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It is surprising, he thinks, looking at his sharp jaw and high cheekbones, that this faerie does not want to lie with him. Or, at least, that is what he claims. Perhaps he is just hiding his desires.

Kerik lifts his chin. Rather pleased with what he has wrought from this situation. An adventure to the faerie realm. It will make a good song one day.

How Duke Kerik of Fanost was taken by a cruel faerie as his bed slave, but the poor faerie fell in love with the handsome duke and granted him untold wealth and riches.

Perl interrupts Kerik’s pleasant thoughts, saying, “I suppose it is helpful that you are of a type that a fae would select as their thrall.”

Kerik gives Perl an amused look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You are handsome in face and your body is fine. We can choose any mortal we wish to. Why wouldn’t we choose the most pleasing?”

“So, I look like the kind of mortal a faerie would choose as a thrall?”

“You do. Now, we do not have long before the door is ready. Take off your shirt. The binding will allow it. But remember you will not be able to harm me. Or run.”

“Take off my shirt?”

“If you are to be a thrall.” Kerik sees Perl swallow. “Traditionally, they don’t wear very much. I will allow you your breeches for travelling but you must be prepared to wear the garments of a thrall in Vylenor, which will leave you mostly bare.”

Kerik stands and pulls his shirt off over his head. As soon as it's gone, he looks at Perl, inspecting him for a reaction. But if Perl enjoys the sight he betrays nothing about it.

Instead he stands up and goes to a small cabinet. He opens it. Kerik can only see a glimpse of the darkened space, but it seems to be full of random items: old scrolls, some candles and candlesticks, what appear to be small wooden boxes. Perl draws something out. When he turns, Kerik can see it appears to be a dusty leather strap. Perl waves a hand over it and it is instantly clean. Its silver fittings sparkle. The black leather looks supple and glossy. It looks like an accessory for Perl’s own leather outfit. But Kerik is sure it is not.

Because it’s a collar. Like something for a large hound or some other beast.

Kerik touches his own throat. “You want me to wear that?”

“Yes.” Perl holds it out for Kerik to take. “As I said, we need to be convincing.”

Kerik doesn’t take the collar. He raises his chin. “If I am to wear that, and you are to be my Master, I think you ought to put it on for me.”

Perl does not flinch. “Very well,” he says, stepping forward.

He buckles the collar around Kerik’s bare neck. This close, Kerik can smell Perl. He even smells like cold.

The collars snicks closed.

Kerik has met many a man who is aroused by these things, has welcomed many of them to his bed for nights of deviant pleasure, and if Kerik were such a man himself, perhaps this would be pleasant. But the leather encircling his neck is simply an odd, slightly uncomfortable sensation.

He looks up at Perl. “Happy?”

“This is not about making me happy. It is simply what is required. You look the part very well. Perhaps this will work. And now for some practical concerns. In the Ice Court the fae speak Magaar.”

“I speak Magaar.”

“I assure you, you do not.”

“We are speaking Magaar now.”

“Correct. But you are only so proficient because I enhanced your powers with a glamour during this conversation, before that your grasp of the basic grammar rules was atrocious.” Perl sits back down at the table. He looks at Kerik with an intense expression. “No matter, the glamour will suffice, but you must believe me when I tell you the Ice Court is a dangerous place. It is ruled by a Fae Queen, Exeinil-que-zeren-ai, Perfection Beyond Comprehension.”

“That’s a lot of name. Is that what I should call her?”

“You should not speak to her. Protocol would not allow it.”

“Protocol?”

“Yes, protocol. Please try and observe it. She is cruel and sadistic beyond your imagination.”