2 comments/ 102787 views/ 14 favorites Scheherazade By: Moondrift Scheherazade, the wife of the Sultan Shahriyar, legendary king of Samarkand. From the first night of their marriage onwards, Scheherazade sets out to break the practice of the king, of having his brides executed after the consummation of their marriage. She entertains him with tales each night for 1,001 nights, firing his curiosity by interrupting each tale at a crucial moment in the narrative, and postponing the continuation until the next night. * * * * * * * * To start with it was no different from any other Sunday morning except that I knew what I might have to face. I lay in bed wondering if I could find some excuse to get out of the house and stay out until it was bedtime again, but hearing mother showering, I felt guilty about deserting the situation. To delay the moment I lay in bed longer than usual and when I did get up, took my time over showering and shaving. The previous evening mother had revealed that she has sent her latest lover on his way. She had learned that he was screwing a couple of other women, and mother was always adamant about one man, one woman. "Not that he was all that good as a lover," she confided in me. It wasn't the first time we'd gone through this, and I often wondered why she either got rid of them or they left her. I'd also wondered why none of them had asked her to marry them, or if they had why she refused them. To start with, she is a damned good looking woman, and I'd often thought that if I was her lover I'd do everything I could to make the relationship permanent. But then, I wouldn't have liked it if she had made it permanent with one of those lovers because I didn't fancy any of the men she'd brought home as stepfathers. Another dread I had was that one day mother would announce that I was to have a little brother or sister. It was only later that I learned she always made her men wear condoms. Since learning this I've often wondered if that was part of the problem; you see, mother is the sort of woman that rightly or wrongly men see as the ideal woman to impregnate; buxom, with beautifully swelling hips beneath a slender waist, and strong but shapely legs. Her greatest attraction to my mind was her breasts; they seemed to be designed to drive men out of their mind and suckle babies. I once checked her bra size, 42D. They were firm, and when she wasn't wearing bras and was on the move, they oscillated in that seductive way that makes you look and keep on looking, and you long to see them naked, and caress them and suck their nipples. I have a theory that some, if not most of the men mother had as lovers, wanted to make her pregnant. I know that's what I would have wanted to do if I had a woman like mother. Perhaps when they refused to wear a condom she sent them on their way, or closed her legs tightly and refused to let them penetrate her, and it was they who departed. Of course, this is only conjecture on my part, and probably a fantasy based on my own feelings for mother. I've heard it said that most sons consider their mothers to be beautiful. I don't know whether that is true or not, but I certainly thought my mother was beautiful, and in that sense I regretted she was my mother because it meant I'd never be able to enjoy her seductive body. * * * * * * * * To outline the situation; mother is a single parent. She had originally got pregnant to some guy who was already married and wouldn't leave his wife and kids. I never knew who he was, but I gathered he must have been well off because he paid up for his fun quite generously. That, in addition to mother going out to work, meant we lived rather comfortably. As I grew towards maturity I came to understand mother's dilemma. After her experience with the first guy, my father, she never really trusted men. On the other hand I came to realise that mother needed a man. To put that another way, she had a strong libido and, apparently, masturbating was not sufficiently satisfying. I could sympathise with her over that because masturbating never seemed really satisfying to me either. Just as she needed a man, I needed a woman. I suppose that a lot of sons in my position suffer the same pangs of jealousy that I did when they know their mother is copulating with some guy in her bedroom. I believe that this applies even when the man is their natural father and they are married, but I think it somehow seems worse when you're the son of a single mother. Firstly, you never know if and when the guy is going to become step-daddy, and secondly, there are the times when you can hear what they are doing -- the grunts and groans, the squealing and the sobbing cries, "Harder...deeper...do it to me harder." I don't know how many times I'd masturbated listening to them. It was rather like a concerto with me as the soloist and them the orchestra, but somehow we never really completed the performance, or at least for me, it always ended unsatisfactorily. Not, you understand, that I was completely deprived. There was a fifty year old widow who lived a couple of streets from us. One day she was having difficulty starting her car and I happened to be passing her house. Like a lot of young men I knew a bit about cars, and got it going for her. She was grateful -- very grateful -- and one thing led to another. Even when I played a duet with her, and for all the enthusiasm of her performance, for me it never seemed to end with the grand finale I longed for. However, I must give her due credit; she did teach me a lot about playing on that most delightful of instruments, the female sex organ. But I wander. Another of mother's lovers had departed the scene, and although this was something of a relief to me, I knew what would follow. Even when it was mother who finished the affair she always ended up depressed. That depression would continue and deepen until the next lover. It was as if she was carrying around a heavy load, a load that I came to understand was the burden of her sexual needs. I knew that it would at least in part be my role to help her through her depression, and that help could take some rather strange forms. Often she would say, "Come for a walk with me." More than once we had trudged relentlessly for miles through pouring rain or other unpleasant weather as she tried to walk her frustration off. She had an exercise bicycle and she would peddle the damned thing for what seemed to me like hours trying to work off her sexual craving, but the only thing she worked off was some weight, and this she didn't need to do. I once had the idea that instead of using a stationary bicycle we should both get ourselves proper bicycles and go riding together at the times of post-lover depression, but then I realised what that would mean for me peddling all those kilometres, so I cancelled that idea. During the times of her post-lover blues she wanted -- almost demanded -- my company, even if it was only to be with her as she stared unseeingly at the television screen. I had to sit there watching endless garbage -- garbage that apparently she was not seeing. Of course I could have refused to spend the time with her, but I had the considerable disadvantage of loving her, and l could not face the idea of leaving her alone in her misery. In the wedding ceremony they talk of "For better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish." That's how I felt about mother, and to that extent it was almost as if I was married to her, and I came to suspect that it would be for "as long as we both shall live." I often wondered if I would ever be able to get married and have a family I felt so responsible for mother. And so here we were again; another lover gone, mother no doubt depressed, and me feeling responsible. What would it be this time? * * * * * * * * I made my way to the kitchen guiltily hoping mother would have already had her breakfast and be elsewhere. She wasn't elsewhere; she was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her and reading the newspaper. I eyed her warily, trying to gauge her mood. To my surprise she did not look as despondent as I had anticipated; on the contrary, she looked quite perky, sitting there dressed in what she called a peignoir. This was a garment that tended to display more than it concealed. She had several of them, and wore them on only two occasions; when she first got out of bed, and when we were being visited by the current lover. Its effect on the lover would have been quite amusing if I hadn't been so aware that she was wearing it for him and not for me. The poor guy was overcome in a matter of seconds, and the one thing -- the only thing -- he wanted, was to get mother into bed post haste. This might be seen as the overture to the main part of the concert. I'd noticed that mother would often prolong this prelude. I assumed that this was to heighten anticipation for what was to follow. I had seen guys sitting and staring at mother with a lump in their groin resembling a bell tent. Eventually mother would have mercy on the poor guy and take him off to bed, and there make noisy music for half the night, leaving me to play my forlorn solo. What surprised me about seeing mother in the peignoir was that it was now quite late in the morning and there was no lover present. The garment always had the effect of making me horny, and in my confusion I stated the obvious. "You're not dressed yet, mother." She looked at me rather like a starving beggar might look at a leg of lamb hanging in a butcher's shop. "No," she replied in a sultry tone of voice, "it's so hot, so I thought I'd stay in a state of dishabille." "Dish what?" I asked. "Dishabille darling, a state of being partially dressed or partially undressed, whichever way you want to look at it; but really Trent, I spent a lot of money on your education and you don't even know the word -- oh never mind. It doesn't bother you, does it?" "You mean, does it bother because I didn't know the word." "No, no darling," she said as if talking to an idiot child, "does it bother you that I'm dressed like this?" It was bothering me because I could see she was not wearing bras, and her nipples were clearly visible through the thin cloth, but I could hardly say so. "No...no..." I said, "It doesn't bother me at all." The lie must have been quite obvious because I'd got my own bell tent, and was in no position to attend to its needs at that moment. Mother's eyes were looking fixedly at the embarrassing projection as she said, "You look quite hot and flushed darling; don't you think you're a bit overdressed for the weather?" Well, I suppose it was a bit warm but I would have hardly described it as hot. Mother looked at me shrewdly and said, "You're up so late it's nearly lunch time, so why don't you have a slice of toast and a cup of coffee to fill up the hole, and I'll get lunch shortly. Looking at mother there was only one hole I wanted to fill, the forbidden hole. As I made myself some toast mother asked, "Are you doing anything special this afternoon?" "Er...no... nothing in particular, why?" I replied, wondering what was coming next. "Oh, I just thought we might have a lazy afternoon together. We could lie around and listen to some music together." "Lie around and make some music together," I thought, but wanting to assuage mother and keep her in a good mood I said, "Yes, okay, if that's what you want." "That's what I want ," she said, giving me another leg of lamb look, and added, "Why don't you wear those nice shorts I bought you at the start of summer, it's so hot." She seemed to have a hot fixation. I glanced at the kitchen thermometer and it read thirty six degrees, okay, so it was hot but it was destined to get even hotter. As for those "nice shorts," I'd hardly worn them out of sheer embarrassment (or was it modesty?). They seemed to have been designed to give a maximum display of testes and penis, and if an arousal was inspired the head of my penis seemed to want to pop out above the waistband. I'd hardly finished my coffee when mother began to cook a heap of bacon and fried eggs -- our usual Sunday lunch; why I don't know. This time mother cooked us three eggs each instead of the usual two. I read in some religious tract that we should avoid eating eggs because they gave rise to lustful thoughts and deeds. Perhaps that was why on Sunday afternoons I always paid a visit to my widow, unless of course mother commanded my presence as she had now. * * * * * * * * Having waded my way through mother's prodigal lunch I staggered to my bedroom and changed into the "nice" shorts. I hoped mother would counteract this garment by wearing something modest. I didn't want to spend the afternoon lying face down trying to hide my swollen manhood. When she appeared in the lounge, as if with some malicious intent, mother was not modestly attired. She certainly had changed her peignoir for what she called, a "negligee." I could never tell the difference between a peignoir and a negligee and I think a negligee was merely a peignoir in disguise, or visa versa. Whether that be true or not, the garment she was wearing had clearly been, with evil intent, designed to generate a maximum erection together with copious pre-cum discharge. Whatever else it was going to be, it was not going to be a relaxing afternoon for me. As if to counter that thought, mother said, "Let's relax darling and enjoy each other's company." I should point out that in our lounge we have a huge divan, well upholstered and cushion strewn. I was fully aware that when I wasn't present and a lover was, this divan was used for coital purposes as an alternative to the bedroom. I privately thought of it as the "Shagging sofa." The damned thing covered almost a third of the room and had been custom made to mother's specifications. The divan dwarfed the two armchairs that seemed to cringe away from it as if fearing they might be overwhelmed. The only items in the room that seemed prepared to defy the divan were the television set and a potentially ear shattering sound system. And so when mother said "Let's relax," that being interpreted meant we relaxed on the divan. * * * * * * * * So that you may better understand what I had to endure, I think it appropriate at this point to give you a fuller description of mother. She has a handsome rather then a pretty face; I've always thought of it as a model's face, with its high cheek bones, long, and slightly convex nose, wide, full lips and dark eyes deeply set under strong brows. Her curly, springing hair, is usually held back by two combs and falls over her shoulders. I could imagine her posed, mouth moistly open, hips jutting and staring at the camera with that apparently obligatory look of arrogant resentment. Since contemporary models generally have an emaciated tubercular appearance, mother's buxomness might eliminate her from modeling, but this was somewhat counter balanced by her height at five feet nine. That Sunday afternoon in the lounge mother, wearing the negligee that revealed more than hid her assets, definitely gave the impression of a very seductive lady. No red blooded male would have needed an aphrodisiac in order to obtain an impressive erection. Since it was to be a musical afternoon -- during which I usually dozed off -- mother put a CD in the sound system. Scheherazade! Ah yes, that sensuous Rimsky-K suite. I think she'd used that with one or two of her more music appreciating lovers. I knew that because a few times I'd come home and wanted to use the sound system and the CD was still inserted and the cushions of the divan were a mess; and so I guessed that the CD hadn't been the only thing inserted. Mother flopped down on the cushions beside me and the CD kicked in. The roar of the Sultan and then Sea and Sinbad's Ship. Very stirring. Somehow the fastening holding mother's negligee had come undone and the front of the negligee was open in a long V shape that ran from neck to navel, exposing half her breasts. My penis had already been three quarters of the way to full stretch, and now it blew upward and outward to its full extent. It was time to roll over on my stomach, but as I started to maneuver mother, who was humming along with the music, grabbed me and kept me on my back. Not only had the negligee adopted a V formation, but it had ridden up to expose a considerable amount of thigh, and mother had a considerable amount of thigh to expose. Not only that, but my left thigh and mother's right thigh had collided, and stayed jammed together. I became mesmerised by mother's breasts as, when she took another deep breath to keep on humming they rose, and at 42D there was a lot to rise. Then they would gradually descend until the next intake of breath. We had got to the Kalendar Prince and by then one breast was exposed almost to the nipple. From what I could see of the nipple it looked as fresh and ripe as a newly plucked cherry. I asked myself if all this exposure was fair on a horny son who was only doing his filial duty in trying to help his mother overcome her post-lover melancholia. I decided that enough was enough and a made a move to get away from mother, but by then her thigh that had been jammed against mine had found its way over the lower part of my body, pinning me to the divan. I could have made an effort to release myself, but it would have been an obvious move, and in any case I'd got to like it. I'd got to the stage where the pre-cum was flowing steadily and it must have been staining my shorts. Mother's hand started to stroke my chest, her fingers occasionally gently pressing my nipples. By the time we got to The Young Prince and The Young Princess the temperature seemed to have gone up to around forty five degrees and still rising. By then mother was half draped over me, and abruptly her lips closed over mine, and as our mouths opened to start tonguing each other I felt her hand unclipping the top of my shorts, and the next instant my penis was in her hand. The kissing and tonguing went on for a long time, and in the process I discovered mother's breasts were now completely exposed. I started to fondle them, but it was all too much. I broke from the kiss, bent over her breasts, and sucked one of those ripe nipples into my mouth. It was delicious, and I sucked avidly while mother stroked my foreskin over the head of my penis. I was completely fair to the nipples because I sucked each one in turn. We had got to the final movement, Festival at Baghdad. The Sea. The Ship Breaks against a Cliff Surmounted by a Bronze Horseman. As the festival started mother spoke for the first time saying, "Sultan me darling." It was odd because this was the only words that were spoken during the whole progress of our performance. Too late I went to move over on top of mother, but she was ahead of me and was on top of me. My penis entered into the warm wet sea of mother's vagina and we rolled and heaved with ever increasing fervour. Then we crashed, me spurting my semen into her while mother screamed. I do not count my groans or her screams as words, although they gave a distinct impression of agony and ecstasy. The music was drawing to its peaceful close as mother descended from her crescendo into peaceful post-coital calm. She had asked me to Sultan her, but although there was no story to follow I did not feel inclined to have her killed, but of course, I might fuck her to death. Don't be distressed; I think the power of her libido is more likely to be my death rather than hers. In the silence that now ensued we stayed joined at the genitals for some time, but eventually mother withdrew from me and lay beside me. Scheherazade and the King Shariyar glared at the young girl cowering at his feet. Pooled at the base of his throne in a heap of delicate gauze and glittering gems, she was as beautiful and simple as the rest of them had been. Even now those large, vacant eyes were overflowing with tears. "Please, King of Kings, spare me," the girl whimpered through her clasped hands. "I beg of you to spare me." "Why?" the king asked, his voice low and dark. "Because I have done nothing but try to please you!" she cried. "I will be a good wife to you!" "A good wife?" Shariyar scoffed angrily. "Experience has taught me there is no such thing." "But I am different, I -" "You are all the same," the king interjected. "You are a faithless, deceitful breed." "My king, I would never betray you like Queen Nasrin." Shariyar's rugged features hardened at the mention of his first wife. In an instant the emperor was another person entirely: His cinder eyes ignited in a flash of anger, his upper lip curled into an animalistic snarl and his powerful hands shook as they clenched the arms of his throne. The girl knew immediately that she had made a mistake. Her wide eyes grew even larger and her entire body trembled under the vengeful eyes of the king. "You would," the Shariyar spat furiously. "You would and you will if I give you the chance." "No, no please," she begged. "Please, my king, no." The girl threw herself at the king's knees, grasping desperately at the rich fabric he wore as if seeking some comfort in its folds. Shariyar stood up and grabbed the young woman by her throat, wrenching to her feet with just one hand. Fresh tears and wails erupted anew as he drew her closer and closer to him, closer and closer to the unbridled rage burning in his eyes. "I wonder exactly how many days it would be before I find you in bed with another man," he said slowly. He pulled the top of her dress down violently, exposing her breasts for the world to see. "No, never!" She choked, trying desperately to tear the king's fingers apart. "Or how many months would pass before you try to murder me in my sleep," the king said, his voice rising. His open palm came down on her right breast, turning her milky skin a deep red. "Ah! Please -" "Or how long it would take you to cut my still-beating heart from my chest," he roared. Another slap, this time across her tear-streaked face. The girl did not have enough breath to scream but she managed a strangled gasp. "Be silent you treacherous whore," he snapped. "You will be exiled and when you die alone in the desert, your sun-bleached bones will serve as a reminder to all men that a woman's love is as fleeting as her beauty." Shariyar threw the girl down and slowly resumed his place on the throne, watching with dark satisfaction as the guards came to haul her half-naked body away. The girl's wailing cries for mercy barely registered as they echoed through the halls. Shariyar had long grown deaf to any woman's please for forgiveness. This girl would mark the one hundred and fiftieth woman he had married and then exiled since his wife's death. Exile from the kingdom was tantamount to a death sentence. If the desert did not kill the women, the robbers who haunted the treacherous dunes surely would. And she will not be the last. Shariyar thought to himself. They will all die. Every last one of the treacherous whores will die. Shariyar glanced idly around the throne room, counting off the ever-present guards to make sure that none but two were missing as he waited for Jafar. His childhood friend and most trusted advisor, Jafar was a tall, strapping man with green eyes and dark hair had not yet begun to grey. He had a broad smile that used to help them escape from all sorts of trouble when they were boys. Shariyar had not seen that smile for a long time... At least, not directed at him. At any moment now, Jafar would storm into the throne room. Just as he had every morning for the past hundred and fifty days, the vizier would arrive in shocked disbelief and then become exceedingly angry with the emperor before attempting vainly to bargain for the girl's life. Finally Jafar would become despondent and leave to oversee the beheading. Shariyar sat up straighter as the heavy wooden doors to the throne room were thrown open. "Right on time," he muttered under his breath. "Shariyar!" Jafar cried as he stormed towards the king. "How could you? Have you any idea what you have done?" "She was just like all the others Jafar," he said. "She would have betrayed me before we'd even finished our honeymoon." "That was the high court judge's youngest daughter," the vizier moaned. "Do you have any idea how many men you have just added to your list of enemies?" "Men are not the problem, Jafar." "They will be if you ever find yourself unguarded," he warned. "That is why I never am," Shariyar said icily. "You are without a doubt the most -" "Jafar," the king said sharply, "do not say something you won't live to regret." The vizier sucked his teeth and fumed silently at the king. After the Queen betrayed him, Jafar had watched his friend and ruler descend into crippling madness like a powerful dog ravaged by rabies. He was consumed with revenge and thought of nothing else. "Let's bypass the usual routine, shall we? No, I will not alter my decision. Yes, the order for exile has been given. And yes, you must bring me another one," he said. "And where do suggest I find another one?" Jafar asked, not even attempting to hide his anger. "The harem, Jafar, where else?" Shariyar snapped. "As of ten minutes ago, the harem is empty, your highness," the vizier seethed. "You have managed to exile all the women in your palace in less than half a year and you are still not satisfied?" Shariyar rose and began to pace the room, stroking his beard anxiously. He was a ruthlessly handsome man with light brown eyes that smouldered like molten amber and coal-black hair that was only now beginning to streak with grey above his ears. And yet a blind man could see the vengeful madness that lurked just behind those striking features. Jafar pictured him now as a wolf that had lost the scent of its quarry, foaming at the mouth from want but finding nothing in its retraced footsteps. Finally the king stopped pacing and whirled around to point a threatening finger at Jafar. "You will find me a girl, Jafar," he said. "There are thousands of unmarried women in this city that would leap at the chance to marry the King of Kings. You will find me another one or it will be your head instead." "This is insanity, Shariyar!" Jafar cried exasperatedly. "You have gone too far!" "I haven't gone far enough!" the king roared. "They all deserve to die and I won't stop until this city is cleansed of their treachery!" "You dishonour your mother and your sister with your words," Jafar warned. "When you condemn all of womankind on the actions of -" "You have not known betrayal," Shariyar fumed. "You are lucky your fiancé died before you had the chance to marry her." "How dare you?" Jafar asked, his hands curling into fists. "You dare to bring Nerin into this? You know very well -" "Enough!" Shariyar interrupted, drawing his sword from its sheath and raising it to the vizier's heart. "Find me another or die!" ++++++++ That afternoon Jafar rode through the streets of Persepolis in search of another sacrifice for the king. He had been loose with his words in front of the scullery maids, knowing that within a few hours his purpose would be known. Indeed, he had not been wrong: every father in the city had hidden his unmarried daughters away. For hours he combed the main roads and back alleys of the city searching for a single woman mad or desperate enough to follow him back to the palace. A selfish part of him hoped to find one, but for the most part he did not: Although he did not care for the thought of death, he had watched far too many innocent girls be cast out into the desert to die for his lack of action. The sun began to sink lower and lower into the sky and he directed his escort back towards the palace. "Oh well, my friends," he chuckled sadly to the guards, "I suppose I should have quit while I was a-head." No one laughed. Jafar's heart grew heavy as they neared the palace. He was riding knowingly to his own execution. "Men," Jafar said suddenly, "grant me one reprieve before I return to Shariyar to die. Let me go to the cove on the other side of the palace. I will not attempt to flee, I merely wish to see the ocean one last time." Not one of the soldiers could refuse the advisor and they escorted him through the forest that bordered the palace's west side and out to the seashore. Jafar dismounted and walked to the ruined dock that jutted out into the sea. The men rested in the growing shadows and paid him little mind. They trusted him to brave his fate like a man. Jafar climbed along the cracked slabs of stone that had once formed an ancient cargo dock. He and Shariyar used to sneak out of the palace every chance they got to play here. Inside the palace they were prince and nobleman, out here they were roguish pirates, desperate castaways on a desolate shore, deserters from the navy. Across the small bay was a small fishermen's wharf where the men were just now bringing in the last catch of the day. When they were boys, Shariyar and Jafar had often listened to the fishermen on the wharf tell stories of mermaids, sirens and sea-nymphs as they mended their nets. The salt air incensed the boys' imaginations and made the stories seem not only possible but probable. "For Shariyar to remember the happiness we felt here," Jafar breathed, "I would give anything." Jafar stared sadly at the waves lapping against the ruined dock. The sun was slowly being swallowed by the gathering dusk and he could wait no longer. Jafar turned to head back to the palace and face his executioner when he heard a commotion coming from the wharf. He walked slowly down the dock and over the rocks to the small beach. The fishermen were yelling and laughing at something - perhaps one of them made an unusual catch or brought in an unlucky haul. Smiling as he envisioned a great octopus being dragged ashore, Jafar trudged leisurely over the soft, white sand. This might, after all, be his last moment to laugh. But then the royal advisor heard something that spurred his restful pace into a jog - the sound of a woman screaming. Jafar whistled for the guards to follow him as he picked up his pace, sprinting now to the wharf as the woman's cries grew louder. Jafar and his escort elbowed their way through the throng of fishermen. At the centre of the gathering two young men were standing over a young girl whose only covering was the algae-encrusted nets she was caught up in. The youths were tugging at the nets, whistling and jeering at the girl as she struggled desperately to keep herself covered. "Enough! Stop this!" Jafar shouted over the clamour of the crowd. "How dare you insult the modesty of a woman?" A nervous silence settled over the assembly of fishermen as the guards moved to surround the girl. Jafar threw off his cloak and wrapped it around the girl's shivering shoulders. His blood was boiling when he stood up to face the fishermen. "What have you done to her?" he demanded furiously. "Nothing sir!" one of the youths answered pleadingly. "We were fishing and caught her up in our nets." "She's not a lady sir," chimed in the other, "she's a sea-nymph." "I wouldn't care if she was a jinn!" he fumed. "She is a member of the fairer sex and must be treated as such!" The lads cowered under the advisor's flaming gaze and nodded vigourously. "I will allow you to go unpunished despite your crimes," Jafar said. "But you will remember this day and what I have told you or be prepared to face the consequences." The young men bowed away with a thousand expressions of gratitude and apology. "Clear them all away," Jafar said, waving his hand at the curious spectators. As the guards pushed the fishermen away Jafar returned his attention to the girl who was desperately trying to untangle her long, delicate limbs from the nets. "It's all right, you're safe now," Jafar murmured, kneeling down to help unsnarl the mess of seaweed and netting. The girl's skin was so pale it seemed imbued with the same silvery-blue of her eyes. She certainly did look like one of the mer-folk Jafar had been told about as a child. Her hair was the colour of the palest sunshine and it was braided with strands of shining thread, semiprecious stones and carved charms. Strange, scrawling tattoos decorated her body with symbols Jafar did not understand. She looked young, indeed he doubted whether she had seen any more than nineteen or twenty summers in her lifetime. Jafar shook his head as if attempting to break the spell her beauty had placed on him and wondered if it was really possible for the girl to be a mermaid or a sea-nymph. If she was, the fishermen's stories dictated that he needed to give her a gift. His cloak was not enough, he needed to give her something from the land, of his own making. Jafar's hands suddenly went to his throat where a single ivory charm hung from a simple string around his neck. The piece of bone was carved into a simple shell and had been intended as a childhood gift to his mother before she died. Without hesitation he pulled the necklace off and held it out to her. "Please take this gift from my land and let it speak to you of my heart and of my hand," he said measuredly. All the fishermen in the stories had said something along those lines. The girl's azure eyes captured Jafar's completely and held his gaze hostage. He could feel her eyes searching his soul and he offered no resistance. The young girl eyed him diligently, taking in every tanned inch of his skin. Her saviour was a handsome man: his viridescent eyes were honest and his hair fell around his face in dark waves. She reached out a hand to touch him, her fingertips dancing lightly over his cheek. He was older than he looked, and she could see that he had endured a great deal of torment and pain. Finally the girl's gaze softened and she let her hand fall. Her lush lips turned up in a grateful smile as she accepted the gift. "Thank you," she said as she clenched the charm tightly in her pale fingers. Her words dripped from her lips in a dark, exotic accent that Jafar could not place. "It is not often that men remember the lessons childhood stories taught them." "Then you are a mermaid?" "I did not say that," she said, handing the charm back to Jafar. Jafar shook his head and closed her slim fingers around the charm: "It was a gift." "Thank you," the girl murmured. "What are you?" Jafar pressed. "I am from the sea," she said, her eyes glinting almost mischievously as she fastened the string around her neck. "A sea gypsy?" "You are putting words in my mouth," she admonished softly. "I have told you all you need to know - I am from the sea." Jafar nodded slowly. He did not know what to think of the mysterious girl. In all likelihood she was probably nothing more than a sea gypsy but this wan creature looked nothing like the nautical vagrants he had encountered before. The young woman before him looked as beautiful and spoke as regally as a siren princess washed straight out of a fairy tale. "What is your name?" "Scheherazade," she answered. "Well Scheherazade, my name is Jafar," he smiled gently. "I am the royal vizier to His Highness Shariyar, King of Kings and Emperor of Persia." Though the young woman nodded, Jafar suspected those names meant little to her. "You need food and rest," he continued. "I can take you to the palace where you will be cared for." "I would not want to burden you," she said. "I can find a ship that will take me home in the morning." "Never, Scheherazade," he said. "It would be an honour if your presence graced the king's court." "Then I will be happy to accept," she replied graciously. The vizier nodded and helped the girl to her feet. She gripped Jafar's arm tightly to keep herself from falling but her knees buckled after a few steps and she crumpled to the ground. "Scheherazade!" Jafar gasped, kneeling at her side. "I'm afraid I am not used to walking anymore," she muttered. Jafar pulled the young woman into his arms and smiled kindly at her: "All you had to do was ask for my help." Scheherazade rested calmly in the vizier's arms until she saw the horses. Jafar felt immediately how rigid the young woman's body became. "What's wrong?" "I do not trust those things," Scheherazade said, her brilliant eyes scanning the creatures with suspicion. "Both ends are treacherous." "Don't worry," he chuckled. "I will not let it hurt you." The vizier helped Scheherazade onto his horse and then climbed up behind her, wrapping a protective arm around her waist and pulling her tightly into his chest. As they rode slowly back to the palace, Jafar suddenly remembered the king's orders. His heart sunk in his chest and despair clouded his countenance. Almost as if she could sense his anguish, Scheherazade looked over her shoulder at the vizier. "What is it, Jafar?" "I had forgotten that I am a dead man," he said, smiling sadly at the young woman. "Why is that?" "King Shariyar was betrayed by his first wife and his descent into madness has cost one hundred and fifty lives," he explained. "Every evening he marries a woman from his harem and every morning he has her exiled." If Scheherazade was shocked, she did not show it. "This morning he sent the last woman in his harem to die in the desert and ordered me to find another or face execution. That is why he cannot see you and why, after tonight, you will not see me again." "Then you do not intend for me to marry him?" Scheherazade asked. Jafar 's shocked voice came over her shoulder: "Of course not! Scheherazade, I did not save you just to let you die." "But you did save me Jafar," she protested, "and that means my life is yours. I give it to you freely." There was silence behind her. "I can save you if I marry the king," she pressed. "No," Jafar said shortly. "I could not live with myself if I let you do that." ++++++++ Jafar and his escorted reach the palace just as dusk devoured the last glowing rays of the setting sun. On the vizier's orders, the escort were gathered closely around him to keep prying eyes from noticing the cloaked figure in front of him. They rode into the stables and Jafar quickly leapt off his horse. He turned to help Scheherazade down but, to his surprise, she landed softly beside him, already surer on her feet. With a quick ring of a bell Jafar summoned a pair of servants to whisk Scheherazade away to the innermost sanctum of the palace: the harem. "Even the king cannot enter the boundaries of the harem," Jafar said as the servants surrounded her. "As long as he doesn't know you're there, you will be safe." "Don't do this, Jafar," she protested. "I can save you. I promise you he will not exile me." "He has not spared one woman no matter her beauty," he countered. "You will be as good as dead by tomorrow if you marry him." "If his heart is as troubled as you say it is, beauty is not what he seeks," she persisted. "I can at least give you one more day. Please let me repay my debt to you!" "No!" Jafar cried. "I will not let you die!" "I won't," she said firmly. "Take her to the harem and do not let her leave," Jafar commanded, ignoring Scheherazade's pleas. The two servants wrapped their arms through Scheherazade's in an attempt to lead her away but the young woman held her ground.