* CATACOMBS *<br/><br/>Myrine slides her hand down Galla's flank.  Strong and curved, it glides like a slice of scrimshaw down her bareness, from breast to rump.  Galla is drawn under a blanket of her musk - an aroma like a hunting cat, citrus blossoms and myrrh.  She caresses and listens, breaking her stroking only to dip down a finger and wipe Gala's tear.<br/><br/>"And what?" Myrine presses.  Her voice is level - a mirror.  The hands continue their warm breeze, smoothing Galla's body, stirring the smells on her.  "Tell me, Galla.<br/><br/>"And then tell me what shame a warrior woman should bear, for taking her pleasure of a man when she wants it."