Fire in the Cave

by P. W. Chance

  Someone caught her arm. Highhawk. Friend. Others moving close, looking worried. Highhawk whispering, hissing in her ear, “Do you need help? Witch-girl, tell me how to help you.”

  She needed the knot undone. Needed to get loose. Needed strength, strength equal to Black-dog, to pull apart the knot and free her. She had lost her grip on the fur, it was sliding down her body, falling to the floor. She felt eyes on her, staring. Bors, biggest of the men, was standing beside them now, concern on his broad face. He was strong. Wrong kind of strength, wrong kind of power, he couldn’t help her.

  “Find White-stag,” the witch-girl mumbled. “Bring the daylight brother.” She closed her eyes, and felt arms reach out to catch her as she fell.

  Chapter 4

  Follow

  The witch-girl was floating. She was warm, breathing deeply, softness all around her. Tightness between her legs; the leash was still on her. She opened her eyes. She was being carried, wrapped in a fur. She could see sky, and the worried faces of Highhawk and Bors. She could feel their hands under her, lifting her, floating her down the hillside.

  “We’ll take her to her hut, she’s stronger there,” Highhawk was saying. “I’ll stay with her while you bring White-stag.”

  The witch-girl closed her eyes, and she was somewhere else.

  She was running, running through the forest on four legs, fast and powerful and hungry. Two others ran with her, keeping pace. Her brother hound was a shadow in the trees, flashing through patches of sunlight, bounding over logs, happy to be hunting. And her human, her master, where was he?

  She saw him. He was ahead of her, flying through the woods, slipping through thickets like a wind, leaping fallen trees and landing silent on bare feet, black hair streaming behind him. She could smell his sweat, hear his breathing, know his mood. He was hungry, angry, seeking. She felt a surge of love and loyalty, a roaring fire within her. Her master was strong and good; she would help him. She would help him find what he hunted, help him take it. He would give commands, in single words and gestures, and she would obey, she would get it right every time. And he would praise her, strong wonderful master would pat her head and scratch her ears and say “good girl,” and she would know she was good because master was strong and wise and he said so. And he would teach her more tricks, and she would obey more, and he would smile, and she would be his good girl forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “There. Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  There was a man in the waterfall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A few minutes before, she had been bathing alone in the river. And now a man or spirit had simply taken her, simply picked her up and started touching and tasting her, laid her down and started satisfying himself with her body, sending quivering feelings up her spine. Her face was hot with embarrassment. She could barely believe she was just letting it happen, letting him do anything he wanted to her. But then, she wasn’t sure she could make him stop even if she wan
ted to.

  She was breathing hard, sweat beginning to mingle with the drops of river water on her skin. She raised her head, blinking, looking down to see what he was doing to her. She was on the mossy bank, and he was in the river, everything below his waist hidden by the swirling current as he bent over her. His broad, tanned shoulders sparkled with water drops in the sunlight as he bent to kiss and taste her. His face was shrouded by his long, dark hair, but she saw him look up at her, dark eyes shining with hunger.

  His eyebrows lowered, frowning. She felt his teeth on her, biting, punishing. She gasped, back arching, eyes squeezing closed again. Not safe to stare at spirits. His mouth was on her, his tongue was slipping inside, she was pressing her hands to her face and trying not to wail as he licked inside her, rolled his tongue around her entrance, slipped in again, deeper. But then he pulled away.

  His arms released her legs. She couldn’t feel his touch any more, anywhere. She kept her eyes squeezed closed, hoping, hoping the spirit wouldn’t just leave her here, naked and half-ravished by the river. She felt herself blushing, as she realized how much she wanted and needed to feel that way, be touched that way, just a little longer. Biting her lip, she held her breath, listening, trying to sense his presence.

  He was above her, inches away, his body over hers. She felt the cool of his shadow, blocking the sun, heard the soft sound of the moss pressed under his hands to either side of her. And then the warmth of his skin on her thighs, parting them wide, and she bit her lip as something hard, and warm, and smooth touched her wet, ready entrance and began to push into her.

  And in, and in. She was holding her breath as he filled her, digging her fingers into the ground, stretching around him as he moved in deeper. He was slow, slow, and she could feel her body opening to him, stretching and changing to fit him, to shape around his thick, deep shaft. Just as she was beginning to see stars, just as the fullness was beginning to hurt, he stopped moving. She panted, eyes squeezed closed, hands reaching up to touch his chest. He was in her and above her, motionless, breath slow and deep, the smell of him a mix of river and earth and maleness. She felt her body relaxing, the shivery tension going out of her legs, her hands releasing their fistfuls of moss. She could take it, just barely: the core of heat in her center, his shaft, inside her.