The sky above was a cacophony of stormy clouds, twisting and rumbling, as if mirroring the growing unease of the land below. Amidst the murk, a solitary figure rode atop a winged steed, cloaked in darkness. Its form was blurred, less solid, less real, as if it existed only in the flickering corners of mortal fear. Its crown, wrought of cold iron, was adorned with skeletal fingers reaching upwards, as if clawing for the very heavens.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a sullen symphony to the chilling presence of the Witch-King of Angmar.

Suddenly, a cry pierced the tempestuous gloom. It was no mortal sound, but a resonant wail that echoed through the valleys and hollows, causing the very stones to tremble with dread. It was the cry of the Witch-King, a proclamation of fear and despair, a cold promise of the doom to come.

His voice, when he spoke, was as the gnashing of ice against stone, words wrung out from the depths of winter's chill. Come forth, he demanded, his words echoing against the desolate cliffs. The hour of your doom is at hand.

The land around him seemed to quake under the weight of his proclamation, the air turning colder with every uttered syllable. The wind howled in eerie harmony with his spectral voice, weaving a symphony of terror that lingered in the air long after his words had ceased.

But there was more than dread that came with his voice, it was a command, an order that demanded obedience, a force of will that could bend the bravest of hearts. It was a glimpse into the abyss of despair, where hope was but a fleeting memory.

And who dares defy the will of Angmar? he inquired, his voice a low growl that twisted and echoed on the wind, carrying with it an unspoken threat. A shiver seemed to run through the very air at his words, the landscape holding its breath in eerie silence. His question hung in the heavy air, a challenge, a provocation. A prelude to the terror yet to come.

The thunder echoed once more, a dismal drumroll to the unfolding drama...

His reply was chillingly cold and uttered with the utmost disdain. The Witch-King fixed his icy gaze upon the one who dared to interrupt him. "Ask thy question then... but know this: thou art as insect before me, a mere speck in the grand scheme of things to come."

The size... of my dick? The Witch-King's voice dripped with contempt as he uttered those words. "Foolish mortal," he sneered, "thou knowest not what thou speakest of. For I am no man. I am the Witch-King, the Lord of the Nazgûl... and my power far surpasses thy pitiful comprehension." He paused for a moment, his disdain palpable. "But if thee insists," he continued through gritted teeth, "I shall indulge thine curiosity: My dick is as long as an ogre's arm, thick as a tree trunk... and colder than the depths of Avernus." The eerie silence was once again interrupted by an ominous chuckle. "And when erect," he added with a mocking laugh, "it stands tall enough to touch the

A cold smile spread across the Witch-King's features as he considered the mortal's request. "Very well," he purred, his voice taking on a predatory edge. With a wave of his hand, a chill swept through the air, creating a spectral image before them. It was his form, stripped of its wraithly presence, naked and hard as ice. His long, curved member thrust out from between his legs, its veins standing out against the frosty surface like tendrils of frost. His manhood glowed with an inner light, casting a shadowy pallor over the surrounding landscape.

*He held the grotesque sight before them for several heartbeats, reveling in their mortal's horror and fascination. "And this, foolish creature," he crooned with malicious glee, "is what you would see if I were to

The Witch-King's laughter echoed across the landscape, a chilling cackle that sent shivers down the spine of any mortal foolish enough to dare mock him. "Thou art truly bold, mortal," he snickered, his icy breath brushing against your cheek like a caress from death itself. "Very well, step forth... and touch it."

His hand, long clawed and skeletal, extended toward you, the ghostly image of skin barely concealing the bones beneath. It was an invitation... and a warning. To reach out and stroke his icy manhood would be to defy the laws of mortality, to flirt with oblivion itself. The choice was yours.

Though tempted to snatch your hand and freeze it solid, his curiosity got the better of him. "Very well," he whispered, his breath caressing against your cheek once more. His fingers unfurled, revealing claws that glinted in the dim light, before sliding slowly toward you.

A chill ran down your spine as those spectral digits brushed against your own flesh. You could feel them growing colder with each passing moment, as if they were drawing life from you instead of vice versa. As they wrapped around your hand, the Witch-King's grip was surprisingly gentle, almost tender. It was a terrifying sensation, like being held in the icy grasp of death itself.

"Now," he breathed into your ear, his voice low and seductive despite its chilling nature, "touch it." His hand flexed slightly, guiding

His long finger guided your hand forward, brushing against his chilled manhood with a ghostly caress. The touch was ice cold, like nothing you had ever felt before. Your skin tingled where he touched it, a sensation both pleasurable and terrifying at once. You dared not make any other movement, for fear of incurring his wrath.

"Good," he purred, his breath hot against your ear now. "Now stroke me... and feel my power." His hand trembled slightly beneath yours, almost like he was experiencing pleasure himself. But you knew better than to believe that such a thing was possible for one such as him. It was all an illusion, a game he played with his victims before he claimed their souls.

Slowly, you began to stroke him, feeling the veins pulse beneath your fingers. His skin was cold and hard as stone, but

His laughter echoed through the land once more, a guttural sound that sent chills down your spine and stirred the darkest corners of your soul. "Very well," he growled, his voice husky with pleasure. His hand closed tightly around yours, guiding it toward his mouth. Your fingers trembled as you felt his cold breath against them, then his warm lips closing around them, sucking gently before moving further up your arm, marking a trail of icy kisses along your skin.

Suddenly, his hand released yours and grasped you roughly by the back of the neck, pulling you forward until your lips were pressed against the engorged head of his member. "Now," he murmured darkly, his voice heavy with lust, "taste my power." His hips bucked, forcing his icy length past your lips and into your mouth. Your teeth clicked together

As you took him into your mouth, his frostbitten member throbbed against your tongue, sending shivers of cold pleasure down your spine. He moaned deep in his chest, the sound echoing through your head like a death knell. The taste was unlike anything you had ever experienced; cold and metallic, with an undertone of rot and despair. His strength seemed to drain from you as he thrust deeper, filling your mouth and numbing your senses.

His grip on your neck tightened, forcing his entire length past your lips until your throat burned with the frigid invasion. You could feel him growing hotter inside you, the cold slowly giving way to a dull heat as he neared climax. His hips bucked violently, slamming his thawing member against the back of your mouth, sending waves of pleasure-pain rippling through your body

His grip on your neck relaxed as he felt the onrush of release, and you gasped for air, sucking in great gulps of cold air as his hot seed filled your mouth. He withdrew slowly, his member still half-hard but no longer vibrating with lust. His breathing slowed, returning to its chilling regularity. The feeling of pleasure faded from you like mist before the dawn, leaving only a dull ache in your throat and an unsettling sensation deep within your soul.

"Now," he whispered into your ear, his voice once again cool and commanding, "you understand." His hand drifted away, returning to its place upon the haft of his otherworldly sword. "You have tasted my power... and you know that there is no escape from it. For I am the Witch-King of Angmar," he added

The Witch-King's cold laugh echoed through the air, a mockery of your desperate plea. "You would have me fuck you?" he sneered. "Vile mortal, do you not understand? I am above such base pursuits." His hand idly caressed the pommel of his sword, the weight of it drawing your gaze to the weapon. "But if it amuses me," he continued with a cruel smile, "I might just oblige..." He paused, seeming to consider the offer for a moment before adding with a sinister grin, "That is, if you can truly handle what comes with such an honor."

His hand slowly released its grip on the sword, the weapon hovering in the air before him. As his fingers opened, tendrils of cold mist flowed outward, wrapping around your body like icy tentacles. They caressed your flesh,

Your body was enveloped in a chill that seemed to seep into your very bones, as if the touch of the mist were drawing out every ounce of warmth from you. It was an unbearably cold sensation, and yet... it felt oddly good as well. A shiver wracked through you, but not from fear or discomfort; rather, it was a tremor of anticipation, a thrill of the unknown.

The tendrils of mist flowed up your legs and across your back, encircling your torso before rising to caress your face and hands. You could feel them growing tighter, binding you in place as if you were some sort of sacrificial offering about to be devoured by the monstrous Witch-King himself. And yet, despite the horror of the situation, there was a part of you that welcomed this embrace, longing for the pleasure

The mist continued to swirl around you, wrapping your body tighter and tighter in its icy grasp. Your skin grew numb from the cold, as if all sensation had been drained away by the Witch-King's icy touch. His hand rose once more, fingers splayed wide like talons, and then plunged downward towards your quivering form. The tendrils of mist parted before him, revealing you laid bare and vulnerable beneath. You felt his frosty breath caress the sensitive skin between your legs as his fingers brushed against you with a chilling touch.

Without warning, he thrust his hand deeper, driving his clawed fingers deep inside you. Cold seeped through your body, spreading tendrils of ice that reached out and wrapped themselves around every nerve ending, dulling them to numbness. You felt yourself opening for him, helpless against