Casually, it pulled the lance out of a bony shoulder, gushing
forth blood. A good hit but his magic healed it quickly. And,
as it healed the wound, the dragon began to shrink, becoming just
more than half again her size.

With another crunch it ripped off her breast plate exposing her
heaving chest beneath the leather jerkin she wore, slicked with
her sweat.

“Ahhhh,” said the dragon, “I like a woman who can appreciate the
caress of leather.”

With a single talon he slit the jerkin open and stood there eying
her beautiful breasts. They had been compressed behind the
jerkin but now they burst forth, sweat and a few beads of blood
rolled down her cleavage.

She lowered her visor and lance and spurred the horse forward.
Over the rise it lay, every joint plated, many sharp spurs covering it, razor sharp teeth filling its mouth. And it was regarding her. She charged. The lance struck home and she was hurtled
from her mount. With a glance from the dragon the stallion froze
- a statue. She tumbled to the base of another statue, that of a
naked woman and shuddered, wondering. Suddenly the thing’s
massive paw pinned her to the ground in her armor. The jaws
closed around the helm and ripped, freeing her long hair. The
dragon stopped, regarding her with a gleam in its eye.

The horse was a buckshin with a slightly whiter mane and tail.
As she had combed the mane out it had kicked her viciously,
almost as if it knew and understood her resentment, as if it knew
she enjoyed dominating it, and it chafed at the dominance. Faint
traces of that resentment faded as they rode off.

Rumors of a dragon, a foul platinum colored thing, swept the
land. It was said that this dragon was once kind and good but
now it had been conquered and corrupted by the evil goddess
Tiamat. Now she rode forth to find it. And slay it.

Dahala’s armor felt warm on her shoulders as she saddled her war
stallion. She hated horses and this spirited light war horse was
no exception. They tended to be headstrong and they smelled bad,
though, admittedly, their fur could be soft. The feel of the
saddle reminded her of the smooth leather against her own skin
under her armor. She loved leather and when the horse died,
either in combat or if she slit the foul thing’s throat, she’d
make herself a new jerkin out of it’s hide.

She swung up into the saddle, the girth tight around the horse’s
barrel, the cinch squeezing it snugly. Though she was still a
virgin, she was not quite the valiant knight most thought her to
be – mainly because she, and her five sisters, enjoyed the teas-
ing she could give the men – and the sound thrashing if they
overstepped their bounds. Still she was kind by nature. She was
a tall woman, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and quite
lithe. Her musculature did not detract, rather, it enhanced her
shapely figure. The long flowing blonde hair left hidden, along
with the firm curves, inside the full plate armor she wore.

His strength redoubled again, and I began to bend, my mouth
now filled with his Wand. Still his strength increased, and I
had to move. I twisted his arms in my grip unexpectedly, stepped
in, felt his weight shift as I pulled him to throw over my hip,
his right hoof scraping, unsteady,

And he pushed me laughably to the hard floor, spinning and
pinning me on my back. Reorienting around the tip of his cock in
my mouth, he thrust it home to the back of my throat and beyond.
It slid, oiled, for an eternity until my face was embedded between his hairy thighs and held tight there, only able to breathe
the aroma of his heavy, full sacks. Though I could not see it,
his tongue serpent-like struck between my legs and slid up between my cheeks, forcing me open and greasing me with his slime.

I stepped triumphant into the final circle, the most intricately drawn. The chanting and drumming reached their peak and
stayed, and the fog of incense cleared, allowing me to see who
sat upon the dais, who sat upon the throne, who presided over the
proceedings.

The ancient texts named him Baphomet; Satan Mekratrig’s
warrior-duke. My sword and shield were limp in my grasp as I
looked up, as he was many hundreds of feet tall. His head was
the head of an ibex, with the outward-spiralling horns, gazing
inscrutably down upon me with the eyes of a beast. His shaggy
chest was traced with scars delineating his prowess in battle,
inflicted perhaps by a flaming sword. He stood, rising from his
throne, on the legs of a goat, stepping into the seventh pentacle
on cloven hooves. In his right hand he held a sword cold as ice,
and his left stroked his impossibly huge phallus. As the warrior-magus, he wielded the primal Wand, and his scent struck me a
nigh-physical blow with the power of his maleness. I staggered,
and could not bear the weight of my shield, letting it drop into
the abysmal pit below my feet, lost.

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