Deva

Another Hyborian/Howardian girl, after "Archer" [link] and "Gladiatrix" [link] that I decided to call Shireen.

A good part of these stories was the interest in exotic cultures such as Indo-Persian, so I had to do a girl like this holding two big katars under her sleeves. Now, is up to Mocaw to write a desc

EDIT: And here it is!

***

"Your palaces are as beautiful as they are opulent, my lord," the foreigner said. He was walking side by side with the silk-clad sultan along the fabled Hanging Gardens of Babylon, marveling at the beauties that surrounded him. Naked-breasted houris moved from place to place, tending the delicate blossoms with alabaster pitchers of water, speaking to each other in soft voices as they went about their daily activities. The prince licked his lips, smiling. "And opulent they are indeed," he murmured.

"I believe that a man should live his life to the fullest," the sultan said in reply. The two wolven walked through the great gates and into the darkened bedroom, hushed and still, bedecked with beautiful scarlet hangings, its walls gilded with gold leaf so that it seemed to gently shimmer in the dim light of the thin slit windows. "And this, Prince Ewane, is the treasure of my garden," the sultan said, gesturing to the satin-sheeted bed. "Shireen! We have a visitor. Come and show yourself."

Prince Ewane gasped in surprise as the girl emerged from the shadows. Her fur was the color of lime sherbets, her eyes as red as rubies, and her naked body was one to inspire poets: breasts as full and round as the pomegranates of King Solomon, legs as smooth and long as the pillars of alabaster, lips as red and smooth as a scarlet ribbon of fine silk. She was adorned only in the barest of golden decorations: a heavy golden torc adorning a neck as elegant as the tower of Dawid, crossed golden belts resting on hips as round and beautiful as apple halves, a veil of coffee-dark silk flowing from her head over her shoulders and hands. "Yes," Prince Ewane whispered. "She was as beautiful as the tales say."

In an instant, the dagger was in his hands, and the blade was at the sultan's throat. "And that," Prince Ewane whispered, "is why I came here to spirit her away from a fat old man like you.

His sneering was interrupted by the sensation of cold steel against his neck, warm softness upon his back. He soon realized that he was now in the harem girl's embrace. . . but that her hands, hidden by the veil, had been holding paired katars: razor-honed punch daggers that now rested against his own throat. "Only, "Shireen whispered in his ear, her voice as sensual as it was deadly, "if you can take me away from him. And so far, the chances of that are not promising."

Prince Ewane did not flinch, but simply lowered the blade from the fat sultan's throat, and smiled. "As spirited as you are beautiful," the foreigner whispered, as the shocked old man fell on his ass, blubbering in terror. "The legends, which reached as far as my home in Caledonia, were not false after all." He turned to her, his dark brown eyes smouldering with lust. "And tell me, milady." he whispered. "What must I do to take you away from your master?"

What Shireen said in reply has never been recorded. All that is known is that when Prince Ewane returned to his home in misty Caledonia, he brought with him a beautiful momento of his travels in Babylon.