If Conan had been a little different.

Conan does not objectify anyone at all. Ever.


The Frost Giant's Son.

He was running with effort now, his golden locks blowing free; Conan heard the quick panting of the man's breath, and saw a flash of fear in the look he cast over his white shoulder. The grim endurance of the barbarian had served him well. The speed ebbed from the man's flashing white legs; he reeled in his gait. In Conan's untamed soul leaped up the fires of hell the man had fanned so well. With an inhuman roar Conan closed in on him, just as he wheeled with a haunting cry and flung out his arms to fend Conan off.

His sword fell into the snow as he crushed the man to his muscled chest. The man's lithe body bent backward as he fought with desperate frenzy in Conan's iron arms. His golden hair blew about Conan's face, blinding him with its sheen; the feel of the man's slender body twisting in his mailed arms drove him to blinder madness. His strong fingers sank deep into the others smooth flesh; and that flesh was cold as ice. It was as if he embraced not a man of human flesh and blood, but a man of flaming ice. The man writhed his golden head aside, striving to avoid Conan's fierce kisses that bruised his red lips.

"You are cold as the snows," he mumbled dazedly. "I will warm you with the fire in my own blood--"

With a scream and a desperate wrench the man slipped from his arms, leaving a single gossamer garment in his grasp. The man sprang back and faced him, his golden locks and thick beard in wild disarray, his white chest heaving, his beautiful eyes blazing with terror. For an instant Conan stood frozen, awed by the man's terrible beauty as he posed naked against the snows.