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This is a bit of a test. I haven't posted here in a long while, and the formatting has changed. Also, I wanted to get some reaction to the first little bit of this. I'm trolling for compliments, I guess. I'm at kind of a difficult junction stoy-wise. This is 1st draft quality stuff,_ misspellings doubtless included. I'm going to post three more chapters, ending on a happy note, and then no more until I've finished the whole thing. I don't want to leave people hanging on the final chapter forever again._

First two chapters in one bundle, because the first bit is short . . .

A Season in the Sun

The sun was blazing in the sky. It was one of those rare, perfect blue days of late fall, one last taste of sweet summer before winter clamped down like the jealous bitch-kitty that she was. He would still come here on the clear days, and spread a blanket over the cold brightness of the snow. The light was all the more valuable then, between the stark days of cloud and the long, bleak nights. But it was never so precious, so golden, as in the waning days before the snow.

The other Pythians were somewhat episcopalian in their religion. It was a worship of symbols and signs, over altars and through priests. It was passionless, bloodless. Nace, on the other hand was a throwback, a pagan, one whose ancestors might have looked up at the sun in devoted adulation. One whose loving gratitude was such that in another time, another place, he might have offered sacrifice. But his faith was tempered with kindness, his worship quiet, introspective, and solitary. He often came to this hill, alone, and only his closest friends would have known where to find him. A crumbling cement post at the top of the verge bespoke some use, but also neglect. No one ever came to bother him, not even Oraz or Sidro. They were a little embarrassed by his frank enjoyment of the sunlight, perhaps they thought it sacrilegious, and never tried to join him.

The young dragon stretched over the rounded top of the hill, a low growl of pleasure in his throat. It was all right. It was good to be alone, sometimes. To think, if he wanted. Later, he would join the others. Laugh, and talk. But, for now, the sun, the sky, and the sea of sweet grass around him. It was good. It was all good. Sometimes, when he really thought about it, he could almost cry for happiness. Sometimes, when he was here alone, he did.

He reached up and scratched absently over the top of his head, feeling the strangeness there. Three short, backward-curving horns, one in front and one to either side behind it. Their rapid growth had come almost to a halt, but the scales around them still itched. All of the other dragons his age had sprouted the usual crest, a tall, proud, webbed membrane, running from just above the forehead down to the nape of the neck. They had blossomed like flowers. He was a weed. Nothing for a year and a month and then . . . These. He fingered the delicate points. They looked strange, but they felt right, somehow. He liked all the attention they got him, at least. The others always wanted to see, and touch . . .

He closed his eyes against the golden light and let out a shivery sigh. The odd, alien warmth of his first season was still coursing in his veins, reshaping ordinary pleasures into something finer, something sweeter. He had always known, in the back of his mind, that there was more to life than games and lessons and play-fighting, but he never knew how much he wanted it! Just to be touched . . . To be hugged, or held. Nuzzled or licked on the cheek. The tussle of scaled bodies in the cold, communal shower. (He had almost embarrassed himself there.) Even the fighting wasn't just for play anymore.

He rolled on to his side to walk his fingers through the grass. He and Oraz had quarreled a little only that morning. He couldn't remember why . . . The yellow-green giggled softly to himself. Okay. Truthfully, he'd probably started it, and for no other reason than wanting the larger male to tumble with him. That was nothing special. Ever since they were little, they'd take any excuse to fight with each other, to test their strength and skill. How else were they to learn? But, there was something special, now, in the way it made him feel. And he had wanted it to be Oraz, had picked him. Oraz was special, too. And when the male had flipped him and pushed him to the floor, when Oraz's weight was on top of him, hands on his shoulders, pressing the air from his chest, he had barely been able to keep his shaft within his sheath.

"You win!" he had cried, because it was the only thing he could do. With Sidro there, watching them. With everyone there. "You win! You win!"

And Oraz, panting from the exertion, had hesitated. Nace had wondered then, and he wondered now, if it was exertion. If Oraz had had a season yet, or might be having one now. The dragon was bigger, he always had been, but they were the same age. All three of them were, but Nace had never found himself wondering if Sidro had a season yet. He felt a real affection for the silver-blue, but he had to admit he didn't quite care. The thought of it made him uncomfortable, even. But Oraz, Oraz . . .

He had wondered, even with everyone there, all the kids and even the little kids, if something might happen. If Oraz had touched him, he wouldn't have been able to help himself. But the dragon had pushed away from him, flustered and unwilling to meet his eyes, and Nace had managed to control himself. This time. But the next time, he wouldn't. Couldn't. They would be alone. They would have to be alone, and talk about this. If he could only bring himself to do it.

Worry creased the yellow-green's brow. The last time they had been alone, Oraz had frightened him.

"Did you ever think," the male had asked him, out of nowhere, "what we'll do when we grow up? When we get apprenticed out?"

"Huh." Nace had not noticed the dragon's serious expression, not then. He answered without much thought, "I always thought we'd end up in the cadets together, I guess. You've never been much for school . . . Maybe I'm half bright," he added, smoothing over an old hurt, "but not in any special thing. We're both in the same boat there. Sidro, maybe the healers would want him. He really would've done well making the Draught, but Olmez already has a 'prentice. I guess we might lose Sidro." The yellow-green frowned to himself, never having considered this. He dismissed the thought. "But, he'll want to stay with us, and it'll be better if he's a soldier for a while, too. It's harder to get status as a healer, most of them have fought at least a little bit. Most of everyone, really."

Oraz shook his head. "I'm not worried about Sidro. He's funny . . . Weird, I mean. Like me. He won't make a lot of other friends. Even if we work in different places, we'd still see him. He'd still want us." And now Nace realized the dragon was near tears. "But it's not like that for you, Nace," he continued. "Everyone likes you. Everyone wants you. You could have all the friends you wanted, and you will."

"No, I won't!" the yellow-green protested. "I mean . . . You and Sidro are all the friends I want. I wouldn't want to be friends with anybody else. Everyone doesn't want me . . ." Though, it was true, he was on speaking terms with most (all?) of the dragons they took lessons with. And he knew some of the older ones, and the younger ones, and he did like to talk with people. He guessed he remembered their names. He guessed maybe they liked him, but friends? Not like Sidro, and certainly not like Oraz. "I don't need any other friends," he said.

"You're young," Oraz muttered, as if he were eons older. "It's never been hard for you. You don't know how it is, being different."

"I'm different!" Nace insisted, and indicated his horns as evidence.

"No," Oraz said bitterly. "Not where it counts. You're smart, and funny . . . The good kind of funny. And you're easy with people, you always have been. It's so easy for you, you don't even notice it. But I do. And I . . . I . . ."

Nace flinched. Sometimes Oraz got stuck on a word, but that was a school thing. More precisely, that was a being-terrified thing. Surely this wasn't as serious as all that? He wanted to say so, but he knew to shut up and wait, or else Oraz would never manage it.

"I'm stupid!" the dragon spat. "I'm slow."

"No," the yellow-green told him. "No, you're not. You . . . You're . . ." Wonderful, he had wanted to say. Perfect, he had wanted to say. "You're shy." He tried to smile. "See? Sometimes I can't find a word either."

Oraz bowed his head, and hid behind his hands. "I'm ugly. It might've been easier if I hadn't been so ugly."

"You're not," Nace said. Not knowing how else to prove it, he reached out and cupped the dragon's cheek. His thumb found the tapered edge of the dark, glossy plate and traced it. "I think they make you look quite handsome. Strong." And he did think that. Oraz's dark scales had begun to thicken into plates, right about the time they were put in with the older children, and began going to real school. Now he was entirely covered with them. They meshed and clattered and shone. They had changed the outline of his face, perhaps, and made his expressions even harder to read, but to Nace he was not ugly. He was only himself.

It was only this, knowing that Nace was not lying to him, that kept Oraz from pulling away right then and there. But he could not meet the yellow-green's eyes. "I'm big," he said, "and ugly, and everyone expects me to be stupid, too. No one wants me." He lifted his eyes with effort. They were damp. "Nobody wants me except you."

"Sidro . . ." But Nace dropped that protest before he could even finish it. That wasn't what Oraz meant. He sat forward, rested hands on the dragon's shoulders and met his gaze. "I'll always want you. I'll never leave you. Not for anyone, for anything."

"You promise?" Oraz demanded of him. "You . . . You . . . You . . ."

"I promise. I promise," Nace had told him, and then held him. But he had been afraid. He had been afraid it was not enough, afraid to go that one step farther. Pythians did not take mates. They were expected to use the male slaves for their needs, and to strive for use of the females, to spread their seed. Sexual encounters between two Pythians were brief, social interactions, exchanged as a favor, to establish dominance, as punishment or a reward. There was no "love" involved. The word was archaic, or filial. He could say, with no awkwardness, that he "loved" Sidro, but to apply the word to what he felt for Oraz would be unseemly.

But was there any other word for it? Really?

He sighed and pushed the thought away. Too soon. Too soon for such thoughts, they left him as cold as winter. One should never think of winter on a perfect blue day like this. It was like walking over your own grave. He and Oraz would have years together, years to work out the words and define the boundaries of their friendship. For now, things were good. He was warm and fit and happy. The sun was high and he was in season, the first and finest of many to come. He would spend them with Oraz. Oh, maybe Sidro would be around, but he would think of Oraz.

He did so now; he could hardly help himself. He was a little afraid, but he was alone here, one of the few places he could be alone. No one would see him nestled in the tall grass. None but the warm sun and the cool blue sky. He smiled, closed his eyes, let go, and dreamed.

"Nace!"

"Huh?" He sat up and looked to the sound, reverie broken before it had even begun.

Sidro was emerging from the low metal grate, clawing the ground and tumbling grass and earth upon himself. Something impeded him, pulled him back, and he shrieked. First pain, then words, "Nace, get out of here! Fly! Get away!" With another cry, and a crack of bone that Nace could hear even from the hilltop, he freed himself and scrambled towards the yellow-green. "They're going to hurt you!" He was trying to get into the air, to cover the distance more quickly, but his left wing flopped torn, broken and useless at his side. The pain must have been considerable, but he was still moving as fast as he could. Behind him, other, larger dragons were crawling out of the ground.

"Sidro, ye gods! Your wing!" Nace clambered down the hillside to meet the young silver-blue as he scrabbled up. He caught the dragon by the shoulders and stilled him. "Don't move, now. Don't move . . ."

Sidro shrieked again and pushed him away so roughly that both dragons fell to their backs. Sidro landed on his wing and warbled incoherent agony. Nace recovered quickly and scrambled to the silver-blue's side. "Oh, God, don't move!"

But Sidro only tried to push him away again. "You have to go! You have to get away! Stupid, stupid dragon, go now! Go now!"

But the other dragons were already climbing up the hillside, and Nace cried out to them for aid. "He's hurt! Come quickly!" And never mind that the other dragons were council members, clearly mantled in white and wearing their medallions. Never mind that their expressions were cruel, and their eyes locked on him. Sidro needed help . . . And that was all he had time to think, before the dragons latched on to his arms and bound them behind his back. Sidro lay before him, incoherent in pain, and they let him lie there.

"What . . . ?" Nace did not struggle, he did not have that in him, but he craned his neck to look behind him. "What?" he asked the dragons.

The smaller one, a bronze with blue plating on his back, answered in a pinched little voice, "There has been, mm, some question as to your true parentage, young one." He let go, leaving Nace in the strong arms of the larger Pythian, and addressed the yellow-green from the front. "There will be an investigation, a short trial." He waved one hand, dismissing that. "Once your heritage has been established beyond all reasonable doubt, you will be freed."

"Oh, God, they're lying!" Sidro moaned. "They already know. Everyone knows! They wouldn't have come if--" The bronze silenced him with a sharp kick to the ribs. Sidro mewled like a wounded dog, and Nace cried out for him.

"Some question has been raised," the bronze repeated. "There will be a trial. You will come with us."

"Yes," Nace nodded and hung his head. It was already over the moment they tied him. To be tied precluded all possibility of struggle. To be tied left him feeling weak, helpless, and perversely secure. The larger council member, mottled silver, was built an awful lot like Oraz. Maybe they knew. Or maybe he would seek out security anywhere, in the middle of this atrocity. "Just don't hurt him anymore," he said, though he couldn't do a thing to stop them. His throat was dry and his voice the merest of whispers. He could only beg. "Please. I'll do whatever you want, I won't fight you, only please stop hurting him."

The bronze tossed his head and snorted. "A healer will be sent for. We take care of our own, no matter how insolent."

And why did Nace suddenly have the feeling that this Pythian's 'we' no longer applied to him?

I should have run, he thought_. I should have flown. If I'm not Pythian, what am I? A prisoner._ His bonds proved as much. Prisoners were killed.

Or they were made slaves.

He looked over his shoulder, wanting one final glimpse of the sun, the hill, the grass, but all he could see, all he would ever remember, was Sidro's broken body lying sprawled in the dirt.

Dreams Within Dreams

In his childhood, not so long ago, Nace had been fond of sitting upside-down. Feet up, head down, and back resting on the seat of a hard wooden chair spirited out of the dining hall. He would set up in some busy corridor and watch the dragons walking on the ceiling. Sometimes somebody would drop something, and it would fall up. He found this endlessly hilarious, and often laughed out loud at the inhabitants of Upside-Down World. They would only look at him and frown and not understand because they didn't know they were upside-down, they thought he was! They were funny, because they didn't know they were funny.

He had stopped, after hearing one of the children's nurses explain him to the cook ("He always sits like that. Some kind of congenital idiot, I think."), out of fear that sitting with his head down would make him stupid. By the time he had learned the actual meaning of the term, he had gotten out of the habit, and grown too heavy for the chair to support him comfortably in that position.

But it was good that he had done that. Good that he had practiced it, because the same thing was happening to him now! And he wouldn't have understood how this could be, if he hadn't seen the world turned upside-down. He might have taken them seriously. If he had taken them seriously, he might have gone insane.

Instead, he laughed.

The trial was short. Perhaps that was a mercy, as a slit throat is preferable to burning at the stake. It was closed to the public, the council did most of the talking, and the evidence was established via piles of paperwork that were not read aloud. Strangest of all, his mother was there, tied to a sturdy chair with her hands bound behind her back. She was red-collared, deadly dangerous, as the preferred females were. It was a point of pride among the children, growing up. Nace had never expected to meet her, especially not like this.

Yes, she said, she had told this story before. Yes, she said, she had been used in an entertainment, several weeks before she was used by the yellow-green's ostensible father. Well, as far as she could tell, the slave that took her had been on the Draught, but it hadn't been enough to keep him from coming off in her. Why, yes, now that they mentioned it, she had told her handlers about that at the time, quite loudly, but funnily enough no one had believed her. Yes, the little bastard was a bit premature, by her calculations, if he had a Pythian father. But if his father was the slave, well, then it seemed he arrived right on time.

Nace, unable to take it anymore, had begun to giggle then. And when the guard cuffed him to silence him, he had become almost hysterical. "You can't be serious! You can't be serious!" He stood, and the guards seized him and tried to force him back down. "How can you believe a word she says!" he cried. "She's my mother. She hates me! All mothers hate their children. If we didn't take the eggs away, they'd destroy them! She wants to kill me! She'd say anything to hurt me. How can you believe a word she says?"

A councildragon, leaning over the table, deigned to answer him, "Because, young one, she has always said this about you, and only you. Because the records bear it out. And, because, child, you are not Pythian. One can tell just to look at you, can't they?"

Nace cackled, bent double, and gasped for the air to speak with. "Look at me? Look at me? We all look different! All of us! Different mothers . . . Different fathers with different mothers! What does a Pythian look like?"

"Nothing like you," the dragon said. He nodded to the guard. "Velen, if you can't keep him quiet, take him out of here. We don't need him."

"Yes, sir." The guard had to lift his voice over the young one's howls. "Beg your pardon, but where shall we put him?"

The councildragon waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. Lock him away somewhere for now. We'll decide what to do with him later."

"Yes, sir."

They dragged him from the room, and he could barely walk for laughing, barely see for the tears. They threw him into a dark, close place, where the dust lay in piles and choked his air. He curled where he landed and could not get up, hardly able to breathe and still unable to stop laughing. He laughed, because they didn't know. They didn't know they were funny. They didn't understand how ridiculous the whole thing was. He had lived here, he had been raised here . . . He had friends here, and everybody liked him! Oraz was right about that! How could they? How could they? Would they all just stand by and let it happen?

Yes, he thought. Yes, they would. Because they were upside-down, and they didn't know it. They thought he was wrong, they thought he was different.

And--this was the craziest thing of all--maybe he was!

Maybe he had been, all this time. Maybe he had only been pretending, as he had done as a child, pretending that he was the right way up when inside he knew he wasn't . . . Because it was better that way. Maybe he had been pretending again, and never known it, until now. And it was funny!

In the darkness, on the floor, he laughed until he cried. And he cried until he knew no more.

---

Nace awoke from strange dreams, disoriented in the dark. It was entirely too dark, and he found himself near tears.

No. No. That didn't happen. No.

He had rolled somewhere unfamiliar in his sleep, off the mat and on to the hard floor, away from the comfortable sound of Sidro's breathing, and Oraz's gentle snore. It had not been a good sleep. He had dreamed . . .

It didn't matter. He crawled blindly, feeling for a soft bed or a solid wall. When he found them, when he found where he was and found his friends again, it would be okay. Even if he cried. They would pull his tail and call him a silly thing. They would laugh at him. He would laugh, too. Once he found them. Once he knew where he was and that he was all right. But it was so, so dark.

One hand thumped something hard and vertical and he scuttled against it, meaning to follow the wall around until he found a warm body, or a light, or a door . . .

But it was a door. Thick wood instead of solid stone. And as he pressed his cheek against it, it clicked open in a dazzle of light. Nace sat in the long shadow of a tall, young male.

"Master Velen, he's awake now! Can we take him down?"

Another guard, older and stockier, approached and peered down at the yellow-green. "S'pose so. But you needn't get so excited, Ardo. There's nothing interesting down there. Just a load of old, blank tunnels and the cold room."

"Ardo?" Nace echoed.

A-R-D-O memory replied, unbidden. Shaky, white letters scratched on smooth, gray slate. Ye gods! It was him, wasn't it?

"Ardo? Isn't it you? We learned letters under the same scribe. You remember me, don't you?"

The young apprentice goggled at him, momentarily flummoxed. He turned to the older dragon for some guidance, some kind of explanation.

Velen hid his eyes in his palm and expelled a jaded sigh. "You only speak to prisoners to tell them when to get up and where to go. They'll talk your ear off if you let them."

"But . . . He's . . . What?" Ardo managed, pathetically. He didn't understand, and he was afraid he might get punished for it.

"This is a prisoner," Velen said, as their play-school teacher had once informed them, This is an apple. This was an object lesson. Ardo was a slow student. "His mother was a slave, his father was a slave. Once we get him catalogued and get this over with, he'll be a slave. If you want to take it up with someone, take it up with the council. They'll bust your empty little head over it and save me the trouble."

Ardo uttered a low whine. He turned his muzzle and cast his eyes to the side. When he looked at Nace again, his gaze was cold. "Come . . . Come on, you. Get up, it's time to go."

Whining a little himself, Nace did as he was bade. He could not look at Ardo, and he dropped his head down low. He saw the guard Velen's hands, not his face, and in them was a length of strong, dark cord. The yellow-green tried to suppress a shiver and could not.

Ardo seemed to take this reaction for fear and spoke up again, "Master Velen, must we? He won't run. There's nowhere for him--"

The older dragon snarled and shot him a hard glance. Ardo fell silent.

"Remind me to beat some sense into you when the day is done," Velen muttered as he bound the prisoner's hands behind him.

"Yes, sir," came the reply.

Nace turned his hands behind him. The cord cut into his wrists. Strong, tight, and not a hint of give in it. As awful as it all was, he wanted to purr. He was weak now, utterly at the mercy of others. He could do nothing to help himself. That was bad . . . But it felt so good. He closed his eyes and his thoughts grew hazy. Maybe he was dreaming again. It was so like a dream. He would follow the guards wherever they wanted to take him, even though he was almost certain where that would be.

---

Nace blinked and peered into the cold darkness behind the gaping hole in the rock. He had not been to the cold room in ages, and in fact should never have been there at all. They had sneaked down here at Sidro's insistence to talk to Kadie. Kadie was apprenticed here, learning to catalogue and make the Draught. They had gone through the earliest years of their schooling with him. He had been a year or two younger than them, and such a little thing. His scales were bright copper, almost a shade of pink. To make matters worse, some nurse with a taste for the romantic had named the boy Arcadio. Old people were named Arcadio. It was a good name for a young dragon who was going to get punched a lot. Combined with everything else, it was a miracle he survived long enough for Olmez to take him on, though he was half the age any other 'prentice would be.

They never would have seen him again if not for Sidro's chemical obsession. He'd had an early success with alcohol, distilling a fiery cider in borrowed equipment that he sold to fund further experiments, and occasional luxuries. At night, for instance, all three of them slept on clean linen with feather pillows. Real feathers. He was always on the lookout for something else that would trade as well as the cider, or better. The Draught would be the best, the ultimate thing. It was expensive, and hard to get in civilian life. Impossible for some. If he could work out how to make it, or maybe even how to make it better . . . His eyes had been alight with visions of custom-made glass vessels and coiled tubing and ingenious little burners. Nace and Oraz had more prosaic thoughts of ice cream and fried chicken and big, poofy down-filled comforters.

So, naturally, there was nothing to do but come down and ask Kadie about it. They never would have tried if it were just Olmez, the older dragon would have thrashed them within an inch of their lives. But Kadie was just a little kid, like them, and he was happy enough to see them. He was so happy to see anybody that Nace had thought he might bring the whole fortress in with his shouts. Fortunately, Olmez was far away and sleeping and had left the little dragon to brew and tinker alone. Kadie gushed, first joy and questions and later information, which only Sidro seemed to understand. He might have gone on all night if the guard hadn't checked in. Nace smiled faintly, remembering. He and Oraz hadn't been able to sit down for a week, after the beating they earned, and Sidro had lost three teeth! Kadie . . . Well, Olmez had been left to deal with Kadie. It had probably been the worst for him. They hadn't seen it, but they had heard some of it.

But, that was years ago. Olmez might not even be here anymore. Nace wondered if Kadie had taken over the duties completely, brewing and cataloguing both. He wondered if the little copper would remember him. Most of all, he wondered what they would do to him. Ye Gods, how he wondered about that.

"Do we get to go inside?" Ardo asked, some eagerness returning to his voice. Velen nodded wearily, running on the last dregs of his patience.

They led him into the darkness. Velen stepped confidently, from memory, not from sight. Nace and Ardo both stumbled blindly, lead forward by the old guard's grip. There was a magic circle of light in the darkness. The candles and torches that revealed the inner workings of the place were all doused when prisoners were taken here. There was no fire, everything was cold. There was just that light, and the hard, wooden seat inside of it, bolted to the floor. Olmez (working there still!) stood beside, half in shadow. He took Nace out of the guards' hands, then gave a nod to the darkness and cleared his throat.

A skinny young dragon came skittering out of the shadows like some bizarre species of insect. Though so much time in darkness had made his eyes even wider, and his scales even brighter, Nace's recognition was instantaneous.

"Kadie!"

"Nace!" the copper cried. The excitement in his voice seemed almost a scream in the cavernous gloom. "Oh, my God, look at you! I can't believe it . . . You got so tall! What happened to your crest? It looks like--"

Olmez gave a sharp hiss and raised his hand. Kadie closed his mouth with a click. He skittered back into the darkness, cringing from his Master's ire.

"You remember well what I have taught you?" the old dragon demanded.

Kadie nodded so rapidly it seemed his head would fly from his shoulders. "Yes. Oh, yes, sir. Yes, sir, very well, sir."

Olmez continued, somewhat more gently, "This prisoner is to be catalogued. You will do it all, and I will watch you. We will see how well you have really learned."

The little dragon began to tremble. He held his hands up to his face, not warding off a blow, not quite yet, but ready to. "I don't . . . I-I don't . . ." He was almost in tears. "I don't understand! I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I don't understand!"

Nace wanted to go to him, embrace him and tell him it could not be that bad, it would all be okay. But it would not all be okay, and the yellow-green was bound, helpless. He turned his head away.

"He is a prisoner," Olmez said. "The council says so. I say so." This last was a snarl of malicious intent. "Now do you understand?"

"Yes," Kadie said faintly. He looked faint. His eyes were unfocused and glazed. "I'm sorry."

Ardo somehow thought this was a good time to speak up. He whispered, out there in the darkness, too loudly, "Master Velen, do we get to--"

"We get to leave," the guard cut him off. "As soon as he is tied, we get to leave."

Ardo made him no audible response.

Cringing, making a small, desperate whine in his throat, Kadie walked around behind Nace and took hold of his bound hands. I'm sorry, he mouthed with utmost secrecy. He led Nace gently to the chair, barely half a step, accomplished easily. The yellow-green sat without protest. Olmez had not yet found reason to strike his apprentice, and Nace didn't want to give him one. With Kadie already so terrified, it would have been unbearable. When the copper dragon took hold of his tail to thread it through the back of the chair, Nace could feel him shaking.

Olmez nodded silent approval and dismissed the guards with a wave.

Kadie dashed into the darkness and came back with a glass decanter full of mellow, green liquid. In his other hand, he held, jittering, a little pink teacup. He began to transfer the fluid from one to the other.

"Spill that and I'll take it out of your hide," Olmez warned.

Kadie whined again and stilled his shaking hands with painful effort. He filled the cup, not quite to the brim, with that mysterious green elixir that had brought Nace down here once before. The Draught. A drug of such curious intensity and delicate production that it was a rare luxury to the Pythians, but it was given freely to the slaves. Once, at least, for cataloguing. Perhaps again later, for entertainment.

The young copper brought the cup to Nace's muzzle.

The yellow-green instinctively withdrew. "I-I'm not allowed. I'm too young. They--"

"You're allowed now." Kadie spoke softly, sadly. "You're allowed. Please drink it. Please . . ."

Nace drank.

He retched and spat, not the Draught, he had swallowed that, but a thread of acidic saliva. It was bitter, incredibly bitter, and his insides roiled in contact with such awfulness.

"Keep it down," the copper pleaded. His hands were fisted and clutched to his chest. "Keep it down. Keep it down. You're not gonna like what I have to do if you don't keep it down, so for God's sake . . ."

"Arcadio!" the dragon's Master broke in. "Enough! Get on with it."

Incredibly, Kadie began to fill the cup again.

Nace mewled and shook his head.

"Just-one-more-I-promise-I-swear!" the copper hissed, all words one.

Nace shuddered. He didn't think he could take one more. He didn't think he could take half that much, or even a drop. Just the thought of it was making him sick. But when Kadie put the cup to his lips, he drank again, not out of fear for his own well-being, but for the wretched little dragon who was doing this to him. His stomach accepted the second invasion of bitterness with hardly a whimper, perhaps resigned to its fate. Kadie sighed relief, and Nace joined him. The worst seemed over now.

"Watch his eyes!" Olmez snapped.

The young copper jumped, nearly dropping the cup in his shock. He nodded and took barely a moment to store the teacup and decanter away somewhere in the dark. He kept his eyes on Nace all the while, watching so intently there might be nothing else in all the world.

Nace colored a little, a blush in the thin skin of his muzzle and around his horns. Whatever his eyes were supposed to be doing, he hoped they did it soon. He hoped something would happen soon, something other than throwing up in his lap. The Draught was supposed to be amazing. Wonderful! He didn't feel wonderful. He felt sick and cold and afraid. They kept it so cold in here. He was sweating in his anxiety and that just made it worse. The others had no idea what this was like, not even Sidro, who had even made a few batches of the stuff. They had never taken a taste, afraid of the reaction, the loss of control. Afraid of punishment, or embarrassment. They had teased each other and dared each other but never did it, not even once.

If Nace had his way, he would never do it again. It was misery! It was sour, sickening and awful. It churned inside of him and made him shudder with disgust. It dizzied him, made him weak, made him feel as if each breath he drew would be his last. His heart was pounding. He panted for his air. It was hot. It was so horribly hot. He didn't know how it could have gotten so hot so fast. He turned to Kadie, thinking to beg for some answer. Kadie was still looking at him, but not at his eyes.

The yellow-green whined his embarrassment and clamped his legs together, hiding from the young copper's steady gaze. He didn't want to be looked at like that, not there, not now. Not when he was feeling like this. So sick, so scared, so hot, so . . .

Something trembled deep inside of him, twitched, and then began to throb.

His breath escaped him in a shuddering moan. So good! Ye gods, that felt so good! The heat was good, it was . . . It was like every good thing ever! Warm melted butter, a soft, fluffy blanket . . . Being held. Being . . . touched. It made him think things, things he never knew he wanted . . . Or always knew he wanted, but never dared . . .

Oraz. It made him think of Oraz with a hunger that was almost physical. Maybe, maybe, maybe there could be some good, from this. Maybe Oraz would come, and keep him. Keep him for ever and ever and ever. Keep him safe, and use him. He was feeling very amenable to the idea of being used, just now.

He would be a good slave. He would've made a crummy soldier, but he could be a good slave. He liked to be mastered, he liked to be touched. He liked to be tied, and this thought made him arch in the chair and twist his hands in his bonds. He liked this. He would like more of this. It was scary, yes, dangerous, to put himself entirely at the mercy of others, but it was also so incredibly sexy. He felt so incredibly sexy. Helpless. Weak. Oh, but not limp. He was feeling quite the opposite of limp.

They would do things to him, they would do whatever they wanted with him, and he couldn't do a thing to stop them. This had been a frightening fantasy of his, a want like a blade, and he had been afraid to cut himself. But it was out of his hands now, and even though the blade was at his throat, he felt safe. He felt . . . good. They would make him be good, and if he was good, no harm would come to him.

Not so, the voice of doubt spoke from within, frightening, but somehow distant. What's to stop them from hurting you if they can do whatever they want?

The yellow-green smiled, warm and sunny and safe. They won't want to hurt me if I'm good.

"Kaadie?" he said, smiling, a playful lilt.

The young copper staggered back from him, wide-eyed. "What?"

"Am I being good? Am I being very, very, very good?"

Kadie considered this for a moment. "Yes . . . ?" his voice wavered, uncertain, but Nace didn't hear it.

"Mmmm. Good." Nothing else mattered. He could do anything he wanted, now. Well, he could do anything he was allowed. And he only wanted to think of Oraz. Think. Dream. Feel. He couldn't wait to be kept, to be used, and he didn't have to. His mind's eye was wide open, the Draught had done that, and his imagination was well-practiced. Eyes closed, reality dim, he could almost see what he wanted to, feel what he wanted to.

He wanted Oraz. Wanted to touch him. He had done so before, and he brought the memory out and fondled it, picturing the young male in glorious detail. The surface of each plate was smooth and slightly ridged, dark and glossy. They were teardrop-shaped, with the points angled down, overlapping. You could, with careful claw, lift up the pointed edge and feel a line of soft, black flesh beneath. And when you let it fall again--tnk!--it would settle against the plate beneath it. When Oraz moved, he sounded like a bucket of cutlery walking. It embarrassed him, he who would not be noticed at all cost, but Nace thought it a lovely sound. Heavy. Strong. It made him shivery at the thought of contact with those gorgeous, dark plates again. He would lick, he had never done that yet, only on the muzzle, or the cheek. But now he would lick, oh, anywhere, and he would slip his tongue beneath each plate, and see what it felt like. See if the flesh was as tender there as it felt to his claw. And maybe he would bite, just the tiniest bit.

He ran the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth and he shuddered. His thoughts were bringing him erect with delicious leisure. He tried to prolong it happening, but he did not mind it. It was what they wanted, or they wouldn't have given him the Draught. And it was what he wanted, because it felt good, and it added texture to his dream.

Who said he could only to touch with teeth and tongue and claws? If he was to be a slave, if he was to be used, was such contact not expected? Even desired? That Oraz might want him to do so, might force him to do so, was so wonderful a thought he nearly moaned aloud. His hips twitched against the chair, reflexive motion, desperate need.

Penetration was an adult thing, a forbidden thing. It was not a desire to which he could abandon himself whole-heartedly--he wasn't drugged enough for that, not yet, but there were other things. There were other ways that reflexive twitch might bring pleasure. It was doing so now, though he would have preferred the chair were softer, and his position somewhat different. In his season, he had often thought of balling up his blanket, or pressing his soft pillow between his legs. Sometimes he had noticed particularly soft-looking or uniquely-shaped bit of furniture, and his hips would quiver, that same reflexive twitch, and his tongue would creep between his teeth. That was all he would allow himself, he had never actually done anything. He was too embarrassed, too afraid. What if someone had seen him? What if he hadn't been able to stop?

But that was no matter now. He was too hot to be modest, and felt too good to be scared. The Draught was in him, forcing him, and he wanted it to, he let it. So as his shaft pushed out beyond his sheath (wonderful, slick feeling!) he began to roll his hips against the chair, and he thought of Oraz. Oraz was better, he had a texture to him. Plates. Ridges. The very idea of ridges was incredibly sexual. The word itself was. He licked his lips, panting, and tasted his own sweat upon them.

In the midst of all this intolerable stimulation, someone began to speak to him. Slowly. Patiently. Like a child reciting lessons. That was hardly sexy at all and he rather wished it would go away so he could just think.

He thought, with an expanding grin, that while he was touching Oraz, Oraz might very well want to touch him. Lick. Bite. He felt a sudden chill down the back of his neck and breathed a pleasured sigh. Yes, let him bite. He liked to, and Nace liked very much to be bitten. On the throat. On the tender, soft scales of his throat.

Talking. Talking. Why wouldn't it stop talking? He rattled his head and tried to understand what it was saying, so he could make it go away.

"--your name. I need you to tell me your name. I need you to tell me your name . . ."

"My . . . what? . . ." His voice was weak and a little slurry; he could hardly shape the words. There were other things he wanted to do with his tongue right now.

"Your name, Nace."

Name? Ye gods, did he have one of those? "Can't . . . 'member . . . 'way. Go 'way."

"Come on, Nace."

So hopeful, the voice. Had a bit of an edge to it, too. He came back a little more, reluctantly. Name. That should be easy. And then he could just sit and think of Oraz. Ridges. Plates. And his tail . . . Oh, God, the tail! Oraz had never used his tail on him, though it was very well-trained. And Nace had seen it. Oraz was now often allowed to use his tail, instead of being taken from behind, for punishment. He had learned how to use it, so the teacher would stop hurting him when he missed an answer, or got stuck on a word. He was good with it. Good . . .

"Answer me! Make words!"

Nace giggled faintly. He wondered if he was on the verge of being punished himself. That would be okay. That would be fine.

"Nace, if you don't answer soon, I'm going to have to give you more. Please! I have to have your name!"

And if you can't come up with the answers, the yellow-green thought, in the teacher's whipcrack voice, if you're stupid, if you're slow, this is just what will happen to you in real life. The weak and the stupid are taken, just like slaves. On their bellies. On their knees! If you are not clever, if you are not quick, you will be made NOTHING!

Mmm, Nace thought fondly. On their knees. Maybe he could lick . . . Because he certainly couldn't answer the question. He couldn't even remember what it was.

And then, like a dry wind, the answer was in his ear, and it came out of his mouth, as if it had been placed there, "S'Nace. Nace."

He was amazed. He couldn't even control what he was saying. It just, came. Right or wrong, he didn't care. The idea of being forced from within was particularly pleasant. He smiled, eyes half-lidded. When he tried to make the word again himself, it wouldn't come. He couldn't remember it, only a vague sound, "Nnnn . . ."

He wished the voice would ask him more. He wanted it to happen again.

It did: "What's your tribe?"

"Pythian," the word in his head like a breath of warm air, the word in his mouth like a piece of hard candy. Sweet.

"Don't write that down!" Another voice, a teacher-voice, it struck like a snake.

"But it's . . . He said . . ." the first voice, small voice, soft voice. Student voice, confused and terrified.

"It's a lie. There is no Pythian in him. Ask again."

Soft voice, obedient voice: "What's your tribe?"

Nace smiled dreamily as the answer came, "Pythian." Someone behind him, there must be, feeding him the answers. As he had often wanted to do for Oraz. Someone so nice, so strong . . .

"Give him another cup," the teacher-voice said.

"But he can't . . . He doesn't . . ."

Bad student, Nace thought, and the other voice bore him out: "He's lying. You know him to be lying. He's not under if he can lie. Give him another cup and start again!"

Poor student, Nace thought with a sigh, a sigh that became a confused snort. Something hard and cold pressed to his muzzle and poured liquid down his throat. It was expertly done, he had not a moment to protest, not even to think. The taste was awful. He gagged, but he could not bring it up. It slid to his belly like a bad oyster, slimed and rotten. His eyes came open in revolted affront. He saw Kadie, recognized Kadie, and saw how miserable the little dragon was. He remembered the Draught, and was afraid.

But then the heat was on him again, rising to his brain, and he forgot all else. The heat was good, and it made him think of Oraz. Touching. He could almost feel the touch.

"What's your name?" he was asked.

He was given the answer, but his mouth didn't want to work it. His tongue was soft, slick. It was stupid, and it wanted to loll. Eventually, it managed, "Nn-Naace," and he smiled, relieved not to have disappointed. If Oraz was going to give him the answers, the least he could do was say them right.

"Your tribe?"

"Pythian." He was going away again, farther this time. That was good. He could answer without thinking. It was easier without thinking. Much more pleasurable.

"No, Nace!" the sudden sharpness brought him back like a slap. The student-voice hissed in his ear, overriding the pleasant whisper of the answer-giver: "You have to say something else! Anything else, as long as I don't know it's a lie. You could be anything! Siwa, Irisue, Leokum . . . Say you don't have a tribe! This stuff can kill you--"

"Arcadio!" and that was a slap. Loud and hard. Nace mewled fear, though he hadn't felt a thing.

"That's quite enough," the teacher-voice snarled. And the soft voice wept.

A moment later, it was back to business as usual, "Y-your tribe?" but this time Nace was afraid to answer.

"Arcadio . . ." a rising inflection, a warning.

"For God's sake, at least give him the chance!"

Oraz whispered, low and reassuring in his ear. Nace's lips moved, trying to make the word. Nace wanted to help them, but the answer seemed to get tangled up in his mind. He didn't know it. If Oraz couldn't make him answer, he couldn't answer at all. "Pth . . . Pythh . . ." The word was thick, but at last he managed it: "Pythian." He smiled hopefully. Yes, surely that was it now.

But the voices were at war again.

"How can you expect him to know what he is?"

"Arcadio, don't start with me, you will not win . . ."

The soft voice moaned, then asked again, "What's your tribe?"

Nace managed it, barely. "Pythian."

"Oh, God!"

The harsh voice hissed, as through clenched teeth, "Give him another cup, and start again."

"You can't--"

"Give. Him. Another. Cup. And. Start. Again."

"Do you want him to die?" the soft voice cried. "Is that what this is? Why, why do you--"

A snarl and another slap, this one followed by a soft moan of pain.

"Smart mouths ask stupid questions!" the teacher-voice said, and that was a very teacherly thing to say. "You will learn obedience, young one," it continued. "If the rules require that you kill him, then you will kill him. More than that, you will do as I say! If you won't do it by your own will, then I will force you. I can force you, Arcadio. You know it well."

"Oh, God. Oh, God, please . . ."

Nace felt the cup against his lips. He drank without thinking. It was required that he drink, and if he drank, maybe he could go away again. Away from this place of voices and pain.

"Please, Nace, forgive me. God forgive me . . ."

He was drifting. Distantly, his stomach ached, sick and cold and full. But it hadn't betrayed him yet, it wouldn't now. He might not noice even if it did. For all the sensation, the longing that gripped him, the needs of his body felt very far away. All except the one, and that eclipsed all else. It was strong and hot and thumped in time to the beating of his heart. It came in waves, ever increasing, over his shaft, over his body, over his mind. He was drowning, and it was wonderful to drown. There was nothing but to feel, the pressure of the chair against his back and tail, the faint breeze over his scales, the thrum of blood in his veins. Even to breathe, the rhythmic expansion of his lungs and chest, was almost intolerable pleasure. Altogether, it drove him completely mad.

The Draught was all. Lover, father, brother, friend . . . and Master. It commanded him. He writhed in his bonds, trying to get at himself, no longer pretending obedience to the cord, to anything else at all. Touch . . . Touch . . . Don't even think! Fuck. And he would have, if he could have gotten loose, with the first thing he came to. Not thinking of Oraz, not thinking of anything beyond the physical reaction, the need. He would have raped, but not from any love of violence. It would have been an act of sheer submission. The Draught ruled him. He let it. He loved it. He never wanted it to end.

"What's your name?" the soft voice asked him. It brought him back a little, but only very little. His numb mouth tried to give the answer by rote, "Nnnn . . . Nnnasse . . ."

"Your tribe?"

" . . . p . . . py . . . thhh . . ." But there were no more answers, no more words. He was glad. Now they would be quiet, now they would leave him in peace . . .

"Leave it blank," the harsh voice sighed.

"What?" cried the soft voice, now harsh in its own right.

"I said leave it blank! Are you deaf?"

"You made me do all that to him," the soft voice said. "All that . . . You made me hurt him. You made me kill him! And now, now you say it's all right to leave it blank?"

"Smart mouth, young one," the harsh voice warned. "Stupid questions. Do you value your own life so little that you'd risk it for a slave?"

"He's not a slave!" There was the sharp and sudden sound of shattered glass. The voice continued, likewise brittle, almost hysterical. "He was one of us . . . My friend. I don't care what the council says. I don't even care what you say!"

"Watch you tongue, boy. Somebody might tear it off."

"I don't care! I don't care what you do to me. I won't do this. You can't make me do this anymore. I-I'll quit!"

"You what?"

Hush now, as if with wonder: "I quit."

"You can't quit! You worm, you ungrateful little scab . . . You can't quit! Have you forgotten all I've done for you?"

"I have not forgotten." The soft voice dropped to a low, defensve growl. "No, I have not forgotten that. I quit."

"You can't quit! It's not allowed!" The harsh voice cooled and deepened dangerously, "I won't allow it."

"I," the soft voice said, quite clearly. "Quit."

"You DIE!" Olmez roared.

"And so I die," Kadie answered, nodding. "So I die."

Nace let out a long and hollow moan. He almost understood, and he didn't want to understand. This half-madness, this state of almost-knowing was intolerable. He begged to be taken away. The Draught was merciful. The Draught was good. The tide washed over him, warm and pleasant and deep. There was no sound now but the roar of his pulse in his ears, like the ocean one hears in the cup of a shell. The world grew dim, distant, as if viewed through milky glass. He let it. He didn't care for it any longer. He didn't care if he never saw it again, any of it. He shut his eyes and let the water carry him away, sinking deeper, all the time deeper. Away from hard reality, into the softer stuff of fantasy and fever dream.

Oraz was there, waiting for him.

Nace cried out, no words, sheer joy. Relief. But then he remembered what was happening to him, looked down and realized the state he was in. He mewled, flush with shame, and tried to hide the redness between his legs.

Oraz watched him without judgement, without care, almost coldly. After a time, he spoke: "I'm afraid that's not going to go away for a long time, Nace." His voice trailed a faint echo behind it. All sound did. Nace could hear his own heart beating in his ears, a syncopated rhythm, as if he were somehow two dragons living and breathing. It was all so distant. Distorted. His vision was skewed and wrong somehow as well. The whole world was indescribably off, as if viewed through a flawed lense of tinted glass. The glass was too thin to tell what the tint was, or where the flaw lied, but both were there . . . Everywhere. It was like sickness. It was like insanity.

If it had been anyone but Oraz, he would have wept. He would have screamed, pleaded, demanded to be left alone. But he wanted his friend so badly, so much. He sniffled back tears and told himself to be all right. "I'm sorry, Oraz. I cuh-I can't help it."

The male nodded to him. "I know." The words were flat. It was almost sleeptalk. "You are to call me Master now," he added.

"M-ma-aster?" Nace managed. He didn't understand this. He couldn't follow it. It terrified him.

Oraz seemed not to notice his distress. He nodded curtly, "Of course. You're a slave now."

Nace tried to swallow, and suddenly could not. The tight band of leather encricled his throat, a closed circle, an infinite loop. The iron bars slid closed around him, cutting him away from life and light and hope and everything. Forever. He tried to reach through them, to reach Oraz, but he could not, and the male would come no closer. Nace slid to the floor, gasping. No air. There was no more air. "Oraz . . ." he pleaded. Wouldn't he help? Didn't he see? Did the bars stop him from seeing?

"Mas-ter," Oraz corrected him, gently, almost playfully.

"Oraz!" Nace insisted. The cold panic did nothing to quell his maddening arousal, in fact it seemed to grow even worse, as if fear and lust were two parts of one sensation, like sweet/sour or pleasure/pain. It was an intolerable need for contact, for reassurance, and release. He reached out again, straining, one hand pressed up between his legs. "Pleease . . ."

The yellow-green grew cold in horror as something completely new and alarming crept into his friend's expression. It was something much like hatred, laced with a poisonous coating of disgust. Then it was gone again, and his expression softened. He seemed almost sad.

"Nace," he said, with sudden, urgent clarity. He brought up his right hand and touched fingers to his throat. "Put your hand there."

Nace did so, mirroring the motion exactly. It was his left hand which moved, not the right. It was slow, pale, and distant, like watching the dim figure of a fish at the bottom of a clear lake. He shut his eyes, fully expecting to feel the smooth leather of a slave's collar beneath his searching fingers. Instead, he felt only a curved line of tiny indentations. It was a small scar, an old scar, almost invisible. But when he put his hand there, he could feel.

"Do you remember when I gave you that?"

Nace nodded blankly. He would never forget it. Sometimes he had dreams. Sometimes he woke with tears on his pillow. More recently, in his season, there had been dampness of a different kind.

He didn't remember what the fight was about, he could never remember that. It wasn't important. They often fought. It was fun. But this time, the feeling of fun had gone out of it. All of a sudden, they weren't playing anymore. Nace felt it, and it froze him. Oraz felt it, but he did not freeze. He bit down.

Sidro had slowly (perhaps too slowly) gone from cheering and encouraging them both to realizing that Nace was not breathing, and Oraz was not letting go. Somehow, he had hauled the larger male away and socked him in the jaw to bring him back to his senses. Nace knew, because he had been told, that he took considerably longer to come around. Hours. And when he did wake--a red, throbbing bruise branded across his throat, his breath ragged and splintery in his chest--he had been unable to speak for nearly a fortnight. They had wondered if he would ever speak again.

"I remember," he said, running fingers over the pinpricks of Oraz's strong, sharp teeth. "I'll always remember."

"Do you remember how they punished me?"

The yellow-green nodded again, feeling sick. He remembered awakening to the sounds of sobbing, remembered peeling back the quivering blanket and seeing the bruises and the blood. He remembered staying up all night with him and trying to be of comfort, even though his throat was burning and he couldn't say a word. "They . . . They beat you," he said.

Oraz came forward and curled his hand around one bar of Nace's cell. He spoke slowly, somehow grandly, as when he was trying hard not to trip over his words: "They will not beat me any more."

Nace couldn't understand, perhaps did not want to understand. He shook his head rapidly, rattling the words away. They weren't important. He covered the dragon's hand with his own. "Oraz . . ."

"Master."

"Master," Nace echoed. "All right. If you want. I--"

Oraz slipped his muzzle through the bars, nosed his cheek, and silenced him with a kiss. Nace trembled. The iron bars trembled. It was as if the whole word would be shaken to pieces around him.

But then Oraz pushed him back and stepped away. That sad look was creeping back again, but it was such a distant sadness. "Don't forget it, Nace," Oraz said. He touched two fingers to his throat, one last gesture of farewell. He was not leaving, but fading into darkness. "Be careful. You won't see me again."

"Oraz!" the yellow-green cried, clawing at the ragged wisps of his dissolving vision. But the dream was shattered. It blew away in gauzey tatters, revealing only darkness beyond. Darkness forever.

"MASTER!" he screamed.

Then it was gone.

There were other dreams, a dizzying ocean of them, each more sex-soaked and agonizing than the last. He felt touches and caresses, the featherlight brush of a teasing fingertip, and the hard slap of correction. He found brief respite in the pain of a merciless penetration, and endless, torturous esctasy in the pleasure from a slow and gentle suckle. The dreams were fragmented, jagged and sickeningly sweet, like pretty shards of shattered glass, drenched in honey to disguise them. The dreams were absolute reality, relentless in their hold upon his brain, ruthless in their determination to wring every drop of pleasure from his being.

It made no matter. The first dream was poison in the cup of his mind. No sweet fantasy could quell that deadly, bitter taste. It was like drinking ether. It was like drinking death.

He was dead, cut off from everything he ever thought he was or would be. A friend, a student, a soldier, a lover--No more. Only a sad, pathetic slave remained. Oraz was dead too, at least to him. It could never be the same between them. There would be no love, only fealty. He would never see Oraz again, only a Master. Masters. An endless succession of those. He would be used--the Draught seized upon that and dangled it before him like a pretty toy--but never, ever loved. A slave deserved no better. A slave deserved nothing at all.

If the dreams had allowed it, he would have wept.

---

The last vision left him in a low and shuddering groan. The sound faded rapidly as his voice came back under conscious control, but it lasted long enough to make him open his eyes and wonder where it had come from, and where it had gone.

It was dark here. A strange darkness that somehow made his pupils ache and contract. A darkness that should have been light. Sleep and dream vision swathed his mind in velvet drape. It felt dark. It was as if his eyes had fallen back into his head and he was peering out through the shadow of his empty skull. He groaned and twitched, not wanting this image, afraid it might begin another dream, or might even be true. Even the fear did nothing to rouse him, and the groan echoed hellishly in his ears.

As he curled in on himself, hiding from this intolerable, black reality, the specter of his swollen length penetrated the fog and hovered before his eyes like some perverse balloon. With a weak cry of disgust, he lifted one distant, heavy hand and tried to push it away.

He howled.

The velvet drape was torn away, revealing an explosive fire of pleasure that seared him back to life. Every nerve was alight with sensation. The ecstasy was incredible. The agony nearly surpassed it. Had it gone on any longer, he would have gone mad. He would have torn his throat out to be rid of it, to have peace. But it faded as quickly as it had burst upon him, leaving him weak and grateful in a puddle of semen on a cold, stone floor.

He was in a cell. There were bars around him--That was all he had time to register before another feeling surged up from within. It was nowhere near as maddening, but far more sickening than the first. Before he could even consider leaning forward or turning away, he vomited a clear wash of bitter bile down his front. Another tide of sickness followed, then another, and after that he lost count, unable to discern a dry retch from a productive one. His stomach cramped and twisted within him, determined to bring up every drop that it contained.

Perhaps an hour later, one final gag constricted his throat, and the last of the sickness left with it.Trembling, weak, and incredibly thirsty, he swayed in dizzy circles, seeming miles above the ground. Consciousness drained out of him like water swirls out of a basin, inexorably, taking vision and sense with it. He fell in his own mess, unconscious before he hit the floor, too weak and tired to dream again.