Prince Shayanaq paced restlessly across the dry floor of his throne room. It was scarcely an hour since he had learned that Morg had escaped from his dungeons -- an hour since he learned his attempt to assassinate the outlander had failed. That was hardly time enough to panic. Any minute the guards might come to him, reporting the barbarian's capture...or death. Yes, any moment.

He did not know why he feared the pale-skinned giant so. Save, perhaps, as any wise man fears the unknown.

The old women had warned him that her soothsaying foretold the barbarian would attempt to wrest his throne. It seemed ludicrous -- Shayanaq had barely been aware of Morg's existence, a newly commissioned captain in his army. But why take chances? he had asked himself. After all, since assuming sole control of the throne after his sister's...disappearance, there had neen rumblings from the nobility. They suspected he had had her secretly put to death. Shayanaq grinned slyly. And who was he to comment on such rumours?

The population was also restless, what with the rise in boldness and brutality of the Cult of Shalli making the streets unsafe at night. The Prince, as representative of law and order, was assigned the blame for his inability to crush the cult. The soil was certainly fertile enough for someone to plant seeds of revolution -- why not a white-skinned foreign barbarian? But in imprisoning Morg, and on such vague accusations, Shayanaq had chilled his relationship with the army as well. Now there was only his palace guards upon whose loyalty he could rely.

Was that enough?

Perhaps the old woman was right. Perhaps his removal of his own sister from her position as co-regent set a weird in motion -- a weird that might well precipitate his doom. But if so, the old women was as entwined in his destiny as he was. So why then did he feel he could trust her least of all? He doubted now that Morg had had an designs on his throne. But now that he had made an enemy of the barbarian -- what then? How could he expect a barbarian to act in a rational, predictable, civilized, manner?

He straightened and stared out at the dark city, the hopeful glimmer of dawn bleeding across the eastern horizon. Something had to break his way, and soon. Word that the temple of the cult had been located, perhaps. Or Morg's head delivered to him on a platter.

Yes, at any moment, word would come.

And so Shayanaq waited.

The snow-white walls of the underground cavern were tainted now with streaks of ugly crimson as Morg leaped among the furred creatures, swinging his newly-aquired sword. The beast-men snarled and struck back, even as Morg's deadly blade sliced and hacked through their greater numbers. Their very numbers gave him a curious advantage, as he could strike with impunity and be almost guaranteed a hit, while they had to avoid injuring their comrades.

Morg roared defiantly, challenging them almost on a primal level to wrest his sword, and his life, from him. Dwelling among the city dwellers above, Morg had had to restrain himself in so many ways. Even as a Captain in the army, he was a prisoner of rules and expectations. But here, battling men little more evolved than beasts, in a network of caverns suffused with ice and snow that reminded him of his northern home, Morg was once more a barbarian. He knew a curious freedom. He might well die...but he would die content.

Yet death was not his goal. His own blood smeared black across his eyes, blurring his vision, and steam gouted from open wounds upon his breast, but he had maneuvered the clumsy creatures well in his seeming random strokes. They came at him en mass from both sides, with only two before him. He knew he would not have a better opportunity. Skewering one creature through the throat, and driving his fist into the other's face, Morg opened the way before him and his powerful legs launched him forward, literally leaping from the fray. He hit the icy ground, rolled to his feet, and as he ducked into another tunnel, slammed his mighty blade against the ceiling, bringing snow blocks and icicles raining down behind him.

For the moment, pursuit was delayed by the mini avalanche.

As Morg raced randomly through the latticework of tunnels, his momentary euphoria at besting his opponents began to subside. He was so completely turned around, he could not find his way back to the main tunnel. And the creatures were delayed...not defeated. As well, he had still not located the girl, Lali. It was doubtless a thread of chivalry, or at least a sense of obligation, that caused him to seek the girl. But there were other motives as well. The girl, after all, was his guide, and his only connection to whomsoever it was that had planned this fool's escape. As well, thinking of the beautiful, dark-skinned slave girl, a fire burned through his veins that helped ward away the bitter cold...a fire that had little to do with chivalry.

"Girl!" he hissed in frustration. "Lali, are you there, girl?" He poked his head into the mouth of one tunnel and called again. "Lali!" He was racing past another yawning mouth when his keen ears detected a faint, whimpered sound.

"Morg?" it seemed to ask.

Skidding on the slick ground, Morg wheeled about and started down this new passage. "Where are you, girl? Damnation! Don't play games-"

"Morg!"

He stopped upon entering a wide chamber and looked about, the snow-dressed walls bouncing light that originated in far off chambers so that, even here, there was a pale illumination. Again there was evidence of a forgotten civilization, as outcroppings of ice and snow echoed the pieces of furniture concealed beneath them. Against one wall was a shelf that looked to contain old scrolls, but so encased in ice were they that they would better serve as doorstops than as reading materials.

He looked around, then slowly up.

Lali was crouched upon a narrow ledge, up near the ceiling. With a snort of satisfaction, Morg sheathed his sword in his belt and nimbly clambered up the wall, grabbing handholds carved for just that purpose. He was at her side in seconds. The black girl was dressed only in a flimsy skirt, but her hirsute captors had saw fit to give her a fur-lined rug to cover herself with, and the fact that they had elected to deposit her near the ceiling, where whatever warm air there was would collect, suggested they meant to keep her alive. Though he doubted she would appreciate why they showed her such consideration. An appreciative eye caught a glimpse of a round, exposed breast, her dark nipple stiff from the cold.

She threw herself into his arms, shivering from fear and cold alike. "You found me! You came for me!" she exclaimed, clearly events she had barely dreamed hope for. He held her close, feeling the warmth of her naked body against his cold skin.

"Aye, girl, and you can show me your appreciation..." Knotting a fist in her kinky mane, he hungrily tasted of her full lips and she moaned against him, making no effort to pull free. Then he released her. "..but later. First we have to figure a way out of here. Can you do that?"

She hesitated, her dark eyes wide and fearful as she looked around the ice sheathed cavern. "I think so...perhaps. My master told me of these caverns...though he did not mention those...those things." She shuddered from more than the cold.

"A curious oversight," Morg growled. "Well, lead on, girl. And while we go, you can tell me the gossip of the city. I've clearly been dragged into someone's master plan -- and, by Storim's one tooth, I'd like to know why."

Lali looked about in furtive, tentative glances. At first Morg thought she was watching for the furred men, then he looked down at her bare feet nestled upon the skin that she held around herself. Bare feet that would fair poorly upon the snow dressed floor.

"Come, girl, on to my back. I can carry one as small as you with no great effort."

Gratefully, the almost naked girl clambered up onto his back, her arms coiling around his broad shoulders, her legs wrapping about his waist. "Thank you," she said.

Morg grunted and grinned wolfishly. Feeling her warm body against his, her naked breasts squeezed against his muscular back, was not without its own rewards. "Hold on," he said, and dropped down to the floor below.

In his ornate resting chamber, Lord Felsteff clutched a goblet, languidly swirling the sweet, honied-wine as he stared at a flickering torch dancing in one corner. His fat cheeks bulged as he grinned slyly to himself. A member of the four who sought to undermine the city's ruler, Prince Shayanaq, Felsteff's stratagems were woven with the care of a spider's web. Even his fellow conspirators did not suspect his true agenda...

Then, abruptly, the grin slipped from his face like water from a hide. He stared around himself, as though momentarily confused. His goblet crashed against the marble floor as his pudgy hands clutched at his face and Felsteff wailed miserably.