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The hard stone beneath him was uninviting, but that was not what caused the first embers of concern to smolder in Roland's mind. Rather, the feeling against his back and shoulders was not the same as the feeling he remembered, when he had first settled down to sleep. As the horse started to move his arms, feeling the resistance as something held him down, the embers stirred into flame. His eyes snapped open, as he wheeled his head left and right, to where his arms lay affixed to the rock. He strained his muscled arms with a heavy groan, but still they lay spread out, though he could see nothing that bound him down.

"Do remain still," said a voice, from the shadows, melodious and lightly accented. "While I have every faith in the strength of my enchantments, I would just as soon spare you the trouble of seeing what I have planned, should they fail."

"Who's there?" Roland shouted, into the dark. "Reveal yourself!"

Wood rapped against the stone floor twice, and a half-dozen torches along the wall all came alive with a rush of air and a burst of light. The uneven walls of the cave (for, indeed, it was a cave they found themselves in) cast uneven, flickering streaks of shadow along itself. Roland found himself on one of only two seemingly man-made structures, a platform of stone that had been carved flat enough to support his stretched out form. Next to the second such structure, a collection of reclaimed planks and stone cobbled together into a makeshift table, stood the creature that Roland was speaking to.

She was a fox, one of those inscrutable greys that made their home in the Western Woods, where the kingdom largely did not reach. She was dressed in a tattered black or purple dress, so carelessly maintained that even its being worn seemed to be something of an afterthought. Roland noted, with some degree of reflexive shame, that it was possible she wore nothing else underneath, nothing preserving her modesty but one dangerously thin scrap of linen. Her body, by contrast, was well-cared for. Life in the Woods had done her no disservice, it seemed, and her fur had the soft shine of the recently bathed. Roland took in everything he could; the carved staff she held in her paws, the curved knife that hung on her belt, the pale, rose-colored gem on a leather cord around her neck, nestled in between the cleft of her gently swelling...

Roland looked away, taking a keen interest in his arm as he strained again at his invisible bonds. "What sorcery have you wrought, woman?"

"What sorcery, indeed," the fox replied, stepping aside to paw aimlessly at the collection of gems, herbs and unidentifiable fetishes on her makeshift table. "You, of all people, should know what sort of trap you have fallen into, Sir Roland."

"You know who...?" Roland turned to face the fox, and then his face fell in distress. "You're... you are Ciupani, aren't you?"

The fox did not look up from her work, but the ghost of a smile played across her muzzle. "I see we are both as acquainted," she replied. "Understandable, considering that finding me was the reason you left your precious castle."

A moment's fear gave way to determination. Gritting his teeth, Roland worked every muscle in his body, almost at once, in an effort to brute-force his way out of whatever enchantment held him down. Slowly, shakily, his balled fists got a millimeter off of the stones, then a second. He felt his shoulders roll encouragingly forward. But, then, the sensation of cold steel against his throat broke his concentration.

Ciupani loomed over the knight, pressing the curved knife down only enough to let him feel its edge. "I warned you once," she admonished. "I shall not warn you, again."

Roland glared up at her, defiantly. "Kill me if you must, witch. The King is abreast of my location; if I do not report back, an army will follow me."

The fox smirked, pulling the knife away and taking a seat next to Roland. Her ample hip rested against his as her free hand idly ran up and down Roland's arm. "I take no pleasure in ending life," she said. "Nor does my patron. We prefer to solve our problems using..." Her hand wandered upward, slipping beneath the opening in Roland's night-robe to brush against his muscled chest. "...gentler methods."

The knight's face curled into a mask of bitter disgust. "You waste your time, then. I'd sooner die than debase myself with one such as you."

"I believe you," Ciupani replied, her fingers curling in to absently claim a patch of chestnut fur as she spoke. "Inconvenient for me. I draw so much more power from willing participants than from... well..." She flinched, as Roland attempted violently to break his bonds, before laying herself down on his chest and staring directly into his eyes. "No matter. We shall have to find something that you will engage with, then."

Roland snarled. "I. Will. Not. Cooperate, witch."

"You need do nothing, for now," she said, her smile wide and predatory. The world seemed to become thick and watery. Shapes in Roland's vision became strange and distorted, like ink running off a page. The only thing that showed in sharp relief was the witch's eyes, which glowed as if lit by some baleful pink flame, as she whispered in a husky tone. "I need you to merely imagine something for me. Picture sun-dappled meadows, the bloom of new spring, the cool air against..."

Ciupani's voice faded. In its place came the rush of air, a swirling eddy that cloaked Roland in dizzying ribbons of light. He shielded his eyes, from the glare. It was only when the wind died down, and his sight returned, that he realized he had been able to lift his arm. He stared at it, confused to see it clad in mail, where before it had been bare. Then, he realized that he was standing. Dumbly, he lowered his arm to see his surroundings.

The cave had vanished, and now he found himself standing in a sunny field. The wind was cool in a way that suggested that winter hadn't yet faded away. Yet, the blossoming of new flowers all around him suggested that, truly, it had finally become springtime. Slowly, Roland's hand made its way down to the sword that now hung on his belt. Something about this situation sent a wave of trepidation through him, though for the life of him, he could not determine what.

"Oh! Hello there, Sir Knight."

Turning his head, Roland spotted a nearby rock, where a young mare lay stretched out. She seemed to be just now arising from a nap; her languid stretching shook loose a few petals that had laid to rest on her body. Her bare body. Roland averted his eyes, only to notice the pile of cloth where the lady had deposited her dress and effects, among the flowers.

She chuckled, at that. "Do pardon my immodesty, Sir Knight. It has been so long since we've had a warm day. I simply couldn't help but take in the sun while it was at its highest."

Roland cleared his throat. "I'll not begrudge you that," he replied, "though you ought to take care being so... arranged... when out and about like this. There's little telling who might chance upon you."

"Your concern touches me." Roland could see, out of the corner of his eye, that she was leaving her perch and approaching her clothes. He caught the faintest hint of chocolate fur, before he took a keen interest in a patch of grass closer to his feet. She continued to speak, as she strode unhurriedly. "This meadow is perfectly safe, however. We get so few visitors to this part of the kingdom. Besides... I have a handsome knight, now, who can keep me safe."

The mare closed the gap with what felt, at least to Roland, like impossible swiftness. No sooner did he see another hint of bare fur, than she was right in front of him. Her hands rested on his chest, hips brushing up against his breeches. Her face beamed with earnest, if a bit sardonic fondness.

Roland's breath caught in his throat. "W-what is... Miss, this is unseemly."

"Oh, do not be silly, Sir Knight." Through half-lidded eyes, the mare began to fiddle absently at the laces on Roland's breeches. "I'm sure a noble creature such as yourself would be more seemly than some of the bucks that hang around the village. And none of them have the sort of regal bearing, that stands before me." She leaned forward, her bare breasts pressing against the knight's mail. Roland could feel the tugging at his belt, as the mare began to undo his fly. "Be honest, Sir Knight. I cannot be the only country maiden taken in by your charms."

Roland felt his head swim. With a scowl, he reached down to grab the mare's wrist. "Cease your purring, miss. You disgrace yourself."

The world around them began to warp and shimmer. The mare's eyes glowed a dull pink in the slowly darkening field. "Oh, dear. I see that this story is not to your liking, then."

"What?" Roland shook his head, trying to keep himself steady as everything changed around him. "What are you doing? Is... is this sorcery? Stop..."

"...stop it..."

"...stop..."

"...right there, thief!"

Roland prepared to draw his sword, taking one last stomping step on the cobblestones as he came to a stop. The masonry walls of two buildings stretched up on either side of him, with a third creating a dead end ahead. At the end of this alley, a lithe and wiry mouse in a hood made a noise of impatience, as the seriousness of his situation began to sink in.

"Guess I don't know the city as well as I oughta," the mouse drawled. "Could've sworn on me mum that they hadn't've put a buldin' here."

"The game is over," Roland barked back, unheeding. "Surrender what you've stolen and prepare to be taken into custody."

"I've got... whaddya fancy educated types call it? I've got a countah-proposal." Calmly, the mouse reached into a pocket of his cloak, producing a glittering green gem. "I'll hand ya back what I took from the Queen, easy as y'like. You can tell them I frew it out, while you was chasin' me, and I got away."

"You would ask me to cover your escape?" Roland chuckled. "Your desperation is palpable, thief."

"Dunno about palpable, but I ain't keen on spending another night in the gaoler's company. Luckily, I've got a fing or two I think can make it worth m'lord's while."

"Enough! There is nothing you could possibly offer that would... would... what are you doing?"

As Roland protested, the mouse turned to face away from the knight, dropping the gem on the ground as he leaned forward. One hand braced against the wall, while the other tossed the back of his cloak to one side and, in the very next motion, slid his pants down. Soon, Roland was staring at the grey fur of the thief's round, athletic cheeks, the underside of his small, fluffy balls. The thief pulled on one of his asscheeks, giving Roland a clear view of the pink ring that lay underneath the mouse's rope-like tail.

"What do you think, m'lord?" said the thief, with a husky sensuality that bordered on taunting. "Tighter'n a maiden, and far more inviting. That's how the lads in the Guard've described me, when I gave'em a similar deal."

Roland sputtered, scandalized and bemused.

"Come on, now, Sir Knight. No need to be shy. I know all that pining after fair maidens and dragon-slaying business is as lonely as any other." The thief grinned, his eyes full of bitter conspiracy. "You can trust me to keep this between us. Who'd believe a thief, eh?"

Roland's mouth worked, uselessly. His mind raced, as he became more and more aware of a lingering weight on his mind. Something was wrong. Something was deeply, deeply wrong.

And then, he remembered.

"Ciupani!"

The alley disappeared. Roland felt a sense of vertigo as he had to suddenly account for being back on his back, bound by hand and foot, in the middle of a dark, torch-lit cave.

The fox above him sighed, in chagrin. "A pity. One of these days, I will find a knight who goes for the cornered thief tale."

Roland snarled at the witch. "Your enchantments hold no power over me. I will not submit to your heinous carnal desires, no matter how you choose to paint them."

She seemed to think, at that. "You know, I am inclined to believe you. It seems you are a rarity, among men." She began to work on something, at her table. Roland strained against his bonds as the witch continued to speak. "The question becomes thus: are you one of those men who harbor no true desire, or is your unwillingness due to something else? If it is the former, then that is quite inconvenient." Roland had managed to get his wrists a millimeter off the slab, by the time Cuipani returned with a bowl of something that steamed slightly. "I could always merely claim your essence directly, but such things are even more distasteful than murder. Luckily, if it is the latter, we have ways of determining it."

Roland puffed with exertion, but was unable to move as Ciupani loomed over him. Placing a thumb in her bowl, she pulled up a film of pink, viscous dye, which she proceeded to press against the knight's forehead. A sudden pressure against his throat bound him, preventing him from pulling away. The substance reeked of sweat and... no, not of sweat. He gritted his teeth, his face curled hatefully as he pulled against his invisible bonds.

"There," the witch said, uncaring. "With this, we should be able to turn the ritual inward. Perhaps Sir Roland will appreciate being able to dictate the story to me, instead of the other way around."

Roland screamed back at Ciupani, inarticulately, as defiance gave way to frustration. His hands slammed back down on the stone, his breath coming in ragged heaves. The circle of ink on his forehead nearly burned, filling his nostrils with that same horrid smell. "E-enough of this," he said, at length. "Kill me, release me, whatever you must, but cease this farce. I have nothing to give to a witch, such as you."

"Are you certain of that?" Ciupani placed her thumb and two more of her fingers in the bowl, stirring its contents idly. "I may not know your heart. You may not even know it, yourself. My patron, however, is well-versed in the hidden desires of all beasts. Should anything be able to sniff them out, it would be it."

"You..." Roland tried to struggle again, but he couldn't. The smell was becoming cloying, a bitter sweetness mixing with the smell of desperation. Feebly, he protested. "...you waste your time. Every foul magic you spend on me is one the executioner won't have to contend with. You are signing your own warrant."

"You focus too much on me, Sir Knight." Ciupani made to straddle the prone knight's hips, bringing her fingers up to draw lines against his snout. Her eyes shown with pale pink light. "Turn your thoughts inward."

"No..."

"Think deeply, Sir Roland. Think back to what you desire most, in the world."

"No, stop it. Please..."

"Turn your thoughts inward."

Those last words echoed through the knight's mind, as the world began to shrink and warp. Soon there was nothing but inky blackness, a roiling mass of muted colors, punctuated only by the unholy glimmer of two pink eyes.

As the world swirled about him, Roland tried to keep his wits. He could still remember that he was being put under a spell, if he focused on that fact. As much as the cloying smell of whatever foul material his face was being painted with tried to distract him, he stubbornly held onto that idea. He was being led into a trap. Whatever he was about to be shown was just another of the witch's tricks, just another attempt to get him to accept her corrupting influence. Bitterly, he scowled into his own mind. He would not falter. He would not entertain this madness.

Eventually, the sense of vertigo began to fade, as the cold slab he had been bound to gave way to dark, moon-dappled forests. He found his footing, and was immediately on guard. Dumb instinct caused his hand to fall on the hilt of his sword, though he knew that it and his armor were merely part of the illusion. The horse's dark brown eyes rolled left and right, trying to find the lie that he was meant to engage with. What would it be, this time? As he took stock of his surroundings, however, he paused. The clearing he was in was empty, of other people. More importantly, it was familiar.

Two sleeping bags. A half-constructed tent. A rickety old cart, with the even more rickety Drake that pulled it carelessly sprawled out in front of the campfire, deep in noisy slumber. Suddenly, memories came flooding back to Roland. The Septarian rebellion. He remembered the chaos that had happened, right around the time he and his liege were en route to a local lord's tournament. He had been tasked to make his way back to the castle, quickly, but without attracting attention, and so had spent much of his daylight hours passing as a peasant with the help of a commandeered cart. A daunting endeavor, but one that was necessary, considering who had been in tow with...

It was upon realizing that that Roland's heart sank, in dread. He remembered this camp. He remembered stopping here, taking shelter for that first night. He remembered standing just like this, with his back to the path leading down to the secluded spring that he and his charge had stumbled upon. And the song... Oh, how he remembered the song. Even as the first few notes began to tickle his ears, forcing them to swivel back, he remembered the crisp, sibilant voice of Queen Metania, most strongly of all. His breath left his nose in a shaky rasp, as he turned his head to stare into the darkness. The gentle babble of water mingled with her song, a wistful, lilting affair about long-forgotten loves.

Roland told himself to stay put. He knew what would happen, if he left his post.

His feet did not obey him.

He felt himself pleading to stop. He knew what he would see, if he peeked just beyond that last tree. He reminded himself that such things were forbidden.

His eyes did not obey him.

There, thigh-deep in the cold waters, rose the silhouette of the young Queen. Her disguise of rags lay discarded in a pile, by the shore, and nothing but the sheen of the full moon served to preserve her modesty as she slathered water over her body. Not that it preserved much. Roland could still clearly see the outline of her toned rear, the swish of her feline tail, the faintest point of nipple punctuating the gentle slope of her enticingly palm-sized breasts.

Roland rested a hand against a tree. It was all he could do to keep his other from the slowly tightening mass in his breeches. It had always been true that Metania was a vision, but to see her like this...

He shook his head, trying desperately to remember. This was a trick. Even now, he could still feel the lines being slowly drawn across his face. Whatever reason Ciupani had for dragging this shameful memory back into the light, it would not avail her. Besides, he already knew how this story ended, and it was not in the crass way the witch would approve of. Defiant, he turned to walk back to camp, where he would do his utmost to forget what he had seen. No one but a sleeping Drake would ever believe that he had even considered leaving his post.

On one of his steps, the ground seemed to disappear beneath him. A moment's panic gave way to a disorienting mixture of weight and weightlessness. His armor and sword were smoke, against his body, as forest gave way to torch-lit cave, just for a moment. Then, suddenly, the world in front of him was a corner of canvas walls against a frame of tent-poles. The ground pressed gently against his back. A breeze blew across his chest. He could feel eyes on him.

Snapping up onto one elbow, he found himself staring into Metania's eyes. She flinched, but kept the tent flap up with one arm, as she knelt in front of him. "It is I, Sir Roland. Forgive me."

Roland's eyes glazed a bit, as the words came to his lips without thought. "Is something amiss, Your Highness?"

Metania shook her head. "Sleep has been eluding me, ever since..."

Roland shuffled into a better position, determined not to have to look at his queen from between his knees. "Does the fate of that bandit trouble you, still?" Her silence spoke volumes. Even shadowed as she was, Roland could see the disquiet in her expression. He sighed. "Your pity is wasted, my Lady. The man was a criminal."

"Indeed," Metania replied, unconvincingly.

"Had he been allowed to do what he wanted, I shudder to imagine..." Roland shook the thought from his head. "It was necessary for us to fight. A grim business, perhaps, but mercy would have been wasted on his kind."

"Indeed..."

The air was thick with an unknown tension. The nightgown and blanket preserving his modesty in front of his liege was feeling inexplicably thin. The clothes she had worn to try and sleep in seemed thinner, still. Memories of the night by the river came back into his head, unbidden. Through all of this, however, she stayed at the entrance, a question in her eyes that refused to pass her lips.

Roland took an unsteady breath. "Your Majesty... I have no comfort to give. I understand that seeing combat up close must have been difficult, but... please, return to your tent."

The flap closed, leaving Roland in darkness. However, the eyes on him remained. Closed in as they were, Roland could feel the heat from Metania's body; she was still in here, with him. "Roland," she whispered, half-pleading, "I must stay here, a while. I just do not feel safe, alone."

"I-I cannot," protested Roland. "I mean... Your Majesty cannot suggest that a knight like myself would ever share sleeping quarters with..."

"I suggest nothing, Sir Roland." The moment's frailty had left her; the voice that floated up to meet Roland was determined, impatient even. "As Queen of Torenweld, I demand that my bodyguard not leave me to sleep in a cold hovel, alone." Roland felt his pulse quicken, as hands landed on his blanket. "Now, let me in."

"Your Majesty, please! This... this is unseemly."

"Do not be such a child, Roland." His body felt the rush of cool air, and then a warm body pressed against his, as Metania muttered to herself. "Honestly. You'd think the rebels would be looking for someone who keeps their traveling companion at such an arm's length as you have. The Spymaster would have never taken a second tent."

Torn between duty and royal decree, Roland froze. He could feel the swell of her back against his side, the vague electric thrill of a leg, brushing against his. Once again, he was forced to consider that naught stood between him and her but their nightgowns. He managed to suppress that thought, but only just after it had begun to cause a stir in his loins. Grimly, he turned his back to her and shut his eyes, praying that the morning would come, soon. And then the fog began to set in, deep in his mind...

...was he forgetting something?

Groggily, he shook off the sensation of sleep. Something in the air told Roland that time had passed, and yet, he still remained in his tent. However, things were different. The warmth against his back was... Staring down at himself, he felt a sense of dread.

Arms lay draped around him. Metania's arms. At some point, during the night, she had turned around and grabbed at him like... he did not dare finish the thought. It was far too shameful, to even think about. Worse, his nightgown had apparently hiked up, during the night. He could feel blankets against an unacceptable length of his outer thigh. Blankets, and the soft fur of... Horror seized him, even as his treacherous equine cock began to stir with unspeakable thoughts.

He felt her move, behind him. His ear swiveled, as she whispered. "Sir Roland? Do you yet sleep?" The knight froze, unsure of what to do. Metania did not wait long for an answer. "Yes, well, perhaps it is best you continue to do so." The two of them sat in silence, for a moment. Metania's soft fingers flexed against his nightgown, distractedly. Then: "I know you were watching me." A fresh jolt of terror ran through him, but Roland didn't dare acknowledge that he heard her. "All is well, Sir Roland. In truth, you honor me. After being with my husband, so long, I had nearly forgotten what it was to feel a man's eyes on me, in that way. I even believed myself incapable of feeling that again, for a time. He is a good man, Sir Roland. A kind and honorable man. And yet..."

Slowly, her arms began to trace down his body. Roland didn't dare move a muscle, even as his heart began to pound. He felt his nightgown hiked even further up, his half-hard member now free to brush against the blanket.

"This..." he croaked, hoarsely, "...this is wrong."

"Is it?" Metania replied, her hand resting against his flat stomach, mere inches away from his crotch.

Roland shook his head, defiantly. "This is not what happened, that night."

"No, it isn't." Metania leaned in close to whisper into his ear, a devilish smile in her voice. "It is, however, exactly what you wish had happened, isn't it?"

His eyes widened. Fully alert, he whipped his head back, turning on his heel to stand in the ballroom of the royal palace. A young courtier laughed, an arm's length away, as they continued to cut a sweeping dance across the floor. She was bright, positively radiant, the kind of lady that Roland could only try to complement with his presence. He was, however, doing a poor job of that. For one, he was abysmal in the art of dance, as the people who had the misfortune of sharing the same bit of dance-floor with him could easily attest. For another, his eyes couldn't stay off the other side of the room, where Queen Metania swayed about the room, on the King's arm. Roland's dance partner had noticed both of these things, early on in the song, but was obliging enough to wait until the musicians stopped playing, before excusing herself.

Roland took to the sides, after that, content to watch the others as he pretended like his parade outfit was in need of reorganization. He still saw the gray fur of the Queen, out of the corner of his eye. He even noticed when, as she passed, some more gray emerged. The slip of cloth around her neck came undone, falling to the floor. Absently, Roland bent down to pick it up. He thought to return it, but she was already halfway down the dance-floor with her husband, by then. Instead, he stared down at it, making a note to return it later. But then... on a sudden impulse, he found himself bringing it to his nose, and breathing deeply. His eyes slid shut.

When he opened them, he was in his room, sat down on the small wooden chair in front of his little writing desk. His trousers lay in an undignified pile, at the foot of the bed. One hand held the scarf to his nose, still fresh with the scent of the Queen. The other lay wrapped around his twitching horse cock. The floor in front of him was lined with streaks of cum. His whole body trembled with a thousand and one emotions, the most potent of which was shame. Slowly, he set the scarf down, rising to his feet. His eyes fixated on the puddle of sinful desire, he had made. Then, in a fit of violence, he reached behind him, picking up his chair and holding it over his head.

He brought his sword down against the training dummy. Just as he had done a hundred times before, today. For the past few days, he had been an absolute terror in the training hall. Nobody could beat him in a spar. Few were brave enough to try, even when he had taken the worst of his rage out on the dummies, first. The head of the order had taken notice of this, of course, but the old bear took this redoubled effort thankfully spared them both a conversation by choosing to interpret Roland's redoubled efforts as zeal. Even now, he watched the knight work with admiration.

"That should be enough, Sir Roland," he shouted, waving the knight over with a hand that was occupied with a scroll. "Spare some effort for the rest of the lads. Your strength is needed, elsewhere."

Roland tossed his practice sword to the floor, content to let the squire deal with it. "Is that the seal of the Spymaster, I see on that scroll?"

"Aye," said the order-master. "I've been told to select someone for an assignment. You seem to be raring for a chance to prove yourself to the kingdom."

Roland snorted, impatiently. "Very well. Give me this assignment, master. I am prepared." Taking the scroll from the bear's paw, he immediately turned on his heel, walking through the doorway outside to make his preparations.

He came to a stop, resting his hand against one of the crenelations of the castle's curtain wall. He sighed, taking one last look over the kingdom, before he was to set out in search of the witch. The sky was gray, and the wind was bitter. The faintest droplets of an approaching rain tickled his fur. His ear swiveled, as somebody took up the spot, next to him. However, he didn't turn his head. He didn't dare look. Instead, he shook his head.

"Stop this," he said.

"Why do you fight so hard?" a feminine voice replied, beside him.

"Please. I beg you."

"It is the thing you most desire, is it not? The spell is unusual, but it has so far never been wrong."

"Stop this now, Ciupani!" Roland screamed, leaning against the wall, unsteadily. "I do not... I do not want to entertain this horrible madness."

"Oh, dear Sir Roland..." The hand of the fox came down to rest upon his own, against the stone. "The snares of love are not horrible, nor are they madness."

The knight trembled, tears welling in his eyes. "Your pity is wasted, witch."

"I do not find you pitiable, at all," Ciupani reassured, rubbing her fingers soothingly against his. "Far from it. That you would torture yourself so, to protect your loved one's honor... it is touching."

"Why do you drag this out of me, then? Are you hoping that my suffering will force my compliance?"

"I do not control this ritual, Sir Roland. What you have seen, thus far, are the depths of your own heart. However, you have seen that things may change here. If you let them."

"What do you speak of?"

Ciupani slid behind him, wrapping her slender arms around his neck. His mind was brought back to the night in the tent.

Roland shook his head. "I could not. I could never..."

Ciupani made hushing noises, into his ear. "Do not fear, Sir Roland. You are understood, here. You are not judged. Allow the ritual to work its magic, and you may finally give voice to all the feelings you never dared let out into the light. No one shall be harmed, by you finally letting go."

Roland's eyes screwed shut. His mouth opened in protest, but the words did not come out.

Ciupani giggled, as she withdrew from him. "No one need ever know, what passed between us, tonight."

With that, Roland was left in the relative silence of a windswept curtain wall. The rain was just beginning to pick up, and the wind leached through his clothes. Beside him, a second set of hands rested against the stone. Roland turned to face the newcomer.

It was then that he found himself staring at the profile of the young Queen Metania.

"I hear you are to be sent on assignment," she said.

Roland sighed, the horse's nostrils flaring as he turned to scowl at the horizon. "You hear correctly."

"From His Majesty?"

''Twas the Spymaster's seal on the writ, but the king's inside. I was asked for, by name, it seems."

The two of them stood, in silence. The only sounds were the wind, against cloaks and banners. Metania spoke up, again. "I have not told my husband about it. That night, we spent in the woods."

Roland shook his head. "And why have you not, Your Majesty?" He waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. He sighed. "You must do so."

"I fear he would not understand."

Roland gritted his teeth, and made the mistake of turning to look directly at Metania. There, he saw the Queen in her fine gold-and-purple finery, the outline of her shapely body just barely suggested when the wind hugged her dress to her. Her hair having half-escaped the elaborate curls, some courtier had no doubt spent much time agonizingly putting into place. Her face was a study in marble, stony and mournful, but no less unflinching. In the face of that, Roland felt his frustration subside.

"Then he must be made to," he insisted. "Do you believe this situation to be normal, Your Majesty? That queens often find themselves forced to find comfort in the arms of their servants?" Setting his jaw, he turned back to lean against the wall. "I heard the pain in your voice, my Queen. I felt the tears against my back, as you spoke of your husband. No man could fail to understand that, least of all my master."

"So you admit to having been awake, at last."

Roland blushed. "My apologies, Your Majesty. It was a cowardly and inelegant lie, on my part."

"Inelegant, I will agree. Yet..." Out of the corner of his eye, Roland saw a hand reach out to try and rest on his. He withdrew his, with a speed that bordered on panicked. Metania's hovered there, for a moment, and then retreated. "...And yet, your motivations for doing so were pure."

Roland shook his head. "My Queen... you think too highly of your servant. I am... I am far from pure."

"Dear Sir Roland..."

He felt a hand rest against his arm. As he turned to regard it, he noticed her other hand, reaching up to caress his cheek. Swiftly, in a thrill of panic, he pulled back with sudden violence. "No! T-touch me not, damn you!" His reaction blunted, however, when he saw the hurt on Metania's face. "Forgive me. You know nothing of the emotions you trifle with. I fear for what dishonor I might wreak, upon you."

Metania's expression hardened, but only a little. "I know well of your emotions, Sir Roland, for they are also mine."

"D-damnation! Do not speak such things, Your Majesty, or we are both lost."

"Then we are both lost," she insisted, stepping forward to take his hand in hers. "My husband loves me not. Not since the day of our wedding has he seen me as anything more than a fixture, in his home. A creature to be maintained. I have longed for the warmth of another's affection for far too long, and I can feel in my heart that you are much the same. Please. Let us ease each other's suffering."

Roland's heart hammered in his chest. Every word was a needle in his heart, everything he had wanted to hear, for longer than he cared to admit, and yet... it could not stop him from lifting her hand, from placing a chaste kiss upon her ring.

"I can only beg Your Majesty's forgiveness," he replied, mournfully. "This, I can not do. My loyalty to my master is absolute."

His heart began to sink into his stomach, as he watched Metania slowly withdraw her dainty hand. A million emotions warred on her face. Shame. Surprise. Indignity at the world around her. The one she showed most plainly, however, was regret. His face was no doubt a mirror of hers. Perhaps with more regret. However, it wouldn't stop him from turning. It wouldn't stop him from walking away. It wouldn't stop him from beginning his march down the stairs and...

He stopped.

He turned on his heel.

He marched back across the parapet, his face crossed with painted lines. Queen Metania had no time to question, before she was gathered up in big, strong arms and a set of lips were pressed down on hers. Not that she seemed to mind. For a moment, the two of them allowed their hunger to override everything else. It wasn't long, however, before lust gave way to fear.

Metania was the first to break away. "We cannot stay here. If we are quiet, we may slip into my chambers, unnoticed."

Roland could only nod, dumbly, his expression a mask of desire.

* * *

It was small wonder they were not found out. Their meeting spot, on an otherwise unguarded stretch of wall, was folly enough, itself. Now, they were making their way down causeways and corridors, to the Queen's chambers. To Roland, it felt like the world's most flagrant wrong, that every courtier and guard they passed ought to be able to immediately sense the horrible sin they were about to commit. And yet, he wasn't stopped. He wasn't castigated and dragged before his liege, in irons. The rest of the castle passed them by, as though their walking together was the most natural and honest thing in the world.

By the time he felt the door shut behind him, and the curtains of the Queen's luxurious four-post bed lay stretched before, his heart was hammering harder than he had ever felt it. Not since his first battle was he this unbelievably scared, yet at the same time excited. His hand moved up to the clasp of his cloak, but held onto it, as if trying to keep it in place. Nervously, he met Metania's eyes. She seemed to be thinking much along the same lines as him, her face torn in the same heady mixture of fear and lust. They both knew they were as safe as could be expected; Metania slept alone, and servants were instructed to stay out of her chambers, during this part of the day. Still, the million and one thoughts held them back.

Roland took a step forward, brought his hand down to press it into hers. "C-command me," he muttered, the color rising to his painted cheeks. "I am yours."

Metania shook her head. Reaching up, he pulled at his cloak clasp, letting the garment fall to the floor. "Not today, Sir Roland. Today, I am yours."

The words caused a thrill of trepidation to cut through his heart, and a thrill of a wholly more base nature further below. He stepped forward and placed a gentle kiss upon the cat's lips. Awkward hands climbed across each other's bodies, seeming always to ask for a permission that would always be granted before they advanced that next inch. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, layers of cloth began to come undone. A button here, a clasp there. Sir Roland felt the cold air of the brazier-less room against his arms, as naught but an undershirt stood between him and indecency. The Queen shimmied out of her gown. Roland's eyes widened to find that she had next to nothing beneath. No stays, no petticoats. Her modest bosom lay fully exposed before him, the near-imperceptible mound of her sex below, dangerously close to the straining laces of his breeches. The only color on her grey furred body were the gloves and stockings, a shock of royal purple that made Roland's heart flutter with the last weak vestiges of guilt.

He led her to her bed, slowly. He feared for how he might distress her, were he to let his exuberance lead the way. Taking the lead, she placed herself upon her covers, spreading her legs to reveal her glistening vulva to him. She did not speak, but the impish hunger in her eyes spoke volumes. Come and claim me, she seemed to say. Roland swallowed, as his cock strained valiantly against the leather of his pants, but still he did not succumb. He crawled, slowly, onto the bed on his hands and knees. Laying down flat, he took her silken thighs in his hands, lowering his head to between them.

Metania gasped, as she felt the first brush of tongue against her. "O-ooh! Sir Roland!" She squirmed on the bed, hands curled against her breasts as if unsure of how to occupy themselves. "I've not known a man to do tha- Hnnnh..."

Once Roland had had his first taste of a woman, he found himself wholly unable to stop. Eyes shut, he reached beneath to cup his hands beneath Metania's shapely rear, hiking her up to turn her swiftly moistening sex in a spot more advantageous to his questing mouth. His ministrations were tender, but greedy, every sensation on his tongue savored as one might a succulent meal. While his eyes did not dare look upon his work, he could not stop his ears swiveling forward, the better to hear the slowly rising symphony of coos and moans from a lover who, herself, felt her desires tinged with that overwhelming sense of blessed relief.

What he lacked in experience he made up for in sheer dedication. Nothing deterred him. Not the feeling of hands, rubbing against his scalp. Not the errant brushes of soft thighs against his cheek and shoulder. Especially not the borderline painful protests of his trapped horse cock, which even now tested the strength of his breeches with its mounting desire to bury itself, to breed as it had wanted to, for longer than Roland would dare admit. He ignored all of that. Nothing mattered but the heady perfume of Metania's growing arousal, the texture of her honey, and the subtle catches in her breath, when at last he found a curious button of flesh that seemed to raise the tenor of her voice a delightful half-step up.

As the moments stretched on, fevered gyrations turned to sudden, half-panicked retreats. An instinct in the back of Roland's mind told him that she was fast approaching the precipice, and yet it was possible she lacked the courage to go over, in such a manner. Scowling, Roland tightened his grip on her lower body and inched forward, redoubling his efforts. The movement caused a fresh spasm in Metania's lower body. What were once demure gasps of pleasure slowly began to morph into full-throated moans. Her legs wrapped around his back, possessively, while her own arched in strangled desperation.

"R-Roland!" she cried. "Do not stop, I beg of you."

His cock lurched, at hearing his name spoken with such animal ferocity. A dark stain bled through, as a sheen of lewd fluid struggled to slip past the laces of his breeches. Still, he did not let up, even for a moment. The world was down to just the tiniest strip of flesh, between a cat's silky legs, and his only window to any other part of the world was the one ear he kept turned to the heavenly music, above. Eventually, that music turned to strangled gasps. Inner thighs pressed against his jaw. His whole upper body was lifted by the force of Metania's hips as her vulva fluttered and spat, against his face. He took one moment, one sub-vocal, whining exhalation, as the true weight of his achievement registered in his mind.

Eventually, however, things wound down. Roland rose up on his knees, wiping the fluids off of his chin and licking his lips, despite himself. The barest hint of cock-flesh peeked out from the top of his pants, having partially loosened the ties that bound it. A fresh spurt of pearly precum slicked the besieged garment, as Roland took in the sight of the pleasure-drunk cat, still spread invitingly out before him.

Metania gave him a half-lidded smirk, as she took notice of the world again. "Dear Roland," she purred. "You look upon me as a starving beast."

Roland started, at that. "F-forgive me, I..."

"You misunderstand," she chuckled. "I rather like that look, of yours." Her eyes trailed down to the bulge in his pants. "Though, it seems as though such hunger cannot be held at bay, for much longer."

"Do not worry for me," Roland assured, though his voice was far from reassuring. "I can endure, as well as any man."

Smiling, Metania tucked her legs underneath herself, rising up to meet him. Her chest pressed against his, causing his heart to flutter with the first sensation of warm, rumbling flesh. Something began to pick at his laces, brushing against his swollen member, and causing him to leak further. The Queen stared up at her knight, her expression a devilish mixture of desire and power. "Dear Sir Knight," she cooed. "Do you truly think think I want you to endure, for me?"

Roland gasped, as the laces finally loosened under her fingers. A hot, pulsing tower of flesh pressed between their bodies, resting against her stomach and depositing still more fluid upon her. Both of her hands trailed down, each taking a separate section of his weighty member. Roland shut his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. In defiance of himself, his own hands began to feel around, taking in the curve of her spine, the feel of her legs, the inviting give of her rear. A pair of lips found his. They did little to stifle the needy moans that sat in the back of his throat, but still he accepted the offer with untold gratefulness. Meanwhile, his equine member twitched and lurched, his balls churning with seed and aching to finally release.

Suddenly, he felt a pressure against him, pushing him back. Before he realized what was happening, he found himself prone, upon the bed. Above him, Metania hovered, her chest heaving. One hand braced against his chest, while the other worked to guide his member. He felt his head brush against her wet sex. Immediately, he began to flare and pulse, his cock-head drooling obscenely at the promise that now lay above it.

"Metania..." he gasped, desperately. "Stay yourself. I beg of you! I... I will..."

"I know, Sir Roland." Metania rubbed the tip of his cock against her, staring down fondly. "It is all right."

His eyes widened, as he felt her pussy lips part, around him. Warm, tight flesh wrapped around the first millimeter, then a second. He whimpered, as his member tried and failed to writhe, obscenely, held in check by a hand and that blissful first kiss of penetration. Slowly, she inched further down. Roland gritted his teeth, as his whimpers became a strangled whine. He tried to resist, desperately clutching the sheets as he pleaded with his own body for just one more moment. However, it was no use. Metania only got another finger-width down around his member, before the first shot of semen came bubbling up.

"M-Met...!" was all he could manage to say, before all of his breath was dedicated to desperate gasps. Rolling pulses wracked his cock, each one ending in a spray of hot cum, into Metania's quivering snatch. Soon, his voice had given over entirely to bestial bleats of pleasure, as the whole world went white. Cum blasted out from around the shallow seal, he had made, splashing against his balls and the top of Metania's hand. And yet, still it poured out, pump after pump after agonizing pump as months of pent-up frustration finally found their escape in his Queen's hot, clenching depths.

When the fog lifted, he found himself staring down at the head of his Queen, who had laid down atop him to bathe his whole body in her loving purrs. He was acutely aware of the swampy mess that lay where they were once joined, his half-erect cock resting against the cleft of her ass and still painting her with the last few dredges of his seed.

He blushed. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I... I could not control..."

Metania made a shushing noise, reaching a hand into the gap in his collar to rub his chest-fur, absently. "It is all right. Your reaction honors me. I find it..." Looking up, she gave him a mischievous smile. "...inelegant, but pure."

Roland's blush deepened, as he looked away. "You wound me."

She chuckled, curling in to expose more of Roland's body to her rumblings. "You shall have plenty of chances to redeem yourself, Sir Knight. Do not fret. In the meantime, provide me with your warmth, while I rest."

He sighed. "I am powerless to deny, Your Majesty." Taking the Queen in his arms, he rolled them both onto their sides, where it was only moments before sweet oblivion took him.

* * *

When he awoke, something was wrong. The bed was much harder, than he remembered.

Sitting bolt upright, he searched around. He found himself in a wooden room, the scratchy wool covers of an ancient bed around his body and a lumpy mattress beneath. Slowly, his mind began to remember the night before. He was in an inn, just outside the woods where he was to begin the hunt for Ciupani. Today was supposed to be the day where he did that. A dirty mirror, on the dresser, caught his attention. His face was clean. No paint markings from a magic ritual. Did that mean... that the whole experience in his mind was just an especially vivid dream. On a vague instinct, he pulled up the covers to stare at his crotch.

Both his nightgown and sheets were covered in cum-stains. His thighs were slick with fluids, from what felt to him like the aftereffects of the largest orgasm he had ever had.

Slowly, he got out of bed. Walking over to the dresser, he pulled out a few of his effects. Specifically, he grabbed a parchment, quill and inkpen. Bent over the old furniture, he began to write a letter.

Your Highness, King Torenwald

It pains me to report that my mission has ended in failure. The Choking Wood, despite the promising testimonies of various people in the nearby village, has proven to be a dead end. After an extensive search, I can say with absolute certainty that no sign of the dread witch Ciupani can be found. I shall endeavor to continue the hunt, for some days. However, should things continue to be as fruitless as they are now, I shall be forced to return to the castle empty-handed.

The failure is mine, my liege. I shall take full responsibility.

Sincerely,

Sir Roland.

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. Getting dressed, he passed the message off to the innkeeper, with strict instructions to have it sent by courier to the castle. Then, he went to the stables to saddle up his Drake, stopping only for a moment to request a new traveling cloak from one of the townsfolk, who offered it eagerly. By his calculations, a courier on foot would get the message to his master within a week or two.

Which meant, if he did his work quickly, he may have a few days before needing to face the King, properly.

With his things gathered, he mounted his Drake and flicked the reins. The creature began a loping gallop at top speed, cutting through the countryside as he guided the knight back to Torenwald, back to the castle where his King resided. However, most importantly, he also traveled where his Queen kept her chambers.