Kiss- Frog Prince Retold Read online

  Kiss:

  Frog Prince Retold

  DEMELZA CARLTON

  A tale in the

  Romance a Medieval Fairy Tale series

  A desert princess. A cursed prince. Can a kiss break the spell?

  Once upon a time…

  When Anahita picks up a pet frog on her way to marry a distant sheikh, she laughs at his claim to be a prince under a curse that can only be broken by a kiss.

  Until he transforms into a man in her tent.

  With one man in her bed as she’s preparing to marry another, what’s a desert princess to do?

  Dedication

  For all those who've kissed too many frogs along the way to happily-ever-after.

  Copyright © 2018 Demelza Carlton

  Lost Plot Press

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty Six

  The next tale in this series will be Hunt: Red Riding Hood Retold, the tale of Rumpelstilskin's brother-in-law, Sir Chase, which you can get HERE (http://www.demelzacarlton.com/fairytale/#Hunt)

  If you'd like to read how Maram and Aladdin found their happily-ever-after, it's in Wish: Aladdin Retold HERE (http://www.demelzacarlton.com/fairytale/#Wish)

  If you're looking for more of Demelza's medieval fairytales, including Enchant: Beauty and the Beast Retold, the tale of Zuleika, the enchantress who turned Philemon into a frog, you can find the rest of the series HERE (http://www.demelzacarlton.com/fairytale/).

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  One

  If Philemon never felt the scorching desert sands beneath his feet again, he would be a happy man. "How much further?" he demanded.

  The camel driver turned and bowed apologetically. "At least half the night, Your Highness. If you had not decreed a slower pace, we would be there already."

  "Perhaps, but I would have left my blackened balls somewhere in the desert, for they would have bounced off at the pace this beast was going before."

  Philemon heard sniggering from behind him, but it was hard to discern one man from another, silhouetted against the setting sun and all. Ah, let them laugh. He'd served with the guardsmen until his father had died, forcing him to assume the throne.

  Philemon continued, "There's little point taking one of the Sultan's daughters as my bride if I cannot consummate the marriage on our wedding night. If I cannot give the city an heir, you'll find yourself a new Prince of Tasnim, I am certain of it!"

  The laughter was louder now, for they all knew as well as he did that he was the last of his father's line, and they'd need to look outside the city walls to find someone of sufficiently royal blood to take his place. Whether they liked Philemon or not, he was still their prince, a man of Tasnim.

  Which was why he gave the orders, not the camel driver. "We must set up camp, rest for the night, and we will reach Tasnim on the morrow," Philemon finished.

  "But there is no water, Your Highness," the camel driver protested.

  Philemon fought to keep his temper. Did the camel driver think he was blind? "I can see that," he said with forced calm. "Take us to the nearest oasis, and we will camp there."

  The camel driver spluttered. "But…Your Highness…the nearest oasis was the one we left this morning. The only water for miles is in the wells of Tasnim itself, unless some magical wadi appears before us."

  Philemon laughed, but not for long. The man's idea of magic had merit. Philemon rubbed his ring, the one symbol of his sovereignty he carried with him everywhere.

  The djinn appeared, bowing low. "What do you wish, Master?"

  "Make me an oasis here," Philemon commanded.

  The djinn snorted with laughter. "My master jests. The best I can make for you is a puddle, if I drink a good skin of wine and piss on that rock." He tugged at the loincloth he wore, as if he intended to do just that.

  "I need water for my men and the camels to drink. Now," Philemon insisted.

  The djinn spread his arms wide. "I have told you what I can do. Maybe you should have found yourself a different djinn, someone more powerful who can command water instead of stone. Fat lot of good he'd be, when it comes to opening the gates of Tasnim, but he might be able to fetch you a drink."

  A different djinn. And Philemon had such a thing. "Fetch the genie of the lamp. The one you found in the oasis outside the city gates," he said. "I have a task for him."

  A servant appeared, bowed, then offered Philemon the dented, tarnished bronze lamp. Philemon rubbed his thumb across what appeared to be a scorch mark on the scored surface. Back and forth, back and forth…until blue smoke began to stream from the lamp's spout.

  The enormous djinn abased himself on the sand. "How may I serve you, Master?"

  "Make me an oasis right here, big enough to quench the thirst of every man and beast here twice over, and still have enough water for me to bathe," Philemon ordered. He waited for this djinn to say the same words as the servant of the ring.

  "Your wish is my command, Master. It shall be done."

  And for that moment, Philemon knew he was the most powerful man in the desert.

  Two

  Anahita knew the very moment she lost her sense of fear. One moment, she was screaming, her broken arm splintering into a million needles of pain to the unholy delight of her new husband, and the next, the whole world went silent.

  He would beat her to death tonight, whether by accident or design, her dreamy mind told her. She should have been afraid, but death would be an improvement over the endless round of beatings that inevitably ended in rape. Her father had given her to this man in an attempt to bring peace, but Sheikh Fakhri did not understand the meaning of the word. He attacked her father's people to capture women to replace his dwindling number of wives, and he beat her every time her father's men fought back.

  The only way to end this was to stop him.

  The sheikh cupped his hardening manhood and grinned.

  No. She would not submit to him tonight, or any other night. If she was going to die, she would do so without that final indignity.

  Anahita dragged herself to her feet. "You're a coward, a man whose only courage comes from beating women. I hope when my father's men cut you down, they feed your body to pigs. Female pigs," she said.

  He shouted for his guards, and two enormous men rushed into the tent.

  Anahita knew them both – men the sheikh
had assigned to watch her so that she did not run away.

  "Hold her down, so that I can cut out her lying tongue," he ordered, and the men moved toward her.

  Anahita had one chance. "Don't touch my arm. It's broken," she implored, cradling it to her chest. Her husband might be a monster, but these two were merely men.

  The guards looked uncertain. A moment's hesitation was all she needed. She crumpled forward, righting herself just before she fell, feeling the leather hilt of her salvation in her good hand.

  She might die tonight, but she would not die alone. She lunged.

  The guard's blade pierced Fakhri's throat, and Anahita thrust it in deeper, before ripping it out. Fakhri fell to his knees, clutching his gaping throat, but the lifeblood sheeting down his chest told the tale's end for him as he gasped his last.

  When the light went out of his eyes, he pitched over sideways, his limp dick flopping onto the tent floor.

  He would violate no houris in the afterlife, either, Anahita vowed, putting her borrowed blade to work again. She threw the pieces of hacked-off gristle onto a brazier, while blood leaked sluggishly from his groin.

  Only then did she turn to face the guards. Without fear, for if she died tonight, she died victorious. She held out the bloodied blade, but it slipped from her hand, to land point-down in the sand.

  Powerless. That's what she was now. That's all she had ever been.

  "Do your worst," she said, falling to her knees. But she kept on falling, into darkness that rose up to claim her.

  Three

  The final stage of the journey home seemed to take hardly any time at all, or perhaps that was because Philemon spent most of it wondering what he would call his new oasis. After all, it was his – created at his command – so he should have the pleasure of naming it.

  His first thought was the most obvious name for the place, but calling it Lake Philemon wasn't enduring enough. Philemon was hardly a rare name, even for a prince, and he wanted no confusion in anyone's mind that the oasis belonged to the Prince of Tasnim.

  But to call it Tasnim Oasis implied that it belonged to the whole city, instead of its ruler. It was true that the wealth of water it contained would belong to the people of the city who travelled outside the city walls, for it was within his territory, but…the Lake of the People took away from the magic of making water appear in the desert.

  Well, the djinn had performed the magic, but no one wanted the place named after a slave. Even if Philemon had known the slave's name, which of course he did not. There were far more important people for him to remember.

  Including Fadi, his vizier, who was waiting for him in his apartments when Philemon arrived back in Tasnim.

  Philemon sighed. He would have preferred his concubines to be waiting for him, but they would have to wait. The city came first, before Philemon's desires.

  "I trust the city continued to prosper under your care?" Philemon asked, beckoning for a servant to bring refreshments for himself and the vizier.

  Fadi bowed. "I do my best, as always, Your Highness. The city has endured under your family's rule and enjoyed good fortune for many years as a result. But a strange thing happened this morning…" He accepted a cup of wine and sipped from it.

  Philemon paused to savour the first taste of a particularly fine vintage, before he replied, "Ah, this is Tasnim. Did a cat chase a dog? Did my jewelled garden grow? Or did a bird fly out of a well?"

  Fadi managed a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. "I fear it is nothing so small as a bird, Your Highness."

  Philemon felt the first twinge of unease in his belly. "Then spit it out. Tell me what has befallen my city, so that I may set things to rights."

  "It's the wells, my prince. Yesterday, they were fine, but this morning, none of the buckets would reach the water."

  "Then they need more rope! I am certain there is plenty in the storerooms. Have someone fetch it and the wells will soon be set to rights. Perhaps the ladies of Tasnim have bathed more often of late, or this summer has been a thirstier season than most." Philemon forced himself to smile, even as a chill crept around his heart. Water was life, and the lifeblood of Tasnim. If something happened to their water supply…

  "I already have, Your Highness. It took a dozen yards of rope, but we struck water again." Fadi swallowed, as if he hesitated to say more.

  Philemon knew his vizier, for the man had loyally served his father for longer than Philemon could remember. He waited in silence.

  Finally, Fadi continued, "I set my clerks to search the records, looking for reports of this ever happening before. So far…they have found nothing. The waters of Tasnim have never dropped by so much. Ever. I fear…magic, or some sort of curse. Forgive me, my prince, but have you somehow angered someone powerful in your trip to the capital? Through some small act, insignificant to you…aroused the enmity of some sorcerer?"

  Philemon burst out laughing. "Fadi, I visited the Sultan for one purpose alone: to secure a wife from among his daughters. His matchmaker assured me that the Sultan finds favour with my proposal, and will send an appropriate girl as soon as I send word we are ready for her. Unless some sorcerer has set his heart on the same girl the Sultan intends to give me – chosen by the Sultan, not me, for surely he knows his daughters best – I cannot imagine what offence I have given anyone. And if I have…why, let them come! They may bring an army to Tasnim's gates, and we shall stand, as we always have, undefeated."

  Fadi returned his smile. "Perhaps you are right, my prince. Maybe the earthquake we felt last night is the reason for it. It shook dust from the ceilings, and spilled soup from my bowl, but little else. Perhaps the water beneath the city spilled out of its vessel, too."

  "That's the spirit. Tasnim will not fall while men like us rule her!"

  Fadi left soon after, and Philemon headed to the garden, where his favourite concubines waited among the jewelled trees. The sound of soft music and feminine laughter lifted his spirits like nothing else.

  Yet later, when both he and his concubines were sated, he dismissed them back to the harem, and lay alone in the darkness with his thoughts.

  Tasnim would not fall, he swore to himself. He was the prince of this city, and he would defend it to his dying breath.

  He padded out to where his bags had been brought in, and dug out the dented lamp. When the djinn appeared, Philemon didn't give him time to ask for orders. "I command you to fill the wells of Tasnim to where they were before I left the city," he said.

  The djinn eyed him. "You want me to bring the water back?"

  Philemon swore. "You stole the water from our wells? Then yes, I do want you to bring it back! Immediately!"

  "I hear and obey," the djinn said, and vanished.

  Satisfied, Philemon headed back to bed, and a peaceful night's sleep.

  It would be the last peace he would know for a long, long time.

  Four

  "Just leave her, and let's go!" a male voice hissed.

  Pain stabbed through Anahita's arm again – that's what had woken her – and she whimpered, her throat too hoarse to scream. She forced her eyes open, but the hulking shadow bending over her blocked the light. The only thing she could be certain of was that he was the one hurting her.

  "Stop," she croaked, batting at him with her good arm.

  "When I have bandaged this properly, or you will be crippled for the rest of your life," the man said.

  Anahita blinked and turned her head to get a better look at what he was doing. True to his word, he was bandaging her arm, which was already splinted so that it would heal straight.

  "Take me home, where it will not matter. Servants will take care of me," she said.

  The men exchanged a glance. "Your home is probably destroyed like ours was, and every other village Fakhri attacked. Your home is gone."

  "Haidar, we have to go. Leave her. She will only slow us down." The second man glanced around nervously. "They'll blame us for this. We cannot be here when the body is found!"


  "And where will we go? Our home is no more, cousin. If we leave her, she will surely die, for Fakhri's men are no better than he is. I will not leave her to pay the price for justice for Nasrin. She deserves better."

  "Take me home to the capital. Tell the Sultan about Fakhri. He must know," Anahita insisted. She grabbed the first man – Haidar's – arm and heaved herself to her feet. Up she went…and down again, too, for her legs would not hold her. But she would not give up. She eyed the tent wall, and the inch-wide gap between it and the sand. Fakhri's tent stood at the edge of camp, where fewer people would be disturbed by the screams of his women. For once, this would work in her favour.

  She grabbed the jewelled cup Fakhri had swilled wine from and used it to shovel sand away from the tent wall. Soon enough, she'd dug a dent big enough for her to squirm through. "If we go this way, and keep to the shadows, we can reach the camels without anyone seeing us. Do you know where they keep supplies? We'll need food and water – it's a long journey."

  "Well, you heard the lady," the second man said. He threw himself into the shallow ditch Anahita had created, and after some widening of the pit, managed to leave the tent. "Come, cousin. Freedom awaits."

  Haidar eyed Anahita. "What do they do to escaped slaves in your city, lady? Is it worse than what the desert people do to murderers?"

  Anahita wet her lips. "I do not know, but…but…if you are the Sultan's subjects, then surely he will free you for bringing word of what Fakhri did to your village. I swear I will do everything I can to see you freed, for you should never have been slaves in the first place."

  "I will take a small chance of life over none at all. You first, lady, and I will follow after," Haidar said.

  Anahita nodded, and followed Haidar's cousin. She hissed in pain as her broken ribs protested at bearing her weight, but she did not stop. She could not make it back home alone, and these men could help her.

  When she reached the cool night air, Anahita forced herself to her feet, ignoring the pain and the swirling in her head. If she showed weakness now, they would leave her behind. So she gritted her teeth, and headed for the camels.