Her hand in his, Ahmen led Meresamun through the darkened lanes and alleys of Waset, toward the Temple of Sekhmet. As they neared, torchlight from the outer pylons of the temple spilled into the mouth of the alley.

Ahmen stopped in the shadows and took in the bright square. "It is almost morning," he said, his gaze moving to the temple's entrance. "It is dishonorable to send you back like this, alone, I should come with you, to explain--"

Meresamun pressed her finger to his lips. "To explain what? A lie?"

He caught her as she moved to go. "Swear to me you will come to my villa once you have the papyrus from the pharaoh. I cannot bear the thought of losing you now I have found you."

"I swear it," she pulled away, though she let his hand capture hers, her fingers sliding along his until only their fingertips touched. "Be safe on the hunt."

Reluctant, he let her go. She moved into the firelit square and passed the solitary guard, vanishing into the pillared shadows beyond. Ahmen turned away, filled with misgiving. Now she was gone, the full weight of his crime bore down on him. Soon he would go on the lion hunt and kill the very creature who represented Sekhmet. He shuddered. He had seen what a lion could do to a man. He shook his head, banishing the thought. There would be dozens of others on the hunt. He had nothing to fear. For now.

❃

Ramesses moved out from the deeper shadows of the alley and glared at the place where Ahmen and Meresamun had just been. The one he trusted more than any other had trespassed where even he dared not go. Why would Ahmen do something so foolish? Out of Ramesses, Sethi and Ahmen, Ahmen had always been the sensible one, the last person in all of Egypt Ramesses would have believed could do something like this. When Ramesses was still a boy, his father declared every man had at least one fatal weakness. It seemed a beautiful priestess was Ahmen's.

Ramesses cursed. Why had he not left Meresamun with Paser. All knew the vizier's heart belonged to a woman he could not have, though none knew who she was. Meresamun would have been safe with him, the bore. Anger pushed through his shock. He stared at the lane Ahmen had taken. So, this was how their friendship would end--over a priestess. How small and insignificant. His fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger. He would end Ahmen. How dare he take what even he, Pharaoh of Egypt could not have? A thought cut through the red noise of his anger. A murder committed by a pharaoh could only be punished by the gods--famine, plague, or even worse would be certain to follow.

No. He would not risk endangering his empire over jealousy. He let go of the dagger's hilt. Better to let the high priestess deal with it. Ahmen was beneath him now. His mood sour, Ramesses strode across the temple square, flanked by his guards. He stopped before the lone temple guard, who leaned on his spear, dozing.

At a prod by one of Ramesses's guards, the temple guard woke, blinking and bleary-eyed. His gaze moved over the small party, coming to a halt on Ramesses. He gaped, incredulous. "Great Isis, what a dream!"

Ramesses's guard stepped forward, blocking his view. "This is no dream, fool," he muttered, giving the temple guard a shove with his spear. "You keep the pharaoh waiting. The High Priestess Amunet. Now."

The blood draining from his face, the temple guard bowed and stumbled away, leading them past the dark waters of the sacred pool and into the heart of the temple. They entered just as the high priestess slipped out from the temple's inner sanctum, the home of the goddess herself.

Startled, Amunet looked up. For a heartbeat, alarm flickered over her features. "Your Majesty," she murmured, inclining her head, "how may I serve you?"

"High Priestess Amunet of Sekhmet," Ramesses answered, looking over her bowed head at the closed door to Sekhmet's sanctuary, "last night at the banquet we granted a gift to the priestess Meresamun. We would give her this gift our self."

Amunet bowed, sending the temple guard to fetch Meresamun. He set off at a run, his sandals slapping, loud, against the smooth stone floor of the Second Hall. His head beginning to ache from all the wine he had drunk, Ramesses followed Amunet past the towering pillars of the Hypostyle Hall into the moonlit courtyard, out along a paved lane past the sacred lake and down a palm-lined path into an elegant courtyard, through a colonnaded vestibule and into a sumptuous reception room.

Clad in a plain temple gown, her feet bare, Meresamun waited. Her eyes widened, fearful, as he entered. She sank to her knees, trembling. The door closed, quiet. Ramesses caught her hand and brought her to her feet. When she wouldn't meet his eyes, he reached out and grasped her chin, lifting her face up to his. As he looked at her, a memory from his youth returned, recalling the time when he had explored the forbidden ruins of Amarna and happened upon a workshop. Within, half-buried in the sand, he had discovered an unfinished bust of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Meresamun, with her straight nose, high cheekbones, full lips, and piercing eyes framed by long lashes and arching brows, reminded him of the long-lost, forgotten woman.

He traced the outline of Meresamun's cheekbone, his fingertips hovering over her lips. "I would have you as one of my queens if I could--" he pulled his hand away, abrupt, "--but you are the property of Sekhmet. Forbidden." He lifted the papyrus from his pouch. He held it out to her. "The papyrus, granting your freedom."

She unrolled it and read its contents. Her lips parted in a breathless smile.

Ramesses couldn't bear it any longer. "Ahmen has known you, hasn't he?" he asked, blunt.

Her gaze still on the papyrus, she blanched.

"You will answer the King of Egypt," he commanded, the pain in his head beginning to throb.

Her voice came to him, so low he might have imagined it.

"Yes."

He endured the molten heat of his fury. Through the burning haze he saw her lick her lips, sensed her fear. "And were you willing, Priestess of Sekhmet?" he pressed, his words sharp as daggers.

She lifted her eyes to his. "I was, Your Majesty."

His frustration spiked. He caught her chin in his hand. She had already been taken, he could have her now and no harm could come to him. He felt her quaking in his grip, perceiving his intention. Shame bit him hard. He let her go.

"He intends to make you his wife?" Ramesses demanded, harsh.

"I do not know," she answered, quiet, her fingers tightening, almost imperceptibly on the papyrus.

"I would have made you my wife," he said, low, watching her, gauging her reaction.

"My lord," she breathed, her eyes flicking to his, astonished, "I am not worthy of you."

Seething at her veiled rejection, he slammed his fist against the table beside him, making the golden platters rattle. "Ahmen is not worthy of you!" he bellowed, furious.

She flinched, fear snapping, sharp, in her eyes. Fear, not for herself, but for Ahmen. Slow, like the drip of honey from its comb, he realized the truth and it sickened him.

"Do you love him?" he asked, incredulous.

Her gaze fell away, her lashes sweeping down against her cheeks. "I feel something I have never felt before," she answered, soft. "Perhaps this is what love feels like."

Ramesses scoffed as his thoughts scattered, ricocheting between the rising pain in his head and her impossible, foolish words. He bit back a curse, annoyed a mere temple slave had undone the Pharaoh of Egypt. He caught her watching him, wary.

"Has Ahmen arranged to see you again?" he asked, cold, certain Ahmen would never attempt something so insane.

She nodded, hesitant. "Once I received this," she said, cradling the papyrus against her chest, "I was to return to his villa. He has vowed to make restitution to the temple, whatever the cost."

Restitution? Ramesses almost laughed out loud. Ahmen, in his ignorance, had left her to the lions. He looked at Meresamun, gazing once more at the papyrus, looking at it as though she couldn't believe it was real. He had to tell her. She deserved to know the truth.

"Ahmen is mistaken," Ramesses said, matter-of-fact. "There is a temple law still in place, an old, obscure one from earlier, harsher times, one you should know of before you ask for permission to leave. Before you are allowed to depart, you will be subject to inspection by a surgeon for purity."

"And my fate, if I am impure?" she asked, paling.

"Facial mutilation--the nose and ears cut off--then sold to the highest bidder at the slave market. Whoever buys you may use you as they please, a fallen priestess, maimed for life. It is a fate worse than death."

She sank onto a bench and looked once more at the papyrus, still open in her hands. Ramesses waited. A tear fell onto her knuckle. He caught the slight nod of her head as she reconciled herself to her punishment. His anger fled, shamed by her quiet courage.

"If you do not ask to leave, no harm will come to you," he offered, seeking to show her a way around her dilemma. "As a free woman, you would have permission to attend festivals. You would not be a prisoner."

"No," she shook her head. "I am prepared to admit to what I have done. I cannot live dishonestly."

He lifted an eyebrow, impressed despite the madness of her words; the temple had indoctrinated her well. "Last year in Libya" he began, knowing what he was about to do was reckless, dangerous even. He forced his misgivings away, unwilling to leave her alone to face the consequences for Ahmen's crimes. "Ahmen saved my life, taking what would have been, for me, a fatal blow. In return I told him he could have anything he desired. Although he has not yet asked anything of me, I consider my debt paid in full. A life for a life. I will take you with me when I leave. Because none would dare confront me, you will not be inspected."

She looked up at him, uncertain. "I have committed a crime, why should I be spared, when others must abide by the laws?"

"It is my command," he said, his admiration for her deepening. "Let me answer to the gods for this." He helped her to her feet. "Do you have any items you wish to collect?"

"Yes, there are a few."

"Come with me, then." He led her into the vestibule where Amunet stood, waiting, tense.

"We have granted Meresamun her freedom," he declared, officious. "She will leave with us once she has collected her belongings. Please let Lord Sethi, the King's Treasurer know how Pharaoh should compensate the temple for its loss."

"Pharaoh is a god who walks among us," Amunet murmured, her eyes downcast, "who are we to ask anything of him in return?"

"Then ask the goddess what she wishes," Ramesses snapped, his head aching, and his patience wearing thin.

Amunet closed her eyes and communed with Sekhmet. She looked up, pale. "Your Majesty, I am powerless in these matters. Sekhmet will take whatever she sees fit."

Meresamun's eyes met his, fearful. He turned away, enduring his own deep spike of dread. "What will be, will be," he muttered, resigned. "What is done, is done."