Beasted

By Nixie Fairfax

To save her people’s sacred forests from destruction by the imperial forces who have conquered her land, barbarian princess Kemzaka agrees to participate in hand-to-hand combat against the Emperor’s champion in the capital’s public arena. Should she lose, her foe wins the right to claim her in front of the crowd. Sure that she can vanquish any man, Kemzaka agrees, only to discover too late that her foe is not a man but a minotaur, and after a desperate struggle, he overcomes the warrior maiden and has his way with her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nixie Fairfax
• Release date: Aug 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215695050

Nixie Fairfax

Nixie Fairfax is an erotica author with a bent for the dark and the fantastical.

Book preview

Beasted

By Nixie Fairfax

Copyright 2023 by Nixie Fairfax

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adults only. All characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

She had been waiting forever. With her loyal handmaiden Dasvi at her side, Princess Kemzaka had stood for hours amid the throng of supplicants awaiting their turn to petition the Emperor, of whom she had yet to catch even the slightest glimpse. The throne was hidden somewhere behind the crowd of Yenjan senators in their perfumed violet gowns, missionaries of strange faiths from distant Valqir whose bodies were covered from head to toe in inscrutable scarlet glyphs, burly half-orc mercenary captains who stank of sweat and blood and ale, knee-high gnomish merchants in quilted robes and elaborate clockwork hats whose tops popped open once an hour to reveal nests of silver birds who chirped the time, ambassadors from dozens of lands that spanned the breadth of the Empire, and of course the line of palace guards who hemmed them in, only the tips of their spears visible above the crowd.

Young Dasvi couldn’t stop gawping at the exotic peoples and costumes around them and at the wasteful opulence of the cavernous throne room, her head continually swiveling this way and that. Kemzaka, however, kept her gaze fixed dead ahead as one name after another was called and the latest lucky supplicants shuffled forward and vanished behind the heads and helmets and polearms while the crowd murmuringly reshuffled itself to fill the gap.

Kemzaka was beginning to wonder if her name would ever be called, or if she would be forced to return to this decadent cowbarn tomorrow, when the voice of the imperial herald rang out once more. Immediately the crowd’s polyglot chatter ceased, and everyone leaned forward, anxious to learn if their turn had finally come.

His Divine Gloriousness the Emperor Carnallus I, Protector of the Vinbic Empire, Lord of the World, Commander of the Thundering Legions, Son of Suns, Brother of Gods, Font of Unmatched Virility, He Whose Mellifluous Voice Brings Life Itself, Nourisher, Conqueror, Most Resplendent One, Rightful Inheritor of the Ruby Crown and Scepter of the House of Ild now magnanimously shall give ear to the words of Kemzaka of the House of Tvalt, Princess of Akadj.

Dasvi gave a small gasp and looked at her mistress.

It’s us, she whispered.

Kemzaka shushed the girl, then strode forward. The crowd parted before her, and as she and Dasvi approached the herald, a hundred pairs of eyes watched them with envy, annoyance, disappointment, lust, and not a little amusement at the comparative rustic simplicity of their garb. She even heard a few snickers and muttered comments about barbarian girls. She fought to hide her anger and humiliation. The truth was, Kemzaka’s attire was among the finest known to her people. Her green linen gown with the Tvaltine royal crest embroidered in gold, her amulet of jade, her black kidskin gloves, her cape of worg-fur with the gold-and-silver bear-claw clasp, the silver band that bound her yellow tresses—all of this would have met with awe and respect in Akadj and neighboring lands. But here her finery meant nothing at all. Here the guards were more resplendently dressed than she.

As she joined the tall, cadaverous herald in his elegant, multicolored silken robes that reeked of sandalwood and myrrh, she reminded herself that while her garb might be viewed as rustic and unfashionable,