Fire in the Cave (6 page)

She looked down toward the lake once more, toward her own hut. It
was larger than the others, and stood apart from them, half-hidden in
the forest so she could work undisturbed. She had work to do
tonight.

“Thank you for the cord, Howl,” she said. Dogs
surrounded her, sniffing and licking her hands, as she stepped away
from the fire and headed down the hillside.

“Remember about the knot,” Howl called out. “If
you make it too strong, you get pulled along!”

*********

The oil felt good on her hands, softening and smoothing them as she
worked it into the leather. It smelled of nuts, of growth and life
and earth. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving the leather cord she
had taken apart back together. Three strands of leather in the
braid, strong and supple and smooth, and two near-invisible strands
of hair. Hers, and Black-dog’s. She’d taken his hair
months before. She had a little bit from each member of the tribe.
If River-folk raiders ever dared to attack the witch-girl’s
lodge, her first task would be to throw all the hairs in the fire, so
they couldn’t be stolen and used by an enemy witch.

She was thinking, as she worked. She was walking through a vision,
step by step, telling the spirits what she wanted, what work she was
doing here.

She thought of Black-dog. How he looked at her, when she saw him
around the camp. Eyes locked on her, tracking her, staring through
her… and then looking away, as if she meant nothing to him.
She thought of the shape of him, when she met him alone on the
hilltop. A black silhouette against the night sky, broad shoulders,
long, dark hair, his head turning toward her in the darkness. She
remembered the thump in her chest, wondering whether he was going to
take her. What had he been thinking, then? Had he wanted her?
Wanted to make love to her, or to hurt her, or both? She remembered
the smell of him, forest and sweat. The feeling of his skin…

She had tended him once, a year before, when he had been wounded on a
hunt. The hunters had found a stag, a great broad-antlered forest
king, and chased it, herded it, forced it into a narrow ravine. The
two brothers, Black-dog and White-stag, jumped down in front of it to
block its escape. They stood, side by side, long spears in hand, as
the stag lowered its crown of horns and charged towards them. At the
last moment, it swung towards Black-dog. He took its life, at the
cost of a long gash on his thigh. The hunters brought him to the
witch’s hut.

She laid him on a bed of skins and moss, his dark hair spread behind
his head like spilling water, his chest rising and falling, his wound
slowly dripping blood. His eyes were closed. He lay calmly, waiting
for her to do her work. She removed his footwraps, his leather
skirt, his bone bracelets and bear-tooth necklace, until he lay bare
before her, nothing but a man. She felt her skin warm. Other men
always looked vulnerable like this. Childlike, reduced. But
Black-dog seemed more dangerous lying wounded and naked than most men
looked fully clothed, standing, and carrying a knife. His hands lay
motionless beside him, but she could easily imagine them flashing
toward her, grabbing her, pulling her down.

She washed the wound, then closed it with a fishbone needle and thin,
strong boiled gut-thread. He held his breath for a moment as the
needle first went in, then sighed and resumed breathing steadily.
Once the wound was closed, she reached for a dish of water that had
been warming by the fire. She gathered water in her cupped hands and
poured it over his chest. She had to wash him, cleanse him, to be
sure no spirits or foulness could infect his injury… She bit
her lip as she laid her hands on his skin. He was hot, warmer than
the water, and she had to pause for a moment with her fingertips
resting on the smooth curve of his chest muscles, rising and falling
with his breath. It felt like his heat was soaking into her, rushing
up through her hands and arms, then pouring into her chest and down,
filling her with hot water.

She had work to do. She had to wash him. She closed her eyes, so
that she wouldn’t be distracted by the firelight on his skin
and the dark waterfall of his hair. It didn’t help. It just
made her more aware of his skin under her hands as she poured more
water, brushed it off him with strokes of her fingers, poured again.
She felt his heartbeat, slow and powerful. She felt the curve of his
muscles, his shoulders, arms, stomach, the heat and life in him. He
held his breath for a moment as her fingers touched his throat, then
relaxed as she worked upward. She opened her eyes as she washed his
face, and found him looking up at her, his dark eyes like a deep
cave, a darkness she could fall into.

She swallowed, hard. She stroked water over his cheeks, his
forehead, his beard-shadowed chin, then worked downward once more.
Only his eyes moved as he watched her, eyes tracking her like a wolf
watching a deer. She poured more water and stroked downward. She
felt hot inside, felt like she was taking all the fever-ghosts into
herself, but she could not stop. She had a duty, she reminded
herself. Had to do it properly. She washed his thighs, his long,
strong running-muscles hard under her hands, and then reached between
them, to wash his cock.

He sighed in appreciation as she poured warm water over his shaft.
It was still soft as she trailed her fingertips over it. Half-full,
already larger than a normal man’s. She felt feverish, molten
inside. She wrapped her hand around it. She felt his heartbeat,
thumping in his shaft. She felt him getting bigger. Filling her
hand, expanding in her grip, heat and hardness against her palm…

He growled. Something inside her shook with the sound.

In the past, she had jerked back her hand, looked away. She had
finished washing him quickly, told his brother he would heal well,
and spent the night purifying herself of the fever-ghosts by drinking
hot herb teas and stroking herself. She had maintained her control,
not given in to his power.

In the vision, she changed it. She showed the spirits what needed to
happen. She showed them Black-dog lying on the furs, injured and at
her mercy. She showed herself stroking his shaft, making him gasp
with her skill, making him stand tall and strong and hot in her
hands. She took him in her mouth as she stroked, the smoothness of
his cock-head on her tongue, the taste of salt… then she tied
the collar around his throat, took the leash in her hand, and mounted
him.

She could see the look of rage on his face. His hands reached up to
tear away the collar. They paused, then slowly curled into fists,
the collar forgotten, as she lowered herself onto his shaft.

She imagined the stretching she would feel, the aching pleasure. She
saw herself tug on the leash, heard him snarl like a beast. She
closed her eyes and bared her teeth and took more and more of him
inside her, deeper and deeper, until she felt the heat of his skin
touch her inner thighs and knew she had taken all of him. He would
reach down, then, the pleasure of being inside her making him forget
the collar, forget everything, his hands would grip her hips and
start rocking her, stirring inside her. He would rise beneath her,
arching his back, pushing deeper into her, until they were both
gasping with the motion. She would fall forward, onto him, her
breasts on his broad, tanned chest, her lips finding his, and they
would kiss each other savagely, hungrily, selfishly taking what they
wanted from each other. His shaft would move sweet and painful
within her, while his arms closed around her to hold her close, hold
her still as he moved more violently, hauling his length in and out
of her faster and faster as he growled and she gasped, the pleasure a
flood washing away both of their minds. Until, finally, he would
rise up underneath her, push his full length into her eager cunt, and
kiss and bite her neck as he came, came, came inside her, and she
would groan as it poured into her, her toes curling as his heat
filled her. She would gasp and flex within the prison of his arms,
held tight against the fire-heat of his chest, her skin almost
burning with him, her hand clenching tight around the leash, taken,
triumphant.

She would have him. Tonight.

She blinked, finally seeing what was before her eyes. The leash was
finished. Oiled and braided, soft and strong, it hung in looped
coils in her hands. She was breathing hard. Her cunt was warm,
begging to be touched. A shiver ran through her as she closed her
fists around the braided leather cord. There was power in it now,
she could feel it.

She looked up the wall, to Grandmother’s skull. Granny
Rattlebones grinned down at her.

“This will work,” the witch-girl said. “I am
stronger than him.”

Grandmother grinned.

“You said to taste them both,” the witch-girl said. She
smiled, rubbing a thumb over the smooth leather. “You said
that I would know what to do then. But I won’t let him use me
like Sparrow, make me into his beast, his toy. I will use him,
instead. I will take him.”

“Take,” Grandmother whispered in the night wind. The
witch-girl heard the old woman’s laughter, far away. “Yes.
At dawn. He’s the night, child. Waking’s when he’s
weakest. Time for taking, when he’s waking. Warm him, charm
him, find him, bind him. Tie it tight…” Her voice
faded as a bird began to sing. Morning was coming, sunrise soon.
The witch-girl rose, and stepped out into the morning fog.

*********

She took a torch and tiptoed between sleeping dogs and men, walking
deeper into the cave, down into the darkness of the earth. Down in
the depths she searched for him, following footprints on the sandy
floor. Far from the entrance and the fire circle, far from the other
men and the light from outside, down in the dark she found his lair.
He was sleeping, nude, on a pile of thick furs. His dogs slept
beside him. All around, hunt-trophies and treasures were piled
heaps. Spears, axes, and knives were stacked carefully against the
walls. His chest was rising and falling in long, slow breaths as he
dreamed.

She blinked in surprise. The walls were painted. She saw ochre deer
racing across the vaulted ceiling, lean hunting hounds, flowing lakes
and rivers. Her heart beat faster; making paints and images like
this was witchcraft, he shouldn’t have known how. Her eyes
followed the swirling forms, trying to understand the spell being
worked here.

In the center of the paintings was a great black man-shape with white
teeth in its stomach, like a hunger that could never be filled.

A dog growled. He was awake. He was watching her, dark eyes
glittering, lying at ease on his furs. His tan skin shone red in the
torchlight. His hounds rose to their feet and padded forward,
circling around her, blocking her escape.

She smiled. She knew what he would see, looking up at her: pale skin
shining in the shadows, golden hair falling to hide one soot-dark
eye. For this crafting, her lips were painted black as night.
Bracelets hung at wrists and ankles, beads of turquoise, beads of jet
black. Breasts and hips full and bare, for him to see. In one hand,
a torch. In the other, a collar and leash.

He rose, head nearly brushing the ceiling, dark hair falling forward
as he leaned toward her. She could feel his eyes on her, on her
thighs, her breasts… her throat.

“Witch-girl,” he rumbled. “You are in my den.”

She thought she would be afraid. Instead, she was only eager. He
might hurt her, he might beat or choke or bite her, but she could
endure. She would let the sensations wash through her, swimming in
pain and pleasure like a fish in a raging river, let him do with her
whatever he desired, and in the end she would bind him and be
victorious. She held out the leash.

“I have need of your strength, Black-dog. Your strong hands,
to tie a knot.” She smiled up at him as he stepped closer, her
eyes wide and innocent.

He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrow. “And if I do this
thing for you, witch-girl?”

There was a tremble of warmth in her belly. She gave him a sweet,
happy smile. “Then you can use me as hard as you want.”

His hand moved like a striking snake. He grabbed her throat, under
her chin, tilted her head back. As she gasped, his mouth found hers,
hard and hungry, stealing breath from her lungs. His arm was around
her waist, pulling her against him.

She melted into him, arching her back to press her pale, cool skin
against the heat of his body. He growled, his whole body moving and
flexing against her as he pulled her closer. He released her throat
and grabbed her hair instead, yanking her head back. His lips and
tongue moved down her bared throat, kissing and stroking, his touch
ticklish-hot on her neck.

The ground dropped away as he lifted her. He turned, spinning her
through the air, then threw her down onto the furs. Before she could
rise, he was on top of her. The torch fell to the stone floor,
guttering, throwing strange shadows on the ceiling as his weight
pressed her down into softness, as his hair fell around her face, a
black veil. His skin was warm on her thighs as she raised her legs
and wrapped them around him, holding him close. His lips were on her
neck again, she whimpered with the pleasure of the touch, his hips
were grinding against hers. His shaft was pressed between them,
rocking against her mound, waves of pressure between her legs as he
held her down.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She had to focus. He was touching her,
devouring her, he was overwhelming. She had to remember not to let
him win, but only let him think he was winning. She could feel her
decision eroding, feel the edges of it washing away like sand on the
lakeshore. She could feel how good it would be to surrender, let go,
let him do whatever he wished. She had to give him pleasure enough
that he lost his mind before she did.