"We've just another messenger arrive with a plea for help, your Highness."

Prince Podebusk, slowly put down his quill and moved the parchment, covered in meticulous handwriting, aside to dry before folding his hands on his desk and meeting the eyes of his squire, Torvald.

"Another village attacked?" he asked, his voice low.

"Ja, your Highness," Torvald nodded his head vigorously.

Another village! thought Prince Podebusk. That makes five. Five villages in his own kingdom where the men, at least those able to perform the duties of a man, gone overnight save a straggler or two, while the women, babes, and elderly or infirm men slept. "And the women, did the women send for help?"

Torvald shifted slightly and glanced at the wall, "No, your Highness. The messager was a young man, practically a boy who, er...escaped. He didn't mention the women were harmed or in need of our assistance."

Prince Podebusk stared at Torvald for a full minute. Why do the women from these villages seem so self-reliant? Sweat beaded on Torvald's temple. Finally, Prince Podebusk sighed, "delirious like the others we've found isn't he?" Torvald nodded. "Very well, take me to him."

The prince and his squire made their way through the large castle to a servant's room off of the kitchen. On a straw mattress writhed a strapping and handsome young man of about seventeen. A young maid alternately dabbed his forhead with a wet cloth and stroked his hair lovingly with her hand. She stood abruptly when Prince Podebusk entered the small room.

"Your Highness," she curtisied lowering her eyes and left the room.

Torvald stuttered. "He–he's not making any sense at all. With fever. I fear he won't last the night."

"Any PARTICULAR delusions?" Prince Podebusk bent his head, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples with his hands.

"Er...well your Highness," Torvald stalled.

"He's begging for Søvn to come back to take him too."

"Hmm...yes," confessed Torvald.

"He is a gonner. Get my horses and my best men ready, we'll take him as far from the castle as we can."

"Ja," your Highness.

The moon hung low in the horizon by the time Prince Podebusk and his most trusted men had donned their armour, mounted their best horses, and set off into the foothills with the unfortunate young man strapped to a cart. Their breath curled like smoke in the cold fall air. Soon a cloud passed overhead. The night turned black, still, and silent save the soft whimpering of the poor delirious soul in tow. Prince Podebusk held up his arm and the men stopped.

Lighting lit up the sky behind the furthest mountain peaks and rapidly moved closer until the men gaped in wonder as an enormous golden yellow dragon came into view over the hills. It glided, serpentine-like, towards them, her glow getting brighter and brighter. Fear coursed through their blood, their very souls.

"Søvn," called the man from the cart, passion ringing from his ragged voice.

The light blinded them, threatened to consume them.  From it emerged a woman, not young but not old, with beauty deep and wise. The brilliance subsided, the moon returned. The woman smiled at the men high above her on their mounts. They remained motionless, unable to breathe. Despite the danger, their fear evaporated and in its place smouldered desire.

Søvndrake walked up to the young man in the cart and stroked his hair, much to his apparent pleasure. "I take the good men AND the wicked." In a deeper sultry voice she continued, "though the wicked pay..." Her voice trailing off so intoxicated the men, they weren't sure if they would plea guilty or innocent. "And," she turned and faced Prince Podebusk, "I'll be back."

A churning wall of fire made them shield their eyes once again as Søvndrake morphed back into a dragon, crushed the man, cart and all, and flew off with him in her jaws over the hills to the high mountains beyond.