City of Kadesh, Late Summer. Reign of Muwatallis, Year 20

Urhi-Teshub hurried through the temple gardens toward the torchlit pillars of Baalat's temple, the light of the full moon turning the graveled path blue-white. He had been asleep when Istara's message arrived, asking him to meet her in the temple's outer courtyard. In his haste, he realized he had forgotten his gift, bought in Karchemish from a trader traveling from the far east-a necklace of cascading silver, laden with creamy iridescent gems. The trader said the gems were called opals. Urhi-Teshub had never seen anything like them before. The necklace had cost a fortune, but when he saw it, he could not imagine it against any other woman's throat. He considered turning back. No, it would take too long, he didn't want her to change her mind.

Perhaps his many letters to her over the last nine months had softened her heart. She had even written him back several times. How he had savored those letters, even if she only wrote about her work in the temple, it didn't matter, Istara had written to him. It was a start. But her message tonight was another thing altogether. She wanted to meet him, alone, in the middle of the night. She said she had missed him. He hoped--

A trickle of sweat slid down his abdomen, beading with perspiration in the oppressive heat. Even after midnight, the heat continued to rise up from the city, relentless, the baking air thick with the thrum of locusts. He could not go to Istara like this. He looked around, searching the shadows for one of the temple's many pools. Seeing one a little distance away, he went to it and knelt by its edge. Cupping the cool water into his hands, he splashed it against his chest.

In the water's reflection, he caught the dying streak of a falling star. He looked up, uneasy, and scanned the canopy, uncertain whether it had been real, or a trick of his mind. Another fell, then another. For several heartbeats the sky was quiet, then one long streak slid across the full arc of the canopy. He shuddered.

"A bad omen," a woman murmured. "The gods are gathering, as men are gathering. Change is coming, whether we mortals wish it or not."

Startled, he turned and discovered a woman clad in a diaphanous blue gown, its edges embroidered in gold. She sank onto the pool's edge, her full breasts and hips visible through the thin material. She trailed her fingers through the water, creating little eddies in the pool's moonlit surface, a small smile playing on her lips. She reminded him of Adar, exotic, sensual, animal, but unlike Adar, this was a mature woman, older than him by several years, and reeking of sexuality. She continued her tracery, not looking at him, her every movement seductive, calculated.

Her voice, low, and smooth as honey, drifted across the pool.

"Were you in such a great hurry to go to Istara, you did not realize I was here, watching you?"

"Mistress, beware," he said as he rose to his feet. "Do you know to whom you are speaking as though you are an equal?"

She looked up at him, her dark eyes smoldering. She chuckled, throaty, sensuous. Despite himself, he felt his groin stirring.

"Urhi-Teshub, Crown Prince of Hatti," she drawled, languid, "do you not know to whom you speak as though you are an equal?"

She rose, slow. Her gown clung to her body, revealing the elegant shape of her legs as she stepped into the shallow pool. She slid through the water, closing the space between them, her steps measured, the transparent material of her gown molding itself to the shape of her crotch.

Unable to stop himself, his gaze fell to the space between her thighs, noticing the hair covering her mound had been groomed into a small, perfect vee. She stopped just in front of him. He caught her scent; opium, sandalwood, the musky scent of her sex. Her eyes on his, she slid the tip of her tongue along her upper lip, slow and inviting. His member tightened, straining against the bindings of his loincloth. Her fingertips drifted, casual, over his groin, caressing, teasing.

"I am the Lady Rhoha, sister to Amunira, the High Priestess of Baalat, and Ba'al's consort in the mortal realm."

With each whispered word, she applied more pressure, stroking him, enticing him. He let out a ragged breath, he had never before known a priestess, it was forbidden in Hatti, but here, it seemed, things were different. In his filthiest fantasies, he had imagined taking a priestess. Aroused, he edged closer, letting her tantalizing fingers bring him erect.

Her nipples, dark and swollen, brushed against his chest. He cupped her breasts in his hands, feeling the weight of them, stroking her nipples until they hardened. She moaned, deep in her throat, her primal sound making his member twitch. Through the haze of his arousal he remembered something she'd said. He pulled back.

"How did you know I was going to meet Istara?" he demanded, suspicious.

Rhoha smiled, seductive, continuing her work. An intense ripple of pleasure shot through him. She licked his nipple, sliding her tongue up his chest to his earlobe. She bit it. He groaned, realization sweeping through him. Istara had never sent for him.

"The message was yours?" he asked, his breathing turning ragged.

"You caught me," she breathed, amused, against his ear. "Now, will you accept my gift and taste the pleasures of the gods?"

Taking his earlobe between her teeth, she sucked on it, hard. The last shreds of his restraint fled. Lust, prurient and carnal swept through him. Pulling off his kilt, he loosened the ties of his loincloth and freed himself.

Her fingers slid up and around him. He rocked his hips, moving in her grip, hungry, hot. She smirked, vindictive, and tugged on his testicles, hard. He moaned, aroused by the pain, willing her to continue. She acquiesced, and continued, her middle finger sliding into his anus, penetrating him, pleasuring him even as she tormented him. Alternating waves of pain and pleasure shot through him, his member hard and throbbing within the tight fist of her hand.

"Don't stop," he panted, as she pressed the pad of her finger against the inside of his anus, sending deep shards of pleasure screaming through him.

She stopped. He glanced down, angered by her disobedience. She smiled, seductive, as though she knew a delicious secret. Keeping her finger inside him, she knelt in the water, her eyes hot on his, and took him in her mouth, her tongue and lips sliding over him, devouring him. He groaned, wrapping his fingers into her thick, dark hair, watching her taking all of him deep into her throat, her expression drowning in pleasure.

Her mouth felt so good, so hot, wet and tight. She sucked on him, so hard he staggered, groaning, desperate to make the experience last. Once, twice, three times she tugged on him, each time more intense than the last. He couldn't hold back any longer. He shifted his weight, expecting her to release him. Instead, she tightened her hold on him, her lips sliding over him, greedy. She closed her eyes, lost in her own pleasure as she sucked and licked him, her nipples protruding, large and erect through her gown. He realized she wanted to taste him, to swallow his seed. He let go, his member throbbing with the intensity of his release, enclosed within the hot, slippery warmth of her mouth.

He finished, panting, his jaw slack, his fingers still tangled in her hair. It wasn't enough. He needed more. He needed to take her, to be inside her. Within heartbeats he was hard again. She led him into the shadows, to a concealed pavilion and a cushioned divan. He pulled her gown away, hungry, licking the place between her breasts, tasting the saltiness of her. Her fingers came around him again, urging him onwards.

Pushing her down onto the divan, he took one of her nipples, hard and slippery into his mouth. Parting the folds of her mound, slick with her arousal, he slid his fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing against the place of her greatest pleasure. Groaning, writhing, she clung to him. He mounted her, riding her hard until she cried out, sobbing with her release.

It was not enough. His hunger wasn't satisfied. She laughed, amused, teasing him, tormenting him. Unable to find relief, he gave in to her sordid, vulgar demands, pinching, choking, biting and slapping her, striking her so hard, her lips bled. She welcomed his brutality, even reveled in it.

Then, in the darkest part of the night, his blood burning hot with frustration and anger, she offered him her most secret place, where she was so tight, he dined on unbridled lust. He could not help but hurt her then, but she did not want him to stop, such was the depth of her pleasure in pain. Her demands escalated even as he savaged her, seeking greater agonies. Fuelled by her vicious taunts, he gave in to her, brutalizing her, pulling her hair, choking and hitting her until she screamed in ecstasy, quaking with pleasure.

His release came soon after, the intensity of it stunning, unforgettable. Finally, he was satisfied. He had never been with a woman like her before, her appetites were relentless, insatiable, frightening. Still buried deep within her anus, he collapsed, exhausted.

He woke to the first streaks of dawn glimmering across the sky, the stink of sweat, blood, feces and sex filling his nostrils. Rising up from the divan, he looked down at the woman still asleep beneath him, a faint smile on her lips. His gaze drifted over her body, shame enveloping him at the sight of the ugly purple bruises around her neck and forearms; her buttocks and inner thighs smeared with feces, and blood. How could she have enjoyed him causing her so much pain? He looked down at himself, at the filth covering his member and groin, disgusted. He wanted nothing more than to get away from her, to wash himself, to forget this disturbing, sordid night ever happened.

His hands shaking, he pulled his loincloth around his hips. As he worked, his senses returned. What had he done? He had sworn to Istara there would never be another woman for him so long as she lived, yet while on his way to find her, he allowed himself to be sidetracked by this filthy whore of a priestess, Istara's own aunt. He had not even kept his vow for a year.

He caught Rhoha watching him, triumphant. He glared at her. "Wipe that look from your face. I concede you have seduced me. Now, name your price. What is it you want from me so this is never spoken of again?"

"Nothing," she shrugged. "Last night was a gift, a taste of what is to come."

He laughed, hollow. "Then it shall remain no more than a taste, for I will never touch you again. Your appetites sicken me."

She smiled, trailing her fingertips over the bloodstains on her cushion. "Hmm. I did not hear you complaining last night, when you were buried in me, taking your fill of my appetites, relishing your power over me."

"I am not that man," he muttered, "despite what you may wish to believe."

Her eyebrow quirked, disbelieving. "If you say so. But, before you leave, I have one final gift for you, son of Muwatallis. The goddess has shown me what is to come. You shall have your throne after all--but at a price."

"And what price is that?" he asked, sharp.

"Istara will never be your queen," she answered, soft.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You dare speak her name with your filthy mouth?"

She stretched, examining the numerous bite marks on her breasts. "If it is, it was soiled by your member, Prince of Hatti."

Her rebuke cutting him hard, he fell silent. From behind the encircling barrier of bushes, the crunch of footsteps neared on the graveled path. The footsteps slowed.

"Urhi-Teshub?" a woman's voice asked, aching with disbelief.

He turned around. Resplendent in a gown of pure white, Istara surveyed the scene of his debauchery, her gaze lingering on the bloodstained cushions. Behind her, a retinue of servants carrying food and offerings prepared for Baalat stood with their backs turned, sheltering the sanctified goods against the filth of the pavilion.

He moved in front of her, in a vain attempt to block her view. "Do not look at what has been wrought here. I cannot even bring myself to beg for your forgiveness, for I deserve none."

Ignoring him, she swept past him and ran up the steps to Rhoha. "You promised me," she cried. "You swore you would not seduce him like all the others. Why have you done this? Why!?"

"I did promise you," Rhoha admitted, a semblance of guilt flickering across her features. "And I intended to keep my promise, but the goddess came to me in a vision, commanding me to lie with the Crown Prince of Hatti. She has foretold I will be the one to give him his son and heir. The babe that quickens now within me shall be his only child."

"No. I cannot believe it," Istara staggered, backing away, horrified. "Why would Baalat betray me? I have been faithful to her, obeying her every command--"

Rhoha raised her hand, stopping her. "Child," she said, though not unkindly, "the goddess has said your husband will never know you."

Urhi-Teshub had heard enough. He lunged into the pavilion, his hands sliding around Rhoha's throat, choking her. "Cease your lies, you serpent-tongued whore," he bellowed, blind with rage. "Even if you do carry my child, he will never be my heir. Never. I will not recognize him." Through his haze of fury, he became aware of Istara weeping. He shoved Rhoha aside and turned to his wife. "I beg you, leave. If you can ever bring yourself to look upon me again, send for me, I will come." He pressed his hand against his chest. "No matter where I am, no matter how far, I will come to you."

Her eyes fell to his hand. She backed away, disgusted. He looked down at his fingers, coated in dried blood and feces. She turned and descended the pavilion's steps, unsteady. One by one, the servants followed after her, their hostile silence damning.

His throat aching, Urhi-Teshub watched her go. After a year of trying to win her back, he had lost her in one night. It was over. It was--

Rhoha touched his shoulder, murmuring something in an incomprehensible language. Roaring with frustration, he caught her wrist and threw her aside. She tumbled down the steps, laughing, hysterical, her eyes wild.

He backed away. The woman was insane. He gathered up his kilt as her laughter deepened, turning malevolent, frightening him. Dread climbed up his spine. She had cursed him, he was certain. He shuddered and left the pavilion, desperate to get away from her and her taint. He could put his kilt on elsewhere.