Underworld of the Chevaan

Satyra

Underworld of the Chevaan

Chapter 1

Devil's Bargain

Raising her head Satyra shook her head to clear it and flexed her fingers behind the wooden stocks. For the past two days she had tried to use her magic to free herself, without success. Now she tired again, focusing all her strength, her knowledge, her will, channeling them as she pinpointed her desire to sunder the metal bands holding her.

Nothing happened.

Satyra slumped back against the frame in defeat, but almost immediately she sensed a tingle in the air, a rising supernatural buzz that played over her skin like the flutter of a summer breeze. She lifted her head again, but she had no need to try to probe with her mystical senses – the source of the feeling was quickly obvious.

Without preamble a flickering blue flame sprang to life on the wooden floor before the trapped priestess. It burned only a few feet high, but quickly rose higher and higher until its ragged crest licked against the roof of the wagon. Satyra felt no heat form the gushing pillar of fire, and felt instinctively that the manifestation would not attract the notice of the guards outside as a common fire would have. This apparition was meant to be seen by Satyra alone.

With a sudden flurry the flame seemed to explode outwards, washing over the shackled woman without burning her, and from the middle of the cold fires, a figure emerged.

At first it seemed to a woman, but even the most cursory of inspections revealed it was a woman such as no mortal of the Roman Company escorting Satyra had ever seen.

Her hair was jet black, so black it almost seemed like a void gathered about her head, and fell in a long straight flow over her shoulders and halfway down her back, while the fringe was straight cut, as straight and sharp as a razor. Framed by that raven hair was a face of exotic beauty, with high prominent cheekbones, a long straight nose, full sensuous lips and large, hypnotic eyes. The lips, though, were black instead of red, and the eyes that settled on the captive woman were faintly glowing, lynx-like yellow. There was a mark of cruelty in those eyes that struck Satyra at once. On either side of her forehead parting the raven hair sprang two horns; but where Satyra's were ones of curling ivory hue and shaped like those of a ram, these were formed by two straight lines rising up at about 45 degrees for half a foot, before angling sharply back again for a slightly shorter length. They ended in two wicked points facing each other.

She was tall, fully as tall as the 5'10 priestess, with long tapering legs and slender body, Where the Chevaan's skin was a rich golden hue, the newcomers was crimson red that contrasted sharply with the barbaric golden jewelry adorning her arms, wrists, and slender ankles. She was naked from the waist up, her smooth belly bare to the world and her pert, full breasts open to all viewers, their blue peaks tipped with tight, hard nubbins that were so dark they were almost black. One of the nipples was pierced by a golden ring. Below the waist she was clad only in two shimmering purple silk clothes that were strung from a golden chain about her waist and fell down between her legs at the front and back, revealing a plentiful expanse of her smooth thighs and the dimples of her tightly molded derriere at the rear. The purple was not quite translucent, but it hinted at the beings intimate regions nestled betwixt those lovely legs.

The face below those midnight tresses regarded Satyra with a cold mirth. As the flames died away the newcomer padded over to the helplessly bound priestess, the exaggerated sway of her hip conveying a mocking tone to her demeanor.

"Well, they have got you in an interesting position," said the red woman, and her voice was deep and rich. She approached until she stood a few feet in front of Satyra, hands on her hips. The priestess's limbs were trembling continuously with the strain of having to take almost her full weight on her shoulders and the quadriceps in her legs. Her position forced her body to bend at the waist as her shoulders and knees were pulled behind her, and the effect was two fold. First, her large breasts were presented magnificently, thrust forward proudly I front of her. Second, her legs were spread wide enough to make her crotch a hard flat space below her belly, the lips under their adornment of ginger fluff hanging free in space over the floor. Her whole figure was covered in a soft film of sweat from the exertion. "I imagine that must be quite uncomfortable."

Satyra looked up into those yellow eyes, blanching slightly at the malevolence she saw in them. 'Whoever you are,' the priestess whispered, 'help me before the guards find us together.'

The red woman laughed, her head thrown back and her breasts quivering as she chuckled. 'Have no fear of that, my pretty one,' she said. No Roman will interrupt our conversation unless I will it so. As to my name?' She paused and smiled more widely as those golden eyes glittered. 'You may call me Sadiste.'

Satyra grimaced at the woman's humorless laughter; something about it felt like being leered at by the soldiers outside. Her manor became less desperate and more guarded. 'You're no Roman,' the priestess asserted. 'What are you doing here?'

Sadiste wandered over to the shackled woman, reaching out to run a hand over Satrya's painfully stretched arm. 'I'm here to see you, of course,' the red-skinned newcomer said, still smiling. 'After all, this entire episode has been largely due to interest in you.'

'What do you mean?' asked Satyra, but a cold realization was already forming in her mind.

'There are those I serve who are very interested in you, and your abilities,' Sadiste explained. Her long nailed fingers twined in the satyr-woman's copper hair. 'Our influence among the Roman's made it easy to prompt them to move against your tribes-people, and from there it was only a matter of time before you found your pretty self in such a…bind, shall we say?' Sadiste smiled again, looking the prisoner's naked torso up and down. Her eyes glowed ore brightly. 'I must confess, the last minute rescue in the forest by that black-haired trollip was unexpected, but I believe I improvised brilliantly – especially the bit where my magicks hid the approach of those Roman clods while you and Conine where having your little tryst in the lake.'

'You heartless bitch!' Satyra spat angrily, shaking her head to free her hair from her visitor's grasp. 'Everything that happened to our sisters, to Conine; it was all you!'

'Well, yes,' Sadiste answered with a shrug. Her hand whipped back, this time grasping Satyra's jaw and forcing her head up so she looked into those glowing yellow eyes. 'I have to confess, watching your black haired lover scream on the end of Gracus' prick was an unexpected bonus. I suppose I could have appeared much sooner, but she looked so pretty being raped. And there was no chance of you using your poor powers to help her – another little spell of mine saw to that.'

'Slut!' Satyra spat angrily.

'She moaned like one certainly, Sadiste chuckled, playing on the priestess' words. 'And now, my little one, we bring ourselves to your own fate.'

'You can't frighten me,' Satyra answered, staring back defiantly.

'You, don't think so? You may think that gang-fucking in the forest when you were captured was bad, but I assure you once you get to Rome they'll have your shrieking like a stuck pig for hours on end. They have tortures and degradations that even our folk find impressive.'

'And who are your people?' Satyra asked.

Sadiste leaned in closer. 'The dark powers have many servants. I work for one of them – a particularly voracious Demon Lord who prefers that your sisters' example of feminine dignity remains trampled beneath the boots of men sympathetic to his…appetites.' Sadiste moved so close her breath tickled the Chevaan's cheek. 'And he's very interested in making your personal acquaintance, my dear.'

Satyra struggled to control her anger as her tormentor's hand held her head back while she nuzzled against the red-haired woman's neck. 'Why me,' she asked in a choked voice.

'You power are unique,' Sadiste answered, stepping forward so her body pressed up against the prisoner's in the stocks. 'You heritage makes you a channel for the powers of the whore-goddess your sisters revere.' The demoness free hand reached up to cup Satyra's full breast, squeezing gently. The prisoner shuddered but could do nothing to prevent the touch. 'Your joining our ranks will greatly diminish her influence her among the mortals, and increase our own.'

'I'll never join you,' Satyra vowed icily.

Sadiste's grip on the captive's tit increased just enough to become painful, making Satyra wince. She kissed the red-head's smooth neck. 'We can be very persuasive,' she whispered.

Satyra fought to overcome her rage and think clearly as Sadiste continued to explore with her hands. They were hot on the prisoner's soft skin as they brushed over the peak of her breast and slid down her stomach in a mockery of tenderness. 'I know enough of your foul kind to know that you cannot take me from this place without my consent,' she said.

Sadiste chuckled as she moved her hand around to grasp Satyra's tight rump. She pulled back a little to again meet the satyr-woman's gaze. 'It would be fun to find out just how long that defiance lasts in the face of what Gracus has planned for this body,' she mused, 'but time presses, and my Lord is not well-known for his patience. Perhaps an alternative form of persuasion would be expedient.'

Moving around behind the bound girl while keeping one long red leg twined high about Satyra's waist, the demon-woman waved her hand in the air before the prisoner. Blue flame again rose from the wagon floor, but this time instead of a new arrival, an image took shape.

'Conine,' Satyra gasped, seeing her lover amidst the flames.

*****

Conine blinked and opened her eyes. She heard steps approaching from the side of the table. They were slow, measured step and somehow filled her with a sense of growing dread as they came closer.

A soldier appeared in the circle of light around the rack. He was dressed in tunic bottom and helm and carried a heavy iron ladle, so large he had to carry it with both hands, the bowl of which was filled with something that bubbled and steamed. As the Chevaan watched the man, he came to stand level with her up-thrust breasts, smiling like a fiend as he kept his eyes riveted to those two glistening orbs.

Conine's breath quickened again as she stared up from the wooden torture table at the ladle and its hidden contents. The heat emanating form the lower edge of the container could be felt clearly on her skin even though the metal was poised a good twelve inches above her. She struggled again against the pull of the chains holding her spread-eagled and was surprised to find the tension had eased slightly, though the ache of her brutally wrenched muscles and ligaments continued to torment her. Before she could wonder at this seeming mercy, however, a drop of the liquid contents of the ladle was spat over the side and landed on her right arm.

The pain was startling, a sudden burning shock that cut through the constant suffering of her joints like a knife. The ladle was filled to the brim with some kind of thin oil heated to boiling. The full horror of what was about to happen flooded through the proud beauty, her flashing blue eyes rimmed all round with white as the soldier tipped the ladle gently to one side and began to pour.

For a split second the yellowish liquid was suspended in the space between the metal holder and the soft curve of her bosom. Then the spatter of boiling oil splashed against the upward slope of her breast like lava.

'NNNNHHHHHhhhh!!!' A voice that had never given such an utterance on the rack now choked out a strangled cry of agony as the liquid bequeathed a searing kiss to her tender mammary. Compared to the heat of the oil the whipping had been a sweet caress. Conine's large eyes were no more than a scrunched line as her long lashes mashed tight, and her body shuddered awfully as the pain washed over her.

With terrible precision the man with the ladle moved the instrument carefully. The rain of scalding liquid shifted its target, cascading down directly onto the tit-globe's erect red nubbin.

'EEEEUUUUuuuuuNNNN…NNNN….NNNNRRRRRRRR!!!!!' The pain was unbelievable, as if the Roman fiends had planted a red-hot poker against her flesh. Conine's entire body spasmed mightily, lifting clear of the table in an upward curving arch of gorgeous femininity. Her mind was ablaze with the terrible agony of her scorched nipple as the oil continued to sizzle against the sensitive nerves clustered in her swelling chest mound.

From his chair Gracus leaned forward to enjoy every detail of the display with glee. The easing of the tension on the table's chains allowed the prisoner to writhe exquisitely, and this Chevaan slut was putting on a magnificent show. The tortured athletic frame on the rack heaved and shook so that the entire exquisite composition of lean muscles, shining smooth skin, long tapering legs, flat midriff and blessedly large firm tits performed a cock-stiffening dance macabre, accompanied by the strangled cries bubbling between those as-yet still clenched teeth. As the man with the ladle continued to move his tool the burning liquid showered down over the sensitive underside of that rigidly defined love-orb, causing the victim to crash back down onto the wooden table again as she thrashed and heaved, straining with muscles already wrenched with pain and multiplying her suffering threefold.

The rain of scalding liquid shifted, and the oil splashed now over the lower quarter of the prisoners trembling bosom. Fresh half-choked cries of anguish echoed through the torture chamber as the heat washed over the sensitive underside of the tit. Gracus knew that a woman's breast flesh was often far more tender here, used as it was to being covered far more than the upper part of the mammary. His insight was rewarded by the Chevaan warrior twisting wonderfully in her restraints; lips pulled back form white teeth in a rictus of pain that only enhanced the beauty of her features in the general's eyes.

On the rack Conine continued to struggle hopelessly against her bondage while the terrible searing deluge snaked down over her boob and continued lower, washing her sternum and the flat plain of her abs with its fiery touch. Tears welled freely in her eyes, which were closed tight against the horrible pain. She gasped and tried to catch her breath but the torture was constant, the pain in her scorched tit-flesh as fresh and clear as the moment the oil had first found her budding nipple. As the ladle progressed further down her form her body became a canvas of torture on which the Romans painted a portrait of epic cruelty.

By the time the burning sludge pooled in the cavity of her navel she could no loner think clearly through the red haze stabbing through her mind, but understood instinctively the final destination of the molten flame. She managed to lift her head as her belly was added to the list of tormented flesh, willing herself to stare down as the ladle dipped and swayed and scattered burning drops amid the sweat shiny thatch adorning her pubis.

It was a moment of exquisite cruelty for Gracus, the proud warrior staring wide-eyed but still defiant at the ladle of hot liquid poised majestically over her most intimate region, the parted red lips offering no protection to the vulnerable quim meat within. For an instant she waited with her breasts quivering with the fight to control her breathing, to hold onto some shred of dignity in the face of her conquerors.

The ladle dipped again.

The oil fell through space.

Conine's clenched fist drew beads of blood form her palm.

The first drops of the fiery liquid spattered against her inner lips and trickled down into her cunt.

At that flaming touch on her womanhood, Conine lost the battle against the pain washing over her. Her mouth opened wide, her head arched back; her diaphragm flattened as the agony ripped free form her in a single, tearing sound.

'EEEEAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!! '

The watching soldiers were witness to a site such as they had never seen, the exquisite creature on the rack transformed into a goddess of suffering. Her lank back hair was cast back and her red lips stretched wide as the scream and its brethren erupted from her. Her body thrashed so violently it seemed even that muscular body must tear itself apart in the fury of her convulsions. She heaved, trembled, fell back, rose again, all the time screaming, choking, shrieking.

*****

'Stop this,' Satyra groaned. 'She's done nothing to harm you.'

'Nor I to her,' Sadiste purred. 'These images are of the past, things that have already occurred. Shall we see more?'

Amidst the flames, the image swirled and changed.

*****

One of the men came over carrying the bucket of nails and the large, well used wooden mallet. Conine struggled afresh and men strained to hold her in place. When he was standing over her, the men holding her arms moved suddenly, hauling Conine off her back just enough for another soldier to shove the wooden beam she had been lashed to back under her. Then the men slammed the Celtic woman back down hard, jarring her shoulder blades against the timber as they planted her arms along the length of the beam on either side. The men holding her legs grunted as she tried to use those long limbs to get leverage to push up with.

'Right,' said the centurion. 'There are only six of us, and it seems our guest is feeling uppity again.' He rubbed his chin. 'Hmmm.'

'We could rape her a bit, sir,' one of the men holding her arms offered. Conine stared heavenward and closed her eyes. 'That might take some of the fight out of her.'

'Good idea, Rufio; but we don't want her worn out when the real fun starts. I've another suggestion.'

'You, boy,' the centurion barked at the man holding the bucket and mallet. 'What's your name?'

'Quintus, sir,' said the young soldier, coming to attention fro his open mouthed appraisal of the woman on the ground. He was younger than any other in the detail, about twenty years old with a fresh, unscarred face with high cheekbones and a strong chin. Stripped to the waist his body was well muscled but leaner than the bulkier frames of his fellows. His hair beneath his helm showed curly black and his eyes were deep brown.

'Ever seen a woman like this up close, Quintus?' asked the centurion.

'Only in the pens in the keep, sir,' answered the boy. 'My family could not afford slaves back outside Capernaum – that's one reason I joined the legions, sir, to see the world outside Italy.'

'Well, you'll see some interesting parts of it today,' guffawed the centurion. 'Now see here, lad – we need to keep this murderess of Roman men pinned while we get her spiked down. Reckon you're up to it alone?'

'Alone?' said the youth. 'I'm not the strongest here, sir…but if you order it, of course.'

'Good lad!' said the older man, slapping his back. 'Put those down and kneel down over the prisoner, legs astride her hips.'

From below Conine looked up at the young troopers face staring down at her with a young man's frank lust, a sight she had seen many a time in the villages as she walked past in her armor but never before had experienced as a helpless victim. In her twenty six years she had often had to gently rebuke the young men of her kin for their unintended insult to her warrior pride, though some she had actually warmed to later and condescended to take into her bed, instructing them in the art of love and in return enjoying their youthful passion and fire. The helmeted stripling straddling her could have been any of those with his handsome looks, but instead of her deciding on his sexual fate she was the method of his education; not in love, but in rape and torture. She struggled afresh, trying to lever him off, but in vain, and the men chuckled anew. This was another aspect of her humiliation, she understood – she was to be used like a broken mare to give experience to this dry mouthed young Roman, his first taste in sexually violating a free woman. Conine could see the eagerness mixed with nervousness in his brown eyes and knew the soldier sitting on her would blanch form no order the centurion gave. He saw her with a little humanity as he would a deer in trap – a trophy to be had.

The centurion had Quintus take hold of Conine's arms just above the elbows, using the weight and strength of his upper body to keep her forced down against the wood, while still hovering outside her essence. The men on her arms eased their grips a little, and straight away the young man atop the prisoner had to exert more force to old her down.

'That's it Quintus, one called,' as his hands grasped the iron like swell of her biceps. Her back arched up a little to try and throw him off as both prisoner and soldier began to seat with their efforts.

'Now, young Quintus,' called the centurion hoarsely. 'Start to push into her.'

Quintus sough to obey with an awkward job that skewed off Conine's tight clenched entry. He cursed and repositioned himself, trying again.

On the ground Conine fought with increasing desperation to keep the young man outside of her body. With each attempt she could feel him pushing a little deeper and she closed her eyes as she concentrated on fighting with all her strength. The youth looming over her sickened her with his vulgar excitement, his handsome face and body yet another mockery of her as he proceeded to violate her, to use her against her will.

Conine glanced to her left and saw the man there had let go her forearm to position one of the steel spikes just at her wrist, the other hand raising the mallet into position. His knee had moved to help pin her arm at the elbow beside Quintus grasping fingers, now deeply embedded in her flesh despite the hardened muscle beneath. She could se him raising the mallet; fee the steel tip against her skin at the gap in the arm greave. With a sweep the mallet arced over the man's head and came down with a dull thud against the head of the spike.

Instantly the metal pierced the soft flesh, rupturing the skin in a small shower of crimson blood and pushing though to the far side of the arm limb, where it was stopped by the wood of the beam. Small bones splintered as it force its passage and stopped with a shock.

'NNNNNeeeaaaaarrrrrrhhhhh!' grunted Conine, a sound of pain beyond any she had uttered on the battle field. Her young body spasmed and she reared against the wood, fighting for freedom from the pain and finding none. Quintus gasped again as the force of her writhing pushed her against him, burying herself deeper on his own spike as she sought to twist free of the other.

'Great Jupiter!' exclaimed the lad, and the centurion laughed. He had never felt a woman's pussy wrapped about him with the same fire as that of the Celtic prisoner, and he could feel her breasts mashed against him as she struggled. He watched Polonius swing again and smiled.

THWAK!

'AAAAAARRRRRRHHH!' came Conine's scream, a loud, bestial explosion. The metal had pierced her wrist entire now and was pushing into the wood. The pain was beyond description – her whole body seemed to be drawn into the acid fire in her forearm, where her body was being mutilated by her captors. She thrashed about, the men having to wrestle with her strength now doubled by the extremity of her pain. Tears flowed freely. She fought for breath.

*****

Watching her beloved's torture and violation, Satyra shook with racking sobs. 'You fucking monster,' she cursed at the smiling demoness.

'Such language,' Sadiste said with a laugh, amber eyes shining. 'And you a priestess. Perhaps you'll be more grateful if we see what your brave defender is 'up to' now.'

Again the image shifted.

*****

The moon crested the sky in a silver haze. It painted its white glow on the tops of the mountains lying in the middle distance. It fired the tops of the clouds drifting across the horizon. The soldiers standing duty outside the border keep on the frontiers of the empire looked up at its heatless light and drew their cloaks against the night chill.

For the prisoner hanging on the cross, the moon signaled the beginning of another night of pain.

A day on the wooden frame had taken its toll on the tall warrior woman. After the humiliation of the soldiers rape of her they had dragged to the A frame, hoisting her up while the men had used their hammers to drive more nails through the tops of her booted feet, laughing as she tried to choke back her screams as the metal spikes punched through bones and flesh and pinned her to the hard wood crossbar. The men had cheered at the spectacle of that athletic body heaving as the nails ripped her flesh. But that had only been the beginning of the warrior woman's ordeal.

For Conine the passing of time was measured only by the repeated need to pull down on the bar, draw breath, let the bar rise. Over and over, and endless, terrible cycle. Sweat had formed on her body as she fought the terrible lingering execution of the cross.

After an hour her whole magnificent form had been covered with a sheen of sweat that highlighted every smooth surfaces and rounded curve. Every few minutes the Roman's were treated to the spectacle of watching the barbarian female flexing her well molded limbs, her face showing the signs of ever mounting agony as she hauled down on the bar. As her biceps swelled and the muscles of her shoulders stood out like cables beneath her bronzed skin her magnificent chest would swell, the majestic peaks of flesh expanding outwards as she sucked air into her lungs, wobbling gently as she gasped for air.

The latter half of the day had passed as a lingering nightmare for the warrior woman. Pain was her constant companion, mixed with humiliation and festering, impotent rage. Her body hurt more than any time in her life, more even than on the rack, and her thirst had become maddening. Flies had buzzed around her head, landing on her to feed off the salt in her sweat and sometimes the blood of the wounds on her arms. Her brain pounded unceasingly inside her skull.

By the time the sun had begun to set in a red and orange crescendo behind the western horizon the female on the cross was half dead, her body performing the actions that allowed her to continue breathing as mechanical repetition, barely enough to keep her alive. Any other woman in her position would have become exhausted and suffocated hours ago, but Conine was cursed now with the stamina and willfulness of her warrior heritage. She would not surrender to her inevitable fate before her body had failed her.

Now it was night. Pummeling heat had been replaced by a slight chill. The wind blew across the hilltop and ruffled Conine's now matted hair.

'Oh please,' Satyra sobbed, straining towards the flickering image of her lover's suffering. 'Pease let me help her.'

Sadiste smiled like a cat stalking its prey. 'But of course, my dear. There's no need for your darling to suffer further.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Just submit to our service and she will be instantly free.'

Satyra's voice caught in her throat. 'I…I can't do that. Anything else, name it an I'll…'

'There is nothing else of yours we want,' Sadiste cut her off. 'But don't worry, you'll have another few days to change your mind, while your lover bleeds and is fucked by the Romans.' She smiled again, hideous mirth in her words.

Satyra wavered, her lovely face a mask of anguish. Tears welled in her emerald eyes, but she turned away. 'I won't,' she whispered. 'Conine, forgive me, my love.'

Sadiste placed her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes skyward. Priests! She thought, disgustedly.

'Alright, my sweet one' she said at last. Reaching around she cupped Satyra's chin in her hand so she could raise her head to see her face framed by its two curling horns. 'I'll make a bargain with you.' Satyra stared up at the demoness through her tears. 'I'll give you the chance to save your lovely partner, but in return, you must give me the chance to change your mind about joining us.'

'What do you mean?' the Chevaan woman asked, hope struggling with suspicion in her mind.

'Just this, brave Satyra; I will enable you to speak with dear Conine and help her to free herself – not to free her, mind you, but to give her strength enough to aid her in her own attempt.' Sadiste smiled and leaned so close her back horns brushed Satyra's red hair. 'In gratitude,' she said with a purring voice, 'you will consent to be my Lord's guest in the Underworld. If you can endure a number of…trials, without agreeing to serve him, you will be released.'

Satyra once again felt a cold dread settle around her heart. 'What sort of trials?'

'Oh, very painful ones, you may be sure,' Sadiste promised. One long nailed red hand came up and stroked the prisoner's cheek. 'We specialize in torture in the Underworld, and I'm sure I can think up some very imaginative ones for such a brave beauty. My brothers in hell would welcome the chance to play with this body.' She stared lasciviously at Satyra's narrow waist, athletic arms and legs, and her flat stomach below the round full breasts with their pink nipples. The horned red-head blanched. 'Come now,' Sadiste chided, 'such a headstrong, dedicated priestess as you can surely endure a little torture without breaking. Especially,' she added softly, 'if it's to save your beloved.'

Satyra's breathing quickened – hanging in the stocks she could see the cruelty mixed with lust shining in Sadiste's lovely, evil face. The smile on those full dark lips was one of pure malevolence, and she quailed at the thought of what fiendish torments this red-skinned devil-woman would inflict on her. But to save Conine… 'How many torments,' she asked.

Sadiste smiled wider. She had the mortal slut now. 'Six,' she said off-handedly. 'It's my favorite number.'

Satyra swallowed, thinking about what she had already endured, but more on what her warrior-lover had endured on her behalf. She knew that if Sadiste had her in her power that her agony would unspeakable, and that she would be risking not only her soul but her sister's sacred connection to the Goddess. But she had no choice.

'I agree,' she said finally. 'Let me help Conine, and then do with me as you will.'

'Oh, I shall,' Sadiste replied. 'But first,' she added, touching a finger to her sable lips, 'your promise.'

Satyra grimaced but leaned forward, straining against the wooden stocks until she was able to brush the demoness' lips with her own. Sadist smiled rapturously.

'Such a full, soft mouth,' she cooed, eyes closed. She opened them and looked at the prisoner. 'Its screams will be as delicious as its kisses.'

Satyra spat the brief taste of her tormentor out on the floor, and then looked at her defiantly. 'Now let me help her,' she growled.

'As you command,' agreed Sadiste, and promptly knelt down in front of the girl in the stocks, letting her hands slide down over her waist as she settled facing the prisoners soft pink crotch.

'What are you doing,' gasped Satyra, staring down her body at the smiling she-fiend.

'Helping you,' the red demoness replied. 'Your magic is weak thanks to my spell.' She ran the flat of her palm over Satyra's Venus Mons, massaging it. 'You need some woman-power.'

Satyra's horned head fell back as she felt Sadiste move her hand so her fingers brushed her labia, teasing the lips apart. She closed her eyes and scowled, forcing herself to think of helping Conine.

'Do you know the Roman's call this device you're in the 'fuck-cradle', 'Sadiste purred softly, glancing up at Satyra's face. The priestess' all-green eyes had a yearning look and her red lips were parted as she took short, shallow breaths. 'Alas I have no prick myself, but I'm sure you'll nonetheless find my attention adequate.'

The first brush of Sadiste's lips against her quim brought the priestess a sudden rush of warmth, suffusing her with energy. She gasped, letting the power emanate through her, building in potency as the she-devil nuzzled her pouting cleft and used her tongue to trace the outline of her inner lips. She could feel the tips of Sadiste's horns pricking the underside of her breasts as the hellion worked her tongue past her entrance, probing lustfully.

Satyra's heart was hammering inside her chest. The pain of her bondage did not ease, but the sensations radiating from between her legs superseded all other thoughts. 'She focused on that growing heat, using it's fire, reaching out with her thoughts. 'Conine,' she whispered, picturing the memory of the warrior-woman's own soft mouth lapping at her cleft, drawing courage from that happy thought. 'Hear me, my love.'

Suddenly Sadiste paused in her ministrations. 'Thinking of another woman while you're with me?' she asked sarcastically, looking up at the pinioned half-satyr. 'That's naughty, Satyra. I'm afraid I'm going to have to scold you.'

Satyra looked down between her breasts as Sadiste reached around to cup her backside with her taloned hands. The nails on those fingers scratched painfully, but the red-head quickly forgot that as Sadiste smiled again, revealing for the first time her pointed fangs.

Oh, Goddess, thought the helpless priestess.

Sadiste laughed, and then lunged for Satyra's red tufted pussy, canines flashing.

'AAAAARRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!'