Love in another time, another place. Warrior Moon Marilyn Jordan

"A gripping tale of forbidden love!"
Nancy Cane, Bestselling Author Of
Keeper Of The Rings A SOLDIER'S SURRENDER

Sarak gazed at her, his eyes soft with an emotion she had never seen there before. "Ah, Phada," he said gently, reaching out his hand to touch her cheek with one long finger, then quickly dropping it to his side. "Do you think I have not come to realize you can do anything you set your mind to?"

"I only wish that were true," she replied with a crooked smile and a shake of her head. "I think you must have gotten too much sun yestercycle, Sarak. Perhaps it addled your brain into concocting this good opinion of me, although I do not deny that I am flattered."

"I do not need to concoct anything when it comes to you, Keeper's apprentice, including my opinion," he grumbled. He sounded as fierce as he always did, but Phada knew he was not truly angry. "You are like a waterfall, able to wear down the hardest stone if given enough time."

"Does that mean I have worn you down, mighty warrior?" Phada asked.

"To a tiny pebble." Warrior Moon Marilyn Jordan LOVE SPELL®

March 1996

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America. To my grandmothers, Claire and Sophia, and to my
Aunt Minyou would have been so proud.
And to Robert, my planet earth warrior, who makes
it all possible.

Chapter One

"By the blue moon, Sarak, what are you doing?"

Sarak looked up to find his friend Mizor planted in the doorway, his hands on his hips. "What does it look like I am doing?" he asked as he adjusted the ties of the leather sheath containing his zirconian dagger, settling it more securely around his waist. "I am on duty tonight."

"But you just came back from desert maneuvers."

"Tell that to Dalcor," he said dryly.

Mizor shook his great, shaggy head in disgust. "The man certainly has it in for you," he muttered as he stepped into Sarak's small private quarters and threw himself down on the neatly made-up sleeping pallet in the corner. "I think he is hoping to break you.

"I am sure he would like to dump me into the sea and let the stingfish have me." Sarak shrugged indifferently. "We may both be warriors, but we see things from opposite poles." "Maybe he wants all the Jiboan women for himself." Mizor grinned up at him from his sprawled position, his practically naked body gleaming in the lamplight. Since he was off duty tonight he was wearing only the standard-issue breechcloth. It barely covered the essentials, but of course there were no town women to recoil in shock from his rudely muscular physique.

"He is welcome to them." Sarak threw his friend a disgusted grimace. "For someone who has sworn to protect the virtue of our queen and every other woman in Mesara, I do not know how you can consort with those desert females."

"It is easy. They offer themselves," he said with a smirk. "And most willingly, too, I might add."

"Yes, for a hefty price and the ever-present possibility of disease."

"It is worth it to have a woman tumble you of her own accord."

Sarak grunted. He could not disagree with that particular sentiment.

"I noticed you did not say no the last time they came to the barracks," Mizor added slyly.

"My mind was against it but my body did not seem to want to heed the message."

"The great Sarak. Fallen from his pure status and lusting after women just like the rest of us. Why do you fight against it, my friend? Why not simply enjoy?"

Sarak frowned. He had asked himself that same question a hundred times before but he never got a satisfactory answer. A warrior was forbidden to take a life mate, although not denied the pleasures of the flesh. So why did he often find himself wishing for a woman to desire him for himself and not because he paid her? Such thoughts were crazy, treasonous even, and totally out of the realm of possibility. What decent woman wanted a pallet partner known only for his brute strength and aggressive tendencies? Barracks dwellers were considered animalistic and unrefined by the women of Mesara, good enough to defend the city but rutting bulloxen otherwise.

And why not? he considered thoughtfully. Every last warrior was chosen for dominator service because of aggressive acts committed in his youth. After the third occurrence, the guilty boy was brought before the council and if the queen saw fit, sent to the Warrior Academy for training. Once a sword was placed in his hand there was no turning back, no reprieve. Unless of course he rapedthen he was banished to the Uninhabited Island to live the rest of his life away from the community.

Sarak glanced over to discover that Mizor obviously did not expect an answer to his question. The big warrior's attention had been caught by a cloth-bound book that Sarak had hidden beneath the single lana-wool blanket that covered the pallet.

"What is this?" he asked, holding it up with a flourish. "I will wager it is not Hotek's battle strategies."

"No."

Sarak saw no reason to delve into it any further. Mizor could see for himself the title of the treatise on philosophy he had been perusing. Although not forbidden, intellectual pursuits were not encouraged among dominators. Their preferred reading was supposed to include manuals of military tactics and desert survival guides. Hotek's volume was especially recommended, since it related how he had achieved victory over the vicious, warlike Kargans, forcing them to retreat to the southern antipodes, where they had remained ever since. Of course all that had occurred at the dawn of history, thousands of sun orbits ago. The Mesarans had achieved much since those early, barbaric times.

Still, everything they knew of the mysterious Kargans was contained in that ancient book. It was knowledge Sarak believed should not be cast aside lightly. And yet that was just what was about to happen.

"We have everything we could possibly want," Sarak muttered. "What do the Kargans possess that is so valuable the queen wants to open a trade route with them?"

"We will find out tonight," his friend replied. "Dalcor promised to send a messenger to the barracks with some of the trade goods. By the time that happens, I plan to have a Jiboan woman on each knee."

"Is that all you can think about, maneuvering yourself between some woman's thighs?"

"Why not?" Mizor grinned good-naturedly. "It is as good a place as any and better than most." He wriggled his eyebrows as he pumped his hips a few times in graphic demonstration. "I plan on teaching them my special feint-and-parry technique."

Sarak could not help the snort of amusement that escaped him. His friend was a simple man with simple tastes. When he was not on guard duty or maneuvers or border patrol, Mizor liked to spend his time tumbling women or downing tankard after tankard of vetch. Preferably both. He was a jovial, good-natured companion unless he drank too much of the lethal Jiboan ale. Sarak had never known a man with a harder head, as evidenced by the countless stools that had been cracked over it to little or no effect. Thank the eternal sun he usually passed out before he could use his prodigious strength to really harm someone.

"What are you getting so worked up about, eh, Sarak? You are the one who said we should make contact with the Kargans.''

"Yes, but I meant sending a scouting party, not embracing them like long-lost brothers."

"Hey, it is the dawning of a new era in peace and prosperity."

"So the town criers and all the posted notices would have us believe. Does it not strike you as strange that only a month ago the Kargans were our hated enemies and now we are about to trade with them? Why should we trust them all of a sudden?"

"Why not?" Mizor shrugged, unconcerned. He dropped the book onto the blanket and leaned back, his arms behind his neck, his hands cradling his head.

"Because we know what manner of people they are from the ancient histories."

"That was a thousand orbits ago. Things change."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Sarak's mouth flattened skeptically. "In spite of our patrols, they have managed to continuously pilfer from our food stores, and yet no one has ever gotten close enough to look one of the bastards in the eye."

"Maybe they are too hideous to show their faces."

"The Jiboans have somehow managed to survive contact with them. Of course those desert vermin would deal with a cornered clawcat if they could make money doing it, which does not make them the most discerning intermediaries."

"They say Queen Riga approves," Mizor pointed out with a sly little half-grin.

Sarak knew his features softened, but he could not help himself. Besides, Mizor knew of his special oath of loyalty to their beautiful young sovereign. Queen Riga embodied every feminine virtue, from the top of her elegant head to the tips of her dainty, sandal-clad feet. She was shrewd yet kind, wise yet humble, powerful yet ever eager to disperse that power to her council and to the people for the welfare of all Mesara.

He could not imagine that she had not carefully considered every possible outcome of this prospective contact with the Kargans. And yet there was always the possibility that she had been swayed by the king, her one weakness as far as Sarak could tell. Pavonis was the kind of highly intelligent, rational male that women seemed to love. Sarak thought the king's mind was too easily governed by whatever prevailing theory the megaversity was investigating that cycle. Still, who was he to question his intellectual superiors? He was just a thickheaded dominator whose usefulness to the community depended on keeping his physical body as honed and polished as the blade of his dagger.

After bidding his friend farewell, Sarak traversed the winding stone corridors of the underground barracks, working his way up to the top level and the glaring world outside. He stayed in the small antechamber for several moments so his eyes could adjust to the light before stepping from the cool, almost dank air inside the barracks into the wall of heat and humidity that was the hallmark of this northernmost area of Elithra.

He moved quickly along the exposed path until he reached the shade of the jungle canopy and the track that led to the main buildings of the town. The warriors' barracks were on the edge of Mesara, partly because of the space needed for their outdoor training grounds but also so that the women of town would not be confronted with their massive bodies and rude ways. The queen was the only woman he knew who did not recoil from the sight of a well-oiled dominator's body, but she was the exception and had probably schooled herself not to do so after years of royal training.

Sarak grimaced as he ran a hand through his shoulder-length dark brown hair. He had been shocked during the last feast to discover himself pretending that the scrawny desert woman straddling his hips, panting and squealing as he pumped her up and down on his rigid shaft, was the queen. As if the refined Riga would ever allow such rough handling or stoop to such wanton and abandoned behavior. She was a lady, a queen. He knew he imagined himself half in love with her, although no warrior could ever truly understand the ways of love.

His guilt had not allowed him to take another Jiboan woman since, although his loins still ached when he lay on his pallet in the privacy of his quarters. He had even tried self-pleasuring, a common and often necessary technique sanctioned by all the training guides. But that had only caused him to feel more guilt. It was his shameful secret, and he would take it with him to the crypt.

A noise in the thick vegetation made him reach automatically for his dagger. A pair of yellow eyes peered out at him from behind the green-and-white striated leaves of a rango bush. His fingers unclenched from the hilt of his weaponit was only a clawcat. Although the big animals were ferocious hunters they rarely attacked people unless provoked.

Sarak breathed easier when the town finally came into view. Only the tops of the buildings were visibleeverything else had been built underground, where it was naturally cooler. The blue-white sun was relentless as it journeyed across the sky, accompanied by its ever-present companion, the blue moon. According to the ancient legends, their ancestors had traveled from a place somewhere beyond the distant stars; a land where the sun hid itself for a large portion of its cycle to allow for rest, unlike Elithra, where the sun only dipped below the horizon but never far enough so that it became completely dark.

In the unenlightened ages of the past, the Elithrans had danced and chanted to coax the orb to remain longer at its rest. Now they did so for the sheer beauty and pleasure of it. Sarak could hear the stringpluckers and blowpipers warming up as he approached the massive golden-hued pillars that guarded the entrance to the large public square and the feasting area. Throngs of people were heading in the same direction, dressed in their best tunics, the women especially lovely with their long hair swept up in various elaborate designs, their slender arms and shoulders bared by the delicate straps holding up the ankle-length material that swirled around their legs.

Sarak tried to ignore the stares he received as he moved among them in his brief leather loincloth, his massive chest naked and freshly oiled so that it gleamed and rippled in the light of the torches that now lined the passageway. The dagger hanging at his waist was strictly regulation issue and worn for show, but still everyone moved aside to allow him room to pass, as though he were some scrofulous alms taker. Dalcor had issued strict orders that no warrior was to carry a sword to the feast tonight. Even though Sarak knew he had instead posted armed guards at the outside gates, the situation still made him uneasy. Everything about this new trade route with the Kargans made him uneasy.

The stone floor beneath his feet leveled out as he entered the square. Light still filtered in from the outside, but down here it was assisted by torches burning brightly along the back and side walls. The tables and benches that had been set up in long rows were already half-filled with people, some chattering excitedly, others tapping their fingers or moving their heads to the cheerful throbbing of the music. It seemed everyone was in the mood for a feast except him.

He made his way toward the platform where the king and queen would soon be seated along with the 13 members of the council. The sooner this evening was over, Sarak thought grimly, the happier he would be.

"Look at that one, Phada! What a brute, do you not agree?"

Phada glanced at the dominator Chelis had indicated and grimaced before quickly averting her gaze. For some reason her younger sister was fascinated by the half-naked warriors who protected the borders of Mesara.

"I did not come here to ogle some thickheaded warrior, Chelis," she said, trying not to sound like a prim big sister but failing miserably. Of course they were all thankful that the dominators handled all the nasty, warlike tasks that came their way, but that did not mean people had to admire them for it.

"I am not ogling him; I am simply curious," Chelis said with a giggle. "Do you not ever wonder what they think about?"

"The question is, do they think at all?" Phada shot back, then bit her lip at her impulsive words. A Keeper, even a Keeper's apprentice such as herself, would never belittle a warrior, knowing they were a necessary evil in this less than perfect world.

Luckily Chelis ignored her outburst, her attention now roving around the crowded feasting hall with its massive stone walls and wooden-beamed ceilings. "Rumor says that they can mate through an entire sleep cycle without tiring." "As if anyone would want to," Phada said with a delicate shudder.

"I suppose." Chelis slanted her a cheeky grin. "Jobus has promised me he will keep that side of himself under the strictest control after we are declared officially bonded. He says we will only mate when I wish it."

"Which is as it should be." Phada nodded in approval. "Only a dominator gets enjoyment out of inflicting his crude physical desires on a woman."

"Phada, please. This is a celebration, not a lesson chamber. Everyone knows that Keepers and dominators are on opposite sides of the solar spectrum. I do not need a lecture about it, thank you very much."

"Sorry," Phada quickly apologized. She did not know why she reacted so strongly to the subject. She would have to meditate on it during her next visit to the hot springs. "Jobus is a good man."

It was a peace offering of sorts, and Chelis, never one to hold a grudge, smiled as she accepted it. "He says I help him to relax his mind after spending all day poring over his books."

"You will be a good mate for him, Chelis. You would be a good mate for any man lucky enough to win you."

It was true, Phada realized as her sister turned to speak to their mother, who was seated on her other side. Although Chelis was certainly no scholar, while Jobus was an intellectual with a growing reputation, the bonds of their affection were strong. Such opposites often seemed to attract, Phada thought, the way the opposite poles of a magnet pulled inexorably toward each other. Of course if the theory truly applied to the workings of men and women, then dominators and Keepers would be mating like treerats, since the only thing they had in common was that both groups were forbidden by law to permanently bond.

Phada herself had no desire to experience any sort of intercourse with a male, be it intellectual or physical. It was one of the reasons she had asked to train as a Keeper, although her sister often insisted it was because Phada preferred to be a spectator rather than a participant in the web of life. Keepers were forbidden to bond permanently after they officially took their vows, but by the time they did, many of them had mated at least once, sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes with the desire to get a taste of what other women experienced in order to be better guides for the good of Mesara. Often at this stage a woman discovered she was not meant to live the single, solitary, and studious life of a wise woman and Keeper of Knowledge of the Ancient Ways.

The din of countless conversations filled the thick, smoky air around her until Phada could barely hear herself think. The Mesarans were a gregarious people who loved to talk. Phada had never truly fit in. She was too serious and quiet and much too guarded with her thoughts and emotions to feel comfortable holding her own in the kind of raucous debates that inevitably occurred whenever two or more Mesarans came together.

And so she did what she usually did at a such a large gatheringshe watched and listened, trying to observe what was happening around her without being critical or judgmental. According to her mentor, Helenina, a good Keeper needed to be in touch with the pulse of the people. She needed to be able to put herself in the sandals of anyone from the simplest kitchen runner to the most scholarly philosopher, and even including a mindless, totally physical warrior. Only in that way could she use all her faculties to render a judgment, and not just her intellect. Sometimes Phada was not sure her faculties were up to the challenge.

As if to spotlight her particular blind spot, her eyes briefly met those of the dominator on the platform behind the queen. She was not surprised when he glanced away first. She knew his name was Sarak because he had been the one to conduct the tour of the barracks Helenina had insisted on subjecting her to only last mooncycle. The warrior had avoided her gaze then as well, almost as though he had been discomfited by the rude comments the men whispered just loudly enough for her to hear as she hurried by. Of course that was just an illusion. No doubt afterward they had all shared a good laugh at her obvious embarrassment.

This time Phada forced herself to keep her gaze upon him, taking in the gleam of his oiled torso, the intensity of his gaze as he stared out over the heads of the crowd. No matter how much he disturbed her he was still a part of the web of life of Mesara, Phada lectured herself. He had as much of a right to be here as she did. So why did she still find it so difficult to confront his presence in the feasting hall?

She forced herself to observe him objectively. Actually he was not all that bad-looking, she supposed, in spite of the heavily muscled body that spoke of the hours of grueling training he endured. Phada tried to visualize what his life might be like, his innermost wishes and desires, but thanks to Chelis, the only image that popped into her mind showed him mating ferociously on his sleeping pallet with one of the Jiboan women she knew were imported on a regular basis to slake the dominators' physical needs. She felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.

Thank the wisdom of the Ancient Ones that the dominators were under control and basically segregated from the rest of society. Phada shivered as her gaze took in the two warriors stationed near the passageway. All that slick, naked skin . . . they actually seemed proud of it. She glanced at the king, a tall, lean town dweller whose wide forehead made him appear highly discerning and intelligent. Now there was a male. Pavonis knew all the philosophers and could quote many of them by heart. He had studied mathematics and astronomy, history and rhetoric, not to mention his well-known proclivity for writing romantic verse extolling the beauty and virtue of his queen.

Now he rose gracefully to his feet, clapping his hands for attention. The music immediately stopped.

"Good people of Mesara," he shouted, holding up one arm. The gold-trimmed sleeve of his tunic glimmered in the wavering torchlight. He waited a moment while a hush settled over the crowd. "As you all know, Queen Riga and I, along with the members of the council, hope to establish trade with the Kargans."

Loud hisses greeted this pronouncement, but the king only laughed in that boyish way of his that had charmed the hearts of so many of his female subjects. Even Phada was not immune.

"Yes, I understand that you may be wary of such a move. I assure you, so were we until we realized some important things. We have not had an actual war with the Kargans for almost a thousand orbits. Is it not time we tried to carve a pathway to lasting peace that will benefit the entire planet of Elithra?"

A smattering of halfhearted cheers rose from the packed feasting area along with a louder chorus of nays.

"They are too cowardly to start a war with us," shouted one of the males who was seated at Phada's table.

"That is right," called out another from the back of the hall. "They would rather steal such small amounts that it is not worth our while to send an army across the Calabian Desert to retrieve it."

"I say let us wring their nasty hides inside out and trade them to the Jiboansthey will buy anything."

Pavonis raised his hand for silence. "That is exactly why I think this proposed plan is a good one. We can stop the raids and ensure the safety of our borders at the same time. The Jiboans have agreed to act as intermediaries in this undertaking, and since they know the route so well, they will make the scheduled treks across the desert to the Kargan stronghold of Gorod." Here Pavonis grinned wryly. "For a share of the profits, of course."

A babble of commentary and discussion was inevitable after this, and Pavonis did not try to fight it. Instead he leaned down to confer with Riga. She nodded at him and he assisted her to her feet before reseating himself.

The queen waved her arms for silence and was granted it more quickly than Pavonis had been. "There is more, my friends," she assured them with a smile. Her lovely face, framed by coils of golden blond hair, beamed at them with soft goodwill and love as she gestured gracefully with slender fingers. "Yes, there is more. The Kargans are offering us a spice called faral in exchange for our surplus grains and fruit. I have been assured that once we get a taste of this unique seasoning, we will be in favor of the trade. That is why I arranged this feast, so we can all be the judges. What do you say? Shall we sample this delicacy from the other side of Elithra?"

A loud cheer went up, more for Queen Riga than for what she had to say. Still, if the queen was willing to taste the spice, how could any Mesaran do less? Good-natured jibes of disbelief continued to fly from table to table, along with various comments about the acknowledged indelicacy of the Kargans, who were thought to be cruder and ruder than even the swarthiest dominator. Phada found herself laughing at the impromptu ode to faral composed by Jobus, who had come to join Chelis at their table. What rational person would not have trouble believing that any delicacy could come from the far side of the antipodes where the Kargans lived?

Jobus poured both Chelis and Phada a glass of vinasi, the mild Mesaran wine usually preferred with meals, then filled his own glass. Thank goodness for Chelis's sake that Jobus had not taken up the disgusting habit of drinking vetch, the highly intoxicating Jiboan ale favored by the dominators. In her capacity as a Keeper's apprentice Phada had gone out with Helenina on more than one occasion to tend to a Mesaran with an aching head who had spent the night emptying his stomach under some rango bush. Phada could not understand the lure of the nasty brew, but then she had never claimed to be an expert on the behavior of males.

A contingent of kitchen runners hurried through the feasting hall, balancing platters of food on their shoulders. The smell of roasted fowl and tuber roots filled the air along with another, more subtle but distinctly appealing scent that came from the wooden sapok shakers of faral that had been placed every few feet along the tables. Phada's mouth actually began to water in anticipation of the meal.

''Let the feasting begin," Pavonis cried out. He picked up the shaker and sprinkled some faral on a portion of the juicy meat. Everyone waited breathlessly as he took the first bite. His eyes widened in amazement and his handsome face broke into a smile.

"Incredible," he shouted, waving the dripping leg in the air. He took another bite and another before he came to himself. Quickly poking through the contents of the platter, he picked out a wing, more delicate fare suitable for his queen, and prepared it with the spice. Riga slipped her hands around his as he held it out to her. Together they steadied the meat as she took a taste. Seeing the tenderness between them, Phada could almost understand why so many women preferred to bond permanently with a male.

"What a unique and delicious flavor," Riga said into the hush which had suddenly claimed the hall. "I have never tasted anything like it." She quickly helped herself to more. "Please, everyone, try it.''

With a great shout, the crowd complied. Murmurs of approval arose from every table as the scent of the fragrant spice mixed with the tantalizing aroma of the fowl and vegetables. People ate with enthusiasm, their heads nodding in surprise and approval. All along the trestle tables, shakers were passed from hand to hand as the drone of conversation grew to more deafening proportions.

Phada took the shaker from Chelis and sprinkled a small amount on a section of tuber root. Perhaps the opening of this trade route with the Kargans would be the beginning of permanent peace between the two enemies after all, she thought as she took a careful bite. She could not believe the pleasurable burst of taste sensations that exploded in her mouth. It had some of the properties of the salt they harvested along the shore of the great uncharted sea. Then again it contained a sweetly delicate aftertaste of herbs that lingered delightfully on the palate. Phada shook her head as she finished off the root. It was no use trying to explain the swirl of flavors, but there was no denying that it was the tastiest thing she had ever placed in her mouth.

"This is so delicious," Chelis said in amazement as she licked the tips of her fingers in a ladylike fashion. "It is sweet but not exactly sweet."

"Sweet!" Jobus hooted in disbelief. "It is definitely tart with the same flavor as meat cured in the smoke pit. Do you not think so, Phada?"

"It tastes more like herbs to me," she said.

Phada heard similar contradictory comments all around her. It seemed no one could agree on the flavor conferred by the faral. How very odd, she thought. She was about to pick up a wing for a comparison taste when she felt a squeezing sensation in her stomach, followed by another and another until her insides twisted into knots. Should she try to ride it out? Better not, she decided as another spasm wrenched a low groan from her. She clutched her middle as she excused herself from the table and headed for the passage. Maybe some fresh air would clear her head and ease the pain. Trying not to make a spectacle of herself, she managed to sidle past the last table and gratefully headed up the stone walkway.

The dominator stationed near the outside pillar stared her up and down in a totally unacceptable manner, his eyes lingering on her bare shoulders and then moving down to her breasts. Her mouth opened on a curt remark to put him in his place, but something stopped her from voicing it. Dalcor usually kept his warriors under tight control, but perhaps the festive nature of the evening had loosened this one's sworn code of moral behavior.

"Where are you going?" he asked. His eyes gleamed in the semidarkness of the Mesaran night.

He had not addressed her with the proper deference. He certainly had no right to question her, but she was not about to challenge him on it, not with her stomach churning like a kettle of boiling water. Better to let it pass until she felt more herself, and then she would see to it that the man never got assigned town duty again. Besides, direct confrontation, especially if it was unpleasant, had never been her style.

"I am going to get some fresh air," she replied evenly. "It is very smoky inside."

He eyed her thoughtfully. "Have you eaten?"

"What?"

"Have you tasted the spice?"

"Yes. It . . . it is very good." Something about the triumphant expression on his face made her uneasy. Her stomach continued to twist and clench and she knew she had to get away from him before she disgraced herself. "Excuse me, please." She hurried away toward the main trail, her heart pounding nervously as his bold laughter followed her into the jungle.

Chapter Two

"Stop!" Sarak hissed roughly, gripping Zegon's wrist. "Wait until you are off duty."

His friend only grinned, his dark brown eyes as guileless as those of a newborn wood fawn. "Come on, Sarak, shake the blueflies out of your ears." He pulled his arm free, the shaker of faral he had snatched from a nearby tray still clutched in his hand. "Did you not hear the queen? She invited everyone to try this stuff."

"She was not referring to the posted-on-duty warriors."

Zegon groaned and made a face. "Do not be such a mudhog's ass. No one can see us."

Sarak slanted him a disgusted look. That was not exactly true. The two warriors were standing just inside one of the corridors that led to the palace kitchen. A steady stream of frazzled runners scurried past them, trying to keep up with the incessant demand for more food and faral coming from the feasting hall. It was an impossible task. "Besides, this is a celebration, in case you did not notice. What is the difference between sneaking a sample now and waiting until later when we get back to the barracks?" Zegon wiggled the sapok wood enticingly, just out of Sarak's reach. "It would not be the first time we bent the rules."

"I am not worried about the sun-cursed rules," Sarak muttered. "There is something about this entire setup that rubs my skin the wrong way. Can you not feel it?"

"No. But while you try to figure it out, I am going to steal a bite."

Sarak watched helplessly as Zegon scooped up an antelope haunch from a nearby tray and sprinkled it with a substantial coating of the dark, fragrant spice. He bit into it, ripping off more meat than he could possibly stuff in his mouth at one time, grabbing at the excess with his fingers.

"Mmmm. Delicious," he mumbled around the food as he chewed. "I never thought I would see the day when I would be praising something that came from the Kargans."

Sarak shook his head in disgust. People were acting like sun-blind fools over a simple seasoning and it was making him more than a little uneasy. Even Queen Riga had been hard-pressed to remember her usually impeccable table manners after she had tasted the spice. Maybe Zegon was right; maybe he should try it now, see what all the fuss was about.

He had just picked up a loose slice of roasted rockhen when he caught sight of Dalcor standing near the passageway that led to the queen's private chambers. He was talking to two of his favorite warriors, members of his handpicked elite Desert Corps. They conferred for a few moments, and then Dalcor waved one of the men back into the feasting hall while he motioned the other to follow him down the strictly off-limits corridor. Sarak tossed the untouched piece of meat back onto the platter and hurried to follow them.

Phada rested her forehead against the cool, rough bark of a hivea tree and wearily closed her eyes. Thank goodness she had wrapped her arms around the slender trunkit was the only thing keeping her on her feet. That last bout of nausea had left her stomach raw and empty, and she shivered in spite of the warmth of the night and the balmy air which pressed against her flushed skin and sweat-dampened tunic.

The moon rode low on the horizon, casting its faintly blue-tinged light along the path just behind her. The sun had dipped out of sight hours ago, but its light still glowed in the western sky so that visibility in the jungle was good. On nights when the moon was not out, it became almost dark in Mesara. Phada stepped out from among the trees and made her way to a nearby stone bench. She needed a little more time to recover before she went back into the feasting hall, but she also did not want to linger too long or else her mother and Chelis might begin to worry about her.

So much for Kargan faral, she thought, trying to muster up the strength to appreciate the irony. What a shame. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted and now she would not be able to use it on her food. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Even now, just the thought of it was enough to turn her stomach. Here was one more thing to convince her that she belonged to the esoteric world of the Keepers rather than in the stream of everyday life.

She was not sure how long she sat there, breathing in the lush scent of the jungle vegetation and recovering from her ordeal. The mournful cry of a clawcat rallied her and she decided it was time to go back inside. She moved quickly along the pathway that led to the palace gates, her moonshadow hovering just in front of her footsteps.

The dominator who had leered so insultingly at her was gone. In fact, there was no one watching the entrance to the feasting hall. Phada frowned at this breach in security, then shrugged. Perhaps he had also answered a call of nature. She was not about to complain about not being subjected to his unwanted and discourteous scrutiny.

She followed the slanting path down to the hall. No music was playingthe pipers were probably taking a break. There was not much noise coming from the feasters either, which was odd. Usually she could hear the drone of a myriad of conversations from this vantage point, or at least a raised voice or two. If she did not know better, she would think everyone had gone home. Phada frowned as she quickened her steps.

She was almost running by the time she rounded the huge gilded pillar and entered the main hall. She halted abruptly, the hair on the back of her neck rising like a hound's hackles at the sight that greeted her.

No one had gone home. In fact everyone was sitting pretty much the way she remembered them, she realized as her gaze took in the filled benchesexcept for the king and queen, whose places at the platform table were now empty. Here and there people were talking, but not many of them, and they were speaking in a desultory manner, as if they were stupefied by drink, although someone affected by vetch or vinasi usually became louder and more gregarious, not more subdued. Phada had never seen so many Mesarans sitting in one place so quietly.

Some of the faces she gazed into simply returned her gesture with a blissful smile. Many sat staring into space while others played with their food or shifted the sapok shakers of faral around in random, senseless patterns. One male, a member of the council, was humming a tune under his breath, sounding uncannily like a swarm of battleflies at twilight. He smiled and gave a halfhearted wave as she passed by.

Phada hurried between the tables to where her mother and Chelis sat. Jobus grinned at her, a silly little smirk that made her wince because it was so unlike him. His chin rested on his hand as if he could not hold his head up otherwise. Chelis was leaning against his arm, a beatific smile on her face.

"What has happened to you; what is wrong?" she demanded, grabbing her sister's arm and shaking her.

"Go away, Phada," Chelis murmured with a giggle. "You are being much too loud." She reached for the shaker of faral, sprinkled some on her finger, and licked it off.

"Stop it," Phada hissed, knocking the shaker away. "You have had enough of that stuff."

Chelis just looked at her with glassy eyes and laughed. "Phada, dear sister, it is too delicious for me to stop now. It is too delicious for anyone to stop."

"Can you not see you have been given something to make you like this? You have all been drugged by that cursed Kargan spice," she shouted, glaring around at the crowd of subdued Mesarans. "Please, you must fight it. Get up and walk around; try to clear your heads."

The undertone of murmurs grew louder, but that was the only reaction her impassioned words evinced.

What should she do? Her mind raced with possibilities, and none of them were good. Was this some scheme of the Kargans? Had they finally come to take over Mesara through the treachery of a spice that had turned out to be more than a simple, tasty seasoning? Even now they might be massing outside the gates in the deep twilight of night, ready to march in and take over without even a struggle.

"No," she said aloud. They had to resist or die trying. The males of Mesara must be roused to action. They could not count on the warriors to defend them. Every able-bodied town dweller was supposed to know how to handle a swordit was time to call them to arms before it was too late.

"Jobus, get up," she ordered in a pleading voice. She pushed and prodded at his shoulder but he did not budge. Sweet Mother, how quickly did this stuff wear off? She gave him one last shove, watching in dismay as he slumped forward onto the table, his cheek pillowed on his hand. It did not look as if it would be anytime soon.

She decided to try Chelis again. "Where are the king and queen, Chelis? And the warriors, where are Dalcor and his warriors? Have they slipped away to summon help?"

"They are gone," her sister answered with a dreamy smile. "They have all gone away."

Phada bit her lip. She was the only one capable of acting and she had not a clue what to do. Were Pavonis and Riga in their chamber? Should she seek them out? And what about the warriors? Had they already been overthrown by Kargans? Even the rude dominator who had insulted her was beginning to look like the best friend she had ever had, if only he would defend her from whatever was happening here.

The sound of loud voices coming from the corridor leading to the queen's chambers caused Phada's head to jerk around in alarm. She stared wildly at the passage, totally panicked, her heart pounding like a ceremonial drum. There was no place to hide, even if she had the time to do so. The owners of those voices would be upon them in mere millimarks. Besides, what good would it do to run away? She was the only person in the entire hall lucid enough to discern what was going on. Once she discovered who was at the bottom of this, she might still be able to dash across to the barracks and rouse the dominators to action.

She threw herself down next to Chelis and rested her head in the crook of her arms. The closeness of male voices announced the intruders had just entered the feasting hall. She heard a loud crash, as if someone had knocked over one of the tables. She had to school herself not to jump in alarm. No one around her even twitched at the sound.

"Leave him there," a low male voice ordered. "He is out cold."

Phada peered through her lashes in the direction of the platform. Thank the Creatrix, the speaker was Dalcor, high commander of the warriors. Several other dominators were at his side. Everything must be all right, she thought, tears of relief springing to her eyes.

She sat up, opening her mouth to call out, when she noticed what had caused the crash. Lying next to an overturned bench near the queen's throne lay the warrior Sarak, his hands tied behind his back with a thick leather strap. His face was covered with the grayish brown dirt that always settled on the tunnel floors, and blood was running down his cheek from a deep scratch above his left eye, which had swollen shut. The rest of him was not in much better shape. The oil on his body had collected enough dirt to turn into a muddy paste mixed in places with more blood from various cuts and abrasions.

Phada remained where she was.

"People of Mesara," Dalcor cried out. His voice was loud and tinged with an air of sneering aggression Phada had never heard in a warrior before. ''I want every last peace-loving, faral-licking Mesaran to listen up. I have something important to say."

Phada's eyes widened in alarm. She was not sure what kind of reaction he expected to get, but no Mesaran worth his seasalt would ever stoop to taking orders from a warrior. Warriors were brought up to serve with their bodies; they were taught to do the bidding of the people through the offices of the queen and king and the council, not the other way around. Their status might not be as high as the rest of the population, but their contributions were needed and appreciated by the community.

It had always been a fine line to walk, this training of dominators, but the Mesarans believed they had reached a satisfactory compromise by allowing these males to be as strong and aggressive as they needed to be in order to be able to hold off any Kargan attack while insuring that they comprised only a small portion of the population lest they revert totally to their dominator natures and send Mesara sliding back into the hellish nightmare of warrior rule.

Phada drew a nervous breath. As his words began to sink in, she heard grumblings and protests from the crowd, but Dalcor ignored them. He continued to wait for a few moments before repeating the order. He was wearing his sword as well as a dagger, as were the other warriors on the platform. More dominators had slipped in from outside and now lined the walls, blocking every exit. Was Mesara under attack? If so, why was Dalcor just standing there doing nothing? And why had Sarak been taken prisoner?

"Listen up," he roared again. To her utter shock and surprise, people slowly began sitting straighter on the benches, their eyes turning expectantly toward Dalcor like those of little children in a lesson chamber. Phada saw several of the town males around her, including Jobus, reach for their daggers before realizing they were weaponless because everyone had voluntarily disarmed at the door to the feasting hall. One bold Mesaran jumped up brandishing a table knife, but was immediately relieved of it by a burly warrior who leapt across two tables to reach him. He backhanded the protestor sharply across the face before snatching the makeshift weapon away as easily as taking a sweetbar from a child. No one else moved after that.

Dalcor grinned. "That is more like it. Something terrible has occurred. This desert-crawling vermin you see before you attempted to rape the queen." He kicked the motionless form at his feet. Sarak groaned but otherwise did not stir. "Thanks to my quick actions, he did not succeed."

Phada could not restrain her gasp of horror at this shocking news. Rape in Mesara was unheard of, a capital offense of the highest magnitude. The axis of her previously safe and stable world shifted painfully and her mind went numb. She glanced at Sarak's still form, trying to recall what she knew about him, but all she could comprehend was the fact that this warrior had tried to force himself on the queen, using his greater physical strength in the most reprehensible manner, hoping to violate Riga's person and her dignity, even her very soul. The thought of it made Phada's blood run cold.

"The punishment for this crime is banishment for life on the Uninhabited Island in the Sea of Stingfish. I will see to it personally that this sentence is carried out. In the meantime, Mesara will be placed under emergency rule until the queen recovers."

Emergency rule? Phada had never heard of such a thing. And what had happened to a trial for Sarak and final judgment from the Keepers? Where was the king? Pavonis should be the one imparting this information to his subjects. Or if he was too upset at the near violation of the queen, then one of the council members should step into the breach. Whoever heard of a warrior taking such a responsibility upon himself?

Obviously that was all Dalcor had to say. He abruptly turned, conferring for a moment with the small group on the platform and then making his way toward the queen's chambers with what Phada could only describe as an eager stride. She wished she could stop him but she dared not show her hand, not if she hoped to do anything to stop this.

Another warrior stepped forward, this one short and swarthy with a thick neck like a bulloxen and ears that lay flat against his head. "Go home, everyone. The feast is over," he announced. "Go home and tomorrow attend to your usual business."

Phada imitated the slow movements of everyone around her and carefully got to her feet. At least one of her problems was solved, she realized as she shuffled toward the exit. She could not let anyone know that her body had rejected the faral until the rest of Mesara came to their senses and they could work together to get things back in order. She could not imagine any drug lasting past the morning. In the meantime she would have to think how she could help them prepare.

Her eyes strayed again to Sarak, who had awakened and was now struggling to free himself. Someone had put a gag in his mouth, but she could hear him trying to make himself heard in spite of it, the sounds coming out garbled but no less angry for being muffled. She had to wonder if what Dalcor had said about him was true, if he had attempted to rape the queen. If he had done such an awful thing he deserved banishment and more. She studied his massive body straining against his bondshe was so strong and untamed, like a wild clawcat. She felt a funny twitching in the pit of her stomachrevulsion, she supposed.

And then their eyes met. She felt the shock of his intense gaze right down the entire length of her body from her head to her toes. Her breath caught in her lungs, but she could not tear her attention away. In fact she found herself studying him so closely she knew the exact instant he realized she was not dazed with faral like everyone else in the hall.

He struggled to his feet, knocking a table over in the process. He was rewarded with a swift kick in the ribs by one of his captors. Phada felt the sickening thud in her own tender middle as she continued to shuffle along with the crowd that was now forced to divert into two flows around the table. Phada found herself moving very closely past Sarak. She schooled herself not to glance down at him, but as she came closer he kicked at her ankle.

Her body jerked in alarm and she could not stop herself from staring at him. Immediately his eyes pleaded with her in the most eloquent fashion. What did he expect her to do? she wondered, her heart pounding. He jerked his chin downward, toward his bound wrists. Was he asking her to untie him, a warrior accused of the worst kind of domination, a possible rapist? Had he gone as crazy as everyone else in Mesara this night?

Even if she wanted to release him there was no way she could do so under the watchful eyes of the two warriors who were standing guard over him. One of them held his hand over the hilt of his sword. Phada could see the recently healed scar that snaked across his upper arm. The other guard was surveying the perimeter of the crowded room, a smirk of disdain on his thick-featured face. Either of them appeared all too capable of killing a person as casually as he might slaughter a bushhog for the dinner table. And then she realized Sarak was indicating a table knife that had fallen to the floor in the scuffle. He wanted her to kick the knife closer to him so he could cut himself free.

Her gaze flew back to his face in alarmed denial. She shook her head. There was no way she was going to attempt something that risky. He was an accused rapist, for heaven's sake. Besides, Dalcor and his men outnumbered him ten to one; even if he did manage to get free, he would not stand a chance. The furious look he gave her sent a shiver of alarm down her spine.

Phada tore her gaze away from the platform, determined not to look at Sarak again as she forced herself to move slowly in the line of subdued Mesarans moving toward the exit. But either his will or her curiosity was too strong, because she shifted her line of vision until she could again take in his sweating, straining form, although she dared not move her gaze beyond his collarbone. The highly developed muscles of his chest rippled beneath the surface of his smoothly tanned skin as he continued to fight against the leather thongs that held him prisoner, almost as if he could snap them in two. Phada was frankly surprised when he did not accomplish the feat.

Then he tried to move toward the knife. One of the guards noticed his movements and snarled something as he placed a booted foot against his shoulder, shoving him down until he was lying flat on the floor, his cheek smashed against the wooden table leg.

Phada closed her eyes against Sarak's pain and frustration. When she opened them again she found herself once again staring straight into the depths of his tormented soul. Blood from the cut on his temple had slowed to a trickle, probably because the wound was clotted with dirt. This time he shook his head at her and motioned toward the door. Whether he was telling her to look out for herself or to seek help, she was not sure, but she certainly intended to try the latter as soon as she had the opportunity. She nodded at him and again felt that strange reaction in her stomach as his gaze softened for a moment. The next thing she knew, Dalcor ordered his men to stand him on his feet and they half-dragged, half-marched him away down the corridor.

She could not believe everyone was leaving so peaceably, but there was not much she could do about it. Now that Dalcor was gone she shoved her way to the head of the line and quickly slipped into the passageway. Several warriors were stationed along the walls, directing the people toward the exit and their homes. Phada immediately slowed down, although her mind continued racing. If she took the shortcut through the jungle, the one the warriors used rather than the main trail, she might have a chance of getting to the barracks without anyone noticing her. She was not sure how much time remained until sunrise, but she knew she had to hurry. Even the twilight of a Mesaran night provided little cover.

Since she did not know what to expect, she had no idea if she was too late to stop it. She could only hope that the warriors who had remained in their barracks were aware that something was going on and had armed themselves. No one else appeared the least bit upset when Dalcor had announced the emergency rule, but then everyone was out of it, addled by whatever had been put in the faral.

Which brought up the question of who had drugged the spice in the first place. Were the Kargans behind this? She was beginning to have her doubts about that. The only other likely candidate that she could see was Dalcor. Had he gone totally insane, reverting to his dominator nature? Was he the one who had tampered with the spice? As far as she could tell, he now had complete control over Mesara.

Perhaps Sarak was not guilty as charged. What other reason could Dalcor have for not following proper procedure and allowing the Keepers to give him a trial? Sarak might have been gagged so he could not protest his innocence. It made her head hurt to contemplate all this political upheaval. She was basically a shy, retiring person, a scholar, someone who intended to spend her life in the Keeper's sanctuary, studying the books of the wise women from the past that filled the library there, perhaps even becoming a first-rank wise woman herself. She certainly had no desire to go sneaking around the perimeters of Mesara on her way to the warriors' barracks.

Sarak awoke with a start. He was lying on his side, his wrists still tied behind him, the wretched gag still in his mouth. He tried to flex his fingers, but his arms had gone numb from being bound so tightly. He closed his eyes as he felt the wooden floor beneath him move. Not a floor, he remembered, but a boat headed for the Uninhabited Island. Curse Dalcor. And curse his own foolish caution. He had known something was amiss, but he had allowed a bragging lowlife like Dalcor to blindside him, first with reassurances and then with flat-out orders that he should have disobeyed but had not.

He heard the bow crunch against the shore. Three warriors appeared, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him to his feet. They took him to the gangplank and shoved him down its length toward the sandy beach. Sarak almost stumbled along the way but quickly recovered. Stingfish usually liked deeper seas, but he was not taking the chance of allowing even his toe into the dangerous waters. One bite and he could be paralyzed for life, not to mention killed.

One of the warriors knocked him onto the sand with a blow from the flat side of his sword. Sarak grunted against the gag as he landed on his numb arms. The searing pain that shot up through his shoulders was almost unbearable, but he managed to get past it before dragging himself to his knees. He was not about to lie there like a stuck hog when they killed him, which was what he assumed they intended, although why they had to cart him all the way to the Uninhabited Island to do it he was not sure. They probably wanted no witnesses.

Sarak saw Murk stride down the gangplank. He was not surprised that Dalcor would send his favorite underling to do his dirty work. It had been no secret that he had wanted Murk as his second-in-command rather than Sarak. Of course, the queen had the final say.

"My, my, if it is not Riga's devoted little lapdog," Murk said with a sneer. Sarak struggled against his bonds, bucking and kicking and wishing he could wipe that smug grin from Murk's face. "We have a treat in store for you."

He reached into his pouch and took out a small vial of what appeared to be a golden brown liquid, waving it in the air. "You have not tried any of the delicious faral we have begun importing, have you? You would not be struggling so hard if you had. Do not worry, soon you will get the opportunity to taste it, and then you will not have a care in the worldexcept for getting your hands on more of the stuff." He laughed. "And Dalcor intends to keep you well supplied."

He walked closer to Sarak, hunkering down on his haunches to study him. "Let me tell you all about the spice so you know just what to expect. It is made from mushrooms, nice dark slimy Kargan mushrooms grown in some Goddess-forsaken part of Gorod. Once a man gets a taste of it, he will do anything to get more." He paused for dramatic effect. "Anything. The rest of the time he is as docile as a castrated bullox. No, maybe I should not say that. The urge to mate remains very strong. Which means that very soon the only sword you will be practicing with is the one between your legs, mighty warrior."

He roared with laughter. The three other warriors contented themselves with smirking. Sarak stared at him in dawning horror. This was much worse than anything he had imagined.

"As you can see, this is the liquid version. Much more potent than the dried powder, I assure you. Hold him down," he commanded.

Sarak struggled but to no avail. Kill me, he wanted to cry out. He had seen the poor people in the feasting hall, slack-jawed and weak, with no will to fight back. Sarak managed a kick to the nearest dominator's ribs, which quickly earned him a blinding blow to his head. Oddly enough when his vision cleared he thought of the female in the feasting hall. Somehow she was still lucid but probably not for long. There was no hope for her, no hope for any of them.

Another warrior grabbed his legs and it was all over. Murk poured the liquid faral onto the gag from where it dripped into his mouth. In spite of his efforts not to swallow, Sarak could feel it soaking his tongue and pouring down his throat. The burst of flavor which filled his mouth was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, but he tried not to think about that. Instead he concentrated on gathering the liquid under his tongue so he could somehow spit it out. But Murk was ready for such a maneuver. "Keep him on his back," he told the warriors. They obliged, holding him prone until the last of the spice had crept down his throat. Then they tossed him aside.

Sarak barely heard them striding up the gangplank or the sound of the oars as they rowed away. He could feel the sweet warmth spreading through his veins, sapping his strength and his willpower. How easy it would be to just let go. He wanted to, so desperately. And why should he not? he thought. He was the only one left to fight them, him and some wide-eyed little Keeper's apprentice who had probably been caught and drugged by now.

Suddenly he could not hold out against it any longer. He lay on the sand and closed his eyes.

Chapter Three

Phada often came home from the Keepers' Sanctuary on the pretense of spending time with her family, but it also afforded her the chance to listen to the town gossip and discover what was happening at the palace. She still had no idea what she could do to change the situation, but she knew she had to keep trying. She could still remember the shock of slipping into the warriors' barracks to discover them slumped across various tables and chairs, stupefied with faral like everyone else in Mesara except for Dalcor and his followers. Although she sometimes still wished it were possible, she knew she could not take her usual path and hide her head in the pages of a book. Maybe some kind of idea, no matter how reckless or futile, would come to her if she kept thinking about it long enough.

It was painful to be home, to see how much her mother and Chelis had changed. She carried a jug of water into the house, passing her mother, who sat beneath the stone overhang of the porch, rinsing off the vegetables for their supper. The older woman did not even glance up but continued to hum softly to herself, a tuneless song that gave Phada the chills. She had been singing ever since Dalcor had taken over Mesara half a mooncycle ago.

Chelis would soon be home from the orchards. Everyone now worked planting and growing and harvestingit was the only way they could get more of the highly addictive faral. Dalcor had set it up very craftilyhe traded the goods harvested by the Mesarans for more of the spice and governed the kingdom along with his warriors. Phada could not understand why he would want to sit as ruler over a group of spice-addled citizens who had not the strength to foment a rebellion even if they had possessed the wits and willpower.

During the days after the immediate takeover, a small group of warriors had come to each house, making sure everyone had partaken of the faral. Phada had dutifully eaten her share, but as soon as they left had run outside to empty her stomach in the tall grass. For some reason, the spice was like poison to her system, although as far as she could tell she was the only one it affected that way.

Being the only one whose wits were intact, she had not found it difficult to wander surreptitiously around the town, slipping inside the stone bastions of the public buildings and hovering outside in the fields searching for someone like herself whose body could not tolerate the spice. She had not found a single clear-eyed person. She had to be careful not to appear too alert.

The council had been disbanded, although the Keepers had been allowed to stay in their sanctuary. Gossip had begun circulating that the queen had become Dalcor's pallet partner. Soon after, the rumors were confirmed when Dalcor paraded her through the town, a leather collar around her neck like those worn by slaves many cycles ago when Mesara had been a more barbaric place. In spite of the dulling effects of the spice, Riga refused to look any of her subjects in the eye. Phada's heart had ached for her.

This was what happened when a town let warriors gain control. This was why they had provided so many safeguards against dominators, in their laws. And look where it had gotten them, Phada thought in disgust. She hated the sight of the warriors' broad, muscled bodies as they strutted along the pathways, lording it over the citizens of Mesara. At night they feasted in the great public square, drinking vetch until they were barely coherent, roaring with laughter as the single females from the palace, from lowly kitchen runner to highborn lady, were herded in for their inspection. Each warrior would then choose a pallet partner for the evening, forcing the woman to stand beside his chair and serve him while he fondled her for the duration of the meal before dragging her off to his chamber. Phada knew it would not be long before they grew tired of their sport and began setting their sights on the other women in town, including the Keepers. She swore she would kill anyone who tried to touch her, even knowing her own punishment would swiftly follow.

Except for Riga, the dominators had not violated a bonded womanso far. No one knew what had happened to King Pavonis. The warriors who had refused to side with Dalcor were being held in the palace. They had been fed faral along with everyone else but were still considered dangerous enough to keep in holding cells. The rest of the town males grumbled and complained and made halfhearted plans to overthrow Dalcor, but no one seemed to be able to muster up enough energy and coordination to carry it through. In the meantime, warriors patrolled the streets, swords at their sides. Even under ideal conditions, not many males in Mesara could best a warrior in hand-to-hand combat. Now that their brains and reflexes were befuddled by the faral, no one dared go up against a clearheaded dominator.

Once a week, shamefaced Mesarans lined up to obtain their allotted portion of the spice from the laughing, condescending warriors. Once looked down upon, they had gotten their vengeance in abundance. In fact, one afternoon a group of warriors had chosen a man and a woman at random from the crowd and denied them the spice just for sport. The bewildered couple had set up such a howling of pleas begging for faral that Phada had covered her ears in shame. They had all been reduced to the level of animals.

Phada sometimes found herself wishing she could hide her head in the sand as dobbies were reputed to do when in danger. The Jiboans used the birds to carry their belongings across the desert. Phada had often seen the awkward-looking creatures with their thick, sturdy clawed feet, their heavy legs and long necks, as they were being driven into Mesara loaded with trade goods. Sometimes she wondered if she were any better than a brainless packbird. She knew she should do something, but what could one person alone do against a regiment of warriors? She was only a Keeper's apprentice; she was not equipped to handle this sort of thing.

She had not yet told anybody about her reaction to the faral, including her mentor Helenina. Not even her own mother and sister suspected. The dominators had no compunctions about withholding the spice in order to obtain information, and the danger that someone might betray her, albeit unwillingly, was ever-present in her mind. Sometimes she almost wished she were as spiceaddled as everyone elsethe responsibility of her position was daunting.

If only she possessed the strength and untrammeled fighting spirit of that warrior Sarak, the one who had resisted his captors so fiercely. Phada now doubted the charges that he had raped Queen Riga were trueespecially since Dalcor was doing the same thing on a daily basis, with no hint of shame or remorse. Nay, he even seemed proud of the fact that he could dominate the helpless queen with his prodigious strength. That did not make him much of a male in Phada's eyes, not that the brute cared about her opinion.

Accusing Sarak of such a despicable crime had probably been an excuse to get rid of a possible rallying point for resistance. As Mesara's second-in-command, Sarak could presumably gather enough resources to make trouble for the usurper. He would certainly try to rescue the queeneveryone knew how devoted to her he had been.

Phada paused thoughtfully in the doorway, wondering what had happened to the warrior. As far as she knew he had been shipped to the Uninhabited Island, banished for the rest of his life. There was no escape from that blighted place, surrounded as it was by stingfish-filled waters. Even had he tried to build a raft, it would still need to be coated with resin from the hivea tree to ensure a safe passage. To do otherwise was to court certain death. Still, as determined as he had been to escape, she would not put it past Sarak to try the raft without the sap, rather than live his life fruitlessly as a captive. It was part of some warrior code that she knew little about.

And yet he had obviously fought hard against Dalcor. She even supposed she could consider him an ally. What if she tried to contact him? Her heart started pounding as the idea flashed along the far reaches of her mind to settle dead front and center in the conscious thinking portion. It would mean crossing over to the island, but she could probably manage that if she left after even-fall. The question was, what could he do to help? They were outnumbered in an impossible situation. He would probably end up getting himself killed and her along with him.

No, it was a bad idea.

She leaned over the hearth to stir the stew that bubbled in the heavy iron pot her mother always used. The smell of faral was deliciously tempting even though she knew it was deadly to her body. How much harder must it be to resist when your very being craved it like the hivea flower craved the sun? She tried to squash the idea of finding Sarak, even though she thought she had already banished the subject from her mind. It would be nice not to be carrying this burden alone, one part of her whispered insidiously. If she could get him off that island it would then be his responsibility to do something about Dalcor and she could go back to her books and her life of quiet introspection.

Do you really believe you can go back to meditating when the rest of Mesara is being held captive by a renegade dominator? another part of her answered in disgust. Think about Helenina, who has been trying so hard to fight her craving for the spice and who has failed at every turn. Helenina, known for her iron will, was now as helpless as a babe before the seductive power of the faral. And what about your cheerful sister, who cries for no apparent reason, and your mother, who cannot seem to stop her inane humming? And do not forget Jobus, whose brilliant mind has gone into dormancy and who works as a common physical laborer in the fruit orchards.

Phada sighed wearily. No, life would never be the same for any of them. And she could not remain the cautious Keeper's apprentice whose ruling passion was to honor Mother Elithra and maintain Mesaran society as a model of cooperation and peace. What little hope there was of returning her beloved city to its former glory rested in herif she could bring herself to meet the challenge.

''Have you added the faral, daughter?" her mother asked in a soft, querulous voice, her brow furrowed in that anxious look that Phada was beginning to dread.

"Yes," Phada snapped more tartly than she intended. She had always possessed a mild temperament, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her impatience in check these days. All anyone concerned themselves with anymore was the sun-cursed spice.

"It does not smell very strong," Ariel persisted. "Are you sure you put in enough?"

"Yes, Mother. I added exactly the amount that you instructed."

Phada's mouth flattened in resignation. During the first week, when everything was still in confusion after Dalcor's takeover, she had stayed with her mother and sister rather than at the Keepers' Sanctuary. During that time she had tried to gradually decrease the amount of the spice in her family's food, but to no avail. Her mother and sister had simply used the faral shaker on the table to make up the difference. Thank the Mother neither of them had taken it to the level of craving of their nearest neighbor, Phineas, who had collapsed outside his front door one day after consuming an entire rockhen coated with faral. His heart had simply stopped, according to the Keepers who had attended him.

"Let us not wait for Chelis. Let us eat now."

"As you wish, Mother."

Phada waited until her mother had filled her bowl and seated herself at the simple wooden dining table before she reached behind the oven and grabbed the portion of spiceless stew she had saved for herself. Even the simple act of eating had become another complication.

"I suppose you are returning to the sanctuary again," Ariel said in a conversational tone. Now that she had satisfied the initial fever of her craving, she was more like her old sociable self, although her once clear eyes were dull and her hair only halfcombed, when before she had spent such time and care on her personal grooming. "Helenina must be expecting you this evenfall."

Phada's eyes widened as she realized that if she ever intended slipping away, this was the perfect opportunity for her to accomplish it. "Yes, she is expecting me," she answered carefully. "In fact, I think I will stay there for a few weeks. There is a manuscript I have been wanting to study and one of the other Keepers just finished with it, so it is a perfect opportunity."

Actually Helenina thought she was going to spend the next weeks with her family, and now she had convinced her mother that she would be spending that time with the Keepers. No one at either location would miss her if she suddenly disappeared. Sweet Mother, was she ready to take such a drastic step?

She tried not to think about any of it as she chewed her food. Chelis arrived home just as she was finishing her meal. Her sister looked tired and vaguely unhealthy, like everyone else these days. There were circles under her usually bright eyes, and her hair was limp. In fact, it looked as dull and lifeless as the rest of her. Chelis had inherited their father's curly blondness, while Phada's hair was straight and thick and more of a light brown with golden highlights. She usually kept it braided out of her way but sometimes she allowed it to flow freely down her back. At those times she felt like another creature entirely, a jungle wingbird perhaps, the kind that dipped and soared over the canopy of the trees only to dive recklessly into the branches in search of insects.

Phada washed up the few dishesno one else seemed to have the energy to accomplish even that simple task. She was afraid that after she left, few of the household chores would get done, but she could not help that. She had a more important task ahead of her than washing dishes and baking bread.

The three of them sat in the tastefully decorated living quarters afterward, sipping herbal tea. The conversation was desultory at first and then ceased altogether as Ariel and Chelis drifted into that horrible, faral-induced state where they seemed to hover somewhere between waking and sleeping.

Phada came and knelt before her mother, taking her hands and gazing into her face. "I am going now, Mother. They are expecting me back at the sanctuary."

"Yes, Phada, you must hurry before the sun goes down." Ariel squeezed her hands with limp fingers before releasing them. "You know, in the long run, I think nothing in Mesara has really changed," she added dreamily.

"Nothing has really changed?" Phada could not believe her ears. Did the effects of the faral include self-deception now? "Our queen is being held captive. The council has been disbanded. No one knows where Pavonis is. A crude dominator is in charge, and you can sit there and say nothing has changed? This spice has turned Mesara upside down."

"Come, Phada." Chelis roused herself to defend their new way of life. "It is not as if you are so noble you refuse to use it. You eat your share; I have seen you. And it tastes too good to stop, does it not? What harm. is there in a spice, Phada? You always were so self-righteous about things, so unbending. Maybe Mesara needed to be shaken up."

Phada bit her lip against any further retort. There was no purpose in it. May the Great Mother forgive you, she thought to herself. You cannot help it, I know that, but it is so hard to deal with you when you are like this, my sister. I have no right to criticize you when the only reason I am not just like you is because my body rejects the spice.

Phada bid farewell to her mother and sister, holding them tightly because she realized she might never see them again. As they waved to her from beneath the stone overhang she could only see the outline of their faces, not the drugged features. It was like an illusion of better days, a good omen perhaps. She promised herself she would remember them as they had always been, holding that image in her mind to give her the courage to carry through with her self-assigned task.

The sun was a fierce blue-white ball on the horizon, its rays still strong and hot as they filtered down through the jungle canopy. Soon it would be evenfall. Phada could not imagine that anyone would be wandering about at night, not if they were like Ariel and Chelis, who took to their beds and slept deeply throughout the sleep cycle. She might run into a warrior patrol, but even they would not be expecting anyone to be prowling around except the odd clawcat, not when they knew they held Mesara under their total domination.

She had not been able to pack more than a change of clothes and some food and supplies. With the leather pouch over her shoulder she walked along the pathway at a slow, considered pace, the way she had noticed that people moved these days. When she was sure no one was about, she slipped around the trunk of a huge, flowering rango bush and ducked into the jungle.

She crouched there for the longest time, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears she feared she would not be able to hear if anyone came after her. No angry shouts of alarm followed her actions. No one had noticed her. She quickly cut across the trail and headed for the ocean, her sandal-clad feet sinking heavily into the spongy ground. The moon was rising by the time she reached the edge of the sea.

Small waves lapped the shore and the smell of brine and seaweed was strong in her nostrils. Phada took a deep, refreshing breath as though she could clear the smell of faral. from her senses and her memory. There was no one in sightwhy would there be? This was the edge of the boundary of Mesara. There were only stingfish beyond this point, stingfish and the Uninhabited Island that she hoped still sheltered Sarak. What if they had not left him there after all? What if they had killed him? Phada clenched her jaw. She wouldn't think about that now, she chastised herselftoo many what-ifs could drive a person to madness.

She moved quietly to where a couple of boats were pulled up on the sand, secured to a koalnut palm tree. The rope was thick and damp with condensation, but she managed to untie the smaller of the two boats and drag it to the water, being careful to step inside without putting her feet into the sea. Stingfish reportedly did not come this close to shore, but she was not taking any chances.

She paddled as quietly as she could. The light of the blue moon reflected on the surface of the water like a glittering jewel in the firelight, although the heated orange of hearthflames was a decided contrast to the cool, blue color given off by the moon. Such a low-riding moon was called a warrior moon, Phada remembered with a start, because it hid as much in its long, distorted shadows as it revealed, perfect circumstances for a warrior attack.

Her arms felt as if they were going to fall off by the time she spied the shimmering outline of the island in the distance. She adjusted her course and paddled with renewed vigor now that her target was in sight. And yet her heart had begun to pound with trepidation. Suppose the dominator had already spotted her? Suppose he was waiting to pounce on her as soon as she stepped ashore? She could still visualize his intense eyes, a vivid shade of brown that had matched his tanned features and dark hair. She also remembered his teeth gritted around the gag as he had glared at her. He was so powerful; he had tried to coerce her to do his bidding with only the energy of his will. He was a force to be reckoned with, and yet although she had felt frightened then, her fear had been mixed with a sense of compassion for the defeated warrior. She had never thought to feel sympathy for any dominator.

The prow of the boat touched land. She quickly stepped onto the shore, her sandals sinking into the soft sand. What in the name of the great Mother was she doing here? She must be crazy, she thought yet again. Now she was sorry it was night. A little harsh daylight would go a long way toward soothing her nerves. Every long, foreboding shadow cast by the light of the blue warrior moon seemed to move, ready to leap out at her if she so much as twitched a muscle. Everything was unnaturally still. Even the kwara birds were silent. Phada gritted her teeth and forced her body to walk toward the trees. If Sarak was asleep somewhere, it certainly would not be on the beach.

As she drew closer to the line of trees she realized there was a path leading to the interior of the island. With only the slightest hesitation she began following it. Up ahead, just beyond a clump of nut trees, she saw light spilling out from a doorway. Sarak must live there and he must still be awake. She pulled in a deep, hissing breath and pressed on.

A faint noise in the bushes to her right was her only warning before a massive body launched itself from its hiding place by the side of the path and knocked her to the ground, tumbling her over until she was lying on her back and pinned in place. Sarak's warrior body was large and heavy, and she had to fight hard not to scream or struggle.

"Sarak," she said in a quavering voice.

"Sweet Mother, a woman." He grunted. His body lay like deadweight on top of her, and she was finding it difficult to breathe between her fright and his overwhelming presence. He moved his hand until it pressed heavily against her throat. Oddly enough his head rested on the ground next to hers in the most intimate fashion. "Who are you?" he growled in her ear.

She had to swallow before she could answer. "My name is Phada," she whispered, trying not to let panic overtake her. "I saw you in the feasting hall, the night Dalcor seized power."

Everywhere their bodies touched she could feel only his bare skin. Did the man have nothing on? And if so, was their compromising position inciting his lust? Just because he had not raped the queen did not mean he was not capable of such a heinous deed. Every warrior was.

"What do you want?"

"I . . . I need to talk to you."

"Did Dalcor send you?" he demanded.

Dear Goddess, he believed she was some kind of spy, Phada thought, drawing in a breath to protest. "No one sent me."

He lifted his head and Phada immediately shut her eyes. She could feel him studying her face, but she was not about to return his stare in these close circumstances. The hard ground beneath her back and thighs was faintly cool against her heated body; she could feel small pebbles pressing into her shoulders, the sandy dirt sticking to her perspiration-moist skin.

"Dalcor sent you to taunt me, did he not?" Sarak said in a harsh, bitter tone of voice that made her cringe. "May the sun scorch his already blackened heart. Does he think to test my willpower? He should know I have none left. Does he expect me to remain noble in this sun-cursed hellhole? I have no reason to do anything but please myself."

"I came of my own free will," she insisted softly.

He ignored her statement. "I cannot believe that rutting son of a Kargan wants me to have the pleasure of your soft woman's body," he continued in a deceptively flat-toned voice that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "But I accept his gift and damn the consequences."

"I tell you, no one sent me. I came to see you of my own free will."

"So much the better," he murmured.

"Please, Sarak." She felt very bold, using his name in such a pleading fashion but she was desperate to make him listen to her. "We must talk about Mesara," she insisted. "I need your help. . . ."

"Hush, sweet lady." He moved his hand until it covered her breast. "You are welcome to everything I have to give."

Goddess help her, he had totally misunderstood her reason for being here. Phada sucked in her breath but otherwise forced herself to remain motionless as he began to move his body against hers. She had heard that some dominators liked their women to struggle and she was afraid any resistance on her part might set him off. She had to remain calm, to reason with him. Was he drunk on vetch? She could not smell it on his breath, but maybe he had consumed it earlier in the evening.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they caressed her. "Stop it," she ordered as evenly and calmly as she could. Even so there was a catch in her voice because of the riot of surprising and distressing sensations he was evoking with his hand. Mostly she was ashamed because it was not at all as repulsive as she had imagined a warrior's touch should be. "Stop it, please. I am not one of your Jiboan desert women asking to be manhandled by a dominator."

"Yes, I noticed." His weight was angled across her, and his lower body flexed then pressed against her hip in the most alarming manner. Phada's eyes flew open wider as she struggled to push him off. He did not budge. Instead, his head moved closer so he could nuzzle her neck. She could feel his breath warming her skin and it finally galvanized her into more decisive action.

"Stop, Sarak," she shouted into his ear. He flinched, so she kept her voice raised. "You do not understand. I am a Keeper; it is forbidden for you to touch me. Quit acting like a spice-addled fool and let me up."

"What did you say?"

Phada swallowed hard but did not back down. "I said let me up."

"You called me a spice-addled fool." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I said you were acting like a spice-addled fool," she pointed out. "There is a difference."

"There is a difference all right. Look at me," he snarled. Phada cried out in protest as he dragged her closer, pulling them both into the light spilling out from the doorway of the stone hut. He turned her so she was forced to look straight into his face. The faintly blue rays of the moonlight illuminated the horrible reality. Phada gasped in shock and horror, for there, written on every one of his features, was the truthhe was as spice-addled as any male or female in Mesara.

Chapter Four

''Oh no," Phada whispered, although there was no one to hear her anguish except the spice-enslaved warrior who still held her body pinned with his legs.

"Oh, yes," Sarak spat out, rolling away from her. He sprawled by her side, breathing heavily, his forearm across his eyes. "Did you expect Dalcor would leave me here, untainted by that cursed Kargan concoction?"

"I did not think." Phada bit her lip. She had been so worried about Sarak being killed that she had not considered the possibility that he had been drugged along with everyone else. She was ashamed of her naivete in thinking Dalcor would leave him to his own devices.

"Dalcor sends a warrior over twice a mooncycle with a fresh supply." The bitterness and self-loathing in his voice were palpable. "I tried to overcome my craving for it but its lure is far stronger than my puny willpower." Phada could tell he hated to admit such a weakness. Not that he was different from any of the people of Mesara, warrior or otherwise. No one could resist the power of the faral once it got into their bodies. Dear Goddess, the Mesarans were truly lost now.

"Why is it you are not enslaved?" he asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. She could see he was working hard to keep his mind on track. The spice tended to diffuse a person's rational facilities. "I remember you now. You are that Keeper's apprentice, the one who refused to help me back in the feasting hall."

"You would only have gotten yourself killed."

"Of course. And this"he gestured toward himself in disgust"is better?"

She had no answer to that and so remained mute.

"Why did you come here? Wait, I think I know. I am sure you have already seen the power faral has over normal mating urges. I would wager even the righteous town dwellers back on the mainland have been reduced to doing anything for a quick tumble in the rango bushes. Or a slow, leisurely one, for that matter. Is that what you have come to find? Your own personal warrior slave? I have heard the tales of town women who secretly long to tumble a barbarian dominator, but I never thought I would be so sun-blessed as to meet one of them."

"Dear Goddess, no!" she whispered under her breath. She scooted away from him, but one big hand grabbed her by the leg before she could scramble completely clear.

He started to caress her leg, his palm rough against her tender flesh. She had visions of him wielding a sword countless times to achieve such callused skin. "No need to act so shocked," he said in a low, soothing tone of voice, as if he were trying to gentle a recalcitrant bushhog before moving in for the kill. "There is no one to see, no one to impress with your disdain."

"Please stop. You are mistaken in your deductions," she said. She hoped she sounded like a dignified Keeper, wise with years of experience and not the frightened female she really was.

He ignored her as he continued to stroke her leg. He moved to touch her thigh. Phada tried not to gasp in shock in case it incited him. "It is a good plan, well thought out," he continued, nodding. He acted as though the horrible act he contemplated were no more serious than interpreting a poetry performance. "You can secure your pleasure and return to Mesara before anyone knows you were gone."

Phada stared at him in horror, her body frozen with shock. She had no idea what to do, since she had never fallen into a situation like this. It had been a mistake to come here, a terrible error in judgment. And yet she could not just lie here like a tethered dobby. She gathered her legs beneath her, ready to spring up when the opportunity presented itself. Could she outrun him? He was drugged with faral but that did not mean he could not catch her if he turned his mindand his powerful bodyto that purpose. She had already felt the strength in him.

"What is your name?"

"I . . . Phada. I am called Phada."

"I know you despise me, Phada, but I do not care anymore. I will take what I so desperately need and give what pleasure I can." Suddenly his eyes gleamed. "I will also finally learn how a town woman compares to a Jiboan desert wench."

He reached for the ties of his breechcloth.

"No, stop it," she cried. She reached out to grasp his wrist, bold in her desperation. He might be on faral but even using all her strength, she had no more effect on him than a bluefly landing on his arm. He undid the cloth and his member sprang free, huge and menacing in its alien maleness. Phada quickly averted her eyes. She recalled what her sister had said about dominators mating for an entire sleep cycle. Looking at Sarak, seeing his muscled chest slick with sweat rising and falling like the mighty bellows at the iron forge, hearing his excited breathing, she could well believe it.

"Come ride me, Phada, and we will fly like the wind."

"You are disgusting," she hissed, slapping at the hands that reached for her. "First you raped Queen Riga and now you want to rape me."

She was surprised it was her words that finally brought him up short. He stared into her face, reading the disgust there. "I did not rape the queen," he said in such a fervent voice that she found herself believing him. He rolled away from her for the second time that night, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling them up to his chest. He buried his head against them with a half-stifled groan.

Phada hesitated. She knew she should just leave, climb into the boat and row herself as quickly back to Mesara as she possibly could. For some reason she could not seem to move. Sarak was still naked but she could only see the side of his thigh and leg and his muscled buttock pressed into the ground. She swallowed hard. She had never seen a naked male before, not a live one anyway. Illustrations in a scroll did not come close to the reality, especially when the male in question was also aroused. She felt a prickle at the back of her neck and turned her head to find Sarak watching her, his eyes hooded but showing the proper deference any town woman expected from a mere barbarian.

"I beg your pardon, Phada," he said looking her full in the face. There was a lot of time before cycle-rise but she could clearly see the dark red flush of color along his cheekbones. "I thought I was a fool before, but now I have gone beyond all reason. If you had wanted a rutting bullox, you would have made that clear right from the start."

She shuddered again and knew he had seen her instinctive reaction to his coarse words. "I came here to ask your help. I thought together we could do something to save Mesara. It was a foolish idea."

"Yes. I am useless to you or anyone else in Mesara."

He reached for the rumpled scrap of cloth that had covered him. Phada immediately jerked her face away, although she could still see his movements out of the corner of her eye as he unfolded his legs and wrapped the okapi leather garment around his waist with a practiced flip of his wrist. He hauled himself to his feet and waited respectfully until she stood up. No warrior touched a Mesaran female unless she specifically requested assistance.

"What will you do now?" he asked.

"I do not know."

"You are welcome to take refreshment in my hut before you return. It is not as fancy as your villa, or the Keepers' Sanctuary for that matter, but the sun is fast climbing toward the treetops."

"Thank you." She did not want anything to eat or drink but she was still reluctant to leave. What did she have to go back to; how would she live with herself and with the others, spice-addled as they all were? It was a bleak life that awaited her and she was in no hurry to return to it.

Sarak gestured her to precede him into the small, cool interior of the hut. It had been hewn out of the natural stone on the side of a small hill. Phada entered and gazed around, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. An old, ramshackle sleeping pallet stood in one corner. Hanging suspended from a hook over the hearth was a big iron stewpot, the cooking fire beneath it dormant, the ashes cold. She could not imagine a warrior like Sarak preparing his own meals. A rough table made of plankwood took up most of the rest of the small area. Pouches of sun-dried meat and vegetables scattered across the surface of another, smaller table before the hearth gave evidence of Sarak's diet.

He motioned her to one of the single chairs, wiping the seat and gesturing for her to sit down. "I have manganberry juice," he offered.

"That is fine." She nodded, feeling a hysterical urge to laugh. He was acting like a polite guest at a Keepers' afternoon tea.

He reached for a jug next to her chair, pulling out the cork and setting it on the table. Grabbing the sole cup sitting on a shelf, he poured her a much too generous portion. She did not protest when he set the cup in front of her.

Phada took the opportunity to study him. She had never been in such close contact with a dominator for such a length of time and had no idea how to act. There were no rules laid out for social interchange with a warrior, since they never mixed with the people of the town. Each class kept to itself. As far as she knew, warriors stayed busy tending to their sword practice and their patrols around the perimeter of Mesara. She supposed they socialized with their own kind, but what could they converse about except military matters?

And yet she could not ignore him. His presence was compelling in a way she had never experienced. She supposed it was because his big, highly trained warrior's body took up so much space and seemed to use so much of the air around them. Even after cycles at inactivity, his muscles still looked as sleek and powerful as any predatory clawcat's. They certainly had not lost all their strength, as she had already discovered.

Everyone had long ago accepted the practice of exposing almost all of a warrior's body for public view and commentarythe loincloth that dominators wore was solely for the sensibilities of the women. Their scant attire had been designed partly to highlight their closer connection to the animal side of the spectrum and partly to allow for needed discipline. A warriors sole purpose was as a fighting machine, a means of protection for the entire population of Mesara when necessary. Dominators were not allowed to grow fat and lazy. If they did, any Mesaran could point out his deficiency and he would be ordered back to training camp to be brought up to fighting standards.

Phada wondered how it would feel to live in such a manner, to reside in a barracks, to have no privacy of body or mind. Still, they did not seem to care. In fact, most warriors showed no sense of shame at parading around half naked in front of everyone, including the queen. They obviously did not possess the sensitivity and cultured personalities for which Mesaran men were so renowned.

Sarak spoke, startling Phada out of her musings. "How is it that you are not controlled by the spice?" he asked, his voice still faintly laced with suspicion at her possible motives. "They forced me to take itagainst my will." The thought obviously still rankled his fierce warrior's pride.

"I . . . they forced the rest of us as well. Groups of dominators came to each dwelling to make sure everyone had consumed the spice and was under its control. It tasted wonderful but for some reason my body rejected it. My stomach refuses to keep it down." He moved restlessly, albeit sluggishly, around the hut's cramped interior. The catlike grace she had noticed in him at the feasting hall was gone, a victim of the faral. "How have you managed to hide your condition from Dalcor and his men?"

She took a sip of her juice. "It has not been difficult. They are so busy taunting everybody, and the people are so concerned with trying to ensure they have faral to put in their cooking pots, that so far no one has noticed."

Sarak grunted. "But soon someone will. And when they find out they cannot control you, they will kill you."

"You are sun-blinded. That could never happen to a citizen of Mesara."

"You think not? I know Dalcor. He was ruthless before he overthrew Queen Riga, but now that he has absolute power, he will let nothing stop him from total domination. The only reason he allows me to live is because it amuses him. As soon as it no longer does, he will get rid of me as easily as another man might wring a rockhen's neck for the supper pot."

"Then I will remain at the Keepers' Sanctuary."

Sarak laughed mirthlessly. "Where your days will still be numbered."

"What do you mean?"

"Dalcor's men have taken the women of the palace, have they not?"

Phada blushed at his blunt manner of speaking. "Yes," she replied, avoiding his gaze. "That is what I have heard."

"And Dalcor himself has shamed our beloved queen." He spat the words out, his features taut with helpless fury and pain.

"Yes. He parades her through the high street on market day," Phada informed him softly.

"The better to humiliate her." Sarak gritted his teeth. "So tell me, Keeper's apprentice: What happens when they grow tired of their conquered playthings and want more sport?"

"Sweet Mother, no," Phada gasped.

"No one can stop them from doing anything they want. And so they will move on to other town women, even bonded women. And then they will commit the highest sacrilege of allthey will mate with the Keepers."

"That will never happen," she cried indignantly. "It is just your depraved mind that is conjuring up this horrible fantasy."

He stopped directly in front of her, his hands clenched into fists. "Is it, Phada? Dalcor has long had an aversion to the High Keeper since the day she chastised him in the feasting hall in front of everyone. He has never forgiven her. Now that he has Mesara in the palm of his hand, he will have his revenge."

"Then we must do something. Anything."

"If I were a whole warrior, perhaps." He turned away from her. "The odds would be against me, but I would die trying. And I would make sure to take Dalcor with me, curse his sun-blackened heart."

"It is obvious what we must do."

"What?"

"You have to free yourself from the power of the spice."

Sarak laughed, the sound filled with bitterness. "Do you think I have not tried? It is an impossible task."

"You must. I can do nothing by myself."

"What can two of us do?" he asked scornfully.

"I do not know. I will think of that later. But for now we must find a way to wean you from the spice."

"I am not part of a litter of squealing bushhog young to be weaned from his mother." Sarak threw himself down on his sleeping pallet. "Go away, Phada," he growled. "Go back to the Keepers Sanctuary and bury your head in your books while you can."

He lay on his side, his face turned to the wall. Obviously he expected her to take the hint and walk out the door of the hut, to leave him there. She hesitated for long moments, unsure exactly what she should do, but knowing she could not depart, not when the very course of the future was at stake. Her life, the life of every individual in Mesara was meaningless now. Sarak had shown her that with his harsh assessment of what they had become.

Only the Goddess knew why she had been spared, but she could not believe it had been for nothing, a simple trick of fate. She had to try; there was nowhere for her to go otherwise. She was as good as dead anyway, as Sarak had already pointed out. If a mere dominator could face the situation head-on with that kind of unflinching courage, a Keeper's apprentice could do no less. It was time to take responsibility for the fate of Mesara. Whether she liked it or not, it had come to rest in her hands.

She crept across the room to hover anxiously by Sarak's sleeping pallet, feeling both bold and nervous at the same time. He looked large and intimidating, even lying down. The faint smell of his body mixed with the bedclothes was not unpleasant.

"Sarak?"

She knew he was not asleep; she could feel the aura of watchfulness that surrounded him, in spite of his drugged condition. Still, he refused to give any indication that he had heard her.

Phada moistened her dry lips. She thought of her mentor Helenina. In spite of her forthright dealings with everyone, the older Keeper was skilled in softening the blow with soothing, wellchosen words. Phada hoped she could emulate her now.

She tried again, speaking louder this time. ''Sarak, you are correct. I cannot return to Mesara. But you cannot hide here any longer either. You took an oath to protect Mesara and its citizens and now it is time to fulfill that oath. For my part, I vowed to interpret and uphold her laws and I promise you I will not shirk my duty."

Still no response.

What else could she say, how could she rouse him? The only thing she knew for certain was that he wished her gone. A small smile parted her lips as she said the next words. "It seems I must remain here indefinitely with you."

"You cannot! Dalcor or one of his men will be here in less than a mooncycle with food and another healthy dose of faral for me. They must not find you herefor both our sakes."

She ignored him. "I suppose I had better hide the boat," she continued, feeling more cheerful by the minute. It felt good to have something to do besides worry. It was also wonderful to have someone to talk to, someone she did not have to guard her tongue against. "Let us hope when they come they do not notice it is missing."

"Did you not hear me, Keeper's apprentice?" he exclaimed in exasperation. He pulled himself into a sitting position on the pallet, using the wall to help prop him up. "You are worse than a bothersome battlefly."

"That is because I need your help. . . ."

"And as persistent," he added darkly.

"The boat is too heavy for me to lift out of the water by myself." She walked toward the door, praying he would follow. She could order him directly; as a warrior he was sworn to obey her. But she found she did not want to do that, at least not just yet. For one thing she had never ordered a dominator in her entire life. For another, she did not want to antagonize him until it was absolutely necessary. She had a feeling that time would come soon enough.

As she stood in the doorway, waiting for him to move his massive frame into a more upright position, she could feel the heat of the cycle beating against her back and the coolness of the air in the hut's interior brushing the skin of her face. She felt an odd sense of freedom. There were no books to be copied here, no grinding daily chores of the apprentice, no afternoon classes in the ways of the Ancient Ones. She might as well enjoy that aspect of her enforced exile from town. Of course there were no plays, no music, and no visits to the hot springs either.

Sarak glowered at her as he dragged on his sandals. "I suppose you can stay for a couple of days," he offered grudgingly. "Until you decide what to do. There is another hut just beyond the rise."

"I am sure it will do just fine."

He grunted as he rose to his feet. "Let us go then, before it gets too hot to venture outside."

Phada turned on her heel and walked out the door with Sarak right behind her. He stayed in that position, at first because the path was too narrow for the two of them to walk abreast, and then because a warrior always kept his distance from a lady. It was not conducive to conversation, not that Phada had anything to say to the dominator or imagined he had anything to say to her.

They reached the shore. The stark white rays of the sun with their faintly blue cast streaked across the water, making it painful to look directly at the brilliant aquamarine sea. Phada moved to the bow of the shagbark boat, prepared to do her share by lifting one end, but Sarak waved her away. He easily dragged the vessel completely onto the pale, greenish-hued sand before bending down to hoist it onto his shoulder.

Phada followed him into the thickly wooded area to their left. She could hear his heavy breathing and saw that a sheen of perspiration already covered his body. She imagined that without the faral running through his system, lifting a boat would be child's play for him.

His next words confirmed it. "Goddess curse it. I am as weak as a puny treerat," he said in disgust.

Together they covered the boat with branches, although Phada surreptitiously did more than her share of the work to spare what was left of Sarak's strength. If the warrior noticed her behavior, he was too exhausted to protest. Phada was worried about him. The skin around his mouth was pinched and had an unhealthy blue cast that had nothing to do with the sun.

They began the trek back to the hut. Again Sarak remained in the rear, although this time it was because his steps lagged alarmingly. His breathing grew ragged and harsh. Phada immediately slowed her pace to match his.

The gesture was not appreciated.

"I would ask you to cease your condescending actions," he said, tight-lipped. He managed to sound curt in spite of his breathless condition. "Move along to the hut, Phada. I am not a nursling; I do not need your aid."

Phada had been feeling sorry for him but now she huffed and then flounced ahead, going much faster than she normally would have because of her anger. Let the thickheaded bullox have his way. She did not need or particularly want his company. She was doing this for the good of Mesara, not that anyone appreciated her efforts.

Finally, she too began gasping for breath and slowed her pace once again. The thick canopy of trees blocked out the most penetrating of the sun's harsh rays and it was almost cool beneath its shelter. The raucous chorus of uncounted numbers of insects reminded her how alive the jungle was. The scuffling noises of small animals scurrying under cover of the brush sent a small shiver up her spine. Most of them were shy and hid from people. It was the pretty ones, the ones who did not bother to disguise themselves, that were the most deadly.

Phada reached the edge of the jungle and paused. The hut lay across an open tract of land about 50 measures away. She assumed the second hut was on the other side of a small rise just behind it.

The sandy path already looked hot enough to burn the soles of her feet. Of course she had her sandals on, but she had neglected to bring her head covering. It would not harm her to be exposed for such a short time, but she must remember not to venture outside without it again. What if Dalcor appeared unexpectedly and she had to cross open patches of land in order to hide? She could not guarantee that the usurper or his henchmen would stay away the usual semimooncycle.

She decided to make a dash for Sarak's hut first. From there she could make a second foray to the empty dwelling. She heard Sarak drawing closer. She had no desire to watch him bake in the sun as he made his slow, painful way across the unprotected stretch of land. Of course his skin was tanned and much tougher than her pale complexion, but Elithra's sun could do damage to even the most hardened veteran of its rays in a very short amount of time. She shuddered as she recalled studying the early history of the planet. What little they knew about it, they had learned from what was left of the ancient accounts. Phada remembered reading about how men had once been punished by being staked out beneath the blistering sun. She could not imagine a more agonizing way to die.

Thank goodness they had come so far from those barbaric timesor at least most of the population had. Everyone knew the dominators were throwbacks to those earlier cycles and retained more than a little of the brutish qualities they had all worked so hard to eradicate. The warriors had served their purpose of protecting Mesara these many sun orbits, but now Phada could see that it had only been a matter of time until one of their number revealed his true antecedents by reverting to warrior rule and sending them hurtling down the wrong side of the spectrum.

Phada jogged quickly along the rutted trail, reaching the cool interior of the hut in a matter of millimarks. Sarak's dwelling might be primitive but it still provided protection, and any Mesaran could appreciate that. Of course, it had no antechamber to ease the transition from the light outside to the dim interior, but she had not expected such niceties.

She drew in a deep breath as she waited for Sarak and considered her situation. She was placing all her faith in a dominator who was just as likely as Dalcor to turn barbarian on her. Had that not been Queen Riga's mistake? Phada had no way of knowing Sarak's true character. He had seemed obedient and well trained in his duties as second-in-command, but then again so had Dalcor.

Phada picked up her unfinished cup of manganberry juice. Why had Sarak not joined Dalcor in his successful bid for power? She knew there were rival factions in the palace guard, with Sarak being the queen's favorite, although Dalcor was first-in-command. Was Sarak hoping to be rewarded for his loyalty if Riga returned to the throne? Or had he simply been biding his time and discovered too late that Dalcor had made the first move? It was obvious there was no love lost between the two dominators.

The room darkened appreciably as Sarak appeared in the doorway. He clutched at the rough stone portal, holding himself upright by wedging his hands and feet into the corners.

"You need sleep," she said in a practical tone of voice that revealed none of her lingering suspicions. "We both do. We can decide what to do when we are more rested. Where is the other hut?"

"Follow the trail around the side of the hill. It is but twenty measures to the doorstep."

"Fine."

"I . . . it is very crude. The sleeping pallet has no covering. There is no fresh water with which to wash." He drew himself up, his bearing straight and proud. Phada could see that the effort was costing him. "I will go there instead. You remain here."

"No!" Phada shocked herself with the vehemence of her protest. The very idea of lying in the pallet where a warrior had slept made her heart thud painfully beneath her rib cage. She rushed into further explanation before he could guess the true reason for her reaction. "No, it is better if you stay here. I know you do not like to hear such statements, but you are exhausted. I am a Keeper's apprentice; we are not used to palace luxury. I will wash later, after I sleep. Goddess grant you peaceful rest, Sarak."

She brushed past him before he could return her politely formal declaration of parting. She almost forgot her pack, snatching it from the floor by the door at the last moment and making good her escape into the blinding light. She stumbled along the rock-strewn trail, arms groping around her in extended arcs so she wouldn't land headfirst in a rango bush. She shaded her eyes by using the pack, squinting until she saw the hut outlined in the harsh glare. She pitched forward through the doorway into its blessed dimness.

Compared to outside, it was like being in utter darkness. It took several long moments for her eyes to adjust, and then she glanced around. The interior was identical to Sarak's meager dwelling. There was no bedcovering, as Sarak had said.

She crawled onto the sleeping pallet. It had been a long night and an even longer cycle-rise. She felt as exhausted as Sarak looked, she decided, not even bothering to stifle a yawn. Tucking her pack beneath her head, she closed her eyes. She felt gritty with dirt, rumpled, and out of sorts, but it was too much effort to do anything about her condition now. Perhaps when she woke up her entire outlook on this abysmal situation would improve, but somehow she doubted it.

Sarak rolled onto his back and stared at the unfinished stones in the ceiling of the sun-baked hovel he had been calling home for almost an entire mooncycle. He could not hide from the fact that he was pitifully exhausted after their excursion to hide the boat. Shame flooded through his body as he remembered how Phada had slowed her steps to accommodate his weakened condition, as if he were a stumbling babe trying out shaky legs for the first time.

He grimaced, also recalling how quickly the little Keeper's apprentice had quitted his presence at the first opportunity. Not that he blamed her. He had never been the kind of warrior who felt at ease in formal social situations, not that he would label the unexpected appearance of Phada on his doorstep a social occasion. Still, a dominator was supposed to be on his best behavior in the presence of a Mesaran lady. If he could not say anything to the point, he should say nothing at all. Sarak knew he had been surly, even rude. The suncursed faral had wreaked havoc with his good sense as well as his physical condition.

He folded his arms behind his head, studying the patterns in the rock above. He knew the lines and indentations by heart but he always managed to find a new shape. This time he saw that the sharp edge in the corner looked like the snout of a mudhog, although if he considered that discolored blot as the rest of the animal's body, the poor beast had no legs or tail.

Phada had insisted he needed rest. Sarak snorted in self-derision. He had been sleeping for what seemed like endless cycles since coming here. He did not like to admit that despair had overtaken him on more than one occasion. No warrior gave up in the face of adversity. It was an integral part of the dominator's code of ethics. Then again, no warrior had ever been forced to deal with a situation such as the one in which he now found himself.

He could not imagine what Phada thought they could possibly accomplish, a broken-down warrior and an inexperienced Keeper's apprentice. She would probably have as much effect as a wingbird against a clawcat. In fact, she reminded him of one of the graceful, swooping birds whose daring headlong dives and last-minute saving swerves made them the acrobats of the jungle. Her movements were as quick and sure as the brightly colored blue and red avians, although the utilitarian apprentice tunic she wore was more subdued in tone.

Actually, the tan color of the garment matched her hair, he decided. He found himself wondering about the body she hid beneath the fine material. It still shocked him to realize he had already touched the lush roundness of her breast and smelled the sweet scent of her skin and hair. He quickly squelched such thoughts. They would only lead to an urge to relieve the insufferable pressure in his loins. Somehow he could not do such a thing with Phada only measures away.

He breathed deeply as his eyes drifted shut. She was not pretty in the aggressively lavish way of many of the town women, but her skin was smooth and pale and her profile delicate and pleasing to the senses. She was certainly not as beautiful as the queen. He had never touched any part of the queen's royal person besides her soft white handexcept, of course, in his dreams.

His body quickened in spite of his stern effort to control it. He had always been above himself with his forbidden fantasies of mating with the queen. Recalling his audacity never ceased to make him flush with shame. By the blue moon, he hated the spice and its almighty power over his pleasure pathways. He had no idea what he was capable of under its influence. He had never tested its limits and he intended to make sure he never did. It was imperative that he get Phada off the island as soon as he possibly could, not only for his sake but for hers. She was placing herself in deadly peril by staying here, and not only from Dalcor.

"Sarak?"

His head jerked up at the sound of his name. He pushed himself to a sitting position on the sleeping pallet, which groaned in protest under his weight. He had kept his loincloth on, in the event Phada returned before he roused himself, so he was decent, although some town women thought no dominator was decent in their scanty attire and averted their eyes whenever a warrior passed near.

Phada had not been able to look at his rude physique either. She still avoided gazing anywhere but at his face. However, he had no other garment with which to cover himself except a threadbare lana-wool blanket, and he would be sun-blinded before he wrapped himself up in it like some swaddling babe.

"Enter," he called.

She stepped over the threshold, only her general outline immediately discernible. And then she came further into the room, blinking against the abrupt change in lighting, and Sarak could see her in detail.

"Did the Goddess give you rest?" he inquired politely. In spite of what she might think, he was not a total barbarian and knew his manners. After all, he had once reported directly to the queen. And been unable to warn her or help her in her time of greatest need, he reminded himself bitterly.

"Yes, I thank you for your concern," she replied, equally polite and formal.

He could see that she had gone to the effort to draw water from the primitive well outside and had combed and rebraided her long, wheaten-colored hair. She looked as fresh as a rata flower after a rain, her skin glowing with good health, her eyes bright and clear. They were an unusual shade, neither gray nor blue but a combination of the two colors that reminded him of a rare stormy day when clouds covered the sun and the land was blessedly cool for a change.

She set her fine leather pack on the table and sat down beside it. "I know what our first action must be in our plan to save Mesara. I called upon the wisdom of my Keeper's training, little though it may be, and I remembered the first principle."

Sarak hid the smile that threatened to take over his expression as he stared at her. Although the comparison was ludicrous, she sounded like a war leader, mapping out a campaign. "And that is?"

"In order to do your best, you must be healthy, well rested, and as free as possible from the cravings of mortal life that might divert you from your duty.''

"What in the blessed blue moon does that mean?"

"It means that I am going to help you free yourself from the clutches of the spice."

Chapter Five

The grin faded from Sarak's face at Phada's words. "I told you, I've already tried to stop using the spice. It was impossible."

"Yes, but you tried it by yourself. Maybe with someone to help you it would be different."

"It would not be different." Sarak stared at her in alarm. By the Goddess, she meant it. He would rather die than to parade the groveling weakness of his dependence in front of anyone, but most especially a town woman. He would rather be staked out in the hostile desert for a week than to go through that.

"What method did you use?" she asked.

"Method? There was no method."

"I mean, did you try to get off it gradually or did you just stop seasoning your meals completely?"

"I tried everything I could think of," he muttered darkly.

He had no desire to go into the various tactics he had come up with to break his enslavement. One time he had even gone so far as to bury his last pouch of the stuff deep in the jungle. He had managed to make it through an entire cycle and part of a night until the longing for just a taste of the sun-cursed condiment had driven him back into the jungle, where he had sweated and searched for hours before finding his hiding place. His hands had been shaking so hard he had managed to spill the contents of the pouch all over the ground. Thank the Goddess no one had been there to witness him licking granules of faral from the ground like a greedy bushhog.

"I think the only way is to simply quit using the stuff," Phada continued blithely, tapping her slender fingers on the table. "When I was home last time, I tried secretly to wean my mother and sister off the spice. I was not successful. Whatever amount I neglected to add to the supper pot, they made up for at the dining table with the faral shaker."

Sarak paced over to the sleeping pallet, his hands clenched at his sides as he tried to control his breathing. Just the thought of doing without the spice made his knees shake. A fine sheen of sweat broke out over his body. Could she not see that this plan of hers was useless and give it up? He had thought she resembled a wingbird but he had been grievously mistaken. She was more like a stubborn woodhammer, pecking incessantly at the bark of a tree, determined to reach the softer sublayer where a hard-earned dinner of insects awaited.

Speaking of food, it was time for the morning meal. His mouth began watering at the thought of how easily the faral would transform his utilitarian meal of cooked cereal, enhancing its flavor until it became as succulent as a spit-roasted rockhen, dripping with its own juices. He needed the spice now. No untried Keeper's apprentice was going to stop him.

He dropped his arms to his sides and turned to face her. Maybe she could not stop him but he found himself reluctant to reveal how badly he needed another dose. She would be gone soon and he did not want to be remembered as the weak-willed failure of a warrior that he actually was.

"We should eat," he said in a nonchalant tone of voice. "I offer you my hospitality. I must warn you that I am not much of a cook."

"Thank you. Sarak, you have not given me an answer. Will you try to break free of the spice? I realize I have no notion of how it is to be dependent on it, but maybe that is not such a bad thing. I will be able to remain strong."

"You are right. You know nothing of the gut-wrenching craving the spice produces. I cannot do this thing."

"Even for the sake of Mesara?"

"I wish I could. But I know that it will only lead to failure and disappointment for you."

"For me? And what about you? With an attitude like that, of course you will never succeed."

He glared at her. "My attitude, as you call it, is based on reality, while yours is based on wishful dreaming."

She met his gaze, her stormy slate blue eyes filled with determination. She had not given up yet. Oh no, she still hoped to convince him, to make it work. "I have heard that any warrior worth his seasalt is not afraid to take on the most daunting opponenteven if it means his own death."

"Faral is not an opponent; it is a curse," he retorted.

His heart began racing at the pull of emotions that flooded his senses. She was trying to shame him into agreeing and, sweet Mother, it was almost working. He felt a strong urge to prove to her that he was just the kind of fearless warrior she described, as indeed he had once been. No, it was an impossible undertaking. He had to keep his head connected to his shoulders for both their sakes.

She had no notion of what might happen should they try her foolish plan, and he had no desire to explain the finer details of the kinds of behavior she could expect from him. He could not begin to predict what he might do while in the throes of faral-induced craving. He had already almost gone mad. What if he really tried to rape her? He might harm her, even kill her to get at the spiceits seductive powers were that enslaving. All knowledge of proper conduct, all sense of pride were eradicated, leaving only shame and degradation in their wake.

He could not stand there a millimark longer. He had to move. He walked over to the hearth where the kindling was already laid for the morning fire. Using a flint, he lit the small pile of twigs at the bottom, grunting in satisfaction as it caught nicely and began to burn. Then he swung the cookpot directly over the flames.

"You could pretend that the spice was a Kargan opponent," she pointed out. "In a way, I suppose it is true, since they are the ones who manufacture it." She paused thoughtfully. "I wonder if they produced it especially for us. They could not be addicted as well or they would never be able to carry out the raids they have subjected us to these many orbits."

Sarak felt her gaze on him, but he remained busy, setting the table with the crude pottery plates that were the extent of the hut's meager furnishings, placing the sapok wood shaker on the end of the table farthest from Phada. He knew he should be concerned with what she was saying, but he could only think about the spice and how good it would feel to be free from its craving for that short space of time between eating and the half-stupor that inevitably followed every meal as his body assimilated the toxin. He was approaching what he had labeled the time of anxiety, when the body and the mind both began to insist on another dose of faral but had not worked themselves up to full-blown desperation. He knew every stage on the way up to blissful oblivion and on the way down to the abyss of despair.

"According to the historical texts, the Kargans live in a poor land and are able to grow only the barest necessities," Phada continued. She sounded a bit like one of his instructors in the warrior training school, although her voice held none of the condescension of the Mesaran intellectuals who taught the dominators as part of their civic duty. "I guess they grew too impatient to be satisfied with the small amount of goods they were able to steal from us and decided to take everything. I wonder why they worked through Dalcor instead of coming to attack us themselves."

"Why should they attack us when the fatal has done the job for them?" Sarak pointed out bitterly. He gave the pot of bubbling cereal a last stir before he began dishing it up. He set Phada's plate before her, then took his own over to the sleeping pallet. If he had not been so concerned with getting more of the spice into his stomach, he would have felt the awkwardness of having to break the night's fast with someone like Phada, a lady and a Keeper, someone who looked down on barbaric warriors until she needed their aid.

He returned for the shaker. To his surprise, Phada grasped his wrist. "Please, Sarak. You must try to stop. I know you can do it."

He looked down at her hand on his arm. Phada's skin was so pale and tender compared to his tanned flesh. He was not too far gone to absorb the gentle touch of her fingers. He knew he could knock her hand away, even in his weakened condition, but he was in no hurry to break the contact. He made the mistake of gazing into her eyes. They were filled with a pleading softness that would move any male to carry out her bidding and feel honored to do so.

When she added what she must have known was her most persuasive argument, he knew he was defeated. "If Queen Riga were able to journey here herself, she would ask the same service of you."

Sarak groaned, lowering his head to cradle it in his free hand. Phada released his arm and he actually felt a loss. He must really be a sun-blind fool to think that Riga, not to mention the little Keeper's apprentice who sat across the table, would ever look at him as a male worthy to be her savior and not as a crude dominator. If he were somehow successful in conquering the spice's hold over his body, he knew he would be rewarded with position and riches. But it was the futile, foolish hope that Riga would smile on him with genuine appreciation and affection, the way she often looked at Pavonis, that finally pushed him over the precipice and caused him to agree.

"All right, Phada. I do not promise anything, but I will try."

Phada clapped her hands together, squeezing them tightly as she held them in front of her, almost as if she were praying to Mother Elithra at the harvest ceremony. He hated to inform her, but he was going to need a lot more than prayer to get him through the upcoming ordeal. He wondered if he would even last a cycle.

"If you will let me add my willpower to yours, I know we can succeed, Sarak," she insisted.

She was so adamant that he found himself yearning to believe her. And yet he found he could not silence the cynical, disillusioned side of his personality that had been born the morning he had been sentenced to train as a warrior, the morning his parents had publicly disowned him because he had besmirched the family name.

"And after I am free from craving the spice? What happens then?"

"I do not know," she replied thoughtfully. "When you are clearheaded again, I am sure you will think of a plan. After all, restoring the physical integrity of Mesara from usurpers and traitors is your sworn duty."

She stood up, reaching for the shaker. Sarak swallowed hard, his gut twisting painfully. By the blue moon, what had he let himself in for?

"Where is the rest?"

He pressed his lips together to hold back the flood of negative words that crowded his mind, then pointed grimly at a small basket. He would wait and let her see for herself how enslaving the faral was. Maybe then she would leave him to his misery. Phada lost no time in seizing the leather pouch that contained every last grain of faral on the entire island.

"What are you going to do with it?" he managed to ask in spite of his dry throat.

"I thought to hide it."

"No!"

"What?" She stared at him, surprised at his vehemence, her brows raised in that kind of feminine, aristocratic disapproval he had often seen cross Riga's delicate features. It was a look that made him feel lower than a greenback ground snake.

"You must toss it into the sea and you must do it now."

"But what if you lose your reason and I . . . I cannot handle the consequences?" Phada averted her gaze. He knew what she was thinking. She was afraid she might have to touch his body, to subdue him, an impossible task given her small frame, especially while he was under the influence of the cursed faral. "I saw people in the town when they needed the spice. They acted out of control, like . . ."

"Like wild animals? Is that not what you were going to say? It is a label often applied to dominators."

She had the grace to remain silent, although her cheeks turned pink.

"No," he insisted. "If I am going to do this, I want no access to the faral or I might weaken." He gritted his teeth, amazed that he was making such a mad statement. He would regret it later, he knew, but the surprised look of approval in Phada's eyes, mixed with something that resembled admiration, drove him on.

"As you wish," she said. "I will do it now, as you ask."

"Fine." His voice came out in a strained croak. He watched her move toward the doorway, clutching the table in a death grip to keep himself from springing after her. A splinter dug into the thumb of his right hand but he only squeezed harder, relishing the pain. As she disappeared out the door, he opened his mouth to call her back, but what was left of his pride would not allow it. Maybe this ordeal would kill him but it was better to die this way than to go on living as Dalcor's unwilling playtoy.

Let Phada believe he was doing this for Mesara. He supposed in some ways he was, but another part of him had a different motivation. So far he had not broken down and begged for his portion of faral from the warriors Dalcor sent from the mainland. But it was only a matter of time. Only last week his former commander had revealed his newest strategy. He planned to drag Sarak back to Mesara, where the warriors would be allowed to have their sport with him in the feasting hall. Sarak knew he could deal with that. It would be a simple matter to charge at one of the dominators, forcing him to pull his dagger and end Sarak's miserable existence by cutting his throat.

But Dalcor would not be satisfied with humiliating him in front of the warriors who had once served under his command. The newly installed leader of Mesara had also promised that the evening's entertainment would include something very speciala seat of honor for Sarak at Riga's royal bedside, where he could watch while Dalcor mated with her. And when the new leader was satisfied that he had been pleasured beyond a dominator's wildest dreams by the queen's acquiescent, soft female body, something he promised his former second-in-command would likely need endless marks of time to achieve, he swore that Sarak would die screaming for the spice with Riga looking on.

Sarak's mind cringed from the horrible vision of the delicate queen sitting atop Dalcor's pumping body, his hands all over her, fondling her breasts and the sacred place between her thighs. His hands clenched into fists and his heart pounded until he thought it would burst. He cursed the Kargans and their sun-blackened hearts; he damned Dalcor and his ambitions to the eternal abyss. He knew he could never withstand witnessing such an act being committed against his beloved queen, not without losing what was left of his mind. Even before Phada had appeared on his doorstep, he had decided that since he possessed no knife or weapon of any kind, when Dalcor came for him, he would throw himself into the sea and let the stingfish have his useless carcass. Maybe Phada's plan would save him the trouble.

Phada sat at the crudely fashioned table in Sarak's hut, picking through the dried beans she had just placed in the cooking pot and waiting for Sarak to return from his expedition into the jungle to gather some of the wild vegetables that grew there. Even with the thick jungle canopy, the cycle could be unbearably hot when the sun was at its zenith. Now that the orb had begun its descent toward the horizon, it was safer to move about outside. In fact, this was the time of day most Mesarans began emerging from their homes to chat with neighbors. Phada felt a pang of homesickness, which she quickly pushed away.

They had decided that even though she outranked him in every way, Phada would handle the cooking and other chores, not that there were very many things to do in this hovel, chores or otherwise, she decided wryly. Knowing how her mother and sister often behaved under the influence of the faral, Phada did not expect much help from Sarak. Soon he would have enough to do to handle his withdrawal from the clutches of the spice. She prayed he would be strong enough and that she would be able to handle any emergency that arose.

She had tried to keep her eyes off him, but she could not help perusing his face at intervals that had grown increasingly frequent. She realized she half-expected him to turn into a ravaging beast before her very eyes, although he had been quiet, if somewhat sullen, during the part of the cycle they had so far spent together. The only sign of discomfort she had noticed was a sheen of perspiration that slicked his muscled body. Of course it was hard to miss such a thing when naked flesh was just about all there was to see of him. She had not heard him approach but suddenly the room darkened as he stepped inside the threshold, filling the doorway with his massive frame. The brilliant sunlight outlined his body like a halo, accentuating his thick muscles and intimidating strength, even if it was subdued beneath the weakening power of the spice. She would never be able to control him if he became violent.

He paced over to where she sat, dumping a pile of vegetables on the table in front of her that contained tuber roots, calla greens, and sweet onion. She noticed that his skin was sallow and his nostrils pinched with the effort of breathing. He might be somewhat breathless after his trek into the jungle, but she was afraid he was also beginning to feel the effects of his long marks of time without the faral, as her mother and Chelis always did before a meal.

She was afraid that this supper and its aftermath were only the beginning of their troubles. One step at a time, she reminded herself. It was the only way to get through this.

Sarak stalked over to his sleeping pallet and threw himself down with a motion so violent the wooden frame crashed against the stone wall of the hut. He grunted in what sounded like satisfaction at the loud noise that resulted. Phada wisely made no comment, instead reaching into her bag for a knife to use in cutting up the vegetables. The big warrior was obviously not in the best of moods and she had no desire to provoke his ire. It would probably end up turned in her direction soon enough.

Actually they had not had much to say to each other the entire cycle. That was because they had nothing in common, Phada reminded herself. They were complete opposites, like a giant jungle tuskboar who cared only for the basics of dominance and survival and a wingbird whose only desire was to soar into the highest reaches of the sky. Then again, she added to herself in the name of fairness, although many of the warriors were like the tuskboar, even resembling that creature in their beastliness and thick-necked, flattened features, the result of numerous broken noses in combat practice, Sarak reminded her more of a graceful clawcat. He was still concerned with the basics of survival, but there was a kind of ruthless beauty to his method of attaining it.

She had often wondered what a dominator did all day, and now she had her answerhe slept if he was not on patrol or practicing with his weapon. Of course Sarak had no weapon here, she realized, watching uneasily as he stared at the knife in her hand. She wondered what he was thinking. Probably that he would dearly desire to thrust the well-honed blade right between Dalcor's ribs.

She shuddered at the animal barbarity of committing such a deed, then quickly realized that Sarak was used to such acts, maybe even on a daily basis. She had no idea exactly how the dominators protected the town and she did not want to know. That was why they lived in separate barracks on the edge of Mesara, where their brute ways would not spill over into the more refined daily life of the rest of the population.

Her thoughts and her revulsion must have been evident on her face because when she surreptitiously moved her gaze, it was to find Sarak staring back at her from his propped-up position on the pallet, his mouth twisted in a sneer. As he started speaking, she realized his disgust was directed not at her, but at himself.

''I find I still have too much pride to use a common paring knife to kill myself with," he said, nodding at the blade. He snorted mirthlessly. "I will also admit to much curiosity as to how you will handle the cycles to come."

"In the usual way," she replied with a wry grin and more confidence than she felt. "One at a time."

"You seem to be able to see the light at the end of this long, dark passageway, but I cannot."

Her mouth tilted up on one side in a half smile, half grimace. "I only wish that were true."

He made no reply, so she continued with her supper preparations, cutting up the vegetables and tossing them into the cooking pot, adding more beans and water. She swung the arm of the tripod to move the heavy metal container back over the flames. By the time she observed Sarak, she discovered his back was turned toward her. By the evenness of his breathing she assumed he was sleeping.

She wished she could return to her own hut. Although it contained even fewer of the comforts of town living, at least there she could be alone with her thoughts. But she dared not leave Sarak to his own devices. She had no idea what kind of crazy ideas might creep into his mind while his body fought its dependence on the spice. For all she knew, he might go crazy enough to steal her boat in order to return to Mesara.

The thought set her heart racing. She had not considered that possibility but realized she should have. She had seen the cunning of people in their quest to obtain more faral. The warriors kept everyone on short supply, more for their own entertainment than because they did not want people to have access to the spice.

She had to safeguard their one means of getting off this island. She could not have Sarak abandoning her on the Uninhabited Islandit would mean both their deaths. As quietly as she could, she gathered up her pack and crept to the door. When she saw that Sarak made no move, she slipped into the glaring light of the postzenith sun.

It did not take her long to reach the spot where they had hidden the boat. Moving it to another location was a much harder task. She thought her heart would burst from the exertion of dragging it far enough away so that Sarak would not be able to easily discern its new location. Then she had to retrace her steps and gather up and scatter all the branches they had used to cover it.

By the time she returned, the sun had moved several degrees in the sky. She stood just outside the threshold, her hand covering her eyes so she would not be caught sun-blinded when she first entered the hut. The appetizing aroma of the bean and vegetable stew filtered out from the small chamber, urging her to hurry inside, which she did.

Sarak had shifted position. He was now lying on his back, his head turned toward her, one arm thrown wide across the sleeping pallet while the other rested on his chest. The utter openness and vulnerability of his position, along with the sound of his deep, even breathing, which she could hear above the chattering of the kwara birds outside the door, told her he was fast asleep.

She stepped into the room. Her presence did not alter the rhythm of his breathing. Laying the pack on the table, she lowered herself into the ugly wooden chair. The worn straw seat creaked beneath her weight, but still Sarak did not stir.

She took the opportunity to study him. Not his bodyshe had already seen more of that than she cared tobut his face. He did not seem so alien in sleep, although there was no denying the powerful masculine contours of his highly trained physique, almost a caricature of the leaner, slighter build of most of the Mesaran men she knew. She had heard that the warriors hefted leather bags filled with stones to build their strength and, judging from Sarak's muscles, she could well believe it.

His face in repose had regular, even features, not all that different from Jobus's, although everything about Sarak was bigger and more . . . more aggressive, she supposed was the proper word to describe it. The shadow of his beard was visible across his cheeks and along his jaw. It looked rough, especially compared to the smooth, tanned skin of his throat.

He sighed and stirred. Phada's face flamed with embarrassment. Suppose he awoke to find her scrutinizing him so intently? She assured herself that she held only a scholar's curiosity about his physical exterior, but she doubted he would believe her. She jumped up from her chair and crossed the stone floor to the hearth, where she busied herself checking the stew. As she added more water and stirred the mixture, she realized she had not eaten since early this morning when Sarak had given her the cereal.

The skin at the nape of her neck and along her scalp tingled warningly. She knew Sarak had awakened and was now watching her. She turned to face him. "Supper is ready."

He looked sullen. "I am not hungry."

"Try to eat something."

"Did you throw away all the faral?"

What game was he playing at now to ask her such a question? She frowned as she answered. "You know I did."

"You kept none in reservein case?"

"In case of what? You told me to toss it all into the sea and I did."

She was not sure what she would do if he refused to eat, but he rose from the pallet and came to sit at the table. Phada scooped the stew into the mismatched pair of pottery bowls she had discovered. Then she moved one of the bowls and a spoon in front of him before taking her own seat as far away as she could without being too obvious.

It was more than awkward as they began eating togethera Keeper and a dominator. Phada kept her gaze averted, hoping to spare Sarak the embarrassment of her witnessing his crude table manners. She was not even sure that a dominator used eating utensils, although she supposed all those wild tales about some of the things the warriors did within the confines of their barracks were just thatunsubstantiated stories.

Unlike his earlier, sometimes unfocused attention, Sarak's dark brown eyes now missed nothing as they scanned the chamber. In fact his senses appeared sharper and as cunning as a weasula. He nodded at her with a sarcastic, irreverent grin before picking up his spoon. Phada decided her best course of action was to ignore him. She concentrated on taking her first bite of the steaming stew.

She thought they had finished with the topic of Kargan faral but she was mistaken. "You threw it all away?" Sarak grumbled. "Since when does a lady obey the words of a dominator?"

"Since we made an agreement," she replied in a carefully uninflected voice.

Phada could see that he was spoiling for an argument. The skin around his eyes was drawn tight with tension, and his lips were flattened against his teeth as he toyed with his food. Already he was showing the effects of his withdrawal from the spice. It could only get worse, Phada knew. She had to remain rational and steady and get them through the rest of the cycle or at least until even-fall when she could safely escape to her own hut. She knew not what else to do for the moment, except answer his accusations and ignore his wild mood swings; she had already learned that rational argument had no bearing on a spicecontrolled individual. She was beginning to suspect she might have taken on more than any mortal being could handle.

"I am sorry, Phada," he said, suddenly contrite. He pushed his bowl away. "But I tell you, I am not hungry."

"You need to eatto keep up your strength."

"How can I eat when this flat-flavored food tastes like mudhog droppings without seasonings?"

"I have some herbs I can add. And there is seasalt as well." She got up to fetch the shaker of seasalt that sat on an overturned basket near the hearth.

"I do not want seasalt!" he roared, rising from his chair like one of Mother Elithra's chosen avengers. Before she knew what he was up to, he hurled his supper bowl against the far wall. The already battered pottery crashed to the ground in pieces. The bulk of the dripping mass of stew remained glued to the wall for a brief moment, then dropped to the dirty stone floor below. The remainder slid in a more leisurely fashion, leaving behind a trail of beans, vegetables, and shiny juices.

Sarak slumped back into his seat. He looked so stricken at what he had done that Phada said nothing. She went to fetch a rag and began cleaning up the mess.

He groaned as he watched her. He wished she would say something, anything. He deserved the strongest rebuke for his unpardonable breach of conduct in her presence. And yet she continued without comment, methodically scooping up the sad remains of the meal she had prepared for him. Her calm actions hit him like a thrusting dagger to the gut.

"You shame me," he said, so low he wondered if she had heard him. He knew she had when she replied in that soft, cultured voice of hers, "Sarak, you cannot help it."

"I am a warrior. I should be able to help it." He turned to stare into her eyes. He saw Phada swallow hard at the intensity of his gaze. "There are ropes in the chest. You must make use of them tonight."

Chapter Six

"Ropes?" Phada was aghast, her stormy blue eyes horrified.

"You must tie me to the bed," Sarak told her. "It is the only way."

"I cannot tie you up like some animal."

He snorted mirthlessly. "I am no better than an animal in the eyes of most Mesarans. Or had you forgotten?"

"That is not true. All Mesarans value the sacrifice the dominators make to protect us."

"Save your polite, learned responses for display before other town dwellers," he retorted, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "You may be a Keeper's apprentice, you may have studied the Ancient Texts, but you know nothing about the basic truths of a warrior's existence."

"You are correct, Sarak."

She bowed her head, her eyes downcast so he could no longer see their expression. Was she laughing at him for being a thickheaded fool? How could she help laughing when he was acting like a temperamental child who wanted a sweet-bar and had not yet learned to temper his reactions when the treat was denied? It was so unlike him.

"I will do as you wish." She spoke the surprising words quietly.

Her soft reply knocked the remaining breath from his body. He stared at the top of her head, willing her to look at him. She must have sensed his desire, for she raised her face. She met his gaze warily and he could see the fear she tried to keep hidden. He had sworn to protect, not induce fear, in gentle ladies. Even loathing was acceptable, but not fear.

"You must do it now," he said. While I am still docile enough to handle, he added to himself. He did not need to frighten her any more than she already was. He also discovered he could not admit to her that he no longer recognized himself in some of the things he had done and said since her arrival.

"As you wish," she replied.

He stalked over to the wooden coffer that held the few items this sun-cursed hut contained. Pulling out a long, coiled rope, he set it on the table before closing the lid. His body was screaming at him to do something, anything, to relieve the agony. Only a healthy dose of faral could soothe his torment, and there was now none to be had until one of Dalcor's warriors returned. He was sure he could not endure that long. He would be glad to die except the thought of leaving Phada all alone on this island twitched at his conscience.

"Where is your knife?" he asked.

She said nothing but brought it to him.

He beckoned her to follow him to the sleeping pallet. Sitting on the edge, he cut the rope into four equal lengths and handed them to her along with the knife. She accepted them with obvious reluctance.

"You must bind each of my limbs to the corners of the frame. It will divide what strength the spice has not already sapped out of me."

She indicated her agreement by briefly lowering her eyes and nodding.

"Do you know how to tie a hitchknot?"

She nodded again, more slowly this time.

"Then use it."

She seemed about to protest, but no words came. She must have realized that her own safety depended on carrying out his wishes. They both knew what the result of such a knot would be. If Sarak tugged or pulled against it, it would tighten in equal measure. It would also be virtually impossible to undo under these circumstances and so was the safest course.

Sarak crossed the room to stand in the doorway. It was just coming onto evenfall, one of his favorite times of the cycle. The planet's surface began to cool off at evenfall. It occurred around the ninth mark on the sunclock and signified the time when Mesarans retired to their sleeping pallets, although the sun had not yet dipped below the horizon in true nightfall.

He would probably not survive to see another.

He stared at the sunlit world before him for several long moments. Then without a word or a gesture to betray his feelings he turned on his heel and strode over to the pallet. Phada hovered nervously beside him. As he pushed aside the worn lana-wool blanket and lay down on the pallet's meager, cloth-covered mattress, he avoided looking toward the door, afraid he might change his mind and make a dash for the illusory freedom of the jungle.

Instead he briefly closed his eyes then raised his arms above his head to the corners of the pallet. Phada hesitated, biting her lip. She seemed to gather herself under control and began to tie him. The rope, made of woven vines and coconut husks, felt cool against the flesh of his wrist.

He tried to concentrate on something pleasant, but his mind refused to provide such an image. In spite of what he had told Phada, his stomach twisted and churned with hunger. And yet the smell of the spiceless food had instantly killed his appetite.

The bed sat in the corner, two of its sides against the wall, so she had to lean across him to tie his other wrist. Sarak caught a whiff of her female scent, clean and sweet as any rata flower. In spite of his condition he was horrified to feel his loins stir with the beginnings of desire. With her pale, soft skin and gentle ladylike ways she reminded him of Riga; he supposed that explained his unwanted reaction, that and the lust-inducing after-effects of the spice. He refused to acknowledge that perhaps some of those effects had worn away after more than half a suncycle of abstinence.

She made quicker work of his ankles. Soon he was as trussed and helpless as any rockhen on its way to market. He jerked his arms and legs, grunting in an uncomfortable combination of uneasiness and satisfaction as the ropes grew tighter. The little Keeper's apprentice had done a thorough job.

He had never allowed himself to be at the mercy of anything if he could help it, whether a person or a situation. And now he was giving himself over to the care of a virtual stranger, a woman who had vowed never to mate with a male in order to pursue her quest to become a Keeper of the Ancient Ways.

He must be out of his mind.

He closed his eyes in despair. How long would it take before he began begging her for the spice? He knew it was only a matter of time. No matter that she had none to give him, his body would scream for a dose while his mind joined in the chorus. Then she would regard him with disgust, as a creature lower than a soldier beetle on the jungle floor, fit only to be crushed underfoot. She would be right to do so. That brief glimpse of admiration he had caught on her face would be wiped away forever and she would remember him as a pathetic example of a warrior.

He heard a scraping noise. Opening his eyes he saw that Phada had dragged one of the chairs into position next to the sleeping pallet. She sat down beside him, holding a fresh bowl of the stew in her hands along with a spoon. Holy Mother, she meant to hand-feed him as if he were a mewling babe.

''No!" he shouted, glaring at her. He bucked his body off the mattress, pulling at the ropes, which tightened painfully against his wrists and ankles. What in the name of Mother Elithra had he done by putting himself into Phada's hands? he wondered frantically.

"You have to eat something," she insisted in that cool voice he was beginning to dread because it meant she could not be swayed from her purpose. She refused to meet his gaze, which only made him angrier.

"Go away and leave me."

"I cannot. That was not part of our agreement."

"Feeding me like a helpless newborn was not part of our agreement either."

"How else did you expect to eat if not with my help?" she asked, then added dryly, "If you had eaten earlier, when you had the chance, you would not be in this situation."

He groaned. She was right but that did not mean he had to like it. He watched in resignation as she dipped the spoon into the stew and brought the utensil to his lips. His stomach turned over at the smell of the spiceless stew but he opened his mouth for her, feeling worse than he had as a young warrior in training when his weapons instructor had shamed him in front of the entire class.

She fed him another bite. "There is no one here to see you but me and I promise I will never tell a living soul."

Sweet Goddess, did she think those were words of comfort, that he did not mind if she saw him in this state? After carefully scrutinizing her averted profile, he decided that she had no idea of his feelings.

"I am responsible for you until you are free from the spice," she added softly.

Sarak's mouth was full, so he could not reply even had he wanted to. When he had begged her to bind him to the sleeping pallet he had only been thinking of her safety, not of his own humiliation. He had the feeling things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

He managed to eat a couple more spoonfuls before he called a halt. Surprisingly, Phada did not argue. She must have sensed his dark mood but it did not stop her from moving the chair back to the table and sitting down, obviously prepared to watch over him. Was he to have no peace in his final agony?

He turned his head to the wall, trying to lose himself in the jagged pitting of the stone. Every particle of that section of his rock prison was familiar to him from the many cycles he had spent staring at the cracks since Dalcor had dumped him on the beach. He only hoped he would lose consciousness soon. He did not want to live in this helpless condition anymore. Without the spice he knew he would surely die. The sooner the better, as far as he was concerned.

Phada stood in the doorway, watching as evenfall ended and deep night approached. Of course it never truly became dark in this part of Elithra because the sun only hovered just beneath the horizon, but the semidarkness was soothing to her eyes all the same, the coolness a balm to her battered spirits.

Sarak had spent most of the evenfall groaning and twisting as far as his restraints would allow. After the passing of several endless marks of the sunclock, he was sleeping at last. Phada glanced over her shoulder at his unconscious form as he lay in an awkward and uncomfortable-looking position on the pallet. The glow from the stub of candle she had found and lit earlier showed that his body glistened with sweat. His face looked drawn and tense, even in slumber, and the sides of his mouth were pulled down in a frown. She could not imagine he was getting much rest.

She crossed the room to stand over him. The muscles of his massive frame trembled intermittently as if he were deathly cold, although she knew he was not because she had checked him earlier. She still remembered how she had gently laid her hand along his cheek, how he had bucked as though her fingers were a burning brand. She had not touched him like that since.

She knew she needed to get some rest herself now that Sarak was finally quiet. She might not have many opportunities. She tried not to think of what might happen next with the big dominator, what he might do. As horrified as she had been at his suggestion to bind him, she was now glad of it. She felt as safe as she could under the circumstances.

Taking the blanket, she curled up on the floor close to the door where she could feel the cool air. It stirred the loose tendrils of hair around her face. She closed her eyes and in her exhaustion fell instantly asleep.

It might have been mere moments or several marks later when a horrible cry from Sarak awakened her. Phada jumped to her feet before she really knew what was happening, all her attention riveted on the form in the corner of the room. Sarak's eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping.

She held her hand over her chest as though that gesture would calm her hammering heart. Drawing in a deep breath she slowly inspected the room. Everything seemed quiet. The light was a brilliant, blue-hued half-circle on the floor as it filtered through the small brace of trees just outside the entrance and streamed onto the floor.

Phada sighed as she walked over to peer outside. The sun was cresting the treetops. Both sunrise and cycle-rise had already come and gone. She and Sarak had both been sleeping longer than she had originally thought.

She focused again on the dominator. No sign of movement. She decided she would prepare the first meal of the cycle even though zenith was already approaching. But first she had to make a quick trip outside since the crude little hut provided none of the amenities of town life.

It did not take her very long after she returned to measure out the grain and get the porridge simmering over the rekindled hearth. Her empty stomach rumbled with pangs of hunger. She wondered if Sarak would again give her a difficult time. She wished she could untie him and allow him to feed himself, but now that he was bound, she realized she had no desire to free him.

"Behind you, Mizor! Use your dagger," he suddenly shouted, yanking with his arms at the ropes until Phada feared he would harm himself. "Zegon, move the left flank to the trees. That way we can head them off."

She stared at him, horrified. He was obviously delirious and thought himself in the midst of some past skirmish.

"You bloody Kargan rabble. Come out here where we can see you."

He bucked and turned and twisted while the sleeping pallet groaned and creaked alarmingly beneath his weight. The top end was bolted into the stone wall, but she feared Sarak's frenzied thrashing might jerk it free. His face was distorted with various emotions that flickered across it in the heat of his imagined battlerage and anger at his foe, shrewdness and determination to overcome his hated enemy.

"You cowardly, beady-eyed treerats! May your hides shrivel and blacken in the sun for all eternity," he yelled, clenching his fists and trying to strike out. His voice was hoarse, his eyes wild with the kind of blood lust she had only previously read about in the ancient texts that often spoke about war. Even knowing she should be a student of every aspect of human nature, from the highest qualities of character to the lowest depths, she had never wished to experience this kind of savage emotion firsthand.

The Mesarans were a civilized people. The dominators were the repository of their former barbaric ways, the last vestige of their inglorious past. No wonder they were forced to keep to themselves, Phada thought with a shiver. She stared down into his face from her safe position across the room, although safety was relative in this situation. His lips were curled back from his teeth in a snarl as untamed as any clawcat'sand more vicious, because there was human hate behind it. Everything about this side of Sarak filled her with disgust.

She hovered near the doorway, every nerve ending in her body urging her to run outside, the only action that would enable her to escape the raw emotion trapped within the small parameters of the hut. She did not care about her agreement with Sarak. She wanted only to get away from this room, away from the brutish warrior. One part of her mind shrieked at her to hurry back to Mesara as fast as she possibly could. She was only a Keeper's apprentice; she was not equipped to deal with this. She simply could not handle him. No one would expect her to. Even Mother Elithra, the Great Goddess who provided for all her children's needs with the rich abundance of her plants and animals, would not hold it against her that she had to leave Sarak to his fate. She had to protect her own sanity.

She whirled on her heel, about to bolt out the door, when she heard Sarak moan as if in mortal pain. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes squeezed closed.

"Borkar, can you hear me? Borkar! Dear Goddess, no!" Something that sounded suspiciously like a sob issued from his mouth, although it was quickly muffled. Actually, it was more as if the cry. came from the depths of his very being. She could only think that this Borkar was a close companion of Sarak's and that he had been killed in the battle.

A scream tore out of his throat, causing the hair to rise on the nape of her neck. Her arms and legs quivered with gooseflesh. "Aaaaaiiiii! They are not Kargans." He raised himself up from the pallet as though shouting after someone. "Filthy Jiboan scum," he roared, his voice breaking with emotion on the last word.

She did not think the knots she had tied would hold under the beating they were taking. Neither could Sarak's wrists and ankles, which she now saw were slippery with blood from his frenzied movements. He continued to jerk and pull in his delirium, oblivious to the consequences. At this rate he would do serious injury to himself.

She found she could not walk away. After all, she was the one who had coerced him into trying to break the faral's hold over his senses. She had a duty to him now, no matter that he was only a warrior. Had he not insisted that she tie him? Where would she be now if he had not?

Goddess protect me. She moved her lips as she fervently prayed, creeping over to the pallet, fearful that he would rear up at any moment, breaking his bonds as easily as if they were strands of stretch candy, reaching out to grab her around the throat. She remained a good half-measure from the edge of the pallet.

"Sarak," she whispered. Her mouth was so dry the words were barely audible. She tried again. "Sarak. You must cease this useless ranting. You are only hurting yourself."

His entire body went still. It was not the stillness of concession, but that of the predator on the hunt. Phada swallowed hard, her gaze never leaving his face. Suddenly his eyes flashed open. For the briefest moment of time, no more than a single beat of a fleafly's wings, he appeared disoriented and confused. Then his dark brown eyes focused on her with the intensity of ten hot blue suns.

Phada could not stop the gasp that came from her throat at the look she saw in their depths. She was not sure who he thought she was, but from the murderous expression that distorted his face into a mask of rage, he wanted very badly to kill her. She took an involuntary step backward.

She could not believe how helpless she felt, watching as Sarak thrashed around like a wounded tuskboar in the jungle underbrush, crazed with pain and unheeding of danger as it was driven toward the net. She had to do something to stop him. She knew nothing about potions for sleeping; she had no training as a healer because the Keepers had quickly ascertained that she had no talent in that direction.

She had to gain Sarak's attention, break through his delusions until he realized where he was and what he was doing to himself. One of the few things she knew about the dominator before she came to this island was that he was devoted to the queen. The mere mention of her name had stopped him before. Pray Goddess it would do so again.

"Queen Riga commands that you quiet yourself," she told him, injecting every ounce of authority into her voice that she could summon, as if she were reading a royal decree. "Your queen appreciates all your service in the past and desires that you do not incapacitate your abilities, so that you may serve her in the future."

His arms and legs fretted against the ropes but Phada took courage from the fact that he had ceased his awful thrashing.

"Renegade Jiboans have killed Borkar," he announced as though giving a report to a superior. His voice and his expression overflowed with deference, a decided contrast to his wild behavior just moments earlier. Had she succeeded in calming him?

"I will have revenge," he shouted. He raised his shoulders as far as the ropes would allow, his stomach clenched so tightly it looked like flesh over a ridged washing board rather than a part of an individual.

Phada reacted instinctively. Otherwise she would never have reached out to grasp his shoulders, using them as a lever to push him down into the mattress, holding him there. Oddly enough he did not fight her. She soon realized why.

"Do not touch me, Lady Queen. Have you forgotten that I am an unworthy dominator?"

"I am not the queen, Sarak. I am Phada."

He ignored her. "My lady Riga," he said, bowing his head. "You should know by now that I am always at your service, no matter how difficult the task."

She was about to open her mouth to correct his error until she realized that perhaps she could use it to her advantage. Goddess help her, she needed all the assistance she could get. Let him think she was the queen if it would quiet him. He would realize his error as soon as he regained his wits, but in the meantime she needed to tend to his wounds before they festered. She hoped he would not hold her deception against herif she was lucky, he would not even remember what she had done.

"You must let me bandage your wrists and ankles," she said.

"No, my lady, that is not a task for you to perform. I will seek out the palace healer."

"The palace healer is otherwise occupied," Phada replied. "Therefore I will do what is necessary. I cannot have my second-in-command unable to fulfill his duties for lack of proper attention."

Thankfully, her answer seemed to satisfy him, at least for the moment. Phada had learned enough of the rudiments of healing to know what to do, and all Keepers carried a special salve in their packs as a matter of course. As she gathered her supplies, the face of Rudela, the palace healer, floated into her mind. A wave of sadness swept over her. Rudela was the latest in a long line of palace healers stretching back to the dark ages of warrior domination. It was a special lifetime position, filled from the healing class of Keepers who served queen and community on a more intimate basis than those who spent most of their time in the sanctuary, as had Phada.

Now the poor woman was a prisoner of a renegade pack of dominators. Phada hoped Dalcor was astute enough to realize he needed the services of a healer, but she had her doubts that the brutish usurper would allow the Keeper to carry out her appointed mission undisturbed. It was more likely that Rudela had been forced to mate with one of his bestial dominators like the other palace women. Phada did not know the higher-ranked Keeper well, but it was not a fate she would wish on her worst enemy.

Sarak remained quiet as she carefully untied one leg and applied the salve to his ripped flesh. She bandaged it with one of the torn strips of cloth from her pack and retied it as gently as she could. She winced at the thought of the coarse ropes moving against his injuries, especially if he again became agitated. If only he would remain calm. She repeated her actions with his other leg and then his wrists, always one at a time. He seemed not to know that any part of him was free, even during the brief moments she tended to them, but kept his head averted from whichever side she happened to be working on and his eyes closed.

Phada was exhausted by the time she sat down at the table. The smell of the porridge caused her stomach to growl with hunger, but she was too tired to make the effort to dish it out. In a while she would eat and then she would worry about getting more nourishment into Sarak.

She allowed her gaze to return to the beleaguered warrior. He seemed to have drifted into sleep, although from the restless little movements and mutterings he made, it was not a very restful slumber. The skin of his face remained pale and sickly, except for two spots of color burning high along his cheekbones. His wan, drawn expression provided a stark contrast to the rest of his robust frame. He had no pillow, so his shoulder-length brown hair fell limply against the mattress except for the parts closest to his head, which were soaked with perspiration and plastered to his scalp.

Phada had no idea how many marks passed as she continued to care for Sarak. The sun's zenith came and went and the long Elithran cycle drifted toward evenfall. He became feverish, his body burning hot beneath her hand. She filled an empty jug with water and placed cool cloths on his forehead and over his chest. Every time she touched him, he pulled away, although not as violently as he had in the beginning. He was probably not used to being handled in such a fashion, Phada decided. There was certainly no healer assigned to the dominators' barracks, so she had no idea what happened if one of them got sick. It seemed a cold, lonely way to live, but of course she was not a warrior and had no idea how they thought or felt. They probably liked it just fine.

Not long after evenfall she managed to get some broth into him. He stared at her with lifeless, confused eyes as he ate. It was a shock when she recalled him as he had been that night in the feasting hall, striding around like the healthy young male animal he was. His eyes had been cool yet alert, his instincts razorsharp in the service of the queen.

Phada shook herself to clear her mind of such mad thoughts. He was a crude dominator, not a town dweller. He had been chosen for such a life based on his behavior and his tendency toward aggression just as she had been chosen to study to become a Keeper based on the abilities of her mind. She had no cause to feel sorry for him. She certainly should not be admiring his courage and stamina in the face of this grueling ordeal.

''Phada."

She jumped at the sound of her name, uttered in a hoarse whisper. She hurried to Sarak's side. "Yes."

"I must relieve myself. Untie me so I can go outside."

She blushed at his blunt speaking. She hesitated, hating the thought of his being completely mobile, yet knowing it was necessary.

"I am too weak to cause you any trouble."

She nodded, then reached for the binding at his wrist. "How do you feel?"

"Like the crossroads after an army has marched through. Every part of my body aches."

His speech was lucid, if slightly slurred from tiredness. His eyes still appeared dazed, but he was certainly no longer delirious. The worst must be over, she thought exultantly. It had not been as difficult as they had both imagined.

Sarak held up his bandaged wrist. "I see I have not been docile in my bondage." He sounded almost satisfied at that.

"I think you were fighting Kargans in your sleep."

"Ah, yes." He sat up slowly, groaning as he pulled himself to the edge of the pallet and placed his feet on the floor. "I remember a torrent of dreams and nightmares. My head was filled with so many images I could not keep track of them. Did I . . . did I do anything, say anything . . .?"

"You did not give away any deep, dark warrior secrets, if that is what worries you."

He breathed deeply. "I dreamed that you touched me, that you bathed my body with cool water."

"It was no dream. You were feverish. I had to cool you down." "I am sorry to put you through this."

She forgot her awkwardness and her embarrassment as she stared at him in amazement. "I am the one who is putting you through this. You are the one who is going through it. I only watch and witness as a Keeper."

"Which is as it should be," he intoned in a polite voice, reminding her that he was fully aware of their disparate ranks. His tone considerably eased her reservations about freeing him.

He dragged himself to his feet, stretching his muscles as he stood. Phada swore parts of his body actually creaked in protest. She watched him disappear out the door. Embarrassing as the thought was, a part of her wanted to go with him, to make sure he did not run off into the jungle or try to steal the boat. She waited for what seemed a reasonable length of time before she moved to the door.

"Sarak?"

There was no answer.

"Sarak, are you there?"

Nothing. She strained her ears, listening for any noise above the usual sounds of the jungle that would indicate his whereabouts. Insects buzzed and screamer monkeys howled their bloodcurdling cries into the semidarkness of the Elithran night, but there was no sign of Sarak.

She hesitated in the doorway, squinting her eyes, searching for any movement. Surely someone as large as Sarak would be impossible to miss. Should she search for him? Suppose she came upon him before he had finished what he had gone out there to do in the first place? The thought of such an embarrassing encounter gave her pause. Better to give him a quartermark more, just in case. She bit her lip anxiously.

Suddenly he appeared to her left, making her gasp at the way he materialized out of the shadows. He must have been lurking behind the rango bush at the side of the hut. Tonight the moon rode high in the sky, adding to the brightness outside. Beneath its blue light, his eyes gleamed in what she could only describe as a predatory way, and his skin appeared pale. There was a stillness about him that chilled her flesh in spite of the warmth of the balmy night air. She wished she could run but there was nowhere to go.

As soon as he began speaking, she realized why her instincts had urged her to flee.

"Did Mizor pay for you?" he asked, his voice low and caressing. "He is a good friend to want me to have the pleasure of a warm and willing pallet partner for the rest of the sleep cycle." He held out his hand. "Come, wench, show me what you can do."

Chapter Seven

Dear Goddess, Phada thought as she stared at Sarak. He believed she was some common Jiboan desert female, paid to warm his pallet. Every muscle in her body tensed at the sight of the big warrior standing before her, his legs spread in a wide dominator's stance that sent waves of terror crashing through her. What was she supposed to do now? There was no one to whom she could cry for help, no way to get off the island quickly. If only she could escape from him she might be able to hide until he regained his senses. Right now it seemed unlikely, because he blocked her path to the world outside the hut and its semblance of safety.

She had to try to bring him back to reality. Somehow she did not think pretending to be Queen Riga would assure her of victory this time.

"Sarak. I have prepared the evening meal. Come inside and let us eat."

"Did Mizor pay you to cook as well?" "Mizor did not pay me at all."

"You do not have to pretend that you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart," he said with a self-deprecating grimace. "I am most willing and have neither the need nor the desire to be flattered or coaxed. Indeed, I find I am most eager to mate with you."

The look he gave her after that startling statement could have roasted a rockhen at 20 measures. Phada's pulse jumped from its already heightened pace into a pounding discomfort impossible to ignore. She feared her heart might beat its way out of her chest. "It is me, Phada. Do you not remember that I crossed the sea to seek your help? You gave me your word as a warrior that you would help me to free Mesara." That was not exactly true but it was close enough.

"Phada," he said, tasting the name on his tongue and ignoring the rest of her statement. "It does not sound like other Jiboan names I have heard, but it is very pretty. Come here, Phada."

"Stop it, Sarak. Stop it right now. We have too much to do to play games.

"I like games as well as the next warrior," he replied softly. "Which one shall we play?"

His eyes glowed with what she could only describe as lust. The one other time she had experienced such a distasteful emotion was when she had first arrived on the Uninhabited Island and Sarak had ambushed her, knocking her to the ground and covering her with his considerable weight, making it difficult for her to breathe.

She was having just as much difficulty breathing now. His burning expression as he scrutinized her body, his gaze lingering at her breasts and hips, made it seem as if he wanted to devour her. She knew it was the wrong thing to do, but she panicked and tried to sprint past him into the welcome shadows of the night. He caught her before she had gone three steps, swinging her up in his powerful arms, holding her dangling in the air above him so she was forced to brace her legs against his thighs for balance. He pulled her closer until they were nose to nose, then lowered her slowly to the ground, using his chest and hips as a guidepost for her to slide down. Her heart stopped when she felt his erection pressing against her stomach.

Her toes finally touched the ground, not that it did her any good when he was holding her so tightly. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent as if he were a hound in the hunting-dog compound and she a female brought to him so they could breed a litter of pups. It was unnerving. And yet his big hands were gentle and coaxing as they pressed into her back. She wondered how it would feel to be protected by such strength, to be able to trust him and depend on him. His arms reminded her of the haven of her father's embrace when she was a child. She shook her head, unable to believe she was entertaining such a ridiculous notion. Her father and this warrior had absolutely nothing in common. She did not need the illusion of Sarak's protection; she needed to be protected from him.

"You do not smell the same as other desert women," he said in a crooning, husky voice near her ear. It sent shivers up her spine. "Your hair is an unusual color, too, for one of that tribe." He stroked his palm along the length of her braid. "Unbind it for me."

She pressed her hands against his chest and tentatively pushed. He was as unyielding as the rock walls of the hut. When she made no move to comply with his request, he pulled her braid forward and untied the leather thong that held it. Groaning, he combed his fingers through the thick mass, spreading it across her back, spilling it forward over her shoulders.

"Ah yes, Phada, you please me well. Come." He did not seem to notice that he had to half-drag, half-carry her toward the pallet. His grip on her wrist was inexorable, and yet he was careful not to hurt her. What in the name of Mother Elithra was she going to do? Her mind could come up with no way to stop him. She supposed she could scream, but she knew it was useless, and besides, her pride simply would not allow her to stoop to such a cowardly action.

The one thing she realized she should not do was fight him. Everyone knew a panicked reaction would only incite the aggressiveness of a dominator even more. Perhaps if she remained unresisting it would go easier on her. Perhaps he would even stop. Or if she seemed cooperative, he might lower his guard long enough so she could escape into the jungle. What she would do afterward, she had no idea. She would worry about that later.

And if worse came to worst, and he did manage to mate with her, she supposed it could be no worse than that time with Taltos. She had been a mere 16 suncycles, and had already decided that she wanted to become a Keeper. Feeling that she should experience all aspects of the human condition, she had chosen Taltos to mate with for her first timeher only time, she had assumed. He had been clumsy and rough, and his weight pinning her to the ground had crushed her until she could not breathe. Everything about the encounter had been sordid and shameful, especially Taltos's labored panting. She had changed her mind as he had begun to push himself inside her and she had shoved him away. Being a town dweller and a scholar, he had not insisted, although Phada could see the anger and annoyance in his eyes.

Now Sarak sat on the edge of the sleeping pallet, drawing her closer to stand between his thighs. He raised her hand to his mouth, kissing her fingers one by one before moving to her wrist to press his hot lips to the frantic pulse beating there. He ran his other hand down her arm and along her hip, his eyes closing as he pulled in a slow, unsteady breath. Color burned along his cheek-bones.

And then to her shocked surprise, he lay down, still keeping a tight hold on her wrist. "Come, Phada," he said, tugging on her arm. His voice was husky and deep and oddly compelling, considering that she had no desire to be his pallet partner. "I am your steed until cycle-rise. Come ride me and together we will fly through the night like the wind."

Dear Goddess, of course, she thought, as her mind flooded with the realization of what he actually meant. She remembered he had used these words before, when he had first caught her outside his hut. She had not given it a thought at that time because she had been too terrified, but now the words of the ancient law came back to her.

A dominator could not mate as other Mesarans did. They were thought too volatile and excitable. No, a warrior was only allowed to be pleasured by a female while in the prone position, with the woman on top and in control. To do otherwise was to court severe punishment. It explained why the crime of rape was so quickly followed with the sentence of banishment from the rest of society. A dominator who covered an unwilling woman violated the law of stationary mating as well as multiple laws against warrior aggression toward any town woman.

She gazed at him as he lay on the pallet before her like some profane offering to the Goddess. It was almost as if he were at her mercy instead of the other way around. His eyes were tightly closed; his lower body moved restlessly against the mattress. She knew in principle how mating worked in the normal fashion but she was not so certain how it could be accomplished this way. Not that she had any intention of climbing onto Sarak's lap to find out, especially now that she knew how to stop him. Sarak might be a disgusting dominator but she had learned in the short space of time she had spent with him that he had a sense of honor. He would not force herhad he so desired he could have taken her long before now, even weakened and faral-addled as he was.

Instead he had agreed to put himself through torment to release himself from the hold of the spice over his mind and body, simply because she had asked him. He had demonstrated the kind of courage and determination any Mesaran could be proud of. Just because he was delirious now did not mean the core of his character had changed. He might desire to mate, but that was only because he thought she was a Jiboan female, ready for the taking. He would never break the law by wishing to couple with a Keeper. It was forbidden.

His eyes flashed open, focusing on her face to the exclusion of everything else in the room. His gaze was so intense she felt he could see right through to her soul. Thank the Goddess that was impossible, because he might realize that she was not as repulsed as she should be by his big body, his oddly gentle touch. It was probably because she had cared for him in his helpless condition, although that was no excuse. She would rather die than admit her sudden and unseemly fascination with this lowly warrior.

"Why do you hesitate? Do you think I am not ready?" He let go of her arm to reach for the ties to his breechcloth. "Let me show you how ready I am for you to mount me."

Now was her chance to run away. But she could not move a muscle. Waves of shock radiated through the center of her body at the sight of his member springing free from the confinement of the breechcloth. By the blue sun above, no wonder warriors were made to yield control to any female brave enough to take them on. They were brutes and animals, just as everyone said.

"Leave me alone, dominator," she spat as he again reached for her. He stared at her in confusion as she backed away from the pallet. He pushed himself up on his elbows but otherwise made no move to follow her. "I would not lower myself to mate with a warrior even to save Mesara!"

"Phada?"

She was more than halfway to the door but something in the tone of his voice caused her to turn around. She could see the surprise in his now lucid brown eyes as he looked down at his aroused body and then back at her, his brow furrowed. His gaze took in the unbound mass of her disheveled tawny hair as it fell around her shoulders, the flush on her cheeks. He made no move to pull the scant piece of material over his nakedness. In fact, he did not even appear embarrassed, which was more than could be said for her.

"You wished to mate with me?"

Phada's face burned with humiliation at the question. "No!" she replied in quick denial, too deeply engrossed in her own confused emotions to notice the faint traces of undisguised hope that threaded through his voice.

"I see," he said flatly. "Then what is going on here?"

Her throat tightened and she could not seem to find the words to explain.

"Phada, please answer me," he persisted. "Why is your hair unbound? Why am I naked and aroused? Why would you untie me if you did not wish to mate with me?'' He gazed around in bewilderment for a moment, and then his expression cleared. "You need have no fear I will reveal what goes on here between us. You have my word as a warrior. I will tell no one that you were curious to experience the act with a warrior. No one wants to believe that such tales about town women are true, even though others have done it before you."

"I do not wish to mate with you," she shouted. "I am in training to become a Keeper!" She was incensed at his misreading of the situation, even more so because of her momentary lapse in not fleeing while she had the chance. "You needed to go outside to relieve yourself. So I untied you. But you became delirious while you were gone. You thought I was . . ." She choked over the word then calmed herself. "You thought I was Jiboan."

He closed his eyes in dismay, then opened them to meet her angry regard. "I am sorry, Phada," he said.

He sat up, his jerky movements further proof that he was now thoroughly aware of her discomfort at his state of undress. He quickly covered himself, fastening the ties to his meager dominator's garb. He was still erect and it pressed at the material in a most obvious way, but she supposed there was little he could do about it.

"I cannot promise I would not have forced you," he continued in tones laced with self-disgust. "I know not what I am capable of in the grip of this cursed faral. It is obvious I am not free of it yet." His gaze probed her face as his voice gentled. "Did I hurt you?"

"I . . . No, you did not hurt me."

"Then come, bind me again quickly. And next time, before you release me to go outside, you must get your knife and keep it close by for protection." "Oh no. Are you saying you want me to . . . Sarak, I cannot plunge a knife into you."

"You can and you will. I am surprised you have not done so already. If you are not prepared to defend yourself against my unwanted attentions, then this ordeal is over right now. Mesara can rot like a piece of fruit on the jungle floor for all I care."

Phada wanted to cry, although she was not sure exactly why. Nothing was going the way she had planned. But the longer she remained here on the Uninhabited Island with the dominator, the more she realized she had no choice but to press on, no matter what the consequences.

She found she could only nod in agreement as she moved toward the sleeping pallet she had fled only moments before. Sarak had lain down again, his face averted from her as he stared at the wall. Her heart turned over at the poignancy of watching him bend so compliantly to her will when both of them knew he could crush her with one hand if he so desired. He raised his arms over his head and spread his legs so she could more easily tie them to each corner, an act of bravery beyond any she had ever witnessed. Only the Goddess knew how much more agony awaited him as the price of his withdrawal from the spice, and yet he calmly waited for her to render him completely helpless and at her mercy.

She reached for the rough strand of coconut-husk rope and began the painful process of binding his limbs. Just as she finished with his wrists and was about to move to his ankles, he bucked completely off the pallet, smothering a low-pitched groan. His eyes rolled up into his head as he closed them with a grimace, and a greenish pallor spread over the skin of his now sharply etched features.

"You are in pain," she said, biting her lip, her expression filled with anguish. "What can I do to ease it?"

"There is nothing you can do."

She gazed at him in distress, watching his stomach muscles clenching against what had to be horrible pain. He refused to utter another sound, instead pressing his lips together until the skin around them turned white. Had she thought him helpless in his bondage? She was just as helpless in her own way, for she could do nothing to ease his terrible suffering.

"Who would have thought a spice could tear a body apart like this?" he commented grimly. His hands gripped the ropes to alleviate their pull against his flesh, but Phada could see that his wrists were once again bleeding beneath the bandages. "I am beginning to think I would rather be gutted by a newly sharpened Jiboan dagger. It is . . . a quicker way to die."

"You are not going to die." As she tied the last hitchknot, a tear slipped down her cheek. Another soon followed. "You cannot."

"Do not cry, Phada," he whispered. "I have the feeling this will soon be over, one way or another. Can you not see that I have no wish to exist in this condition? Nor do I desire to be dragged back to Mesara to provide Dalcor's amusement."

Phada's eyes widened at this statement. She should have guessed that Dalcor had further plans for his former second-in-command. She had seen the hatred in the older male's eyes as he had declared Sarak's fate in the feasting hall. She could not blame Sarak for wanting to avoid that final humiliation.

"You might yet succeed in weaning me from the faral," he continued, although Phada could see that he did not really believe it possible. "But if you do not, I still thank you for ending my miserable existence. You have no cause to feel shame. You did everything you could."

She could not believe what she was hearing. He seemed more concerned about her feelings than he was about dying a horrible, agonizing death. How could he speak so casually of his own demise? Or of her carrying on without his help? No, by the blue sun of Elithra, she was not going to let him die. Too many people were depending on them. Goddess help her, at this stage she was almost willing to mate with him if that was what their success depended on.

His next words took her completely by surprise.

"I know you are a noble town woman from a good family and I am but a crude dominator. But I would have been gentle with you, little wingbird, had you come to me. I would have done everything in my power to give you what pleasure I could, even at the expense of my own. I know you do not believe me about this and I cannot blame you for that. But, Phada, not all warriors take without trying to give something in return."

The next two days passed in a blur for Phada as she cared for the now ranting, out-of-control warrior. Sarak thrashed around on the sleeping pallet until she was sure he would snap the ropes or kill himself trying. During the times he was calm, she rubbed the perspiring skin of his torso with cool cloths and gently bathed his face. She had completely lost her embarrassment at seeing him clothed only in the minimal breechcloth that did little to hide his masculine assets. After all, why should that bother her when she had seen him completely naked and lived to tell the tale? If she were honest with herself, every muscle and sinew of his form had become as familiar to her as her own flesh.

She grabbed snatches of sleep whenever she could. One time she even awoke to discover she had fallen into an exhausted slumber while caring for Sarak, so that she was half lying on the bed, her head next to his. Luckily he was passed out cold when it happened.

She did not mind the times he raved about Dalcor or the Jiboans or the Kargans. Being a witness to snatches of conversations and pieces of already-fought battles did not seem too personal. But when Sarak called out for the queen, Phada felt distinctly uncomfortable having to witness the love, devotion, and yes, even desire for Riga evident on his softened features. She still found it difficult to associate such gentle emotions with a warrior chosen for his brute strength and aggressive tendencies, a dominator trained to serve, even to the point of killing. But the proof was before her eyes.

She grew so tired that all her defenses dropped and she could no longer fool herself about the qualities Sarak had demonstrated since she had arrived. Although he had frightened her when he had tried to coerce her into mating with him, he had never actually carried his purpose through, but had stopped when it became apparent that she was not interested. He had even shown concern about her feelings. Were these the actions of a brute warrior bent on domination?

No, Sarak was different from any warrior she had ever met or heard about. She admired his unparalleled courage and determination. She flushed when she recalled how he had promised to be gentle with her. Was that possible? Of course, he would not be able to crush her because he would be the one lying on the bottom. She felt her pulse begin to throb at the idea of sitting astride Sarak, her lower body pressed against his erect male flesh as the big dominator held her hips.

Was the woman able to retain all control in such a position? She could not imagine Sarak simply lying back and doing nothing. She shook her head in denial at her horribly wayward thoughts. The entire image was too intimate to be tolerated, and she quickly thrust it from her mind.

Even her sister had been curious about the intimate details of the lives of the warriors. At the thought of Chelis, Phada felt her throat tighten. Her sister's sparkling personality had been subdued by the faral, as had her mother's sweet nature and Jobus's fine mind. Phada vowed again that she would do whatever she could to save Mesara.

On the morning of the sixth cycle, Phada checked on Sarak to find him breathing quietly in restful sleep. His color appeared normal and his face did not have that haunted, tense expression that tugged at her heart. She had not thought she possessed an abundance of nurturing instincts, but somehow Sarak had called them forth.

She gazed down to find he had awakened. His brown eyes, when he turned them in her direction, appeared clear and bright. He looked healthy and fit, his mind and body returned to him in full measure. Soon he would not need her anymore, and the thought caused a surprising pang of sadness. For a while a strong dominator had been under her control and it was like having tamed the mythical wild Elithran desert horse who was said to have once roamed the far reaches of the Calabian Desert. Sarak would never allow himself to be broken to anyone's hand, but the illusion of having him at her bidding was tantalizing nonetheless.

"How many cycles have passed since you came here?" he asked, his voice urgent.

"Six."

"Then we must hurry. Dalcor or one of his warriors could show up anytime. They must not find you here."

She sighed. Already he was taking command, as any warrior was taught to do in a crisis situation. The intimacy of their previous relationship was over. She did not regret its passing, but she liked the sense of being in command. Now, although she was his social superior, he was the one with the kind of tactical knowledge they needed and she would have to bow to his superior ability, something she was not often required to do.

"How do you feel?" she asked. "Can you eat something?"

"I am not hungry." He lifted his head from the mattress with a grimace, avoiding looking at her.

"But if you will untie me, I will try."

"Are you sure you are ready?"

"Untie me, Phada. I have shirked my obligations to you and to Mesara long enough."

She hurried over to the sleeping pallet. He must be anxious to be released from the infernal ropes. She could not blame him. She untied one hand but she had to sit on the edge of the mattress in order to undo the knots at his far wrist.

"Do not come too close," he cautioned her quickly. At her surprised look, he explained, "I need a good scrubbing before I am fit company."

You have had one from me, she thought with a wry grimace of her own. I have bathed and handled your body for six cycles; there is little I do not know about you, Sarak. She wanted to laugh aloud at his sudden reticence. It was proper behavior with any Mesaran female, and yet it seemed so ridiculous after all they had gone through. She felt a stab of hurt that he felt the need to revert so quickly and so completely to their designated roles. She was surprised at herself; she had always been such a stickler for the codes. She should be glad that Sarak was doing what had been decreed lawful conduct for over a thousand orbits.

He nodded at her to move aside, then bent forward to take care of his ankles himself. She supposed he was glad to be free again.

"I must stand guard," he said as he swung his legs around and set his feet on the floor. He stood up gingerly, testing his strength. "Curse it, I am as weak as a newborn woodfawn."

"All the more reason you should eat," Phada told him primly.

She served him from the pot of stew she had made earlier before sitting across the table from him. "When will Dalcor come?"

"If he follows the pattern he has established, someone should be here tomorrow." He made a face at his bowl as he swallowed another mouthful. "I wonder if I will ever enjoy food again. It is not your cooking," he hastened to assure her. "The lack is in the seasoning. I have grown too used to that cursed spice."

"I am sure that will change in time," she said as casually as she could, her mind shocked that he still craved the faral.

He shrugged, neither accepting nor denying her statement, and she wondered why she sought to reassure him when she knew so little about what they were trying to do. No one had any idea of the consequences of the spiceexcept perhaps the Kargans.

"That is it, Sarak!" she cried out excitedly. "If the Kargans do more than simply ship the faral to Mesara they might know how to . . ."

Her voice trailed off as she got a good look at the suddenly silent warrior. Sarak's jaw was clenched tight and his hands pressed against his stomach as though to squeeze his body into compliance with his will. Phada had seen him like this before. His beautiful brown eyes were again cloudy with pain. Surely he was finished with these bouts of delirium; surely he had overcome any last vestiges of his hallucinations. How long could the spice continue to affect him before his system was free of its cursed hold?

And then she realized what had triggered the attack. It was the stew. She thought back and realized that every time he ate, especially solid food, he became like this. Somehow, his body expected to have faral along with any nourishment. Phada cursed herself for forcing him to eat.

"You must lie down, Sarak," she said in a loud, clear voice. He did not become as violent as he had during the first few cycles, but he was still a force to be reckoned with and she did not want to have to handle him without the aid of the restraints. She had to get him to the sleeping pallet now, before he became completely uncontrollable.

Thank the Goddess, he cooperated readily enough. She supposed some part of his mind registered the fact that he had done this before and come to no harm. She quickly tied the ropes to his wrists and ankles. He began thrashing and muttering almost immediately. Phada dipped a cloth into the bucket of water that stood by the bed and wiped his face before laying it across his forehead. It seemed to soothe him as it always did and he turned his face toward her as if seeking something more. She indulged herself as she had not before, stroking his whisker-stubbled cheek with gentle fingers. He murmured something and stilled.

The postzenith passed slowly, with Sarak alternating between a drugged sort of sleep and that restless tossing and straining at his bonds that twisted her insides with anguish. She waited until he grew quiet again before hurrying outside. She had to escape from her guilt at not realizing the connection sooner and thus sparing Sarak this latest round of torment. She had to get away for a small space of time.

The blue-tinted sun had crossed its zenith long ago. Although its searing presence still rode a good distance above the horizon, it would soon be evenfall. The air had lost some of its heat. She decided to take a walk through the jungle where she could check on the boat and then along the beach. Perhaps the sight of the brilliant aqua water would soothe her battered spirits.

The gloom of the jungle engulfed her as soon as she stepped beneath its thick, lush canopy of greenery and vines. A screech primate scrambled to put distance between them, but the insects carried on with their busy humming and buzzing. Phada breathed deeply of the humid air, thick with the scent of rata flowers and jasa blooms. It was familiar and beloved but she could not seem to enjoy it.

After assuring herself that the boat remained well hidden, she headed back toward the hut. She had been gone long enough; it was time to check on Sarak. She pushed aside the last hanging vine, although she remained in the shadow of the trees so her eyes could adjust to the sunlight. Some movement, a bird perhaps, caught her eye and she gazed out to sea.

"Oh no," she breathed aloud in despair.

It was a boat. Although still a good distance away, Phada could see the small cabin on its deck and the movement of the oars.

"Please, Lady Goddess, no," she prayed, knowing it was useless. She wished she were she were only viewing the effects of a sea mirage, but she was afraid it was all too real.

Dalcor had arrived a cycle early.

Chapter Eight

Sarak groaned as he awakened from the nightmarish dream. In it he had been running, pursued by a band of fierce Kargans who chased him through the jungle. Each time he thought he had eluded them, they reappeared, the sound of their pounding feet echoing in his head. He tried every jungle trick he knew and still they edged closer until Sarak had dared to glance over his shoulder, only to discover that they threatened him with shakers of faral instead of weapons.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the tantalizing image of the spice. Curse every black-hearted, sun-scorched son of a Kargan, but his mouth still watered when he thought of sprinkling the vile, enslaving substance on his food. The power of a simple condiment to control his every waking moment still shocked and dismayed him. Mesara's mortal enemy had conquered them without ever picking up a swordor even showing up for the battle. He tried to stretch his stiff shoulders, then realized he was still tied to the cursed sleeping pallet. His wrists and ankles ached abominably and his stomach continued to roil as it had for what seemed like endless cycles. He could not remember how it was to feel healthy and whole. He could barely remember yestercycle. Why could he not just die and be at peace?

He gazed around the empty hut. Where was the Keeper's apprentice? He needed to relieve himself and soon. ''Phada?" His voice came out in a croak. He licked his lips and tried again, more loudly this time. "Phada, where are you?"

No answer. Maybe she had finally had a bellyful of his groveling, faral-craving ways and returned to Mesara. He would not blame her for choosing such a course, although she could have at least untied him before she left.

He snorted in disgust at his conjecture. Of course she had not departed. She had the mad notion that she should save Mesara, and she was as tenacious as a swarm of hungry battleflies, once she got an idea into her pretty little head. Too bad he was the one she had chosen to assist her on her self-appointed mission. True, she had been given no choice, but she would have been better off staying in the sanctuary and taking her chances acting the part of a faral-dependent slave of Dalcor and his warrior band rather than spending her days being forced to come into contact with his crude, disgusting dominator's body.

By the blue moon, he was in a foul mood. He knew he should not take out his frustration at his own weakness and ineptitude on the Keeper's apprentice, but she was the only one within range. He hoped she stayed away until he got himself under proper control.

He pulled again on the ropes, grunting as the rough coconut husk rubbed against his bloodsoaked bandages. The sound of Phada's voice penetrated the haze that now cloaked his once-sharp mind. She sounded breathless, as if she were running. How long had she been calling him?

"Sarak," she gasped, bursting through the doorway. "Thank the heavens and all the stars above you are awake. Quickly, you must get up." She staggered across the room, almost falling on top of him as she lunged for his ropes.

He smiled at her urgency as she freed his hands. What wild idea had she conjured up now? "Calm yourself, Phada," he said in a soothing voice. He was surprised to discover that his ugly mood had vanished with her bright presence. "I am feeling somewhat recovered, but I do not think we can rescue Mesara in the next few moments."

"This is no time to jest." She fumbled with the recalcitrant knot at his left ankle, hissing in annoyance from between her clenched teeth when it did not instantly yield. "I just spotted a boat on the horizon."

"Dalcor," he breathed, reaching down to brush aside her hands and taking care of his other leg himself. "It is just our cursed luck he is early."

"I ran all the way back, so I do not think he has gotten far. We still have some time."

"Not much," he muttered. "I want you out of here now. I am taking no chances that he might spot you." He gathered up the ropes and shoved them into her arms. "Take these and your pack and hide yourself in the jungle. I want you to go as far as you can, beyond where the pathway ends. I do not want you near this place, do you understand?"

"What about the other hut?"

"I will check to make sure there is no evidence of your presence. Now go!"

She did not even question the way he was barking orders at her. It was obvious she was frightened and looked to him to keep a cool head, something he had once had a reputation for doing. She was a scholar, not a battle tactician, and this was the first skirmish in their private little war with Dalcor.

She paused in the doorway. "Sarak?" she said in a small voice. "How many will there be?"

"Most likely two."

"Will they give you more spice?"

"That is what they are here for."

"Will they then leave?"

He wanted to lie to her, but somehow he could not. "I do not know, Phada," he finally replied.

"Suppose they want to take you back to Mesara?"

He shrugged at the obvious answer to that. There was nothing he could do if that was their intention. Even if he tried to fight, they would knock him over the head with the flat edge of a sword and haul him onto the boat.

She nervously fingered her pack, her eyes on the floor. "They will not make you eat it while they watch, will they? I saw warriors do that often in Mesara, on days when they were feeling particularly spiteful."

"It depends if they are in a hurry. Do not worry; I have a plan in case they do."

"What plan?"

"Never mind, we do not have time to discuss it. You must trust me."

"I do trust you," she said with a simplicity that touched a dark corner of his heart that had not seen light since he was a boy. He wanted to kneel at her feet in gratitude, as he had once done with the queen.

"Good," he said. They walked together into the bright sunlight, both of them blinking at its harsh glare. "Now go quickly. As soon as they are gone, I will come fetch you. You are not to return by yourself. It is too dangerous."

She looked as if she wanted to say more, but she turned on her heel and fled along the rocky path that led to the jungle. He watched her go, wondering if it would be the last time he would ever see her. She might be worried about his willpower, but he could not believe the fear he felt for her. The thought of Dalcor or one of his minions finding Phada, laying their rough hands on her as they dragged her back to Mesara, made him physically ill. She was untarnished by the spice, pure and innocent, in spite of the hours she had spent perusing the ancient texts in the Keepers' Sanctuary that told about the dark ages of their past. If any warrior dared to inflict his lust on her, Sarak knew he would kill the brute with his bare hands.

He quickly checked the other hut but there was no sign that Phada had been there. Why should there be when she had spent all her time with him, trying to sever him from his dependence on the faral? He retraced his steps to his own hut, slipping inside and gazing around one last time to make sure there was nothing to give away Phada's presence. All was clear.

He headed for the beach to await his visitors. Even if he had the time, he would not have told Phada the humiliating details of what he planned to do. He knew if he begged for the faral the warriors would most likely laugh at his enslaved condition, toss him the bag of spice, and leave. The hard part would come later, when he had his hands on the spice and before he went to fetch Phada. He prayed he would be able to resist its temptation. For her sake he had to, no matter what the cost. He did not think he could face her otherwise. He would rather die than witness her disappointment should he fail her.

The boat was only a hundred measures offshore now. He closed his eyes in relief when he saw that neither of the warriors was Dalcor. It looked like Murk and one of the new recruits he had never had the opportunity to meet before Dalcor had seized Mesara.

He stepped into their view, walking slowly, carefully watching each of his steps, the way he might do had he drunk too much vetch. The spice did not addle one's wits the way the potent Jiboan ale did, but the loss of control of the leg muscles was similar, as was the urge to pretend to a normality the individual obviously did not possess. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two warriors jump to shore.

He stumbled to a halt 20 measures away.

"How the mighty have fallen, eh, Halgos?" Murk said to his companion with a knowing smirk. He made sure he spoke loudly enough for Sarak to hear.

Sarak wished he could plant his fist in the other warrior's ugly face. Instead he summoned forth his best ingratiating smile. "Did you bring my supplies?" he called as if he had not heard a word.

The two warriors closed the distance between them with long strides, unhampered by faral-induced weakness. The one called Halgos dumped the sack of provisions he carried on the sand, then placed one ready hand atop his sword.

"Hold, Halgos." Murk laughed. "I do not think you will be needing that. Look"he gestured contemptuously at Sarak. "The spice has finally broken him as it has everyone else in Mesara. See how he rushes to greet us. He cannot wait to get his hands on more faral."

Sarak had to bite his tongue to keep from retorting. Every muscle and sinew in his body urged him to rush the two warriors. Murk might have the clarity of mind not to draw his weapon, knowing that Dalcor had given orders to keep him alive, but Sarak judged that the younger dominator could be prodded into reacting before thinking. For his own part, Sarak did not care if he got himself killed, but he knew it would distress Phada, especially since she had gone to all that trouble to straighten him out. She was counting on him and he knew he could not disappoint her.

Murk gestured toward the sack of supplies. "Maybe we should stay and make you perform for your supper the way the queen's lapdog used to beg at the table. You remember that, do you not, Sarak?"

Sarak glared at the other warrior, not bothering to hide his hatred.

"Times have changed for the better," Murk continued. "Now the queen is the one who begsshe begs Dalcor for admittance to his sleeping chamber so she can impale herself upon his mighty lance."

The two warriors roared with laughter at this sally.

"Shut your foul, lying mouth, Murk," Sarak hissed between clenched teeth, barely able to control his fury at this reminder of Queen Riga's debased condition. "Dalcor may have subjugated her body but he can never conquer her spirit."

"He can and he has," Halgos interjected with a nasty grin. "He has also done something far better. He has repealed the law of stationary mating. Now he can crush her beneath his body and ride her to his heart's content."

Sarak launched himself at Halgos with a roar of protest. He did not care about anything except getting his hands on the other warrior and grinding him into dust. His fingers closed around the younger dominator's throat and he began to tighten his grip. He had never felt anything more satisfying. He ignored the weakness in his limbs, fighting past it. The blood pounded in his brain until he thought his skull would explode, and still he squeezed. Suddenly the world went black as something cracked against the back of his head. His entire body lifted as he was knocked to the sand.

Murk leaned over his prone form, his sword now drawn, the tip of the blade pressing against Sarak's throat until he could feel a warm trickle of blood running down his neck. Halgos held his arms.

"Hear me well, you pitiful excuse for a warrior," Murk snarled, his face twisted with anger. "Dalcor takes the queen to his pallet every night, without fail. He wanted especially for you to know he does it in your memory."

He shoved Sarak's head into the sand with the sole of his leather boot.

Sarak was barely conscious. The pain was almost unbearable and the back of his skull felt as if it had been cracked open with a mallet. He lay there for what seemed a small eternity, although when he finally dragged himself up on one elbow, the sun was still hovering a good distance above the horizon.

Their boat was nowhere to be seen. He realized Murk and Halgos had departed without making him beg as they had threatened. They must have realized they did not need to stoop to such torments, for they had done more damage to him with their cruel words than any actions meant to further humiliate his tattered pride.

He managed to get up on his knees, moaning as he did. The pouch of faral lay to his right in the sand. He reached for it, clutching it in his hand in a death grip. He gazed down at the leather strips that were threaded through the neck of the pouch to hold it closed. Dear Goddess, what was the use? Why not seek the oblivion the faral could give? He could not even help himself, let alone anyone else. The thought of Mesara's beautiful sovereign being held under Dalcor's domination, forced to submit to his lust, sent him spinning downward into the darkest depths of despair. Knowing his former commander, Sarak imagined that his use of Riga was neither gentle nor discreet. He could not banish the image of Dalcor covering the delicate queen with his body, pumping his seed into her.

Sarak had never dared dream of such an act, even with a common Jiboan wench, never mind the queen. It was forbidden for a warrior to mate that way, although of course, all of them had secretly wondered how it might feel to cover a woman's body the way the male partner of a bonded couple was allowed to do.

Sarak knew that several of the dominators took the Jiboan women that way, in spite of the laws. It cost extra and it was a dangerous and deadly game that could end up in banishment, so he had never tried it. He had never felt more than a mild affection for the females with whom he had mated and so had no desire to experience something akin to the sacred act of bonding with them, especially since it could never be permanent. He had assured himself it was better that way, that the Ancients who had devised the laws knew what they were doing when they prescribed such boundaries of conduct for the warrior class, even if those laws had been set forth in a different time and under different circumstances.

Sarak closed his eyes in hopeless dismay. He had no energy to get up. He wished he could just die right here on the sand. He could not bear to think of Phada, nor did he want to have to face her, knowing he would never be the warrior he had once been. He wondered if he would ever again feel pride in his duty to protect Mesara, a privilege he had once taken for granted. He slumped forward, feeling the heat of the sun on his back and especially on the sore portions of his neck and head. Amid the jumble of confused thoughts racing around in his mind, he realized that he was jealous of his former commander's newfound freedom. Of course, Dalcor had taken it to extremes unworthy of a warrior, but the idea of being able to seek pleasure the same as other town dwellers was as tantalizing as it had always been forbidden. It was a traitorous notion and he quickly squelched it, but the images it conjured up were not so easy to dispel.

He had no idea how long he sat there, his head bowed, his eyes closed. The ever-present sun continued to beat down on him, hot and insistent, its rays prickling beneath the top layer of his skin until he knew he would eventually burn, but he did not move. His fingers flexed and he realized he still held the pouch of faral.

Why not? he decided, gazing down at it. He did not need to take the time or the effort to prepare a meal, even though his stomach rumbled. He could partake of the spice now. The thought of its sweetly tempting flavor, along with the sense of oblivion it so easily produced in his body and mind, urged him on. He would hardly even notice his cracked skull after a healthy pinch of faral.

I am sorry, Phada, he thought with sincere regret as he fumbled with the leather ties. You picked the wrong warrior for your avenger. Believe me, it is better this way. The image of her face, filled with concern over his suffering, suddenly flooded his mind. She had not simply cared for him as a healer; she had gone beyond that when she had handled his body, bathing him and cooling his feverish brow with wet cloths.

His loins quickened. Dear Goddess, he realized that at some point during those times she had touched him, he had begun lusting after her. What was it with him and the type of woman he could never have? Why did he have to torment himself with thoughts of something that was forbidden, especially when he knew it was disgusting to her modest sensibilities?

Truly, she was better off without him, no matter what she believed. He could not help her. He only hoped he could face the disappointment he knew he would see in her pale, delicate features.

"Sarak!"

The sound of Phada's voice coming from so close startled him into dropping the grains of spice onto the ground. He looked up to see her coming along the beach toward him, her steps as hurried as she could make them considering the soft, shifting sand. Even from this distance he noticed that her brow was drawn into a worried frown. Her entire posture showed her anxiety.

"Sarak, what are you doing? Why did you not come fetch me? I have been worried sick wondering what happened. Finally I could wait no longer."

She rushed to his side, dropping on her knees next to him. "Ah, you have the faral. Good." She snatched it from his unresisting fingers. "You . . . you did not use any, did you?" she asked, her voice soft and tentative. She tipped her head back, as if to study his eyes, but she immediately straightened. "Forgive me, Sarak. Of course you did not taste the spice. Why would you after all you have been through?"

His gaze snapped to meet hers, shame coursing through him. The only reason he was not already light-headed on faral was that she had not stayed put as he had ordered. "Listen, Phada," he began.

She waved a dismissing hand at him. "You do not have to say another word," she assured him. And then she smiled at him. It was as brilliant as the sun at its zenith, the brightness of that smile. ''I knew you could do it. Did I not tell you?"

He grimaced wryly. "Yes, you told me," he agreed.

"Now we can begin to make the rest of our plans." She rose to her feet, still clutching the pouch in one hand. "First I had better get rid of this."

He watched her march away from him toward the water. He did not utter a sound to stop her, even when she arched her arm back and hurled the faral as far as she could into the sea. How could he tell her after that stunning testimonial of her implicit faith in him? She had trusted him and believed in him, more than anyone ever had, including the queen. She deserved whatever help he could give her. She would learn all too soon that it was little enough. But until then, he swore he would savor the admiration he had seen in her eyes for the wonderful gift it was. And, he promised himself, he would keep his newly discovered lust for her under control. She deserved so much more than to be subjected to that.

She returned to his side, breathless from her sprint back from the water's edge. She plopped down in the sand next to him before reaching for the woven satchel. "I see they left you other supplies." She rifled through the contents. "Good, there is dried meat here. Now I can make us something more filling to eat."

Sarak could not help smiling as he listened to her bright chatter and watched her quick, graceful movements as she repacked the satchel and rose to her feet. Little wingbird, he thought. Her cheerfulness was infectious. She sounded more lighthearted than he had ever heard her. She had every right to be proud of herself. It was her will that had gotten them this far, after all. He was not out of the jungle yet, but even so he was still amazed that the first step in her plan had met with any success at all.

"Come, it is almost evenfall," she said. She started to walk away.

He struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily as he tried to secure his balance, suppressing a groan at the sharp pain in his head.

Phada heard him. "Dear Lady in Heaven, what happened?" she cried, dropping the sack and running back to him. "Are you hurt?" It did not take her long to discover the lump of clotted blood at the base of his skull. The look of pained sympathy on her face was almost enough in itself to chase away the dull, aching throb that had begun in his neck and was now moving to encompass every nerve in his body.

"Cursed bluefly spawn," she muttered in a low voice. "Disgusting dominator brutes."

Sarak flinched at her uncensored words. Although she seemed to treat him as an equal, he must never forget that he, too, was a disgusting dominator brute. Before he could stop her, she slipped a slender arm around his back, using her surprising strength to support him as she helped him walk toward the hut. He did not push her away because he needed her assistance.

It was incredibly arousing to feel the soft curves of her body pressed against him. He had never been this close to a woman like Phada before. Even when he had been tied to the pallet she had not been touching him in so many places at once. He could smell the flowery scent of her hair. It brought back vague yet insistent memories of that first night, when he had ambushed her on the path to the hut. She had been soft and sweet-smelling then as she lay beneath him, trapped in a position no town woman should find herself in with a dominator. He was amazed now that he had remained on top of her like that as long as he had. Of course he had been too spice-addled to move immediately away, although that was no excuse.

Sarak felt himself beginning to perspire as he fought against the waves of dizziness that threatened to engulf him, as well as the intoxicating pleasure at Phada's nearness. The going became easier when they stepped off the sand onto firmer ground.

"I can walk alone now," he informed her gruffly, although he was not sure that was exactly true.

"Of course." Phada blushed as she stepped with alacrity away from him. Obviously supporting his body had been just as much of an ordeal for her, although not in the same way. She must be tired of being forced into unwanted intimacy with him, taking care of him, and tending to his wounds. She must think him a poor example of a warrior. Dominators were trained for strength and agility and here he was, as clumsy as a day-old hound pup.

He crossed the threshold of the hut, grateful for its coolness. He managed to make it across the room to one of the chairs, sinking down gratefully onto its rough surface. Phada gathered a bowl of water and a cloth. He took them from her and set them on the table.

"I can clean the wound," he said.

"Do not be a stubborn mudhog," she scolded him, snatching away the cloth. "Of course you cannot clean it. Unless you have eyes in the back of your head so you can see what you are doing." She dipped the cloth into the water and pressed the cool material against his aching neck. It felt as if an entire swarm of stinging sweetbees were attacking his scalp, but he made no sound. "What did they do to you?"

"It is nothing, a small injury only."

One corner of her mouth crooked up in a smile. "Of course. I had forgotten that it is part of the warrior code not to complain of any kind of bodily discomfort, even a mortal wound."

"This is not a mortal wound."

"I realize that." She chuckled as she applied some of her Keeper's healing salve. Her touch was as light as any wingbird's, her fingers gentle against his sore flesh. "I have to admit that if I had a lump the size of a gull's egg at the back of my head and my hair was matted with blood, I would not be sitting here so calmly."

"I am not so sure about that," he replied.

She lowered her eyes at the implied compliment, then backed away from him with a shrug. "There," she said, gesturing at his head. "That is about all I can do."

"It is more than enough. Thank you, Phada."

She moved toward the hearth, pulling out the heavy pot on its swinging arm so she could fill it. Sarak watched as she began the preparations for their meal, feeling oddly content in spite of his aches. Even the thought of another supper without faral to spice his food did not seem to bother him at the moment.

"I have been doing some thinking these past cycles while you have been waging your battle against the faral," Phada announced.

"And?"

"I think the Kargans may hold the answer to our problems."

He nodded in agreement. "Since they are the ones who produce the faral, that is an obvious conclusion to draw."

"Dalcor has everyone in Mesara working to harvest extra crops, which he then trades to the Kargans for the spice."

Sarak's mouth flattened with anger. "Yes, he has set up a nice arrangement for himself."

"Do you think the Kargans are addicted to the spice as well? Is that why they did not come to do the job themselves?"

"I think the Kargans were happy to get their hands on our goods with so little effort expended on their part. They may yet be planning to overthrow Dalcor at some future time."

"Or they may be perfectly happy with the arrangement as it stands."

"If Dalcor had not betrayed his honor and the honor of every warrior, they would not have found it so easy to conquer us," he said, his voice laced with bitterness as well as disgust.

"In any case, the Kargans are the ones who produce the spice," she pointed out eagerly. "Which means they must know all about it.

"I suppose they do." He shot her a wary frown. "What are you getting at, Phada?"

"We must find out what they know."

"There is no way to do that."

"There is if we travel to their stronghold in Gorod."

Chapter Nine

"Are you mad?" Sarak exclaimed. "We cannot go to Gorod. Gorod lies beyond the Calabian Desert. It is an impossible journey."

Phada frowned at him. She did not think her suggestion was illogical enough to produce such an incredulous reaction. "The Jiboans do it all the time."

"The Jiboans are desert rodents. They are born knowing how to survive in that wretched inferno."

"We could get a Jiboan guide."

Sarak snorted. "A brilliant idea. And which tribe do you suggest we put our trust inthe one who betrayed Mesara to the Kargans?"

She bit her lip thoughtfully. "You are right, of course. We can trust no one but ourselves. However I still believe it is possible to cross the desert."

Sarak lowered his face into his hands. It was several long moments before he finally lifted his head to gaze directly into her eyes, his expression grim. "I am flattered that you think I can do this. I am sorry to disappoint you, but no warrior alone in the desert can last the ten sun cycles it will take to reach Gorod."

"You will not be alone. Did you not hear what I said? I am coming, too."

Sarak slammed his arms against the table in a gesture of pure, unsuppressed astonishment. "Now I know you have truly gone sun-blind mad. You would not last until the first sun's zenith, never mind ten cycles."

Her hands flew to her hips as she glared at him from her position near the hearth. Why was he being such a stubborn mudhog over this? Could he not understand the desperate necessity behind her plan? "Do you have another idea?"

"Not at the moment," he admitted grudgingly. "I have not been able to give it a lot of thought."

"Well, I have. And believe me, this is the only way. Perhaps the Kargans have some kind of antidote for the spice or know of some other way to free people from its enslavement. Once we know the secret, we can return to release the warriors who opposed Dalcor. With you to lead them, they could retake Mesara and restore the queenand Pavonis, if he is still alive," she added darkly. "No one has seen the king since the takeover."

"And no one will ever see us again if we attempt to cross the desert."

"We did not know if you could free yourself from the spice until you tried, and yet you achieved that."

His expression softened and Phada felt a rush of warmth flooding her senses. "No, we achieved that. Although I am not sure I am out of the battle zone yet when it comes to craving the faral."

"I hate to point out the obvious, but there is no faral here to crave," she replied.

"And I am sure a grueling trek through the desert will continue to keep me on a straight and narrow pathway, is that it?" he asked with a rueful grin.

"That is just one of the benefits," she said, warming to her argument. "Surely you can see it is the next logical step. We need help to overthrow the renegade dominators, and the only ones you can trust for that task are your fellow warriors, the ones who resisted Dalcor and were given faral for their pains. Do you not want revenge for their treatmentand yours?"

"More than you know."

Phada smothered a smile. She reached over to casually stir the pot containing their supper, turning her back to him so he would not see the expression of triumph on her face. She had him now, she thought. The urge for revenge was known to be a strong dominator trait. They were ruthless when injured and could not let an insult pass without retribution. "So we will journey to the Kargans' stronghold?"

"No. I will go there alone," he decided.

She let out a surreptitious sigh. He would not defeat her plans so easily. She figured she was already halfway to getting what she wanted. He had agreed to go to Gorod. Now all she had to do was convince him that she should accompany him. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Where am I supposed to go? Dalcor may already have learned of my absence."

"You can hide here."

She shot him a look brimming with disgust. "What happens when the warriors return and do not find you? Do you not think they will turn this island upside down to search you out? And when they do, they will discover me instead."

Sarak groaned. "I cannot take you with me, Phada. There are too many dangers. Not only do we have to cross the great Calabian Deserttwicebut we have to spy on the Kargans about whom we know nothing and escape unnoticed with the secret of the faral. And even if we somehow managed to accomplish all that, we would probably end up dead, or worse yet captured, while trying to sneak into the barracks to free the warriors."

She crossed the room to stand beside him. "Please, Sarak." She touched his arm lightly, then quickly jerked her fingers back, shocked at herself for her boldness. Sarak must also have been surprised, for he flinched beneath her hand.

She took a deep breath before continuing. "It is our only hope. We have already proven that we can be strong if we work together. I may not be much help on the journey to Gorod, but I promise you I will not be a hindrance. Besides, once we get there I might prove useful."

"I do not doubt it," Sarak murmured.

Phada shrugged aside his wryly spoken words. "You will realize soon enough that I am not as brave or as noble as a Keeper should be. But I am willing to do my utmost on this quest. I am sure you have already discerned for yourself how frightened I am of crossing the desert. But I am even more fearful of staying behind alone."

She could not tell him the other reason she refused to stay, that she would worry about him, wondering every mark of every cycle where he was and what he was doing. And what if he never returned? He might be a dominator but she had been forced by circumstances to put all her faith and trust in him, and now that she had, she found herself unwilling to take it back. She had committed herself totally. He was stuck with her whether he wished it or not.

She kept her gaze averted so he could not tell what she was thinking. Of course that meant she could not read his thoughts either, not that she ever managed to achieve that, even in the best of circumstances. Sarak and every other warrior she had ever come into contact with kept their expressions stoic. In fact, she had never seen a dominator actually break into a smile the way Sarak had done with her.

"All right," he agreed. "I do not have much choice, do I?"

"No, I do not suppose you do. Neither of us has had much say in these matters since Mesara was overthrown. We can only hope the Goddess is on our side."

"She dare not be otherwise, not with you mapping out strategy as ably as any war leader." This time Sarak actually grinned. It made him look younger, almost boyish. She wondered what he might have become had he not been chosen to train as a warrior.

"We will need the proper clothing, supplies, packbirds," he continued, ticking the items off on his fingers. "Since we have no coin with which to purchase such necessities, and nothing of value to barter, we will have to steal them." His brown eyes glinted with anticipation. "It will give me great pleasure to turn the tables on those sun-cursed desert vermin for once."

Phada grimaced in concern. "Will they not chase us to get their things back?"

"Not if they have no idea who robbed them. I can make it seem as if Jiboans from another tribe are the culprits."

"When shall we leave?"

"We will rest until evenfall, then eat the meal you have prepared. After that we can cross over to the outskirts of Mesara. With luck, we will find a suitable Jiboan camp by nightfall. I will need deep shadow for cover. If all goes well, we will be measures into the desert and our tracks obliterated before the Jiboans have time to sound the alarm." Phada swallowed hard. Dear Goddess, they were really going to go through with this. She was more than fearful; she was terrified of the task that lay before them. And yet somehow, knowing Sarak would be by her side made everything a lot easier to bear. Who would ever have expected that a dominator's presence could provide such comfort?

Phada tugged on the hood of the loose, flowing robe called a kenta that she wore, pulling it closer around her face to protect her delicate skin. Even though the sun was not yet halfway to its zenith, the day was already blistering. She could feel the searing heat of the sand as it sifted through the leather sandals she wore. At least in Mesara, she could seek the protection of the jungle canopy that provided pleasant shade and shelter. Here in the desert there was not even a single cloud to shield the ground from the blazing rays of the sun.

She had to squint in order to make out Sarak as he walked ahead of her, the lead rein of his dobby trailing loosely over his shoulder. She could not see his face or much of his formsomething she had grown rather used to viewing in her short time with the warriorbecause he wore the corresponding robe and headdress of the male Jiboan called a kanzu. These head coverings, long flowing robes, and layers of light-colored material provided insulation from the extreme desert temperatures as well as protection from the hot sun.

She glanced behind at her own packbird. They were not known for their great intelligence. This particular bird, a female, plodded docilely along in her wake, its throat vibrating to emit a weird, high-pitched noise that Sarak said helped keep them cool. It seemed they had no sweat glands, lucky creatures.

The bird noticed that she was gazing in its direction and chirped cheerfully before returning to its throaty whining. Phada could not help chuckling. Why should she pity the bright-eyed desert dweller when it seemed perfectly content with its fate as a beast of burden? The bird was fitted with a leather-and-wood saddle decorated with red tassels and blue pom-poms, white beads and strings of complicated knots that swayed with its graceless, heavy-footed movements. Phada had no idea what they might symbolize, if anything, but the overall effect was pretty and colorful in the midst of the vast monochrome reaches of the desert.

They had already crossed measure after measure of the pale Calabian sand, overlaid with a hint of green because of the blue rays of the sun. Phada knew they had measures more to cross before they reached even the halfway point. According to the Jiboans, a great oasis lay somewhere out there called the Kali Oasis, a paradise in the midst of the desert inferno, where water gushed to the surface from deep layers of rock, and koalnut palm trees provided blessed shade. Sarak had not actually said so, but Phada believed that unless they found this oasis or another stopping point where they could refill the water bags, they might not be able to make it to Gorod.

''We will make camp here," Sarak called back to her.

Phada nodded before gazing around in dismay. She realized that they would make better time if they moved long after the sun had reached its peak and throughout the hours of the short Elithran evenfall and night, but the thought of setting up a shelter in the middle of this sea of sand dunes at high zenith was not at all inviting.

She held the dobbies while Sarak made quick work of staking out their tent. He unloaded and unsaddled the birds and then settled them against the wall of the tent, which would soon provide at least a modicum of welcome shade as the sun began its afternoon descent toward the western horizon.

At a gesture from Sarak, Phada scrambled inside their makeshift shelter. It was smaller than the hut. Even after he opened one of the side walls to catch any breeze that might be blowing, it still seemed much too crowded for the two of them to coexist comfortably together.

He handed her a graincake and some dried meat. "Not as good as your stew, but it will have to do," he told her cheerfully.

Phada bit into the graincake first. She was not very hungry and it had a flat, unexciting taste that did little to perk her appetite. She glanced at Sarak, who was gnawing at his meat with strong, white teeth. Ever since he had successfully raided that Jiboan camp, he had seemed in good spirits. He was in his element, she supposed, facing danger and the unknown with a warrior's undisputed courage.

She felt very uncomfortable in such close quarters with him, especially now that he was restored to full dominator strength. He had had no further aftereffects from the faral, even when he ate solid food. His brown eyes sparkled with animation and his tanned skin glowed with rude good health. She felt ashamed of her thoughts, ashamed that she still feared he would take her against her will, against every Mesaran law.

She had been told that warriors could go no more than a couple of suncycles without mating. Just because Sarak was tramping through the desert on his way to Gorod for the good of Mesara did not mean he would not eventually seek his own pleasure. Why else were dominators kept separate from the rest of the population? Knowing Sarak as she now did, she believed he would fight the urge as long as he could. But in the end he would not be able to control his deep-seated, lustful warrior instincts.

She had already seen an example of his determination and prodigious strength of will as he battled his addiction to faral. She was counting on him being able to fight his desires longer and harder than any other two warrior combined. For her part, she simply had to take care not to place herself in any more jeopardy than she already was in.

She had not taken this cursed tent into account. She reached for the water bag, brushing against Sarak's arm in spite of her best efforts to avoid it. "How do you know we are going in the right direction?" she asked, more to divert him than because she really wanted the information.

"I do not know for sure. I only know that according to Hotek, we must use the sun's position to keep heading south-southwest."

"Oh. And what about that oasis? Do you think it really exists?"

"If it does, the Kali lies closer to Gorod than to Mesara. According to my calculations, we should reach it in about five more suncycles."

She did not bother to ask what would happen if they missed it or if there turned out to be no such place. It was better not to dwell on one more thing among the many that could go wrong. They had been very fortunate so far, thank the Goddess, and Phada only hoped their luck would continue to hold.

After their brief meal and separate trips outside to relieve themselves, they settled down to rest until late afternoon on the sleep mats Sarak had stolen. Like the tent, they were made from goat hair, which had been dyed in bright colors and densely woven into the intricate patterns the Jiboans seemed to favor. Although she had only spent one entire suncycle in the desert, Phada could appreciate their craving for color and texture.

"We should rest now," Sarak said. As was proper, it was not an order but a suggestion, uttered in a tone of complete respect for her rank. He kept his gaze mostly averted and yet he did not need to look at her to make her feel uneasy. "I know I do not need to remind you that we should conserve our strength whenever we can. The less time we have to spend in the desert, the better."

"Yes, of course," she replied.

Phada was surprised to find that his deferential tone rankled. She did not want him to be so completely subservient, not when it was obvious he was the one with the knowledge they needed to survive. She would be the first to admit she was completely out of her element, tramping through the Calabian Desert with a warrior and a pair of packbirds. The solid realm of the physical was not a place in which she felt comfortable. Books and scrolls, scholarly pursuits, those were the endeavors at which she excelled. All she could do was try to take Helenina's sage advice to heart and hold herself open to these new experiences, gather all the knowledge she could, even about dominators, so that her judgment would be sound and true when the time came for her to make decisions for her beloved Mesara. If that time ever came.

She sighed as she laid her head down on her pack. It was not very comfortable, since she was still wrapped in the voluminous folds of the kenta. She considered removing it but the thought of disrobing in front of Sarak, even though she wore her own tunic underneath, was too embarrassing and perhaps even too dangerous to contemplate.

Sarak had no such compunctions. Even though her back was turned to him, she knew the exact moment when he removed his kanzu. She closed her eyes against the vision of his nearly naked body clad in the warrior's breechcloth, but the image stubbornly persisted. Her discomfort and shame caused the blood to pound through her veins, making her even hotter beneath her robes.

Sarak stared at Phada's back. She was curled into such a tight little ball, he could not imagine she was comfortable, let alone able to sleep. She must not wish him to look upon her with his disgusting dominator gaze. He had tried to keep his avid interest in her cloaked beneath the proper code of conduct, but she was much too intelligent not to be able to sense the way his loins stirred and his body quickened the few times she had touched him.

Did she think he would ravish her on the spot? He had no coin to offer as enticement, not that Phada would ever consider such an exchange. She was not a Jiboan barracks wench with pierced ears and blue tattoos on her forehead. Phada's skin was smooth and unmarked and as soft as the petal of a jasa flower. Even though Mesaran women avoided the sun, her hair had still managed to pick up golden streaks that threaded through its thick length and highlighted its tawny color.

Sarak dragged his mind away from Phada's personal assets but it did him little good. All he could think about was how long it had been since he had tasted a warrior's night pleasure with a bought woman, the only kind of female someone like him was permitted to have. His wild fantasies about Phada had to stop before he disgraced himself. This town woman was a Keeper's apprentice who had come to seek his help. She did not want his lustful and forbidden desires.

If truth be told, neither did the Jiboan females. From what he knew of them, most Jiboan males were greedy for profit. They used their oldest daughters to cement alliances through permanent bonding with males from other tribes; any other female children they had, they brought to the warrior barracks to sell to the highest bidder. These young females accepted the system, for they were eager for the promised chance to buy their way to freedom and their own households after a large enough sum had been earned.

Sarak settled himself on his mat, stretching out his legs but careful not to come too close to Phada's huddled form. By the blue sun and moon, she would not be able to sleep in such a position, especially all bundled up in her robes. She had to rest. They had just begun their trek. Conditions would only get worse.

He knew she was still awake. "Phada?" he called softly.

"Yes."

"You must remove the kenta."

"What?" She scooted the last tiny measure of distance away from him, although she did not turn around.

"It is too warm in this tent to sleep, covered with all that cloth."

He said nothing more. Instead he watched her, his posture stiff and unyielding as he allowed her plenty of time to voice a protest against what amounted to a virtual order on his part. She must have been too shocked at his boldness or too dismayed at his blatant suggestion to speak. Perhaps even both.

Just when he thought he could bear her silence no longer, she finally spoke. "Thank you for your concern but it is not necessary. I am fine as I am."

"Are you?" He reached over to grasp her cloth-covered shoulder, turning her onto her back so he could see her face. As he suspected, her skin was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration and her cheeks were flushed. She lowered her eyes as even more color flooded her face. "You do not look fine," he pointed out in a scathing voice. "I . . ."

Suddenly he was furious at her cringing attitude. He knew he was not being fair to her, knew she had every right to be wary of him after the way he had attacked her the night she had arrived on the island, but he could not help it. He had thought after these cycles together she would have come to realize that simply because he was a dominator did not mean he had to act like a rampaging tuskboar.

"Do not worry, Keeper's apprentice. I know my place and it is not in your sleeping pallet," he told her.

She gasped at his bluntness, her hands flying to her face, her eyes widening with trepidation.

"Sarak, I did not mean . . . that is . . ."

"This situation is no different than it was back at the hut."

She raised her eyebrows, eloquently conveying her disagreement without uttering a word. She was probably still speechless with dread, although he swore he noticed a glint of wry humor lurking in the depths of her blue eyes. Although he did not wish it, he could feel some of his anger dissipating.

"All right, so it is not quite the same," he admitted. "Then you needed to control me with ropes because of the faral. Now I have regained control over myself."

That did not seem to reassure her the way he expected. Curse the reputation all warriors were burdened with in Mesara. According to most Mesarans, no dominator could be trusted to control anything except his weapon. His anger bubbled back to the surface. The word of a warrior was as good as any town dweller's, not that anyone believed it.

"You will be safe enough with me, I swear it on my honor as a warrior," he said, deliberately sarcastic. He turned on his side away from her, pillowing his head on one bended arm and closing his eyes, although sleep was the farthest idea from his thoughts. "Do as you will; it matters not to me."

He lay there beside her, so close and yet as distant in outlook as the farthest antipodes, controlling his breathing to subdue his runaway emotions the way he had been taught at the Warrior Academy. He wished he were back there now. If he were, he would grab a sword and hack one of the practice targets to pieces. Imagining the deed did not offer him much satisfaction. It certainly did not soothe the savage beast inside him. Phada was right. He was an animal to feel the stirrings of desire for a woman not of his own kind, a woman forbidden to him in every way.

He heard her shifting on the mat, followed by another, softer whisper of sound that could only mean one thing. His entire body froze as he listened, unable to believe what his ears were telling him. Phada was removing the kenta.

He could not control the heavy pounding of his quickened heartbeat. He feared she might be able to detect the sound right through the sand beneath them, so loud and powerful did its thudding seem to him. He heard her settle back on the goat-skin rug with a breathless, almost inaudible sigh.

He wanted to leap to his feet, to shout out his gratitude for this small, but significant, sign of trust from her. He managed to contain his roiling emotions, instead contenting himself with a grin.

He vowed she would not live to regret it.

Phada awoke feeling tired and out of sorts. Even in her sleep she had been aware of the necessity of staying on her side of the tent, of making certain her tunic did not ride up her thighs. The effort to ensure those things had used up a good portion of her precious rest. Besides, sleeping through the long postzenith was a jarring and unsettling experience in itself, disrupting her usual cycle of activity. She lay still, using her senses to discover what Sarak was up to. He did not seem to be in the tent. Maybe he had gone outside to check on the dobbies.

She pulled herself to a sitting position and gazed around the interior of the Jiboan shelter. It was still warm. She could sense the hot sun beating down on the roof. Sometime during the postzenith, Sarak had lowered the wall flap. She could see by the shadows around the edges of the tent that a good deal of sand had shifted or blown against the sides while they slept. She wondered with a horrified shudder if one of these times when they made camp they would end up completely buried.

The thought propelled her off her sleeping mat and onto her feet. She reached for the water bag. She felt sticky and hot, but they did not have enough water to indulge in anything more than a small splash on her face and hands and several swallows of the tepid contents. She retied the neck of the bag, then gazed at its strange, rounded shape. According to Sarak, it was made of goat intestines, not a very appetizing thought. In Mesara they used fired clay pots and jugs to hold liquids. No wonder the water tasted strange.

She felt more like herself after she combed and rebraided her hair. After slipping on her sandals, she ducked under the folded-back tent flap that was the door and stepped outside into the blinding desert sun.

It was a mistake. The heat and glare that greeted her almost brought her to her knees. The air in the desert was dry and hard to breathe, unlike the humid atmosphere of Mesara. It burned her lungs and scorched the inside of her nose and mouth at the same time the direct sunlight seared the unprotected skin of her arms and legs.

Sarak came around the side of the tent. "Where is your kenta?" were the first words out of his mouth as he planted himself in front of her, the folds of his kanzu swirling around him.

She could not help grinning at his exasperated tone. "I left it inside," she admitted as she squinted up at him. She could not make out much of his face because of the concealing Jiboan costume, but she was surprised at the way her spirits lifted at the mere sight of him, in spite of his scolding.

"You will burn your skin," he said.

Phada's heart began to pound at the concern evident in his soft comment. His hand moved slightly, as if he wanted to reach out and touch her, but of course that was a ridiculous notion. Still, she had to admit it felt good to know he worried about her well-being. No one had ever done that in quite the same way before.

"I will go put it on now."

"What is it with you and that cursed piece of clothing?" he grumbled, shaking his head in exasperation. "You insist on wearing it when you should remove it and refuse to wear it when you should."

She paused in the doorway to glance back at him. The urge to wipe that serious expression from his face, to soften it into something less formal, was impossible to resist. She assured herself that she was simply feeling benevolent because Sarak had stayed on his side of the tent while they slept. "You are not being fair," she told him with a smile.

"What?"

"I said you are not being fair to me. I took the kenta off when you pointed out the obvious advantages of such an action, did I not?"

He looked startled. "Well, yes, but . . ." ''And now I am putting it back on, again at your eminently sensible request."

"I . . . yes, I thank you, Phada. I am sorry if I offended you, but it is for your own good."

His gaze locked with hers for the briefest moment, his expression unreadable, before he pivoted on his heel and disappeared around the side of the tent. Phada sighed. She had meant to tease him a little, perhaps even thank him for his care of her, and instead it seemed she had insulted him.

She ducked into the tent and grabbed the kenta. Shaking it out, she pulled the simple garment over her head. The warrior took things so literallyand so seriously. He was supposed to be formal and polite with her, but under these circumstances could they not circumvent the rules just a little? She found she desired to know him better, not the warrior but the real individual behind his social role. Was that such a terrible thing?

Yes, she supposed it was. After all, the rules had been carefully formulated to protect the people of Mesara, especially the women, from the aggression and lust of the warriors, instead channeling their natural qualities of strength and dominance into a way of life that had proved its usefulness for everyone. If she let down her guard, there was no telling what the warrior might do, how he might take advantage of her. She could not afford to take that chance.

And yet Sarak seemed different from any other dominator she had ever come into contact with. He had restrained himself with her, even when he had been in the thrall of the spice, even after he had removed his breechcloth and she had seen the force of his desire. He made sure she was comfortable and took care of her. He had even allowed himself to be coerced into following her plan, half-formulated as it was, simply because she had asked him. She could not imagine Dalcor doing such a thing.

No, Sarak was correct to keep a formal distance between them. They could never become friends because they came from opposite sides of the spectrum. She had best leave matters alone and concentrate on the difficult, perhaps even impossible, task ahead, that of getting to Gorod alive and in one piece.

She frowned as she began packing up their meager supplies and possessions. Suddenly the evenfall and night of walking that awaited her seemed the longest and most tedious task she could imagine.

Chapter Ten

Sarak glanced over his shoulder, checking Phada's progress for the hundredth time that evenfall. The sun had dipped below the horizon more than a mark ago, which meant they still had another couple of marks before it would reappear and perhaps another five marks before they would have to stop to rest.

Phada had not complained of anything since they had set foot in the Calabian Desert, not the heat or the pace he was setting or the unappetizing food or the lack of amenities. She had been as brave and stalwart as any warrior under the same circumstances, braver perhaps, since she had never undergone the rigorous training needed to teach her body to submit to her will in spite of hunger, thirst, or pain. He was sure she had never before suffered such hardship and privation.

To his amazement, she had even managed to tease him about it. At least, now that he looked back on the incident, he thought she had been teasing him about the kenta and his instructions regarding her use of it. He had been too thick-headed to realize it at the time and had thought she was complaining about his forward behavior in telling her what to do. The thought of the smile she had bestowed upon him lightened his heart, helping to alleviate his gloomy thoughts regarding the chances of the success of this mission.

She had not been so informal with him since that time. He wondered what he should do, how he should act to merit such treatment at her hands again. He could not tell her how to wear the kenta, for she had quickly taken it off the last two times they had stopped to rest and she had never again gone outside the tent without first cloaking herself within its protective folds. In any case, this time he would be ready if she made another overture. No matter if she joked with him or smiled at him, he would not lose his presence of mind or behave as if his head were filled with rocks.

The sound of Phada talking to her dobby drifted on the soft desert wind to reach his ears. He chuckled to himself. He knew if he turned around now he would see the creature walking with its head just above Phada's shoulder, its beady eyes alert as if hanging on her every word. Sometimes Phada stroked the thick skin of its knobby, featherless skull. The bird seemed to have formed a bond with the Keeper's apprentice, following her around even after they made camp.

He did not doubt that Phada had a kind heart. He imagined that was why she had taken pity on him and treated him the way she did, not like all the other town women who scorned him or cringed from contact with him. He wondered suddenly if Phada would flinch were he to touch her now. He had been very careful to avoid such an occurrence, especially inside the tent where he could see how wary she was of his presence, no matter how she tried to hide it.

Just because she had handled his body during his time of faral enslavement did not mean she had changed her views about dominators. She had touched him out of necessity. It obviously had not stirred her senses the way it had his, nor had it fired her imagination to the point where she had trouble falling asleep the way he did. If his friend Zegon were here he would be quick to point out that Sarak was behaving like a mudhog's ass.

Enough, he sternly ordered himself. He brought his mind back to the task before him, shading his eyes with his hand as he scanned the horizon. So far they had been lucky that they had not been sighted by any of the Jiboan tribes that roamed the desert. He had tried to pick a route away from the main concentration of Jiboan travel, but there were many smaller, related tribes who inhabited the Calabian. It was up to him to ensure they did not accidently stumble upon one of them.

One thing he knew for certainhe was heartily sick of the sight of the endless measures of pale green sand and shifting desert dunes that stretched out before him. He was not sure he could bear to listen much longer to the constant whining of the dobbies as they vibrated their throats in unison. No one knew exactly how they were able to go for such long stretches of time without food or water but it was suspected it had something to do with that irritating habit.

He realized the whining had ceased when the musical chirping of Phada's dobby broke into his musings. He slowed his pace, waiting for her to catch up. He noticed she did not even carry the lead rein anymore; she did not need to, since the packbird followed her most willingly. He could not fault the loyal creature, not when he felt his own gaze rivet onto what he could see of her face beneath the hood of the kenta. "What are you saying to that annoying bird?" he asked, truly curious. "Or maybe I should ask what it is saying to you."

"She is not annoying," Phada retorted, laughing up at him. Sarak felt his heart turn over at the sound. "Her name is Gisba and I was telling her what a good job she is doing to carry her load so cheerfully. You should try such sweet encouragement with yours."

I would like to try it on you instead, Sarak thought. He knew he would willingly walk into flames if Phada whispered such encouragement in his ear. "I do not think she likes me," he replied instead.

Phada chuckled. "That is because you do not appreciate her. Did your father not tell you that women like to be appreciated?"

"My father disowned me before witnesses in the town square when I was ten."

"Oh." She hesitated, unsure of what to say.

Sarak braced himself for some careless, cutting remark. Town dwellers were remarkably insensitive to the realities of a warrior's life. True, his father had taken the usual behavior to extremes by publicly disowning him. But it was not uncommon for families to ostracize a male child after he had been ordered to the Warrior Academy, nor for the rest of their neighbors to follow suit. Most warriors never saw their parents again until many sun orbits later when they were posted to duty in the town, but by then the connection had been severed, both emotionally and physically. It was never acknowledged by either of the parties.

"That was a harsh thing for him to do."

"No harsher than what the other fathers did. At least mine dealt me a clean, quick blow. I did not have to sit and wait every mooncycle for the visits that never came." "I did not realize a family could visit a warrior son. Actually, I do not know of any families whose sons became warriors."

"That does not surprise me. I warrant you have never heard of one single family who ever spawned a dominator."

She wrinkled her brow as she trudged along in the sand beside him, considering his statement. "You are right; I have not."

He snorted. "Do you not find that odd?" he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from coloring his voice, even after all these orbits. "Does no one ever wonder where all the warriors come from?"

"We all know where they come from," she answered piously. "And we are grateful to the boys who sacrifice themselves for the sake of Mesara and choose that as their life path."

"Choose!" He jerked to a halt so quickly his dobby nearly collided into his back. The bird backed off, blinking in confusion as Sarak raged. "You think young boys voluntarily choose such a life for themselves, ostracized from the community, scorned, and reviled? Is that what that lying pack of Keepers with their colorless tunics and sanctimonious faces taught you?"

"Oh!" Phada's mouth dropped open in outrage. She closed it with a snap, glaring at him. "Now I understand what my teachers meant when they warned me about warriors. They said that dominators were crude and ill-tempered, that they were not fit company for anyone except their own kind, which is why they are kept away from the rest of us in barracks. Obviously they were not mistaken in their conclusions."

Sarak found himself speechless. It was bad enough knowing the town dwellers thought, and sometimes spoke aloud, such sentiments about the warriors. But hearing Phada utter them with such vehement belief was the most horrible experience he could remember since his miserable early days at the Warrior Academy.

She tossed her head scornfully as she resumed walking. "Come along, Gisba," she said to the attentive dobby. "We have many more measures to cover before this wretched night is over."

Keeper's apprentice and packbird marched blithely away. Silly Mesaran female, she did not realize she had somehow turned herself around and was now headed in the wrong direction. He glanced up at the sun and then swept his gaze across the horizon. With a sigh, he tightened his grip on the reins of his dobby and started across the sand at a sharp angle from Phada's course.

"Gorod is this way," he announced curtly.

She did not say a word in reply, but after a short while he noticed that she was once again following him, although at a greater distance than she had kept between them previously and off more to the side. Obviously she did not want his rude, barbarian presence to contaminate her line of vision.

Out of sight, out of mind did not work so easily for him. The night dragged on as they walked what seemed like endless measures, slogging through the heavy sand that did its best to impede their progress. The air grew uncomfortably cool as the sun kept its vigil just below the horizon for far longer than it did in Mesara. Even watching the moon rise after a seven-cycle absence did nothing to lift his spirits. Although Phada was also bathed in its soft blue light, he realized they were poles apart in their training and outlook.

Which was as it should be, he supposed. He was the one who had foolishly believed he glimpsed something more in Phada. Once again, in his ignoranceor perhaps his pridehe had reached beyond himself only to be shot down.

This time he vowed to learn from his mistakes instead of repeating them. No matter what happened on this trek, no matter what the Goddess had in store for him, he was a warrior and would always remain one. The urge in him to protect was strong; if he had to exercise it at the expense of some of the other qualities he possessed and endure the derision of the very people he had sworn to protect, then so be it.

"It is time to set up camp," Sarak announced briskly.

He did not look at Phada and she did not even raise her eyes to glance at him as he began to stake out the tent. As she waited on the searing sand, she took a swig of water, then offered some to Gisba.

"When you have no water left, after wasting it on that brainless packbird who is better used to doing without it than you are, do not come begging for some of mine."

You would like that, would you not, mighty dominator, she thought angrily. Her jaw tightened but she hid it, instead casually retying the thong that closed the neck of the water bag. "I ask nothing of you save that you carry out the mission we agreed upon."

"I gave you my word on that."

She was so tense she almost laughed out loud as he stomped off to unload his still nameless dobby. And then she wanted to cry. Phada knew it was foolish to give her water to the bird, but somehow Gisba had become a companion on this journey. Phada had actually grown fond of her funny face and beady eyes, her tall, awkward body and heavy, clawed feet. Without the packbirds, they would never be able to reach Gorod alive and she, for one, was grateful for their contribution.

Sarak disappeared into the tent without another word. She had no desire to crawl in there with him, but she had no choice. She needed her rest and she could not stay out here in the blazing sun. She settled Gisba next to her companion by the side of the tent and then slipped inside.

"If it were possible, I would offer to sleep outside to save you from my unwanted presence," Sarak announced as soon as she had settled herself on her sleeping pallet.

Phada experienced a guilty start as she glanced at his stiffly held body and unyielding profile. If she did not know better, she might almost believe she had hurt his feelings. No, that could not be. Warriors were reputed to have thick skins. None of the insults she had ever heard tossed in their direction seemed to have any effect on them, so why should her puny disapproval bother Sarak?

She had gone over in her mind what he had said this afternoon and she was beginning to feel guilty. After she had managed to get past his insult to the Keepers, she realized he had stated emphatically that he had not chosen to become a dominator. According to him, no one willingly picked that path. Then how had he become a warrior? Now that she thought about it, the entire process was all very hushed up. Of course, being a girl, she had attended First Training with other girls and so had no idea what the boys did or what they learned. She had assumed that they made the decision then, as she had to become a Keeper.

She got angry all over again when she recalled how Sarak had accused the Keepers of lying. The Keepers had always held a position of high honor in Mesara, since the early days after the downfall of warrior rule. They were respected for their devotion to truth and justice. They would never lie. Perhaps some young warriors-in-training regretted their decision after arriving at the Warrior Academy and so pointed their fingers at others for what they considered their misfortune. Dominators were not always known for having the best characters.

And yet Sarak had demonstrated through his actions that he was as honorable as any Mesaran male. She could not imagine him blaming someone else for something he had done.

She removed her kenta without a word. It was very hot inside the tent; the air pressed against her like a smothering blanket. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Sarak crawled over to one side and lifted the flap to allow the breeze to enter. The air was too hot for it to make much difference, but still he made the gesture.

''Here. Have something to eat," he said, holding out the inevitable graincake and chunk of dried meat. She took them from his hand, feeling ashamed. Even now, even knowing she was angry and refused to speak to him, he still offered her food and worried about her comfort. Perhaps she was being too hard on him, especially since she needed his help. Of course it was his duty to protect Mesara, so she should not even have to ask, but she still felt beholden to him for agreeing to what many would consider an impossible scheme.

She did not know how to break the silence or the tension between them, so she lay down instead. She realized she had neglected to tend to her needs outside, but it did not seem pressing. The dry desert had absorbed all the moisture from her system. Sleep was what she needed now. Things would look different after she slept.

Her restless body and busy mind decreed otherwise. She tossed and turned throughout the morning and into the postzenith. The air inside the tent grew hotter and hotter until she wished she could remove her tunic as well, a scandalous thought indeed. Sarak lay quietly beside her, his breathing deep and even. The sleep of the guiltless, she thought sourly, while she kept running their conversation over and over in her head.

She must have finally drifted into slumber because she found herself awaking with a start sometime later, her heart pounding, her throat dry and raspy. The water she had consumed just before going to sleep had cycled through her system and she needed to go outside.

She glanced over to find that Sarak was not on his pallet. Instead, he was crouched in the corner farthest from the tent flap which led outside, his back to her and his head to the ground. What in the name of Elithra was he doing? she wondered with a puzzled frown. When she returned she would ask him, she decided as she stumbled to her feet. She did not have the strength or the willpower to remain angry at him. He was her only companion besides a packbird. He was not talkative by any means, but she missed the conversations they had.

"Do not go out there," Sarak hissed.

Phada stared at him, shocked at his harsh tone. She had thought he was not sulking, but she had been wrong. She ignored him, moving quickly toward the exit. She could not believe it when he made a diving grab for her legs. With a small yelp, she managed to escape him as she tumbled outside into the late postzenith light.

Of all the brazen actions, she thought, scrambling to her feet, then bending from the waist to brush the sand from her calves and the hem of her tunic. Sarak was a beast, a brute, and she should never forget that fact. She should not have let down her guard as much as she had.

She straightened her spine, still facing the tent. Suddenly she felt the back of her neck prickle as if someone were staring at her. Gisba, she thought, smiling. She spun around only to find a menacing group of Jiboan males surrounding the tent. "What have we here?" It was the tallest figure, the one directly across from her, who had spoken. He seemed to be their leader, since he was the only one who sported a fancy ceremonial dagger, encased in a colorful, highly decorated leather sheath that dangled around his neck on a length of golden chain. The others had daggers at their waists, but they also carried bows slung across their shoulders. She could see only his dark eyes, but they stared at her assessingly. Did he truly expect her to answer? Where was Sarak anyway? She backed up until the wall of the tent stopped her.

"She is Mesaran. A Keeper by the look of her tunic," another pointed out.

"Why was she wearing the kenta of the Tuargas then?" a third questioned in a suspicious voice. "Mayhap she is spying for them."

"I am no spy," Phada quickly denied. She had no idea who these Tuargas were, but they were obviously not thought of very highly by this particular band of Jiboans.

"Where is your companion?" the leader asked.

Before she could answer, the sound of a scuffle coming from somewhere behind the tent reached her ears. The leader jerked his head and four of the group disappeared around the sides of the tent. Phada closed her eyes against the grunts and the sound of fists against flesh. Sarak was strong, but he could not hold out against such numbers.

She opened her eyes just in time to see four of the Jiboans dragging Sarak before the leader. They forced him to his knees with the assistance of their sharp, shiny daggers. Phada had never seen such weapons. Their viciously curved blades came to a point more lethal than the tusk of a giant jungle boar. Dear Goddess, one of those points barely rested against the back of Sarak's neck and yet it had sliced his skin. "It is him, Wodabi," one of the Jiboans yelped with barely restrained excitement. It was hard to tell who was speaking, since their headdresses covered their mouths and chins.

"You speak true, Babua." That was the leader again. Phada would recognize his harsh, rasping tones anywhere. She did not know if his name was Wodabi or if that was his title, but she wished she had never lain eyes on him.

She glanced at Sarak, clad only in his breech-cloth. His expression was stoic, in spite of the lump she could see rising above his temple and the blood running between his shoulders. He did not meet her gaze but she expected he had other things on his mind than worrying about her.

Each Jiboan had on a nearly identical kanzu of red and yellow, although the basic diamond pattern was different for each. There were thirteen males, none of them as tall or muscular as Sarak, but they were overwhelming in their numbers. Off to one side, she noticed that the women and children were approaching, burdened down with tents and water bags and other supplies. They stopped a good distance from the males, although they did not relinquish their loads.

"Sarak!" Wodabi barked out the name.

Sarak did not move, but she could not help gasping in surprise. She wanted to kick herself for giving his identity away. Wodabi grinned; she could tell by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Forgive me, Sarak, she thought, although of course it did little good because he could not hear her.

"We have been told of the warrior who escaped from the Uninhabited Island. I am sure Dalcor will pay well to have you returned." He pivoted toward Phada, his eyes gleaming with greed. "And you, little Keeper. I have heard that the warriors of Mesara have developed a taste for town women along with our comely Jiboan females. Is it really true that all Keepers are virgins? If so, we can collect a tidy sum selling such forbidden fruit to the highest bidder."

Phada shuddered. The thought of being sold to a rutting warrior turned her stomach. Of course Wodabi had his facts wrong. Keepers remained celibate after they took their vows but that did not necessarily mean they were virgins. She did not bother to correct his error.

He gestured toward the group of women. "We pitch camp here," he announced, and then turned back to Sarak. " 'Tis a rare pity you wore the distinctive robes of our hereditary enemies, the Tuargas. We have been following you for two suncycles, thinking you were one of them. Now we have garnered a much greater prize."

"No warrior will mate with a Keeper," Sarak said. "Let her go."

"I think we will let the marketplace decide that, eh, brothers?"

The other Jiboans laughed, a horrible wheezing sound that made Phada want to clap her hands over her ears.

"Our coffers have been empty for too long, thanks to our conniving Tuarga kinsmen," he continued in a less jovial tone. "It is only fitting that someone using their robes as a poor disguise against capture should help us to fill our purses with coin."

"What shall we do with them?" the one called Babua asked.

"Put the woman in the tent. We must pamper her fair skin in order to make the best deal. Leave the warrior outside. Mayhap the heat of our desert sun will burn some of that stubborn defiance from him."

He strode away across the pale green sand, accompanied by eight of his followers. The four holding Sarak pushed him to the ground while another grabbed Phada and shoved her inside the tent. She waited until her breathing had slowed before daring to push aside the tent flap and peer out. She saw that the Jiboans stood in a semicircle around Sarak, effectively trapping him against the front of the tent.

She dropped to her knees just inside the door. "Sarak. Are you all right?" she hissed.

He merely grunted. She supposed it was not the most brilliant of questions under the circumstances.

"I am sorry I went outside when you warned me not to. I did not know they were waiting for us."

"It matters not. I do not believe it would have made much difference. There were too many of them."

"What are we going to do?"

Before he could answer, one of the Jiboans paced over and smashed his fist against Sarak's head. Phada gasped, horrified. The blow was so hard it knocked him to the ground. She knew she should move away from the tent entrance but she was rooted to the spot. Tears filled her eyes at her helplessnessand his.

"I have no plans right now, Phada," he replied in defiance of his captors' obvious wish that they not converse with each other. His rebellious statement earned him a backhanded slap across the cheek.

Phada had to exert all her willpower to keep from running outside and screaming at them to stop abusing him. She knew it would do no good. She forced herself to sit down, determined to think through their options. It was better if they could seem to cooperate, at least until they came up with some plan of escape. What on Elithra that might be, she had no idea.

Mark after sun clock mark passed and still they left Sarak in the scorching sun with no protection. Phada periodically prowled the confines of the small tent, wringing her hands in frustration. She even dared to lift the flap and peek out at Sarak a couple of times. He sat on the sand, his back hunched over and his arms around his knees to protect as much of his body from the sun's blistering rays as he could. She noticed that the skin of his back had a pink tinge beneath his tan. Later, she knew, it would turn a more painful shade of red. She wondered if he were cursing her and wishing she had never come to his island.

Finally she grew too exhausted to pace and slumped down in a dejected heap on her sleeping mat. She might as well face it: they were doomed to be returned to Mesara. Sarak would end up back in Dalcor's hands. She knew the usurper would have no mercy on his former second-in-command. As for her, she would be forced to become a pallet partner to an endless array of brute dominators, to mate against her will, against all that Mesara held sacred. Right now, death seemed a blessing.

She raised her head when she heard a commotion outside. Before she could compose herself or even sit up properly, the flap of the tent was flung open and two Jiboans ducked inside. They gestured for her to rise. One of the robed figures exited the shelter while the other motioned her to follow. As soon as she cleared the door, the first Jiboan grabbed her arm and began to escort her in the direction of the largest tent.

The desert dwellers had wasted no time in setting up their camp. Goat-hair tents of various sizes, their sloping silhouettes similar to the one Sarak had stolen, dotted the area, all in that same combination of red and yellow. It gave an overall orange effect that was quite colorful, like flames against the pale green of the desert sand and the blue sky.

After blinking to adjust her eyesight to the still potent blue-white sun that was slowly sinking toward the western horizon, she noticed that Sarak was being dragged in the same direction, just a few measures ahead of her. A Jiboan on either side held him by the arms, helping to keep him upright in the soft, shifting sand because his hands had been tied behind his back with leather thongs.

This must be Wodabi's tent, she decided, as her gaze took in the elaborate decorations that graced the entrance. A pair of what looked like some kind of desert antelope had been embroidered on either side of the door, while large, fringed bags covered with blue beads and obviously containing supplies, hung from poles. The ceremonial knife that she had noted before dangled directly over the portal. Rows of pots and dishes inlaid with precious stones proclaimed the wealth of the owner for all to see. Gaily colored woven rugs jutted out from the interior of the tent, covering the sand and marking the path inside.

If this was a poor tribe, she wondered which ones were considered rich. She hesitated on the threshold, beneath the canopy that provided a buffer between the glare outside and the noticeably cooler interior. The men at her side prodded her to move forward, so she had no choice but to enter. She did not have to duck her head to come inside Wodabi's dwelling.

They marched her down a narrow corridor formed by woven curtains on either side that swayed with the motion of their passing. And then they shoved her onto the rug-covered main area of the tent.

Chapter Eleven

A loud, raucous cry went up from the assembled Jiboans as Phada stumbled into their midst. She stared through the smoke-filled air of the shelter, trying to focus on the vague shapes that surrounded her. As her vision cleared, she gasped in shock, realizing with a start that she was standing in the middle of a circle of Jiboan males who gazed at her leeringly. They had removed their disguising headdresses and now she could see that the skin on their faces was tattooed with blue markings that traced exotic patterns along their foreheads, snaking down across their cheeks. It appeared savage to her, like something from a nightmare. She tried not to show how badly it unnerved her.

The females and children were seated behind the males, forming an outer circle, the shadowy outlines of their bodies blending into the dark corners of the spacious interior. They, too, had taken off their veils and headdresses and Phada could see their black hair shining beneath the light of the lamps. Many of the women had pierced ears from which dangled shiny circlets of silver and gold that caught the light. They seemed to have a single blue line marking their foreheadsit curved to an elaborate peak at the center before dipping down to undulate just above either eyebrow and ending in a decorative swirl at their temples.

Some of the members of the tribe sipped a beverage from a sieved metal straw out of what looked like the pod of a koalnut tree. Everyone had platters of strange-looking food before them. The smell of fresh-cooked meat drifted through the air. Phada was surprised to feel her stomach rumble. She had forgotten all about food. Her last meal had been consumed many marks ago, just before she and Sarak had settled down to rest.

Sarak was already there, standing to her right. Except for his raw, sunburned skin, he appeared to be all right. He glanced at her once, his dark eyes eloquent with meaning. She immediately made a move to close the distance between them, but he shook his head ever so slightly. She stayed where she was, puzzled by his action. The Jiboans already knew they were traveling together; they were both in a sea of trouble, why could they not stand together against their captors?

Her heartbeat accelerated. Maybe he had a plan. She gazed around at the blue-tattooed faces, realizing how very outnumbered they were. More likely, knowing Sarak, he probably hoped to draw attention away from her, although in their present predicament, located at the center of every gaze, that seemed impossible. Still, if he wished her to stay put, she would not defy him.

"Sit. Make yourselves comfortable."

This inane comment came from Wodabi himself and brought another ringing chorus of laughter. Phada had not noticed him at first because he was seated behind her, closer to the door than to the center of the room, and he was surrounded by his inner circle of males. He looked strong and fierce, with a head of curly black hair and startling white teeth that flashed when he laughed. His skin was more swarthy than some of the others', and the blue tattoos on his face were not as noticeable. His eyes were the same as she remembered from earlier though, intense and shrewd and so dark in color Phada thought they might actually be black. He did not look like someone she wanted to pass within a thousand measures of, never mind share table talk with in these close quarters.

Sarak jerked his head at her. She frowned. If he wanted her to sit, she would sit. She had no idea of the customs of these people, but she did not think their offer was one of hospitality. She lowered herself to the rug, feeling behind her with her hands as she bent her legs to one side. She did not take her eyes off Sarak in case he wanted her to do something. Sarak managed to sit more gracefully, in spite of his bound hands.

No one bothered to offer them food or drink, although Phada noticed several of the women staring in her direction, their expressions filled with pity. Whatever was in store, she did not think she was going to enjoy it. She glanced at Sarak from time to time, but it was obvious he was not going to acknowledge her, so she focused her attention on the pattern in the rug beneath her. In fact she scrutinized it so long and so hard she should be able to weave an exact replica of the quivering lines and diamond shapesif she ever managed to get out of here.

Her eyes watered from all the smoke in the room. As if the crude lamps which gave off a grayish haze along with their light were not enough, many of the men puffed on pipes filled with some horrible plant or herb. Whatever it was, the stench was awful, sharp and bitter, and it made her eyes smart and her lungs wheeze.

Suddenly a hush fell over the assembly. Phada waited nervously. To her surprise, the sound of music filled the tent. She turned her head to find that several of the males had picked up the Jiboan version of a stringfiddle, filling the air with their mournful notes. They started out with a slow, deep rhythm. People clapped along, but then the pace picked up, faster and faster until Phada found her heart beating more quickly in anticipation, although she did not know what to expect.

Loud, feminine screams erupted from the entranceway, followed by the screamers themselves, four Jiboan females in filmy garments that flowed around their lithe bodies, along with their waist-length black hair as they leapt into the inner circle and began dancing. They swirled and dipped, waving their arms in graceful arcs and flinging their hair around as they circled closer to Sarak. The men shouted ribald comments which only seemed to incite them to wilder movements.

Sarak did not move. Instead he stared straight ahead, seemingly unheeding of the tangle of graceful female bodies that ebbed and flowed around him. Phada returned her attention to Wodabi. She noticed the malicious hostility glinting in his eyes and realized that this performance was for Sarak's benefit, although what the Jiboans hoped to achieve with it was beyond her.

Wodabi held up his hand and the music instantly stopped. ''I see that our guest is trying to appear uninterested in the pageant before him, when we all know Mesaran warriors have a definite taste for Jiboan female flesh." Several of the males guffawed while some hooted in derision. "I do not wonder at this, for Dalcor has told us of your reduced male powers. Did he make you a eunuch that you do not react to what is displayed before you?"

A muscle twitched in Sarak's cheek but otherwise Phada could detect no other movement. He must be made of stone, she thought as she shifted to relieve the discomfort of sitting in a position to which she was not accustomed. One of the dancers moved closer to Sarak, leaning down with exaggerated motions to lift his breechcloth and peer beneath it. Phada blushed at her boldness but the woman seemed to have no such compunctions as she rose to her feet and grinned, shaking her head in denial of the charge.

"He has all the right parts," she announced. The group roared in reply.

"No matter," Wodabi continued with an evil smile. "However Dalcor achieved it, we know that your strength has been drained away at the same time that your desires have become heightened. It will be amusing to watch you respond to the wiles of Mahina and the others, although I am sorry to tell you that you will not be allowed to find relief."

Phada jumped to her feet, unable to restrain herself another millimark. "You are the worst brutes I have ever known," she screamed at the startled leader. "Is this what you call entertainment, thirty of you goading a single warrior who is tied? How brave! How heroic! I would think you could find something better to do. I do not wonder that the Goddess has cursed your people to roam the desert for all eternity."

"Phada, do not distress yourself," Sarak said, his gaze suddenly riveted on her face where before he would not even look at her. "I can deal with this."

"Deal with it? These people are barbarians," she cried. "You are worth more than all of them put together."

Something flashed in his dark eyes, but before she could think about what it meant, two wiry Jiboans grabbed her arms and dragged her over to the low table in front of Wodabi.

"Sit here, little firespitter," he said, grinning. "I admire your loyalty to a warrior we both know is beneath you in every way."

She made no reply to that, not trusting herself to answer civilly, which she knew she must do unless she wanted to get herself into more trouble.

"I like your spirit," the tattooed leader continued. "I promise you have nothing to worry about until we get to Mesara. Come, ease your mind. I will make you the same offer we give our excess daughters and allow you to keep a percentage of the money you earn coupling with the warriors."

"Why in the name of Mother Elithra would I want to do that?"

He laughed at her ignorance. "Because in time you will be able to buy your freedom."

He looked so pleased at what he considered his own generosity that Phada yearned to spit in his blue-tattooed face. She managed to restrain herself. Carrying on like a wild clawcat was not going to get her anywhere, she reminded herself. She had to learn everything she could about these people in the hope that it would eventually be useful.

"How much of a percentage do you give them?"

"Two. Sometimes five if they are really eager."

"You mean you keep ninety-eight percent of the profits for yourself?" she yelped. She could not even begin to inject enough scorn into her voice to reflect the disgust she felt at such unfairness, especially when the daughters were doing all the work.

"Of course." He offered her a portion of the meat he was eating. She refused, hungry though she was, because he had already gnawed off one corner. "Only the eldest daughter can be given in bonding, so this allows the others a way to buy their own tent and their freedom. And it fills the tribe's coffers. Everybody gets something."

Phada rolled her eyes, but the leader did not notice. He clapped his hands and the music recommenced. The dancers closed in on Sarak, reaching out to fondle his body, touch his skin, caress his chest. Did he long to mate with one of those women? she wondered. All of them? She had heard that a dominator possessed a large appetite when it came to the pleasures of the flesh, although Sarak had easily been able to resist her. She closed her eyes, unable to bear watching any longer.

And yet the images continued to haunt her. Sarak, sitting with his legs crossed and his back straight. His poor burned back. He did not even flinch from their caresses as the hands of the women slid all over his reddened flesh. Did that mean he was enjoying their touch? Was he as aroused as he had been at the hut when he thought her a Jiboan female?

In spite of her command not to think about it, she found herself wondering about the mating act itself. A warrior was only allowed to mate if his pallet partner had complete control by straddling him. Since that aborted attempt to mate with Taltos, she had never really considered how it would feel to have that part of a man inside her, but she found herself dwelling on it now, much to her discomfort. The thought of sitting atop Sarak caused a funny, melting sensation deep within her. Probably from the shock of pondering such forbidden things, she quickly assured herself, things a dedicated Keeper had no time for because she had other priorities.

Phada squirmed a bit on the rug, then opened her eyes. No one seemed to be paying her any attention, thank the Goddess. She tried not to look in Sarak's direction but she could not help herself. He was still sitting there, legs crossed, with that stoic expression drawing the skin of his face taut. If he were flushed no one could tell, since his flesh was already reddened. The Jiboan women continued to laugh and dance and touch him.

Another image flashed into her suddenly ungovernable mind. What would happen if Sarak were ever allowed to unleash his full strength and desire by lying on top of the woman, pressing himself down on her smaller, more delicate body, the way Mesaran males were allowed to mate? Of course Mesaran males eventually pledged their lives to a female and bonded with her and so could be trusted to be tender and gentle. Sarak would be intense no matter how he mated. She wondered how it would feel to be the focus of such a proud warrior's attention, to have complete access to his body in the mating dance. Somehow she could not imagine any woman wielding control over Sarak's mind or his muscled body. He would always be the one to remain in command.

Even though he was not looking in her direction, Sarak could see Phada's form out of the corner of his eye. He knew he could bear anything they did to him. He did not mind for himself but he was shamed that Phada was there to watch. He could not look directly at her, he tried not even to think about her. He clenched his teeth together even harder as one of the dancers stroked his chest, forcing his mind to concentrate on the pain of her long nails raking across his tender, sunburned flesh.

He did not feel anything for these Jiboan wenches, even though they touched him the way they had been trained, caresses meant to arouse and tantalize rather than to give pleasure for its own sake. Their skin was smooth but it was tanned, not pale. Their eyes, dark and lined with black, did not tempt him as did the stormy blue-gray color of Phada's, free of enhancement, direct and open and without wiles.

In spite of his will, his mind drifted into further thoughts of the Keeper's apprentice, with her tan hair and beautiful pale skin. He recalled the courage and determination she had shown in the face of odds that would beat down the most ferocious warrior. He remembered how she had cared for him while he was in the throes of faral dependence. Even tonight, his heart had warmed with pride when she had leapt to her feet to defend him. You are worth more than all of them put together, she had said in front of the entire gathering. No matter what happened after this, he would never forget that moment. Of course she had called the Jiboans brutes and barbarians, terms she had tossed in his direction on more than one occasion. These were obviously the worst insults she could conjure up, but that did not lessen what she had done.

He assured himself that her actions were the result of her loyal character and did not mean that she harbored any special feelings for him, other than as a necessary partner in her quest to save Mesara. It certainly did not mean she wanted him to place his brute hands upon her. He doubted the thought had ever crossed her mind the way it seemed to do with him so regularly. He was an opportunistic animal to think of using her in that way.

He closed his eyes, a big mistake, for suddenly the hands that caressed his body with such knowledge became Phada's hands, the sounds of rustling cloth became Phada's kenta when she removed it in the tent before settling down to rest. Much to his alarm, he felt himself harden. He quickly wiped all thought of her from his mind, instead forcing himself to concentrate on a particularly difficult sword-thrusting drill he had often practiced with Mizor behind the warriors' barracks.

When they finally realized they would get no response from him, the dancers moved off to find more cooperative partners. Sarak breathed a sigh of relief as he watched them bend and sway over the low tables where a cluster of Jiboan males were seated.

Over in another corner, several Jiboans roared with appreciation at some sally from one of the dancers. The women behind them in the circle covered their mouths with their hands in giggling embarrassment. These more sedately dressed females were the honored mated partners and mothers of the tribe's children and so were kept more sheltered than the "excess" daughters whose favors were sold in the barracks and to the males of other cultures. Sarak knew that even after these other daughters achieved their freedom and maintained their own tents, many of them continued to sell their services, finding it a continuing source of income that could be put away for their old age.

Wodabi made a curt motion with his hand and the women immediately began clearing the dishes from the tables. In a matter of moments, they had removed all evidence of the meal. Wodabi bowed his head respectfully to one of the women. She seemed to be the oldest female there, the matriarch of the tribe, perhaps. She returned his gesture, obviously one of dismissal, since the entire group of women filed out of the tent, each one bowing formally as she took her leave.

Now only the males and the five dancers remained. And Phada, who still sat in front of the head male's table. At another signal from Wodabi, several of the males rose to their feet and crossed the room to one corner, where piles of their supplies had been unloaded and stacked. They ignored the sacks and wooden crates on the ground, instead reaching for several large goatskin bags that dangled from hooks attached to the tent poles.

Sarak suspected they did not contain water. He was right. Soon the Jiboans were passing the skin from table to table, pouring the contents into their cups. Even if the unmistakably tangy smell of vetch had not soon filled the air, he would have guessed the contents from the suddenly increased noise level inside the tent.

A loud, piercing female giggle turned all heads in that direction. The Jiboan called Babua had pulled the lead dancer into his lap and was fondling her breast. He lifted his gaze until it met Sarak's from across the room and the warrior's stomach clenched at the intention he saw in the other male's eyes. They were not done with him yet. Now that they had dismissed the women and begun getting drunk on vetch, he was fair game.

"Listen well, my brothers, and let me tell you the truth about this mighty Mesaran warrior." Babua gestured contemptuously at Sarak before raising his cup and pointing around the circle of eager, laughing faces turned toward him. He took a long swallow of his drink, then grinned. His white teeth gleamed against the dark skin of his face. "We all fear them, do we not?"

Shouts of protest greeted this comment, followed by more raucous laughter. The dancer in Babua's lap, a sultry creature with long, curling black hair, rearranged her body until she was able to reach his neck, which she began kissing with passionate abandon. Sarak knew better than to look away from the spectacleit would only make matters worse.

"Tell us, Jilanda," the Jiboan continued. "How does it feel to mate with a mighty dominator, the pride of Mesara?" "It is as nothing. We feel nothing when we go to their pallets," she answered, her sloe-eyed gazed fixed on Babua's face, her full lips parted in a smile that promised much. She flicked her fingers in Sarak's direction as if he were no more than a pesky fleafly.

"Warriors think they know how to pleasure a female but it is a lie," Babua said, scooping the voluptuous Jilanda into his arms and rising to his feet. She twined around his body like a treesnake. "They do not kiss the female's mouth. They do not caress her skin to ready her for the act. They do not even mate as true males but take the woman's position beneath. Then, a few thrusts"he demonstrated what he meant by graphically pumping his hips"and it is over.

He finished his diatribe with an obscene gesture toward his loins before dropping back into his seat, his mouth open wide as his mirth spilled out. Sarak was so ashamed that Phada was a witness to his crudeness, he could feel the color rising to his cheeks. Even the tips of his ears felt red. He ventured a quick glance in her direction. Her eyes were downcast, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked uncomfortable, as if she would rather be anywhere else on Elithra. He could not blame her.

And yet, in spite of his embarrassment, he could not help the direction of his puzzled thoughts. Was it true, he wondered? Was there more to mating than the simple act of thrust and climax? As a warrior he had never been taught how to please a female. It was a skill thought unnecessary, since a dominator could never bond and had no need of the tactics of wooing. They paid for their pleasure and therefore took it.

He had never considered it before, but now it seemed obvious that the Jiboan wenches who came to the barracks had been told to simulate the sounds of pleasure. Satisfied customers meant repeat business. It also meant that the act lasted a shorter amount of time and they could collect their payment more quickly. After all, they were only doing it as a means to an end, in order to purchase their freedom, not for their own pleasure.

Sarak remained stoic through the taunts that the Jiboans continued to hurl his way. His bound arms ached, his legs had become cramped from sitting in one position for so long, but he dared not move and call further attention to himself. The celebration seemed to be winding down. Already several Jiboan males had slipped away, one of them obviously a man of some wealth because he proudly displayed a dancer on each arm as he ducked through the shelter's opening.

Phada's head drooped with fatigue. She had to be as exhausted as he was. Wodabi rose to his feet, raising his arms in dismissal, the folds of his red and yellow robe billowing gracefully around him. The interminable evening was finally over.

"We must separate the captives," he announced. "Escort the woman back to her tent. Babua, set up one of your spare dwellings and take this mighty warrior there."

"It is not possible. I plan to sell that tent when we reach Yalala."

"You, Sanu. I know you have an extra shelter. Put the warrior in it."

"But, Wodabi, I have been promised a purse of coins for it from Dalebba who wishes to buy it for her daughter who has just become betrothed."

Wodabi snorted in disgust. "Never mind. I am sure all your shelters are worth coins on the market and you are all too shrewd to forgo the profit."

He stalked around the table to where Phada sat, her elbows propped on her knees to hold up her weary body. When he reached her, he grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. "Tell me, Keeper, are you eager to face your task of mating with the Mesaran warriors?''

She came to life at the question. "I would rather die," she spat, her face distorted with revulsion. Sarak felt as though he had sustained a mortal blow.

"Do you see, my brothers? We can place them in the same tent after all. She will not touch him and he cannot touch her. Babua, take two men and post a guard at all times. We head for Mesara at cycle-rise."

As they hustled him out, Sarak noticed a pile of familiar-looking brown woven sacks. Faral, he thought in amazement. Yes, it was the spice; he could smell its sweet fragrance as he passed by. Did these Jiboans trade it? It was obvious that they did not use it. They seemed to have no idea of its properties or they would have already fed him some. He chuckled mirthlessly to himself. It was more likely they were too greedy to try any for themselves, not when it was worth a purse of coins.

The sun was barely hovering over the western horizon when they reached the tent. The two Jiboans who held him captive shoved him inside. He stumbled before losing his balance completely, landing in a heap not far from where Phada sat huddled, her knees gathered to her chest and her arms wrapped around them.

"Sarak," she cried. She crawled over to him, her eyes brimming with concern. Her expression soothed away a small portion of his hurt and anger, although it did not touch the core. "Are you all right? These Jiboans are a vile and disgusting people. I am at a loss for words to convey the depths of my loathing for their crude ways."

"I think you have made a good start," Sarak replied blandly. He pulled himself into a sitting position, using his bound arms for leverage. At least some of his strength was returning now that he had been off the spice these cycles. He realized with a start that he no longer craved its taste after smelling it in the Jiboan main tent. Looking at their present predicament it was not much to crow about, but it was something.

"Sarak." Phada's voice called him back to the present. "What do we do now?"

He turned in a half-circle until his back was to her, then held out his wrists. "See if you can untie me."

Phada nodded. "Yes, of course."

She scooted closer, reaching for the leather thongs, careful not to touch him anywhere else because of his raw, reddened skin. His sunburn looked much worse than it had earlier. Some of his flesh had already begun to blister, especially along the tops of his shoulders.

"Wait," she said, looking around for her pack. "Let me put some salve on that burn."

"We do not have time for that." He impatiently thrust his hands toward her. "Besides, I did not completely unload the dobbies. Your pack is outside."

She felt like wailing aloud at this further demonstration of their horrible reversal of fortune, then decided it could wait until after they escapedif they ever managed to pull off that difficult feat. Even if she did get him untied, what then? There were three guards prowling around their tent and only one Sarak, and he had not recovered his full strength from his ordeal with the faral, never mind the stress of a postzenith spent in the broiling sun. Still, he was correct; their most important task was getting out of here.

She worked at the knots, struggling and huffing as her fingers plucked and pulled at the thongs. Whoever had tied him had done a masterful job, winding length after length around Sarak's wrists and knotting the cord at various intervals until Phada had no idea which knot to loosen to get the most benefit. No matter what she tried, his bonds seemed to grow tighter rather than looser until the leather scored the already ripped skin of his wrists.

After trying everything she could think of, Phada sat back on her heels and blew out her breath. She knew her efforts were hurting him and she could not bear it another moment. "No," she moaned, her hands clasped together in dismay. "I am only making it worse."

"It does not matter. Try again."

"It is no use, Sarak," she cried. "No matter what I do, they only tighten."

"Jiboan slipshank knots," he muttered in disgust. He turned to gaze at her over his shoulder, his eyes softening at her obvious distress. "Leave them alone for now. You can try again later."

He drew himself up on his knees and moved toward the back of the tent. Jerking his head at Phada, he motioned for her to lift the material so he could peer out. No sooner had she done so than a sword swooped down toward the sand, barely missing cutting off Sarak's nose.

"Consider that a warning. Next time you pull a trick like that, I promise I will be more accurate." Babua's voice came out of the half-darkness.

Phada dropped the side of the shelter, her hands shaking with terror at the close call. Sarak did not look at all disturbed and she wanted to shriek at him to stop taking so many chances with his life. Did he truly value it so little when she was coming to count upon him so much? She drew in a deep, steadying breath. Women's tears would not get either of them very far. She must follow Sarak's example and keep her head.

"They are too alert for us to do anything," he said. "Come, let us rest for a while." Phada did not protest. She was drained, both emotionally and physically. Maybe after a couple marks of sleep she would find herself less filled with despair. Just the thought of blocking out the reality of their plight seemed a Goddess-sent opportunity.

She searched the area for her kenta to use to cushion her head. Obviously the Jiboans had taken it and Sarak's as well. The only things inside the shelter were their sleeping mats. Well, no matter, it was always hot inside the tent and she was too tired to miss a pillow.

She drifted into immediate sleep only to wake up shivering a short time later. She discovered she had already curled up in a tight ball against the chill. She remembered the nights they had trudged through the desert, taking advantage of the lowered temperatures that descended across the Calabian after the sun dipped below the horizon. She realized now that it had grown cooler then, but their exertions as well as their enfolding robes had kept them warm.

Now they were farther into the desert than ever before, much farther south than Mesara, which lay at the northern pole of the planet. The sun hid its face longer beneath the horizon at this location, so of course the nights would grow increasingly colder. Still, she could not ever remember feeling this bone-wrenching cold in her entire life.

If she were this chilled, what about poor Sarak? Between his sun-reddened skin and the scant warrior garb that barely provided cover, let alone warmth, he must be freezing to death. She rolled over so she could face him. He lay a short distance away, his back to her, his body shaking in a futile effort to warm itself. She could hear his teeth chattering.

As Phada crawled closer to him, she could feel that he was generating body heat all right, the bulk of it dissipating directly into the cold night air, doing little to aid his dilemma. Before she could stop herself, before she could think about what she was about to do, she slithered the rest of the way onto his sleeping mat and wrapped her arms as far around his chest as she could.

The startling sensation of a warm, definitely female body pressed against his back shocked Sarak from half-sleep into instant awareness. His breathing stopped, and his entire body froze when he realized that it was Phada who held him in her arms, Phada whose thighs pushed against the backs of his, sending flames of fire darting along the surface of his skin.

He closed his eyes against the sheer pleasure of it. What in the name of the merciful Goddess was she trying to do to him? His loins tightened and his heart began to pound like the waves of the sea against the beach. He glanced down at her hands where they gripped each other, their smooth skin pale against the deeper color of his more weathered flesh. She had threaded one of her arms through the space between his neck and the ground while the other snaked around his bound upper bicep to meet it. Her slender fingers were interlaced as she held on tightly.

She was trying to warm him, his dazed mind finally realized. Her hands gently rubbed along his arms and chest, causing licks of blue-hot heat to move along with the now coursing blood in his veins. He knew he should say something to stop her but he could not utter a sound. The ties at his wrists had cut off his circulation for marks and yet he swore he could feel the tender muscles of her stomach where his cold, numb hands rested. He was certainly aware of the searing imprint of her breasts against his shoulder blades, even through her tunic. She made no attempt to retain any sort of distance between them, so intent was she on her task.

It took him a moment to gather his wits together to speak, so affected was he by her sacrifice. "Phada," he finally said, turning his head so his whispered words would carry over his shoulder. He did not want one of their guards poking his head in to check on them now. "I am more grateful than I can say for your kind concern, but it is not seemly for you to do this."

She continued her gentle kneading of his chilled flesh as she replied, "You are half dead with the cold."

"It matters not. You must stop."

"Oh!" Her hands stilled. "Am I hurting you?"

He wanted to say yes, she was piercing him to his very soul. But he could not. "No, you are not hurting me."

Sarak's breath hissed out as he closed his eyes. He was painfully aroused, although Phada seemed to be unaware of his condition. If he turned around she would notice soon enough. The breechcloth provided nothing in the way of concealment. He must remember that she had chosen the intellectual path and so was still an innocent in the ways of the flesh. She did not realize what she was doing to him.

"Does it not help make you warm?"

"It makes me too warm," he muttered in embarrassment.

"I see," she answered in a small voice. "So you are still thinking of those Jiboan dancers."

Sarak did not hesitate but quickly grasped at the reason she had, in her innocence, handed to him. He consoled himself that it was not a flat-out lienow that she had brought the subject of the dancers into their discussion, he was certainly thinking about themthey were simply not the cause of his distress. "Yes." "They are . . . very skilled."

"It is their trade. They are trained in its ways."

He felt the wisp of her sigh against the sensitized skin of his back. "They must be if they can make you desire them even when you are no longer in their presence."

Sarak knew he had to change the subject before he lost the last remaining vestiges of his sanity. "I am warm enough to sleep now. Believe me, Phada, there is nothing else we can do until cycle-rise, when we break camp. Even then our only hope is that one of your Jiboan captors drops his guard long enough for you to escape.

"I am not leaving without you!"

"If you get the chance, you must," he told her fiercely.

She had no time to frame another protest, for suddenly they heard a faint noise at the entrance. Someone was coming into the tent. Phada did not care if the Jiboans saw her pressed so intimately to the warrior's body. What did it matter anymore? She had no desire to quit Sarak's warmth, nor could she bear the thought of leaving him to shiver. Let them do to her what they wanted; her life had been over since Dalcor's plot to rule Mesara had succeeded.

They waited breathlessly as the flap covering the doorway quivered and jerked up and down. What was going on? It looked as if someone were punching the side of the tent. Had Babua or one of the other guards decided they needed more entertainment?

To their utter amazement, Gisba poked her head inside. Her bright, beady eyes fastened immediately on Phada, and with a throaty chirp she scrambled the rest of the way into the shelter.

Chapter Twelve

"Gisba!" Phada gasped. The bird dropped to its knees next to her mistress, chirping and warbling and poking her hard beak against Phada's face. "Yes, Gisba, I am glad to see you, too, but no more, please," she said breathlessly, shoving the eager dobby back. She looked up to find Sarak staring at them, shaking his head.

"Now I have seen everything," he muttered. "You two make a fine pair."

"I would hold my tongue if I were you," she replied with a smug smile. "I do not see your dobby in here trying to rescue us."

"Is that what she is doing?" He rolled over, struggling with his bound hands until he managed to right himself into a sitting position.

"Of course. Are you not, Gisba?" She fondled the big bird's knobby head affectionately in the way she knew the creature liked. Gisba warbled blissfully. "The Jiboans did not bother to unload her saddle. See, she has brought us my pack. My healing salve is in there."

"Fine. I am glad to know my sunburn will be eased before I die."

Phada slanted him a triumphant look. "My vegetable knife is also in there."

His eyes widened as the knowledge hit home. He watched as Phada rifled through the contents of the pack, finally producing the knife. She frowned as she stared at its small, unimpressive blade, which jiggled back and forth because of a loose connection to the worn wooden handle. After the honed, ornate daggers the Jiboans carried at their sides, this looked about as threatening as a sharpened stick.

Sarak, however, grunted in satisfaction. "Your fierce little vegetable knife. I well remember the first time I saw you wielding that thing."

"Never mind reminiscing now." She hurried to kneel beside him. "Let me cut you free."

It was easier said than done. Phada struggled to saw through the leather thongs that were wrapped so tightly around Sarak's wrists. The task was made more difficult because she did not want to cut him in the process, although the blade was so dull it was probably not something she needed to worry about.

"What are you doing back there?" Sarak asked impatiently. He wiggled his fingers.

"They tied you well."

He chuckled. "Perhaps you should let your devoted pet packbird bite me free."

"Do not make fun of Gisba."

"I promise you, Phada, if we get out of here alive, I will never make fun of Gisba again."

She laughed. "I will hold you to that."

"Good. Now hurry. We do not know when our friend Babua might decide to pay us a friendly visit." She froze as a thought struck her. "What if someone saw Gisba come in here?"

"I think we would have known by now had that been the case."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they are waiting outside the tent for you to make your move.

"Now there is a cheerful thought."

She managed to sever another of the many thongs that crisscrossed between his wrists. A few more and Sarak would be free. "Do you think we can get away?"

"Finish cutting me free and I will tell you."

"I am working as fast as I can."

She realized their chances of escaping from their captors were slim, but just knowing that Sarak would soon be untied lifted her spirits immeasurably, perhaps more than such an action warranted. Only a couple more strands to go, she thought. Sarak, however, had come to the end of his patience and began jerking his hands apart. One final, mighty tug and his bindings released him.

He groaned as he eased his arms to his sides, flexing his stiff fingers at the same time. He had been in that unnatural position for most of an entire suncycle, Phada realized. Just the fact that Sarak even allowed that little moan to escape his whitened lips told her that the pain must be excruciating. Add to it the agony his sun-reddened flesh must be causing him and Phada could not stop herself from wincing in sympathy. She wanted to rub her healing salve all over him, especially along the tops of his shoulders where the sun had beat down the hardest, but she knew he would never allow that, not when time was of the essence.

"What now?" she asked.

"Now we figure out where those three guards are stationed. And we hope that the other two consumed more vetch than Babua did." He moved silently to the back of the shelter, dropped to his stomach in the sand, and lifted the hem of the tent the barest fraction of a measure. Phada remained absolutely still as he peered out. ''Curse it, it will soon be sunrise. We have very little time if we hope to slip away unnoticed."

He got to his feet, stamping them softly against the ground, shaking his arms and flexing his muscles. Phada felt her stomach drop to her knees as the danger of what he was about to attempt became more apparent. In spite of the Jiboans' desire to keep their captive alive, they might still end up killing him in the melee that would ensue should one of the guards manage to call out for assistance. She would be all alone then, without Sarak's bracing presence, without anything to hope fornot for herself and not for Mesara. She almost wanted to cry out to forget it, but of course that was impossible. They had to take the chance.

She took a deep breath, hoping it might restore her courage. It did not help very much. But then she looked at Sarak, at the determination etched on the features of his handsome face. She realized with a jolt of intense emotion that he had grown handsome in her sight. She had been mistaken when she had considered him too big and too much the dominator to be as attractive as the leaner, less muscular Mesaran males.

If anyone could get them out of here, it was Sarak. She was surprised to discover she believed that with every fiber of her being. Whatever assistance he asked of her, she swore she would give to him without question.

"I need you to provide a distraction," he said.

"What should I do?"

"You must call out to Babua at the front of the tent while I take care of the other two at the rear."

"The other two!"

"From what I could see, it looks as if they are sleeping off the effects of too much vetch. That should make them easy enough to handle."

She made a face. "As long as one of them does not notice you before you are able to dispatch his brother," she commented wryly.

"It is our only hope. And we must act quickly. Go now," he said, jerking his head toward the flap of the tent. "I am ready whenever you are."

Phada stepped toward the entrance, her heart pounding, not at all sure what she intended to do. She glanced back to find that Sarak had once again dropped to the ground, prepared to slip beneath the side of the tent as soon as she made her move. He clutched the vegetable knife in one large hand, where it looked even less threatening than it had before.

She bit her lip. Babua had been close to the entrance when he had narrowly missed them with his sword earlier, but he must have moved away from that position since then. How else had Gisba managed to get inside without raising a cry of protest? She could not imagine that the Jiboans would ignore a gangly packbird, not when she still had all their possessions attached to her saddle.

Still, she had no intention of sticking her head beyond the flap without ample warning. "Guard," she called out boldly. "Guard, I wish to speak to you."

She knew her timing was critical. She wanted to assure that the Jiboan approached the entrance, and yet she did not want him to actually come inside before Sarak could escape out the back.

Gisba crowded her from behind, pushing against the middle of Phada's shoulder blades, thinking her mistress was going to exit the shelter. She was not about to be left behind. The devoted creature warbled and clicked her eager approval into Phada's ear. "Stop it," she hissed at the dobby. And then the bird solved Phada's problem with a mighty push, thrusting her right out through the tent flap and onto the sand at Babua's feet.

The Jiboan already had his dagger drawn. He thrust it with menacing intent toward Phada's chest, using it to gesture her back inside. From this close distance, she could see the whirling pattern of blue lines that covered his face and emphasized the whiteness of his teeth as he leered at her.

"There is a problem," she said. She pointed at the bird. "See. This packbird is disturbing my sleep."

She almost burst out laughing when she heard how inane the statement actually sounded when spoken aloud. Babua did not even crack a smile. He motioned her to step aside, then sheathed the dagger before reaching for the dobby's reins. Gisba squeaked and ducked away, jerking the leather from his grip, then ran to plant herself behind Phada, her throat fluttering anxiously. Phada understood the bird's reluctanceshe had no desire to place herself into Babua's hands either. She wished she could comfort the loyal bird but she dared not.

"Move aside," he ordered her.

She did, but the bird moved right along with her. Phada wanted to giggle at the sight they must be making, as if they were partners in a stately, ritual dance.

"She has become attached to me," Phada explained. She reached back to lay a reassuring hand against Gisba's chest.

"Stand aside. I will take her now." Babua looked determined. "Packbirds do not have enough brains to differentiate one master from another."

I beg to differ, Phada thought as the Jiboan again lunged for Gisba's reins and again came up empty-handed. The bird squawked and scrambled a safe distance off to Phada's right. Where was Sarak? she wondered, shifting her eyes to glance around the area without turning her head and making it too obvious she was searching for someone. Had he managed to overcome the two guards? She gazed back at Babua, who now circled a wary Gisba. Everyone thought dobbies were stupid, brainless creatures meant by the Goddess to be used as beasts of burden, but the crafty look in Gisba's eyes belied that notion.

A hint of movement behind Babua caught her attention. It had to be Sarak. "Please," Phada said, placing herself between the angry Jiboan and the bird. "Let her be. I am sorry I disturbed you. I think she should stay with me after all."

Sarak lunged, knocking Babua to the ground. A quick, lethal blow and the Jiboan lay motionless in the sand.

"I think she should stay with you also," he said, rising to his feet with a grin.

Phada decided she had never seen a more welcome sight in her entire life. She wanted to hug the big dominator, but she restrained herself. Time enough for her gratitude later, when they were truly clear of the Jiboan camp and on their way to Gorod once more.

He tossed her a kanzu. "Here, put this on."

She quickly donned the Jiboan male garb. It was much too long and the hem dragged in the sand. Also the wider cut of the neck caused the material to slip off her shoulders. Still, it would provide protection against the hot sun. They were going to have to travel during the hottest part of the cyclethey needed to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the Jiboans.

Sarak had donned another kanzu, presumably from one of the other guards. His was too short, only reaching halfway past his knees. Thank the Goddess for the loose folds of the cloth that allowed some room for his broad shoulders. The garment looked small but not entirely uncomfortable.

Sarak ducked inside the tent and immediately returned, holding a length of the leather thong that had bound him. He handed it to her. "Here, use this as a belt."

As she tied the leather around her waist, he disappeared around the side of the tent, only to reappear leading their other packbird.

"I think she was coming to see where her companion had disappeared to," Sarak commented with a crooked grin. "Grab Gisba and let us get out of here."

Since their tent was located on the outskirts of the encampment, it was not difficult to slip away into the open desert. They moved quickly, quietly, along the length of one particularly large sand dune before Sarak decided it was safe enough to traverse it. Phada was breathless by the time they reached the other side. At least they were now out of sight of the camp. That did not mean they were safe, not by any means, but Phada felt much better anyway.

They did not talk. Sarak set a grueling pace and Phada found she had no breath left with which to speak. The sun crested the horizon not long after their escape, which meant they were still highly visible should they be pursued, especially wearing the distinctive red-and-yellow-patterned kanzus of the Jiboan tribe.

Marks later, sometime after cycle-rise, Sarak called a brief halt. "We will rest only long enough to unpack our food and water," he told her. "Once we do, we must get moving again. We can eat as we walk."

Phada nodded in reply. Talking was superfluous until after she could catch her breath. The thought of a long cool swallow of water practically revived her on the spot. She watched Sarak rifle through the various compartments on Gisba's saddle. He handed her a portion of graincake. Phada frowned, knowing she had not the heart even to attempt the dry, chewy food until she had a drink of water. She held it clutched in her hand.

"Do you think they will come after us?" she asked.

"I am hoping they drank too much vetch to rise very early this cycle. There is nothing worse than heat and bright sunlight after a night of downing cups of that potent brew."

Phada smiled. "You sound as if you know what you are talking about."

"I have drunk my share."

Phada noticed he avoided her gaze, as if ashamed of this fact, not that it was any kind of shocking revelation to her. Everyone knew the dominators favored vetch over vinasi. Knowing some of the things she now did about Sarak's life, she realized that drowning his reality in a barrel of Jiboan ale was not the worst crime she could imagine.

In fact, she found she could not fault him for anything this cycle. He had gotten them out of the Jiboan camp against all odds and with a little help from a dobby. "I hope you thanked Gisba for her timely assistance."

He chuckled. "I never thought I would be grateful to a packbird."

While Sarak moved to search the other dobby's saddle, Phada laid an affectionate arm around their rescuer's neck, giving her a squeeze. Gisba raised her head, uncoiling her long neck with a movement not unlike that of a greenback ground snake as she crooned out her appreciation. As awkward and odd-looking as they were, packbirds were also loving, loyal creatures. Phada thought their qualities had been grossly underestimated.

"Curse them," Sarak muttered. "Curse their sun-blackened, tattooed hides."

Phada was still smiling over the antics of the bird, but Sarak's tone caused her to frown. "What is it?" she asked.

"They did not touch our packsexcept to remove the water."

"We have no water?"

"Not a drop." He shoved the flap of the saddle down with an angry gesture.

"Are you saying that they removed only the water on purpose, that they wanted us to escape?"

He shook his head. "I do not believe they wanted it, but they were well prepared for it in case we did."

"No water?" Phada's mouth had been dry before, but now she found she could barely swallow. Her tongue reached out to touch her parched lips. "What are we going to do?"

"They know we have no choice but to go back."

"No!" She whirled in alarm to face him. The thought of such utter defeat made her throat ache. She wanted to cry, but her thirsty body had no tears to spare. "Oh, no, Sarak, we cannot go back there."

"In case you have forgotten, we had to leave our tent behind as well. We have no shelter and no water."

Phada's suddenly shaky legs gave out and she slumped down to the sand, a puddle of red and yellow material at Gisba's huge, clawed feet. The promise of water to moisten the sticky insides of her mouth and throat was the only thing that had kept her placing one sandal in front of the other all this time. Now she did not think she could go any farther. And yet she refused to return to that Goddess-forsaken Jiboan camp, knowing the fate that awaited them. "We cannot go back. They will bring you to Dalcor and he will kill you."

"Yes, but there is a chance I can help you escape, especially once we reach the jungle paths on the outskirts of Mesara."

She glared at him. It only made it worse, knowing his stubbornness was solely on her behalf. She could not imagine him giving himself up otherwise. "We have been through all this before. There is nowhere for me to go."

"Phada, I cannot drag you deeper into the desert only to watch you die."

"What about that oasis?"

"The Kali Oasis is at least another cycle from here. That is if we are lucky enough to stumble across it. We might pass it by completely."

"We have to try."

"No. It is out of the question."

"Going back is out of the question," she countered in exasperation. "If what you are saying is correct, the Jiboans will not follow us. They will sit in their tents and fondle women and drink vetch while they wait for us to come crawling back. Have you not noticed how quick they are to take advantage of any source of profit that may tumble into their laps as long as it does not take any real effort?"

He continued to stubbornly shake his head.

"I can make it through another cycle without water if you can," she goaded him softly.

He did not fall into her little trap. "It is not a question of who can last the longest. I have found that the desert is supremely indifferent when it comes to matters of survival."

"Exactly. That means we will have an even chance, just like any other creature beneath the blue sun."

"We are not desert dwellers; we do not know all the secrets of the great Calabian." He gazed at her, his eyes soft with an emotion she had never seen there before. "Ah, Phada," he said gently, reaching out his hand to touch her cheek with one long finger, then quickly dropping it to his side. "Do you think I have not come to realize you can do anything you set your mind to?"

"I only wish that were true," she replied with a crooked smile and a shake of her head. "If it were, we would already be continuing this journey to Gorod instead of standing here debating the issue." Her mouth widened into a genuine grin as she scanned his obdurate expression. "I think you must have gotten too much sun yestercycle, Sarak. Perhaps it addled your brain into concocting this good opinion of me, although I do not deny that I am flattered."

"Does that mean I have worn you down, mighty warrior?" She cocked her head and placed her hands on her hips, unable to believe that she was actually teasing a dominator. How could she possibly feel so lighthearted in the midst of their terrible troubles? And yet she did.

"To a tiny pebble."

She chuckled softly at the image his reply conjured in her mind. "Good. Then let us keep moving. Please, Sarak, we have come all this way and endured so much. We cannot give up now."

"No, we cannot give up now," he agreed. "But you must ride one of the dobbies for a while to conserve your strength." She looked stricken so he added, "They are strong, surefooted desert birds, Phada. Your weight will not burden them. I know Gisba will be glad to carry you. I will shift some of the contents from her saddle to that of the other bird."

Phada nodded. He reached down to haul her to her feet, using one arm to steady her in the shifting sand until she recovered her balance. Sarak noted she did not flinch away from his unrequested gesture of assistance. Instead she gripped his forearm without a second thought, her fingers warm and firm upon his skin. He imagined the shock her sister Keepers would exhibit should they view Phada now, consorting with a dominator, touching his body as casually as if he were her bonded mate instead of her social inferior.

She allowed him to help her onto Gisba. The packbird turned her head to see who was climbing onto her back, then chirped loudly before returning to the throat vibrations that kept her cool. Sarak grabbed both sets of reins and they set off, heading south while the blazing blue-white sun approached its zenith high overhead. They would eventually have to stop and rest. There was no way they could continue to walk in the intense desert heat of the postzenith cycle. He was sure he could construct some sort of shelter using their kanzus and the dobbies.

He glanced back at Phada. She had pulled her hood down over most of her face so that all he could see was a portion of her mouth and nose. Her hands gripped the horn of the saddle beneath the covering of the too-long sleeves of her borrowed robes, and her legs dangled over one side amid the pom-poms and tassels. The jerky motions of the dobby might be uncomfortable, but at least she did not have to walk.

He rolled his head from side to side, stifling a small groan at the tightness of his burned skin. Even though he was protected from the direct rays of the sun, he could still feel its heat piercing through the layers of cloth. His mouth quirked up at one corner as he recalled Phada's comment about wearing him down. Did she but know it, she did not need to resort to such tactics with him. He had been conquered since the moment he had allowed her to tie him to the sleeping pallet.

He realized better than she did that they were more than likely marching to meet their deaths. As a warrior it was what he had always expected, but he did not wish such an end for Phada. And yet she was correct: what else was there for her back in Mesara? They had made their decisionit was in Mother Elithra's hands now.

Still, there was something to be said for being all alone in the desert with Phada. He could not find it in his heart to regret any of it.

Sarak looked at the makeshift shelter he had rigged with a silent groan of dismay. It was barely large enough for him, let alone the two of them. He had stretched their kanzus from the backs of the two sitting dobbies over to the side of a steep sand dune, where he had anchored the material with their saddles. The thought of crawling inside with the Keeper's apprentice made him swallow hard against the excitement and desire he felt stirring to life deep within his body. He was exhausted and knew Phada must be alsothey had to rest.

He nodded to Phada. ''Come," he said gruffly.

She crawled beneath the shelter. Their sleeping mats remained behind along with their tent, so they had to lie directly on the sand. As long as they did not move around too much, he supposed it should not be too bad. He took a deep breath and followed her inside.

She flashed him a somewhat subdued smile. "I remember what I felt when I entered our tent that first night in the desert. I was indignant because I did not think it was comfortable or luxurious enough for a Keeper's apprentice. Certainly not for a town woman of Mesara. I admit I did not think it was worth the trouble you took to steal it." She sighed. "What I would not give for that tent and those sleeping mats now."

He chuckled. "I suppose everything is relative."

"It is a lesson I have learned well these past cycles."

Sarak had placed her pack inside the shelter. She reached for it and removed the small jar that contained her healing salve. "Come, I must apply some of this to your burned skin."

"That is not necessary," he quickly assured her. He did not need the torment of Phada's hands all over his body along with everything else.

She frowned. "Not necessary? Do not be absurd.

The sooner I rub this on, the sooner you will heal."

"I do not need your salve."

She eyed him uneasily. "Why not? Is it because you think we have no chance of reaching the Kali Oasis?"

That was another good reason, but he could not bring himself to say it aloud and dash her hopes. There would be time enough for that later. "No, of course not. I thought to save your salve for something more urgent than sun-reddened skin."

"If you could see your back you would think it urgent enough. Does it not pain you?"

He shrugged. "Not overly much."

"Of course, I had forgotten," she said with a grin as she got to her knees and gestured for him to roll over onto his stomach. "A warrior is trained to handle pain and deprivation." He heard her draw in a hissing breath at the sight of his back. He did not think it was as bad as all that, but Phada had a tender heart. "I will be as gentle as I can."

He closed his eyes at the first touch of her cool, soothing hands against his skin. It was heaven to lie here and have Phada tend to him, a fantasy come to life. She was more than gentle as she smoothed the salve across his shoulders and down his back. He could smell the pungent odor of the mentholated alaba leaves it contained. The sticky substance burned as she applied it, but the strength of its healing properties soon spread a layer of cool relief across his heated flesh.

She moved down to his lower back, spreading the unguent on a little at a time so as not to stretch his skin too much. He realized he was rhythmically pressing his loins into the sand, unconsciously trying to ease the ache that had suddenly appeared. He felt her hesitate and was sure she was going to pull away, appalled at his animalistic reaction when she was only trying to heal him, not arouse him. He sensed her hands hovering over his back. Knowing Phada, she was probably trying to find a tactful way of saying how much he disgusted her.

"What is it?" he asked. No sense prolonging the tongue-lashing he knew he deserved. She was finished touching him in any case.

"I . . . I am sorry. I am being rude."

"What?" He flipped over so he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed with color. "I think I am the one who should apologize."

"Why should you apologize when it is I who have been caught staring instead of tending to your injuries?" She ducked her chin even further into her chest in an effort to avoid his gaze. "I know it is unseemly, but I found myself curious about your scars."

"My scars?" He was astonished. He had not expected that she was examining his body as she rubbed the medicine into it. Then he realized the further source of her embarrassment. The scars she was talking about were mostly hidden beneath his breechcloth. Only the trailing edges were visible as they snaked onto the small of his back and only if his garment slipped down as it must have when he rolled onto his stomach.

He quickly tugged the leather cloth to cover the damning evidence. It had been so many orbits ago he had almost forgotten how he had been punished during his early days in the Warrior Academy, beaten on his bare buttocks with a long, whiplike piece of coconut husk favored by the trainers because of the many rough strands it contained.

"I am sorry. It is none of my concern," she said softly.

"I was husked," he blurted out.

"What?"

"It is a form of punishment using a coconut-husk vine. I was beaten for insubordination."

"No, I do not believe it."

He grimaced. Her faith in him was touching, if misplaced. "It happened when I was eleven years old. I tried to run away from the Warrior Academy. They caught me just beyond the mangan-berry patch outside of town and dragged me back."

"That is abominable."

He shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, although he was far from it. "You are right. I disobeyed orders and I deserved it."

"You deserved it?" she exclaimed. "You were an eleven-year-old boy beaten hard enough to give you scars like that and you deserved it?"

Sarak's eyes widened. She was in a rage but it was not directed at him. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he had not even realized was there.

"Why did you run away?"

"I did not want to become a dominator."

"If that is truly the way we recruit our dominators, it does not seem fair." "Most things in life are not. What matters is that I learned the lesson my trainer sought to teach me."

"What lesson is that?"

"That I was born to be a dominator. That I could not escape my destiny."

Phada looked at him then, really looked at him. He could not help but stare back into the depths of stormy blue-gray eyes that had become soft and gentle with emotion. He did not want her pity but he realized it was not pity he saw there. Still, whatever it was, he was not yet ready to accept it.

"Are you finished with that vile-smelling stuff?" he asked.

She smiled. "Not quite."

She dipped her fingers into the pot of salve, then reached toward his face. He grabbed her hand to stop the movement before she could make contact. What he really wanted to do was pull her on top of him so her knees were straddling his hips and her lower body was pressed against his.

"I can handle my face," he said.

They stared into each other's eyes for a small eternity out of time. Sarak knew he was beginning to breathe hard enough for her to notice. Sweet Mother, why could he not control himself with this female? He was as bad as the rutting bulloxen she had once compared him to.

Her next words stunned him out of his self-preoccupation.

"Is it very painful, this need warriors have to frequently mate?"

He shook his head, convinced he must be hallucinating. "Is that what you think is happening here? That I need to mate and that you are the only female this side of the Calabian?"

She shrugged, suddenly intent on returning the glob of salve covering the ends of her fingers back to its container. "You do not need to flatter me, Sarak. I know I am not as alluring to you as those Jiboan women."

"Are you mad? They are but poor substitutes for the kind of female I really want."

"You mean someone like the queen?"

"I mean you."

"You would wish to mate with me were it allowed?"

He turned his head away from her astonished scrutiny, staring instead at the endless pale green sand outside the shelter. It did not cool his ardor. Curse it, she might as well know the truth. She must surely have guessed it by now from his behavior.

"I wish it more than anything I have ever wanted in my life," he admitted, then quickly added, "Do not worry, Phada. I will not rape you."

"As you did not rape the queen," she murmured softly. "I know I am safe with you."

Sarak closed his eyes against the wonderful agony of this trust she kept insisting on placing in his integrity. Pray Goddess he could continue to maintain it.

"I suppose you can tell I have never mated with a male," she added diffidently.

His eyes widened. "I thought all Keepers did so before they took their vows of service."

"Most of them do. I tried one time but it was an abysmal failure. I guess I do not possess the intense emotions of other women. I have been told my even-tempered nature will contribute toward making me a good Keeper."

"If they thought you even-tempered, they did not know you very well," he said teasingly. He could not help it; he felt as lighthearted as a young wingbird must feel on its first solo flight from the nest. All he knew was that it was sheer ecstasy to be able to act in such a free and easy manner with Phada, the way he had sometimes been able to do with Mizor or Zegon. And yet with Phada it was even more glorious, more enticing. He had never expected to experience anything like it in the daily monotony of his warrior's life.

"Are all dominators like you?"

"Most have not had the blind good fortune to cross paths with a certain Keeper's apprentice."

"Blind good fortune, indeed." She snorted in amusement. "Now I know you are jesting. I am sure you considered yourself most fortunate you crossed paths with me when I forced you to give up the pleasures of faral, never mind the way I have dragged you halfway across the planet on a dangerous if not impossible quest."

"Impossible quests seem to be my destiny, Phada." He smiled. "I would not have missed it for anything."

Chapter Thirteen

Phada smiled as she dreamed about a ferocious storm that poured out rain from its ominous-looking clouds. Usually she hated the rain. She opened her eyes. They felt scratchy, as if filled with particles of dust. Her entire body felt dry and desiccated. The air around her was hot and stifling, painful to breathe into her burning lungs. She tried to swallow before she remembered why she could notthey had no water. They had not had any liquid in almost a cycle and they would not have any until they reached the Kali Oasis.

She stretched her sore body and then stiffened when she felt something solid pressed against her. She realized it was Sarak, his chest tight against her back and his face buried against the hair at the nape of her neck. She could feel his even breathing against her skin and it sent shivers of awareness down her spine and deep into the core of her body.

Of course the shelter was small, which explained why Sarak had rolled toward her sometime during the postzenith. And yet he had never touched her in the similarly cramped confines of their tent. She supposed they were getting used to each other, if one could ever be said to grow comfortable with a warrior.

With a start, she realized she had done just that. Sarak no longer frightened her or disgusted her. Far from it. Much to her amazement, she had done practically everything but mate with the dominator. She had come to admire his courage and determination, his droll sense of humor, his care of her every need. She appreciated his unique way of looking at the world. He had taught her things she had never suspected about herself and even more about the Mesaran way of life.

She did not like to admit that she had also come to appreciate his muscled body, an instrument of strength and undeniable beauty. How had she ever thought otherwise? She could think of no one she would rather be with on this journey. Certainly not King Pavonis or Jobus or any other Mesaran male. Their highly trained minds, filled as they were with philosophy and poetry and rhetoric, would not be of much use in surviving the desert. Besides, she already knew most of what they did; she had no knowledge of the things Sarak took for granted.

She touched her hand to her cheek as the words Sarak had spoken to her before they went to sleep came flooding back. He had told her he wished to mate with her. He must admire her, she thought, feeling somewhat embarrassed and chagrined, yet secretly delighted. He must find her attractive as a female, even after experiencing all those sultry, knowledgeable Jiboan women. She had always considered herself a cool, calm, unemotional person, not particularly subject to the desires of the flesh about which so many Mesaran women loved to rhapsodize. And yet here she was, wondering what it might be like to mate, not with a Mesaran male, but with a dominator.

She cautiously stretched her body, taking care not to jostle the sleeping warrior. She could feel the coarse hairs that covered the flesh of his legs, but it was not unpleasant. He responded to her movement instantly, shifting his thighs so that they continued to cushion hers. That simple, unconscious action, something he would never do while awake, assured her that he was still deeply unconscious.

Another notion suddenly struck her. Suppose that Sarak was thinking of Queen Riga? Suppose that he believed mating with Phada was the closest he could come to joining with his adored sovereign? He had called out Riga's name in his faral-induced delirium, his face filled with tenderness and what she now recognized as desire. She did not look at all like the queen, but they were both town dwellers and they were both forbidden. Was that the lure that explained his desire for her?

She discovered that at the moment she did not care. She only wished that he would hold her and comfort her, reassure her that everything was going to be all right. She did not know how much longer she could last under these harsh conditions. She suspected that without her he could cover much more distance in the same amount of time. She did not want to be more of a burden to him than she already was.

Her alert senses knew the instant that Sarak awoke. She quickly closed her eyes and deepened her breathing, embarrassed in case he should learn that she had been awake and had not moved her body away from his. She felt him slowly slide his legs until they no longer touched hers. As soon as he shifted away, she became uncomfortably aware of the light sheen of perspiration that had formed from their intimate contact. She shivered as her moist skin cooled in the sultry air.

He touched her arm. ''Come, Phada. We must get moving. If the Goddess sees fit to bless us, we should arrive at the oasis, perhaps by evenfall."

She rolled onto her back, turning her head to gaze at him. He looked as weary as she felt, despite their rest. The skin around his eyes was drawn taut and his mouth was flattened. His entire posture declared that he thought their chances of reaching the Kali were slim to none. "You do not sound as if you believe we will find it."

"I am trying to be realistic."

"Sometimes it is better to allow yourself to hope."

His gaze riveted on hers. "Is it?" he asked softly, his voice alive with hidden meaning.

For once she did not turn away. "Yes."

Suddenly he smiled and her heart turned over. "Then so be it."

It did not take long to dismantle the camp. They donned their kanzus and loaded up the dobbies. Gisba looked as cheerful as always, while her companion stood docilely beside her. Their reins had become tangled because the two comrades insisted on entwining their necks, chirping and warbling to each other in secret bird language.

Phada decided to walk for a while. Her bottom was sore from the saddle and she did not think she could feel any worse than she already did. Although the sun was slowly making its downward journey toward the horizon, its heat was still blistering. Phada was surprised the hems of their kanzus did not ignite like dry kindling beneath the intense, scorching rays. They could only hope that evenfall would arrive to relieve them. The nights were longer here in the desert, now that they were so far away from the pole of the planet. They were also colder. But feeling the sun penetrating through the material of her kanzu, Phada could not help but wish for the swift return of darkness, in spite of the drawbacks.

The postzenith dragged on endlessly. Phada continued to place one foot in front of the other, but she knew she would not be able to carry on for much longer without taking a rest. And yet she knew that stopping only provided the illusion of surcease. She was so thirsty that neither walking nor resting gave her any relief from the torment of her parched throat and cracked lips, her thickened tongue and strained, burning eyes.

They hardly said a word to each other. There was nothing to talk about and besides, she did not have the energy to speak and walk at the same time. Sarak seemed to be having no such difficulty, but she knew he had inner reserves she did not possess. Sometimes she focused her gaze on his broad form, clad in the colorful kanzu. With his trained warrior's body, he was able to keep up a steady pace, although he went slowly enough so that she would not fall behind.

She closed her eyes to ease their burningonly for a moment, or so she thought, until she found herself slumped on the ground. She felt Sarak kneeling beside her, propping her up with one arm around her shoulders and allowing her to rest against his thigh. When she realized his hand was softly brushing strands of hair away from her cheek, she finally opened her eyes to find him staring down at her with an expression on his face that took her breath away.

"Sarak." Her voice came out the barest croak of sound.

"Hush, Phada. Do not try to talk. We will rest here a while until the sun goes down. It will be cooler if we wait to walk after evenfall." "No. If we stop now, I will never get up. It is best that we keep going."

"Curse this hellish place to perdition. I am sorry I ever let you talk me into continuing this journey."

"Oh no, Sarak," she said, stricken. "Do not say that. I thought you had no regrets."

"I did notat least, not until this moment. It is just that I cannot bear to see you suffer like this." His mouth tightened and he gazed around as if the answer to all their problems were to be found in the pale desert dunes.

"Help me up," she said.

He assisted her to her feet. Then, before she knew what he was about, he hoisted her onto Gisba's saddle. There was plenty of room; their possessions had dwindled alarmingly since their encounter with the Jiboans.

Phada slumped over Gisba's neck as the bird resumed walking. The dobby's surefooted stride that caused her back to sway in jerky movements was no easier to endure than it had been previously, but Phada was too tired to try to compensate. Her bottom was numb, the backs of her legs raw from rubbing against the leather of the saddle. She tried to distract herself with the unusual elliptical motion of the swaying pom-poms, but it was no use.

She realized Sarak was speaking. She could see that his lips were moving but his voice sounded as if it came from very far away, even though he was pacing right alongside Gisba's outstretched neck. They were only a measure apart.

"What?" she asked, dazed.

"I think we should slaughter one of the birds for its lifeblood." He held up one hand. "Not Gisba, of course, but the other one."

"You cannot kill Ral!"

He stared at her darkly. She wanted to laugh at his scowling expression but she did not have the strength. "Do not tell me you have named that one, too."

"I had a lot of time to think while we were walking." She tried to smile, her mouth parting just the tiniest fraction, but it caused one corner of her cracked lips to begin bleeding. "She deserves a name for her good service, even if she is not as personable as Gisba."

He shook his head. "Now I have heard everything. Do you not understand that it could mean the difference between life and death?"

"Please, Sarak." She dropped forward, her arms encircling the base of Gisba's skinny neck. She simply could not sit upright any longer. She buried her fingers beneath the warm feathers of the bird's chest and let her body slump awkwardly across the saddle. It was more uncomfortable than anything she could imagine with the saddle horn pressing into her stomach and her neck twisted at a horrible angle, but she no longer cared about anything except going to sleep and never waking up again. Pray Goddess, it would happen soon.

The next time she opened her eyes it was evenfall. The cooler air must have revived her. She groaned softly, her lungs jerking in air as she tried to straighten her spine from the cramped position she had been in for who knew how many marks. Sarak moved immediately to her side.

"Come, let me help you down."

He lifted her from Gisba's back, and she immediately crumpled to the sand in an agonized heap. The pain was excruciating, especially in her back and along her inner thighs. She must be permanently crippled, she thought, her eyes prickling as though she might cry, although no tears actually came to relieve their dryness. "Leave me, Sarak. I cannot go any farther. I cannot even straighten my legs."

"You are cramped from remaining in one position for too long. It is my fault; I should have stopped long ago. But you seemed to be sleeping and I hoped to cover as much distance as I could before you awakened."

"What you should have done was stake me out for the carrion eaters. It is all I am fit for, food for birds."

He actually had the audacity to produce a small snort of laughter, in spite of his cracked and bleeding lips.

"I am glad I am such a source of amusement to you," she pouted, glaring at him with as much indignation as she could muster.

"You have become a source of many things to me, Phada," he said, his voice roughened by the lack of water, his brown eyes crinkled at the corners and gleaming softly in the half-light of the blue moon, which was barely peeking over the horizon. "I am not laughing at you; I am merely awed at your courage in spite of everything you have gone through."

"Hmph." She could not decide if she should allow his response to placate her. And then he began massaging her legs, his strong fingers pressing the soreness from her tight muscles, and she no longer cared. The sudden realization hit her that only a half mooncycle ago she would have died of shame and humiliation before allowing a warrior to touch her as freely as Sarak was now doing.

He kept up his ministrations for at least a quartermark before Phada felt ready to test her legs. At her nod, Sarak helped her to her feet. At first she hobbled back and forth like an old woman, but finally each movement contributed toward easing the stiffness from her abused muscles. If only they could solve the water problem as easily. "How much further, do you think?"

He looked worried. "I do not know."

"We should have reached it already, should we not? We have missed it."

"I do not know." He took off his kanzu, spreading it on the sand and gesturing for her to sit. "Stay here with the dobbies. We had to detour around a towering sand dune about half a mark ago. I am going to return there and climb it. Perhaps I can spot something from the peak, especially now that the moon is rising."

She did not have a better plan so she nodded, suddenly uncomfortably conscious of the contours of his bared body, of the way his dark hair brushed against his shoulders, of his strongly etched profile. She thought she had grown used to seeing him thus, but she discovered that she was more aware of him than she had ever been. Her reaction did not make any sense to her. She should be growing ever more familiar and comfortable with his near nudity, not more reserved and awkward. Why was it she never reacted to circumstances the way others did?

She watched Sarak's form until it disappeared into the semidarkness of the desert night, her head pillowed on her hand. The sun was not in the sky, but rays of light continued to filter along the horizon even as the moon added luminescence from the opposite side. Phada slipped into a completely prone position and was soon fast asleep.

She awakened sometime later, disoriented and frightened. Her tongue was swollen and stuck to the roof of her mouth; she had to patiently work it free; otherwise it might begin bleeding. She tried not to think about how thirsty she was, instead staring into the surrounding darkness of the night that now closed in on her like a living presence, darkness such as she had never experienced. There was no sign of the sun now, and the moon rode higher in the sky than she had ever known it to do. Its blue light provided illumination but it was eerie and filled with shadows. The most astonishing sight, however, was the number of stars scattered across the dome of the sky. Phada had never seen so many, some twinkling brightly, others dim specks of white.

She was truly far from home, she realized, her heart slowing to a more even pace as she became more alert. She had left her beloved Mesara far behind and not just in physical distance. Her ideas and attitudes had undergone a change as well now that she was no longer among her own kind. She wondered how she was ever going to resume her normal mode of thinking and behavior when she finally did return.

She sighed, wondering how Sarak was faring on his quest to locate the Kali Oasis. How much time had passed since he had departed? Had he retraced his steps back to the dune already or was he even now on his way to her? She hoped he had been able to retain his sense of direction on this dark night.

She lay back down against the folds of the kanzu, which she now realized still smelled faintly of Sarak's skin and hair. Her stomach fluttered nervously at the thought of how he had worn the garment these past couple of cycles, since their timely escape from the Jiboans. She pulled the material of her kanzu closer against the chilly air before glancing over to check on the dobbies. The larger Gisba had wrapped her neck around Ral, who lay snuggled close, her beak buried beneath Gisba's wing.

It felt wonderful not to be walking or riding. Phada's gaze kept drifting back to the sky with its panorama of stars like tiny lighted paths through the vast reaches of the heavens. She knew she would never forget this sight for as long as she livedno matter how long that might be.

She wanted to keep watch for Sarak's return but she was not even sure anymore which direction was north and which was south. The endless horizons of the desert at night were deceiving. She thought about the Goddess and her favorite consort, Taisom, about how they celebrated their love by traveling through the sky in a chariot of radiant light, passing right through the sun. Only the Goddess could endure the brightness of that orb at such close range; her lover had to hide his face in the folds of her tunic until they were well clear of its blue-hot rays.

Phada squinted her eyes at the stars, trying to imagine not being scorched by the sun at that close distance. A faint glow on the horizon caught her eye, causing her to sit up. But when she stared at the spot, it disappeared. Only when she approached it obliquely by glancing in the general direction from the corner of her eye could she keep the pale semicircle of light continually within the range of her vision.

What could it possibly be? It was too faint and too small in diameter to herald the coming of sunrise. Was it possibly another Jiboan camp? She clasped her hands together in excitement. Perhaps the Jiboans were stopped at the oasis. Even if they were not, Sarak might be able to steal some water from one of the tents while they lay sleeping. It was a dangerous idea, but they could not go on much longer without water.

The birds began stirring, causing her to scramble to her knees in a posture of self-defense.

"Phada."

She let out the breath she had been holding. She could barely discern the outline of his form. "Over here, Sarak."

He moved quickly to her side, dropping to the sand in a crouch, just beyond the edges of the spread kanzu. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course. Never mind that. What did you find out?"

His head drooped. He looked defeated. "Nothing," he said, his voice thick with disappointment and raspy from the lack of water. "I have never known such an all-encompassing darkness. I could see for a fairly good distance, or at least I think I could. But everything looked the sameendless, undulating sand dunes."

"I think I may have spotted something," she said, pointing eagerly. "There is a faint circle of light on the horizon."

He frowned. "I do not see anything."

"Wait. It is better if you do not look at it directly, but from more of an angle."

He did as she suggested. "Yes, yes, I see it now. A very faint light toward the southeast. Perhaps it is a Jiboan caravan returning from Gorod."

"Sarak, they might be camped at the oasis."

"Yes." He nodded. "They will have water in any case. And we are going to help ourselves."

Phada grabbed Gisba's reins with more enthusiasm than she had felt in what seemed a small eternity. The bird sensed her changed attitude and cheeped encouragingly. "How far away do you think it is?"

"It is difficult to tell, but I think we should be able to make it in a couple of marks at most."

"A couple of marks." She sighed as she fell into step beside him. "I can almost taste that cool, delicious water already. I think I would even drink vetch if someone would be so kind as to give me a cup."

Sarak chuckled. "That is my Phada, ever ready to take on a new challenge."

Phada felt warmed to the soles of her feet at Sarak's words, in spite of the still cooling temperature. She knew she possessed the mildest, most uncurious of personalities, but somehow, on this journey, she had become a brave explorerof herself and her world and most especially of the warrior who trudged by her side. She had Sarak to thank for all of it. He had not allowed her to cower in fear but had forced her to act and react at every turn. She knew she would be a better Keeper because of her experiences both on the Uninhabited Island and in the Calabian, and she was grateful for it.

Helenina had tried to tell her she should not shrink from experiencing life in all its manifestations. Now she knew how right her mentor had been. If only I could tell her that, Phada thought sadly. In fact, there are so many things I would like to say. She pulled her thoughts away from that unproductive pathway, filled as it was with regret, and set her sights on the horizon, where blessed water awaited them.

The moon had traversed a good portion of the night sky and still they had not reached the source of the light. Oddly enough, it had not grown brighter as they approached it, instead remaining the same pale, luminescent glow on the horizon, barely visible unless looked at indirectly.

"Do you know of anything like this?" she asked. She glanced over at him as he walked alongside her, her mouth twitching into a smile at the sight of Ral's large head hovering companionably just above his shoulder as she plodded behind him. It seemed the bird was developing an affection for her master, although Phada decided she would let Sarak figure that out for himself.

"Yes."

The rest of his answer was long in coming and Phada felt a sense of disquiet wash over her. "Tell me," she urged.

"I have heard tales of disappearing lights and other desert mirages while on maneuvers in the Calabian. Supposedly the consort of the Goddess sets various traps, hoping to lure the unwary deeper into the empty heart of the desert and away from the places sacred to Her, such as the Kali Oasis. We were always told to treat such reports as just another tactic to mislead us.''

Phada's eyes widened in alarm. "You do not sound very sure about it."

"That is because I am not. There are many things we cannot explain."

"What should we do?"

"We have come this far. We might as well continue, at least until sunrise."

At the thought of the return of the hot sun and no water, Phada felt her hopes sliding away. Were they simply marching toward the nothingness of more sand? Was it some sort of trick to pull them away from the Kali instead of toward it? All her aches and pains returned full force and her mouth felt drier than burnt ashes.

They trudged onward. Suddenly the wind began to pick up, whipping her kanzu around her body with surprising force. The intermittent blasts of air came from behind and yet they still managed to swirl around her so that the sand pelted her face, creeping into her mouth and hair and stinging her vulnerable eyes. Phada pulled the garment closer but it did not help much.

Sarak pointed in the direction from which they had just come. She glanced over her shoulder to see a bank of clouds at their backs. In Mesara, clouds always heralded a storm, which promptly dropped its quota of rain on the town and then disappeared as the sun dried up the puddles and again heated the air to sultriness.

Did it rain in the desert? she wondered. These low-lying clouds looked more than a little ominous because there was nothing out here to halt their progress and no protection should they continue to unleash torrents of wind with no precipitation. It had been known to happen from time to time. If they would only disperse rain or any kind of moisture on their heads, Phada knew she would be eternally grateful.

"Perhaps we should stop," she yelled to Sarak. The wind whipped her words away and she had to repeat them two more times before Sarak understood her.

"Not without a tent. A sandstorm like this will bury us."

She nodded her understanding. So much for the hope of rain. She soon found herself bending backward to compensate for the force of the driving wind. She could barely see in front of her. Gisba hovered even closer than usual. She probably knew more about such storms than her mistress did, Phada thought with a grimace. If only the dobby could talk.

As suddenly as it had come up, the wind disappeared. Clouds still covered the moon, however, and it was very dark.

"Look." Sarak pointed.

Phada stopped beside him. "Holy Mother Elithra," she gasped.

They could see the glow on the horizon much more clearly without the rays of the moon to mask it. If appearances were not deceiving, whatever was causing the luminescent light was not very far away, perhaps just over the next sand dune. Phada rubbed some of the grit from her eyes and blinked to clear her vision before she looked again. She had not been mistaken. The mysterious semicircle of light gleamed an impossibly pale, delicate shade of pink, not the purplish color often noted at sunrise but more like the phosphorescent hue seen on the inside of a seashell. It made her distinctly uneasy.

"What is it?" she asked, moving closer to Sarak. "I do not know." He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "But at least we can be sure it is not a Jiboan camp."

"No, it is much too pretty for that."

"Let us go." When Phada did not immediately move, Sarak tugged on the sleeve of her robe. "Phada, we cannot turn back now."

"Why not?"

"Because whatever is out there is our destiny. Can you not feel it?"

"No, I cannot," she retorted flatly. "How can you be so sure about this? Maybe this is one of the sacred places of the Goddess. Maybe we are supposed to show how very clever and respectful we are of Her feelings and turn away from it. The Goddess works in inexplicable ways. Even in the jungle such eye-catching beauty is a warning. The prettiest, most colorful animals and plants are always the deadliest."

Sarak grasped her arms, turning her until she was forced to face him. "Believe me, Phada, we have no choice. The sun will soon be up. We cannot survive even part of another cycle without water." She opened her mouth to speak but he placed a gentle finger against her lips to forestall her. "I believe the Goddess has entrusted you to my care."

She glared at him. "Perhaps the Goddess has entrusted you to my care," she replied curtly. "If I gave you an order to detour around the strange light, you would have to obey."

"Are you not the least bit curious?" he wheedled, ignoring the direct challenge she had issued.

"Oh yesthe way a treerat is curious about a hissing ground viper. You give me no choice but to command you . . . oomph!" All the breath whooshed from her lungs as Phada found herself being swung completely off her feet and hefted over Sarak's shoulder as easily as he might sling a saddle over a dobby's back. "Put me down!" she yelped. "That is an order."

"You may not believe this, especially considering some of our close calls, but I have done everything within my power to keep you from harm."

"You are not . . . doing . . . a very good . . . job," she sputtered, the words jerked unevenly from her lungs with each jarring contact of his shoulder into her tender stomach, not to mention the fact that she was dangling upside down facing his broad back. She tried to push herself away from his body using her hands for leverage, but the ride was too bumpy and the strain on her arm muscles too much to maintain the position with any sort of dignity. She gritted her teeth and held on, vowing all kinds of revenge when he did eventually set her down.

She held her tongue for as long as she could, but the jostling motion of his walking on the uneven sand became unendurable. She swore she was going to become even sicker than she had those few times she had taken faral. "Sarak. If you do not put me down . . ."

Before she could finish he stopped abruptly. She tried to move her body so she could peer around his left arm but suddenly he was swinging her down to the blessed relief of solid ground and her own two feet. She held one hand pressed against her sore stomach, prepared to give him a blistering lecture on his duties, when she saw what he was staring at.

They were standing at the edge of a ring of phosphorescent pink sand. At its inner border, a brace of koalnut palm trees rose tall and stately, their fronds dipping gently in the barely discernible night breeze. Beyond the ring of trees she could see thicker ground vegetation straddling either side of a narrow path that led to the interior. The entire ground glowed, including an outcropping of rocks that was also composed of the strange, phosphorescent material. Just the smell of the moist soil in which the green plant life flourished, so reminiscent of Mesara, was enough to make her close her eyes in bliss.

"You were correct," she admitted in a small voice.

"It matters not."

"Yes, it does." She stepped closer to him and laid her hand on his arm. She raised her face until she was staring directly into the depths of his dark brown eyes, her gaze neither shy nor condescending. The Keepers taught that everyone was equal in the eyes of the Goddess, although many seemed inclined to forget that fact, including herself. "I am sorry, Sarak. I may know many important and wondrous things, but I do not have the practical knowledge of a warrioror his instincts."

He looked inordinately pleased at her statement, although he proceeded to brush it aside in his usual self-deprecating way. "Most Mesarans look down on both."

"I know." She pressed her dry lips together. "But they are wrong to do so. I was wrong."

"No, you are perfect."

She snorted in disbelief. "I am hardly perfect. Did you not just hear me admit what an ignorant mudhog I am?"

"Yes, but you are willing to see things as they are and change your mind accordingly, which is more than I can say for any other Mesaran town dweller I have ever known."

"Including the queen?"

He covered her hand where it still lay against his warm flesh, squeezing her fingers. "Yes, even including our esteemed sovereign."

Phada knew she was flushing with pleasure, so she quickly pulled her hand free. She crouched down to scoop up some of the glowing sand, allowing it to trickle in a small, steady stream back to the ground. It was cool to the touch and felt no different from the rest of the Calabian sand.

She turned her head in his direction. "What is this place?"

"I believe we have reached the Kali Oasis."

Chapter Fourteen

Sarak boldly scooped her up into his arms and began carrying her along the path toward the sound of what could only be running water, the packbirds close behind him. She did not protest, but allowed her body to relax against his without recoil or reservation. The cool, moist scent of fresh water clung to every particle of the air around them, causing his mouth to pucker in anticipation.

After a winding journey they finally stumbled into a clearing. Sarak tightened his grip across Phada's back and beneath her legs. Just ahead lay an iridescent pool, fed by a small, steady stream of water from the pink rocks above. More rocks glowed from the bottom, lighting the shadowy forms of fish swimming lazily beneath the surface, their scales sparkling.

The dobbies made a dash for the pool and soon had their beaks in the water, their long necks stretched, their eyes closed in bliss while they drank. Sarak lowered Phada to the sand on the shore, pushing the kanzu from her shoulders and using his hand to splash water on her face and upper body. It was enough to revive her, for she was soon dipping her hand into the cool liquid, scooping handfuls into her mouth and groaning with pleasure.

Sarak had no time for such restraint. He dunked his entire head into the pool, shocking his body with the cool wetness. He could not remember anything feeling so good, not even the time he had returned from the Carpon, the Mesaran outpost located where the Calabian met the sea. He had spent two mooncycles there with only a sword and a cupful of brackish water for company.

"I am going for a swim," he said, pulling the kanzu over his head and tossing it to the ground, leaving only the warrior's breechcloth to cover him. He could tell sunrise was not far off because the air had already lost its nighttime chill. "I recommend that you join me. Your body needs moisture in every way it can obtain it, both inside and out."

She looked dubious. "Do you think it is safe? I see fish swimming around in there. Perhaps there is something bigger or more dangerous lurking in the depths."

"Then I will go first. If we stay near the shore I am certain we will be safe enough. After all, this is an oasis and all such places are under the special protection of the Goddess."

He dove into the water, his extended body cleanly slicing the surface so that there was barely a ripple. When he finally came up for air, he shook his long hair from his eyes, gasping and laughing at the sight of Phada, still hovering cautiously on the shore.

"Come in," he urged her. "You will not be sorry."

He floated on his back, shooting a stream of water from his mouth into the air like a blowfish. He kept one eye on Phada, wondering if she would dare come into the water with him. Warriors did everything separately from the rest of Mesara, including bathing and swimming, as if town dwellers would be contaminated by such contact. Phada had shown that she did not care for many of those rules, but even Mesaran males and females did not bathe together.

She took off her kanzu and came to stand uncertainly by the edge of the water. He did not know what, if anything, a Keeper wore beneath her tunic, so he did not dare ask her to remove it. He did not want her to become disgusted with him or frightened that he might attack her as she had so often in their early time together. She seemed to have gotten over that, he mused, remembering with a jolt of sensation how she had pressed the warmth of her body against his back when he had been bound and shivering with the cold.

His body reacted to that image and he quickly shut it from his mind, agilely maneuvering onto his stomach and swimming in the opposite direction, away from Phada. The sight and smell of the water must be causing him to lose what little sense he had left when it came to the Keeper's apprentice. She needed him to stay alive and she had forced herself to perform forbidden acts in order to ensure he stayed that way. That was all it was and all it ever could be.

Small splashing sounds informed him she had entered the water. She moved far enough away from the shore so that the water reached her shoulders. "I do not know how to swim," she explained with a small shrug.

Swimming was another physical activity performed by the dominators to build stamina and strength. No town dweller wished to swim in the river that flowed along the outskirts of Mesara because it was unprotected from the scorching rays of the sun. It also contained various snakes and other creatures. Although they tended to avoid people whenever possible, it was not unknown for one of them to attack. A warrior was always prepared for such an event.

Sarak dove beneath the cool surface of the water. It did not matter that he was underwater; he could not stop himself from smiling. The cool liquid pressed against his teeth and soothed his blistered lips. He could not remember such joy, not since he was a small boy, before he was taken to the Warrior Academy. He felt a sense of freedom as hints of the infinite possibility of life washed over him. Perhaps the water was imbued with the spirit of the Goddess. Whatever it was, he wanted to share it with Phada.

He burst to the surface, then kicked his feet and dove again. He swam underwater, using his powerful legs to propel him across the pool toward Phada. He surfaced beside her, causing her to gasp in alarm before she glared at him.

"Very amusing," she muttered. "I did not know you were part fish." She stood stiffly, unsure of herself in this new setting. His earlier question was answered in any case. He could see by the pale straps at her shoulders that she wore some kind of undertunic.

"Come, I will show you how to float on your back," he offered.

She shrugged casually but he could see the light of excitement shining in her eyes. "I do not suppose I will ever need to use such a skill, but I must admit I am curious about how it is done."

He grinned. "Lie back," he instructed, placing his arm beneath her shoulders. "Good. Now bring your legs up to the surface. Slowly now."

Phada was a good student. She was soon floating around like an expert, kicking her legs to propel herself and laughing at her success. She looked like a goddess with her wet hair flowing down her back. Her braid had come undone, swirling around her body like waterweeds in the early morning rays of the sun, which had just begun to show its colors along the eastern horizon. The strands appeared darker because they were wet, yet her skin was still pale and smooth despite their trek across the desert. Thank the Goddess the Jiboans were known to be solicitous of their females' looks, if not their overall well-being. They had not forced her to spend marks beneath the burning sun without protection the way he had. Her skin would never have survived the ordeal.

The water was having a definitely liberating effect on both of them, Sarak decided moments later when Phada kicked water into his face. He used the flat of his arm to answer her challenge and soon they were in the midst of a splashing battle. Phada got so enthusiastic in her efforts to deliver the definitive splash that she spun around in a circle. He used her momentary confusion to dive beneath the water, grabbing her around the waist and legs and lifting her up to toss her into the water.

She came up sputtering and laughing. ''You win; I yield," she said, her voice breathless.

The other possible meaning behind her words seemed to hit them both at once and they stared at each other. Phada appeared alarmed at the inadvertent statement of surrender she had uttered. Sarak tried not to let it go to his head but he could not help himself. The thought of leading her gently from the water, lying down on the grassy vegetation at the edge of the pool, then pulling her down on top of him to straddle his hips, drove everything else from his mind.

"It was a hard-fought battle and you acquitted yourself well," he finally said. Best to keep their interchange light, he told himself. But it was easier said than accomplished in deed. His insides roiled with so many emotions he barely managed to keep them in check. He pressed his lips together, his mouth taut with determination. Somehow this female had become more important to him than his own life, and he was at a loss how to deal with his feelings. One thing he felt certain of was that she would not want to hear the details of his improper reaction.

It did not surprise him that she played along. "That is high praise indeed from a warrior."

She nodded formally to him before wading to the shore, where she grabbed her kanzu and used it to dry her face and arms. Sarak stood with water dripping from his hair and down his chest, his gaze riveted on her every action. He had to restrain himself from going to her, so strong was his longing to hold her close, to meld their bodies together in the way of male and female.

He had never experienced anything like it. Even when he had lusted for a woman, it had never been for one female in particular. Now he had no desire for anyone but Phada, whom he could never have. It was suicidal and self-defeating. He must purge these feelings from his mind and heart and body, where they had taken up residence. He did not know if he could, certainly not while he was forced to gaze upon her every millimark of every cycle.

She snatched up her pack and disappeared around the other side of the rocks that bordered one edge of the pool. Sarak slowly waded out of the water, his joy at their reversal of fortune fled, along with Phada's stimulating presence. She soon returned however, wearing a dry tunic in the bland tan of the Keeper's uniform and wringing out her long hair. Sarak could not help but wonder what she might look like in blue to match her eyes or royal purple to match her spirit. He realized she appeared beautiful to him no matter what she wore. He must have fallen further into the depths of his impossible fantasy than he thought.

"We had best eat something and then get some rest," he said, hoping he did not sound too gruff. "After sunrise we will gather what supplies we can for the final segment of the journey to Gorod."

"Is it much farther?"

"No, I do not believe so. Perhaps another couple of cycles."

She began spreading out her kanzu a short distance away from the pool when he stopped her. "We should not stay near the water. It is the center of all activity in this placeand the first destination of anyone else who might arrive here."

"Yes, of course."

He gestured for her to wait while he scouted out a safer location to spend what was left of the cycle-rise. Together they moved their supplies and the dobbies to a sheltered area beneath a circle of koalnut palms surrounded on one side by thick vegetation. Sarak gathered figs and dates from the nearby trees to add to their staples of dried meat and graincakes. They ate silently. Sarak knew she was correct in her wish not to speak to him, but it hurt all the same.

The cycle was already warm by the time they finished their meal. Phada smoothed out her kanzu, then placed her pack where she intended to lay her head. Sarak made sure he was an appropriate distance away before he shook out the voluminous folds of his own garment and settled it down on the grass.

"I have never seen pink sand before," she announced suddenly, breaking the long silence between them. "Or pink rocks. It is all so beautiful. Do you think it will be the same in Gorod?"

He made a face. "Somehow I am not able to associate pink sand with the Kargans." He continued rolling the blade of grass he had plucked between his fingers, releasing its sharp, tangy scent. Anything to keep from gazing at Phada and remembering what he must not want, what he could never have. By the blue moon, what was wrong with him that he could not control his own body after all the training he had been given for just such a purpose?

"I have been wondering about our fate once we reach Gorod," she continued. She lay propped up on one elbow, gazing past him into the trees.

"We have made it this far," he pointed out.

"Sarak, what I said to you beforeI meant it."

His heart started hammering against his rib cage. She could not mean what he thought she did. "What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about what I said at the pool." Her voice was the barest whisper, her face flushed as she lowered her head to look down at the kanzu beneath her.

He sat up abruptly, almost leaping the rest of the way to his feet to rush to her side. He could not find the words or the daring to question her any further.

"Do not make it any harder for me than it already is," she pleaded softly. "I have thought about this a lot. We do not know if we will ever make it out of Gorod, much less back to Mesara. And I have never experienced the act of mating."

Dear Goddess in heaven, he thought, closing his eyes and clenching his fists against the rush of yearning and desire that washed over his body like a windswept storm cloud. His loins tightened almost painfully. "What are you saying?" he finally managed to whisper.

"I am saying I wish . . . that is, I want you to . . ." She slapped her hands against the kanzu in frustration at her inability to make her meaning clear. "You told me once that you would like to mate with me. Did you not mean it?"

"I meant it. But that is not the issue."

She was grateful, that was all, he hastily assured himself, thankful for his protection and care of her. Now she wanted to pay him back in the way she knew would most please him. He could not let her sacrifice herself in that way. She would never be accepted in Mesara if it was learned that she had mated with a warrior. It was forbidden, although it was the warrior who was harshly punished for the transgression rather than the town woman. Still, she would never be allowed to continue with her training to become a Keeper, something that she held dear. Knowing Phada, she would not allow herself to continue once she returned among her own kind, knowing she had broken not just one, but several sacred laws with the same act of rebellion.

"Please, Phada. I cannot do this thing with you."

"Why not?"

"You are not yourself. Things always look bleak and impossible when it comes down to matters of sheer survival. You will feel different once you return to Mesara and you will be glad I did not take you up on your offer."

"You do not wish it?"

He groaned. "Of course I wish it. That is not the point."

She finally raised her head to glare at him in exasperation. "Will you please tell me what is the point in not doing something both of us wish?"

"Because you will regret it."

"But you will not?" she asked astutely, attuned to his every nuance.

"I have always found mating to be a pleasurable experience. They say it is even more so with someone you care about. Although a dominator is not allowed to bond, I think I understand what they mean." He sighed. "I could never regret joining with you, little wingbird."

The endearment rolled off his tongue before he could stop it. Much to his surprise, his words did not deter Phada but rather seemed to galvanize her into action. She rose to her feet and crossed the distance between them, dropping to her knees on his kanzu, her hands clasped together and resting lightly on her thighs as though she were making an offering to him. Which of course she was, although she did not seem to think so.

"You could pretend I was one of those Jiboan dancers," she suggested.

"When we were in that tent I found myself pretending each one of those dancers was you."

"Oh!" She flushed with pleasure. "There is one thing, though. I do not think I can mate with you the way they do. Could we not try it in the more seemly manner of town dwellers? Since we are breaking all the other rules, we could pretend to be bonded if you like. Just for this one time. No one will ever know," she added coaxingly, as if he needed any encouragement to take what he yearned for with every fiber of his being.

His gaze on her face was as soft as a caress. He could not resist her further. He wondered why he even bothered to try. "That would surely be considered sacrilege," he whispered, reaching out his hand to touch her face. He could not hide the evidence of his shaking fingers as he stroked the soft skin of her cheek before dipping down to cup her chin. "Sweet, forbidden sacrilege." He traced the outline of her lips with his thumb. "I have only mated in the stationary position. I might disappoint you."

"You must allow me to be the judge of that," she said in that matter-of-fact way of hers he found so endearing. Then she brightened. "Besides, we can learn together and I will not feel such a novice." A novice. He chuckled to himself at the idea. She was as daring and brave as any warrior, as astute as the most learned Keeper, as royal as any queen. What he had felt for Riga did not come close to the emotions Phada called forth in him. He realized he was too far gone past sanity to be sensible for himself, let alone for both of them.

She waited there expectantly, the blush still coloring her cheeks. He tugged on her hand until she lowered herself down beside him, where she lay as stiff as a sapok board, her arms held awkwardly by her sides, staring up at the bright desert sky. She looked extremely nervous and uncertain now that she had revealed the secret of her innermost wishes. He was not really so sure of what to do himself, but he was more than willing to give it a try.

The taunting words of the Jiboans rang in his head. Were they just trying to confuse him into performing in an inappropriate fashion? He did not think so. He considered asking Phada how she would like him to proceed but realized she knew no more about pleasing a woman than he did. His instruction on that score had been woefully inadequate.

And yet Phada trusted him to do the right thing. It was a grave responsibility and one he took seriously. He only hoped he could control himself long enough to carry it through.

He continued to lie beside her, afraid to make a move in case it was the wrong one. He found that he longed to press his mouth against hers, the way he had often seen Pavonis kiss Riga when they thought no one was looking. At times he had feared the king would devour the queen's mouth, so demanding were his actions. And yet the queen had returned them with unbridled enthusiasm and passion. Would Phada like that as well? he wondered. He supposed now was the time to find out, although he hated to do something that might cause her to reconsider.

Maybe he would wait a bit to try something so untested, he finally decided. But he had better overcome his inertia before she thought he had changed his mind completely.

"Phada," he murmured, rolling over on his side until he was facing her. He slid his arms beneath her shoulders, lifting her from the ground and gathering her closely against his body, tangling his legs with hers. It felt so good to stroke the silky skin of her thighs, the slender firmness of her waist before it blossomed into the fullness of her hips. She let out such a small, soft sigh he almost missed it, but he did not mistake the soft cushion of her breasts pressing against his chest or the way she allowed her arms to shyly encircle his neck.

Her small action inflamed him beyond belief. He suddenly realized why she felt safe enough to mate with him. There was no one to see them, no one to know the forbidden things they were about to do together deep in the heart of the Calabian. No other Mesaran need ever know. Phada had a wild streak that Sarak suspected she did not give enough credence to and perhaps did not even realize she possessed. Had she not shown it by coming to seek him out? Why should she not take it a step further and satisfy her curiosity? She might never get another chance.

He began to stroke and caress her as the Jiboans had instructed. It seemed to work wonderfully well, so well in fact that he soon forgot his own needs in his desire to give pleasure to Phada. Every touch, every gliding caress brought him closer to the brink of madness. Every time she sighed, every time her skin quivered in response, he discovered such singular pleasure that he felt a greater sense of pride in this than in anything he had ever accomplished before. His flesh burned with heat; his mind grew dazed with desire. He had never prolonged the waiting once the female indicated she was willing, but then it had always been a business transaction, straightforward and simple. Nothing was like that with Phada. She might not want him for himself, but at least she wanted the act and he was available to perform it for her. He had to keep reminding himself that she was untutored in the ways of mating. Besides, every indication that he was giving her pleasure spurred him on to provide her with more.

He flattened one palm against her breast and she moaned. His pulse raced through his body like the hot roaring flames that turned metal into liquid at the foundry. If she hoped to encourage him, it was certainly working. Would she allow him to remove her tunic? He wanted to see all of her before he joined their bodies in the timeless mating ritual. The Jiboan females charged extra for total nakedness because it allowed the warrior complete access to a female's body so he could fondle her breasts to his heart's content or take her nipple into his mouth, something Sarak particularly loved to do. Was such an action too coarse and animalistic to inflict on a town woman like Phada?

When Sarak tried to remove his hand from her breast, Phada could not stop herself from reacting instinctively. She had never felt anything like the explosions of sensation she had experienced at his tentative exploration of her breast and she did not want it to end. She grabbed his wrist, holding him in place.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked in a strained voice.

"No, oh no. Please do not stop." She hesitated. "Unless you wish to."

"I do not know what is permitted."

She giggled. "Actually, neither do I. I guess that means we can do whatever we want."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes. I want you to feel as free with me as you would with a Jiboan female."

"By the blue moon, Phada, will you please, just this once, forget about the cursed Jiboans?" he grated out in exasperation. "Do you not understand that I care only about you and what you want?"

"I want you," she said simply.

And it was true, she realized as he covered her breast with one big hand, nuzzling her neck at the same time. At first she had tried to reassure her guilty conscience that she just wished to experience the mating act while she still had the chance, that Sarak happened to be the one available to carry it through. But she quickly realized she was lying to herself. It was much more than that, much more than she had ever dared to dream. And it was all because of the big, gentle dominator who now lay sprawled across her, his weight pressing her body into the ground in the most satisfying manner.

She was eager to go wherever he led her. When he tugged on her tunic, she obediently raised herself up and allowed him to remove it, along with her undertunic. Soon he was kissing her all over, everywhere, including several places that made her blush, especially when his mouth lingered for the longest time at her breasts. Lightning-bolt flashes of blue-hot heat flooded her lower body when he suckled her nipples, causing a strange wetness to develop between her thighs.

His hands were everywhere on her body, caressing and stroking until she thought she would surely fly apart into a million pieces. She wanted more, although she could not imagine what more there could be to this raging pleasure. Sarak, however, seemed to know. He was awkward at first when he rolled completely on top of her, but he soon grasped the dynamics of the matter, using his elbows to keep his weight from crushing her as he thrust himself inside her.

Phada gasped at the burning pain, but it soon dissipated to become a burning of another sort. Like a fire that needed more fuel to sustain it, Phada knew she would sputter and die without Sarak's male flesh gliding into her and pulling back, stoking the flames of pure desire that coursed through her entire body. The noises of satisfaction that issued from his mouth as he pumped himself into her body secretly thrilled her.

Suddenly she became aware of her own intense gratification as waves of pleasure radiated from the core of her being to encompass every part of her body. She cried aloud then, losing all sense of direction or location, knowing only that she and Sarak were entwined in a dance of passion and desire unlike anything she had ever known. He stiffened and then thrust harder, shouting his final release to the scented desert air.

She had no idea what to say in the aftermath of such sheer physical satiation. It did not seem much like a time for talking. All she knew was that she did not care about Gorod or Mesara or anything else. She just wanted to lie in Sarak's arms forever, basking in the afterglow of the most intense experience she had ever known.

Sarak pulled her against his chest, while one hand stroked the hair back from her face. ''Goddess above, I did not know-it could be like this," he said, burying his face in her hair. "I never suspected."

Phada sighed, her eyes closing in contented exhaustion. And yet she did not fall immediately asleep the way Sarak did, his breathing deep and even near her ear. Her analytically trained mind remained too active, trying to understand what had happened between them.

She realized that strength alone was nothing to fear. She had witnessed that for herself on this journey. And strength tempered by logic and good sense could be a potent combination, as Sarak had already demonstrated. Perhaps warriors did have a reason to complain about the state of affairs in Mesara. They risked their lives and were denigrated because of it. Surely they deserved more consideration than they presently received, maybe even an easing of some of the rules that kept them so strictly segregated.

Her eyes widened in horror at the wayward direction of her musings. What on Elithra was she thinking? Dominators were beasts and brutes who could not be trusted. She had to remember that Sarak was the exception rather than the rule.

He gathered her closer as he slept and she sighed at the sheer pleasure of feeling his legs tangle with hers, his soft breath against her hair. Had she lost her reason along with her virginity? Perhaps, but she could not muster up the indignation to care.

Chapter Fifteen

The sun was approaching its zenith when Phada finally awoke. Oddly enough, the air was cool and fragrant with the scent of flowers and green vegetation. The koalnut palms interspersed with a slender-trunked, leafy tree she did not recognize provided ample shade. A lone bird, a lovely blue in color with white markings, warbled diligently, as though bidding them to rise and greet the already fleeing cycle.

She rolled over to find Sarak awake as well, watching her with his intense dark eyes. He was not smiling; in fact he appeared so serious she wondered if something were wrong. Was he sorry about what they had done? Was she? In spite of their indisputable transgression of the laws of Mesara, she knew she would never regret experiencing the mating act with this warrior. Besides, technically they were no longer in Mesara. They were in a world of their own making and she liked it too well to wish herself anyplace else. She felt shy and awkward after what had passed between them, especially when she realized that they were both still naked, although Sarak must have covered them with her kanzu sometime during their sleep. She clutched the brightly woven red-and-yellow material to her chest in the face of his continued silence.

Finally she offered him a tentative smile. "Greetings, Sarak," she said.

"Phada." He closed his eyes as if in relief, his big hands balling into fists at his sides, although she could not understand his response. Did he think she was about to denounce him? There was no one to denounce him to, not that she would ever consider doing something so unfair. After all, they had mutually sinned against the accepted code of behavior. She was as guilty as he was, maybe more so since she was a Keeper's apprentice and should be able to control herself better than a dominator.

"I hope you are well and that the Goddess gave you good rest," she added formally, unable to bear the distance between them another millimark.

Sarak chuckled, his face creasing into a broad smile. "She did something much better than that," he told her softly, his hand caressing her cheek. "She let me have you."

Phada lowered her gaze, embarrassed at the intense light in his eyes as they perused her face, and yet pleased at the same time. "I feel so strange. I do not know how to act with you anymore."

"You must do as you feel."

"Oh!" She blushed. What she wanted was to mate with him again. She wondered if that would shock him. It certainly shocked the living blue sunrays out of her. She shook her head. "No, I . . . I cannot."

His expression sobered instantly at her words. He jerked his hand away. "Forgive me, Phada. I am a fool not to have realized it sooner. You are ashamed to be lying here with me like this. I understand. I will leave so you can get dressed."

He reached for his breechcloth, fumbling to put it on beneath the protection of the kanzu, presumably so he would not offend her with his naked body in broad cycle-light. This was going all wrong, she thought despairingly. She was not ashamed; she did not want him to leave. Why was he misreading the situation so badly?

And then she realized what was happening. He had been brought up believing he was not as good as the rest of the population, especially when it came to carnal matters. He had been segregated from all town dwellers and not allowed to touch a woman intimately unless he paid for it. Even then he could not mate as other males did.

She had no idea how that kind of treatment might feel over a lifetime. She was powerless to change the past, but she could do something about it now by offering herself to Sarak during their uncharted time together at the oasis. They did not know what the Goddess had in store for them, but she found she wanted Sarak to have something pleasurable to remember in the cycles to come. She could not be certain if their mating had been as special for him as it had been for herprobably not, since he had experienced such pleasures of the flesh beforebut she knew he had enjoyed it and she wanted him to feel that way again.

She placed a hand on his chest. He stopped his movements, staring straight ahead. "Sarak," she whispered. "Please do not go."

She had no idea what else to say, but she was encouraged that he remained where he was. His chest began to rise and fall more rapidly. She knew because she watched her hand, which rested just below his collarbone, move up and down with it. She tried a couple of tentative strokes, enjoying the smooth feel of his tanned flesh, the ripple of muscle beneath. When she dared a glance in his direction, she saw that the skin of his face was pulled tautly back, especially around his eyes, and a hectic flush had appeared along his cheekbones.

"Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?" he grated out between clenched teeth.

"Reciprocating what you were doing to me this sunrise, I hope. I am sorry I am not as skilled as you are in such matters."

"No, stop." When she ignored his command, he grabbed her hand, holding it in place against his chest. "Phada, you do not owe me anything. What we did earlier was not meant to be part of a transaction. At least it was not for me."

"Nor for me. I just thought that since it felt so wonderful when you touched me the way you did, that you might like it as well."

"By the Goddess, I like it better than anything."

"Then hush, great warrior, and stop fighting me. You have been fighting me since the moment I met you."

He brought her hand to his mouth so he could kiss the palm. "And losing the battle every time," he added wryly.

He released her hand and lay back, offering himself to her to do with as she pleased. She experienced a surge of excitement at the thought of wielding such power over his strong warrior's body. He could crush her with one hand and yet he had surrendered all that strength to her.

She was not daunted by the task she had set for herselfto make him weak with pleasure. She had not thought to touch him before, so busy had she been simply taking in all the sensations his hands and mouth had aroused in her. But now she was more coherent and she allowed her fingers to stroke his tanned skin even as she leaned down to kiss and lick his chest the way he had done with her. His indrawn gasp assured her that it pleased him.

She grew bold enough to uncover his lower body, flipping the material of the top kanzu away. He had not quite succeeded in donning his breechcloth. She pulled at the leather strips he had managed to tie on one side before tossing the garment onto the nearby sand.

"Oh Goddess, yes, Phada, please," he moaned, half delirious with the intense feelings she was generating in every part of his body as she stroked and caressed him as he had never been touched in his life. He did not understand why she felt compelled to do this, but he was not about to ask any questions. This entire journey seemed a dream, and mating with Phada the most glorious fantasy he could ever imagine.

He wanted to touch her, too. But when he reached up to do so, she grabbed his arms and pushed them to the ground beside his head. Before he knew what she intended, she had straddled him, the hot core of her femininity burning against his loins.

"You once asked me to ride you," she said. She sounded bold, but she was blushing to the roots of her hair. "Do you still wish it?"

He was so moved that she would go to these lengths to please him and so excited by the sight of her mounted on top of him that he could barely speak. Instead he reached up and grasped her hips, lifting her just high enough so that he could slide her down onto his erection. "By all means, ride me . . . as hard as you like for as long as you like."

He did not remember much after that except for the waves of pleasure that washed over him one after the other without ceasing. He thought he might die from the sensations, but he did not care. She continued her rhythmic pumping, never letting up until she finally cried out and collapsed, sobbing, onto his chest. That was when he allowed himself his final release, his arms around her, her hair draped across his face and its delicious, flowery scent filling his nostrils.

When Sarak came awake again, the afternoon was just beginning to slide into evenfall. Phada was still asleep, her soft breath fanning against his neck. The rest of her warm, enticing body lay curled along the length of his like a contented palace cat. He wished he did not have to get up, but there were things to do if they were going to be able to leave the oasis this night. Staying as long as they had was dangerous, since they were so near the approach to Gorod. Even now another Jiboan caravan, filled with faral, might be heading their way, and this group of desert dwellers might know better what the spice was good for besides selling to Dalcor.

He carefully slipped his arm from beneath Phada's head. She murmured in her sleep but did not awaken. Fierce little clawcat, he thought, remembering how she had wrung every last ounce of pleasure from his body. He had always been powerfully aware of her beautiful, tawny hair and her stormy blue eyes, but he never would have suspected the fierce courage and the brave heart that beat beneath the drab tunic of the Keeper's apprentice.

It did not take him long to gather what supplies they needed from the bounty the oasis had to offer. He packed fruit and dates into both saddles as the dobbies stood docilely beneath the shade of a large koalnut tree. He found himself talking to the birds, calling them by name. Phada's foolishly tenderhearted compassion for animals must be rubbing off on him. Luckily there was a spare water bag in one of the compartments, which he filled from the pool. In the light of the sun the pink color had disappeared as if it had never been. He wondered if the relationship he had forged with Phada would also vanish once they left this place.

He realized they might still run short of water, so he also gathered a dozen koalnuts. They would be able to crack them open as needed and drink their milky liquid interiors. He also found two flat stones to help in the task, since they had no knife strong enough to do the job. He placed them in the leather sidesaddle.

They were as prepared as they would ever be. He paused next to the deep water of the pool. He had time for a swim but he was too eager to get back to Phada. Instead he splashed some water on his face and upper body before returning to the shady glen where Phada still rested. He lowered himself next to where she lay, her body mostly covered by the kanzu, but her shoulders and part of her bare back exposed to the soft oasis air.

He could not stop from pressing closer to her. She murmured a little but allowed him to gather her against him. He could not resist stroking her skin with long, languorous movements. By the time she awakened, she was as eager to mate as he was. He took her again as night fell over the Kali, his body pushing her into the folds of the kanzu. He knew it was foolish to pretend he was just like any other Mesaran male, but he could not help himself. It was a fantasy he would never know again and he wanted to cherish it.

They drifted into sleep. He estimated they had been resting for a couple of marks when he gently shook her shoulder. "Phada. Wake up."

He hated to rouse her but it was time to go. He wished they could stay there forever. But a Jiboan caravan was sure to arrive and there was no telling what kind of trouble they might get into wearing these red-and-yellow kanzus. Dalcor had already posted a bounty for his capture. He might have upped the price by now, especially if he heard the reports of their escape from that last band of Jiboans.

"It is still dark," she murmured, snuggling closer to the warmth of his body. He hugged her before moving away.

"Yes, it will be cooler walking at this time of night."

"You are right, as always," she said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"I do not want to leave, but I am afraid we might run into more Jiboans once the sun rises. We cannot take such a chance. In fact, from here on out we will have to be very careful to scan the horizon so we can avoid any unwanted company."

Phada stared at him unhappily. She knew he was correct about departing immediately, but that did not mean she had to like it. She also decided she did not have to put up with his suddenly formal attitude when she still felt so emotionally and physically close to him. It was almost as if they were bonded, she thought, shocking herself into further silence with the thought. She had been taught, repeatedly, that no female could ever achieve such a state with a warriorthey were known and often praised for their loyalty, but it was believed they were incapable of love.

Maybe she should let things be; maybe Sarak was right in trying to maintain a modicum of emotional distance between them. She picked up her kanzu, shaking out the voluminous folds of the material. She could not bear to put it on quite yet. The temperature in the oasis felt perfect against her skin, although she knew once they left its protection, the desert would be much cooler, especially until the sun rose. She realized that the telling differences in their newfound closeness with each other would be evident, even to an outsider. Only moments ago, Sarak had offered his hand to assist her to her feet. Now his gaze lingered on her as she took her place beside Gisba, although his expression remained stoic and unemotional. A single word from her could change that. She did not know if she dared utter it.

She could not stop herself from peering over her shoulder for a last look at the shaded glen where they had mated. She noticed Sarak doing the same. His dark eyes met hers for a brief, shockingly intimate moment, and then he turned away, as though putting it behind him. Would they ever experience such closeness again? Phada wondered as she began walking behind him along the narrow path.

She had heard that warriors were like animals, filled with lust and then, when it was sated, able to go about their tasks without a backward glance. That was why they were considered unsuitable material as a bonded mate. And yet Sarak had been tender this morning. He had wished to mate with her again, in spite of having done so twice before. She realized he was probably making up for all those days of celibacy while they had been hiking in the desert. And perhaps, although he might not like to admit it to her, the sight of those Jiboan woman had stirred his desires to the breaking point.

He stopped when they reached the pool. ''I will wait if you want to wash. I doubt we will have another such opportunity until we return."

If we return. Phada could almost hear the words he had left unspoken. "Yes, that would be wonderful," she said.

She draped her kanzu over Gisba's saddle before hurrying to the water's edge, kneeling down so that her legs were covered and dashing handfuls of the cool, clear liquid on her face and arms. Sarak led the birds over for one last drink. Then he, too, knelt and washed.

When they were finished, he picked up Ral's reins and led the way out of the oasis. Phada felt even worse than she had leaving Mesara behind. They were heading into unknown territory, the land of the Kargans. They had no idea what to expect, knowing only what the Jiboan caravaners had chosen to tell them and knowing this was filled with exaggerations and perhaps even downright lies.

The wind immediately picked up once they crossed the first massive sand dune beyond the Kali. She quickly donned her kanzu. Sarak still wore only his warrior garb. She was shocked at herself and somewhat uncomfortable with the realization that she loved watching his tautly muscled physique as he paced ahead of her, his movements as graceful as the sleekest clawcat. She squelched the vague murmurings of her conscience over what she had done. There would be time enough later for repercussions. Besides, in the vast reaches of the desert, nothing seemed real.

They traveled farther and farther south. The sun had risen and the air grew hot, although nowhere near as scalding as it had been in the heart of the Calabian. The desert dunes turned flatter; the ground was littered with rocks. Phada found her sandals were not the best protection against the small pebbles that wedged between her feet and the leather and that she had to shake out at regular intervals. Every so often Sarak would stop to run his fingers over the larger stones. He explained that the rougher, more pitted surface indicated north, the side of the prevailing winds.

The landscape continued to change, becoming even more rocky, windswept, and barren. The wind that whipped against their backs was raw and cold, the horizon composed of bleak and colorless tans and browns. Even the dobbies looked miserable as they blinked away the dirt that blew into their eyes. After the soft hues of the desert, and most especially the Kali Oasis, the scenery was depressing.

They walked the entire next cycle until the sun set. Sarak made camp beside an outcropping of rock where an overhang provided shelter against the biting wind. There was little vegetation, although more than in the deep desert. They did not dare make a fire in case someone spotted them.

"I am not sure how much farther it is to Gorod, but I suspect we will reach it sometime tomorrow," he told her as he hauled Gisba's saddle from her back, then proceeded to do the same with Ral. The birds fluffed the feathers along their entire bodies and flapped their small wings, useless appendages, since they could not fly with them. Sarak settled them a short distance away, beneath the sheltering rock.

Next he used his kanzu to form a tent of sorts to provide them with protection against the wind. She did not wait to be invited but scrambled inside while he was still fastening the far corner. Once there, she sat huddled, trying to get warm. The skin of her face felt especially raw and cold, along with her hands. Although the kanzu had protected her from the worst of it because of its tightly woven construction, the wind had still been able to swirl beneath the material at times, dissipating the warmth she had managed to generate and cooling her entire body.

She was huddled in the farthest depths of the shelter when Sarak crawled in beside her. Immediately the limited space became even smaller, but she found she did not mind the boundaries of their dwelling the way she had before. In fact she wished she had the boldness to move closer to him, but she felt too shy and unsure of what her welcome might be.

Then she realized that she could hear Sarak's teeth chattering. The poor warrior was clad only in his breechcloth now that he had donated his clothing for their mutual benefit. She forgot everything else in her haste to scoot closer to his side, pulling her kanzu over her head and using the material to wrap around his shoulders.

"What in the name of Elithra are you doing, Phada?" he asked in astonishment, shrugging the cloth away. He quickly wrapped it around her upper body, holding her immobile with his arms when she tried to struggle. "It is much too cold for you to remove your garment."

"What about you?"

"Now that I am out of the wind, I will soon be warm."

She glared at him. "You are acting like a stubborn mudhog. This thing is big enough to cover both of us."

"Leave it be. I am fine," he said. He sounded testy and ill-tempered, exactly like the mudhog she had compared him to.

He released her abruptly, moving as far away as it was possible to get within the confines of their shelter. He also avoided her gaze. She frowned, unsure exactly what was going on. He acted as if he were loath to touch her or to have her near him. Was he trying to tell her, tactfully, that he no longer desired her?

Dominators were known to grow eager to move on to greener fields once they had conquered a female. She thought she had tamed a warrior, if only for a short span of time. Perhaps she was only fooling herself. Perhaps, instead, the warrior had captured that rarest of trophiesa forbidden Keeper as a willing and eager pallet partner. Now that the thrill of the hunt was over, he no longer wanted her.

Had it really been just a game to him? She did not want to believe that, but in the face of the evidence she was not so sure. She lowered her head, praying he would not notice the tears that suddenly filled her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks and complete her humiliation.

If this was what mating did to a person, she wanted no more of it. She was as weepy as a child, sensitive and unable to cope with even the mildest rejection from Sarak, a warrior she had every right to command. She was certainly not acting like a proud and noble Keeper-in-training. If she was not careful, she would soon be begging for his attention.

Sarak was obviously not suffering from the same complaint. He sat there staring at the rock wall in the most stoic fashion, although she knew he must be cold. What was he going to do tonight when it came time to sleep? He would never be able to rest comfortably in that skimpy garment with no other protection than a one-walled shelter. They had to be practical, for the sake of Mesara and what they hoped to accomplish.

He finally roused himself enough to begin handing out their supper. The hard fruit he had packed had softened after only one cycle and now seemed ready to eat. He handed some to Phada, along with dates and the last of the graincakes. He placed the goatskin water bag between them, propping it against the rock wall and loosening the neck, but not enough so that it would spill should it tip over. Phada was silent as she began eating and he followed her lead.

It was killing him not to touch her. He had thought long and hard about their situation during their endless marks of walking through the harsh southern portion of the desert. He had finally convinced himself that it was better to give her up now, while he thought he still might be able to accomplish the deed, rather than wait until they reached Gorod.

Part of him insisted that he should try to live each cycle to the maximum. But he could not do it. He was already in gut-wrenching pain at the prospect of eventually returning to their own civilization. He did not know how she would act if they ever got back to Mesara, but he hoped she would be able to part company with him without a backward glance and return to her Keeper's training, her head held high, not telling anyone of what they had done. He wanted that for her. He was the one who had coerced her into mating with him, using both her isolation from her own kind and her compassionate nature against her. If anyone asked, he would say that he had forced her. That would exonerate her. In the meantime, he could at least allow her to retain her dignity as a Keeper's apprentice while they remained together.

He could not forget that she had been a virgin, curious and scared, with no real conception of what the act entailed, when she had asked him to take her. He should have known better than to break such a sacred law. Look at the results. His peace of mind was shattered, probably forever, not to mention his ability to concentrate on the important points of their survival. All he could think about was her soft skin and her welcoming body. He deserved every bit of punishment the Goddess dealt him and more.

He needed to concentrate on the task ahead. He had no idea how he intended to slip into the Kargan stronghold unnoticed. He was sure Phada would want to accompany him, and that worried him to no end, not that he could leave her waiting somewhere along the track for him to return. What if the Kargans caught him? She would never be able to recross the desert alone, not unless she went with a Jiboan caravan, and he knew what her fate would be should that happen. He almost wanted to turn around and return across the cursed desert because he could not bear knowing it might be her fate to remain among their enemy forever.

Somehow, for Phada's sake, he must not fail.

He finished eating before she did. He waited politely until she had swallowed her last bite before turning over on his side, his face away from her, preparing to sleep. He decided it would probably an impossible task but he was going to give it his best effort.

Suddenly he felt something covering him. Before he could react he heard Phada's soft voice. "It is better for both our sakes that we share the Kanzu this night. I believe it is more than adequate in size to accommodate us. You must rest and you cannot do so if you are cold. I will stay on my side and you can stay on yours."

He grunted in agreement, knowing she would not cease until he did so. His mind supplied him with a vivid picture, complete with sensory details, of the way she had pressed her body against his when he had been tied up in the Jiboan camp. What sweet bliss that had been. He blanked the memory away and settled down to sleep.

He realized he had drifted into a dreamless rest when he awoke suddenly sometime later. He understood why when he felt Phada's warm body snuggled up against him. He had his arms wrapped tightly around her and he could feel her breasts pressing into his forearms. Sometime during the night he had rolled over so that he was facing her and she had unconsciously curled herself against him, seeking his warmth in the position they had used after mating.

She slept deeply, soundly, and he did not have the heart to wake her up by moving away. He felt his heart swell with pride that she should seek him out for any reason, especially in the depths of slumber. Her actions proved that she bore him no ill will for what he had done to her, not that Phada would ever allow herself to harbor such resentment against another living soul.

He tried to force himself to ignore her closeness but it was impossible. He could not resist smoothing the skin of her arm, little caresses that he hoped would not disturb her. Every time he moved he could feel the shape of her breasts more distinctly. His hands ached to close over them, to feel her nipples harden beneath his touch. He realized with a shock of awareness that he was now moving his lower body in a counterpoint rhythm to his stroking of her arm, pressing his aching hardness against her bottom, biting his lip to keep back a groan.

This time she sighed his name and stirred. He stopped his motions instantly, but it seemed it was too late. As he pulled back, she slid her body beneath him. Instead of moving away as he knew he should have done, he lifted himself until he was lying between her soft thighs, his weight supported by his elbows.

"Sarak," she whispered. He could see that her eyes were still closed, although she was smiling. Even in the semidarkness of night he could tell that it was a sad little smile, at odds with the increased tempo of her breathing that informed him that she was not unmoved by the way his body covered hers, their entwined limbs. "I thought you did not wish to mate with me again."

"I wish it more than life itself."

"Ah, yes, now I finally understand the force of this desire I have been told about. It does not matter what a person thinks or says in his most rational moments. When the opportunity arises, it is impossible to resist."

"Is that what you think?" he asked. "That I desire you only because I have the opportunity?"

She touched his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "It does not matter. It seems I have no willpower where you are concerned, in spite of my upbringing."

"Goddess knows I should leave you alone," he said, his hands reaching for the hem of her tunic and tugging it up past her hips so that her lower body was exposed to his avid gaze. He leaned just far enough away so that his fingers could maneuver between their bodies to slide inside the secret core of her femininity. He groaned as if in terrible pain when he felt the wetness there. "If I were any kind of a warrior, I would do so. But I find I am no match for my own desires when it comes to you."

She seemed to melt in his hands, her body pushing against his fingers, forcing them deeper inside her. He thought he would explode from the sheer beauty and wonder of her untutored response. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her breasts so she could press them tightly against his chest. His flesh burned like jungle wildfire.

"Teach me how to kiss, Sarak," she pleaded, her mouth close to his ear. "Teach me everything you know about mating."

He did not have to be asked twice.

Chapter Sixteen

Phada and Sarak reached the trampled crossroads long marks after the sun's zenith. The town of Gorod was nowhere in sight, but they knew they had to be close because of the way several roads merged into one main thoroughfare that continued to head south. There was little vegetation, to shelter them from prying eyes, although the oddly compelling rock formations provided some cover and protection. The landscape had grown even bleaker and more windswept, and the temperature had dropped until it was uncomfortably raw. It was hard to believe, but the blue-hued rays of the sun did not provide much warmth now, especially hidden as they were behind a dark, overcast sky.

All in all, the land of the Kargans was not a very welcoming place.

"Stay here with the dobbies," Sarak instructed her. "I am going ahead to reconnoiter. Perhaps the town lies on the other side of these rocks." Phada watched him slip away, the wind whipping his kanzu around his legs. From the back he looked like a common Jiboan merchant. Until she got closer and realized how massive he was and how much taller than any Jiboan she had ever seen.

Sarak had been most solicitous of her since they had awakened this morning. He did not seem as awkward as he had after the first time they had mated. Phada had come to the conclusion that he thought he was doing her a favor by withholding himself from her. He believed he had somehow coerced her into lying with him, that she had acted against her will, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps because of the decidedly risky, seemingly hopeless task she had set for both of them.

She had come to realize that her actions entailed much more than that. She had thrown aside every rule set out in the law scrolls by mating with the dominator; it was not something she had done on a whim, although in the beginning she had tried to convince herself that was all it was. She had broken her own code of ethics, and yet she could not find it in her heart to regret it. Later, perhaps, but not now, not when the thought of having Sarak take her in his arms was so compelling.

She knew that if they managed to make it back to Mesara, this interlude would have to come to an end. In the meantime, she meant to live each day to the fullest, with the dominator by her side. She could see that he truly cared about her. His concern washed over her like a physical caress. She knew how to break down his defenses. She did not consider it selfish to do so, not when she needed him so much and he seemed to need her in return, and especially not when their chances of success in Gorod were so small.

Sarak appeared from behind the wall of rock. He hurried quickly to her side and she could see that he was grinning. She wanted to reach out her hand to touch those smiling lips, but she restrained herself. There was an unspoken code between them when they were not entwined on the kanzus. They had a task to perform and they did not need the complication of their new relationship to distract them or cloud their judgment. Still, it was hard to revert to being distant and proper with him, knowing he had caressed every inch of her naked body.

''There are several Jiboan caravans breaking camp just ahead," he explained. "If we are careful, we can slip in amongst them and enter Gorod when they do."

"Have you seen it? What does a Kargan town look like?"

He smiled at her eager curiosity, his dark eyes warm with what she could only label as affection as they scanned her face. "I do not know. There is no sign of the place yet."

He gathered Ral's reins and began walking. Phada followed his lead with Gisba close behind. The birds had made known their dislike of the colder climate from the very first, but they had soon settled down into the placid acceptance that was their nature. Phada had grown quite fond of the pair of them, and the feeling was mutual.

They made their way to the edge of the rocky formation with the sound of the dobbies' claws scrabbling on the hard ground echoing all around them. Just ahead, Phada could see the colorful Jiboan tents, some of them already lying on the rocky ground, waiting to be packed. Dobbies squawked and children chased each other between the piles of equipment and goods. Thank the Goddess, none of the kanzus and kentas she could see sported a red-and-yellow design similar to theirs. They did not need to run into any kin of the Jiboans who had captured them and tried to drag them back to Mesara.

"Keep your face hidden," Sarak warned her. They carefully approached the tail end of the last caravan, whose members wore distinctive blue-and-white woven garments. "If I see the opportunity, I will try to procure a kenta, but until then, you will have to pretend to be a male."

"That will be easy," Phada said, flashing him a saucy grin. She felt more lighthearted than she could ever remember being in her entire life. It made no sense, not when they were about to march into the den of the enemy. She suspected it would not last and she wanted to enjoy it for as long as she could.

He leaned closer so he could whisper, "You seem in fine spirits. Perhaps you would tell me your secret."

She stared into his eyes for an intense, timeless moment, then dropped her head and blushed when she realized just what her secret was.

His hand came up as if to touch her face, but he stopped himself in time. "Ah, my bright little wingbird." He seemed at a loss for words for a couple of millimarks, and then he continued to speak. "I promise you, I will do everything in my power to complete the task you have asked of me. Everything," he vowed in a fervent voice.

"Yes, I know." Phada smiled shakily, her mood broken. It struck her again, more forcefully than ever, that they were heading into terrible danger. They had no idea of what lay ahead. If anything happened to Sarak, she did not know what she would do. And yet they could not return to Mesara without the secret of the spice. They had nowhere else to go, no choice but to press on.

The caravans finally began to move. Sarak kept maneuvering them closer to the head of the straggling column. Soon they were second in line, after the Jiboan tribe dressed in green and red stripes. There was still no sign of a town and Phada wondered how much farther they had to travel. For the last couple of hundred measures, they had been drawing closer to a towering rock wall. Phada stared until her eyes hurt, but she could not discover anything at its base. Soon they would either have to turn aside or be forced to come to a complete halt.

The lead Jiboans did not turn aside. Sarak and Phada exchanged puzzled glances, but they did not speak. Were these Jiboans not going to Gorod? And yet where else could they be headed, loaded down with trade goods as they were? Phada had already observed the fresh fruits and grains of Mesara strapped to the backs of their packbirds. She had also taken note of the cumbersome barrels of what could only be vetch.

And then she saw it, an opening in the cliff face. As they drew closer, she realized that it was large enough to allow at least four or five dobbies to enter side by side. Just inside the yawning entrance a couple of guards huddled next to small huts constructed of stone and wood, where they obviously passed the time between caravans. They wore long red cloaks with hoods that effectively covered their bodies and faces. They were still too far away for her to be able to estimate their size. She would have to wait a while longer to get her first glimpse of an honest-to-Goddess-created Kargan.

She was afraid the sentries would ask for some kind of documentation, but they gestured indifferently to the train of Jiboans and dobbies to move along. Phada felt her hopes shrinking as they descended down a long, sloping tunnel lit by torches. The fact that Gorod had only one entrance might mean trouble for them later on. It was damp and cool inside, although without the stinging bite of the wind, it seemed comparativelywarmer.

Suddenly they emerged into a huge, cavernous room, twice as large as the feasting hall in Mesara. It resembled the town square back home, although the Mesaran meeting place was bright and sunny because it was located beneath the jungle canopy on the east perimeter of the town. This place was well lit and yet it still gave an overall gloomy, colorless impression. At least it was warmer than the tunnel, due to a huge, roaring fire she could see off to her right. It burned along a portion of one wall, in a fireplace carved right into the stone. They could roast an entire bulloxen in there, Phada realized with an uneasy start.

Sarak hovered by her side, but not so closely that it was noticeable. They kept the kanzus drawn over their faces, even though many of the Jiboans had already tossed theirs aside. The merchants immediately began setting up their stalls and were soon hawking their wares. But to whom, was the question. At the moment there was no one else in the large hall.

And then the Kargans emerged from another tunnel located high above the floor of the market. They descended the rocky pathway, mostly women clutching baskets and children, but there were men among them as well. The women wore long dresses with sleeves in contrasting colors. Their hair was unbound and tumbled down their backs, in the most unusual shades of blond she had ever seen, some golden and yet the majority almost silvery white. Some of them had pulled the long strands away from their faces with brightly hued strips of leather. The men had on long trousers made of some kind of leather and matching vests, and they, too, had the same flaxen hair. Several wore long-sleeved shirts beneath the vests but most did not, and it was then that she realized what else made them so different.

She could not completely stifle her gasp of startled surprise. Their skin was so pale it appeared almost white. And their eyeseven from where she stood, still some distance away, she could see that their eyes were the palest of blues, so pale they almost appeared to have no color at all. The overall effect was eerie and disconcerting.

The women walked meekly behind the males, whose strutting gait reminded her of rockroosters displaying their tail feathers for the hens. Except for their pale complexions and blond hair, these males resembled the warriors of Mesara, with their finely honed muscles and their bulky chests and arms.

The next wave of Kargans appeared. Phada realized that the first group of females must be servants or slaves of some kind when she saw the rich fabrics these women wore. The sleeves were in a contrasting color to the bodice, which was cut so low their breasts almost spilled over the top. They wore veils that shielded their faces from onlookers. Each of these females appeared to be attached to a specific male, Phada decided as she watched the group separate into pairs as they made their way down the path toward the market. Each woman followed behind her warrior, her head dutifully bowed.

Phada gasped when one of the males suddenly slapped his female partner with the back of his hand. The woman did not even raise her fingers to her cheek but nodded as he roared at her, his face flushed with anger. He jabbed his finger next to her nose to emphasize the point he wanted to make and her veil quivered noticeably. But she did not utter a word in her defense. Phada could not believe her eyes when no one came forward to intervene. No one even seemed interested. She watched, horrified, as the Kargan male swiveled on his heel and stormed off, leaving the poor woman to scurry after him to keep up.

"Did you observe that Kargan male's outrageous behavior?" she demanded of Sarak, her voice filled with fury. "These Kargans are uncontrolled dominator beasts."

"Hush, someone will hear you," he cautioned. He knew he sounded testy but he could not help it, not when Phada's expression showed such disgust for the Kargan warriors. Her vehemence reminded him of the way the majority of town dwellers viewed Mesaran warriors. "Yes, I noticed. What would you have me do? If I go to her aid, it will mean the end of all our plans."

She calmed down a little at his words. "Yes, I realize that. It is just so difficult to watch these arrogant males casually displaying their violent ways. Did you note how he used his larger size and brute strength to bully and dominate? These warriors remind me of Dalcor."

Sarak's heart sank even further. He knew Phada had once had little respect for warriors, and these Kargan examples of the breed were not going to help mellow her opinion. He felt as if she were once again casting him in a group with all warriors, even though she had not specifically uttered a word about him. He did not want her to be reminded of the way she had once felt about his kind. But he could see from the prim expression of disgust on her face that it was too late to stop the process.

"Come," he said. "We must get rid of Gisba and Ral so we can move around Gorod more easily. I saw a packbird stable back near the entrance."

"All right," she answered mildly enough. But he could tell that she was still fuming over the incident she had witnessed.

They settled the dobbies in adjoining stalls, promising the stablemaster payment on their return. Sarak's skin was dark enough to pass for Jiboan but he did not have the distinguishing blue tattoos, so he kept his face covered, warning Phada to do the same. The proprietor of the stables was a Kargan male, although he was not a warrior. He was young, with a slender build, and his mannerisms reminded her a little of Jobus. He looked them over indifferently, then shrugged, unconcerned. Why should he be concerned? If they did not return, he could sell Gisba and Ral to the next desert-bound caravan and net a healthy profit. Phada did not trust him overmuch, but they had little choice. She felt marginally better when Sarak packed some of their belongings into a leather bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Once that was taken care of, he pulled her into a narrow tunnel, empty of foot traffic, at least for the moment. "I want to take a look around."

"It is too dangerous," she protested. "One glimpse of your face and they will know you are no Kargan. You are too big to pass for a Jiboan for very long."

"There is no other way."

"Yes, there is. If I could get a Kargan dress, I could easily pass."

Sarak sighed. Leave it to Phada to come up with another solution. Was it not in her nature to argue with anyone's suggestions, especially his?

"What about your hair?" he demanded.

"I realize that my hair is at the dark end of the spectrum when it comes to color, but it can still pass, I think, especially if I cover most of it with one of those head coverings and only allow the lighter ends to show. My eyes are rather dark too, but there is nothing I can do about that and at least they are blue."

"You cannot wander around here without an escort."

"Yes, I can. It is true, most of the women are attached to males, but I have seen some walking about alone. We will be less conspicuous if we separate. Besides, we can find out more that way. In my guise as a Kargan, I should be able to pry where a Jiboan outsider could not."

He knew when he was defeated. Besides, she was correct in her deductions. They were in danger no matter what they did. It might be worse if she were to hang around in one area, waiting for him to return. They might as well try to cover twice the territory.

"All right," he agreed. "But you must promise not to wander off alone down any empty tunnels until we have a better idea of the layout of this place."

"I will be careful, Sarak. Believe me, I do not want to find myself in the clutches of some beastly Kargan."

"Neither do I," he echoed her sentiments wholeheartedly. "Here, hold this." He handed her the leather bag, flipping it open while she supported the bottom and removing a handful of koalnuts and dates. "I remember seeing a merchant who had dresses for sale. Let us see what these are worth."

It turned out they were worth enough to purchase the Kargan apparel. Sarak used his best bartering skills with the large, crafty Kargan merchant who tended the stall where they were sold. He was an older individual with gray streaking through his silvery blond locks, a startling effect when set off by his blue eyes, which also held a silvery hue. He seemed curious about why a Jiboan would want Kargan dress, but he was too busy trying to extract an extra koalnut, obviously a delicacy around these parts, to make mention of it.

Sarak convinced another merchant to part with a head covering with the veil attached in exchange for the dates. He hurried back to where he had left Phada. She was still standing there, much to his relief, her sharp blue eyes taking in everything around her. He wondered what she was thinking, but when she turned toward him, her expression was carefully blank.

"Oh, good," she said when she saw the material in his hands. "I found a place where I can change if you will stand guard."

She led him to an empty corridor that snaked away into black nothingness. It was dirty and unlit, obviously unused. Sarak planted himself casually against one side of the entrance while Phada slipped into its dark shadows. It was not long before she reappeared, clutching her kanzu. She looked beautiful in the garment, Sarak thought as a jolt of awareness rocked his senses. He had always seen her in the basic tan tunic of the Keepers. He realized he had deliberately bought a blue dress. The bright shade brought out the color in her eyes, making them appear more blue than gray and very beautiful. His gaze dropped to the low-cut neckline where the tops of her breasts were clearly revealed, almost down to the nipple. Kargan males obviously liked to flaunt their women. Sarak found he wanted to caress her, to run his fingers across the soft, exposed skin, so pale and creamy, so tantalizing.

As he watched, she placed the covering over her hair and hooked the veil into place across her face. She suddenly seemed even more mysterious and foreign to his warrior sensibilities than she had as a Keeper's apprentice, and very, very female. She certainly did not look like the Phada he had first noticed in the feasting hall, so prim and proper, but indeed resembled the Kargan females.

She was right, the sun-lightened ends of her hair could pass for the flaxen color of so many of these people. And her eyes as well, although they did not hold the submissive expression he had noticed elsewhere. Although her skin was pale, it was not as white and translucent as a Kargan female's. He only hoped she would not be stopped and questioned because of it.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, her mouth pressed into a flat line. She had been very much aware of the Kargan women, many of whom were more amply endowed on top than she could ever hope to be. Like the Jiboan females in their filmy dance costumes, these antipodes females were used to displaying their charms and did not blush every time they moved and their flesh jiggled. Did Sarak think she had not noticed him ogling them with a warrior's appreciation? Would he now compare her to them and find her wanting?

He finally lifted his gaze to her face, his eyes burning. "It is fine," he said, sounding breathless.

"That is an easy statement for you to make," she replied in a testy voice. "You are not the one wearing a cursed garment that exposes your anatomy and allows everyone to judge you."

His eyes quickly darkened with anger. "It is an easy statement for me to make because I have always worn just such a garment."

She bit her lip in dismay, hanging her head. "I am sorry, Sarak. I have grown so used to seeing you in that kanzu that I . . . I forgot about . . ."

"It does not matter," he interrupted, his tone flat and emotionless. He turned away.

She groaned to herself, unable to believe her roiling emotions over a simple dress. Here she was covered from her head to her toesexcept for the generous display of her bosomand she had never felt more naked and exposed in her life. How had Sarak been able to bear being stared at and judged every moment of his life? Not that he would come up lackinghe was everything a male should be. But still, the thought of having her physical body on display was unnerving. Thank goodness her thoughts were still her own. She understood now why Sarak had developed that impassive expression he was so skilled atit provided him with the privacy he needed.

And yet the way Sarak had stared at her chest had caused her to flush uncomfortably while warming her at the same time. Was he remembering how he had pressed his lips there before caressing her with his hands? She shook her head. Now was not the time to be thinking about such things. In fact, she could not believe she had become so preoccupied with mating, a subject she had never shown any interest in before. Of course, she had never personally experienced the act before either, so she supposed she should allow herself a period of adjustment for the newness to wear off. She wondered how long it might take.

''The sooner we get started, the sooner we can get out of here," he said.

"Fine."

"We will meet back here later, around evenfall, although I am not sure how we will be able to tell when that is."

"My stomach will probably tell me," she said lightly. She dared to reach out and touch his arm through the material of the kanzu. "Sarak. About what I said beforeI truly am sorry. I sometimes speak hastily, without thinking."

He surprised her by grinning. "Yes, I have come to realize that you are impulsive as well as brave and beautiful." He touched her cheek. "Be careful, little wingbird."

She nodded, absurdly pleased at his compliment and his special name for her. "You be careful, too."

She watched him disappear into the crowd, finally losing track of him when he rounded the corner of a large merchant stall filled with colorful woven rugs. She supposed she should be grateful over her tantrumit had kept her from acknowledging her fear at what she was about to do. She tucked her chin down and began to walk toward the ledge from which all the Kargans had descended.

She kept her eyes averted whenever she passed anyone. It seemed the proper behavior. Everywhere she turned, she noticed blustering Kargan warriors, obviously the favored and ruling class. They slapped each other on the back in greeting, they strutted about like rockroosters, they shouted insults at each other while their women followed behind them, as docile as any packbird. Phada wanted to rouse these females to rebellion, until she remembered the way that Kargan warrior had slapped his woman without remorse or regret, as if she were a mere possession, as if it were his right to inflict punishment whenever he desired.

No one challenged her as she began walking up the narrow incline that led to the tunnel above. The market was a thriving place, with much shouted laughter and good-natured tauntsall in masculine voices. The women seemed cowed and silent, timid creatures who were completely dominated by the warriors. Was this what would eventually happen in Mesara? She shuddered to think that her beloved town would come to such a fate. It was obvious, though, that Dalcor had modeled the new Mesara on this example of might controlling everything.

She paced upward, her determination to discover the secret of the faral even more fixed in her mind. A couple of the warriors stopped and stared at her cleavage, not even bothering to disguise their interest. She was not certain how to respond, but she knew she had best quell the immediate indignation their actions provoked in her. One of them even had the audacity to comment on her physical attributes to his cohort.

"This one is ripe for the picking." He chortled, stopping directly in front of Phada so that she was forced to halt. He had blond hair the same shade as maize and a scar that slashed diagonally across his lip and chin. It showed a puckered pink color against the whiteness of his skin. Phada was forced to revise her opinion that a pale complexion was a delicate one as she took in the roughened texture of his arms and the shadowed skin of his face where his beard grew.

"Aye, Kracor. But you have already claimed your pleasure partner."

Kracor reached out to drag his forefinger across the soft flesh displayed just above the material of her bodice, his companion leering the entire while. Phada could not help the gasp that escaped her lips but retained enough presence of mind not to pull away. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to slap him across his smug warrior's face.

"That does not mean there is not room for another comely wenchthat way I can use one to warm my chest and the other to warm my backside."

They roared with laughter at this inane comment, their coarse, horrible pale faces filled with the knowledge of their own invincibility. If this was an example of Kargan wit, it was sadly lacking.

Phada realized she was clenching her hands fiercely. She loosened her fingers, keeping her eyes downcast so the two Kargan brutes would not read the defiance in her gaze. She dared not leave and yet she did not know the proper protocol for getting herself out of this situation. Surely there had to be one.

Her rescue came from an unexpected source. "This one has already been claimed, Kracor," a soft, feminine voice interjected.

Phada turned to see a female, a young girl by the sound of her voice and the boyish slenderness of her build, although it was hard to tell at first glance with the veil covering the lower half of her face. And then she noticed that the girl's dress was a more demure version of that worn by the women, sporting a more seemly scooped neckline that only exposed part of her collarbone and no cleavage because she had none to show.

The girl bowed her head, her hands clasped respectfully at her waist. She had soft, silver-gold hair that curled around her forehead and tumbled down the back of her rose-colored dress. "I would not want you to get in trouble for fondling her," she added respectfully.

"Who the fark are you?" Kracor demanded. Phada flinched at his disrespectful tone but it did not seem to phase her rescuer. "I am Nalissa." She bowed again.

"Well, Nalissa. It is none of your farking business who I fondle, is it?" He asked the question softly, menacingly.

"No, Kracor." Nalissa kept her head down. She seemed calm, even unaffected by what Phada perceived as Kracor's soon-to-explode wrath. Phada decided it was best to follow suit and also bowed her head. Surprisingly enough, Nalissa's reply soothed the warrior's temper.

"Good. I am glad you know your place. I will excuse your temerity this time but do not dare address me in that manner again."

"Yes, Kracor."

The two warriors stalked away without a backward glance. Phada remained silent, unsure what to say, how much Nalissa knew or suspected about her presence here.

"Please come with me," she said in a low, urgent voice, grabbing Phada's hand.

Phada had no choice but to follow the girl, not unless she wanted to make a scene, which she knew would be fatal. Nalissa led her through a labyrinth of tunnels, deeper and ever downward. They passed various homes cut out of the rock, along with shops and other rooms whose uses Phada could only guess at. The underground land of the Kargans seemed endless, the numerous tunnels and corridors twisting and confusing. Phada peered down one tunnel and saw that the walls were covered with huge, brown-capped mushrooms. Workers were industriously plucking them into baskets. The source of the faral?

Finally they ducked into another corridor. This one led to the inside of a small dwelling. Phada glanced around quickly. The furniture was crude but serviceable and there was a leather and cloth wall hanging that was quite pretty. Nalissa gestured her farther inside to a smaller room, obviously the girl's bedroom, for a sleeping pallet stood in one corner with a colorful woven blanket, probably of Jiboan origin. She pointed to a sturdy-looking chest at the foot of the bed, indicating that Phada should sit down.

As Nalissa began removing her veil, Phada got a good look at her eyes. To her surprise, they were not blue but a pretty shade of light brown. Her skin was also not as white as that of some of the other women she had noticed. Phada saw that she was correct, that Nalissa was only a young girl of no more than 12 or 13 cycles.

"We cannot stay here long," she said breathlessly. "My parents will be returning soon but I did not know where else to bring you. Do you not know what will happen if Adelard finds you?"

"Who is Adelard?"

"He is the chief warrior and the ruler of our people. He could have you sent to the slave mines. Or worse," she added meaningfully.

"Why are you helping me? You do not even know who I am."

Nalissa smiled wryly. Phada could see that the girl would someday be a beauty with her brown eyes and shining silver-blond hair, her pert nose and appealing features. "I know you are not from Gorod, although the odious Kracor was too thick-headed to realize it."

"My name is Phada and I must thank you for your timely intervention. You took a great risk in coming to my rescue."

"It was nothing," Nalissa said with a shrug. "Kracor knew he dared not abuse me because my father is a member of Adelard's advisory council."

"Still, it was very brave of you. I did not know how to handle such a warrior."

"Do you not have warriors where you come from?"

"Yes, but they are not allowed to bully and dominate ordinary citizens."

"That must be wonderful." Suddenly the girl burst into a torrent of words. "Oh, please, Phada, take me with you, take me away from here," she begged, her eyes pleading, her entire posture beseeching as she clasped her hands in front of her. "In four more years I must undergo the pleasure rites with a warrior chosen by my father. They give you a drug and then you belong to him and he can do anything he wants with you. I do not want to submit to such a fate. I would rather die.''

She flung herself on the pallet and started weeping, quietly, despairingly. Phada thought her heart would break hearing the girl's wrenching sobs. She moved across the room to sit on the edge of the mattress. "Is there no other role that a woman can take here in Gorod?"

Nalissa raised her tear-streaked face from the blanket. "Yes, she can become a domestic slave. You do not have to go to a warrior's bed, but it is a harsh life filled with drudgery for a domestic slave; she must do all the household chores and take care of any children her master might have and wear horrible, ugly clothes."

Phada recalled the women she had seen in the marketplace with their drab, colorless dresses and their unveiled faces; obviously anyone could look upon them because they belonged to no male. It was a harsh system for the females, but then it was a harsh land. She did not know what Sarak would say, but she yearned to tell this spirited young girl, who reminded her in many ways of herself at that age, that she could return with them to Mesara.

"Where are you from?" Nalissa roused herself to ask.

She was not sure how Nalissa would react if she spoke the truth, but some instinct told her not to withhold the information. "I am from Mesara."

The young girl frowned; then her mouth crooked up into a charming smile. "I know that cannot be. You are teasing me. The Mesarans were once our sworn enemies but the mighty warriors of Gorod vanquished them a long, long time ago, even before we came to live beneath the ground. Now we only fight with the renegade Kargans who live on the other side of the mountain in Tregor."

"If that is what they have told you about Mesara, it is not true," Phada replied gently. "Because that is where I am from."

Phada waited for her reaction. Nalissa sounded as if she were spouting Kargan rhetoric she had learned in a lesson chamber, especially since Phada was certain her tone of voice had shifted to subtle mockery when she had praised the Kargan warriors. It was evident she had no great love for their dominating ways. Still, Phada did not want to alienate the girl if she could help it. "Our history tells us that the Mesaran warriors achieved victory over the Kargans and drove them here to the south," she added. "Why else would your people choose to live in such a barren place unless they were forced to do so?"

"You mean along with all the other hateful things the warriors do, they have lied to us all this time?"

There was no answer to this, so Phada remained silent, watching the play of emotions across Nalissa's expressive face. She would have to be careful when she grew older that she did not reveal her rebellious thoughts to the warriors. From what Phada had seen, they would have little patience with her and would make her life miserable.

It was hard to think in terms of enemies when she looked at Nalissa's beautiful blond hair and milk white skin. Kracor and his ilk, yes, they were as vile as she had ever imagined a hated Kargan to be. But she could never consider this young, vibrant Kargan girl her enemy.

"What is it like in Mesara?" Nalissa asked.

Phada smiled wistfully as she thought of the richness and abundance of her homeland compared to this barren place. She did not think it would do any harm to tell her new friend a little about it.

"It is a bounteous land, filled with vibrant green jungles, and it is very warm there. In fact, you have to be careful to stay out of the direct sunlight or you can get a bad burn."

"Sunlight? You mean you actually go outside into the sun?"

Phada frowned. "Yes, of course we do. Although we are always careful to cover ourselves or to stay beneath the protection of the jungle canopy. Do you not venture outside?"

"Never." She shook her head emphatically. "Only the farmers and lanaherders are allowed out after nightfall, and of course the warriors. But that is because they patrol our boundaries. Prolonged exposure to direct sunlight is deadly to us."

She did not notice Phada's astonishment at this casually related fact of Kargan life. If this were trueand Phada had no reason to doubt the girlthen the Kargans were physically unable to cross the Calabian Desert. There had never been any threat of a Kargan invasion, or at least not for the countless orbits since Kargan and Mesaran had clashed, in the distant reaches of the past. Obviously, since their enemy had come to live at the southern antipodes, their skin had gradually lost its ability to protect itself from the sun.

"So tell me, how did you get here? Did you travel by night and hide in caves after sunrise?"

"Yes, I did travel quite a lot at night. But, Nalissa, there is nowhere to hide during cycle-light, not when you are crossing the Calabian Desert. You must be able to move about freely in direct sunlight in order to reach Mesara."

"How is that possible?" Nalissa asked, stricken. "Your skin is not quite as fair as mine but it is still very pale."

"I do not know for sure. I suppose it is because I grew up in a place filled with sunlight and so am used to it."

She did not bother to point out that perhaps Nalissa's unusual eye color suggested she might be different from the other Kargans and perhaps able to withstand small doses of the sun's rays, especially here at the southern antipodes, where the sun was not so powerful. But there was still no possible way this fragile, pale-skinned girl could spend cycles beneath the burning heat of the desert sun, no matter how many kentas she donned. Phada could tell from the anguished expression in her lovely, light brown eyes that she understood this.

"It does not matter. It . . . it was only a wild and foolish dream." She met Phada's gaze bravely, all signs of the weeping girl vanished except for the faint traces of redness around her eyes and nose. "You must have urgent reasons for traveling so far."

"Yes, I do. I am searching for information to help my people." She paused and then decided to risk telling Nalissa everything. The girl might know about the faral, and any knowledge she could provide would be invaluable. What other choice did she really have? "One of our most trusted warriors has reverted to his dominator side and betrayed us. He has forced every Mesaran to become enslaved to a spice that is only produced here in Gorod."

"Faral," Nalissa whispered, her eyes wide with horror. She stared at Phada for a long, timeless moment before speaking again. "So that is how Adelard has suddenly been able to provide us with all the fresh produce that has been pouring into Gorod. Oh, he is even more vile and horrible than I ever imagined."

"My mother, my sister Chelis." Phada stopped, closing her eyes as they filled with sudden, burning tears. She forced herself to continue. "They are all being made to work in the fields, growing crops in exchange for their allotment of the spice."

Nalissa straightened her shoulders. Her face glowed with determination. "I will help you obtain whatever information you need."

Chapter Seventeen

Sarak pulled the kanzu closer around his face as he slipped into one of the smaller tunnels that appeared less traveled than the others. He did not think anyone had noticed him, but he waited just inside the entrance for a generous amount of time, just in case. When no one came to challenge him, he proceeded further into the depths, moving swiftly along the torch-lined corridor that slanted ever downward into the bowels of Elithra.

He still could not believe the vast reaches of the Kargans' underground city. The Mesarans had half-buried their buildings beneath the surface for the cooling effects, but it was nothing to compare to this. From what he could observe, it seemed as if they had started with the natural cavern where the marketplace was located and then built from there. It must have taken many orbits to hollow out the rest.

As he walked, he mulled over what he had learned so far. He had kept his eyes and ears open in the marketplace and had picked up a great deal of information about the Kargan way of life. It was not hard to determine that a small, select group of warriors held the reins of power. They seemed to roam the tunnels and marketplace in gangs, bullying the rest of the population as the whim took them and claiming the females who struck their fancy.

From some of the conversations he had eavesdropped on, many of the other Kargans worked in the fields on the other side of the entrance where he and Phada had entered the city, tilling and planting at night by the light of the blue moon. The merchants had freely discussed the new development of the sudden influx of Mesaran goods into Gorod, complaining that the new luxuries were driving them out of business. Adelard, their leader, was rumored to be amassing great profits, and would soon own everything he did not already have in his greedy hands.

The tunnel suddenly veered sharply. Beyond the curve, he could hear a slow, steady thumping noise, along with the sound of metal upon metal and various raised voices that seemed to be shouting orders. He slowed his pace, approaching the bend cautiously. He peered around the corner, then drew back quickly. The tunnel opened into a large, well-lighted area with a naturally high ceiling. He only had time to notice that there were crowds of men milling about down below, dressed in some kind of leather leggings, their chests bare. He dropped to the ground before crawling closer so he could peer over the edge of the rocky overhang where the tunnel ended.

This time he realized exactly what was going on in the scene spread out before him. These men were prisoners and the sound he had heard was the result of the movement of their leg chains dragging along the rocky ground as they worked. A couple of Kargan warriors, dressed in fancier leggings trimmed with beads and fur, stood guard over the operation. Each had a sword by his side and a whip in his hand, although at the moment they were talking and laughing with one another rather than directing their charges.

Sarak wondered how these unfortunate males had ended up here, what laws they had transgressed in order to be condemned to such a fate. They were all pale-skinned Kargans, their faces and torsos streaked with dirt and sweat. One of them stood out from the rest because although his skin was as colorless as that of his fellow inmates, his hair was an unusual shade of red.

Over in one corner, four of the prisoners hacked at the footwall with huge mallets. Another group of three used smaller picks to attack the various pockets of freestone before them in a job that obviously called for a more delicate touch. Sarak wondered what they were mining, since he could not see any traces of mineral deposits streaking through the dull brown of the rock.

The sudden sound of a foot scraping against the ground alerted him to the fact that someone was approaching from behind. He sprang to his feet, searching desperately for a hiding place. Curse it, there was none to be found in the smooth walls of the corridor, nor could he slip into the mining pits, since the approach from where he was standing was too exposed. He would have to face whoever appeared and try to bluff his way out of trouble.

Much to his dismay he saw that it was another pair of Kargans, probably replacement guards for the ones in the mine since they carried whips along with the requisite sword strapped to their waists. Sarak's eyes narrowed as he watched them approach. The one on the right was built like Mizor, tall and broad with thick arms and a neck like a bulloxen. His white hair straggled around his face and down his back, uncombed and unkempt. Its color and texture reminded Sarak of the downy boll of the coxa plant. The Kargan warrior laughed at something his companion said, and Sarak noted that his teeth were yellow and decaying beneath the drooping mustache that framed his mouth.

He estimated that the other male was closer to his own size. His yellow locks were partially pulled back and tied with a leather thong. His pale blue eyes were set close together, a fact that the beard covering the lower half of his face seemed to emphasize rather than conceal. He looked cunning and quick.

They stopped talking when they spotted him leaning nonchalantly against the side of the tunnel, searching through the pack he carried. They would realize he was not Jiboan after one close glance, so he knew he had to try another tactic. "I am looking for Adelard," he said with a casual smile. He might as well bluff for all he was worth.

Both pairs of eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you want with him?" the cunning one asked.

"I am an envoy, sent by Dalcor," he explained as he threw back the hood of his kanzu. Their gazes raked over him, assessing his face and eyes, his brown hair and tanned skin. "I have a message from him for your leader. Can you direct me to his dwelling?"

"We will do better than that," the big brute said, baring his ugly teeth. "We will take you there ourselves, will we not, Drood?"

Drood nodded and Sarak's heart sank. He had hoped they would simply direct him back to the marketplace to await the leader. He was not certain whether he should come up with a way to immobilize the pair of them before they managed to reach Adelard or take his chances that the communication lines the two leaders had established were as unreliable as the Calabian Desert which lay between them. At least this pair had shown no surprise when he had claimed to be a messenger from Dalcor.

The choice was soon taken from him. Drood gestured to Sarak to precede him, and he had no choice but to do so as the two warriors fell into step on either side of him, both of them remaining a wary pace behind. From their caution and their unwillingness to speak further, he realized they did not trust him. Their positions precluded any immediate action on his part.

As they came closer to the main tunnel that led to the marketplace, Drood moved in front of him while Coxa Hair hovered at his back, never more than a step away. Sarak sensed the big warrior never let his hand stray very far from the hilt of his weapon. He thought about trying to make a run for it, into the chaos and confusion of the market, but he had noticed another of those small bands of warriors near the exit tunnel and he knew he could not make it that far without being captured. Besides, he could not leave, not while Phada was still wandering around the labyrinthine pathways of Gorod.

"Adelard!" Coxa Hair roared at the top of his powerful lungs. One of the males on the other side of the tumble of market stalls turned his head. Even from here, Sarak could tell that Adelard would be a tough opponent. His careless gesture as he signaled to Sarak's captors to cross the floor of the crowded marketplace showed that he was in total control of his underlings.

Adelard was not a young man, Sarak realized as Drood halted their little party before his entourage, stopping Sarak with a raised arm. He stared at the hawkish profile of the Kargan ruler with its beaked nose and a jutting chin his scraggly beard did nothing to disguise. And then Adelard turned to face him and Sarak had to stifle his indrawn breath of shock. The scar from a horrible sword wound slashed from his brow to his cheek, directly across his right eye, which was almost white in color and obviously sightless. The skin had puckered around the raised tissue, drawing that side of his face into a perpetual sneer.

To add to the overall effect, Sarak noted that the eye constantly watered. The fluid ran in streaks down the side of Adelard's grizzled face. Every so often, at almost regular intervals, the Kargan leader raised his arm and wiped his running nose and streaming eye on the sleeve of his shirt. A huge swath of the material was damp and crusted.

Adelard's pale skin had wrinkled with the passing of many orbits, although his body was straight and strong beneath the leather tunic and leggings the Kargans favored. There were traces of gray in the coarse strands of his dark blond hair, and two slashes of silver bracketed the beard around his mouth.

His good left eye narrowed on Sarak's face, sharp with animal curiosity and cunning. Sarak felt threads of uneasiness creep up his spine and along his limbs. Adelard's entire face glowed in an unnatural way, as though lit from within. His expression reminded Sarak of a tuskboar he had once seen on a hunt. The enraged creature had eschewed the chance to escape into the jungle, instead deciding to turn around and wreak revenge on its tormentors.

''What have we here?" Adelard asked, his voice sinuously caressing every syllable of the question.

Drood and Coxa Hair gazed at each other uneasily before Drood finally replied. "He says he has a message from Dalcor."

"I see." The leader flicked his fingers in a contemptuous gesture of disgust. "Did I not just send you to relieve my brother and Magnor in the mines?"

"Yes, Adelard." That was Coxa Hair. Even Sarak realized that the big male should not utter another word in his own defense, but he did not seem to understand the nature of his precarious position. "But we ran into this stranger and we thought we should . . ."

Adelard moved so quickly his entire form became a blur as he knocked the white-haired warrior to the ground with his fist, then planted a leather-booted foot on either side of his body. He drew his sword, allowing it to dangle carelessly from his right hand, its point hovering above the fallen male's chest. "You ignorant slimetoad! I do not keep you around to think but to obey!" he roared, his face twisted with rage.

Drood tried to back away but there was nowhere for him to go. His beady eyes darted around, looking everywhere but at Adelard's face. Coxa Hair remained sullenly mute, his fists clenched at his sides, his big body tense as he lay there.

Adelard did not hesitate. He slashed the downed warrior across the chest. A crimson line of blood immediately followed in his sword's wake. "Now get the fark out of here!" he screamed.

Coxa Hair jumped to his feet. Sarak had to admire his bravado, since he did not even glance down at the wound on his chest. Drood was already halfway along the path that led down to the floor of the marketplace. Amidst the guffawing of Adelard's entourage, Coxa Hair pivoted smartly on his heel and strode back in the direction of the tunnel that led to the mines.

Adelard turned to Sarak with a broad smile, switching abruptly back to their original topic of conversation. "I wonder what my Mesaran brother to the north has to say that was not included in the message I received from him yestercycle?"

"Dalcor got word that there was a trap laid for the other messenger," Sarak improvised quickly. "A Jiboan tribe felt they had been cut out of their share of the latest faral profits and vowed to make trouble. So he decided to send me to Gorod as well."

"Yes." Adelard rubbed his hand along a smaller scar on his temple. By the look of the skin, it was another old battle wound, although who these Kargans fought with, Sarak had no idea. Probably with each other. "I would not want anything to ruin the mutually beneficial arrangement I have with Dalcor. Tell me, is all going well in Mesara?"

"Yes, all is well." Sarak tried not to choke on the words.

"I am glad to hear it." He glanced around at the five warriors. "Are we not all glad of this news?"

They nodded almost in unison, a couple of the hardened males grunting their agreement aloud. It would have been comical if they did not look so bloodthirsty, so ready to spring at a moment's notice. Sarak could feel the tension crackling in the air and he knew they were only looking for the merest excuse to do so. Something was going on here and he was not sure if it was because they did not believe him or because they did. He needed to get away from Adelard as quickly as he could without arousing his suspicion, not an easy task since the Kargan seemed to be wary of everyone.

"The population of Mesara is once again under the control of its mighty warriors, which is the way it should have been all along." Adelard raised his fist, punching at the air to emphasize his point. The effect was marred when he lowered his arm to wipe his running nose on the sleeve of his loose-fitting shirt. His harsh, grating voice grew louder as he continued. "How could you Mesarans have strayed so far from the ideals of logic and good sense? How could you have allowed weak, bookish males and even weaker females to dictate what you should do?"

Sarak shrugged indifferently. "It matters not, since their reign has now come to an end and that is the finish of it," he said.

Would the king and queen ever be reinstalled on their throne? It did not seem very likely. Sarak's insides tightened painfully as he thought of Riga and Pavonis, of the council and the Keepers, of the laws laid down orbits ago by the wisest of the ancients. No one claimed that the Mesaran system was perfect, but it was better than living in fear. He had noticed how the Kargan population scurried away from the roaming bands of warriors. He had witnessed incidents where they had bullied those weaker and unable to defend themselves, deriving amusement from the terror and humiliation of their victims. They held the entire city of Gorod in their thrall.

He knew he had to try to get away from Adelard before he said something that would give away his true feelings. If there was one thing he had learned since meeting Phada, it was how to restrain his emotions and control his urges. However, he did not think he would be able to do so for much longer.

"Since you have already received the communication, I will be on my way," he said with a brisk nod.

"I think not." Adelard jerked his bearded chin at the male to Sarak's right. Before he could react, the Kargan had drawn his dagger and placed the tip of the weapon against Sarak's throat. "You are Mesaran all right, but Dalcor did not send you." He stroked his mustache back from his lip. "You fell into my trap, dominator. We had no messenger yestercycle. We do not expect anyone for at least five or six cycles. Now who are you?"

Sarak saw no reason to answer. Instead he raised his arm and rammed his elbow into his captor's ribs. The male grunted, dropping his hold around Sarak's neck long enough for him to snatch the dagger from his hand. He whirled around, blade at the ready in front of him.

"Seize him," Adelard snarled.

Sarak gave a warrior cry as he ducked beneath the arms of the closest Kargan, shoving him into the others. It helped to buy him enough time to scramble up the path into a more defensible position. He slashed out with the dagger, managing to keep the others at bay, but it was only a matter of time. Suddenly, at Adelard's signal, three of the warriors rushed him at once. He slashed one along the arm while another had his side sliced open before they managed to overcome him. They grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back and jerking them upward painfully as they dragged him over to where Adelard stood.

"I will kill you for this," the Kargan leader assured him with a hiss.

"Go right ahead," Sarak invited him, his voice laced with scorn for the Kargans. "I would rather be dead than to live in a world ruled by a pair of schoolground bullies like you and Dalcor."

Something flared in the depths of Adelard's eerie blue eye. Sarak thought the other warrior might run him through with his sword right where they stood. Then his mouth twisted into an evil smile as he pushed his face closer to Sarak's. "Better yet, I can have you sent to work in the mineral mines for the rest of your life. My brother is especially good with a whip. He can peel the flesh away from the bone at ten paces."

"A useful skill for those possessed of a cowardly disposition," Sarak retorted. He met Adelard's furious gaze with no hint of emotion showing in his expression, even when the Kargan backhanded him across the face. Pain exploded inside his head and behind his eyes, spreading outward like ripples on the surface of the water. His mind was already in turmoil, his thoughts despairing as he considered the extent of Phada's desperate situation, thanks to his most recent blunder. Where was she now? Was she thinking about him? He hoped she had enough sense to remain hidden until he could think of some way to escape before they discovered that he had not come to Gorod alone. They had freed themselves from the Jiboans, had they not?

"Get him out of my sight." Adelard dismissed him with a contemptuous curl of his lip before turning his back on him completely.

It was of no further use to struggle. Two of the warriors tightened their grip on his arms; then two more joined them as they escorted him down endless corridors, moving ever deeper underground. The experience was unnerving, knowing that the only thing between him and eternal darkness was the light of the torches that burned at ever sparser intervals as they descended. Finally they tossed him into a dank, dark cell, their laughter ringing in his ears long after the last sounds of their footsteps had receded.

"They have caught him," Nalissa announced as she rushed breathlessly into the room.

"What? What are you talking about?" Phada had been resting on several rather lumpy bags of flour in one of Nalissa's father's storage chambers, but she quickly sat up.

"Your warrior companion. Adelard has captured him. The story is all over the marketplace."

Phada instinctively opened her mouth to deny the fact that she and Sarak had traveled together but she realized it was a useless strategy. Nalissa was too smart not to realize that she could never have gotten here from Mesara by herself. Besides, she knew she would not be able to hide her distress over this piece of news.

"What has happened to him? Where is he?"

Nalissa threw herself down next to Phada with the loose-limbed grace of the young. "In a prison cell, but I am not sure which one. Probably one of the holding cells where they keep anyone unfortunate enough to fall out of our leader's good graces. Later they will probably move him to the Slave quartersif they do not kill him first."

"Kill him!" Phada was aghast. "Oh, dear Goddess, no. They cannot!"

"I heard that he grossly insulted Adelard, and that is something he never forgives. He has a terrible temper," Nalissa confided, her light brown eyes wide with trepidation. "Why one time, in a fit of anger over a female, he even condemned his own brother to slavery in the mines. He had him whipped in front of everybody, right in the marketplace. And worse than that, he force-fed him faral on the spot, and that is something that is not done lightly. Jolf is lucky that Adelard later rescinded the order. People are usually quickly forgotten once they are drugged and sent to the mines."

Phada pounced on the sole piece of information in Nalissa's speech that was not disheartening. "He rescinded the order? What happened to Jolf?"

"He is back at Adelard's side, his chief adviser when they are not arguing."

"Yes, but what about the faral he took?"

"There have always been rumors that there is a neutralizer, although Adelard always denies it because he does not want the slaves in the mines to think they can free themselves from its deadly grasp. But it must be true because Jolf does not seem to be affected anymore." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "He is drunk on vetch most of the time, but he shows no signs of being spice-controlled."

"A neutralizer. Where would he keep such a potion?" Phada asked urgently.

"I do not know. In his chambers perhaps. But, Phada, there is no way you could ever hope to retrieve it."

"I have to. It is the sole reason I came to Gorod. My entire world is being destroyed and if I do not free my people, there is nothing left for me. But first I must find Sarak."

"I can show you the way."

"Thank you." Phada jumped to her feet, automatically smoothing down the tight-fitting Kargan clothing that still felt so strange to her senses. She quickly donned her veil and headdress, even though it felt as suffocating as a harvest festival mask. At least she would be well disguised when she walked the pathways and tunnels of Gorod.

She followed Nalissa from the storage chamber into the tunnel, which she had learned was the main thoroughfare in the Kargan's underground world. She had only been here a cycle but already she missed the light and warmth of the sun. After the desert she never thought she would feel that way, but this perpetual threat of everlasting darkness was disquieting and demoralizing.

They did not speak much as they hurried past the small groups of people ambling toward the main marketplace. Phada was glad of Nalissa's assistance. She did not have the best sense of direction to begin with, but these endless intersecting tunnels were enough to confuse anyone.

Nalissa stopped walking and Phada paused with her. When there was no one in sight, the girl suddenly grabbed her arm and yanked her into a small tunnel to their right. She did not release her until they had rounded the first bend.

"We should not be here. No one is allowed to come here except for Adelard's warriors."

"Then you must return to the main passageway. I can go on alone," Phada assured her, although she was not so certain herself. But she did not want to draw this brave young Kargan girl into her problems any more than she had to.

"No, there will be a guard posted and you will need my help."

"I do not want to get you in trouble, Nalissa. What will happen if they catch you?"

"Do not worry about that. I have never had the opportunity to do something against the males who run all our lives and make us miserable. Do not deny me this chance, Phada. It is the only one I shall ever have and I intend to make the most of it."

Phada squeezed Nalissa's arm in gratitude. They continued along the tunnel, which slanted ever downward. There was enough room for the two of them to walk beside each other, but Phada still had the feeling that the walls were pressing in on her and might collapse. She would not make a very good citizen of Gorod if she had to traverse these corridors on a daily basis.

Nalissa held up a hand in warning. Just ahead, Phada could see that there were several torches burning, and in their light a Kargan warrior sat on a three-legged stool, his back against the wall. He appeared to be sleeping, although it was hard to tell from this distance.

"There is a guard here, which means that your friend must be in one of these cells."

"What do we do now?" Phada asked in a low voice.

"One of us will have to distract him," Nalissa whispered back. She bit her lip as she considered just how to accomplish the task, then brightened. "You must be the one to do it, Phada," she said, leaning closer so she could speak directly into her ear. She glanced down at her flat chest with a giggle. "I do not yet have the feminine assets to pull it off. All Kargan warriors think women are pretty, mindless ornaments who are unable to think for themselves. He will not be surprised if you pretend that you have gotten yourself lost. He will be too busy looking down your dress to wonder what you are doing in this corridor. You must be sure to flutter your eyelashes at him and act helpless."

Phada chuckled. "I think I can manage that."

"Good. You must also get him to turn his back to me." Nalissa bent down to pick up a rock, hefting its weight in her hand as a slow smile spread across her face. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. "It will give me great satisfaction to bash him over the head with this."

Phada smiled, shaking her head in admiration at the young girl's spirit and determination. Nalissa was definitely not like the other downtrodden Kargan females she had noticed during her short time here. "You are amazing."

Nalissa grinned, although Phada observed that it held a touch of sadness. "If I am, it is thanks to you. You have given me hope that there are other ways to live. I must tell you, I have never felt as alive as I do now. For once, I am acting instead of allowing things to happen to me. For once, I am not merely a helpless, subservient female. You have showed me that it is possible."

Phada frowned. "No, I do not agree. These things were inside you all along, Nalissa. You just needed a reason to bring them out and I happened to be the one who provided it. I can never repay you for all you have done for me. I only hope that you do not regret it."

"Be assured, I will never regret it. No matter what happens, I am glad I met you." Phada touched Nalissa's cheek, realizing that she felt as close to this young Kargan as she did to her own sister. She had to swallow past the lump in her throat. They had no time now to wax sentimental. ''All right, here I go."

She began walking toward the warrior, her heart pounding and her throat dry. Flashes of all the things she had done since leaving Mesara flickered through her mind, giving her courage. She knew she would attempt anything to save Sarak. She tried not to think about getting caught and having to spend the rest of her life in this horrible place, buried beneath the ground like a corpse, never to see cycle-light again.

The guard was sleeping, she realized as she drew closer, but not so deeply that he was unaware of her approach. He sat up quickly, his hand moving automatically to the hilt of his sword. When he saw it was a female, he relaxed his posture visibly. Hmph, Phada thought, insulted that he had already decided she presented no danger to him. We will show you, she promised him with satisfaction. At least, I hope we will.

"What is this?" he demanded.

She allowed her hands to fly up to her face in a flustered manner. "Oh! I . . . where am I? This is not the passageway I was seeking."

The warrior eyed her with a condescendingly amused smile as he rose to his feet. He was not as tall as Sarak, but he still topped her height by a good half measure. She had to tilt her head back to look at him, and as she did so she remembered to flutter her eyelashes. He perused her upturned features with approval before his gaze dropped to the exposed skin of her chest.

"You are a tender morsel," he growled softly. He probably thought he was using an irresistible tone of voice but it made Phada want to shudder. "Have you been claimed, sweetling?" Phada was so flustered at this direct attack that she did not at first realize he was facing in the wrong direction. When she did, she tossed her head with a saucy motion as she walked past him, imitating as best she could the graceful mannerisms of the Jiboan dancers, swinging her hips inside the fitted dress in the most indecent way she could manage. She was relieved to note that he moved his position in order to follow her progress. Hurry, Nalissa, she thought.

She smiled coyly at the warrior before dropping her gaze to the ground. She was not altogether certain of how to reply to his query, but she quickly decided that to hold his interest she had best pretend to be unattached. "No, no one has claimed me," she said.

"Good. Then I do so now."

Before she knew what was happening the Kargan wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground, pressing her entire body against his. She nearly gagged at the terrible odor that emanated from his body. He must not have bathed anytime during his entire adult life, and this close up she could see that his dark blond hair was that color because it was filthy. She could not stop herself from struggling.

"Aye," he muttered approvingly. "I like my females feisty. That way I get to tame them to my hand until they are skilled in what pleasures me. It will be most gratifying to teach you to do my bidding."

"I have changed my mind. I do not wish to be claimed."

He laughed in her face and his breath was as foul as the rest of him. "As if you have a choice in the matter. I will take it up with Adelard at the next council meeting." He lowered her to the ground, then bent down to nuzzle her neck. "Now, what is your name and who is your family?" He pulled back with a frown, his expression showing the first hints of suspicion. "I do not remember ever seeing you before."

A shadow moved on the wall behind him and then Nalissa's arm came briefly into view. She must have climbed onto the stool in order to get above her target. Phada smiled at the guard for all she was worth as a resounding crack filled the air. "That is because you probably have not," she replied as he crumpled to the ground at her feet. "Good work, Nalissa."

Nalissa scrambled down from her perch while Phada hurried to the door of the cell. "Sarak?" she hissed, peering into the small opening cut into the heavy wooden door. She did not know why she was whispering but it seemed the correct thing to do. Perhaps there was another guard stationed somewhere nearby who might hear them.

His face quickly appeared, although she could only see one eye and part of his cheek. "Phada?"

She could not help herself, she began babbling at top speed, a release from all the tension that had gone before. "Yes, it is me. We have come to rescue you. And I have found out that there is a neutralizer for the faral. Adelard has it, so it will not be easy to come by, but I am sure we can formulate some sort of plan. . . ."

"Phada, hush. One thing at a time." He managed to thrust his hand through the slot so he could touch her cheek. "I never thought to see you again." He gently feathered his fingers along her cheekbone before moving them to brush the hair back from her temple. Then he traced the line along the edge of her veil, ending at the corner of her mouth before pulling his hand back inside the cell.

Phada felt her insides melt. How did he manage to do that to her? "We must get you out of there," she said urgently.

"The guard has a key," he told her.

She hurried back to where the Kargan lay unconscious. She hated to touch him but she had no choice. Nalissa hovered anxiously nearby as she rolled him until he was flat on his back. First she pulled his sword from its leather scabbard. Sarak would need a weapon. Next she discovered a leather bag hanging from his belt. Inside was a small quiver filled with darts and a dart blower. She had never noticed any of the other warriors wearing such a pouch and wondered what the darts were for. She searched the usual places one might have a key and finally found it on a metal ring he had placed around his wrist.

She stood up, key in hand. "Nalissa, you must leave. I cannot allow you to further endanger yourself."

The young girl nodded, her hair shimmering in the torchlight. "You must flee Gorod while you still can. I will see what I can gather to help you on your return journey. There is an abandoned tunnel just beyond the marketplace on the way to the outside. The entrance is half-filled with rocks and is easy to find. No one ever uses it. I will hide some food and supplies inside."

"Thank you," Phada said, her eyes and throat stinging with unshed tears. "You have been a wonderful friend."

She did not have the heart to tell the girl that they could not leave until they had at least obtained a sample of the neutralizer. They stood there staring at each other, and then suddenly they were hugging with fierce tenderness and genuine affection. Phada could not believe how fond she had become of Nalissa in the short amount of time she had known her. "I am sorry we cannot take you with us," Phada said.

"I know." Nalissa stepped back and Phada saw the tears streaming down her face. The girl brushed them away with an impatient hand. "Please do not forget me when you are back in your warm, sunny land."

Phada's smile was filled with sadness. "I will never forget you. Now go quickly."

Nalissa turned and fled down the corridor. Phada watched until she disappeared from view and then hurried back to the door of Sarak's cell. "I have the key."

"Well done." She found herself flushing at his praise. "Who were you talking to?"

"A young Kargan girl I met named Nalissa. Without her aid, I would never have found you."

It took a while to fit the heavy metal key into the lock and even longer to force it to turn. She thought he must be growing impatient with her clumsiness but he did not utter a word of reproach; he did not even urge her to hurry. As she yanked at the recalcitrant door handle, she found herself faintly embarrassed at her unseemly haste in wanting to see Sarak again. Did he not feel the same? He had seemed glad of her presence when she had first appeared, when he had caressed her face, but of course who would not appreciate his rescuer?

She finally managed to shove the door open. Her gaze roamed hungrily over him, checking for injuries. They had taken his kanzu and he was clad only in his dominator's breechcloth. She could not believe how good it was to see him. He seemed more handsome than she remembered, although his face and chest were streaked with dirt and one side of his face was swollen and bruised.

She wanted to hug him, dirt and all, and even found herself starting forward until she realized that he had not made a move in her direction. Why did he not reach for her? she wondered, feeling hurt and dismayed. Of course they had no time for such things, but it would have been nice to know he had been thinking about her the way she had been thinking about him.

"Are you all right?" she finally asked. She could not stop herself from lifting a hand toward his injured cheek.

"I am fine." He swayed in her direction, and then suddenly he backed away as though remembering his place. "No," he said. "You must not touch me. I am filthy with mud."

"I do not care." She pressed her fingers to his face, her thumb resting just beneath his jaw. His hand quickly came up to cover hers.

The sound of pounding footsteps filled the corridor. Phada's head automatically swiveled in the direction of the noise. She gasped in dismay when she saw a small band of Kargan warriors running toward them, their swords brandished. There had to be at least five of them.

"You there! Halt!" the male in the lead shouted.

"Come on, this way." Sarak grabbed her hand and together they bolted down the tunnel in the opposite direction.

Chapter Eighteen

Phada thought her lungs would burst as she stumbled along behind Sarak. He had released her hand ages ago when the second tunnel they had turned into had narrowed, making it impossible to run side by side. She was not even certain anymore if they were heading up toward the light or down into the depths of Gorod. Her legs automatically pumped up and down, propelling her forward along endless corridors. How did the Kargans survive in such a warren? She wanted to ask if Sarak knew where they were going, but she could not summon the breath to do so.

Thank the Goddess, Sarak had managed to lose their pursuers somewhere down that last corridor. There had been a choice of directions, a three-way crossing point. Just past another sharp bend in the passage, he pulled her close to the wall, where they would not be easily seen.

"Do you know where we are?" she gasped the question, slumping over in a desperate, but futile effort to catch her breath.

"This place is impossible, like something out of a nightmare. I was too busy trying to stay ahead of those warriors to watch which way we turned. We could be back where we started for all I know." He had his hands on his knees but otherwise did not seem nearly as winded as she was. Well, what did she expect? she thought with a grimace. He was a trained warrior, after all.

She gazed over at him. "What are we going to do?"

He held up his hand for silence. Phada swiveled her head from side to side, unable to hear anything. And then her eyes widened in horror as she realized there was an unnatural quality to the stillness that suddenly washed over and around them.

Sarak gestured for her to follow, placing a finger to his lips to reinforce what she already knew, that she should remain silent. They crept carefully along the corridor; the only sound Phada could hear was her own ragged breathing. Just ahead a large boulder jutted into the middle of the passageway, its pitted sides streaked with some sort of shiny rock deposit that gleamed in the feeble light of the torch. She realized that there was very little in this dark underground world that sparkled or gave any other indication of life and vitality. In any case, she did not like the looks of this particular boulder or the possibility that a group of Kargans might be poised on the other side, waiting to pounce.

The faintest noise, perhaps the scraping of a booted foot against a pebble, halted them in their tracks. Sarak gestured for her to back away from the boulder. And then pandemonium broke loose.

"Run," Sarak yelled. He pushed her ahead of him, whirling around to face their enemy, the sword she had taken from the guard gripped in his hand. "Get out of here while you can. I will hold them."

Phada hesitated. Four Kargans slowly advanced on Sarak, their swords drawn and their faces grim. She did not want to leave him, but if they were both captured they would have no chance at all. And yet suppose they killed Sarak?

"Adelard wants this one alive," the brute on one end said with disgust, jerking his chin in Sarak's direction.

"Go!" Sarak cried again.

That was all Phada needed to hear. She whirled on her heel and started to run down the corridor, the sound of clanging swords echoing behind her. She wanted to sob, to pivot around and dash back to Sarak, but she knew she should not. If she could only find her way out of this passageway and back to the areas where the Kargans went about their daily lives, she might be able to find Nalissa. She knew the young girl would help hide her until she could think of some way to free Sarak once again. It was a slim chance but as far as she could tell, it was their only one.

She burst around the corner and ran smack into a Kargan warrior who stepped casually into her path from a side tunnel she had not noticed. He caught her by the arms and spun her around so quickly her feet barely left the ground. Then he pushed her forward, forcing her to march back toward the fighting.

"Oh, Goddess." She muffled a sob with the back of her hand when she saw Sarak, flat on the ground with two Kargans standing over him. One of them had his foot pressed into Sarak's back, and the other had laid the tip of his sword against Sarak's temple.

"Well, well, Mesaran dog, we meet again." The harsh, grating voice had a nasal quality that should have lessened its authority but somehow did not. Its owner stepped closer to the light and Phada felt her heart drop to her feet at the sight of the marred face of the Kargan warrior before her. He had lost the sight in one eye and the scars from that wound disfigured the entire half of his face. He was dressed like the others, but the golden circlet encrusted with precious stones that hung around his neck proclaimed that this must be Adelard.

His gaze suddenly focused on her. "And what have we here?" he asked softly. Frissons of alarm raced up and down her spine at the avaricious gleam in his one good eye. "Another Mesaran visitor. We are honored. So honored in fact, that I will personally make you welcome to Gorod." He chuckled and the blood chilled in her veins. "What is your name, little one?"

Coming from his lips, the sweetly cajoling tone was a mockery of everything decent in the world. Phada knew they would receive no mercy at this warrior's hands. She wanted to spit in his ugly face, and yet something warned her not toat least not just yet. She did not have much faith in her powers of persuasion, but she could tell that he desired her and as long as she was alive there was always a glimmer of hope that circumstances would change in their favor. She knew instinctively that she should not give Adelard a reason to suspect her deep feelings for Sarak.

"Do not answer him," Sarak hissed. He grunted in pain as his words earned him a thudding kick in the ribs.

"I am called Phada," she replied. She tried to catch Sarak's eye, but his second captor was using Sarak's neck as a footrest and his face was smashed into the ground. She forced herself to move her eyes away from him before her emotions unmasked her.

"Phada." Adelard tested the name and obviously found it pleasing, because he smiled. Or at least Phada figured that the grimace that stretched his twisted features was supposed to pass for a smile. ''Well, Phada, I have decided to claim you. You are going to pleasure me."

"If you touch her, I will kill you!" Sarak hissed in fury. He tried to jerk himself away from the foot planted on his neck, but to no avail.

Phada pressed her lips together, her throat tight with emotion. So much for keeping their feelings secret. She knew he would give his life to ensure her well-being and it made her want to cry at the injustice of their fate. Was this how goodness and honor were rewarded? She had begun to think perhaps the ancients were wrong in their assessment of warriors, but her own experience was forcing her to the same conclusion. Every warrior she had ever knownexcept for Sarakwas a brute and a bully.

Adelard laughed at his reaction. "I think we can find some use for all that energy and anger. A little entertainment is in order, Mesaran, before I claim your female for my own. Tell me, is she a good pleasure giver? Does she moan and writhe enough to excite?"

"You sun-cursed bastard," Sarak spat in defiance. Phada thought he had never looked more magnificent, like a cornered clawcat snarling defiance in the face of impossible odds. He would die fighting, and he put every other male around him to shame.

Adelard snorted vigorously in an effort to clear his clogged nasal passages. Then he wiped his nose on his sleeve with a gesture she was already beginning to loathe with every fiber of her being. "To the victor go the spoils," he said, shrugging carelessly. "Take him to the arena. We will see if he is as much of a warrior as he thinks." Phada sat on the cold stone bench staring helplessly down at the small, enclosed arena below with its packed dirt floor and thick, wooden walls. Adelard sat by her side, his incessant sniffing setting her teeth on edge. She did not know whether to thank the Goddess that his sightless eye was on the side farthest away from her where she did not have to look at it or despair because he could see every move she made.

At least for the moment his attention was diverted to what was about to happen below. He had stopped trying to grab her hand and touch the flesh above the low neckline of her revealing Kargan clothing. Just the memory of his ogling glances at her breasts still caused the bile to rise in her throat. She could never allow him to touch her intimately, to mate with her, not after what she had experienced with Sarak. But she did not know how she was going to be able to stop him.

He had promised her a spectacle she would never forget and she was afraid he was about to deliver on that promise. A door clanged open and Sarak was shoved into the arena so hard he stumbled. He soon righted himself, his gaze immediately sweeping the seating area until it came to rest on Phada. His dark eyes were eloquent with unspoken emotion, although his expression remained stoic. Phada did not know how he could appear so totally unperturbed at his predicament. Her lips parted but she did not know what to say to him. She wanted to tell him how special he was, to thank him for changing her life, but she knew that would only incite Adelard to think up further torments and humiliations.

She continued to stare down at him, her mind reeling. She realized she might never get another chance to say what was in her heart. "Sarak!" she cried, jumping to her feet.

Adelard grabbed her and jerked her into his lap. His hand came up to cover her mouth just as a Kargan warrior strode into the arena, placing himself between Sarak and the overhanging seating area where Phada struggled to free herself. He held a gleaming sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Phada's movements became less frenzied, her horror growing as the implications of what she was observing began to sink in. Dear Goddess, were they going to slaughter him right before her very eyes?

She finally ceased her useless resistance altogether. In response, Adelard released her. She was furious, her head pounding with the force of her anger.

"Do not cry out to him again or you will regret it," he snarled at her.

She slumped back in her seat. Another warrior entered the arena to hand Sarak a sword. Even from here, Phada could discern that it was old, the metal dull and pitted with heavy use. She turned to Adelard, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You must be very fearful of him that you handicap him with a poor sword and no shield."

She had thought to at least shame the Kargan leader into giving Sarak a better weapon, but he only chuckled. "I said I wanted entertainment, not a fair contest."

"You are a brute and a coward," she cried out, heedless of the consequences. Her hands clenched into tight fists, her fingernails pressed painfully into her palms. She could no longer suppress her anguish and she no longer cared.

"Save some of that feistiness for the mating pallet," he told her with a grin.

She did not bother to reply to his jibe, nor did she try to hide her shudder of revulsion. "Why do you not just kill us both and be done with it?" she asked bitterly.

He sniffed long and hard before answering, grinning at the look of deep-seated disgust that crossed her face. "Ah, Phada, that would be much too easy. Now sit back and watch your companion fall." He leaned forward to raise his voice in a shout. "Tyrkar, show him how it is done!"

Tyrkar let out a roar as he charged at Sarak, his feet driving into the dirt floor so hard they sent up little clouds of dust. The sound of clanging swords soon filled the arena, echoing off the stone walls, bouncing from the ceiling. It was strange and horrible to sit there, the only witnesses to this spectacle of blood.

Phada did not want to watch, but she could not seem to tear her gaze away from the pair of battling warriors below. And then to her utter amazement, it was over, almost before it had begun. Sarak feinted to his left and then slashed his opponent with a clean, slicing motion across the stomach. The Kargan fell to the ground, clutching his injury and moaning.

Phada released the air she had been holding in her lungs. It was the first conscious breath she could remember taking since the contest had begun. Sarak stood quietly in the center of the dimly lit arena, his rusty sword held tightly by his side, ready for whatever else Adelard might send his way. Phada spared a brief glance for his opponent. The sight of the Kargan's blood gushing between his pale fingers was shocking in the contrast of dark and light. It spread in an ever-widening pool, garishly red against the whiteness of his skin.

She was barely aware of the two warriors who came to lead the injured male away, so relieved was she that it was over. She turned to observe Adelard's reaction, surprised to discover that he did not seem angry or upset. Instead he grinned that horrible, death's-head grin at her and signaled to the warrior guarding the door below. He opened it and another Kargan stepped into the ring with a confident stride.

This one looked even more fierce than the first, Phada decided in dismay. He was dressed for battle in dark leather leggings and a sleeveless tunic that bared his pale, brawny arms and a good deal of his chest. He had pulled his long, light brown hair into an elaborate nest of braids that hung down alongside his bearded face and moved every time he tossed his head, which he did as often as the vainest female. He grinned up at her, his teeth large and flashing as they caught the torchlight, his expression filled with arrogance.

Sarak stepped forward, undaunted, to challenge him. "I do not suppose you would release the female if I best this next warrior," he called out wryly. Phada did not know how he could jest about such matters.

Adelard sniffed as he squinted his eye consideringly. "I do not think you can beat him," he said with a smirk. "Is that not right, Vibald?"

"I will enjoy watching his pitiful efforts to try," the braided warrior shouted, pumping his shield up and down like a bellows. "And then I will kill him."

Adelard chuckled as he turned to Sarak. "All right, Mesaran. If you can conquer Vibald, I will allow your Phada to walk away from here."

The promise of a warrior was sacred, but somehow Phada did not believe the Kargan leader would keep his word. Sarak's eyes narrowed as he nodded briskly in response to this offer. He hefted his sword, adjusting his grip, then immediately began circling the other male like a wary clawcat. He danced lightly on the balls of his feet, his weight ready to shift in any direction at a moment's notice. Vibald dropped into a crouch, feinting with his shield, then his sword, in what he obviously considered a dazzling display of bluffing his opponent, although Sarak hardly blinked an eye at his maneuvering. He certainly did not fall for the ruse; Phada could tell that he was not about to be lured into attacking before he was ready.

"Why do you wait?" Adelard cried to his own fighter. "Do not play his cautious game. That is the coward's way. Attack! Attack!"

Phada gripped her hands together as Vibald let out a high-pitched, hissing screech and surged forward. She could not prevent her body from jerking in terror at the first impact of sword against sword. Adelard continued to scream contradictory instructions to his warrior. Phada was no battle-hardened veteran, but even she could tell that Adelard had no sense of timing and certainly no innate skill in the finer nuances of battle. All he seemed to want was to hear the loud noises produced from the clanging of weapons, like a little boy whacking a spoon against his mother's stewpot.

She wanted to boast aloud of Sarak's prowess as it became more obvious with every passing millimark that he was beating Vibald badly, but she did not want to do anything that might jinx the outcome. Adelard had ceased his instructing, thank the Goddess, and now sat beside her, grunting aloud as his warrior began to tire, but making no comment about Sarak's superiority. He scowled when Vibald finally fell awkwardly on his side, a victim of a particularly graceful and lightning-fast maneuver on Sarak's part.

"Your warrior has lost in the most disgraceful manner possible," Phada commented. She took a large degree of pleasure in the communication and did not hesitate to show it.

Adelard snorted, unabashed. "It does not matter about Vibald. He was a braggart and a liar when he promised me victory. If I send in enough warriors, one of them will defeat him." She was shocked and disgusted at this further evidence of his bullying attitude. "You act as if such a one-sided battle would make you proud."

"Why should it not?" he asked. "A victory is a victory, no matter how it is achieved."

"That is the vilest sentiment I have ever heard from the mouth of a so-called warrior, even a Kargan one," she muttered scornfully.

She stared at his ugly face with its unnatural, sneering expression that reflected the bitterness in his sun-blackened soul. What did it matter if she provoked him? She and Sarak were both doomed in any case. She met his angry gaze and realized she did not care anymore what happened to her. The situation had passed beyond hopeless and she knew it. It might not be a bad thing if she could goad him into putting her out of her misery.

"You are all cowards as well as weaklings," she said, tossing her head in a show of bravado that took her by surprise. She might not have as many braids as Vibald, but she thought the end result was passably effective. She could only conclude that some of Sarak's bravery had rubbed off on her.

"I see you do not appreciate Kargan cunning," he countered. "We have always been prepared for Mesaran treachery, especially now that we deal on a regular basis with our brother, Dalcor." He leaned closer, his arm touching hers. She flinched away but he only laughed. "See the leather quiver strapped around that warrior's waist and the small dart blower beside it?" He gestured toward the two warriors who were helping Vibald stagger to his feet.

She shrugged disdainfully. "So?"

"So, those darts are tipped with fatal. That way we cannot lose no matter how unequal the fight."

"By the holy name of the Goddess, you have no principles, no honor," Phada retorted, horrified at this further example of the Kargan leader's low standard of ethics. "You are a disgrace to the warrior code."

He laughed uproariously. "Who cares about honor or the warrior code when winning is everything?" He rose to his feet. "I grow tired of this. Volsung! Ospak! Come, collect the prisoner."

The warriors who had dragged their fallen comrades from the arena came forward to disarm Sarak before hauling him closer to their leader. This time Phada noticed the dart blowers and shuddered. Sarak avoided her gaze, all his attention focused on his mortal foe.

Adelard's mouth lifted in a nasty smile as he leaned over the parapet to address him. "You were lucky to vanquish my warriors. Then again, any cornered tunnelrat might accomplish the same. He chuckled at his own wit before continuing. "I am going to give your Phada a tablet laced with a pleasure drug that induces a mating frenzy in the recipient. After it takes effect she will be my Phada and she will eagerly spread her legs for me. She will forget you entirely. In fact," he assured them both with a raspy laugh, "she will lust for me to the exclusion of reason."

"You stinking Kargan bastard," Sarak roared, lunging toward the wall as if his willpower alone would allow him to fly over it and grab Adelard by the throat. The two warriors quickly restrained him, one by delivering a blow to Sarak's head with his fist. Phada rushed to the edge, reaching out a beseeching hand. Below her, Sarak continued to struggle in spite of the blows that pummeled his head, stomach, and ribs. Phada could hear the visceral thud of each blow as though it were striking her own body.

"Stop it," she screamed, throwing herself along the high rock wall that was the only obstacle separating her from Sarak. "Stop it, do you hear me!" Before she could say another word, Adelard grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back. She yelped as burning shards of pain exploded along her scalp. She had to admit his tactic was effective, if barbaric. She held herself utterly still, not even bothering to wipe the tears that trickled down her cheeks.

Adelard reached inside his vest and pulled out a pouch. Untying it, he quickly withdrew a small square that looked like pressed straw, only it was dark brown in color. "Eat this," he commanded her.

"No. You'll have to kill me first."

"Have you ever seen bulloxen castrated?" he began slowly, stroking the scraggly hair of his bearded chin. "It works such wonders on their temperaments. They become as docile and biddable as children. I do not know if castration has the same effect on a warrior, but it would be interesting to find out, do you not think so?" He paused just long enough to allow the horror of what he was suggesting to sink in. "Take the drug, Phada, or I will have your companion castrated right now, while you watch."

"No," she quickly interjected. "I . . . I will take it." She could not best him; she wondered why she bothered to keep trying. His cruelty would not allow him to lose. She was the defeated one. She reached out a shaking hand for the square, taking it and popping it quickly into her mouth before she lost her courage. It tasted mostly like dried grass, but as she chewed she could detect the underlying taste of faral. Hope, unbidden and eternal, sprang up in her breast as she tried not to gag. No one knew of her body's rejection of the drug. Could she somehow use this to her advantage?

"That is better," Adelard crooned. "You are going to be quite a handful, but I intend to enjoy your ultimate surrender. And surrender you will, sweetling."

Phada hardly heard his threat, so busy was she trying to plan the best course of action. She wondered if her body would also reject the pleasure drug and if not, how powerful its effect might be. She would have to wait and see. In the meantime, she decided she had to remain docile; it was the usual result in individuals who had consumed the spice, and it was what Adelard would be expecting. She must take care not to give herself away.

"Dose him with faral!"

Adelard gave the order to his minions as though it were of little consequence. Sarak cried out in protest, redoubling his efforts to escape, but one of the warriors reached into his quiver and pulled out a dart, stabbing him in the arm before he knew what had hit him. Oh Goddess, Sarak, she thought, her eyes filling with tears as she watched. She began to cry then, quietly and hopelessly, hot tears running down her face as she remembered how valiantly Sarak had struggled to break the hold of the spice over his mind and body, how much and how bravely he had suffered. Now he would be helpless once again, a slave to his body's insistent craving.

She whirled to face Adelard, forgetting the plan she had laid out for herself, instead pounding her fists against his chest in her fury and helplessness. He only laughed as he subdued her easily, wrapping his arms around her and clamping her flailing limbs to her sides.

He eyed her with a puzzled frown. "The faral usually works more quickly than this," he said.

He proceeded to haul her out of the arena. Phada. bit her lip until it bled, trying to regain control over her rampaging emotions. She had to remain calm or she would ruin whatever small scrap of a chance they still had. She allowed her feet to drag, as if she did not have the energy to move them herself. Adelard grunted with satisfaction, running his hands in the most revolting and familiar fashion over her body. He slyly fondled her breast. She could feel him waiting for her reaction. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to do nothing.

When they reached the top row of stone benches that encircled the arena, Adelard stopped. ''When he is docile, send him to the mineral mines," he called over his shoulder. "We will see how long the Mesaran lasts under Jolf's whip."

He then turned back to Phada, his one eye gleaming. "Come. The time of waiting is over."

Chapter Nineteen

Phada followed submissively behind Adelard as they traversed more tunnels and corridors. Her cooperation had earned her the release of her hand from his sweaty grip before she lost control of her urge to snatch her squashed fingers away, a small victory but encouraging nonetheless. He believed that the faral was taking effect; she must make sure that he continued to do so.

Finally they reached his chambers. They were located in a section of the underground stronghold that she could not remember viewing before. He jerked his head to indicate she should enter. Such a charming man, she thought with disdain, as he closed the heavy wooden door behind them

She gazed around at the elaborate interior of his quarters. The room was filled with brightly colored rugs on the floors and hanging from the walls. It reminded her of the Jiboans' tents, and indeed, the woven mats were definitely from the various tribes of the desert people. The furniture was made of a beautiful light-colored wood streaked with darker markings. Someone had obviously taken great care with its design and construction, and the polished finish gleamed in the light from the wall sconces. There were two chairs and a couch, all of them covered with an artfully careless array of colorful pillows and cushions, mostly in shades of blue and green. The long, low tables displayed small statues of animals, some of them with jeweled eyes, along with other decorative items.

Phada was amazed. The overall effect was light and airy and more beautiful than anything she had seen in Gorod so far. Even the dwelling of Nalissa and her parents, although comfortable, was nothing to boast about. She could not imagine that Adelard had had anything to do with the design or layout of this room, unless she had been sadly misled about his character and talents.

"Your dwelling is lovely," she said.

Her comment seemed to please him, although he spoiled the effect by stating, "Kargan warriors deserve only the best." He reached for one of the statues, bypassing the snarling tuskboar and the hissing serpent to choose a bright-eyed leporus with long ears and gentle brown eyes of gleaming topazine. He held it out to her.

"It is exquisite, wondrous," she whispered in awe as she examined its intricately carved lines and curves. And indeed it was. The artist had captured the quivering alertness of the small creature, so that Phada swore she could almost see its nose twitch. Even the wood felt warm and alive as she cradled it in her hands. "I have never seen anything like it."

"Yes." He seemed embarrassed at agreeing with her praise. He suddenly snifled loudly, breaking the spell.

Phada drew in a deep breath, surprised that she had experienced even that brief moment of connection with the despicable Kargan leader. The pleasure drug must be softening her natural aversion to him. She felt much better when he reverted to his usual behavior, ripping off his filthy leather vest, wiping his nose on it one last time before tossing it over the clean cushions without a care. She knew she had not been mistaken in her original assessment of him, but she restrained herself from advising him of the fact. She needed to remain in his good graces, especially if she hoped to carry out the newest plan that was slowly forming in her mind.

"Come." He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward a doorway.

Phada tried not to show her reluctance by dragging her feet, but it was difficult, especially when she caught a glimpse of a sumptuous sleeping pallet over his shoulder. It sat on a raised platform, the centerpiece of the room. As they moved further inside, she swallowed hard at the sight of the elaborate draperies that hung from rods in the ceiling. They girded the raised mattress and could be pulled around the pallet for complete privacy.

There was a huge tapestry on the far wall, the likes of which Phada had never seen. Had the women of Gorod made it? The wall hanging depicted beautiful scenes, perhaps half-imagined, since the landscape outside the caves was uninspiring and this tapestry showed sylvan glades covered with green grass and blooming vegetation. It did not resemble the oasis or the jungles of Mesara. She wondered where this place was located.

Adelard drew her to a halt. He peered into her face and she tried to summon the expression she had seen so many times on the faces of her mother and sister, an unfocused withdrawal from the world around her. He seemed satisfied. "I . . . May I have some time alone to prepare?" she asked, bowing her head slightly. She could not quite feign total subservience to this male, but the sharp pains that had recently begun to twist her insides helped her to focus. "I would like to wash off the dirt from the tunnel."

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment, but when she kept her gaze meekly downcast, he finally grunted. "All right. There is a washing chamber through there. But do not think you can escape, for it has no access except to this room."

She nodded, ignoring his comment about escaping. "Thank you, Adelard," she replied.

Her use of his name made his eyes gleam with cockiness. He thought she had totally succumbed to his nasty drugs. She wondered if anyone in this darkness-cursed place ever did anything of his own free will, without being coerced with faral or pleasure drugs. Did these Kargans not know that what was taken through force was never as good as something given freely? She could not help feeling sorry for them.

She went into the washing chamber, closing the door behind her. The racking pains were growing more forceful by the millimark and she gazed wildly around for any kind of receptacle. She noticed a sink cut into the rock with a drainage hole in the bottom. She barely reached it before her stomach flipped over, wrenching painfully as it rejected all traces of the faral. She hung weakly from the edge of the basin, her legs shaking with the violence of her reaction, her skin covered with a sheen of rapidly drying perspiration. She squeezed her eyes closed and shivered.

She stayed there as long as she dared before finally rousing herself. She spotted a pitcher of water. She poured some into the sink, washing away the evidence of her temporary illness, and then splashed some into a nearby basin that sat on the counter. Before washing she quickly investigated her surroundings for anything that could be used as a weapon. The only thing remotely portable was the chamber pot, which was located in a cabinet at the far side of the small space. She chuckled ruefully. She did not think she could slink into the sleeping chamber clutching that in her hands without Adelard noticing something amiss.

"Sweetling?"

Phada started at the muffled sound of his voice. "Yes?"

"If you do not come out of there right now, I will come in and drag you out," he said.

Phada grimaced. So much for the doting suitor. And why should he cater to anyone but himself? That was the way of these Kargan warriors. They held all the advantages and everyone else was forced to do their bidding. She quickly splashed some water on her face and arms, then dried them on the cloth lying next to the basin. Then she hurried into the sleeping chamber.

The sight of him lounging completely naked on the pallet was a shock. "It is about time," he growled. "Now strip off your dress and climb up here."

She avoided looking at him, her mind racing. He was not jesting when he told her to climb onto the mattress. She noticed that there was a stool next to the side of the pallet. As a weapon it left a lot to be desired, but she could not afford to be choosy. It was now or never. "I am not schooled in the ways of the mating pallet," she said. That was still basically true. "If you do not mind, I will leave my clothes on for now."

He laughed. "I will have the farking dress off you soon enough," he said with a gloating leer at her bosom and hips. "Now get over here."

Goddess, do not abandon me now, she fervently prayed. She crossed the room and stepped onto the stool. She sat on the edge of the mattress, but before she could reach down for the stool, Adelard pounced on her, tangling them both in the pallet coverings as he pinned her beneath the considerable weight of his body. He grabbed her hands and pushed them to either side of her head, leering down at her from his superior position. This close up his injured eye was milky white, and his breath smelled of stale vetch.

He began touching her hair, her face, her breasts. Phada felt the stirrings of something deep inside her, in spite of the horrified protests of her mind. Had the pleasure drug been absorbed into her system more quickly than the faral? Was it already having some kind of effect on her senses? Adelard touched her against her will, and yet she could not deny the beginning of a physical response. She wanted to cry out in disgust. Was she no better than some cowox in heat?

She thought of Sarak, of how he had pleasured every inch of her body. She could not imagine doing any of those things with this vile Kargan. She did not want to do them. And yet her body reacted to his maleness in a way she abhorred. She tried to calm herself as Adelard pawed at the neckline of her dress. It was too tight-fitting for him to free her breasts from their confinement, thank the Goddess, so he contented himself with slobbering over what he could reach of them, panting in his excitement and sniffling at the same time.

She began slowly inching her way back toward the side of the pallet where the stool was located. Adelard was too busy to notice. As she pulled herself along, using her elbows, she concentrated her thoughts on Sarak, not his physical attributes, which pleased her senses, but his other qualities, such as his bravery, his kindness and caring, the things that had touched her heart.

She suddenly realized all her concentration was focused on reaching her goal and she no longer felt any sexual response to Adelard at all. She was able to reach her arm over the side of the mattress, groping about until she touched the stool, grasping its leg tightly in her hand. With a mighty effort, she swung her arm up and cracked him over the head.

He rolled off her immediately, clutching his head and groaning loudly. She did not waste any time, leaping from the pallet to the floor and kneeling by his discarded leggings. Yes, there they were, the dart blower and the quiver. She snatched one of the faral-tipped darts and returned to the mattress. Without the least hesitation, she stabbed the needlelike point into his upper arm so hard that it drew blood. He gave out a yelp, his good eye widening in horror as he realized what she had done.

"You bitch," he yelled at the top of his lungs. "I will kill you for this!"

She dodged him easily as he half-lunged, half-fell from the mattress. Because of his head wound, his balance was faulty and he fell to the floor with a heartening crash. He did not move for a long while after that. Phada took the opportunity to pull the belt from his leggings, using it to bind his arms behind him. She was not sure how long the clumsy knots she managed to tie in the thick leather would hold him, but it was better than nothing. She could see his eye glazing over as the force of the faral hit him. The first dose always had the greatest effect, as she well knew.

She dragged him into a sitting position against the wall. Then, for good measure, she plunged a second dart into his other arm. He hardly made a sound of protest, his head lolling toward his chest as he slumped toward the floor, a foolish expression softening his twisted features until he looked almost normal. It was nowhere near the revenge she wanted to take on him for reacquainting Sarak with the spice, but it would have to do.

She crossed to the door, making sure it was locked, and then quickly searched the room. Her gaze landed on a locked chest. She found the key in the pouch Adelard had discarded with his clothes and opened it. Inside, she found what she was looking fortwo small vials. She hoped it was the neutralizer.

She crouched down next to Adelard, who was crooning to himself under his breath. She held one of the vials directly under his nose until he finally sensed her presence and opened his eyes. The good one immediately focused on the vial.

"The neutralizer." He laughed uncontrollably for long millimarks, then shook his head weakly, unable to master the spasms of mirth that continued to rock him at uneven intervals. "It will do you no good," he assured her, gasping for breath.

She wanted to knock the silly smirk right off his face. "Why not?" she demanded.

"Because that is . . . all . . . there is." He chuckled. His nose had begun running until it was now dripping into his moustache. He did not appear to notice, although he sniffed every now and again.

"How is it made?"

"Oh ho, my sweet Mesaran lady. That is for me to know and for you to discover." He actually giggled this time, and then his expression grew crafty. "I cannot afford anyone getting their hands on it and fomenting a rebellion of the mine slaves, nor do I wish to have someone sneaking in here and making off with it . . . like you!" He burst into loud guffaws.

Phada rolled her eyes in disgust at his giddiness. She decided that the meaner the individual, the harder he fell to the powers of the faral. At least he was answering her questionsthe problem was that it was taking too long. She could not afford to spend much more time here. Someone who did not know he had made off with his female captive might come searching for him. She would have to take the neutralizer and try her chances in the corridor.

"No one has ever freed himself completely from the faral," Adelard told her in a chatty manner, as if they were at a social gathering. He did not seem at all embarrassed by his nakedness. "It is more than just a physical craving. The mind grows used to being released from all its cares and always tries to have that feeling again."

Sarak had done it, she thought to herself. Ah, yes, Sarak with his indomitable willpower. She ignored Adelard's lecture, instead picking up the pouch that had contained the darts and stashing the precious vials inside. She slipped the cord over her head, letting it drop against her chest, where it hung like an unattractive, but practical, necklace.

He peered up into her face, suddenly frowning. "How is it that you are not affected?"

She did not dare answer. The less he knew about her, the better, especially since he possessed a direct link with Dalcor.

"I know," he continued in a cheerfully slurred voice. "You stuck a finger down your throat and made yourself vomit. I heard you, although I was not thinking clearly enough at the time to realize what it meant. No, no, my mind was preoccupied with other things." He straightened his back, smugly tossing his hair from his eyes. "The spice will eventually affect you whether you like it or not. And then you will come crawling back to me for more of it."

"Oh, shut up," she finally hissed.

She crept over to the door, lifting the latch and pulling it carefully open. Before she knew what was happening someone launched himself into the breach, knocking her to the floor and falling on top of her. The air was forced from her lungs by the weight of the intruder's body.

''Phada!"

Thank the Goddess, it was Sarak. Between the lack of air and the continuing press of his body smashing her into the floor, she was well and truly speechless. How in the name of Mother Elithra had he managed to escape?

He seemed in no hurry to get up. Instead, he lifted his head, gazing around the room. She knew when he spotted Adelard because every muscle in his body tensed. "Are you all right?" he asked, suddenly grim.

"Yes, I am fine."

"Did he . . ."

"No," she quickly assured him. "I cracked him over the head with a stool so it never got that far."

"Thank the Goddess." He suddenly grinned, a rueful expression that lifted one corner of his mouth in a most appealing fashion. "I see that you are as resourceful as ever," he said. "Here I thought I was coming to your rescue and you have already nicely rescued yourself. You are an amazing female."

"Thank you," she gasped. "Now let me up before you smother me and ruin everything."

He chuckled as he rolled to one side and slid to his feet in one easy, graceful motion. She quickly scanned every inch of him. He appeared unscathed, besides the cuts and abrasions he had sustained in the arena.

"How did you get away?"

"It was not difficult. They thought I was spice-controlled."

"But . . ." She stared at him, suddenly realizing what had been bothering her about his appearance. He looked as alert and aware as he had since he had weaned himself from the spice. How was that possible when she had seen the Kargan warrior plunge a faral-tipped dart into his arm? "Why are you not affected?"

He laughed, his teeth gleaming whitely against the tanned skin of his face. He was dressed in his dominator garb and he had never looked more wonderful to her. "I do not know, but so far it has had no effect on me. Perhaps it takes longer the second time around."

Phada frowned. It was not a pleasant thought to contemplate that he might succumb to the faral at any moment.

"Or maybe," he added, "once a person has been controlled by it and then conquered the habit, his body becomes immune."

"Oh, yes, I like the sound of that." She straightened her clothes and brushed the stray strands of hair back from her face. "Do you think it is possible?"

"I do not know. We can only hope it is true, but we must not count on it," he told her solemnly. "In any case, we do not have time to discuss the matter. Let us go."

"What about him?"

Sarak crossed the room to stand over Adelard, who continued to hum tunelessly beneath his breath, the sound rising and falling in a meaningless pattern. The Kargan seemed unaware that Sarak hovered above him. "What in the name of the Blessed Lady did you do to him?"

Phada grinned. "I gave him a taste of his own cursed drug. And look." She rummaged in the pouch to produce the two vials, proudly holding them out for his inspection. "I found the neutralizer. He says he only makes up a small amount at any one time. He is a suspicious sort and wants no one to be able to use it to gain control. This is all there is." "It will have to do. Now come, we cannot stay here any longer."

Adelard stirred himself enough to speak. "There is only enough neutralizer for a couple of days for two people in those vials," he reminded them with a grin. "You will not make it across the Calabian Desert before the craving comes backfor both of you."

"He is right about one thing," Sarak interjected. "We do not know how long I have before the craving hits me again. We must get out of here quickly, while I am still upright."

He rummaged through one of the chests until he emerged with a piece of gaily colored cloth. He gagged Adelard, who only struggled in protest for a short time before resigning himself to his fate. Sarak stepped behind the Kargan. Before Phada knew what he was about, he brought his hand down with a chopping motion, knocking the unsuspecting Adelard unconscious. His suddenly limp body slumped to one side before sliding bonelessly down to the floor.

"We cannot have him calling out for help," Sarak explained with a shrug. "This will buy us more time to escape."

"You do not have to apologize to me for slugging that piece of Kargan vermin."

"I am glad to hear it." He returned to the chest, digging inside. "Do you still have your veil?"

She nodded. "It is in my pocket."

"Good. Then put it on."

"What about you? You cannot stroll around the corridors of Gorod dressed like that."

"I know." He held up a pair of leather leggings and a beautiful white lana-wool coat. "These will have to do for now."

He quickly tugged on the pants and slipped into the coat. It had a hood that he pulled forward over his head and around his face. He began to shuffle toward the door, his back hunched over as though with age. "Come on." He gestured her to fall into step behind him.

Phada laughed. "It may take us an entire cycle to reach the main tunnel, but your disguise is very effective."

She followed him into the hall. This part of Gorod, where Adelard and his cronies lived, was deserted. Phada estimated that it was sometime postzenith, although it was hard to keep track of such things underground. They carefully worked their way along the various tunnels. Sarak went into his crouching old man routine whenever people appeared, but otherwise they moved at top speed down the deserted passageways.

She was completely at a loss about their direction, but Sarak seemed to have a good idea of which way to go. She wanted to question him about it, but decided she would wait until later, when they were safely out of Gorod and on their way back to the desert. Surprisingly she thought longingly of the heat and burning desert sun. It would be wonderful to be above the ground's surface once again, no matter what the temperature.

She realized Sarak must have been correct in his reckonings, since they were definitely moving upward rather than down. However, their pace was much slower now because they were in the sections where people gathered. If they could only reach the marketplace, they should be able to exit the main tunnel easily. She hoped Adelard was still unconscious. Once he awakened and alerted the other warriors, their hopes of escaping might be dashed, and this time they would not be able to fool their Kargan captors so easily.

The sound of voices grew louder until they finally emerged into the marketplace. They were on the side farthest away from the tunnel that led outside, but Phada felt her heart lift and her pulse race with excitement. She wanted to run, but Sarak continued his slow, halting pace and she stayed alongside him, holding his arm as though assisting him. Several Kargan women sent pitying glances in her direction. They probably thought her warrior was on his last legs. Little did they know, she thought with a small chuckle at the feel of Sarak's coiled strength beneath her fingertips.

"What do we do now?" she inquired briskly.

"We need to find the packbirds. Without them we will never make it home."

Home. Phada whispered the word to herself, tasting it on her lips. She had forgotten the sweet, soft sound of it. Just the thought of Mesara filled her with yearning. Would she ever see it again? With Sarak by her side, she believed she would. He could do anything he set his mind to, anything. She had never felt such invincibility before, such certainty. He was a warrior beyond all warriors, beyond all other males. She loved him with all her heart.

Phada blushed beneath the veil but she did not even bother to deny her feelings. It was too late. She had been slowly but irrevocably falling in love with the warrior at her side since the moment she had first laid eyes on him in the feasting hall. She knew it was wrong, a sin, to feel the way she did, but she could not seem to muster up the righteous indignation she had once felt about involvement with the warrior class.

"Wait here," he told her.

She nodded. She did not need to ask him what he was going to do. Whatever it was, she trusted him utterly. He would get them out of here if anyone could. She followed his slow, torturous progress through the crowded aisles between the various merchants' stalls until she lost sight of him. He was headed in the direction of the stables where they had left Gisba and Ral. Phada hoped the birds were all right. It seemed like ages since they had first entered Gorod, but it was only a few cycles. They had accomplished everything they had set out to do, a fact that astonished her.

Would their luck continue to hold? It seemed a lot to ask after everything that had already happened, but she prayed that nothing would hinder them now that escape was within their grasp. She waited, suddenly impatient and sorry she had not accompanied Sarak. She had an uneasy feeling that left her shaken. Where was he? He should have returned by now.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she gasped. The blood rushed from her head so quickly she felt faint even as her heart hammered painfully in her chest. Her entire body froze. Was this how it was all going to end, with a tap on the shoulder? Slowly she turned to face the inevitable.

It was Nalissa. "I have been waiting for you," she hissed. She grabbed Phada by the hand and began dragging her toward the passage that led to the outside. "You must leave quickly. There is no time to lose. I just came past the inner council chamber. Adelard has summoned all his warriors to arms. Even now he is on his way to block off the exit. Oh, why did you not leave when you had the chance?"

"We had to find the neutralizer." She patted the pouch that hung around her neck. "And we did."

"I am so glad for you," Nalissa said over her shoulder as she continued to pull Phada along in her wake.

Suddenly an arm snaked out and grabbed the girl by the throat, pulling her into the entrance of an unlit corridor. Oh Goddess, what now? Phada thought in alarm, staring at the empty space where the girl had just been. She hesitated, unsure whether she could best help Nalissa by making a run for it or by trying to free her from whomever had taken her. She decided she could not leave.

The sounds of struggle came from inside the passageway. Phada took a deep breath and rushed inside, hoping the surprise of her bold action would confuse whoever was holding Nalissa into releasing her. Perhaps the two of them together could handle a single warrior.

It did not work. Except for her shimmering silver-blond hair, Phada could barely make out the squirming form of the young Kargan girl. Nalissa was wrapped in the arms of a Jiboan male, the voluminous folds of his kanzu fluttering around her like a spider's web. Phada thought she knew a little about that contemptuous breed.

"Let her go," she hissed between clenched teeth, furious that this desert trader had the nerve to try to kidnap her friend. She kicked him in the knee, wringing a satisfying grunt of pain from him.

"Hold, Phada, it is me." It was Sarak's voice. "Holy Mother, what a wild clawcat you are."

"Sarak, release that girl at once. She is Nalissa, the one who helped me to spring you from that cell."

Sarak dropped his arms, then bent down to rub his tender shin. "I am sorry." He turned toward Nalissa. "I thought you were trying to bring Phada to Adelard."

Nalissa sniffed indignantly. "As if I would ever do anything to help that ugly, sniveling monster."

Sarak's teeth gleamed in the faint light that filtered in from the marketplace. "I can see why the two of you got along so quickly and so well. Nalissa, I thank you for your aid."

"It will all go for naught if you do not make a run for it now, before Adelard arrives. There is a shortcut that the warriors use so they do not have to cross the marketplace. If Adelard reaches it before you do, you will be trapped." "Then let us go. Phada, I have secured our packbirds."

A stifled squawk and a scuffle was the only warning Phada received before a huge shadowy form leapt toward her from the deepest shadows of the small cavern. "Gisba," she cried, throwing her arms around the dobby's neck. She smoothed the sparse head feathers affectionately, then moved lower to scratch her beneath her chin. It was her favorite spot and Gisba cheeped happily. Ral pushed forward for her share of petting.

"I have placed some supplies in a small alcove just before the last bend in the tunnel," Nalissa explained. "It is on the left-hand side, half-hidden by a boulder that covers a good portion of the opening. I do not think you will miss it."

"Thank you, Nalissa." Phada hugged the girl, turning away before she could become overly emotional. There was no time for that, not now. Later she would grieve for the valiant young Kargan they could not take with them.

"Goddess bless you," Sarak said, squeezing her arm. He turned to Phada. "Come. We must leave."

He grabbed Ral's reins and strode from the dark cavern into the noise and light of the marketplace.

"Think of me sometimes, Phada, as you walk in freedom beneath the sun."

"I will," she promised.

She hurried along behind Sarak with Gisba's head hovering over her shoulder like an anxious mother rockhen. She cringed at every untoward movement, every sound. They crossed the market area at a hurried walk, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves. They made it without mishap and entered the final tunnel that led to the blessed outside. She did not know where the warriors' shortcut opened onto the exit tunnel but she kept visualizing Adelard around every bend in the corridor, waiting to attack them. They stopped very briefly at the alcove where Nalissa had hidden the supplies. Sarak tossed the bundle onto Ral's back, securing it quickly with one of the tassels on her saddle. They did not have time to do more.

She could not see Sarak's face, but she could feel the determination in his every step. Ral chirped and Gisba answered as though the two dobbies sensed they were on their way back to the desert. Sarak glanced over his shoulder and smiled encouragingly at her. She could still not believe that he was unaffected by the faral, but she was not about to question their good fortune. If only it would hold for a little while longer.

Even though the exit was not yet visible, she could see light filtering in from the outside. Already she had to squint her eyes against its brightness after the gloomy passages and shadowy corners of Gorod. The scent of rain drifted in as well, sharp and pungent after the light, almost odorless air of the tunnels. She could even smell traces of vegetation. It was a heady sensation and she realized how much she missed the natural world of sunlight and open spaces.

Suddenly a shout was raised. She swiveled her head. Thank the Goddess it came from behind them and not ahead, but her heart sank to her heels when she saw that there were at least 20 warriors heading at an all-out sprint in their direction.

"Run," Sarak cried. He gestured her to move in front of him and she did so as quickly as her legs would carry her. As Phada passed, he handed her Ral's reins, leaving his hands free to pull the sword from the packbird's saddle as she trotted by, frantic to keep up with her companion.

Gisba had already accelerated into an awkward loping gallop that would have made Phada laugh were she not so busy fleeing for her life. Something hurtled past her, the whining sound loud and horrible in her ear. Oh no, they were shooting those cursed faral-tipped darts.

There was only one guard on duty. He must have heard the shouts of alarm because he leapt out from the hut with a bloodcurdling scream, directly into Sarak's path.

"Keep going," Sarak told her tersely as he whirled to face this new threat. "I will be right behind you."

She did as he instructed, although she could not help slowing her pace somewhat. The sound of clanging swords filled her ears, but it stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. She heard Sarak's footsteps pounding behind her as he made up the lost distance.

Her lungs burned as they tried to suck in enough air to keep up the grueling pace. They ducked around the final corner, where the piercing light of day broadsided them into temporary immobility. Phada stumbled to a halt, her arm automatically rising to press against her eyes in an effort to mitigate the pain of the sun's brightness. She was totally blinded.

"Do not stop," Sarak shouted from somewhere near her ear. He fumbled until he found her hand and then dragged her along behind him. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, allowing him to lead her like a child.

Sarak's body jerked and he let out a startled grunt. "What happened?" she asked breathlessly.

"It is nothing. Be careful; the path is strewn with rocks."

He helped her down the steep road that led to the floor of the valley below. Phada gingerly opened one eye. She could see shapes and shadows now, although it was still painfully bright. Thank the Goddess, these were only the weak rays that shone on Gorod and not those of the fiercely burning desert sun. She breathed another prayer of thanks that it was not yet night, when the Kargans could easily pursue them beyond the mouth of their cavernous world.

They reached the bottom of the path. Sarak stopped, releasing her hand. Phada leaned against a large boulder, gasping for breath but giddy with the realization that they had escaped.

''We made it," she chortled gleefully.

Sarak did not reply. She watched, puzzled, as he grabbed his arm. A dart peered out from between his fingers along with a smear of blood on the cloth of his kanzu. He had been hit.

Chapter Twenty

Sarak pulled his kanzu tighter against the biting wind that tugged playfully at its folds like a houndpup worrying a bone. They had been traveling for more than a cycle, and if he recalled the landscape correctly, this plateau they were on would soon give way to the flatter scrub that signaled the edges of the desert. He realized he was looking forward to its heat. Anything was better than this cursed Kargan climate.

He did not know what was the matter with him. He should be feeling pleased with his warrior prowess and proud of the way they had managed to accomplish their goals. They had escaped from Gorod with the neutralizer, although there was not very much of it, and they were on their way back to Mesara. There had been many close calls, but they had been truly blessed in this mission.

So why was he feeling so heavy-hearted?

He glanced across at Phada as she paced along steadily by his side, her slender body completely hidden by the kanzu he had insisted she wear. He could not help smiling to himself at the sight of her. Her tame packbird hovered protectively at her back, her beady black eyes slitted in contentment as she followed her mistress with all the devotion she could muster. Everyone else considered the creatures to be simpleminded beasts of burden. Who would have ever thought one of them could have such a winning personality? Phada had a talent for drawing all manner of living beings to her with her gentle nature and kind heart and bringing out their best qualities.

She had certainly performed the same service for him, he realized ruefully. She had poked and prodded and shamed him into making this journey. More than that, she had believed in him until he, too, had believed that nothing was impossible.

He wished he dared get as close to her as Gisba did. Of course she had not asked him to do any such thing. He knew that fact was at the root of his strange melancholy. Since she had told him of her ordeal with Adelard in his chambers, he had watched her actions carefully. She did not seem to be behaving any differently toward him. In fact, she did not seem disgusted with him at all. But he knew she must be. She was simply too kind to let him know her true feelings. After all, she had seen the dominator character taken to its worst extreme. Whatever she had felt for him on the journey here must surely be dead after witnessing the actions of Adelard and his henchmen.

He did not know what would happen to them once they returned home and tried to outwit Dalcor, but he had enough sense to realize that everything between them would be over. He could not jest with her and see her smile at him with that soft expression in her beautiful gray-blue eyes. He would not be able to touch her in any way, let alone intimately, which meant he would never again experience the soaring ecstasy of joining their bodies together in the mating act, a pleasure beyond anything he had ever known.

Obviously the ancients had done the right thing in segregating Mesara's warriors, he thought sadly. No doubt they were correct in formulating laws forbidding any dominator to have a relationship with a town woman, and most especially a Keeper. Every step that brought him closer to Mesara seemed a death knell for the forbidden hopes and dreams he had begun to carry in his heart. It was tearing him apart.

"Can we stop soon?" Phada asked. "I find I am more than a little weary after all the running we did."

It seemed a modest request, and yet she dropped her gaze as if embarrassed or uncomfortable. Sarak eyed the top of her cloth-covered head with a faint frown. "Yes, we can set up camp just ahead. I want to check over our supplies as well as whatever your friend Nalissa has provided. And we will need to fill the water bags before we reach the desert."

She must be feeling the awkwardness of knowing she would have to be inside a shelter with him once more, he decided. He could not blame her, but it still felt like a zirconian dagger wound to the chest.

They reached an acceptable area behind a grouping of rocks that cut the wind. The ground was sandy and pretty much rock-free. He unloaded the dobbies, spreading the contents of the saddles on the ground in piles as he examined everything. Nalissa had included enough food for a small army, as well as a pair of thickly woven blankets. He should be able to make a nice, cozy shelter from them.

He set to work at once. Phada disappeared behind the rocks to take care of personal matters. When he finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. It was not quite the same as a Jiboan tent, but it was not half bad either. He had tried to provide as much space inside as he possibly could, for Phada's benefit, but it was still going to be tight quarters. He only hoped he could handle it. It would not be easy to go back to the way they had been at the beginning of the trip, but he had to force himself to forget the liberties she had allowed him.

He felt her presence behind him. "Please go inside." He knew he sounded terse, so he tried to cover his awkwardness with a gracious gesture. He failed miserably. "I will return shortly."

He spun on his heel and stalked off toward a cluster of boulders in the opposite direction from the one she had taken, but not before he caught a glimpse of her puzzled, hurt expression. He wanted to soothe her, to tell her that she had not done anything wrong, but he was simply not calm enough to explain any further.

When he returned, he paused outside the shelter to take a deep breath before squatting on his haunches and crawling inside. Phada had changed from the Kargan clothing back into her tunic. He found he missed the brightly colored dress and the way it highlighted her eyes. He was ashamed to admit he also missed the nicely revealing glimpse it had offered of the upper curves of her breasts. He quickly banished the thought before Phada could see the longing and desire that he knew must be clearly visible in his expression.

She had spread out the kanzu she had been wearing, rolling up the blue dress and placing it at one end for a pillow. He saw that she had spread the makings of a simple meal on the side closest to him. "Are you hungry?"

"A little," he replied, his voice still gruff as he tried to force his confused emotions into enough order so that he could command them. He felt odd about doffing the protective folds of the Jiboan garment, although that was crazy. He had spent most of his life dressed in next to nothing. Why should the naked contours of his own body embarrass him now? He pulled the material over his head, scowling all the while. The sooner he got back to normal, the better.

He shook out his kanzu, hefting it into the air and allowing it to float down to the ground. Somehow it did not look as inviting as hers did, but he lowered himself onto it anyway. The ground was rockier than he had anticipated, and it took him several moments before he found a spot where the pebbles did not dig into his flesh.

She handed him a chunk of bread and some slices of goat cheese. Again she averted her gaze and again he felt the shock of her refusal to meet his eyes directly. Had he suddenly grown two heads? he wondered sourly. He bit into the bread. It was tough and chewy, being mostly crust, but he was hungry. When he added some of the cheese, it became more tolerable.

He sat with one leg bent comfortably at the knee and the other stretched out in front of him. Phada continued to concentrate on her food. She was so close he had only to reach out his arm to touch her. But he knew he would not do so. She was making it clear how she wanted their relationship to proceed from this point on, and he thought he should honor her obvious, albeit unspoken, request. He owed her that much and more.

She cleared her throat. "Do you think the Kargans will pursue us, now that the sun has gone down?"

"No. I made sure we traveled more than a cycle's journey from Gorod. They cannot risk straying that far from the protection of their city."

"It is hard to imagine that they must always stay inside, that they cannot ever feel the sunlight on their skin. In a way it makes them less fierce than I had always imagined them to be."

"It also means they are not the ones who have been raiding Mesara all these cycles."

She gasped. "I never thought of that. Who else could it possibly be? The Jiboans?"

"The Jiboans are too lazy to carry out that kind of extended campaign, not to mention too greedy to risk weapons and other equipment when they could make more money by selling it to the highest bidder. No, whoever engineered those attacks was a mastermind at planning. That is why we were never able to catch them at it, no matter how many traps we laid."

"Perhaps it was those people the Jiboans mentioned to us, the ones whose kanzus they said we were wearing."

"The Tuargas? Perhaps."

Suddenly he felt a surge of anger at the impersonal direction of their conversation. He did not want to talk about Kargans and weapons; he wanted to delve into the depths of Phada's heart, to discover how she felt about him. Did she ever think of those marks they had spent in each other's arms? Did she totally regret her impulsive behavior, or was there even the smallest part of her that was glad they had flouted the laws?

Curse it, he would not allow her to shut him out like this. They might have trespassed beyond the bounds of all propriety by their actions on the journey here, but that did not mean they could not remain friendsof a sortat least until they reached Mesara. He did not want to pass the entire trip with these awkward moments of togetherness and the uncomfortable silences they had engendered.

"Phada . . ." He halted, closing his eyes against the surge of emotions heating his body. He barely managed to stop his hand from reaching out for her. By the Goddess and all that was holy, he could not deliberately cause her unhappiness by forcing himself on her. He simply could not do it.

She moved closer. "Yes?"

"It is nothing. We had better go to sleep."

"Is that what you really want, dominator?" she asked softly, tauntingly. "Have things between us changed so completely since we were last in the desert?"

"You must know it is not that. . . ."

She pressed her small, soft hand against his chest. The feel of it made his heart beat heavy and hard against his ribs, until it sounded like the excited pace of an antelope-skin drum at the warrior initiation ceremony. She opened her fingers as wide as they would go, rubbing them back and forth against his suddenly burning flesh.

"I have learned a thing or two about mating during our trip to Gorod," she told him softly. "I know what pleases a male." She leaned down and kissed his shoulder, her mouth lingering as she brushed her lips back and forth. "If you do not wish this, you may stop me at any time."

It was sweet torture and he had no desire for it ever to end. She pushed him with her fingertips and he went down as easily as if she had struck him a mortal blow with the deadliest weapon. He suspected that it was the residue of the Kargan pleasure drug that was making her act this way. What else could explain her actions? He groaned, writhing in excitement as she kissed his stomach and caressed his hips. He was torn between pulling away from her now or enjoying this night in her arms. He was not a fool; he knew that once they crossed the desert he would never be allowed to touch her again.

He found he could not resist her, not when she was so warm and pliant and his body had been aching for her. She raised herself to her knees until she was poised above him, her weight resting on her hands, which she placed on either side of his head. He reached up to grasp her waist, sliding her over until she was on top of him. He gasped as the warmth of her feminine core pressed against his loins.

When she bent forward to kiss him, he found there was no choice at all. He was so delirious with pleasure, he even thought he heard her say "I love you." And then he knew nothing else as he allowed her to carry them both into sweet oblivion.

The return journey passed all too quickly. They spent the nights walking because it was cooler and the cycle-light in each other's arms. The sun stayed in the sky a little longer with each passing cycle, another sign that they were nearing Mesara. Much to his surprise, Sarak showed no signs of reverting to spice-controlled behavior. He was at a loss to explain it, but neither of them had any desire to question this lucky break.

They only saw two Jiboan caravans, and these they were easily able to avoid, although Sarak insisted on raiding one for extra water and food. One of the small satchels that he thought held grain contained faral instead. Just one whiff of the potent drug and he wanted to toss the contents to the desert winds. Surprisingly, Phada protested this decision, saying that her Keeper's intuition warned her not to act too hastily. Sarak believed strongly in such things, so he packed the container away with the rest of their dwindling supplies.

In an odd sort of way they had become a family, with Gisba and Ral like two unruly but sweet-tempered children. He hated to see the intimacy end, but he knew it must when they began seeing more and more signs that they were nearing the end of the desert. They pressed onward right past the next cycle-rise until they reached the scrublike vegetation that marked the farthest boundaries of Mesara.

They were finally home.

They camped on the far side of the jungle that postzenith. Sarak pulled her into his arms hungrily, knowing that this was their last night together. They had made record time across the desert, because they knew the way. Now that they were back in Mesara, there was no time to waste, not when a message from Gorod could arrive at any moment, warning Dalcor of their imminent arrival. They needed the element of surprise. In fact, they needed every advantage they could get, because they were so sorely outnumbered.

"How far do you think the neutralizer will go?" Phada asked as they shared the evening meal. "Will we be able to free enough warriors to retake Mesara?"

Sarak blew out his breath thoughtfully. It was a question he had been turning over in his mind since they had escaped from Gorod. "I do not know," he finally replied. "We have no idea how effective Adelard's potion really is."

"He said that the contents of these two vials were enough to free two people from the effects of the spice for a couple of cycles."

"Then we should be able to free a group of fifteen warriors for a few marks." Sarak frowned. "Dalcor has a core regiment of about forty warriors. We will have to disable as many of them as we can and we will have to work fast."

"There must be something I can do to help," she said thoughtfully. She glanced over at the container of faral they had stolen, her expression brightening. "And I know what it is." <><><><><><><><><><><><> Phada hovered at the crossroads that led to the center of Mesara, clutching her satchel. Sarak had already bid her good-bye. He slipped off the pathway, heading toward the back of the palace where prisoners were always kept, the vials of neutralizer with him. She felt bereft as she watched him disappear into the thick jungle undergrowth, as though she had lost a huge part of herself. She threw back her shoulders and took herself firmly in hand. There was no time to waste if she hoped to carry out her end of the plan.

Her insides still clenched with terror every time she thought of what they intended to do. She realized there was an excellent chance that they would be captured or even killed before they ever saw each other again. And yet she did not regret a single moment.

She began walking in a parallel direction to the one Sarak had taken, hoping to reach a little-used side entrance to the palace without running into any of Dalcor's warriors. She sighed as she moved through the jungle, her mind filled with images and impressions of Sarak as he had mated with her last night. She might have been able to convince herself that they had done nothing wrong before, but this time they were within the boundaries of Mesara; this time there could be no doubt that they had truly broken the sacred laws laid down by the ancients generations ago.

Sarak had not responded when she told him she loved him. She knew he cared about her, but perhaps a warrior was as incapable of love and bonding as everyone had always believed. Perhaps he simply did not know how to deal with such unwarriorlike sentiments. It did not matter, because she had been unable to stop herself from saying the words. She wanted him to know the way she felt, just in case.

The palace loomed out of the tangled green vegetation immediately ahead. Phada glanced cautiously around, but there was no sound, no movement to indicate a guard. It was easier than she ever would have believed to hide her things and slip into the palace unnoticed. Obviously Dalcor felt secure in his power, because there were no guards inside either. She moved along the corridors that led to the kitchens, her throat tight with memories of another life as her senses were assailed with all the familiar smells, sights, and sounds of her home.

The delicious scent of roasted rockhen filled her nostrils, along with a myriad of cooking odors. There must be some sort of feast tonight. Or, for all she knew, this could be business as usual in the new kingdom of Mesara. Runners moved in every direction, although their pace was slow because of their spice-addled condition. Phada pressed her lips together at the sight of their glazed expressions. Perhaps that was why there were so many of them, because it took more to get the job done in the same amount of time. Pray Goddess she and Sarak could pull this thing offit was the only possible way to alleviate the plight of her fellow town dwellers.

She slipped easily among the throng, working her way to the heart of the kitchens without mishap. She did not think anyone would recognize her, since she was not in her Keeper's apprentice tunic. She had also fixed her hair more elaborately, pulling it away from her face with a ribbon and allowing it to cascade down her back and shoulders. In spite of her precautions in the desert, the long, shining mass had lightened beneath the searing sun, especially the tendrils around her face. No, even her own mother would be hardpressed to recognize her now.

How similar and yet how unlike Gorod her home was, she mused as she observed the familiar, beloved surroundings. Both societies used Mother Elithra to shelter their people from the harsh conditions on the surface, and yet the Kargans never came aboveground to reach the sunlight and share in the Mother's other gifts. Had it always been thus in Gorod, or had they simply grown so used to remaining beneath the ground that their bodies had lost the ability to protect themselves from the sun?

She jostled past a runner carrying a tray with pitchers of vetch. She knew they contained the Jiboan ale because some of the liquid sloshed over the side and she could smell the potent brew. She slipped her hands into her pockets. The two pouches of faral were still there, ready to ensnare more victims.

No one challenged her when she crossed the room and began to stir the various pots. All the kitchen staff were so slow-witted from the spice themselves that it was easy to slip some faral into the dishes that were to be served to the warriors in the main feasting hall. The only problem was that she was forced to use such a tiny amount. Its distinctive aroma was so strong, it would give the game away should Dalcor or one of his dominators detect it. She prayed that it would be enough to weaken them or at least knock them enough off balance that they grew confused and disoriented in the face of what she hoped would be Sarak's unexpected attack. She had to take the chance; it was the only way she could help.

She did not dare protest when she was pressed into serving the meal. As she walked slowly down the corridor that led to the feasting hall, she swallowed nervously. No one will recognize you and no one will know you are not dazed with faral if you are careful, she assured herself. And yet it was one thing to work behind the scenes and entirely something else to place herself directly in Dalcor's line of vision, where there would be no escape.

The sound of male voices grew louder until it was almost deafening, especially when combined with the music of a group of blowpipers and drummers. Phada's eyes widened and she could not help gaping for a moment at the sight that greeted her before she quickly closed her mouth. The feasting hall looked as if a pack of warriors had chased a tuskboar through the place. Many of the tables were wrecked and the chairs overturned. The floors were covered with dirt and other unidentifiable debris and looked as though they had not been swept since she had left Mesara all those cycles ago. Talk about a mudhog's sty.

And the smell. Phada's head reeled from the barrage of odors that assailed her senses. Plates of leftover food from earlier meals decorated the few upright tables in one corner of the room. Did they move from area to area until a new place could be cleared? Phada wondered in disgust. The noise, the smoke, and the pungent smell of vetch were overwhelming. It looked like a combination of the Gorod marketplace and the interior of a Jiboan tentit certainly displayed the worst of both those worlds.

She maintained her slow pace, surreptitiously turning her head to glance at the head table. Dalcor slouched there, downing a huge mug of vetch in one long, continuous swallow while his fellow warriors hooted their approval. She was not sure how many of the males had been served the farallaced dishes, but she could see no outward effect from the spice on any of them. Some, however, were well on their way to becoming drunk; Phada did not know if it would be enough.

She must think of something else. If Sarak and his warriors arrived now, the odds against them would be more than overwhelming. She needed to take some drastic action, but what? An idea popped into her head full-blown, but it was so outrageous she did not know if she dared try it. And then she realized that for Sarak, she would dare anything. She quickly slipped from the feasting hall, running down the maze of corridors, and out into the cool Mesaran evenfall to where she had hidden her satchel.

Less than a quartermark later, she was heading back to the hall, clad in the revealing Kargan dress, her face veiled. She could feel that her cheeks were flushed, a combination of embarrassment and excitement. Suddenly she found she was looking forward to pitting her wits against Dalcor and his gang of jungle scavengers.

No one noticed her immediately when she entered the hall, but before she had crossed half the room she could hear the rumble of interest and feel it pulsing in her direction. Several of the warriors rose to their feet shouting provocative comments about her anatomy as they hooted and hollered and poured more vetch down their throats. She let their words flow right over her headshe had a job to do.

As she drew closer, she signaled to the musicians. They appeared as groggy as everyone else, a daze compounded by the loud clamor of their instruments, but they eventually picked up on her wish to play something stirring. Phada almost grinned when she heard the first notes of an old Mesaran fighting song with a singularly provocative beat.

She began to dance. She could feel that the muscles of her body were stiff from nervousness, but she could not seem to relax them. After all, she had never done anything like this in her entire life. But as she danced, her limbs became freer, moving more suggestively. She tried to remember everything she could about the way those Jiboan females had twined and writhed in front of Sarak. They had seductive dancing honed to a fine art. She even went so far as to pretend that she was dancing for Sarak, trying to entice him into coming to her pallet. After that it grew much easier.

Most of the warriors had dropped back into their chairs. Several of them clapped their hands or stomped their feet in time to the music, while others simply nodded their heads. After the sight of so many blond-haired Kargans with their pale skin and light blue eyes, these males looked dark and dangerous and all too capable of flying into an unprovoked violent rage. Goddess above, there were so many of them. She shuddered and then quickly forced such comparisons from her mind. She had to think in a positive way, to believe to the utter depths of her soul that it was possible to fool the dominators of Mesara. If Dalcor had once managed to do it, then so could she.

Besides, she had nothing to lose. She grew braver, stepping closer to the head table, deliberately catching Dalcor's eye. He scrutinized her from head to toe, the expression in his eyes filled with intensity. Her entire body went on alert. And then it occurred to her that this was exactly the reaction she should have been praying for, because it meant that he was not going to be difficult to handle. He only wished to have a good time, no holds barred, and he had decided that his good time now included her.

If the unbridled lust gleaming in his eyes had not already warned her of his intentions, his next action did. He rose to his feet, thrusting aside the female who had just planted herself in his lap as all his attention focused on Phada. He did not even notice that the poor woman tumbled to the floor at his feet, nor that the warrior sitting next to him immediately snatched her into his arms to claim her for his own.

Phada moved around the table until she was directly in front of the renegade leader. Reaching past him, she grabbed a piece of roasted fowl from his plate and teasingly hand-fed it to him. She tried not to shudder when he nibbled on her fingers as he took the meat from her with all the finesse of a ravenous clawcat. The assurance that he could have her whenever he wanted was evident in his expression. Phada knew he was not a patient man. She had to keep him eating and entertained or be carried off to his chambers.

She continued to gyrate to the steady, throbbing beat of the music. Dalcor was already growing impatientshe could see it in his eyes and in the predatory grin that stretched his mouth. She pushed the material of her dress from her shoulders, baring them and allowing the bodice to dip even lower. Dalcor growled suggestively, obviously hoping it would fall off altogether. She reached for another slice of meat, this time placing it between her teeth and bending over backward to offer it to him. It gave him a bird's-eye view of her cleavage, but then, that was the point. Shouts of approval and suggestions on how things should proceed filled the air around her.

She had not realized just how creative she could be. She wanted to laugh at how easy it was to handle a lust-filled dominator. They certainly did not think with their minds at times like these. The subtle smell of the spice suddenly became nauseating to her. She was not sure how much longer she could keep this charade going.

From her upside-down position, she noticed that several of the women were imitating her actions with their respective males. Blessed Mother in Heaven, one of them was her sister! Phada almost swallowed the meat between her teeth at the shock of seeing Chelis again. Her sister looked intensely shocked herself at the vision of her one and only older sibling writhing like a Jiboan slithersnake across the feasting-hall floor. And yet there was also approval in her eyes along with the beginnings of hope. Their gazes locked and an arc of understanding passed between them. Thank the Goddess that Chelis realized something was going on, Phada thought. She was certainly doing her best to help, even coaxing the other women into playing the game of feed-the-warriors.

The call went up for more platters of meat. Phada was growing tired of dancing, not to mention the fact that her stomach was growing increasingly queasy from the scent of faral.

She was about to reach for another piece of roasted fowl when Dalcor grabbed the platter and flung it across the room. A howling pack of hounds raced to catch the falling slabs of meat before they even hit the floor, snarling and fighting over the choicest bits. Dalcor grabbed her by the hand and yanked her into his lap. Before she could catch her breath from that stunning maneuver, he began nuzzling her neck and pawing at the front of her dress. He certainly had nothing on Adelard when it came to obnoxious manners.

''What is your hurry, mighty warrior?" she asked, leaning down to croon the last words right next to his ear. "Believe me, Dalcor, when I am finally through with you, you will no longer be able to stand on your own two feet." And that is a promise, she added to herself.

"You are spirited as well as beautiful. I like that in a female," he said with a deep, knowing chuckle. "All the other women are so dull-witted . . . ." He stared into her eyes, suddenly frowning. "It is almost as if you are not . . ."

She swooped down and kissed him, hard, on the mouth. The feel of his lips grinding against hers made her want to gag, but she knew it was necessary to stop the dangerous direction of his thoughts. Curse her carelessness. In all her efforts to get him to eat more faral, she had almost given away her own nonaddled condition. Where are you, Sarak? she wondered as Dalcor obligingly remained diverted, kissing her neck and moving down toward her barely covered breasts. Waves of desperation washed over her, overcoming her original spirit of optimism. If Sarak did not come soon, she was going to be hard-pressed to avoid being tossed over Dalcor's shoulder and carried away.

There was a clatter of feet and the metallic sound of swords. Sarak burst into the room, followed by a small band of warriors. His gaze immediately took in Phada sitting on Dalcor's lap. Even from here she could see his jaw clench with anger. With a mighty shout, he launched himself directly at the Mesaran leader. Dalcor shoved her aside, but she was prepared for it, only stumbling a little as she regained her balance. She quickly stepped back at Sarak's shouted warning, scurrying around the table to where the other women had retreated, sobbing and clinging to each other in their fright.

"Chelis! It is so good to see you." Phada hugged her sister, then pulled back. Chelis looked terrible, even worse than Phada remembered. Her eyes were sunken into her head and ringed with black circles of fatigue, her color even more pale and unhealthy than previously. She had tried to fix her hair but it hung lifelessly alongside her thin face.

"What is happening, Phada?" she asked in a plaintive voice filled with fear. Phada could see that her sister did not have much left to give. Chelis grimaced as she covered her ears against the loud shouts and clanging of swords. "Oh please, make it stop."

"Everything will soon be all right. But you must help me." Phada grasped her by the arms, giving her a small shake to gain her full attention. "Sister, do you think you can lead these women to safety? Perhaps the kitchen would be a good place to hide. I will come for you when this is all over."

Chelis nodded weakly. She moved closer to one of the women, placing an arm around her shoulders. "Come, Pila, we must go from this place."

Soon the other women were following her as they made slow but steady progress toward one of the exit corridors.

Phada turned back to the battle, which had continued to rage behind her while she talked to Chelis. She immediately spotted Sarak, slashing his sword at one of the renegade dominators, dropping him to the floor with ease. The newly freed warriors were highly motivated, while the usurpers were half-drunk with vetch. Some of them had also succumbed to the spice and now lay slumped over the tables. Sarak and his followers appeared to be overcoming the opposition without too much trouble. At this rate, they would soon have control of the hall.

Phada had done a quick head count when she first entered the place. She figured that only a few of Dalcor's dominators remained at large, probably in the barracks. They should not give Sarak much trouble now that the main force was defeated. However, she did not see Dalcor anywhere. Had Sarak already killed him? As she carefully skirted one of the overturned tables on her way to the front of the hall, someone grabbed her. She started to scream but a hand reached around to clamp over her mouth, cutting off her cry for help. She fought hard, twisting and kicking, but it had no effect on her captor. He dragged her to one of the side corridors, pulling her away from any immediate hope of rescue. He continued to haul her like a sack of grain for another 20 measures until she knew they had passed out of calling distance as well. Had Sarak seen her? She prayed he had. She could hardly breathe. Her assailant finally released her and she twisted around to see who held her.

Her heart sank. It was Dalcor who grinned back at her.

Chapter Twenty-one

Phada rubbed her bruised arms as she took in the barely contained rage on Dalcor's face. "You will not get away with this."

"We shall see," he snarled.

He looked as if he wanted to slay her on the spot. Phada decided she had better hold her tongue for the time being. She made no protest when he motioned her to continue down the corridor. She found she was growing tired of bullying males. One of the torches sputtered loudly, but otherwise all was quiet. Where was everybody? She supposed Sarak and the others were too busy securing the defeated warriors to notice anything amiss.

As they turned another corner, she realized that they were heading for the queen's chambers. Dalcor shoved her through the doorway, where she stumbled to the center of the large, well-lighted room. This was the queen's hideaway retreat, where even Pavonis had to request admittance. Riga had decorated the place simply, yet there was a quiet, understated elegance that suited her personality to perfection. A lovely tapanu-wood desk stood in one corner. Above it, a woven wall hanging in pretty, pale shades of violet, yellow, and blue added an aura of sunlight and flowers to the windowless chamber.

There was no sign of anyone here either. Dalcor crossed the carpeted floor to rifle through the contents of a large, hand-carved chest. To Phada's dismay, he pulled out a vial of the neutralizer. She waited quietly until he came to retrieve her, then flailed out with her fists, hoping to send the vial smashing against the wall. Her ploy was not successfulDalcor was too strong for her. She could see his eyes already glazing over from the initial effects of the fatal, but she also noted the determination that gleamed in their depths. He would rather die than allow himself to be captured, and that made him dangerous.

He grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her back into the corridor. Still no sign of rescue. Only millimarks later, they stepped into the jungle outside. It was quiet; evenfall had turned into the semidarkness of night. The cry of a lone kwara bird rang through the still air. Palm fronds rustled in the faint breeze. The wonderfully familiar scent of green vegetation, with its moist undercurrent of decay and the sacred cycle of life and death, filled her senses, poignantly reminding her of how much she had missed her home. And yet being here felt alien in many ways, perhaps because she had changed so much. She realized she did not know what to believe or where she belonged anymore, except that it was not with Dalcor.

In spite of the drug, he easily pulled her along the trampled dirt pathway leading out of Mesara. She dared not dawdle, not when any moment he might decide that she was no longer necessary for his escape and kill her. When they had put a sizable distance between themselves and the palace, he halted abruptly, swinging her around so that they were face-to-face.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded. He did not release her, but instead dragged her even closer, glaring at her from his superior height.

"I am Phada."

"So, you are the little Keeper's apprentice I keep hearing about, the one who somehow managed to escape from Mesara faral-free, the one who rescued Sarak from exile." He jerked her arm, forcing her to emit a small gasp of pain. "You do not look clever enough to have accomplished such incredible feats."

His comment infuriated her. "You are not the only one who can plan a rebellion," she retorted, all previous notions of behaving cautiously flung to the four winds. This denigration of her abilities simply had to stop. First it was Adelard and now Dalcor. She was sick and tired of trudging from pole to pole only to be insulted and underestimated by bragging, puffed-up warrior leaders who were not fit to wield an eating utensil, let alone a scepter.

"How did you manage to get your hands on enough neutralizer to free all those spice-addled warriors?" he asked.

She said nothing, instead pressing her lips together in mute resistance. She had no intention of revealing that the liberators' faral-free condition would only last another mark at best. Whatever happened to her, Mesara no longer remained under this warrior's hateful domination. "What does it matter? The deed is already done and you have lost."

Dalcor scowled at her. "You are correct; the information will do me no good now. Better to concentrate on my escape and my future plans to reclaim Mesara."

"Sarak will see your soul cursed to the black depths of Elithra for all eternity before he allows that to happen," she assured him.

"Close your mouth or I will do it for you."

Phada knew she had said enough for now. They continued along the pathway. She turned her attention to trying everything in her power to slow down their pace, but Dalcor was ready for her every tactic. He showed no mercy as he jerked her along behind him, his fingers squeezing the flesh of her upper arm until it became white and bloodless. Her forearm had long since gone numb, although she knew that when he finally released her, the pain of returning sensation would be excruciating.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded in haughty tones. She still could not believe that he had kidnapped her so easily.

"You, my lovely, are going to Gorod with me."

"You will never make it across the desert with only that one vial of neutralizer."

He snorted derisively, his upper lip curling into a sneer reminiscent of Adelard's contorted features. He did not bother to turn around to look at her when he replied. "Then I will stay spice-addled until I can reach the Kargan stronghold. I do not care if I have to sell you to the Jiboans for more faral. Or better yet, perhaps after I have tamed you with a nice, tasty dose of the spice, you will be willing to do anything to get more."

Phada tossed her head disdainfully. "If that is your strategy, you will be fighting a losing battle," she taunted.

They skirted a large koalnut palm only to discover Sarak planted in the middle of the path, waiting for them. Phada could not stop the huge smile that wreathed her face, nor the brightness that sparkled in her eyes at the sight of him.

"Sarak," she breathed.

He raised his drawn sword and pointed it at Dalcor. "Release her."

Dalcor glanced from one to the other. "Ah, so the wind lies in that direction," he said, his eyes filled with cunning. He jerked Phada against his chest, pulling a dagger from the belt at his waist and holding it to her throat. "Do not doubt that I will kill her. She means nothing to me except a means of escape."

Dalcor used the tip of the dagger blade to caress the tops of Phada's breasts where they spilled out of the Kargan dress. She swallowed hard but otherwise remained as motionless as she possibly could, watching Sarak closely, waiting for a signal or any other kind of instruction of what he wanted her to do. They could not allow Dalcor to escape, not when he had so much to answer for.

"Now that you have had a taste of real freedom, why do you not come with me, Sarak? Together we can make all of Elithra a warrior's paradise as it is in Gorod."

"If Gorod is a warrior's paradise, I want no part of it," Sarak spat in disdain. "Mesara may not be perfect, but despite its flaws, our system is based on fairness."

"Fair!" Dalcor's mouth twisted in bitter amazement. "Is it a fair system that reviles its strongest males? We were the ones who defended Mesara from danger and we were treated like dirt because of it, segregated and looked down upon by every town dweller, male, female, and child. Is that the system you are so eager to embrace again?"

"I have pledged myself to protect and serve the queen."

"What about your little Keeper playmate here?" Dalcor sneered. "Do you think they will allow you to hold on to her? If you do, you are much mistaken."

The blow hit home. Sarak flinched, but he did not back down. "I know my place."

"You are worse than spice-addled; you are a fool," Dalcor retorted, his voice laced with scorn.

"And you are a coward to use a female as your shield." Sarak braced his legs and tightened his grip on his sword. "Release her and face me like a warrior."

"Why should I do that? I have been dosed with faral, thanks to your little pallet partner here," he snarled, suddenly furious. He gave Phada such a vicious shake, it brought tears of pain to her eyes. "It would not be a fair fight."

"Was it fair when you had Sarak dosed with the spice against his will?" Phada cried.

"Silence!" he roared. And then he calmed down enough to shrug. "I know you well, my former second-in-command. You will not fight me. It would go against your sense of honor." He spat out the word like a curse. ''Now, drop your weapon if you want the female to remain alive long enough to view another cycle-rise."

Sarak hesitated, obviously torn, but he finally tossed the sword onto the ground near his feet.

"What are you doing?" Phada cried, aghast. "Are you mad? This is not time to worry about your honor. Fight him."

Dalcor jerked her to silence before grinning in triumph. "Now, move away from it. Good. Step off the path and into the jungle."

Sarak complied. The jungle undergrowth immediately reached out as though to tangle him in its harsh embrace, scratching his arms and legs. Phada could see the blood beginning to trickle along his limbs.

She gasped in shock when Dalcor shoved her into the brush as well. Luckily Sarak caught her in his arms before she hit the jungle floor. His muscles trembled as he held her above the brambles and vines that tried to score her delicate flesh. They were so busy with their own plight, they could do nothing except watch helplessly as Dalcor strode boldly away.

Sarak managed to keep her safe long enough to rip his way free of the brush. Phada cried out in dismay at the sound of the sharp thorns tearing into him, but he was heedless of his own bare skin. She could hear Dalcor crashing through the jungle farther ahead. He must have jumped off the path and taken a shortcut.

"Sarak, go after him," she pleaded. "Have you forgotten what he did to you, to all of us? You cannot allow him to escape."

Sarak shook his head, defeated. "He is right. In spite of everything, I cannot fight him in his weakened condition," he explained wearily. "It does not matter now. We have Mesara back."

Phada stared down the pathway, sighing deeply. She supposed Sarak was correct. Nothing mattered anymore except returning Mesara to what was left of her former glory. She realized with a heavy heart that nothing would ever be the same. The faral had ripped everyone's life apart and they could never go back to the way things had been. She smiled crookedly. "He and the Kargans deserve each other."

Sarak had not yet released Phada's arms. He gazed into her eyes and his entire heart was revealed in that look. She sensed that he wanted to kiss her, but he held himself back. She supposed he did not dare, not here on the main thoroughfare of Mesara. She smiled sadly at his restraint, knowing it heralded the end of her time with Sarak.

She reached out to touch his chest, just above the line of lacerations that made swirling patterns on his skin. "You look terrible," she said, trying not to cry. It was true; there was blood everywhere, running freely down his arms and legs, dripping into his breechcloth. Some of it had smeared onto her clothing as well.

"It is not as bad as it appears," he replied with a small, wry smile.

She knew he was remembering their conversation about warriors and their stoic acceptance of injury and pain. It seemed a lifetime ago. Her heart squeezed painfully. "Of course."

Not knowing what else to do, she turned and began walking toward the palace. Sarak fell into step beside her. Neither spoke for a long while.

"There is a lot of work to be done before Mesara is restored to normality," he finally commented.

"Yes." She could not believe they were conversing about this subject when her heart cried out that they should be talking about themselves, about how they could manage some kind of a future together. Did he not long to be with her? Her heart ached when she realized that even if he did wish for them to be together, he would not fight against the system to which he had pledged his loyalty. He knew his place; had he not just said so?

She trudged along beside him, feeling as heavy and sluggish as a muddy jungle river after a rain. Mesara was free. But she had just lost everything that mattered to her.

Sarak made another circuit of the perimeter, trying not to allow his gaze to stray to where Phada sat on one of the benches, her mother and sister on either side of her. The feasting hall was packed to the rafters this evenfall with jubilant Mesarans. The familiar sound of neighbors shouting greetings and children giggling as they chased each other around the tables almost made it seem like the Mesara of old. But there were other, less cheerful indications that things had changed irrevocably, most especially the distinctive odor of faral that wafted across the hall along with the faint movement of the air trickling in from the outside.

It had not been an easy task to wean people away from the Kargan spice that ensnared the mind as well as the body. Even though the Keepers had discovered the main ingredients of the neutralizer and were now able to produce it in sufficient quantity, many Mesarans were still unable to free themselves from the clutches of the addicting spice. The first thing Queen Riga had done on regaining her throne was to declare all faral illegal. In spite of her edict, a thriving Jiboan black market had sprung up on the outskirts of town. There, anyone with enough coin could obtain the forbidden condiment.

So much for the terrible aftereffects of Dalcor's grab for power. Sarak allowed his anger at fate to flow as his gaze swept the hall. So many things had happened since he had last been posted on duty. He had realized from the start that it was better to feel anger than the horrible, empty sense of despair that overwhelmed his senses whenever he let his guard down. No matter how many times he told himself that Phada was lost to him forever, it did not stop the pain, nor did it temper his eagerness to see her. He had thought that time would blur the memories, maybe even erase them, but it was becoming more difficult with each passing cycle to force himself not to recall what he had once shared with her.

She looked beautiful sitting there, in spite of being clad in the drab tunic of the Keeper's apprentice. Her long hair was neatly braided and hung down her back, almost to her waist. He would never forget the sight of that hair swirling around her slender body like a beautiful, tawny cloud, its sweet scent filling his headnay, the very core of his beingwith the intoxicating possibilities of life. It had been a truly glorious fantasy, but it was over now. After his many orbits as a warrior he should know better than to allow himself to dream of things that could never be.

He was glad she had not revealed the extent of their transgression, that she was still studying to become a Keeper. She would make a fine wise woman, strong, courageous, and fair-minded, all traits he had witnessed in her firsthand. He had no doubt that she would guide Mesara toward a brighter future, free from any further subjugation to the kind of warrior rule she had observed in Gorod.

He frowned as the volume of noise grew more deafening. On the surface everyone seemed to be having a good time, but it did not take much insight to discern the unhappiness that lay beneath the surface like rotting jungle vegetation, just waiting to crumble away. Too many Mesarans stared blankly into the distance, lost in a spice-induced fog. Those who had managed to break the habit of using faral appeared drawn and tense, their eyes haunted and sunken as they battled their desire for the oblivion it offered.

He took up his station on the platform behind the queen, his hand hovering over his sword even though he knew they had nothing to fear from a Kargan attack. Who would have ever guessed that their hated enemies were unable to cross the desert all these orbits, victims of their own pale complexions? Even if Dalcor had reached the southern antipodes, there was little he could do to threaten the integrity of Mesara, not without the support of his warriors, who now languished in the palace prison.

The throne beside Riga was empty. Sarak knew that Pavonis was totally broken, a shadow of his former self. It was questionable whether he would ever return to help Riga govern. Palace gossips whispered that seeing his wife in the hands of Dalcor had shattered his sanity beyond repair. Sarak could well understand such an intense reaction; all he had to do was think about Phada and what revenge he might have exacted on Adelard had he managed to place more than his filthy hands upon her.

The queen rose and lifted her hand for silence, glancing over her shoulder at Sarak as she did so. It pained him to see how thin she had grown, how tired and worn she appeared, like a woman twice her age. Her royal purple tunic had been crafted by the finest seamstress in Mesara, but it hung from her shoulders with as much style as an empty grain sack. All in all, he supposed, she had weathered her humiliation and abuse at Dalcor's hands as well as could be expectedcertainly better than her mate had done. She was another of the strong, brave females Mesara seemed to breed. Her mettle had been tested in the fires of adversity and not been found wanting, much like another female he knew. Sarak was proud to be on the same platform with her.

She gestured for him to move closer to the front. Although he was puzzled by her request, he moved forward immediately. "Citizens of Mesara," she began, her voice clear and brimming with a hard-won authority it had not previously possessed. "It is good to be back in the feasting hall with you."

A halfhearted rumble of approval went up at this sentiment, primarily because a large portion of her subjects were barely functional and unable to pay attention to anything beyond their own sweet stupor. Those who were alert enough to understand what was going on around them did not feel much like celebrating, knowing their loved ones still hovered so precariously between throwing off their shackles to lead a Goddess-blessed life or sliding even further into servitude to the mind-numbing Kargan faral.

"Our captivity was harsh, but we have come through those hard times together," Riga continued. "Thanks to the Goddess and the special liberator she chose to rescue us from slavery, the light of freedom shines on our fair town once more. We are again able to live our lives as we choose and not under the cruel, punishing heel of a tyrant."

Up until this time, the hall had been deathly quiet as all listened to their queen. Sarak saw numerous heads in the sea of upturned faces nodding in agreement with Riga's words. Others shed tears; he could see them glistening in the light of the torches. A few spice-addled citizens actually sobbed aloud. The response steadily grew, building from a faint murmur of sound to shouted comments, sporadic clapping, and finally a wholehearted standing ovation.

However, they returned to their subdued state quickly. Riga's smile held more than a touch of sadness as the quiet descended once again. Mesarans were not known to be temperate in their enthusiasm. But at least they had roused themselves to respond, which showed hope for the future. The queen smoothed down the sides of her tunic, the graceful, feminine gesture a reminder of the carefree young queen she had once been.

"I spoke about our liberator. I am sure you all know who it is. Therefore, I would like to make an announcement. I wish to bestow the position of first-in-command on Sarak, who saved Mesara from Dalcor. He went above and beyond the duties and obligations of a warrior. His bravery and courage should ever stand as a shining beacon and an unparalleled example of the kind of behavior to which every Mesaran should aspire."

Riga bowed to him, her hands clasped in front of her, her body bending deeply from the waist. Sarak knew this was a singular sign of honor from a sovereign to her subjectand most especially a dominator. The applause was hesitant at first and then became louder and more boisterous as Riga held up the gold-and-blue sash of first-in-command; preparing to slip it over his head.

Sarak knew he looked as uncomfortable as he felt. He did not know what to say, how to tell the queen that he could not accept the honor she wished to give him. She did not know how little he deserved it. He had broken so many Mesaran laws he had lost count, not to mention his greatest crime of allfalling in love with a tan-haired, blue-eyed Keeper's apprentice.

"I thank you, lady Queen," he said stiffly, "but I cannot accept."

He could see the confusion in her eyes. And then she laughed and moved toward him, again holding out the sash. She obviously thought he was being modest. Sarak sank to one knee and bowed his head in obeisance, then rose to his feet. With another bow, he crossed the platform and climbed down the stairs, eager to leave the hall as quickly as possible. He spared a quick glance in Phada's direction as he paced along the side wall. She looked positively stunned. Did she really think he had so little sense of honor and duty that he would accept this boon? She alone knew how low he had fallen. He would not shame himself or her by accepting such an honor.

He stopped short when he realized that he was still on guard duty. He could not add deserting his post to all his other crimes. He hovered in the shadows at the rear of the hall, his hand on the hilt of his sword, remembering the intense, gutwrenching emotions he had experienced when Dalcor held his dagger to Phada's throat. That was when he had realized that he loved hermore than life itself, that he would have done anything to save her, sacrificed everything, including his pride, to keep her safe. He wished he could ask her to bond with him, to keep her forever, but the only thing he could offer her was a Jiboan desert ceremony, which was not even binding under Mesaran law, and after that life as an outcast. She deserved so much more.

He took full responsibility for his actions in the desert as well as hers. She was a female after all, tenderhearted and loving, and she had not known from one cycle to the next whether she would live or die. Who could blame her for her curiosity and her actions? He, however, should have known better.

His heart started pounding when he noticed Phada marching in his direction. Her expression was grim, her mouth drawn taut with anger. He braced himself to meet her.

"Why are you doing this?" she hissed furiously, her blue eyes flashing. "Is it because of me, because of what we did?"

"It is that and more."

"Well, you cannot refuse the queen's offer. You were born to lead the warriors. You are smart and brave and wonderful and you deserve every accolade she bestowed upon you."

"Phada, you do not know what you are talking about," he muttered, pulling her closer to the wall before anyone at the nearby tables could hear the direction of their conversation. "I am not fit for the job. In the face of temptation, I could not abide by the codes."

"What does that matter now? You saved Mesara, Sarak."

He scowled at her in amazement. By the Goddess, she was a stubborn female, as well as dead wrong. She was talking as if he had saved the place single-handedly. He would never have made the journey without her, never have weaned his addled senses from the faral or pressed himself to attain such lofty pinnacles of courage had she not pushed and prodded him. Had she not been by his sideand eventually in his pallethe would never have achieved any of it. She was the one Mesara should be honoring.

The crowd around them was beginning to disperse, although several people stared at them curiously. Phada clapped her hands sharply and the noise level around them immediately dropped. The queen was leaving the platform. "My lady Queen!" she cried out. She sounded like a herald announcing a festival. "Please wait. I have something I must tell you."

Sarak reached for her. "Phada, no."

She slipped from his grasp and ran to the front of the feasting hall, tripping up the platform steps and onto the dais. She stood a respectful distance away until the queen motioned for her to approach.

"I must speak with you," she said. "Sarak must also be present, for it concerns him."

At the queen's nod of approval she marched to the edge of the royal platform and called his name. He cringed inwardly but stepped forward to stand just below her on the feasting hall floor. Several Mesarans hesitated, mesmerized by what was unfolding before them.

"Sarak, please," she pleaded as she gazed down on him. "You must not refuse Queen Riga's offer." When she saw that he was not going to change his mind, she turned back to the queen. "My lady, this warrior risked his life for me, for all of us, time and time again. He accomplished what no one else could, what no one else dared, traveling to Gorod to obtain the neutralizer and then returning to overthrow Dalcor and his minions. He is brave and stalwart and more than worthy to lead the warriors of Mesara into whatever the future holds for us.''

"I could not agree with you more," Riga said, smiling.

Sarak groaned, his hands clenching at his sides. "Phada, stop," he muttered between clenched teeth. "Do not force this issue. You know better than anyone why I cannot accept that sash."

"Why should you not be able to accept a position that is by all rights yours, while I am allowed to continue blithely on the Keeper's path?"

He shook his head mutely, despairingly, refusing to answer. Why did she not cease? Did she not realize that she was about to ruin everything for herself? He did not think he could bear it if Phada were discharged from her training. It was what she wanted, what she was born to do.

"I must confess, my lady, that he is refusing because of something that is my fault, and he must realize that he is wrong for doing so. Mesara needs him, perhaps more than he will ever know."

"Tell me what you mean," the queen invited, gesturing for Phada to step closer.

Sweet Goddess, no, he thought frantically. He lunged for the hem of her tunic, hoping to catch her before she moved out of his range. He could tell by her eyes that she was going to confess everything. She again evaded his grasp. He leapt onto the dais. "Do not listen to her, my lady. She has not fully recovered from her journey to Gorod."

"Hold, Sarak. I must speak. Lady Queen, I am no longer qualified to be a Keeper's apprentice. I have already been to see the head Keeper this very evenfall and informed her that I can no longer train." By the blue moon, she had already been to see the Keepers. Sarak bit his lip to keep from keening like a mortally wounded clawcat. His throat clogged with grief and he could not see past the sheen of tears that had formed in his eyes. Why did she want to give up everything that had given her life meaning when he had tried so hard to keep her free from the taint of his transgression?

He stepped forward. "I have broken Mesara's sacred laws. That is why I refused your gracious offer and that is why I am not fit to be first-in-command." He threw his shoulders back, drawing in a deep breath so he could continue. "I forced her, my lady. She was an innocent and she trusted me and I used it against her."

"Sarak!" Riga's eyes widened in shock. "Are you saying that you mated with this Keeper's apprentice?"

"Yes, my sovereign. And I willingly accept any punishment you wish to mete out."

Riga turned toward Phada, astonishment still plainly etched on every delicate royal feature.

"That is not true; it did not happen in quite the way he says it did," Phada stated calmly. She went to stand next to Sarak. "If you are going to punish him, then you must also punish me. He did not force me, my lady. He would never commit such a heinous act. I went to his pallet willingly because I wanted to mate with him, and I do not regret a single, wonderful moment of that experience."

Now Sarak was just as speechless as the queen. He stared at Phada, feeling both pride that she would admit to such a deed in front of the queen and shame that he had allowed her to break the law. Her next words shocked him right down to his sandaled feet.

"I have fallen in love with him. I consider him my bonded mate. There is another, even more urgent reason why I am no longer qualified to become a Keeper. I am carrying his child."

"Phada!"

Sarak's gasp mixed with several others from the citizens standing nearby. Dear Goddess in heaven, Phada was pregnant with his babe. His heart soared even as his spirits sank. She looked beautiful and brave standing there, confessing her conduct to the queen, defying everything she had been brought up to believe. And she loved him. He had never experienced such happiness and such despair in his entire life. He thought it would tear him apart before she was done.

"I will follow him into exile if that is what you command, my lady," she finished quietly. "For I find that I cannot live without him."

Rudela, the palace healer and one of the most respected Keepers in Mesara, stepped forward. "May we speak, Queen Riga?"

The queen looked bewildered, but nodded graciously.

"I could not help overhearing what has just occurred. Peace has been restored to Mesara, thanks to these two young people. But we have all been changed forever. Even now, even when the ingredients of the neutralizer have been analyzed so we can prepare it ourselves, many are still addicted to faral and perhaps always will be. The web of community has been broken and it will take orbits of hard work and much effort to restore it to its former glory. But I hope it has taught us a lesson as well. We must be ever vigilant against allowing one segment of society to dominate another. We must ever listen to all our people if we are to grow, neither exalting one nor denigrating the other.

"We have had much discussion in the Keepers' Sanctuary. One of the things we feel must be overturned is the law forbidding a warrior to bond. A warrior needs something more than scorn for his task of fighting to protect us all. Besides, dominators are also part of the web of life, a proper masculine counterforce to the feminine energy of the Keepers. Perhaps we went too far in the other direction when we segregated them. They should be able to bond and integrate into the life of the community, not be kept separate and unequal any longer."

Sarak was astonished to find Riga nodding thoughtfully before smiling over at him. "I believe you may be correct. Perhaps you would draw up the decree for me to sign." She slanted an encouraging smile in Sarak's direction. "And perhaps Sarak and Phada wish to be the first to take advantage of such a law when it is passed by the council, as I am sure it will be."

Sarak opened his mouth, searching desperately for words with which to reply. He was still in shock at the sudden turn of events. Phada beat him to it. "He has not asked me to bond with him."

He reached for her hand, engulfing it in his larger one and pressing it to his heart. "Phada, I do not know how a Mesaran male asks such a vital question, but I ask it of you. Will you bond with me, be my mate for as long as we live? I cannot imagine life without you.

Her smile rivaled the brightness of the sun and moon combined. "Yes."

"Think about this carefully," he cautioned. "I do not have much to offer in the way of a bonding gift."

"That is not exactly true. What about Gisba and Ral? I am sure they would wish to be included in any dealings between us. With them we have the makings of a fine trade caravan."

"Annoying packbirds," he said, heaving a mock sigh. His fingers caressed her captive hand. "As if you would ever force them to work for their supper."

"As long as you do," she said with a grin. "Do you agree to the terms or not?"

"Indeed I do." He pulled her into his arms, feeling awkward at first with Rudela and the queen looking on, and then not caring as his mouth closed over Phada's in a searing kiss.

Rudela watched them, smiling. When they finally came up for air, she asked. "Is it true that you are carrying the warrior's child?"

Phada blushed and nodded.

"As you know, we are not sure why your body rejects the faral. Whether or not your child inherits this same characteristic will tell us much," Rudela said, pursing her lips, her expression thoughtful. "The great mystery is why Sarak did not succumb when he was reintroduced to faral by Adelard. I think I may know why."

"You do?" Phada's eyes widened in surprise. "Tell us, please."

"Sarak did not fall prey to the effects of the drug the second time around because of the way he weaned himself from it," the Keeper explained. "Without the help of the neutralizer, his body was forced to produce its own defenses rather than relying on outside intervention. It is the only explanation that makes any sense."

Sarak met Phada's gaze. "You saved me in more ways than one, little wingbird," he said. "And created a new life in the bargain."

"We each carry something of the other."

"Yes." He pulled her close, laying a gentle hand over her stomach. "I never expected to have a child. I have no words to express my joy."

She smiled as she laid her head against his heart. "The child of a Keeper's apprentice and a warrior. I can think of no better herald of hope for the future than that."