Beneath him, the fell beast burbled, reminding him of its presence. The great creature stretched out its neck, its maw gaping open as a mighty belch rumbled forth from deep in the pit of its stomach. A fetid stench was left behind as it closed its mouth and hiccuped twice. Coiling its head around like a snake, it placidly stared back at him, its beady eyes unblinking. The wraith patted the creature upon its scaly head and idly noted that the beast had breakfasted upon decaying man flesh.

Gathering up the reins, Angmar tapped the beast's flanks lightly with his spurs, and with an unspoken command, sent it flapping skyward. He must think - in private. Taking the Ring off his finger, he severed the link with his master, but he knew that if Sauron compelled him to return the Ring to his hand, he would have no choice. He cursed himself for not removing the Ring when he was making love to the Rohirric peasant woman. Sauron always took a perverse delight in watching His minions thrashing in the throes of coitus. Later He would remind them of the obscene, vulgar deed, deriding them and mocking them for their weakness.

Would this be the time that the Dark Lord finally destroyed him in His rage? No, He enjoyed torturing the Witch-king far too much for that. There would be the usual punishment inflicted upon him - floggings, scourgings, brands and hot tongs, crushing and breaking of bones - but as long as he held his Ring, he would heal in time. The Dark Lord was monotonously unoriginal, even after all these years, always relying upon the tried and true, and never thinking of unique and novel tortures.

Then after His rage had finally abated, Gorthaur would again become the loving, adoring, even doting, father, hungry for the forgiveness of the Nine, hurt at the thought of their rejection. He would honor them with celebrations and banquets and shower them with richly appointed robes, casks of sparkling jewels, finely wrought weapons, and rare artifacts of historical import or arcane power. Whatever interests they had, whatever pastimes they enjoyed, He would gladly indulge, for was He not Annatar, Lord of Gifts? Until His fury had been satisfied, though, He would destroy anyone and anything that His puppets cherished. And those who died in the process? The Dark Lord was above feeling guilt over the deaths of superfluous mortals.

As the fell beast sped him away from the lonely little cottage back to the battlefield, Angmar's thoughts turned to the Rohirric woman whom he had seduced the night before. Was the simple, loving peasant woman in peril for yielding her heart and body to him out of her loneliness? Perhaps if the Witch-king considered the woman any more than just another roll between the sheets, then her life, maybe even her soul, would be in danger. Never in the past had Sauron wreaked His vengeance for brief intrigues and casual couplings. The Dark Lord was petty, but He had not yet degenerated into such triviality. The destruction of such an innocuous, ignorant wench would be beneath His dignity. Surely it would make no sense for his Master to punish her, would it? Only if Sauron thought it would bring pain to His errant servant would the woman be in danger; since she was naught but a Midsummer fancy, she was probably safe. The matter was not one upon which Angmar wished to spend further time, and so he dismissed the woman from his mind, promising that he would consider her later.

But the comely Rohirric sisters - Elfhild and Elffled - were of much greater interest than the lonely wife who had heated his loins. From the brief few hours that he had spent with them, he had learned many things. They were young, beautiful, full of life and vitality, winsome little morsels who were incredibly delectable. Both girls exuded the enticing fragrance of fecundity, that robust flavor which filled his nostrils with rampant desire. Such potentially fruitful females held the promise of giving him many strong sons and bewitching daughters, if he chose to favor them. Of course, should they prove unsatisfactory as companions, he could always gift one of his own minions with the lovely twins.

As the beast's great wings rhythmically beat up and down, lifting its massive body to soar on the air currents and then to sweep across the battle-ravished landscape of the Westfold, the Witch-king had the opportunity to reflect more upon the good fortune of finding these girls. It was only by an opportune chance that he had discovered that the green hills of Rohan had been the birthplace of a second beauteous twin. He sensed that within this innocent maiden dwelt a stormy, passionate soul who yearned for the touch of a man whom she could love, one whom she felt was worthy of her. Once this fragrant bud had blossomed into full glory, she would yield herself in such a tender, fervent glow of passion that she would keep the coldest Morgul nights heated for many years. He felt a yearning in his manly parts simply by thinking of her.

The other girl, Elfhild, while also transcending into beautiful, graceful womanhood, was of a different mind than her sister. He sensed that she was filled with an insatiable curiosity about the world around her. After all, she had been brave enough to look up at him when he had ridden by her. He found her audacity intriguing, captivating his mind with her unknown qualities. She reminded him of another courageous woman who had dared face him when all others had fled. The rebellious princess and the peasant girl had much in common: a courageous heart, a strong will, and an intense familial loyalty. Both were valiant fighters, one with the sword, the other with will and words. He would enjoy the challenge of winning Elfhild's heart.

Lovely twins - their bodies almost exactly alike - the sisters would be perfect compliments to each other. Treasures such as they were surely destined to experience the splendored passion of his bed-chamber. While her sister watched, the older girl would be the first to know the fierce passion of his mighty love lance. Then while she sobbed out in one overwhelming surge of rapture after another, he would turn his still upraised weapon to salute the younger sister and bury himself up to the hilt in her virginal sheath. Yes, when at last they came into his possession, he would see that both of his captivating lilies would be nourished as tender hot-house flowers until he was ready to pluck their pink petals, and then he would deflower both on the same night.

The Witch-king regretted that he could not enjoy these two lovely Rohirric blossoms now and inhale deeply of their sweet fragrance. However, the battlefield was no place for fair maidens, especially since he was slaughtering their people. The night when he had disguised himself and met them along the Anduin, he had stolen precious hours away from fate just to be with them. With the stresses of the war and the increasing threat of Sauron's wrath, he had no time for anything other than mere dalliances. Still, though, he could make his plans and dream of the future. Diverting his mind with tantalizing visions of moonlit nights filled with rapture in his enchanted vale was far more appealing than deliberating upon what his Master's next move might be.

The Master! The mere thought of the Dark Lord and His meddling plummeted his mind into despair. The beast sensed his master's change in mood, and its steady course took a drastic downward dip until its rider guided it skyward once again. Should Gorthaur know of his attraction to the women, He might use them as another source of torment. He would have them snatched away and locked in the Dark Tower, where His depraved mind would devise unbelievably cruel ways to torture them. Perhaps they would die in agony under His monstrous, pounding body, their blood splattering the golden sheets of His great ebony bed. Then, resurrected by dark necromancy, they would be forced to suffer even more devilish torments at His hands before He finally grew tired of the wretched creatures and sent them back as walking corpses devoid of soul and mind.

No, the Master could know nothing of them. He was certain that Sauron remained blissfully ignorant of their existence, and he was determined to keep it that way. If all went according to plan, the Dark Lord would not have even the slightest suspicion that Angmar had chosen a new concubine, who, once he had ushered her into the delights of sensuality, would share his dark lusts.

The Witch-king remembered that day in May when he had met the girl Elfhild. He had returned that evening to his great tent, where he called a meeting with his officers. That business completed, he then turned his attentions to the massive amount of paperwork which he had to complete. Sitting down at his field desk, he turned to his chief scribe, a Black Númenórean who had been trained at the Scriptorium of Minas Morgul, and commanded him to fetch parchment, ink, scroll tubes and sacks for mailing.

Long ago, the Dark Lord had devised an orderly system for the distribution of mail to His far-flung realm. Wishing for order in all things, He had stipulated that scroll tubes were to be placed in special pouches bearing the insignia of their destination. Those missives destined for the Dark Tower were put in a pouch made of black silk brocaded with images of the Great Eye in gold and red. Those bound for Dol Guldur were marked with the tower surrounded by a dark forest, and those for Minas Morgul bore the sigil of the Morgul Lord, a ghostly crescent moon in thread-of-silver. Other fortresses and outposts bore their own distinctive insignias. The system had worked successfully for many years with few mishaps ever occurring.

As Angmar dictated a lengthy battle report describing the army's march northward, his messenger, Skri, sat nearby, sipping a goblet of Dushûrz Gabik, the glowing green wine of Minas Morgul. When the report was completed, the scribe inserted the rolled up parchment into a scroll tube, which he dropped into a sack bearing the sigil of the Great Eye. The Dark Captain dismissed the scribe for the evening, and the man bowed and backed his way out of the tent. When the scribe was gone, Angmar began to pen a second missive, which was addressed to Kalus, Seneschal of Minas Morgul, who ruled in the absence of the Morgul Lord.

A slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth as the Witch-king wrote rapidly, his pen racing over the parchment. Occasionally he looked over at Skri, who could only guess at the contents of the intriguing letter. "Let him wonder!" Angmar chuckled to himself. This missive dealt with a very sensitive matter, a personal one close to the Captain's own heart. The missive advised the Seneschal that a very important caravan would soon be passing Minas Morgul. When it was halted for the usual inspection and payment of tariffs and fees, he and his men were to seize a girl named Elfhild, the daughter of Eadbald of Grenefeld, and take her into the City.

While a fair price in gold was to be paid for her, the slavers were to be persuaded that it would be in their best interest to state on the official records that the girl had died on the journey. Elfhild would be quickly forgotten, for who was there to remember her? The authorities would never know any difference, for the silence of the Southrons had been bought by gold and any slaves who saw what happened would be scattered throughout Nurn. No one would believe the word of slaves anyway. The girl would be just another number in a forgotten record book stored away in some dust-covered cubbyhole in the archives of the Tower.

When he had finished, the Morgul Lord turned his piercing gaze upon Skri. "There, Shau, my correspondence is finished, and I entrust its delivery to you. You are to travel to Barad-dûr first and present the Master with my report. Upon your return journey, you will stop at Minas Morgul and deliver the second missive to Kalus. I have every confidence in your abilities to evade any attempt by the enemy to intercept the mail. Neither message must fall into the hands of the wrong people. There must be no failure!"

"Never will I disappoint you, my Captain." Skri bowed humbly as he rose to his feet and took the sacks from his lord's hands. "You can always depend upon Shau the Eighth."

"I have every confidence in you, Shau." The Morgul Lord rose and gripped the lesser wraith by the shoulder as he looked into his eyes. "Indeed, every confidence."

Basking in his lord's praises, Skri bared his pearly white teeth in a mouth set in a habitual morbid grin. He whistled a jaunty old Rhûnian tune as he placed the two sacks into his leather mail bag, which he would strap to the back of his beast's saddle. He bowed, and with a light step, he turned and sauntered past the guards at the entrance of the Captain's great tent. As Skri made his way to the great stake where his beast was tethered, his tattered, faded black cloak floated behind him like shadowy clouds over the moon. The torches dimmed and flickered as he passed by them, and the few mortal soldiers about that night trembled in bitter cold as they bowed low to the Nazgûl.

"Damn fool," the Witch-king had groused to himself at the time. "Why does he insist upon wearing the most motley of grave clothes when he could robe himself in the velvets and brocades befitting a king? He brings shame to our order by dressing like a common ghoul!" Angmar shrugged. "Eccentric he is, but as dependable as Death."

The wraith lord's thoughts returned to the present and to that lovely set of Rohirric twins. He would much rather think about fair maidens than Skri and his moldering shroud. If it had not been for a chance sighting by Skri of a slave revolt, he might have never known that there were two sisters rather than one. While on an aerial reconnaissance the night after the escape, he had decided to fly east and see how many slaves remained at large, an idle quest which had nothing to do with the war and was undertaken only to appease his curiosity. It seemed that most of the slaves had been recaptured, but he discovered two that were not. The scent of one was familiar, and veiling himself in a cloak of darkness, he had dropped down to investigate. He had sent the beast away to hunt while he pursued a different sort of game.

When he had found them sleeping along the shores of the Anduin, he had approached stealthily and spied upon them as they slumbered. He could scarcely believe that one of them was Elfhild, the comely daughter of a peasant, whose stunning beauty could rival that of a queen. His eyes had glowed red when he realized that he was looking at her in duplicate, for there lying beside her was a girl so like her that they could have been a matching set of jewels. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the other girl's unique scent. Where had she been that day when he had discovered her double? Then he remembered the cowering girl who had knelt beside Elfhild, but she had seemed just another one of many kneeling Rohirric captives.

He cursed himself for a fool. He should have penned a letter that very night to Kalus, appraising him that there was not one but two of the bewitching little beauties. That would have been too dangerous, though. One letter was risky enough, but two might be disastrous. Sauron was not only angry with him, but He also had become even more suspicious of His servant, His mind now bordering on paranoia. In His madness, He might suspect that the Witch-king was guilty of some treachery and demand to read all missives which had come from His servant's hand. No, he would have to trust the good sense of his faithful Seneschal to seize both girls.

Now, the escape complicated things slightly, but Angmar doubted that the twins would remain at large for long. From the lofty perch of the fell beast's back, he had seen the search parties which scoured the landscape, searching for escaped slaves. The trackers were not far from the twins' location, and it would not be long until the girls were recaptured. What chance did they have of escaping for good? A vast wasteland lay between them and Rohan, and there was nothing in the devastated countryside for them to eat, nowhere to go and no one to help them. They might even become so desperate that they would willingly give themselves up to beg for food.

Once recaptured, the twins would again resume their journey eastward. Though doubtless they would be quite disheartened by their failed escape attempt, they would be no worse for wear. What mattered was that the girls would be in good hands with Esarhaddon uHuzziya. The Morgul Lord had dealt with the slave trader before, and he knew that the Southron loved gold above all else, prizing it more highly even than honor, prestige or women. Because of the novelty of their fair skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, the alluring twins would be considered valuable merchandise in the South, and the slaver would see that they came to no harm. No matter how he desired them, no matter how much he lusted for them, he would never claim them for himself, for he desired gold far more than voluptuous flesh. Although Angmar would never deign to tell such lowly mortals his designs, unbeknownst to them, they would fall right into his plans and deliver the sisters to the very gates of his city. Soon the twins would be in his power, and safe within the gleaming, phosphorescent walls of Minas Morgul. All Angmar had to do was bide his time and wait.

Now he must concentrate upon the war that he was losing, and when the wretched business was over, he could look forward to warm, sensual nights in his dark bed chamber with the tantalizing young twins from Rohan. As the soft light of dawn turned the morning skies into pale gold, the Witch-king saw the outlines of the military encampment far ahead. Laughing as the beast began to drop towards the ground, he congratulated himself upon his wisdom. How could any plan be more perfect?

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