Istara stirred. She gazed at the golden statue of Baalat, wreathed in thick plumes of opium incense. Rubbing the back of her neck, Istara wondered how long she had been unconscious. Her hand stilled; there had been a vision. She closed her eyes, the vision's vivid images returning, filling her mind: a tent, lit by the feeble light of two lamps. A man, unconscious, filthy, and naked apart from a loincloth, lay before her; his powerful body covered in injuries packed with mud. Two men assisted her, silent, as she washed the dried mud from his wounds.

She sank deeper, immersing herself in the vision, experiencing all of its sensations, the biting hunger pangs, the grinding drag of total exhaustion, and the stinging, bitter cold. Despite her great discomfort, she held on to the vision, watching herself working to save the man's life.

There, an odd detail: she was wearing her best gown, but it was ruined, torn, and bloodstained, and on her arms, a fortune of gold and jewels, incongruous against the misery of the tent. Her left calf hurt. It was bound up tight, the linens stained with blood, she felt the tug of sutures. The man moved, rousing. She leaned forward to look at his face. A brief glimpse, and the vision ended, abrupt.

Istara stared at the sanctuary's floor, trying to recall the man's face. Was he Urhi-Teshub? An image flitted through her mind, brief, tantalizing. She lunged after it, but it slipped away, leaving behind just one detail. The man's eyes had been kohled black. An Egyptian. Despite the heat, she shivered. An aura of prescience enveloped her. She held herself still, waiting, hoping for more.

Sensing someone behind her, she peered into the shadows, and heard a voice, faint, distant, speaking in Egyptian; two people materialized. She blinked, astonished, realizing she was looking at herself, when she had been a child. Before her child-self, a young Egyptian man knelt, giving her his rations. She watched, dismayed by how thin and ragged she had been as she devoured his food, starving. His ration pack emptied, he stood and smiled at her. Istara's gaze drifted over him, curious. He was taller and bigger than Urhi-Teshub. An aura of easy confidence radiated from him. He walked away, fading into the shadows, her child self trailing after him, trusting.

Istara came to her feet, trembling, staring at the place where her long-forgotten savior had once stood, all those long years past, and again, only heartbeats ago. Was he the man in the tent? Why had Baalat shown her these things when she had asked about Urhi-Teshub? Istara shook her head, perplexed.

She waited a little while longer, but the atmosphere in the sanctuary became mundane once more. Outside, she heard the watchmen's horn announcing the evening hour. Urhi-Teshub would be waiting for her answer. She pushed the doors open, letting the hot evening air rush inwards, heavy with the fragrant scent of jasmine. The hiss of locusts filled her ears. She looked back at the statue of the goddess, waiting, hoping for something more. Baalat's eyes gazed back at her, blank. Istara sighed and closed the doors. The goddess had given her answer, and it meant nothing.

❃

Istara saw him before he saw her. She slipped behind a pillar and gazed at Urhi-Teshub as he leaned against the wall beside her door, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. Footsteps approached. He pushed away from the wall and looked down the corridor, expectant. An attractive courtesan approached, a flirtatious smile playing on her lips.

He nodded at her, terse, his gaze moving back down the corridor. Several others approached, and each time, he looked up, expectant, hopeful, his disappointment increasing as they passed. Though she knew it was wrong, Istara felt reluctant to give up her vantage point. She continued to watch him, curious.

For a while no one passed. He fidgeted, nervous, straightening his tunic--his best one, she noticed--brushing the dust from it, his expression tight with worry. She realized he feared she would not come to him at all, that her answer would be no answer.

She stepped out, ashamed of herself. He looked up, and for a heartbeat, his face lit up. Recovering himself, he bowed as she approached, formal once more.

Moving past the guards flanking the entrance to her apartment, she opened the door. "Please, come in. I have kept you waiting."

He followed her into her sumptuous reception room, filled with the scent of fresh cut roses, and closed the door. It came to with a quiet thud. Anash woke and greeted them, her tail wagging. For a little while, content to avoid what was to come, they gave all their attention to Istara's companion, making light conversation until Anash tired and returned to her basket, curling up to sleep.

Istara poured wine. She sipped, watching the movement of Urhi-Teshub's throat as he swallowed. From nowhere, Baalat's answer came to her, clear as pure water. She set aside her cup, catching her husband's gaze. Uneasy, he lowered his cup, his fingers tight against it.

"I have come to a decision," she said, quiet. "Too much has passed. I cannot remain with you."

He paled. Within his crushing grip, the golden cup succumbed. "I beg you," he murmured, "please reconsider."

She prised the ruined cup from his hand, and placed it beside her own, trailing her fingers over the cup's deep indentations. "It is the will of Baalat. I have asked, and this is her answer."

His eyes dark, he moved closer, his chest rising and falling under his linen tunic, agitated. She caught the scent of him, soap, leather, horses. Familiar, old feelings stirred deep within, betraying her. She stepped away from him, seeking distance. He caught her, his fingers sliding into her hair, wrapping around her skull. He stepped closer, so near she could feel the heat of him. She closed her eyes and held still, struggling to suppress her feelings.

His lips brushed against her forehead. "But is it your will?" he whispered.

Before she could answer, he tilted her face up to his, his lips touching hers, gentle as a breeze. "Now it has come to this," he murmured against her mouth, "I cannot bear the thought of losing you. My wife, my queen-in-waiting, bound to me before Arinna. If it is not too late, let me love you, just once--"

He kissed her harder, his grip on her tightening, possessive. Her knees trembled, and the last of her resistance fled, her arms sliding up his chest and around his neck. He eased back, taking his fill of her, worshiping her, his eyes black with desire.

"By all the gods," he breathed, "I swear you are the most beautiful woman in the world."

His lips, gentle once more, touched her face, caressing her eyelids and brow. They drifted down to her ear, tracing the line of her throat to her shoulder. He stopped at the curve of her breasts. She moaned, caught in his thrall, sagging in his arms. He lifted her up and carried her through her apartment, kicking aside the doors, searching for her sleeping room.

He found it. Beside her bed, he knelt and lowered her onto its cover. His eyes never leaving hers, he loosened his belt and dropped it on the floor, the hilts of his daggers clattered against the stone flags. He lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms. He stroked the hair from her face, his tenderness exquisite, heartbreaking.

"Are you willing?" he asked, low, intimate.

Surrounded by his body, lost in his arms, she nodded, trembling.

He began undressing her, taking his time, removing her jewelry, setting each piece aside with care. His fingers moved to the ties of her gown, opening them one by one until the material fell open and she lay atop it, naked, shy. He gazed at her, filled with adoration, tracing his fingertips from her lips, down her neck, to her nipples; circling them, lingering until they grew taut. He moved lower, stopping just before her most secret place. His thumb slid between her legs and touched the place of her pleasure. She yelped, startled. He pulled away.

Mortified, she covered mouth, her cheeks burning with shame.

"It has been an age since I have known a virgin," he murmured as he brushed his lips against her brow. "I should not have rushed you."

He lifted the jug of wine from the side table and filled a cup. He handed it to her, watching as she sipped, his expression veiled. When she finished, he took the cup from her and turned it around, his eyes holding hers as he drank from the same place her lips had touched. She shivered, savoring the private intimacy of his act.

He handed her the wine, and pulled his tunic over his head, the muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling, the lamplight highlighting the silvery lines of his battle scars. She stared at him, taken aback by the extent of his injuries. He had suffered much for Hatti.

She sipped, watching as he untied the leather thong holding his hair back; it fell around his shoulders, thick and dark. She drank in the sight of him; she had waited so long to see him with his hair down, as only a woman intimate with him could. Savoring the delicious feeling of their intimacy, she shivered with anticipation, an ache growing in her groin, intensifying. She lifted her hand to him, and he took it, intrigued. Pulling him toward her, she let him kiss her, her inhibitions melting away. Her hunger, long suppressed, breaking free of its restraints.

He pulled on the ties of his kilt, the material ripping as he shed it, impatient. Their fingers met at his loincloth, tangling, tearing at its knots, urgent. It fell away. She looked at her husband, at the smooth planes of his lower abdomen, the flat hardness of his muscles, at his erect member, its head swollen. She looked back up at him, catching his gaze, dark, hot, hungry.

His hand came around her head, firm, hard, possessive. He pulled her to him, his lips meeting hers, no longer gentle, but rough, passionate. He groaned, deep in his throat, and her body twitched in response. She clung to him, her back arched, her breasts pressed against his chest, letting him carry her down onto the mattress, sending the cushions scattering onto the floor. The wine cup toppled over and rolled across the floor, noisy.

His mouth went to her throat, his teeth nipping her. Spasms of pleasure surged through her. He moved to her breast, and took her nipple between his teeth, pulling on it, until it stood, hard and proud. The ache in her groin escalated, tightening. She moaned. He let go, his tongue flicking down her smooth belly, toward her secret place. Her eyes widened, her innocence fleeing as she writhed against him, encouraging him as he brought her, quaking, to the brink of release.

He looked up at her from between her thighs, his eyes hard on hers, the question clear. She nodded and licked her lips, hungry to taste him again. He moved up, slow, positioning himself, just as she had always imagined he would, covering her, possessing her. She felt his member pressing against her, probing. She opened her legs, longing for him to penetrate her, desperate to fill the hollow, throbbing ache inside.

He stopped moving, falling unnaturally still. His eyes unfocused. In her arms, his heat evaporated, his flesh turning colder than stone in winter. Movement on the ceiling caught her eye; shadows gathered, coalescing into the shape of a man, wearing a crown with a horn protruding from the front. Ba'al's crown. The thing looked at her, its yellow eyes malevolent, hungry. It crawled, sinuous, across the ceiling, and down the wall, toward the bed, watching her. Horror clawed at her as it crept onto the bed and slid into her husband. Urhi-Teshub stiffened, his pupils dilating, turning black. He blinked and looked at her again. Cold, malicious intent hardened his features. She shrank away from him, horrified.

"I beg you," she panted, terrified, "let me go."

He sat up, his weight crushing her, pinning her down. A brutal smile twisted his lips. She panicked, scrambling to escape. He laughed, cruel, his hand slamming against her jaw. Stunned, she fell back against the mattress, tears burning her eyes. Pain came, cascading over her, waves of cold fire. She tasted blood. He watched her, aroused, his eyes glittering. She cried out, pleading for him to stop.

He raised his fist and hit her again, sending her unconscious. She came to, his blows still raining against her head and chest, vicious, brutal. Anash barked, frantic, clawing against the closed door. She screamed for her guards, fearing for her life. Urhi-Teshub flipped her over, shoving her face into the mattress, his hands rough against her bruised and broken body. Taking hold of her hips, he brought her buttocks up against his groin. She felt his member probing against her anus, forcing his way past the barrier, tearing her open; blood ran down her inner thighs, hot and sticky. Sobbing, she begged him to stop. He laughed, cruel, and shoved his way into her, harder.

She retched, vomiting the wine they had shared onto the mattress, enduring her agony as he rotated his hips, burying himself deep within her, grunting.

The door to her reception room crashed open. Guards shouted, calling for her. She cried out again, desperate to be heard over Anash's urgent barking. The sound of running feet. Her door slammed against the wall. The hiss of daggers drawn. Anash growling. A violent struggle behind her. Urhi-Teshub's grip on her hips releasing, his member wrenching free, tearing her anew.

She collapsed, shuddering, into her vomit. It was over. Urhi-Teshub's ragged breathing slowed. Something dark and cold crawled over her, slithering across the bed, dissipating into the wall. Urhi-Teshub cried out anguished.

"No!" he bellowed, disbelieving, horrified. "What have I done? Istara . . . my love. It was not me. It was not me!"

Ordering the soldiers to find a surgeon, he fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he tried to wipe the blood away, still pouring from her bottom. Sobbing, grieving, cursing, he ran his fingers over her injuries, vowing to kill Rhoha for what she had done to them.

Istara closed her eyes, her body drowning in a sea of pain, its dark waves lapping against her, sharp and cold. Darkness beckoned. She clawed her way to it, desperate to escape; her husband's pleas for forgiveness following her as she crawled, battered and broken into oblivion.