What the slave-master might have done next for his amusement remained thankfully unknown, for Notor Trelth with a thick impatient rasp to his voice said: “Have done with the rast, Nalgre. If a slave will not bow the neck, have his head cut off and thus make him bow for good and all.”
A woman with Trelth, with pearls in her hair and a plump and well-fed figure she had somehow crammed into tight hunting leathers, so that she bulged, tinkled a laugh. “Let him run for our sport, Ranal! I shall joy to tickle him!” And the fat fool had the effrontery to finger the thraxter at her side.
Ranal Trelth chuckled. “He shall be all yours, Lavia, yours for yourself, my precious.”
I did not miss the tip of her scarlet tongue as it licked her rich lips, shining in the radiance of the twin Suns of Scorp
