Part 3: An Audience with Zzaral
"Time to wash up, slut!" barked Ormgard, clanging her baton against the bars of Aznar's cell. Aznar stirred, groaning. His limbs were leaden, his joints ached, and even though the dungeon was dark with perpetual timeless night, he was certain he hadn't eaten anything in at least a day. He turned over and saw the huge woman, flanked by two heavily muscled guards, their red scaly skin and fanged jaws denoting clearing their infernal origins.
"When do I get fed?" he said, his eyes narrow and dangerous. The two guards laughed. The bars swung wide, and Ormgard stepped into the cell, a bucket of water with a rag hanging from it in one hand.
"Not until after your audience with her Ladyship," grinned Ormgard, dropping the bucket on the ground. She crouched low and undid the locks on his chains, freeing him from the manacles. He rubbed his wrists where the metal had scraped his flesh raw. "Don't try nothin' stupid now, slut," she said, her voice low with menace. "You wash up quick like, and then I'm to take you upstairs. Hurry!"
The water was cold, but it helped bring some life back into him. He drank a little, then ran the wet rag over his body, the grime and dirt running from him in great, gray rivulets that pooled thickly on the floor. He dunked his head in the bucket, and came up puffing.
"Here," said Ormgard, tossing him a coarse towel. "Dry off! Quick!"
"What about clothes," he asked, rubbing his head with the towel. The two devil guards laughed again, their voices cruel as a rockfall in a lifeless valley.
"You won't need 'em," she answered.
"I'll freeze to death," he complained.
"It'll be warm enough, trust me. Now come here!" He stepped forward, and Ormgard placed an iron collar around his thick neck. A heavy chain ran from this newest shackle and into her huge hand. She gave it a meaningful rattle, and then lead him to the door.
Naked, Aznar followed Ormgard out of the cell and down the hall, the two hulking devils marching heavily along behind. They went through the distant door and up a long, twisting staircase, finally emerging into a wide antechamber. At one end was a huge doubledoor, flanked by two more devils armed with huge spears. Prodded along, Aznar stumbled after his jailor, following her through a smaller side door and up another long twisting staircase.
They were in a tower, much airier and cleaner than the dim, filthy dungeon, and the stair was filled with a wan daylight that seemed bright and nearly blinding to his unaccustomed eyes. There were narrow windows in the walls, no more than a handspan wide but very tall, and as they passed these, Aznar was able to look out and down on the neighboring gray mountain peaks, seeing them march towards the distant, hazy horizon. As they rounded another corner on their ascent, he recognized the distant spire of Mount Abazand in the distance, though from a side he'd never seen before. Further on, as they passed a window on the opposite side of the tower, he spied the trio of peaks the Lowlanders called "The Sisters," a landmark used by many of the heavily guarded caravans that dared the western passes in the summer months.
"We're in the mountains then," he thought to himself, "somewhere between the valley of Olagg and the Rubble Hills!" He marveled at that - they were many hundreds of miles distant from where he'd had his ill-fated meeting with the wizard Amblach. Still, he felt a surge of hope. At least now he knew where he was.
They reached a landing of heavy iron that guarded a huge door of carved ivory, demonic and mortal shapes cavorting obscenely across its milky surface. Orgmard reached for a silken cord that hung to the side of the great door, and Aznar heard the silvery chuckle of a bell from within. Then the doors swung open, and the guards pushed him forward into the Audience Chamber of Zzaral.
It was a huge, round room, a hundred feet wide at least, and crowned by a dome that seemed to climb high into the misty firmament overhead. Sconces and braziers full of fuming incense filled the air of the Hall with strange scents, and the lights of many lamps were reflected on the polished marble floor and against the burnished golden statues that lined the walls. In the center of the Chamber was a shallow basin, ten feet across, filled to the brim with bright, clear water. And beyond that, seated atop a huge throne raised high on a dais of basalt, was Zzaral herself, naked and glorious.
The two devilish guards took up positions by the ivory door, and Ormgard lead Aznar forward, his head high as he stared at the woman seated upon the throne. She lounged indolently, a leg up over the arm of her royal seat, her chin in the palm of her hand. She had, without a doubt, the most perfect body he had ever seen. Seated lazily on the throne she was a serpentine beauty, every curve and arc and angle of her body a study in perfected form. She was naked, and her skin had a rich emerald tint to it, a color that reminded him of the deep glow of the jewels the Mad Monks of Fuar-An-Ti pulled from the Nameless River, far to the south. Her hair was a color he had never seen before, violet and flaming as the setting sun, and her red eyes flashed from beneath her heavy-lidded gaze.
Orgmard led Aznar around the basin and set him a few dozen feet before the throne. She placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced him down, kneeling before Zzaral, who yawned and waved her hand.
"My Lady Zzaral," boomed Ormgard, bowing her head reverently. "Your newest slave, Aznar!" The woman on the throne sighed, swung her leg around, and stood up, stretching her marvelous body languorously, running her hands through her thick mane of hair, creating an uninterrupted line from her feet, through her curved hips, all the way to the tips of her outstretched fingers. Aznar felt his cock stir - she was female perfection, flawlessly beautiful, and her every movement crackled with unsuppressed sensuality. He marveled at the delicate interplay of the muscles beneath her flawless skin as she descended the stairs of the dais and walked towards him.
"Rise," she said, her voice low and musical, sultry as summer night. Ormgard pulled on the chain, and Aznar stood slowly, watching with hot eyes the gorgeous demoness who was his enemy. Her face blank and bored, she stood before him, appraising him as one would a horse, carefully and expertly weighing his merits and limitations.
