They rode long and hard. Pan could tell by the laboured gallop of the horse and the sound of hooves on sand, they had now come to the desert, which meant they had ridden quite a distance beyond the palace. Grains of sand whipped over the exposed flesh of his feet and legs. The only benefit of having a sack over his head is that it prevented any sand from getting into his eyes and mouth. Small mercies.

The sun, too, was a trial he had to endure. Its harsh, unrelenting rays seared his flesh till he could feel it start to burn. He was sweating profusely. So was the man behind. The skin of his back and the skin of his captor’s chest and stomach were glued together in a clammy mix of each other’s salty perspirations. He was also parched. His lips were so dry he could feel them start to crack. In the beginning he could lick them, coating them in saliva and offering them a few seconds of relief before they dried again. But whatever moisture remained in his body had become sweat. His saliva eventually dried up and his mouth and throat became bone dry to the point where trying to swallow made him gag.

The sun must have been close to setting when they finally came to a stop. Pan had felt the heat abating for a while and now there was even a hint of the desert night chill in the air. He felt hands on his legs and the powerful arm of the rider working in unison to lower him roughly from the horse. As his feet touched the ground, his muscles failed him and he fell to the sandy ground, grimacing as the weight of his body came crashing down onto one elbow.

“Get up, boy!” one of the men growled.

He struggled to right himself and used his bound hands to push himself upwards, but again he failed. He felt a hand at the back of his neck, and grabbing fingers. Someone pulled him up by the scruff of the neck as though he were an errant puppy.

“Walk!”

Pan put all his concentration into placing one foot in front of the other while trying to stay upright; not such an easy task on sand. Yet after no more than half a dozen paces, he was walking as well as he ever did and in doing so escaped any further manhandling.

After only a short way, the ground became hard, like rock. And cold. The rapid change in temperature made him shiver and he could feel his flesh contracting. There was a knocking sound and the squeaking of a gate or a massive door opening, then more walking. More doors opening until finally they came to what must have been a large room for the sound of the guards’ footsteps was echoing.

“Is this him?” The voice was loud and deep, and strangely familiar.

“Yes, my lord,” came the reply.

“Show me.”

Pan felt suddenly alert. His weary body was flooded with adrenalin. My lord? Who could warrant such a title? There was no other king but Seronisis.

The bag was removed and standing in front of Pan was a slightly older version of Seronisis. The man’s hair was dark and long, though his face was devoid of hair. His torso was slender and toned. The desert sun had tanned it a deep brown, which accentuated the whites of the man’s eyes and his teeth. He wore a simple robe, which flowed to the floor and was open at the front so Pan could see the shaved pubic area above the man’s pendulous cock and balls.

“So you are Pan, consort to Seronisis?”