Jarhead-Nickname for U.S. Marine due to high-and-tight haircut.

Jarl-High-ranking Norseman similar to an English earl or wealthy landowner, could also be a chieftain or minor king.

Jihad-Religious duty, or holy war.

Kaftan-Silk or cotton, ankle-length and wrist-length garment, buttoned down the front, belted with a sash.

Karl-High-level Norse nobleman, below a jarl or earl.

K-Bar-Type of knife favored by SEALs.

Keep-House, usually the manor house or main building for housing the owners of the estate.

Keffiyeh-Traditional Arab headdress fashioned from a square of cloth.

Longship-Narrow, open water-going vessel with oars and square sails, perfected by Viking shipbuilders, noted for their speed and ability to ride in both shallow waters and deep oceans.

Lucifer/Satan-The fallen angel Lucifer became known as the demon Satan.

Lucipires/Lucies-Demon vampires.

Manchet bread-Flat loaves of unleavened bread, usually baked in circles with a hole in the center so they could be stored on an upright pole, like a broom handle.

Mead-Fermented honey and water.

Mossad-National intelligence agency of Israel.

MRE-Meals ready to eat, what used to be called K-rations.

Mungs-Type of demon, below the haakai in status, often very large and oozing slime or mung.

Muslim-A religion based on the Koran with the belief that the word of God was revealed through the prophet Mohammed.

Nithing-A Norse insult meaning that a person was less than nothing.

Norman Vincent Peale-Famous for his book The Power of Positive Thinking.

NVG-Night vision goggles.

O-course-Grueling obstacle course on the training compound, also known as the oh-my-God! course.

Odin-King of all the Viking gods.

PEZ-Type of candy available from unusual, mechanical pocket dispensers.

PT-Physical training.

Purdah-Practice in certain countries of screening women from men or strangers with all-enveloping clothes.

Roger-As in "Roger that!" meaning "I understand," or "I hear you."

Runic-Ancient alphabet used by the Vikings and other early Germanic tribes.

Salaam-Arab greeting meaning "Peace!"

SAS-British special forces.

SEAL-Sea, Air, and Land.

Seraphim-High-ranking angel.

Shalwar kameez (or gamez or kamiz)-Shalwar is the long shirt of tunic, thigh or knee-length, worn over the kameez which are pajama-style pants with drawstring waists, usually wider on the top and narrow at the ankles. Women would complete this outfit with a loose scarf over the top.

Shayetet 13-Elite naval commando unit of the Israeli Navy.

Skald-Poet or storyteller.

Spetsnaz-Umbrella term of any special forces in Russia.

Stasis-State of inactivity, rather like being frozen in place.

Taliban-Islamic military and political organization that rules large parts of Afghanistan.

Tangos-Bad guys, terrorists.

Teletransport-Transfer of matter from one point to another without traversing physical space.

Thobe-Long white robe.

Thor-God of war.

Thrall-Slave.

Tun-Roughly 252 gallons.

Valhalla-Hall of the slain, Odin's magnificent hall in Asgard.

Vangels-Viking vampire angels.

VIK-The seven brothers who head the vangels.

WEALS-Acronym for Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea.

Wheels up-Mission under way, plane in the air.

Zydeco-Type of Cajun music.

Keep reading for

a sneak peek at KISS OF TEMPTATION.

The next book in the Deadly Angels series, coming soon from Sandra Hill and Avon Books

Prologue.

The Norselands, A.D. 850, where men . . . and life . . . were always hard . . .

Ivak Sigurdsson was an excessively lustsome man.

Ne'er would he deny that fact, nor bow his head in embarrassment. In truth, he'd well earned his far-renowned wordfame for virility. On his back. On his front. Standing. Sitting. On the bow and in the bowels of a longship. Behind the Saxon king's throne. Deep in a cave. High in a tree. Under a bush. On a bed. In a cow byre. Once even with . . . Well, never mind, that had been when he was very young and on a dare and another story entirely.

He liked women. Everything about them. Not just the sex bits. He liked their scent, the feel of their silky skin, the allure of their secrets, the sound of their sighs and moans, the taste of them. And women liked him, too. He wanted them all.

You could say lust was a sixth sense for Ivak. He was a Viking, after all.

He'd been twelve years old when, swaggering with overconfidence, he'd tried his dubious charms on his father's eighth concubine, who'd laughed herself into a weeping fit afore showing him exactly which hole he should aim for. Now, twenty years and at least two hundred bedmates later-he'd stopped counting after that incident in Hedeby-there was naught he did not know about sex. Men came to him for advice all the time. Women, too.

The cold Norse winds blew outside his keep now, but he and his comrades-in-arms were warm inside as they sat before one of the five hearth fires that ran through the center of his great hall at Thorstead. Their body heat was aided by the mead they were imbibing and the satiety that comes from having tupped more than the ale barrel, and it not yet eventide.

When bored and having no wars to fight, or any other time for that matter, taking an enthusiastic maid to the bed furs was always a worthwhile pastime. Leastways, it was for Ivak. You'd think his jaded appetites would have waned by now. Instead, he found himself wanting more and more. And the things he tried these days pushed even his sensibilities for decency . . . but not enough to stop him.

And, of course, when bored and having no wars to fight, men did what men did throughout time. Drank.

In fact, Esbe, the widow of one of his swordsmen, walked amongst them now, refilling their horns from a pottery pitcher. When she got to him, she smiled, a small, secretive smile that Ivak understood perfectly. Women told him that he had an aura about him . . . a presence, so to speak. By leaning against a wall just so, or just staring at them through half-slitted eyes, or, gods forbid, winking at them, he sent a silent message. Here was a man who knew things.

He smiled back at Esbe, who shared his bed furs on occasion, and watched appreciatively, along with every one of his men, as she walked away from them, hips swaying from side to side.

Another thing men did when bored and having no wars to fight, and especially when drinking, was talk about women.

"Tell me true, Ivak," demanded Haakon the Horse, a name he'd been given because of a face so long he could lick the bottom of a bucket and still see over the rim, not because of other bodily attributes. Haakon was a master at swordplay if ever there was one, a soldier you'd want at your back in battle, but an irksome oaf when drukkinn, and he was halfway there already. "There must have been times when your lance failed to rise to the occasion. It happens to the best of men betimes."

Ivak exchanged a quick glance with his best friend, Serk the Silent, who sat beside him on the bench. Serk, a man of few words, did not need to speak for Ivak to know that he was thinking: Here it comes!

Ivak tapped his chin with a forefinger, as if actually giving the query consideration. He could feel Serk shaking with silent laughter. "Nay, it never has, though there have been times I've had to take a vow of celibacy to give it a rest." He cupped himself for emphasis.

"For how long?" scoffed Ingolf, his chief archer. A grin twitched at Ingolf's hugely mustached upper lip, knowing when Ivak was about to pull a jest.

"Oh, a good long time. Two days at most," Ivak admitted.

Everyone, except Haakon, found amusement in his jest, including Kugge, the young squire he'd been training of late. Gazing at Ivak in wonder, Kugge blurted out, "Did it hurt?"

"The celibacy or the excess?" Ivak asked, trying to keep a straight face.

A blush crept over Kugge's still unwhiskered face as he sensed having made a fool of himself.

Ivak patted Kugge on the shoulder.

Haakon glared at him, his question not gaining the results he'd wanted . . . a fight. Ivak returned Haakon's glare, his with a silent warning that Haakon thankfully heeded. Haakon stood, tossing his horn to the rushes, and stomped off, hopefully to sleep himself sober.

Ingolf took a long draught from his horn of ale, cleared his throat, and proclaimed with a chuckle, "To my mind, a man's cock is like a brass urn."

"Oh, good gods!" Ivak muttered.

"How true!" Serk encouraged Ingolf and nudged Ivak with an elbow to share in his mirth.

"Now, hear me out," Ingolf said, stroking his mustache. "Everyone knows that brass needs polishing from time to time, and-"

"Mine is especially shiny these days since I got me a second wife," one of the men contributed.

Ingolf scowled at the interruption and continued, "Of course, a one-handed rub will do to ease the throb, but best it is if the polishing is done in the moist folds of a female sheath's choke hold."

"I don't understand," Kugge said to Ivak.

"It's a mystery," Ivak replied with dry humor.

Ingolf, who fashioned himself a master storyteller, was on a roll now. 'Twas best to let him finish. "The thing about brass is that too much rubbing and it loses its luster. Even grows pits." Ingolf pretended to shiver.

"Pits? Like a peach?" Kugge whispered.

"Nay. Like warts," Ivak told the boy. "You do not want warts down there, believe you me."

"Even worse," Ingolf told Kugge, "tainted oil in the sheath can spoil all it touches. Remember that dockside whore in Jorvik." The latter Ingolf addressed to the other men. "Now that was a woman with teeth down there."

"She had a lot more than teeth," Serk remarked, "as many men soon learned."

"The difference, my friend, is that some cocks are solid gold." Ivak motioned a hand downward.

The other men rolled their eyes and guffawed uproariously.

"Mine is solid silver," Bjorn No-Teeth said, his lips twitching as he attempted to hide his gummy smile. "I'm thinking about having it . . . etched. Ha, ha, ha!"

Others offered their own self-assessments: "Mine is ivory, smooth and sleek, and big as an elephant's tusk betimes. Not that I have e'er seen an elephant."

"Mine is a rock. A rock cock."