Rogar and Rainath

She was born auspiciously as the sun set on the Northeast face, strong in the blood of Bul-Kathos and destined for great things, said the midwife. Two decades later she was a foreigner awash on a sea of refugees, every one of which she stood head and shoulders above. The bloody sun never seemed to set in Caldeum, and she was in a piss-poor mood.

She'd gone to the inn to meet a merchant and research the city's history. A day into it and she understood why there was so much work to be had; only the creatures of hell could thrive in this infernal climate. The only upside was the smell; dead flesh was desiccated before it could grow putrid.

The day was sickly hot, and the cheap bastard was haggling. She tried not to imagine the sound of his neck breaking quite so fondly as she chivvied him to a price that was fifty gold pieces lower than she'd meant to pay, just to spite him. Now to more important business, her stomach urged.

He must have been there when she arrived, but her sun-dazzled eyes hadn't picked him out of the shadowed corner until that moment. By the ancients, he was a big one. Especially for these parts. She made it clear she'd like to see more of him with a provocatively arched eyebrow. He met her eyes and acknowledged her with a nod but showed no sign of rising. Feeling a bit giddy, she realized that she should eat while she had the chance. It had been a long, thirsty day and from the look of him she wouldn't be thinking about her stomach again for quite some time.

A loaf of bread, a roasted chicken and two tankards of cool ale made her supper, eaten standing at the bar because the stools tended to buckle. As she drained the second ale a massive hand settled on her hip, hot and heavy.

"You can call me Rogar," His voice resonated far below baritone and sent the most delicious thrills from the nape of her neck to her fingertips. She was surprised by his formality, dressed like an easterner as he was.

"Rainath," she answered, cursing the hitch in her voice and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. His second hand fell on her shoulder and he steered her firmly toward the back of the aleroom.

She hadn't had many partners before leaving their homeland, and all of them boys- though even the girlchildren of Mount Areat were more man than what she'd had to choose from among the burliest blacksmiths and most robust knights in the lowlands. She was losing the ways of her people, the sudden shove to her lower back was enough to make her trip and stumble over the threshold. She'd let her guard down too easily. Her face burned.

There was a clatter and heavy thud as he dropped his belt and weapons on the table. She reached to loosen her belt but had the defiant whim to test him, setting her hand on the hilt of the long dagger at her waist. Not her deadliest weapon, she usually used it on rabbits. Turning, she searched his face for reaction.

"As long as you're not intent on killing or castrating me," he chuckled, shrugging. "I don't mind a bit o' blood." She looked at his belongings on the table, wondering if he'd want it fair. He wasn't outfitted for war, but in these times everyone went armed. That made him laugh aloud.

"Everything you think shows on your face, do you know that?" He held out his hands. "I won't rearm, but I thank the lady for offering," he inclined his head in respect. She didn't care for the vulnerability of being disarmed, but she tried not to show it as she dropped her belt beside his. She liked the intimacy of them there together, a haphazard jumble of utility and death. Hers was a hand wide, salvaged from livestock harness and dwarfed anything that an eastern man would wear, but his was heavy and thick enough to make it look feminine, a feeling she was unaccustomed to.

She stepped out of her boots, pulled off her gloves and unbuckled her bracers. He wasn't wearing armor and so had the time to stand motionless, shoulders squared, openly watching her. When the bracers were on the table she pulled off the leather cap she wore in town, loosing her hair.

"You're young," he blurted, surprised by the bright auburn tangle that fell down her back.

"I'm as old as I am," she rebutted defensively.

"Peace" he growled, with an edge of warning. "You're lovely. We're a long way from home, most that make it this far are older. And more scarred," he added, gingerly testing the room's only chair. It creaked and wobbled as though in fright, and he kicked it under the table in disgust. The chest was sturdy enough to hold his foot while he unbuckled one boot, then the other.

No one had ever complimented her before, certainly not called her 'lovely'. It shocked more than the rough treatment at the door, that she should have expected.

"Are we going to do this, or what?" She demanded rudely, awkwardly holding a fistful of her own tunic.

His face showed resignation, briefly, before it darkened. He took two sharp strides; the first cleared the space between them, the second carried her backward against the wall, hard enough to quake the building. A bawdy roar came from the common room; hard to miss two people of their size slinking out the back.

"We're definitely going to do this," he said it like a threat and she felt her heart work harder, the way it did in battle. "But I'm going to take my time about it. A taste from home doesn't come often." His face lingered near her hair and shoulder to demonstrate.

"I'm not afraid," she taunted, but he was having none of it.

"Yes you are, and it's a healthy instinct," he told her, drawing back to meet her eyes. "Bloodstained as you are, you'd have a lot to learn if you raised a weapon to me," he warned, voice and eyes equally toneless. He held her gaze until she wanted to squirm, and goosebumps crawled down her arms.

"You can trust me," he told her softly, relaxing his grasp by a fraction. "I like a woman with fight, but I've no taste for rape." She struggled weakly, testing his grip, and nearly broke free.

"How you can say you're not a rapist is beyond me," she spat. "You're a barbarian. One and the same."

"It's clear that you think that," he snapped nastily, patience thinning. His grip on her upper arms tightened once more and he pressed her more firmly to the wall, his right foot casually widening her stance to weaken her balance. The contact between their bare feet was the first touch of skin since they'd met. His eyes flashed.

"Would you believe I don't use that filthy word for myself, either?" The words were perfectly civilized, but the tone, violent. She panicked slightly and gave a real, full-strength struggle. The iron hold loosened, became flexible, moved with her... but never broke. She realized his earlier weakness had been feigned.

He caught her entirely off-guard for the third time in as many minutes by covering her mouth with his, in a kiss so thorough it redefined the concept for her. He drew away just as abruptly, searching her face.

"Have you ever been with your own kind before?" She reddened in shame.

"Yes." Her mouth hardened, daring him to ask more. "He was young," she dismissed, her gaze becoming briefly angry and unfocused. "They all were," When she came back, his grim eyes suggested he had a good idea of what her first experiences had been like. Traditions being what they are. He grimaced.

"And eastern men?"

"Can hardly bruise me, whatever they try," she shrugged, defiant. He kissed her again, solid but short, and released her, stepping back. He wasn't sure what would be worse, these people had some queer notions about their kind.

"I'm sorry for the poor treatment you've had," he said frankly. "That's not our way, no matter what they'd have you believe about us," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd beyond the door. He dropped his leather trousers and kicked them away, but the hem of his shirt hung low enough to keep him modest.

"If it's what you want, I'd like to be something different to you," he offered her his sword hand, palm up. Speechless, she shrugged.

"That isn't good enough, Rainath," he warned, voice hardening, making her eyes widen. He stepped closer. "Tell me, if this is what you want. Is it?" His gaze was insistent, his tone demanding. She nodded.

"Tell me," he growled, becoming fractionally more menacing without so much as turning a hair.

"Yes. It is. I want it." Her voice was small.

"You want what?" She blushed, thinking she'd said "it" like she meant his cock, afraid that's what he heard, too.

"I want you," she clarified.

"Do you trust me?"

"No," she blurted, 'trust none' being a long-standing personal creed.

"Yes." She admitted, defeated by the truth of it. She was intimidated by him, but also felt undeniably safe in his presence. Like a snake, he grasped her hand and jerked, whirling her to face the wall with her hands splayed beneath his, elbows locked to keep herself from being pinned again. His body touched hers lightly, from their feet to where his lips brushed her hair while he growled in her ear.

"I meant what I said. Spit at me, and I'll whup your arse. I've a mind to wash your mouth out already, for what you've just called me, called the both of us. But you tell me to stop, and you're the queen. Do you believe me?" She nodded, swallowing hard, grateful he couldn't see her face.

"Good, then, take... off... your... fucking... pants." He broke each word off like cold, brittle steel. The territory between cruelty and courtship newly established, he set to beat its bounds.

"And if I don't?" She could hear the smile in his voice.

"Oh, I'll take them off for you," he paused and freed one of her hands to rub his beard, mulling the possibilities. The stone wall of his chest at her back kept her imprisoned, her free hand still obligated to keep her from falling against the wall.

"Can you sew? We could play with your knife, and you could piece a quilt with what I leave you..." His hand fell to her thigh, testing the material.

"Demonhide, better not then. Are they warded?" He tested the buckle and gave a pleased laugh. "Oh, ho, you are an ice maiden, aren't yea? Think you've got me there, hm? I'll make you beg to take those bloody pants off," he assured in deadly tones.

She moved her hand and dropped to one knee in a move that she'd hoped would give her room to lever him away, but instead found her simply kneeling between his legs. He laughed again. "Be my guest, lass. I was going to work up to that, m'self. Will you be taking your top off nicely, or mending the pieces tomorrow?" He asked reasonably, squatting behind her and tracing the neckline with a finger.

She hated to sew. As much as she wanted to give no ground, losing the shirt would be an inconvenience. She shed it matter of factly, and he grunted his approval. Their people were known for going unclothed, but she'd worn lowland garb for years. Her skin was the purest thing he'd seen since the snow melted.

"There, acting more mannerly already," he praised, standing and finally giving her the space to do the same. "It's easier to be civil when you find you don't have the biggest horns in the field anymore, am I right?" He offered a hand to help her up, but she was reluctant to turn and face him.

"Not completely unscarred," he commented quietly, fingertips grazing scars on her shoulder, back, and ribs. He pulled her around with a hand on her shoulder and looked squarely in her eyes.

"I've seen more tits than you have, lass. Put your shirt back on, if it bothers you that much." Her eyes flashed.

"Cat got your tongue?" He demanded. "What? Spit it out, what are you thinking, in there?" He softened just enough to free her jaw.

"I won't beg," she snapped defiantly. "Do whatever you like. Whip me. I'll never." His brow furrowed for just a moment before breaking into a smile.

***

"Please."

"Please, what?" Her jaw worked in fury.

"Do you want me to stop?" Nothing. He pulled away.

"Rainath. Do you want me to stop?"

"No," she muttered sulkily, her hips restless. Sweat streamed down her body, the room had become a sauna. Demonhide was good for keeping the cold and damp at bay, but in the heat it was a nightmare, and Rogar had raised the stakes by lighting the small charcoal stove in the corner of the room, normally reserved for only the most bitterly cold desert nights.

"I learned this from a shaman, when I was in Lut Gholein," he'd explained at length, stacking four bricks on the flat top and sprinkling them with water. Later, "...the temperature brings on hallucinations..."

Her blasted pants felt warmer than the air around them and the impermeable hide kept every drop of sweat trapped against her legs. Her hands were free, but he'd hobbled her feet after one too many kicks to the stones. The immobility created the sense of being trapped in reeking, hot quicksand.

"Okay," she'd said, when the heat grew uncomfortable.

"Hmm?" He asked, downing another cup of water and pouring more for her.

"I'll take my pants off."

"I said you'd beg," he reminded her. She reached for the clasp, and he knocked her hand away. "Are you begging?"

"No. Offering," she feinted, "but, fine. I told you, I don't beg."

"Leave them on, then."

The heat became unbearable. He toyed with her. Kissing, caressing, teasing until her heart thudded in her ears and then stopping with maddening nonchalance to have a drink, stoke the fire...

He left the room twice, for food and drink. Her hands were always free; she could have loosed the belt from her ankles and walked out of the room either time, but she stayed. She wouldn't run like a coward, let him have the satisfaction of seeing her weak...

He was a conscientious captor. He fed her grapes and held the ale cup one handed while holding her arms pinned, after a particularly successful headlock had briefly turned the tables. He sponged her fiery skin and reignited it with his breath and the crawling tickle of his beard. He worked over every inch of her skin, from her scalp to the soles of her feet, except where the fucking pants covered. When taking them off became an all consuming focus, he showed her his ring.

"It draws dark energy from its surroundings," he turned her wrist and laid the stone against her inner arm. The bite of cold made her pull away in reflex. "Fair handy in this wretched place," he reached further and touched it to her collarbone, her temple... it was like a breath of winter passing over her skin, drawing the heat from her flesh. Just as she began to welcome the sharp chill, he put it away again. She whimpered.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

He began the maddening cycle again. Sip of water, kiss. His hands trailing over her skin, front and back. Twisting her hair in his fist to tilt her head back, nipping at her jaw, suckling her neck and kneading her breasts until she was panting as though pained. And then he'd stoke the fire.

He was right, there were hallucinations. Fever dreams. The icy stone drew ancient runes on her skin that crackled with frost and quenched the sins of her soul. The room warped, and she could hear a jury of demons laughing and cackling over her trial. She wouldn't beg, and so the judge set her legs in stone.

Every hour the damned girl went without breaking, Rogar doubted the stalemate more. He did everything he could think of to break her resolve and get on with the rut, but she was determined to prove something. She was untied, for fuck's sake.

Stupid stubborn, it was. When early morning turned to midday and the common room filled, she became fitful and agitated in her sleep. He drew the shades and lay beside her, his ringed hand on the small of her back. Gooseflesh rippled across her lovely skin, the sheen of sweat slowly disappeared, and she settled into deeper rest.

"I want to piss, but I don't want to lose," Rainath announced hoarsely to the mud-daub wall. The weight of his hand withdrew instantly, and the heat began to creep back just as fast.

"Lose, nothing. They're your pants. You were always free to take them off, or not." He groaned sleepily, shoving her hip toward the pot and rolling away to give her privacy. She squatted over it did what she could to dab to sweat and fluids from her thighs, but pulled the pants back up when she'd finished. She sat on the edge of the bed, stiff and aching from a long night spent on the edge- in more ways than one.

"So you're just giving up?" She taunted. He snored in response. Her stomach echoed his grumble. After a moment's consideration she dressed and slipped out into the aleroom. It was late evening, most of the crowds had passed through. Her errands took her out into the bazaar, she hoped he wouldn't look for her and think she'd run away.

When he heard her tiptoe out, he secretly hoped she was finished with him. She had far more baggage than what she was carrying on her belt, and he hadn't meant to join in someone's journey of self-loathing, no matter how finely her hips were turned. Gods knew he'd healed enough of his own wounds in places like this. When she'd gone, he stripped off his shirt and promptly fell back asleep, blissfully forgetting the events of the last day and night.

He forgot so thoroughly that when she clattered back into his room sometime later he whirled out of bed in a defensive parabola, dropping his hammer in mid-arc when he realized who she was. To her credit, she didn't flinch at the would-be attack, calmly offering him a tray of bread and cheese, and a tankard of wine. When he accepted it, she got a shocked look and her cheeks flushed red. Too late, he realized he was completely naked and sporting a painfully raging erection.

"I, uh, didn't expect you..." he muttered, reddening himself.

"I can go," she offered, turning toward the door.

"No, Rainath-" he seized his pants and hurriedly wedged himself into them. "I'm sorry. I'd like you to stay."

"I'd like to stay," she agreed. "Maybe you can actually get my pants off this time," she challenged.

"I don't think I can," he admitted, bread tearing between teeth and fingers. He was as hungry as she had been. It was her turn to snicker.

"I liked it when you were trying, though..." She tried again. That seemed to please him.

"Well, I can always try. It's you that has to let me in, though." He stepped toward her to demonstrate, and her shoulders bunched in reflex.

"See?" He asked, gentling her like a spooked horse. "You want it, but you're afraid. Why? You tremble more when I'm gentle," he observed, stroking her shoulders with sure hands.

"I'm not used to... gentle." She admitted, a tad bitterly.

"A pity, that." He looped her hair around his hand and brought her head back to his shoulder. His lips brushed her temple as he spoke, his left hand still moving gently over her body.

"Lowland women are so delicate you've got to be gentle, or you'll hurt them. I don't mind it, but it feels damned good when you fight me, and I can use a bit o' strength against you..." She struggled halfheartedly for his benefit, not really wanting to get away. He seized her wrist and cupped her palm to the front of his pants with a groan to demonstrate.

"Rainath?" His voice was so low, it was almost a whisper. She grunted inquiringly.

"Please take the fucking pants off. I'm begging you." It was the first real laugh he'd heard from her, throaty and seductive.

"I thought you'd never ask, Rogar," she replied, releasing the clasp.

The stillness broke and he was on her like a flash, toppling onto the bed and desperately wrenching at the cursed pants.

"Burn them," she growled when they were off. I'm never putting those fucking blighted things on again."

"You can't burn demonskin," he muttered pragmatically, flinging them toward the door and kicking his own pants after them, "stinks like damnation."