Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Introduction
HOT AS A DRAGON’S BLOOD
OF HIGH RENOWN
AT THE SORCERER’S COMMAND
SILVER
IN THE KINGDOM OF ROZ
KEY TO THE QUEEN’S ELIXIR
HERE THERE BE DRAGONS
FLESH AND STONE
SAINTS AND HEROES
ESCAPE
EYEKEEPER
THE WIDOW’S MAN
JERICHO
THE LAST SACRIFICE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
FOREWORD
In my observation, women generally crave reassurance the way men crave sex: often. So when it comes to erotic fantasy, male-written stories feature myriads of phenomenally luscious young virgins throwing their eagerly naked bodies at the man’s rock-hard erection so he can rapidly fill them all to capacity and move on, looking for adventure. Female-written stories feature demure young women yearning for the handsome prince with the seductive curve of his eyebrows who must marry soon or lose his heritage, and he must somehow not only notice his worthy handmaid as more than a sex object, but satisfy her repeatedly that he now realizes that he always secretly loved her and must have her as his queen. No, of course they aren’t all quite like that, but for generalities these will do. I always hoped for well-plotted stories that included sex and magic and realistic action and characterization, but seldom found them. So when I became a writer, I tried to write stories that merged the male and female elements, and got nowhere, finding no market. They had to be one or the other, not both. Parnassus—that is, the traditional publishing establishment—had spoken.
But there has been progress, notably in the past decade as electronic publishing developed, because it opened the market wide for both what authors wanted to write, and readers wanted to read. The bottleneck of hidebound traditional publishing was getting bypassed, and erotic fiction flourished. Now the uncensored market, rather than the censorious editors, governed. Along with this revolution came a crossing of boundaries as men like me wrote fantasy with real penis-and-vagina sex in it, and women wrote erotica with blunt cock-and-cunt action. The traditional viewpoints have crossed over and overlapped and we are no longer required to be typecast. No longer does fantasy romance have to consist of a chaste kiss followed by an ellipsis and perhaps later a stork delivery, the limit of what a maiden aunt thinks is appropriate for children, never mind that this is not being marketed to children. Those ellipses drove me crazy. Consider what other fiction would be like if the same technique were applied. The hero girds his sword and marches forth to fight the dragon…afterward recovering from his grievous wounds. The sorcerer waves his magic wand and…our friends are relieved to have escaped his power. The sphinx says “I will pose you a riddle”…after which they gaze on its dead body. The hero knows he must destroy that nefarious magic ring…and thus the world is saved. Or the movies, when Star Wars might start with print scrolling grandly across the screen, consisting of one huge ellipsis. Do these ellipses improve the stories? No? Then why use them at all? Today we don’t have to. The old repressive editing can go…itself.
Still, merely having magic, adventure, and sex in the same story isn’t enough. Each element needs to be integral to the whole. The test for this is that if you can take it out without destroying the story, it’s not integral. It takes some writing skill to meld the several elements. Which is the point here: we have stories that do merge not merely man and woman, or on occasion woman and woman, but the divergent aspects of the narrative. I was delighted to read a story wherein it is the woman who craves the sex and the man who is desperate for reassurance. In this one he is deliriously ill from combat wounds and she tends him devotedly, even clasping his chilled body to hers when there is no other way to warm him. In the course of that he recovers enough to get sexually aroused, and blindly forces sex on her. When he is completely well he realizes that he has raped her, and is horrified and refuses to touch her again, despite her interest, until she asks him which of them he is punishing. That leads to a slow clarification of motives and guilt until it can be worked out. We have to see the sex occurring in order to understand the state they both are in and how they finally come to terms with it. Or the one wherein a woman with erratic fathoming has to mind read the secret name of a hostile sorceress, and that comes only when she is in the throes of illicit sex in the presence of that sorceress. Or the problem of a blood-bond to a dragon steed that must exist if that dragon is to be ridden into battle. But semen is like blood, and when the female squire has sex with the dragon rider she partakes of his essence and can now ride the dragon. Sex is integral and vital to the story.
These stories seem to be mostly by and for women. But I as a male reader enjoyed them, and believe that you, the reader of either gender, will too. They are magically complete.
Piers Anthony
INTRODUCTION
The fantasy genre has a long and distinguished history in literature, evolving within the last two centuries into the form of fantasy we know today. Although the genre has always remained popular with true aficionados, it’s experiencing a renaissance in today’s contemporary fiction, particularly that of high fantasy or, as it’s commonly referred to, “epic fantasy.” Epic fantasy works are set in worlds that are often timeless and strangely familiar, yet at the same time completely alien to us. These worlds can exist within our own primary world or in a parallel one. They are worlds that draw us in and make us believe, even though we know such worlds cannot possibly exist.
Or can they?
Legendary authors such as J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis helped hone and refine the epic fantasy genre, inspiring generations of future writers to craft their own works. Although many of these works were initially intended for younger audiences, the genre began to change and evolve as more adults picked up these books, especially in recent years. The stories became darker, sexier, as did the characters. Indeed, these were no longer books targeted for the eyes of children and adolescents. These books were instead being targeted for the eyes of adults. The film and television adaptations of novels such as those from The Lord of the Rings trilogy and their sexier cousin A Game of Thrones (adapted from George R. R. Martin’s epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire) have buoyed the genre to the bestseller list. And it is here where it happily remains.
Thrones of Desire: Erotic Tales of Swords, Mist and Fire is a place where lust and legend abound, and adventure, passion and danger entwine. Think mystical lands and creatures, kings and queens, knights and renegades, heroes and villains. Think battles and danger, honor and dishonor, good and evil. Most of all think hearts filled with passion and secret desire. This is a place where romantic chivalry is alive and well, but so too is romantic wickedness. This is a place where the good do not always win, and the bad are often more captivating and desirable than their altruistic counterparts. In these timeless lands, the battle for flesh is as important as the battle for power.
Intrigue, sorcery, revenge, lawlessness, love and redemption, dark secrets and mysterious trinkets, evil spells and entanglements with supernatural beings—everything is possible in these mythical landscapes. This anthology brings these elements together in a collection of original stories penned by an international cast of writers that have embraced the true spirit of epic fantasy and created their own special worlds for us to visit. You’ll find it all right here: corrupt kings, lusty queens, handsome princes, virginal princesses, randy knights, wicked sorcerers, kick-ass heroines, vengeful witches, mysterious shape-shifters…and we’re definitely not short on a few dragons either!
I’ve set out the welcome mat, a
nd I invite you to step into these magical and sensuous worlds to experience them for yourself. Be warned: you might not wish to return to this one!
Mitzi Szereto
London
HOT AS A DRAGON’S BLOOD
Eric Del Carlo
Under the moons’ pale luminescence and beneath the crushing weight of his own disappointment, Caffax wandered the long stony plateau where the dragons waited in their ranks for the dawn, and for the great battle that would decide this war. Here was the brink of history. The Three-Cornered War had prevailed for generations, a gruesome wasteful stalemate; but tomorrow the dragons would fly in such numbers against the Kekkelati Empire of the east that the deadlock would break. One side or the other would be left victorious.
But Caffax would not be a part of that awesome bloody mayhem, even though he was a dragonmaster, even though he had brought his family’s salt dragon from his home village of Uebimmo’s Point to the designated staging area in the easternmost reaches of the Realm of Vahcray. This crucial battle would have to be waged without him.
Caffax had committed an…indiscretion. But what was, to him, far more damning was that he and the brawny Vahcray supply clerk had been caught at it.
His eyes trailed along the rows of tethered, resting dragons, and his heart swelled with sorrow. Here were the finest mounts he’d ever seen: sinuous spiral dragons, plump water dragons from the Sapphire Sea, ink dragons nearly invisible in the moons-lit nighttime, tusked and ferocious pike dragons, the huge purple shell-backed rock dragons, and dozens of other varieties. Truly, there were dragons here he knew only as rumor, breeds which came from the Kingdom of Mavvan.
The Realm of Vahcray and the Kingdom of Mavvan, longtime enemies, were boldly joining forces to vanquish their mutual adversary, the Kekkelati Empire.
Caffax approached his salt dragon and raised a hand. The white-whiskered face lowered and brushed his palm with a huge warm nostril. The creature knew him the way all such beasts did: by his blood.
The large, dignified beast to whom he had been blood-bonded since his thirteenth year was also anticipating tomorrow’s historic battle. Caffax was certain of this, though he and the dragon didn’t communicate verbally. The mare had a large troop saddle buckled to her back. Caffax would have delivered soldiers eastward, either archers trained to fire while in flight or infantry he would have dropped at a designated site.
Now, tragically, that wouldn’t happen. He stroked the salt dragon’s throat, where he felt her heavy pulse beneath the scales. The mare would be confused when, as the dawn arose, he steered her westward, back toward Uebimmo’s Point and the terrible explanations he would have to make to his family.
All his life he had wanted to do his part to bring an end to the relentless Three-Cornered War, which had taken the lives of men and women from his village as well as throughout the Realm.
With the thump of the mare’s hot blood beneath his hand, Caffax hung his head and let the first hiccupping sobs jerk his narrow chest.
Then he heard the cry for help, and the cruel laughter that followed. His feet fell hard on the ground as he started toward the disturbance. Ahead he saw torchlight and shapes moving against it.
“What goes on there?” he called out, surprised by the strength in his voice.
He came up to a trio of guards, and one individual who was not a sentry. He saw the sneers on the faces of the guards, and he recognized that look of frolicsome cruelty. The three were terrorizing the fourth person on the scene, laughing and shoving. Caffax remembered occasions like this from his own childhood, when he had been the object of sport, the outcast, the strange boy who didn’t take a proper interest in girls.
The guards stopped what they were doing, for the moment. A torch flickered in the hand of one of the sentries. Caffax was still wearing his dragonmaster livery. He had meant to go to battle in this finery. Perhaps, though, the costume still had a use. These guards might mistake him for an officer.
“Stand away from him,” he said in that same commanding tone. Hopefully they didn’t know of the scandalous events of earlier today. “Release him!”
In the unsteady light, he saw a hand touch a sheathed sword’s pommel. Caffax himself wasn’t armed, and his flesh prickled, anticipating the bite of cool lethal metal. Still, he stood his ground.
Then a chuckle from one of the guards was followed by another muttering amusedly, “Him, he says.” But the trio did step back.
The dark, sturdy Mavvan woman raised luminous yellow eyes toward Caffax. She smoothed her exotic scarlet robes and said, with a tentative smile, “My thanks to you. I should like to stand you a drink for your bravery.”
He had figured she would take him down the broad cut-stone steps to the plain below, to one of the hundreds of campfires or tents. Instead, she turned up a trail toward a small craggy peak.
As she climbed, her shape was revealed where it pressed against the fabric of her robes. This was a taut, almost brawny individual. Caffax had difficulty convincing himself that this was indeed a female.
The Kingdom of Mavvan lay southerly. A different people, with their own customs. Recently, the inhabitants of this faraway land had been the ancestral enemies of Vahcray. Too recently, in fact. It was why the guards had been bullying her.
Halfway up the peak, she stepped off onto a broad ledge and he came after, surprised to see a structure here. Or the remains of one.
“It’s the old lookout,” she said, indicating the small roofless building, its rough walls half razed.
“How did you know this was here?”
“I reconnoitered the area yesterday when my unit arrived. I am squire to my dragonmaster. Ours is the locust dragon, the large gray colt.”
Caffax had no squire, seeing to his own mount and supplies. “Mine is the salt. Blue leather saddle.”
“I am sure I must have seen it.”
“She’s a fine mount.”
“As is our gray,” she said. “Won’t you come inside?” Her accent lent the words a melody.
Caffax didn’t know if he wanted company this night. But this place was peaceful and isolated, and he would only have spent his time weeping with his dragon, after all. Besides, she had mentioned a drink.
She said, “My name is Rhoishko.”
“Caffax.” No need to identify himself as a man of Vahcray. Just as her Mavvan dress and speech distinguished her unmistakably, to say nothing of her skin’s pigment.
He followed her into the tiny ruin.
She struck a flint and lit a candle. The wax smelled of autumn breezes. The structure’s interior was empty of furnishings, but the accumulated powder from the crumbling walls made the floor soft as he sat down. Rhoishko lowered herself opposite. A dark-glassed bottle of strange curving shape sat nearby, along with two small matching brass cups, which gleamed in the candlelight. She poured equal measures.
Caffax lifted one of the cups. The liquid inside appeared purple. He raised it to his lips.
“Shall we toast?” Rhoishko said.
His cup still hovering, he asked, “Shall we what?”
Arching brows drew together over her yellow eyes. “A toast. A salute. Something said over a drink. You do not have this custom in the Realm?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, then.” She posed a moment with her cup upraised. “We drink to the defeat of the Empire. May a lasting peace follow.”
“A lasting peace,” he repeated, truly meaning the words. Then they both drank. What a charming practice—the toast. He would have to pass it on when he next had the chance. Of course, the customs of Mavvan and Vahcray might blend and blur even more should the alliance endure after the Empire’s fall. Caffax, though, had his doubts. There would always be people in the Realm like those bullying sentries, full of pointless hostility.
The liquor was warming and sweet. He liked it. They talked of the war, and agreed how costly and useless the stalemate had been.
They talked of tomorrow’s epic battle.
&
nbsp; They spoke of dragons. Breeds, training, technique. Her knowledge was very impressive.
And they drank more of the purplish liquor.
Caffax had undone several catches on his elaborately embroidered jacket. He was experiencing a deepening peace, which some part of him knew to be merely the onset of drunkenness. Still, it was better than facing his present reality. And, truly, Rhoishko was good company.
Something occurred to him belatedly, however. He sat up. Gazed at the candle. Eyed the dark-glassed bottle that had been waiting here, as well as the two cups.
He looked across, focusing his gaze on the scarlet-robed woman. She too had loosened her raiment with the heat of their drinking. She was a dragonmaster’s squire, she’d said. But she was also Mavvan. Caffax didn’t want to distrust her solely on the basis of that. But—
“But,” he heard himself saying aloud, “what, may I ask, were you in fact doing on the plateau so late amongst the dragons?” Now that there was no retrieving the question, he wished he had made it sound more casual.
In that melodic tone Rhoishko said, “I didn’t come to see the dragons.” She carefully set aside her brass cup. “I sought you. And I have found you.”
Softly he asked, “What do you want from me?”
“I wish to ride your salt dragon into battle tomorrow.”
He found himself blinking repeatedly and rapidly. For a time he couldn’t stop as he tried to make sense of her statement.
Finally, all he could do was bleat, “What?”
“I was duplicitous earlier. I have seen your salt mare with the blue saddle. I can ride her.”
She was saying these outrageous things in so matter-of-fact a manner. “But you’re not a dragonmaster,” he sputtered. “You said—you’re a squire.”
“I am a woman. In the Kingdom of Mavvan that means I can never become a dragonmaster, even though I know how to fly, even though I am the equal of the dragonmaster I serve.”
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