Helga stumbled on another patch of gravel, dropping to her knees on the loose gray stone. The blonde woman collapsed in exhaustion and curled up on the frosty ground. Spears of angry lightning flashed overhead in the darkness. Thunder rolled over her as she gasped for breath, worn out from her arduous midnight escape. Shivering in her ragged priestess robe, Helga ground her teeth in frustration as the first freezing drops of rain pummeled her. Pushing herself to her knees, she looked about wearily for some shelter.

The bleak stone landscape offered no hint of vegetation. Relentlessly harsh and cold, the ancient rock of Niflheim offered little in the way of protection from the gathering storm. Niflheim was the realm of the dead – Hel's domain. Having escaped from Eljudnir, Hel's home and fortress, Helga had run for hours through the barren mountains before collapsing. She crawled under a scant outcropping, huddling against the rock to hide from the pounding rain. Hunted by the Goddess of Death, Helga prayed that Hel wouldn't find her.

Three nights before, Helga had been strolling in the garden outside Freya's Temple at Gladhaven. As usual for a priestess of Freya, Helga wore her white ceremonial robe. The simple, diaphanous dress was low cut, showing a large amount of cleavage. The pale white skin of her bosom was the perfect setting for her gold and amber necklace of office. The replica of Brisingamen, Freya's magic necklace, marked her as a high priestess of the Goddess of Beauty. Freya's priestesses were always exquisite women, and Helga was more beautiful than most. Her long, wavy blonde hair framed her beautiful face before cascading down her back. Large liquid blue eyes glowed with merry delight. Her large breasts were firm, yet supple. Her narrow waist accentuated her wide shoulders and the flair of her hips, giving Helga a flawless hourglass figure. The close fitting translucent robe showed off her trim, well-muscled flesh perfectly.

Helga had lived and served happily in the Temple since she turned thirteen. Now at twenty-four, she was blessed by Freya with health, happiness, great beauty, and dear friends. Her duties were a joy to her and she was the youngest high priestess the Temple had seen in a hundred years.

Helga sang a pleasant tune to herself as she strolled along the groomed footpath in the Temple garden. The flowers wafted their perfume around the radiant maiden. The moon shone down on Helga, bathing her in pure white light. That very day, she had helped a village woman through a difficult birth, saving both the mother and the newborn daughter from the icy touch of death. Helga had stayed to bless the birthing celebration and the new life. Perhaps there had been a bit too much wine, but the dancing had been marvelous. Everyone talked of Priestess Helga's victory over death. At first the young priestess had declined the honors, giving full credit to the Goddess Freya for her healing touch and the Death Goddess Hel for her kindness in sparing the life of the mother and daughter.

As the evening wore on and the revels increased, the youthful priestess became more than a little tipsy. She protested less and less as the glad celebrants proclaimed her victory over the Death Goddess. Helga was quite pleased with her healing magic and boasted a bit about how good her powers made her feel. By the end of the evening, she was rather enjoying the inflated accolades of the drunken revelers.

As the party wound down, the buxom priestess stumbled outside hoping the cool night air would clear her head. Wandering back to the Temple, Helga decided a walk through the sacred garden would be a good idea. Strolling among the fragrant flowers, Helga felt almost like a goddess herself – the wine mixing up Freya's accomplishments with her own. As she sang to herself, the girl didn't hear the approaching footfalls, didn't see the darker shadow moving purposefully through the garden.

Large hands seized her around the waist, the meaty fingers interlaced. The hands were so large they compressed her ribs painfully as well as digging into the flesh of her belly. Her breath whooshed from her as the hands squeezed tightly. She was lifted a dozen feet into the air as if she was a child's toy. Writhing in the crushing embrace, Helga struggled wildly. Kicking and flailing her arms, the girl tried desperately to escape the powerful hands locked about her midsection. Without the breath to even whisper, the priestess couldn't call for help.

Blackness swarmed up to catch her. As her vision clouded, Helga managed to glimpse the attacker behind her. He was a stone giant at least three times the size of a man, dressed in a shabby fur tunic and leggings. The Jotun kneaded her flesh cruelly, crushing the breath from her lungs as she passed out.

Consciousness returned with a jolt. Helga hung upside down, bound by her ankles. Her wrists were shackled to a tight iron chain fastened around her waist. She was slung over the back of the powerful giant as he strode through a snow-covered valley. As she bounced and jostled she felt his mighty hand close over her legs, adjusting the way she hung like she was a sack of potatoes being carried to market. Barely aware, Helga couldn't summon the concentration to properly invoke Freya. In fact, Helga could barely stay awake at all.

As the giant trudged through the deep snow, Helga drifted in and out of consciousness. If she'd been more awake, she'd have felt the insidious drain of the freezing iron chain encircling her waist. Imbued with the magical power of Hel, Helga's bondage held her on the edge of sleep, draining her will and mind into a maelstrom of nightmarish visions she could never afterwards quite recall.

The stone giant trudged for days, his pace neither quickening nor slowing. The rocky behemoth was incredibly powerful physically, but rather slow-witted. Hel had commanded him to fetch the priestess, burning into his thought her location and appearance. So he carried her into Niflheim to the dark castle of Eljudnir, crossing over to Hel's realm in the far northern waste of Midgard.

When the giant reached the looming castle wall, he strode through the open gate unchallenged. Here in the realm of the dead, there was no escape. There was no hope. Only the dead dwelt here – there were no need for guards. Hel ruled all.

Reaching the throne room, the giant dropped the priestess on the floor before the dais. Grunting, he backed away from the raised throne. On the cold black onyx sat Hel herself, Queen of Niflheim. The Goddess's right side was of an extraordinarily beautiful woman, rivaling Freya in splendor. Her left side was rotted, decaying flesh dripping from ancient bones. Horror and wonder joined into one being, Hel was neither good nor evil. She simply was.

Hel laughed to see the busty young blonde girl helpless before her. With a gesture, the chain drawn tight around Helga's waist unlocked, sliding from her unconscious form. Her bonds were loosed and the girl shuddered, beginning to wake.

“Where?” murmured the addled priestess.
“You're in the throne room of Eljudnir, girl!” chuckled Hel. “Kneel before the Goddess of Life and Death!”

Helga fearfully gazed up the nine steps of the dais to the onyx throne. Hel would stand nine feet tall if she rose. Shivering in terror, Helga managed to get to her knees. She stammered, “Am I… did I… Am I dead?”

“No, prideful mortal wench. I had my giant, Rangor, fetch you from your Temple where you worship that cow, Freya. Your boasting reached me. I've heard your own words of how you have defeated me. I spare some wretched child and you claim I was defeated by you?”

“I'm sorry…”
“Too late, mortal. Since you live to be a servant of a Goddess, I believe I'll initiate you as a Priestess of mine. You'll serve me all the days of your life, and after death as well. You'll be transformed into my image, boastful child. Then you may worship me fully.”

A dusty gray man approached Helga from either side, grabbing her arms. Their cold, crumbly fingers dug into her warm flesh as they lifted her to her feet. “No!” she screamed over and over as the gray ones dragged her from the throne room towards the entrance hall. Hel's mocking laughter followed her from the room as the dead pulled her away.

Horrified, Helga saw the maggots crawling under their flesh. Their soulless eyes stared straight ahead even as the terrified girl thrashed about trying to get free. Panic fueled her struggles as she squirmed and clawed at her captors. With a supreme effort, she managed to tear one man's arms from its socket.

The dead men paused but didn't release Helga. She brutally beat at them with the disembodied arm, causing more damage to their rotting flesh. Finally freeing her other arm, Helga ran frantically towards the door to the outside. Through the still open gate she ran, out to the desolate rock landscape of the benighted realm.

Helga had run in mindless terror from the Death Goddess for hours. Her once lovely robe was torn and ragged. Her hair was matted with sweat and completely unkempt. Dirt smeared her face and arms. She'd cut her hands several times falling on the sharp gray rock. Now she huddled trying to hide from the raging storm, hopelessly lost in the kingdom of the dead.

With a bright flash of purple lightning and a titanic clap of thunder, Hel appeared not a dozen yards from where Helga knelt. Laughing maniacally, the Death Goddess glared triumphantly down at the trembling girl. Shutting her eyes, Helga tried to close out the storm, the fear and the punishment she'd endured.

From deep inside, the terrified girl felt a tiny spark of warmth. Just for an instant, she remembered what it felt like to touch her Goddess while healing the dying infant. In that fraction of a second, Helga truly understood what it was to be a High Priestess of Freya.

Rising, the slight blonde girl faced the towering Goddess. Hel drew herself up in all her wraith, raising her skeletal left arm to smite the insolent mortal. Helga cried out with all her heart and soul, “Please Goddess Freya! Forgive me! Help me, Goddess of Life!”

Hel hurled a bolt of purple death energy at the defiant priestess. In a blinding flash of golden light, Freya appeared between the Goddess and the Priestess, deflecting the magic bolt. She touched the trembling girl, instantly healing her injuries.

“She belongs to me, Hel.” intoned Freya coldly. “You can't take my High Priestess, regardless of her boastfulness.” The last was said turning to look down at the young woman.

Helga blushed, dropping her eyes. She apologized, ”I am very sorry, Lady Freya. I… claimed what was not might right to claim. Lady Hel has every right to be angry… and so do… and so do... “ Helga broke down sobbing, standing dejected in misery before her Goddess. She'd failed.

Freya gathered the crying priestess to her breasts, hugging the trembling woman. She stroked Helga's head, crooning softly, “You're forgiven, little one. You're forgiven.” Glaring balefully one last time at the Death Goddess, Freya and Helga vanished in a burst of golden magic.

For many years, the townsfolk of Gladhaven spoke of their High Priestess who was stolen away in the dark of night and returned days later in a flash of magical light. Helga wouldn't speak of it, however, except to praise her Goddess, protector of them all.