"I am a woman, yes, my chieftain. And I have a woman's strength." Even as he held her throat, she tugged at the lacing of her cloak. The patchwork of rat furs fell to the ground. "I have a woman's gifts to give."

He released her throat, and she gasped and held her neck, sucking in deep breaths. He took a step back and admired her. She stood naked before him, chin still raised.

She was not comely, Laira knew. Years of hunger had left her body frail. She had not the wide hips or rich breasts the men liked to carve into their images of stone. Red marks covered her skin—the scars of the leeches Shedah, the tribe's shaman, often placed upon her. The crone would mix the blood in potions she drank; she claimed that the blood of a princess gave her long life. Shedah lingered on in her mockery of life, and the leechcraft left Laira bruised and added to her fragility.

And yet, despite her meager size and marked body, lust filled Zerra's eyes. Men such as him, hunters and conquerors, were easy to please. They saw every woman, even a scrawny and broken thing like her, as lands to conquer.

"I will give you this body," she said. "But my chieftain . . . you must give me a roc."

He stared at her for a long moment, and strangely she no longer trembled. She was no longer afraid. She did not feel exposed. She felt, for the first time in years, in control of her life.

This body, she thought, is the only power I have left.

He doffed his own cloak and removed his tunic. He stood naked before her. The scar that covered half his face—the burn of dragonfire—spread down half his body, twisting his arm, chest, and leg, and even half his manhood bore the marks.

He grabbed her arms.

He took her into his bed of animal hides.

As he thrust into her, nearly crushing her with his weight, she closed her eyes and bit her lip. He pressed against her, slick with sweat, and the pain drove through her, and she clenched her fists and thought of the sky. In her mind she was a dragon again, a beautiful animal of golden scales and long claws, too strong to hurt, too proud to tame. She flew upon the wind, free and noble and far from home.

JEID

Jeid Blacksmith stood above the grave of his daughter, head lowered and fists clenched.

A boulder marked the hilltop grave, overgrown with ivy and moss. An oak shaded it, and autumn leaves covered the soil, a crimson carpet. Below the hill rolled valleys of mist, scattered birches, and rocks engraved with the runes of ancient men. No rune, however, marked this makeshift tombstone. If the men of nearby villages knew that here, under this earth, lay a fallen weredragon, they would dig up the bones, they would smash them with stones, and they would pray to their totems to curse the soul of the creature.