EDIT 8/2016
1.
If the rumors were true, the woman was over a century old. She looked no more than twenty. Less, at the moment. Far less. No doubt due to the vulnerability of her present position. Her arms were chained over her head, high and tight as they could be forced to stretch. It must be painful for her. She'd dangled there for hours. Of course she was much too proud to allow the strain to show upon her face.
It irritated him, how beautiful she was. It was a distraction. An irrelevancy. He had not brought her down here for amusement.
A witch should look like a witch, like in stories. A witch should be old and twisted and hideous. A hag.
She had spikey, strangely colored hair. Silver. But not like a grandmother's. Hers was shinier. Much more metallic-looking, yet soft and flexible as ordinary hair. Her brows at least were a normal color, black, though slightly slanted, almost like an elf's.
"Let us waste no time," said the prince, "Where is my crown?"
"It is not yours," she said, "It never will be."
"You are mistaken," he said, "It is mine. Mine by right. You are a thief and worse, a traitor to our nation—and you shall be punished severely for this, witch. Severely, do you hear? I promise you. Tell me where you took the thing."
"Beyond your reach," Thayra replied, "Which is all that matters."
"This is foolish," said the prince, "What do you hope to gain, at this stage? We know my sister doesn't have it. She was already gone across the sea a full fortnight when it vanished from the treasure vault. It could only have been you that did this. But you cannot hope to smuggle it to her. Our border is too well guarded now. You must have stashed it some place, right after you spirited it away. Somewhere quite close, I imagine. You simply haven't had time to accomplish more. Just tell me, witch. Tell me where you hid it."
"Never," said Thayra.
"Damn you, woman. Consider your position. It is unwise of you to defy my will in your present circumstances. Furthermore, it is pointless. You cannot hope to hold back what I wish to know. Give me the secret, or it shall be taken from you. Look around you. Look at the ... instruments upon the walls. Quite a collection, is it not? A perfectly ghastly spectacle. You will be forced to speak. That is inevitable. Only a fool or a madwoman could believe otherwise."
"I will not return it to you. That is all I have to say upon the matter."
"You overestimate your strength, my lady. Your courage is admirable. Truly, it is. But make no mistake, I will use whatever means are required to extract the crown's location from you. Perhaps you're thinking I might restrain myself, in light of your sex? Not so. Honor be damned, my need is too great. You shall be put to torture, woman. To the fullest, most dreadful measure of excruciation. I will show you no mercy, once it begins. Take heed, therefore. This is your last chance to spare yourself. Speak, woman! Speak!"
"I fear you not. Your threats are empty."
"You think I bluff? You think I'll not see it through? You think I lack the stomach?"
She shrugged, as much as her chains allowed. "I care not. What I do know is that you lack the power. You and all your atrocious minions cannot harm me. Though I am your prisoner, and I have not the ability at present to escape these bonds, I retain enough of my magic to protect my flesh. You have not the means to penetrate those defenses. Go ahead and try. It will avail you nothing."
With a snarl, the prince seized the whip from the hand of his chief torturer, standing patiently beside him. "Wait, your grace," said the hunched, loathsome man, with a rasping cough, "It is not fitting. Let me—"
"Silence!" roared the prince. He cracked the whip in the air over his head. "I've skill enough for the task. But don't just stand there. Strip the woman! Tear off her garments, by the gods, and be quick about it."
"So be it, my liege," said the torturer, "'Tis but the work of a moment."
The sorceress was outfitted, same as when she'd been taken, in a sturdy, sensible riding costume, a stark contrast to the flimsy ballroom follies he'd grown accustomed to seeing on the noblewomen of the court, including his own sister. Yet its fastenings and seams gave little trouble to the huge hairy hands of the torturer. The riding dress was peeled away like tissue paper. Beneath, however, was revealed a formidable corset that kept her covered almost as thoroughly as the dress had done.
The prince would not be foiled. "Her underthings as well, while you're about it."
"Aye, dread sovereign. Off they come. Behold."
Thayra's face turned crimson, but she did not scream as he had expected—and, in truth, desired. Nor did she cringe, or tremble. She set her mouth in a firm line, and lifted her chin with arrogant defiance. Indeed, he could not deny it thrilled him to see it.
Her expression itself was not solely what thrilled and dazzled him. The breasts of the witch were astonishing. He could conceive of no other word of description. Yet the longer he stared at them, he realized they were too large for the rest of her figure. Also, they stood too high. Breasts of that heft, ungirded as they now were, should hang lower in deference to gravity. Hers refused to. He wondered if she had used magic to enhance them. He would wager she had. They could not be natural endowments. They were too perfect.
He was further startled by the taunt lines of conditioned muscle across her narrow belly. He had never seen a woman's stomach so flat and firm.
Was her entire appearance—her youth, and all the rest—an illusion? An affectation? Or was she really the creature she looked to be? How would one ever know for certain? Again, he wished she looked like the witches in the old familiar tales. He wished she was a monstrous crone.
"You think to shame me?" she declared, "Fah! Gaze upon my unclothed body if you will. I do not fear your eyes. You dishonor yourself, not I."
"It is not your dishonor I seek," he answered, "It is your obedience!"
Then he lashed the whip across both her undefended breasts.
Except it seemed she spoke the truth about her magic. Her breasts were not undefended after all, despite their absolute exposure. The whip rebounded away from them without reaching the skin, blocked by an invisible barrier.
She grinned at him. And when she did, her eyes seemed to flash as bright as her teeth.
He tried again. He tried several more times. He struck at her belly and at her smiling face. He went behind her and struck at her back and at her buttocks. The whip could not mark her.
"How is this possible?"
The chief torturer shrugged and shuffled his feet. "Magic," he remarked in a mournful tone, and then spat sideways on the stone flags.
"But we captured her! My soldiers put her in chains!" Though not before she had slain nearly thirty of them with bolts of lightning and balls of flame. "How were they able to lay hands upon her and bind her?"
He tossed the whip to the torturer, then reached at Thayra with his own two hands. She took a breath as he approached, stiffening slightly. He was surprised by this reaction, and pleased, and then further surprised and further pleased when no enchanted barrier blocked his hands. He placed them on her skin. He gripped both her breasts. Filling his hands with them, in fact.
"I can take hold of you, after all," he said, to himself as much as to her, "Just as my men finally did, once they fought their way close enough. Is it speed, perchance? I mean, is that the determining factor? The trigger for the blockage. The speed or the forcefulness of one's approach." She gave no response. "Proceeding with gentleness, instead, one is not repulsed. Now I'm through it, what should happen if I presume to—?" And without fully voicing the intention, he attempted to pinch and twist both of the witch's nipples at once.
Instantly, he was flung backward several paces, stumbling and swaying. It was like wasps had stung his fingertips.
"Hellfire!" he exclaimed, "Death and judgement!"
"Now you understand," declared Thayra, with a solemn, satisfied nod.
"Your reverence," said the torturer, "look there! Upon her belly!" He pointed. Thayra had a small blue jewel embedded in her navel. The prince had noticed it before, of course. Now it was glowing. Pulsing, faintly, too. The source of the spell?
"Remove it, man!" commanded the prince.
Thayra clucked her tongue. "That won't work. You'll see."
Indeed they did. The torturer attempted to pry the jewel loose with a pair of long-handled pinchers—the metal dissolved to smoke the moment it made contact with the jewel, while the man himself was flung flat on his back with a howl of agony.
"A most dolorous enchantment, your worshipful," he declared, ruefully, when he'd recovered enough to sit upright, and he wrung his gloved hands in the same manner the prince himself was still doing. Their throbbing persisted.
"Now," said Thayra, "do you see? Do you learn? You must accept what I'm telling you. You shall not regain the crown, Prince Stallan. And without it, the barons of our land will never accept your bid for kingship." It was no ordinary crown; it was enchanted. Without it, he could not control the dragons. He could not keep them tame. "You have driven away the rightful heir, for the moment. But soon she will return in strength. Cashalon will provide her an army twice the size of yours. He will not hesitate—he's loved your sister since childhood."
"Fah. It's not his love for her that will bring him, whatever he might claim. Don't mistake me—I don't deny his passion. But when he comes, it'll be to take the crown for himself, not for my sister. It's our dragons he wants, above all. She knows it, too. That's why she never married him before."
"No doubt. She will now, regardless. You've driven her to it, boy."
"You dare to call me 'boy'?"
"I do. Boy."
