Free Double Identity by Nick Carter

being, now being so exquisitely stimulated, and his intellect. And his instinct. The tiniest of bronze gongs was beating somewhere in the back of his brain, warning him. Against what? He did not know and, almost to the point of peril, he did not care.
    He began to feel a strange tenderness, mixed with an — unexplained enmity, for this woman who was ravaging him. For the moment, he thought, no matter how it turns out, we are lovers! It was a caught instant of time when all else was forgotten and there were only the two of them in the world. It was the drug, of course. The drug working to destroy the will and intellect of Killmaster, he who was a masterpiece among agents, who was as near perfection in mind, body, and will as a secret agent can be and still remain human.
    And Killmaster was very, very human.
    He also sensed that, for the moment at least, he was losing this battle. Perhaps this time he had taken on more than he could handle. The drug was so powerful and, at the moment, he was so weak. Yet he must somehow retain his sanity, even in this sweet ordeal through which she was now putting him. He heard her moan for the first time then, and sensed that she shared some of his feeling of passion.
    He could not move. Could not speak. For the moment he was a floating island of tranquillity sans all desire. He was alone in the universe. He was nothing. Did not exist. He had at last achieved the Hindu goal of perfection—Nirvana. Nothingness!

Chapter 5
    Rude Awakening
    When N3 awoke some hours later he was alone. All the butter lamps had been replenished and the chamber was a blaze of tawny light. He lay for a moment, trying to fight the drug, trying to get clear in his mind who he was, and where, and why. It was useless. He could think of but one thing—women! Dyla Lotti if possible—if not then any woman.
    Nick had no concept of time—BO idea how long he had been in the lamasery. It could have been minutes, hours, days, months, years—it was not important. There was a cup of the familiar yak’s milk beside the bed and he drank it down to quench a gnawing thirst—knowing it was drugged and not caring. He paced the narrow confines of the chamber, as naked as the day he was born. The drug was goading him. He must have relief.
    It soon came. Half an hour later the old crone ushered in three giggling young priestesses. They were washed and perfumed and pretty enough in their Mongol way—and as avid for relief as he was. They wasted no time. They surrounded Nick and bore him down on the bed under a smother of thrashing brown limbs and firm young breasts. They spoke not a word of English and the man from AXE had no Tibetan, scholarly or otherwise. It mattered nothing. The four of them invented their own language, a lingua franca of laughter and giggles.
    When Nick flagged, as he did eventually even with the drug in him, the youngest of the priestesses—she couldn’t have been much over sixteen—produced one of the famous silver clasps from a pocket of her robe and, with many giggles, instructed Nick in its proper use. It made, literally, a new man of him! Later he was anointed with a strange red powder, well rubbed in, which drove him into a new frenzy. Young, isolated, confined in a wilderness, yet these She Devils appeared to know every artifice of love. The orgy, though Nick did think of it as such, went on for hours. There was no food or drink and no one disturbed them. At times two of the little priestesses would leave Nick alone with the third, while they made love together, all sharing the same bed.
    None of this seemed in any way strange to Nick Carter. He knew he was drugged, admitted it. Loved it! Desired it! lively thing— sanga root. He could never get enough of it! He had been born again—he was free and swinging on top of the world, had long ago passed Cloud Nine and was approaching Cloud Ninety-Nine!
    N3 never quite knew when the She Devils left him. One moment they were straining on the bed with