God of Fire

By Jaid Black

He came to her in a dream. He foretold to her of a husband. She would travel over a thousand years back through time to be claimed by a notorious Viking warrior. The warrior would give her pleasure she'd never dreamed possible. He would claim her. Brand her. Possess her. She could never leave him...

But then again, whoever said she wanted to?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaid Black
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463013878

Jaid Black

Jaid Black is the founder and driving force of Ellora's Cave Publishing, the award-winning online source for erotic literature. She is also the founder and publisher of Lady Jaided, a sexy new magazine for women. Her novella "Hunter's Right" appears in the collection Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, and her novel Deep, Dark & Dangerous is forthcoming from Pocket Books in March 2006. Vistit her on the web at www.jaidblack.com.

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Copyright © 2001 by Jaid Black.

Republished February 2017 & May 4, 2020.

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God of Fire

By Jaid Black

Prologue

Valhalla (The Hall of the Slain)

Somewhere in Time

Frigg was friggin’ pissed.

She glowered at her husband from across the room as she stabbed at a piece of mutton with her bejeweled gold dagger and knifed it into her fashionably pouting mouth. Odin was at it again, the lecherous swine, screwing half of the goddesses in the hall. Even now the big jerk was throwing a meaningful glance with his one and only eye toward Jorth, the airhead who had birthed his beloved first son Thor.

Frigg could stand to see no more. She threw her golden dagger down onto her golden trencher and stomped out of the hall with the regality of a queen, or in her case a goddess. She marched past the slain Vikings who stood guard at the Valgrind gate and indignantly made her way toward the river Thund.

It was time for a little revenge.

Frigg fumed through her entire trek, a journey that took her all of one magical second to accomplish. She decided in much exasperation that a mere second wouldn’t give her enough time to cool down this go around, so she threw her simmering self to the ground and onto her stomach, beating and kicking the riverbank like a spoiled child.

It wasn’t fair.

She, Frigg, was Odin’s wife. Not Jorth—never Jorth. She had given Odin Balder, the most beautiful of all of his sons. She had graced the Viking god’s hall for more millenniums than she cared to dwell upon, and she had remained steadfast and faithful to him for the duration.

Sort of. Well, most of the time. Okay, so only when she felt like it.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that her husband, one-eyed bastard that he is, should have eye for no goddess but herself. She was Frigg, damn it. Not some half-witted Jorth who wouldn’t know her head from her arse if her son Thor shoved a lightning bolt up it and twisted painfully.

Frigg hoisted her elbows up onto the bank of Thund, plopped her weary head into her palms, and contemplated her pitiful options. She sighed. There was only so much a goddess could do to retaliate against Odin. He was a sneaky god-king, that husband of hers.

Frigg gazed down into the icy waters, placing her hand within the river and swirling it about as her mind reeled through the possibilities. Her revenge had to be subtle. It had to be noticeable, but it had to be subtle. She smiled slowly as an idea came to her.

Odin had been prattling on, excited as of late over the impending arrival into Valhalla of his son Thor’s favorite human warrior, Ragnar the Feared. The Valkyries had decided just a few days past that Ragnar was to die on the field of honor whilst raiding a Celtic village a fortnight hence.

Frigg was having none of that.

True, the warrior maidens were the ones that chose who would die in any given battle and who would remain on the earth, but the Valkyries couldn’t bring a man into Valhalla who hadn’t been injured in battle to begin with.

Frigg smiled, her immortal eyes twinkling merrily. She would see to it that Ragnar never made it to the Celts’ shores during the upcoming raid, let alone find righteous death in glorious battle.

Ragnar was young at thirty and two and could therefore wait a little longer to see Valhalla. Frigg, on the other hand, was not. She was beautiful, aye, but older than dirt, and she steadfastly refused to wait any longer to see her revenge through to its fruition. Enough was enough.

Frigg winked a smile into the river Thund, happier than she’d been in ages. It felt good, revenge. In fact, it felt damn good. She clapped her hands together and laughed, growing more excited by her plans every moment.

And then she frowned.

A thought occurred to Frigg that she didn’t care for at all. She might be able to stop Ragnar from participating in the upcoming Celtic raid, but she couldn’t be there to watch over him and impede him always. She needed something more, something that would make her revenge last longer. A distraction that would keep Ragnar the Feared from her hall of slain warriors for many, many years yet to come. Nothing would irritate Thor, and therefore Odin, more.

Frigg tapped her long, elegant nails on the bank of Thund and wracked her immortal brain for an answer to her predicament. She squealed in excitement a minute later when the answer of all answers came to her.

But she would need aid.

She grinned provocatively into the waters, feeling every inch the goddess to be reckoned with. Loki would help her. He owed her one. Besides, that little twit would do anything for a good blowjob.

Chapter One

Stavanger Region of Norway, 820 AD

Every set of eyes seated around the long table watched the jarl in anticipation as he paced the length of the thing’s meeting place. The thing hadn’t planned to assemble again until a fortnight hence, but Erik the Wise had sent messengers to each of the council’s judiciary members this rising, summoning them to the hall in posthaste.

Ragnar Valkraad, the first-born son and heir to the great Norwegian jarl now pacing before the assembled men, gazed upon his father with a sense of trepidation. ‘Twas never good news when Erik the Wise called upon the council to come together unexpectedly.

Two female Celtic slaves appeared in the doorway carrying pitchers of freshly brewed mead toward Erik Valkraad’s seat. They placed the drinks deftly upon the long table, then scurried from the hall as quickly as they’d arrived.

Ragnar smiled slowly. The slaves were not ignorant of the goings on inside of the thing. ‘Twas apparent neither of his father’s thralls wished to be used as bed sport for the gathered Viking men. Yet Ragnar knew that wenching was the furthest consideration from the minds of all present. They had far more pressing matters to contend with.

The murmurs of the councilmen could be heard throughout the long house, all of them talking amongst themselves at the table, speculating as to why the jarl had called upon them in the first. Ragnar the Feared considered it as well, but arrived at no conclusion. ‘Twas not like his sire to be so secretive.

Ragnar watched in silence as his father, Erik the Wise, ran a weary hand through his long silver-yellow mane of hair and paced the dirt floor of the assembly hall. He was a tall man, still thickly muscled and well-honed at the age of two score and eight. He was an impressive warrior, an intelligent jarl, and Ragnar respected him very much.

Thor’s teeth, Valkraad! the jarl’s brother-within-the-law Leif Boerge called out. You are making us all fretful with your pacing in silence. Tell us now the matter you seek to put before us this day.

A chorus of approval went up like wildfire, inducing the typically stoic jarl to wince. He sighed, but relented with a nod, then strode toward the long table to take his seat of honor.

The room grew immediately quiet. Ragnar stirred atop the wood bench, his sense of foreboding deepening.

Erik the Wise took a long, healthy swallow of mead, swiped his hand across his mouth, and set his tankard back down upon the table then belched for good measure. This was, after all, serious business.

Erik sat straight up in his chair and gazed harshly into the eyes of all present, making the members of the thing realize in no uncertain terms that whatever he was about to say would be countered by no arguments to the contrary. The Celts shan’t be raided by us a fortnight hence.

Shouting broke out amongst the members of the council, all of them speaking louder than the next, vying to be heard above the din. Ragnar raised a battle-roughened palm, inducing the councilmen to silence. Father, he began, the agitation in his tone apparent, why wouldst we abandon this trek? We have planned in earnest for three fortnights. He shrugged a broad shoulder negligently. Our people gain much wealth when we pray upon the weak-kneed Welsh.

A choir of ayes rang throughout the assembly hall