Fire in the Cave (8 page)

The witch-girl’s eyes snapped open. She gasped for breath,
chest heaving as she came out of the vision.

She had been in Rika, one of Black-dog’s hunting hounds. She
had to get the leash off, had to get loose. The binding was too
strong with the leather still on her. Loving him, being his pet, had
felt so simple and good. She had to get out of it now, while she
still had the strength to want to.

“Witch-girl? Are you alright? How do we help you?”
Highhawk’s face leaned over her. The witch-girl blinked,
getting her bearings. She was lying in her hut, bundles of herbs
hanging from the ceiling, Grandmother’s painted skull watching
from her shelf.

The hut flooded with daylight as a man stepped in the doorway,
pushing aside the hanging fur. He was tall, strong, sun shining in
his golden hair. White-stag. He stepped inside and knelt beside the
witch-girl, frowning with worry.

“What has happened, wise one?” he asked, voice low. His
blue eyes roamed down her body, to the collar around her waist, the
cord pulled tight through her tenderness. His face clouded with
anger. “Did my brother do this?”

“Please, White-stag,” she gasped, ““Set no
blame, start no fight.” She could feel his stare on her body.
She knew how she must look, flushed and vulnerable, rounded and
tender where the cord pressed into her. It made her want to squirm,
cross her legs, cover herself. But moving would make the cord shift,
slide, press. She forced her body to be still. “Please, just
get it off me.”

White-stag nodded, and pulled a flint knife from his belt. The
witch-girl shook her head, gritting her teeth. “No, no
cutting. Don’t know what will happen if it’s cut. Have
to untie it.”

White-stag frowned. “As you say, witch-girl. But this knot…”
His hands were on her, touching her as he examined it. She lay
back, staring at the ceiling, trying to control her breathing. A
cool, strong finger slid under the collar around her waist, sliding
between her and the leather, testing the tightness. His palm was on
her stomach, cool on her flushed skin, bracing himself as he took the
knot in his other hand and tugged. She bit her lip as the cord slid
and tightened between her cheeks and in her tenderness. It seemed so
unfair, she was so exposed before him, his eyes and his hands, his
tanned, smooth-muscled body looming over her, why couldn’t he
just release her, let her out, give her release?

“Highhawk, can you bring oil? Ah, good.” His voice was
calm, focused.

She gasped. Cool wetness was spreading over her, pouring onto her
lower stomach, spreading outward from the knot, trickling down her
sides and between her legs. His hands were on her again, but they
felt different now, gliding over her on the cool oil, slipping under
the leather to spread it on the skin beneath.

“I will knead the oil into the knot, to loosen it. Then I
should be able to pull it apart. I will use one hand to protect you
from the motion.” White-stag’s voice was low, soothing.
She took a deep breath, relaxing, letting herself trust his strong
hands, his golden hair, his steady voice.

His hand slipped over her stomach, under the leather of the strap,
under the leather of the cord, down, down, sliding smoothly until he
was cupping the whole of her sex in his hand. He was shielding it
from the cord, but pressing, pressing, broader and firmer than the
leather had been. She arched her back, whining between her teeth,
the sound like an animal in pain. His kindness was worse than
Black-dog’s cruelty; his hand was granting sweet relief to her
bud, her slit, but only by spreading the pressure to the rest of her
mound. His oil-smooth fingers were forcing sensation from parts of
her the cord hadn’t touched. His hand was sliding over
sensitive skin, and the pressure was waking an aching warmth deeper
inside.

He paused, giving her a moment to catch her breath. Then the motion
began. She was protected from the bite of the cord, except for where
it slid back and forth between her cheeks, but the steady shifting
and pressing of his hand on her cunt was almost unbearable. She
could hear him working, quiet grunts and little thoughtful noises as
he pushed and pulled at the knot, heedless of the way his hand was
sinking into her, his fingers slipping into her wetness as he worked.

She would be patient. She gasped as his hand shifted. She would
trust him. He was rocking her hips as he tugged at the knot, his
hand pressing on her cunt in a steady rhythm. She would endure this.
He was pulling more quickly now, tug-tug-tugging at the leather
binding, totally ignoring her open mouth, her panting, the tears in
her eyes. She would endure, he would help her, she would hold on
just a little longer.

“There. Got it.”

The leather fell away, the pressure and touching and sensation were
gone. She was naked and free and arching her back, raising her hips
into the blessedly cool air, shaking with a shiver that started deep
in her cunt and moved in a wave all the way out to the tips of her
fingers and toes, the trailing ends of her hair. She took a deep
breath, feeling like she hadn’t been able to breath in hours,
and let out a long, sobbing moan as the shiver rushed through her
again and she fell back onto the furs, limp, exhausted, released.

She blinked, sleepily. She felt like she had fallen from a great
height, fallen with a thump and made a little crater here in her
furs. A warm, fuzzy depression to lie in and rest. She realized
there was a smile on her face.

Highhawk and White-stag were leaning over her. Highhawk was
grinning. “Try that binding on me next time, witch-girl.
Looks fun.”

The witch-girl stuck out her tongue. “Maybe I will, if you
mock me like that. I…” she yawned hugely. “I
thank you, both of you, for your help. Bors, also, tell him he has
my thanks. I need to rest. Need to check,” her eyes were
closing, “check the binding...”

She sank into herself, sank towards sleep. She felt herself falling
through darkness, down toward the warm, black ocean of dreams. She
slowed her descent. Paused, hovering, just above the dark waves.
Not without a moment of regret; it would have been nice to drift and
dream like a normal man or woman. But she was a witch, and she had
work to do.

It was good that the binding was loosened, that she was not pulled
helplessly to Black-dog whenever her eyes closed. But she could not
let it get too loose, or all her work would be wasted. She had to
hold her end of the cord, had to keep Black-dog on his leash until he
became hers.

Floating in darkness, she ran her hand down her body. Below her
navel, above her sex, she found it. The binding was still there.
She could feel it, the hard knot, the cord leading away, leading to
him. She wrapped her hand around the cord, feeling the smooth oiled
leather, feeling the touch of his hand and the silk of his hair and
the heat of his body against her, all the power they had both put
into the bond.

She pulled on the cord and began to move forward. Faster and faster,
flying low over the dreaming sea like a diving bird, the waves
blurring beneath her as the cord stretched out in front, leading her
on, hauling her forward, until one great dark wave rose up like a
cliff and the cord was pulling her right toward the rushing wall of
water and she crashed into the black surface.

She rose out of the water like a leaping fish, tossing her head back
to throw her wet hair out of her eyes. By all the gods of hill and
river, it felt good to swim. She fell back, floating face-up, and
raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. A tan-skinned hand, a
River-folk hand. Of course. Why had that seemed strange for a
moment? It was the same healthy light brown as her mother, her
brother, her cousins and neighbors. Not that any of them had helped
with her chores this morning. Oh, no, much too busy sewing leather
or practicing stick-fighting or gossiping! Let Four-leaf fix the
fish-dams, all by herself!

For hours she had moved rocks, knee-deep in muddy water, arranging
little pools for fish to gather in and be caught by the tribe. Hours
of getting muddy and sweaty and tired. Finally done, she had eaten
her little wrapped lunch and walked upstream to the waterfall pool.
Now sweat and mud and weariness washed away as she floated in the
clear green water, cool mist from the falls drifting over her,
beading on her face in tiny droplets.

She sighed happily and raised her head out of the water. The pool
was only waist-deep; her feet found smooth pebbles beneath her, and
she stood, stretching. The sun was warm on her shoulders. The
current tugged gently at her hips as she combed her fingers through
her loose-curled hair. Water droplets tickled as they ran down her
back. She smiled, listening to the small sounds of birds and frogs
and the rushing roar of the falls. She looking up at the falling
water, watched it shining in the sun.

There was a man in the waterfall.

She froze. He was halfway up the falls, emerging from the white
spray and falling drops, looking down at the pool. He was wreathed
in mist, cloaked in pouring water, like the river was taking the
shape of a man.

For a moment she was afraid, looking up at the man or spirit above
her. Was he angry at her, for washing her mud off in his pool? But
his beautiful face was smiling, pleased. He spread his arms,
catching more of the cascade, and for a moment he seemed to have
wings of shining, falling water. Then he stepped forward and
dropped, falling with the water, vanishing into the cloud of mist at
the base of the falls.

She took an uncertain step toward the mist, guarding her bare breasts
with one arm as she held out the other for balance. She paused, and
glanced toward the shore, to the flat stone where she had left her
things: a vest, a skirt, a bag, and a stone knife. She turned and
hurried toward her weapon, wading through the deep water, struggling
forward.

He rose out of the river, right in front of her. He stood tall,
water streaming from his hair and down his body, drops sparkling in
the sun. She stumbled backwards, slipped on a stone, and fell. When
the splash subsided, she was looking up at him, blinking water out of
her eyes, thankful that the pool hid everything below her chin. He
grinned down at her. He was bare, wet, and perfect, from his strong
shoulders down to the dark patch of hair below his stomach.

“Are you a water-god?” she asked, voice shaking.

He smiled, and reached down to her. He gently stroked her hair, down
to her neck, fingers trailing along her throat and up, under her
chin, tilting her head back. He leaned over her, dark eyes locked on
hers, and pressed his lips against hers in a kiss.

For a moment, her eyes closed, the warmth of his lips all she could
think of. She felt him moving closer, sinking into the water with
her, not breaking the kiss, arms reaching around her, closing around
her. Her heart fluttered in panic. She raised her hands, pushing at
his chest, trying to stand, trying to twist away from him.

He laughed. His arms closed around her in an instant, thick and hard
as tree branches, unmoving as stone. Her elbows were pinned to her
sides, her palms flat on his chest. He stood, lifting her up with
her body trapped against him, water streaming down them both. She
was helpless. She was being carried away, like when the river was
high and fast and the current swept you off your feet and carried you
tumbling along in its overwhelming, rushing power. Her breath was
ragged in her throat. She kicked, she lashed her head from side to
side, struggling naked in his arms, straining against his unyielding
strength. He waited until her throat was exposed. As she tossed her
head back, he leaned in and bit her neck.

She stared at the sky, taking a long, shivering breath. She could
feel his mouth on her, just beside her throat. Lips warm, teeth
delicately pinching, a sweet, sharp little sensation. Her naked body
shook in his arms. His mouth was moving, nipping her lightly, lips
and tongue gliding up and down her throat, sending little shivers
down her spine, making her eyes close. He growled in satisfaction.
Held against his chest, she could feel it. The sound of his pleasure
rumbled through her whole body. It was warm, powerful. She hung
limp in his arms, her head fallen to one side, his mouth on her
throat.

He swept an arm beneath her, catching her legs, and lifted her clear
out of the water. She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling
the strength beneath the skin. The river-gods took people sometimes,
everyone knew that. But this was much, much better than drowning.
He cradled her against his chest, whispering to her, muttering his
approval, his desire. She felt his words wash over her mind like a
spell. She floated on them, surrendering to his current.

She heard water swirling as he moved, carrying her. Then he was
lowering her. She felt soft, sun-warmed moss on her back as he laid
her down. His hands were gentle, his voice still whispering.

The sun was warm on her skin, drying the river-water. She stretched,
smiling with pleasure, eyes still closed. She felt his breath on her
neck… her chest… her stomach… His hands were on
her legs, spreading them apart, and then his lips were on the inside
of her thigh.

She let out a little noise, then bit her lip in embarrassment. His
hair was trailing over her, leaving cool drops of water to run down
her skin, tickling her stomach, her thighs, as the kisses moved
inward. Her thighs were held firm in his arms, making it impossible
for her to squirm away as his tongue moved up her slit, parting her,
tasting her, exploring, seeking. He found her bud, and her fingers
sank into the moss as she struggled not to cry out. He growled,
satisfied. The sound was like the roar of the waterfall, vibrating
the most sensitive part of her. Then his lips were on her, on her
bud, sliding, pressing, closing around it to gently suck, and then
his tongue again, flicking back and forth over her, roaming around
her secret place only to return and tease her most tender spot.