“I have never felt this way before,” she said.

I shrugged. I had no interest in her feelings.

“You are different from the others,” she whispered, “the docile, weak ones.”

“It is you, a female,” I said, “who is weak, and it will be you who will be docile.”

“A she-sleen?” she smiled.

“You are not truly a she-sleen,” I said.

“Oh?” she asked. “What am I, truly?”

“What do you feel like?” I asked.

“I have strange feelings,” she said. “I have never felt them before.”

She looked at me. “I feel, before you,” she said, “weak, vulnerable. I want to be overwhelmed by you, and held. I imagine a slave girl must have some such feelings, before a strong master.”

I smiled.

“You are so different,” she said, “so different from the others, the weak, docile ones.”

“It is you,” I told her, “who is weak.” I held her hands down, pinned, under mine, beside her head. She could not free herself.

“Yes,” she said, “I am weak.” She smiled up at me.

“And it is you,” I told her, “who will be docile.”

“Yes,” she said, “I will be docile.”

I freed her hands, and looked down at her.

“Yes,” she said, “I am helpless. I will be docile.”

“You would make a pretty slave,” I said.

“Would I?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“You will see,” I said.

“I beg your favor,” said she. “Warrior.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Tonight-please, Warrior,” she said, “tonight let me be truly as a female slave. Treat me not as your mistress, who owns you, but as only a slave girl, whom you own, at your mercy. Treat me as a slave girl! Please, Warrior, treat me as a slave girl!”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Teach me,” she begged, “to be a woman!”

“I do not have time,” I said.

She looked at me, wildly.

“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me this night,” I said. One of the scarves, which I had been surreptitiously wadding at the side, I thrust swiftly, deeply, into her mouth. She could not speak, but twisted, only tiny, fumbling sounds coming from her mouth. Kneeling across her, pinning her arms to her sides, I then, with the other scarf, tied the wadding securely in her mouth. Holding both her hands in my left hand I then dragged her from the couch to the side of the room where, with my right hand, I tore down some of the soft cords used to arrange the voluminous, decorative drapes and hangings which adorned the chamber. I then threw her to the slave ring and, with the cords, tied her wrists behind her back, and then, passing the cord through the ring, crossed and tied her ankles together, pulling them rather close to her bound wrists. I then put her on her knees, bound hand and foot, at the slave ring. She struggled to face me, squirming, her eyes wild with rage.

I looked to the door, considering the distance.

Swiftly I pulled the binding of the wadding free. I then, moving swiftly, so as to be in place, went to the door. Head down, furious, Tarna fought to expel the wadding, It took her a moment longer to do so than I had anticipated, but it did not disarrange my plans. She spit out the wet, heavy scarf. She threw back her head. “Guards!” she cried. “Guards!”

In a moment the door flew open and the two guards, scimitars drawn, entered the room.

They saw Tarna at the slave ring. They stopped, startled. I was behind them. I took the neck of each and, in the instant before they could react, struck together their heads, felling both.

I closed the door.

Tarna was looking at me, wildly. “You tricked me,” she cried, squirming at the ring.

I thrust the wadding back, deeply, in her mouth, securing it with the other scarf.

“Yes,” I said.

I dragged the two unconscious guards to the side. I took the garments of one, and tied both, gagging them, to one side. One of the luxurious hangings I flung over them.

I moved swiftly to the door, and, opening it a crack, reconnoitered.

I looked back to Tarna. She was enraged. She struggled. She had, of course, been bound by a warrior. She was helpless. Near the red silk I had cast aside, when donning the desert garments of the guard, on the tiles, I saw the vulgar, wooden, rounded, yellow slave beads, the necklace, which I had not chosen to permit being placed upon me.

Tarna shrank back. She shook her head. I scooped up the beads, which were in five strands, and, kneeling behind her, pulling down her gown a bit, from the shoulders, to better display them, fastened them tightly about her throat. I then set a large mirror across the room from her, that she might see how beautiful she was. “Do not struggle overmuch,” I warned her, “or, when your men come, they will find you stripped to the thighs.”

I could not make out what she said, but it is perhaps just as well.

“Perhaps I shall return someday,” I said, “to make you a slave.”

She squirmed in the cords, writhing, enraged, then stopped suddenly, furious; in another move she would have stripped herself.

I blew her a kiss, in the Gorean fashion, brushing the kiss with my fingertips towards her.

Her eyes were wild over the gag, furious, enraged.

Perhaps I would return someday and make her a slave. I thought that she would make a pleasing slave girl.

I shut the door upon her.

I made my way, swiftly, through the palace, recalling the way from my being conducted earlier to the boudoir of this kasbah’s chieftainess, the much-feared Tarna.

It was late and I encountered few guards. The sand veil was high about my face, as though I were a messenger incognito. The garments were sufficient to permit me passage.

At the outer door of the seraglio I demanded entrance, to fetch the slave, Hassan, to the quarters of Tarna.

I was admitted. At the inner door, I was challenged.

“I have this letter of passage,” I said, reaching into my cloak. The letter of passage was the back of my hand, flying up and to the right, while, at the same time, with my left fist, I drove into the diaphragm of the man on my left. He could make no sound, doubled up. Before the man on my right could recover, or unsheathe his weapon, I had struck him unconscious; I then, at my leisure, did the same with the other fellow. I gagged and tied both of them.

I then swung open the inner door to the seraglio.

“Greetings,” said Hassan.

“Greetings,” I said.

“Did all go well?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Is all in order here?” I asked.

“It seems so,” he said.

I heard the muffled sounds of the two seraglio mistresses, Lana and she in whose charge had been the oils of the bath.

They had been bound and gagged with strips of their white garments. They stood, naked, each backed against one of the slender, lofty, cool marble pillars which supported the roof of the seraglio; their wrists were fastened behind them, about the pillars. Each uttered tiny sounds of protest; their eyes were wild over their gags.

There was a reddish stain down the interior of the left thigh of the one girl, she who had handled the oils of the bath.

“She was virginal,” I remarked.

“Yes,” said Hassan.

“What of this one?” I asked Hassan, indicating Lana.

“I tested her,” said Hassan. “She, too, is virginal. I left her for you.”

Lana shrank back against the pillar.

“What have we here?” I asked. I noted one silken fellow, he with the ruby necklace, trying furtively to slip about the side of the room to the door.

He broke into a run, but I managed to trip him, and Hassan leaped upon him and carried him, squirming, to the bath. “We will be beaten,” whimpered the fellow.

“Give the alarm!” he shouted to his fellow males. Two or three stood about, but they did not cry out. Hassan took the fellow and threw him on his belly by the bath and held his head under water, for about an Ehn. When he pulled the fellow’s head up, he said to him, “You might be drowned in the bath. Such accidents can happen.” Then he thrust his head again under the water. When he pulled it up the second time the fellow cried out for mercy. Hassan threw him to two of the other males. “If be attempts to give the alarm,” said Hassan, “drown him.” “Very well,” said one of the other fellows. I gathered there was little lost affection for the fellow in the ruby necklace in the seraglio of Tarna. He was, I had learned, a weak fellow, an informer, one constantly alert to opportunities to ingratiate himself with the mistress who despised him, one of her most obsequious pets, held in contempt by all. “You may blame his drowning on us, of course,” said Hassan. “Naturally,” said one of the silken fellows. The fellow in the ruby necklace shuddered. “I will be silent,” he said. “You will be silent, or be silenced,” said one of the fellows. “Remember,” said another, “whatever happens, eventually, you will be put back with us.” “I will remember,” said the fellow. “I will do as you wish.”