Firestone Hot Springs mare's milk

A trickle of femininity broadens the fanged grin, yet horselord makes no move of his own to rise, rolling instead onto a wide belly and plunking gracelessly back into the spring like a fish returned to his brook. The hollow is redolent with the scent of sulfur and brine. Jamukha sinks against the smoothed rockface, leering overtly.

“Depends on if two beautiful women are joining me,” eyes fall down to admire slender legs of black and gold before flicking to take in the sight of ice framed against a pale sky.

A man would gladly drink two servings of koumiss even if he was not thirsty, but Jamukha was parched.