Conan: Road of Kings by Karl Edward Wagner

a few hours of sleep.
    Someone had quickly cracked open the door and slipped past, of that Conan was certain—even though the door was again closed, and the room in total darkness. Unable to see, the intruder was waiting to orient himself within the cluttered storeroom. Silently, Conan slid from beneath his blanket and crept toward the almost indiscernible sound of soft breathing.
    As he stealthily closed with the unseen visitor, Conan suddenly relaxed his tense grip upon the kidney dagger. To his nostrils came the piquant fragrance of perfume and sweat. Conan swept out his arm and gathered in a startled female form.
    Sandokazi gave an involuntary yelp of surprise, then subsided in his embrace. The quick brush of his arms made it plain to Conan that the woman carried no weapon.
    “I might have gutted you,” Conan reproached her.
    “Mitra! Are you a cat that you can see in the dark?”
    “I heard your breathing, smelled your perfume.” Conan wondered that he had to explain the obvious. “I thought I’d locked that door.”
    “Anyone can pick these locks,” Sandokazi replied in the same tone. “But then, who would steal from Mordermi?”
    “Indeed.”
    Sandokazi wore only a thin shift. Conan, who wore rather less, was keenly aware of the warm body that pressed against his own bare flesh.
    “I danced until very late tonight,” Sandokazi told him. “The others are all drunk and snoring after celebrating Santiddio’s escape.”
    Conan, who had left the festivities earlier that evening, was not slow to comprehend. Perhaps had he not lingered along the way to his quarters with his convivial bath attendant. Conan’s response now would have been different. The Cimmerian acted according to his savage code of honor—a code not overly governed by temperance—and the voluptuous figure that embraced him in the darkness was as tempting as any succubus.
    “I told you I wouldn’t forget what you did for my brother,” Sandokazi whispered, her fingers teasing.
    “You are Mordermi’s woman,” Conan reminded her with an effort.
    “Mordermi need not know. He has not been my first lover, nor will he be my last. I’m no austere maiden like my sainted sister.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Conan protested, knowing that if matters went any further his passions would override his ethics. “Mordermi is my host and my friend. I’ll not cuckold him in his own house.”
    “Such piety!” Sandokazi scoffed. “Who would have believed it in a barbarian mercenary! My touch tells me that you’re not one of those who will only ride another stallion. Surely you’re not afraid of Mordermi?”
    Anger thickened Conan’s tone. “No doubt it’s strange to you that I have not become sufficiently civilized to roll in the hay with a friend’s woman. In Cimmeria our customs are somewhat archaic.”
    “Well then, this isn’t Cimmeria, is it,” Sandokazi teased. “Surely now, a man of your class hasn’t paused to propose marriage to every wench he’s tumbled!”
    “Not to a slut,” Conan snarled. Anger was now overruling the lust he felt for her. “But if I care for a woman, then I make her my woman, and I’d kill any man who tried to steal my woman. Mordermi feels the same, if I’m any judge of men. If I take you for my own, it would mean a fight. I’m not ready to kill a friend over any woman.”
    “Oh, so!” Sandokazi drew away, her own temper aroused now. “Santiddio was right—you are an altruist. Well, my possessive Cimmerian! I wasn’t offering to become your barbarian hutmate in some stinking mountain village—I was offering you a night’s pleasure! I was curious to learn whether there was a man underneath all that pretty muscle! Instead, all I find is one great hulking fool!”
    As Sandokazi haughtily slipped from his grasp and made for the door, Conan almost agreed with her pronouncement. He was not accustomed to thinking through his actions, and only the fact that betrayal of a friend was abhorrent to his