Free Prisoner of the Horned Helmet by James Silke, Frank Frazetta

sun. His eyes flickered closed, then one suddenly popped back open.
    The girl, carrying her sandals in one hand and a walking stick in the other, was coming fast, leaping barefoot from rock to rock as she moved along the shaded side of the river. She wore a belted tunic, her pouch slung by a strap over a shoulder. A sheathed knife dangled from the belt.
    The lizard dashed down a narrow crack. A moment later it reappeared in the company of three little things a third its length. They scurried to the lip of the rock, lay down, eyes wide.
    The girl waded through the water just below, then climbed onto a large rock rising about three feet out of the water. The top of the rock descended in gently rolling swells to the water’s edge. Here and there puddles the size of footbaths glistened in its smooth natural recessions. The girl, splashing through each puddle, moved to the water’s edge, set down her sandals and walking stick, and stretched luxuriously, letting the morning sun bathe her face.
    It was a small, triangular face framed by a cascade of red-gold hair that parted at the center and fell sideways in natural waves to the tops of smooth tan shoulders. It had gently arched eyebrows, a small straight nose. The upper lip was as straight as a delicately sculpted knife cut, and appeared even straighter over a voluptuous lower lip the color of a budding rose. There was a hint of the same color in the tan cheeks. The delicate clarity of her features heightened the contrasting lushness of her firm flesh. Her hazel-green eyes were big and active, with brilliant whites surrounded by long dark feathery lashes.
    Her name was Robin Lakehair. She was a Cytherian from the village of Weaver, a Sacred Maiden who, like all virgin Cytherian girls, worked spinning the sacred cloth for which Weaver’s temples were renowned. She was an orphan. Since her parents had died of the black death that passed through the forest when she was three, she had been raised by temple priestesses until she was fifteen when, being of adult age, she took a room by herself. She was seventeen.
    Robin lifted her leather satchel and emptied its contents on the warm rock: a collection of corked vials carved from colored stones, a bone comb, a crust of bread, a tangle of colorful ribbons and her sacred wooden whorl. After carefully arranging her precious collection, she stood, unbuckled her leather belt and dropped it beside her satchel. Taking hold of the hem of her plain grey square-necked tunic, she lifted it over her head. She folded her tunic neatly, set it beside her things and again stretched, giving her nude body to the luxurious, warm embrace of the sunshine.
    The great ball of fire in the sky painted her a golden nutmeg with loving strokes, as if the great orb of endless fire knew well that rarely was there a human animal created to wear only garments made of light.
    Robin was no taller than a full-grown deer. Her breasts stood high on her little barrel chest, as smooth and firm and plump as river-washed pebbles. Her arms were short, her hands small, her waist tiny, and her legs long muscular arrows ending in sturdy feet. As young and vibrant as a new blade of grass, as strong as a bowstring.
    She looked up and down the river, into the forest, then up at the top of the outcropping of rock topped by the scrub oak. Spotting the lizards, she smiled and made a soft clicking sound. She opened a pouch, scrambled up the rocks and sprinkled a spoonful of dried insects on a shelf of rock. As the lizards scurried down to the meal, she hopped back down to the edge of the water and watched them feed. Robin laughed with delight, then strode into the water and with a joyous shiver sank into the cold blue-green current.
    She floated on her back letting it carry her out into the middle of the pond, then rolled over on her flat tummy so that only her head and round firm bottom protruded from the rippling blue water. She arched up, dove, vanished under the water. A long moment