew harder, pounding on Rogen's back, but he cared little. His whole world was filled with Chemei's face, the face of his lover, the face of the woman who had, without meaning to, given him his deepest desire. Thunder rolled above them. Rogen moaned out his lust.

Chemei arched against the stone seat and let go of Rogen's ass to reach up toward the sky as lightning streaked toward the terrace. She gathered it in her hands, surrounding them both with a golden glow, and Rogen felt her permission to speed up. Riding the power of the lightning, the gift of the goddess, he plunged into her again and again, his sweat mingling with the rain rolling down his skin. The Queen of Chemei, the most powerful woman on the continent, writhed beneath him. He was light-headed with want. Again and again, she reached to pull the lightning down to them, stealing his breath and drawing ever more speed and force into his thrusts. Rogen did not know whether the fire in his legs was from muscle cramps or the lightning's perilous kiss, but he didn't care.

He saw the storm reflected in her face when she opened her eyes wide and looked at him, reaching both hands high to gather the lightning again as she shrieked out her orgasm to the sky, a benediction to the goddess.

He sped up, desperate to ride the wave with her, but she pushed him away and stood up, a fine golden glow illuminating her skin, her cheeks flushed. He trembled as she went around behind him and pushed him toward the wall. The stone should have been cold with the rain, but it felt hot to his touch. She reached up to chain metal cuffs to his wrists, cuffs that he should have known were there, but hadn't seen in his lusting trance.

He stood helplessly, his hair dripping in his face, as she secured the cuffs and moved back inside. Of course she would leave him there, tied and naked and hard. His heart leapt at the exquisite torture of it even as his cock protested. Rogen laid his forehead against the warm stone, whimpering in tortured ecstasy.

Here at last was a woman worthy of his respect.

A soft touch at his back made him jump. The queen returned, more beautiful in his vision than she had been before. The rain still fell, though whether she had kept him waiting for minutes, or hours, or days, he did not know. Her hands ran along the rain-slicked skin of his shoulders, over his stomach and thighs. She stood close behind him and his knees buckled at the electric sensation of her breasts on his back—only the metal cuffs at his wrists held him up. Her hands stilled on his hips, and he twisted his head around to look at her.

The Queen of Chemei regarded him, almost warily, as if she had suddenly decided he might be a danger after all. But even as the thought crossed his mind, she moved her hands again, down to clutch him as she would a scepter. Rogen arched his back as her fingers sparked against his skin, his mind an incoherent jumble. He barely even realized that the cuffs had fallen away from his wrists, and she was drawing him back toward the doors.

His body registered the movement indoors, out of the downpour, before his mind did. He shivered, but she swept her fingers down to enclose him again, and warmth filled his entire being. Her hands skimmed his hips, moved up his back, and she was there before him, perfect breasts pressed against his chest, her lips slicking over his. He pulled her to him hungrily, letting his tongue dance against hers. Her scent filled his nostrils, musky and wet and slightly singed, and he rocked his hips against her, longing for both release and continued bondage.

She pushed him down onto the bed. As the plush velvet coverlet brushed against his overheated skin, he let out a whine of pure want, and she smiled. Then she was there, hovering atop him, and he yearned to leap into the chasm of her glorious core. She was the chasm, the yawning blackness that would swallow him whole, and he jumped willingly, reaching up to pull her to him, hardly realizing that the whispered pleading he heard was coming from his own mouth. Chemei let him balance on the brink for a long, painful moment, then slowly lowered herself onto him.

He could not help himself—he clutched the soft skin of her ass and pulled her to him, calling her his queen, his love, his goddess, vowing to worship her ever after. He wept as she rode him like a charger, wept as she filled him with her power. Wept because he only wanted her to do it again and again, until his body was broken and could no longer serve her desires.

Through his tears he saw her raise her head and lift her hands, saw the lightning streak in through the doors. Felt it surround them both, just before he came with the power of a hurricane. It went on for minutes, hours, days...then the world went black.

* * *

He woke in the soft light of dawn, covered by satin sheets, surrounded by the scent of flowers. A faint, burning smell tickled his nose, and Rogen rolled over to find Chemei beside him, her face inches from his. Her hair lay soft and wavy on the pillow, and her skin crackled with energy even in sleep. He longed to reach out to touch her perfect cheek, but didn't dare.

Rogen rubbed his face and sat up. Stirra's Cup lay on the table by the open doors, the green flames within burning low, like a banked fire. He lifted one hand toward it—he had come to this place to take it, he vaguely remembered, though he couldn't think why he would want to do that.

He turned back to the woman on the bed, and drank in the sight of her face like a dying man at a sudden desert spring.

* * *

The assassin's face was the first thing Achrista saw when she awoke. She did not startle—queens did not do anything so weak as startle—but her heart beat fiercely as she sat up and pulled the coverlet over her breasts.

He ducked his head, his messy blond hair flopping forward over his brow. "My queen," he murmured, and a chill ran up her spine. She had heard those words from many of her conquests, usually uttered in a pitiful, pleading tone. But he infused the words with desire, with…devotion?

It's the Cup, she told herself impatiently. The thought made her whip her head around to look for the Cup, but it was still where she had left it last night. Its sparks were low now, and she could have sworn that that danced mischievously at her. Those who have the protection of the goddess have nothing to fear. They will have all they desire. What do you desire?

"My queen?" said the man watching her on the bed with an open expression of adoration. She hadn't expected this when the Imtorian ambassador had betrayed the assassin's presence in her palace with his note last night.

Achrista pushed back the coverlet and swung her legs out of the bed, away from the assassin. She located her robe and pulled it on, fastening the catch, then went to the door and summoned the guards from her anteroom, all the while ignoring the man on the bed. She felt his eyes on her, and she wished, absurdly, that it was the dangerous, calculating gaze he had turned on her last night, before she had shown him Stirra's power. Though now, perhaps, he was even more dangerous.

"Take him down to the stable," she told the two guards who entered a few moments later, both looking utterly unsurprised and unperturbed to find a strange man in their queen's bedchamber. "See that he is kept in a separate room from the others."

The assassin let the guards lead him from the room, but his eyes remained fixed on the queen. She ignored his gaze and turned toward the window, but not before she caught the appreciate gaze her senior attendant, Eila, swept over the prisoner's naked body as she passed him in the doorway.

"Fetch my breakfast," the queen snapped.

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Eila timidly.

Achrista sighed. She was not known to be kind to anyone, especially not her attendants, but Eila had been serving her since she had been a small child and she had not meant to snap at her.

"Thank you," she said more evenly, her tone meant as an apology.

She felt Eila's nod, though she had already turned to look out at the terrace, her gaze only half taking in the puddles already drying in the morning sun.

"Your Majesty, is there...is something wrong?"

Achrista turned. Eila hovered by the doorway, looking like a mouse who couldn't decide whether to remain still in hopes that the cat didn't notice it, or race into its hole.

"He could have killed me as I slept," said the queen.

Eila's expression cleared. "Ah, your power held him, Your Majesty."

Achrista glanced at the Cup, nodding. It hadn't, though. She had lifted the thought-chains from him before she had let him enter her, wanting to feel the thrill of coupling without compulsion. And how foolish she'd been, not to weave them again, though he'd cried out his love for her again and again.

And he had stayed in her bed all night long.

Achrista drew her robe tighter around her, remembering the way he had stood up to her power, pressing back with his own will. She rubbed her hands against the soft fabric of her robe and tried to block out the thought that swirled round and round in her mind.

Here at last was a man worthy of her respect.

* * *

Three floors below, Rogen turned over on his pallet in the queen's stable and smiled, dreaming of lightning.

Few who see Mara Kelly behind the reference desk at the public library would guess that she spends her evenings spinning tales of erotic fantasy. She has been writing fantasy since she was ten years old; at age twenty-five it began to take a more grown-up bent. With a deep interest in the history of sex and relationships, Mara applies her historical research to fantasy settings as she explores the emotional and physical connections at the heart of the human experience.

She lives in Maryland with her husband and son, and is currently seeking an erotic use for her freakish knowledge of the Dewey Decimal System.

Visit her online at www.MaraKelly.net.