Présentation de l'éditeur
A swirl of white smoke curled upwards from the pit and swirled around the frozen forms of the men. Magnus gritted his teeth and heaved his chest in steadying breaths as he waited and prayed. He felt his skin prickle as though tiny hands were roving over his body. His nipples hardened as the smoke tickled through his armor and cloth and teased at his manhood. He felt himself growing unwillingly hard.
Magnus whispered the words the old skald had taught him.
Suddenly, the smoke wavered. It slowed, then stopped, then snapped back to the pit. The witch's eyes flared wide in shock as the smoke enveloped her and her sisters. The two younger sisters gasped and looked with shock to Sigrid.
“Sister!” terror wracked the voice of one.
“No! Nooo!” moaned the other, clutching at her robes and scratching at the ephemeral smoke.
Magnus felt the magic rooting him to the ground weaken and fade, and he crowed with triumph.
“Seid Sigrid, I fear your time is at an end,” he declared. He advanced all the way to the landing, reached into his pouch, and held forth a gleaming black rune carved from obsidian. “For myself and my men carry protection against your spells. Whatever you have cast to fell men before me will now befall you, and the ages will sing of our triumphs.”
Her breath was fast and ragged in her throat and her steely eyes fixed on the powerful Magnus. Her sisters wailed in anguish. Their wails were steadily transfixing into gasps and grunts of thick desire.
“You are more resourceful than your forefathers,” her voice cracked in a sensual moan. Her body twisted and arched as if gripped by pleasure.