The strange bloodlust for goats that filled the panther left her no time to nap in the afternoon sun, no time to stop and drink from the small streams crossing the grasslands. She couldn't stop panting in the heat, but she kept casting wider and wider circles until she found the trail of a small herd of goats, smelly animals as pungent as overripe cheese. Indeed, the trail was hard to miss, and the panther followed it all afternoon, through a burst of strong wind, and the eventual passing over of the heavy clouds. The sun slowly fell from the sky. As the afternoon latened, she caught up to the herd where they grazed near a large rock that thrust up from the plains.

A small black dog watched over eleven goats and one sleeping goatherd sprawled upon the ground, a gnarled stick loosely gripped in one hand. The dog was small--good. The human was very young, scarcely more than a cub. Good. He would be inexperienced--obviously was inexperienced, to sleep while on watch, unless he had been injured from a fall or something. All the better for her.

The smell of the goats was irresistable. She moved carefully through the grasses to a point ahead of and downwind from the herd. She knew the faint sussurus of her movement through the grass would be concealed by their bleating, their restless snuffling as they looked for weeds to eat. With luck, the goats would soon tire of their current grazing and come straight toward her, away from the incompetent goatherd and into a deadly ambush.

The panther waited patiently, but the herd wouldn't cooperate. The goats remained stubbornly where they were. After a time, she gave up on the ambush and threaded her way to a patch of taller grass where she could rush the herd quickly. When she had crept as close as she could without breaking cover, she began her loping run, scattering birds as she picked up speed. Now she saw what she had missed before, that the goats hadn't moved because they were tied with ropes to a stake in the ground.

In a corner of her eye, she saw the little dog turn its head, ears up and eyes bright. She sensed its indecision--to protect its master or protect the goats--and heard the sharp bark that failed to awaken the goatherd. Then, quicker to act than to think, the dog sprang to the herd's defense.

The panther saw the dog leap between her and her prey and plant its feet, growling. Confused--was the animal suicidal or tougher than it looked?--she swerved to the side. The dog's stare followed the panther perfectly, tracking every twitch of the half-ton predator. The dog kept staring and growling, its fur standing straight up, its teeth bared. She snarled at this spot of a dog--hardly a mouthful.

Behind the staring match, the one untethered goat nuzzled the goatherd, first softly rubbing, then butting him with increasing alarm. The goatherd turned over and pushed the goat away. A deep, thundering growl broke into the goatherd's pleasant dream. Growls are the stuff of goatherd nightmares. He woke instantly and looked up; surely that couldn't be little Chouri? Using his stick for support, the goatherd struggled to force himself upright.

A sound behind the panther distracted her for a split second: she guessed that her growl had awakened the goatherd. In that moment, the dog darted forward. Before she could whirl and destroy it, it launched and nipped her haunch. The pain was white-hot but bearable; still, the dog was more of a threat than she had thought. She felt a trickle of blood slide down her leg.

She swatted at the dog with her claws but missed, and withdrew to the large rock, where she could see the dog, the goatherd (getting to his feet now and looking around him for something), and the staked, panicked goats. The dog followed her, just out of reach. She eyed it carefully, waiting for a chance to climb the rock and leap past the dog to take the closest of the goats.

Suddenly moving with a father's speed, the goatherd picked up a stone and flung it at her, then drew his knife as he limped toward her. Turning to face this new threat, the panther saw she was trapped: the herder to one side, the rock behind her, the dog in front of her--and, on the fourth side, a goat, plunging against its leadrope.

Her claws extended from their sheaths and locked into place. She spun and tore the goat down with hardly a sound. Biting a hunk of flesh from the goat's throat, she bolted past the carcass and bounded into the concealing grass. The barking dog and the futile stones of the goatherd pursued her, but she was free--and as suddenly as it had come on her, the black mist that had controlled her mind lifted. She ran off, happy to have escaped the entanglement with her hide, and with goat blood in her mouth. The mind control might be gone, but she knew that a single taste was not enough.