Page 70 of The Very Virile Viking

Angela screamed.

Magnus howled.

They came together in such a powerful climax that Angela's body shook and Magnus's hands trembled.

In the aftershocks that swept over them both, as Magnus finally grew limp within her, he fell upon her heavily and rested his face in her neck, which was damp with perspiration, hers and his both.

They fell asleep then, or passed out from lack of blood to the brain. But before they did, Magnus put his lips against her ear and whispered, "I knew it would be like this, heartling."

Heartling? I like that. "Like what?" she asked, caressing his hair and shoulders.

"Destiny is sweet," was all he said.

She couldn't argue with that.

Man (even virile Vikings) cannot live on love alone…

Magnus awakened a short time later, totally invigorated. There was naught like a good bout of swiving to replenish a man's juices.

He looked down at Angela, who was sleeping soundly beneath him. Poor lady! He had worn her out.

He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his prowess, which apparently hadn't been diminished by a year of abstinence.

He was tired, too, but in a sated sort of way. Mostly he was hungry… famished, in fact. After all, he hadn't eaten since morn, when he'd consumed eight waffles, six sausage links, four scrambled eggs, and two slices of buttered toast.

Carefully he lifted himself off of Angela, gently kissed the mole above her lip, and eased his body off the bed. After visiting the bathing chamber, then pulling on a pair of jaw-keys, he made his way to the scullery. Opening the cold box, he leaned against the door and looked inside for a long time. What I would not give for a horn of mead ! No such luck! He settled for half a carton of orange juice and drank it straight down in a series of long gulps. There was nothing else in the cold box that would satisfy his huge hunger… certainly not those thin slices of cheese in clear wrappers.

So he called the dome-nose on the tell-of-own to order two large sausage-and-pepperoni pizzas. While he waited for the delivery, he settled down at the table with a bowl of granola—which was the same as grain and nuts, but tasted like bark—with milk and five spoonfuls of sugar. Who would have ever thought

that he—a thirty-seven-year-old man—would be slurping up sugared milk, but there it was!

While he crunched away, he pulled a news sheet over toward him. He still had trouble deciphering all the written words in this land, but one thing stood out: the date. June 30, 2003. A stark reminder of what he had been able to forget this past hour.

Magnus closed his eyes for a moment and raked his fingers through his hair, which had come loose during his bed romping. When he opened his eyes again, the date was still there, and he could not ignore the fact. He must have time traveled. What other explanation was there?

He flipped through the news sheets. Everywhere were glaring examples of what he should have seen before. Men had traveled to the moon on spaceships, for the love of Odin! People had heart transplants.

Women bragged of breast augmentations. Now, that is a type of surgery I would be interested in knowing more about . Then there was computer sex. That, too. Not that I know what a computer is .

Drug busts. Police brutality. Middle-East wars. Animal cloning. Comic strips. Ah, who is this Hagar the Horrible? Me thinks I would like to meet this dumb Norseman. He appears a fine, though misguided fellow . And sports. Well-muscled men in this time were paid vast treasures to run about on a field kicking a leather ball or knocking their comrades to the ground. He liked that concept. Mayhap he would become a football player, if forced to stay here. Then again, he was probably too old. Nay, old or not, that occupation did not really appeal. He would much rather be a farmer.

Magnus shook his head from side to side in confusion.

Had he really time traveled?

Why?

Would he stay here or time travel off somewhere else? If so, would it be back to his own time, or forward? Was he doomed to be an eternal time traveler? God's blood ! That would be a living hell.

What should he do now?

Well, one thing was certain: he would have to disclose all to Angela. That was a task he did not relish.

He needed fortification for the disbelief he was sure to encounter. Since mead was not available, he would have to settle for pizza.

One question kept nagging at him, though: How would Angela react to having made love with a thousand-year-old man?

You're a what… ?