They said of Queen Pphira that she was ageless. Legend had it that she had never been born, having always existed, and that she could never die. As Queen she had the right to take as many lovers as she chose, where and when she wished. The lovers might be men or women. Perversion was not in the Sarmaian vocabulary. Probably, thought Blade, because no one had thought of it yet Just as nobody had thought of the wheel.

All he knew he had learned from Pelops. Now, as he faced the Queen and her High Council of Priests, he felt naked and unarmed and very alone. There would be no help from Zeena. Once again he was dependent on his magnificent body and his youth. This time he feared they would not be enough. The priests were hostile.

They were in a large chamber overlooking the harbor. There was a ring of chairs carved from the soft white stone that was everywhere in Sarmacid. The chair of Queen Pphira was on a low dais. Below her, ranged in a half circle, were the chairs of the priests. The High Council or, as Pelops called them, the Council of Five.

Blade, as prisoner, slave, husband of Zeena - he did not really know his status yet - stood on a block of stone between the throne and the semi-circle of priests. He had been standing so for two hours and his legs were beginning to cramp. He was bored. He was also angry, but this he contrived to conceal. This was no time or place for anger, for he had not a single friend at court.

"The marriage is forbidden and annulled. The Princess Zeena is banished to a punishment ship."

That was all they would tell him. All! He was forbidden to raise the subject again. Zeena was to be forgotten. As though she had never been. Blade, helpless for the nonce, must perforce play it their way.

Now, bathed and barbered and clipped, perfumed, wearing a leather kilt and high gaitered sandals, naked to the waist, enjoined to silence, he stood with his huge arms crossed and watched the Council of Five. And bet against himself.

The Five were barefoot. They wore black robes. They were typically Sarmaian, small with narrow skulls and opaque eyes. No man in Sarma had much facial hair, but the priests shaved their skulls of even the fuzz. Blade thought they looked like five aging vultures with their scrawny necks protruding from the black robes. They made him very nervous.

Kreed, the leader of the Five, stood up to make a point. The others, long chins cradled in skinny hands, watched. Thorus. Baldur. Avtar. Odyss. Their eyes were dull little buttons that stared at Blade now and again. He knew they were anxious to put him into the fiery maw of Bek-Tor.

Kreed waved a hand. "Otto the Black arrives in two days, my Queen, to collect his annual tribute. We must pay, as always, for we are too weak to resist him. He will be given the meta, as ever, and there will be games in his honor. Games and sacrifices. Now, we all know of Otto's tastes - therefore I suggest that we make him a present of this Blade. It will make a fine first impression. And when Otto has used him he will give him back to us and we can make sacrifice to Tor. You see the point, my Queen? Since Otto the Black is himself divine, and if he uses Blade for his divine pleasure, it will make the sacrifice more pleasing to Tor. So Tor may prevail upon Bek to grant us favors - such as sending us a plan, providing help, that we may rid ourselves of The Black One forever!"

The other four priests stared at Kreed. They leaned to whisper, a row of dozing buzzards come alive. Blade, who understood little of what was going on, and none of the complex theology involved, shifted his glance to Queen Pphira.

She did look ageless. She was tall and pale and well formed. There was no fat on her, no wrinkles marred the dead white skin. Her hair was jet black and piled high on her head and held with jeweled combs. Her eyes were sloe berries, set wide, her brow high, her nose straight and long over a wide vivid mouth. Blade suspected that she colored her lips. If so, it was the only artifice about her.

Unlike the other Sarmaian women he had seen, Pphira wore no breastplates. She was as bare to the waist as Blade himself. Her breasts were surprisingly small, more like the breasts of a young girl than those of an "ageless" woman, but very firm and white and with long brown nipples each surrounded by a vermilion aureole.

The Queen raised the wand she carried in her right hand. It was slim, jeweled, and crested with an entwined B-T. She pointed the wand at Kreed.

"Be careful how you speak, old man. What you have just said is treason. Legally. We pay tribute to Otto the Black, a thing I dislike as much as any, but he is the stronger and we must do it. And live with it. We have signed treaties with him and so are in fief to him. And as you know, or should know, being such wise men, Otto seeks an excuse to discredit the treaties and invade Sarma. For years he has wanted this - any slight excuse will do. So, Kreed, no more talk of gaining our freedom."

Kreed bowed low. "I'm sorry, Majesty. But I only thought to - "

The Queen leaned toward the old priest. "Except in very private, Kreed. Now that will be all - let us get back to this man Blade. I do not think I agree with you."

Blade tried to follow it all, trying to winnow something that would help him. He kept his face impassive, put on a bold enough front, and gave back stare for stare - and knew that his only hope lay in the Queen. And she, until now, had evinced no particular interest in him. A fact that Blade was human enough, and vain enough, to resent. And immediately chuckle at himself. This was no time for vanity. This was life or death. And death in Dimension X, as Blade knew so well by now, was as final as death in Home Dimension. Lord Leighton's computer had altered the molecular structure of his brain - it had not conferred immortality on his body.

Blade watched Kreed. The priest at first looked puzzled, then sly, then resigned. He said, "But what to do with this stranger, my Queen? Why not get some use of him?"

Blade watched the four other priests. Their shaven heads were nodding all in a row, in agreement. Old vultures in concurrence. No mercy there.

Pphira slapped the wand into her palm. "Do not make another speech, Kreed. I forbid it. We have been at it too long now, and nothing settled."

Kreed bowed low. "That is only because you have not decided, my Queen. We can only advise - you must have the final decision. But I ask you to remember the trouble this man Blade has already caused in Sarma. Captain Mokanna dead, slain of necessity by Captain Equebus. Why? Because Mokanna plotted. Mokanna! Who had always been a good subject and a fine officer. Why would Mokanna do this, your Majesty? Why ruin a fine career and meet such a death? I suggest, my Queen, that this Blade instigated it all. That he put the thought of treason into Mokanna's head. He has a way with words, this man. He has a power in him. We have all witnessed that."

Blade got it then. The High Priest, Kreed, and Equebus were somehow in league. Why, for what reason, to gain what? This he could not fathom at the moment. Both Pelops and Zeena had warned him that intrigue enmeshed the palace like quicksand. Kreed was his enemy because Equebus was. At least he was warned.

Queen Pphira absently stroked one of her small pale breasts. Even at this moment, with his life in the balance, Blade felt himself aroused. She had not until now had that effect on him. Nor he on her, seemingly. That was the trouble. His only way out now was through Pphira. It was ironic. The Queen had the right, even the compulsion, to be erotic and promiscuous. It was her duty. By ancient Sarmaian law she was bound to produce as many children as possible, preferably healthy females to perpetuate the matriarchal line. A child a year was the norm. Beyond that she had a right to pursue her own pleasure without stint.

Their eyes met. Blade stared, unblinking, wondering if his own weapon, sex, was going to fail him. It was so unlikely that he could scarce believe it. It had never happened before if you discounted Zoe - and she had loved him well enough. There was always a first time. A fatal time.

Pphira stared back at him. Her mouth moved slightly and Blade detected a gleam in the dark eyes. He thought she nodded, he could not be sure, and in that moment his heart was lighter. Maybe after all -

The Queen said: "I have decided. He is a stranger and protected by the Hospitality Act."

Kreed murmured. "The Act can be voided at your discretion, my Queen. Think what a gift he would be to The Black Otto."

One of the priests, Avtar, made a high tittering sound.

Kreed squelched him with a glance.

The Queen smiled. "I am thinking, Kreed, of what a gift this stranger may be for me."

Part of the pressure in Blade's chest lifted. He was going to make it. In bed. So be it and what matter - it would gain him time.

Kreed was not surprised. The old priest had known all along that it would come to this, Blade thought. It fitted with what Pelops had told him. Sarmaians were very formal; each letter of the law must be observed.

Kreed said, "But what of Tarsu, my Queen? This comes as a surprise. I thought you well satisfied with the blind one."

She moved the wand carelessly, a motion of whimsy that bespoke more to the alert Blade than a thousand words. He was not home free yet. Behind her smooth, pale facade was a woman. Fickle, shifting, changing as the wind. Absolute ruler of Sarma. He felt a slight chill returning.

"Tarsu is well enough," said Pphira. Her eyes dwelled on Blade's huge shoulders and she nearly smiled. Nearly. Actually the only rift in the enameled composure of her face was a faint glint of teeth, tiny and even.

"Tarsu serves well enough," she said again. "And yet at times he bores me. The novelty of his blindness has worn off, for one, and he has not yet gotten me with child. So he does not serve his purpose, nor I mine as Queen of Sarma."

She pointed the wand straight at Blade. "This one does not cringe. And he does not lie."

Blade had no trouble repressing his smile. This was no time for smiles. He had lied, of course. Mightily, but very skillfully. And had struck gold in an unexpected manner which, at this moment of decision, did not seem very important.