Chapter 1

THE ATTACK began before dawn.

Jezalya’s population was mostly asleep, trusting to its sentries to sound an alarm if trouble came calling. But no one really expected trouble. The wall surrounding the desert city was tall and strong, with centuries of witchery woven into its substance; only a fool would try to break through it. Least of all during the night, when even the fiercest of warriors laid his weapons aside, leaving sovereignty of the sand to lizards and demons.

Their error.

Outside the city Nasaan waited, studying the great wall through a spyglass. He had a small but loyal army at his command, made up of tribal warriors from the most powerful desert families. Perhaps they were not as well armored as the soldiers of Jezalya, but they were ten times as fierce, and they were bound to him by ties of blood as well as political fealty. His witches were kin to him as well, which meant that they would be willing to lay down their very lives to assure him victory. They were a whole different species from Jezalya’s witches, who provided the city’s prince with power in carefully measured doses in return for carefully measured coinage. Oh, those witches would help out with a few small tasks, and maybe even scry for trouble now and then, but only up to a point. As soon as they became convinced that Jezalya was a lost cause they would bolt like frightened rats, and not waste one precious moment of life-essence trying to save her.

Or so Nasaan’s spies had assured him, after months of reconnaissance.

A pale blue light began to spread along the eastern horizon, harbinger of dawn. Inside the city, Nasaan knew, people were just starting to stir. The grand market at the heart of Jezalya would open as soon as the sky was light, so the most ambitious vendors were already laying out their wares, lining up fresh vegetables and strips of newly slaughtered flesh in neat rows to entice buyers. Wagons were beginning to move up and down the narrow streets, transporting goods from one place to another in anticipation of a new day’s business. Merchants who had sheltered in Jezalya for the night were gathering their parties together, preparing to return to the road. And along the top of the great wall sentries watched the sky lighten, unutterably bored. Once more, a night had passed without incident. They were not surprised. War was a creature of daylight, and if trouble came, it would not be on their watch.

Wrong again.

There was not yet enough light to see by, but Nasaan’s spyglass had been bewitched so that it would magnify what little there was, facilitating his reconaissance. He could see sentries walking along the top of the wall, their eyes scanning the barren plain that surrounded Jezalya. Nasaan tensed as one man looked his way, but his witches had crafted spells to keep the enemy from seeing him or his people, and apparently those were more effective than whatever spells Jezalya was using to watch for trouble.

His men were clearly anxious to begin the fighting, but it would do no good to rush the city’s outer wall prematurely, Nasaan knew. His strategy inside the city must play out before he and his men could make their move. Otherwise they would be held at bay by the same great wall that had defeated greater armies in the past. Such a barrier could not be conquered from the outside.

With a whispered word he cautioned his men to stillness, and waited.

One of the sentries’ lanterns suddenly went dark. Nasaan stiffened. A few seconds passed; then the light returned, and whoever held the lantern now bobbed it up and down: once, twice, three times.

Nasaan’s signal.

There was no alarm sounding yet. No noise of combat from inside the city, carried to them on the dry desert wind. Nasaan held his breath, his hand closing tightly about his reins. The more that his agents in Jezalya could accomplish by stealth and trickery, as a prelude to all-out battle, the better it would be for everyone.

No man can breach the walls of my city, Jezalya’s ruler had bragged. The words had been meant as a deterrent, but instead Nasaan had accepted them as a personal challenge. That was the day that he had known it was his destiny to claim the prosperous trade city for his own. Not with brute warfare, charging against the great wall as so many armies had done in the past, struggling to mount ladders and climb ropes while the city’s warriors rained down hot oil and burning arrows on their heads. No. Such a strategy was doomed to failure before it began. But a few dozen men inside Jezalya could accomplish more than a thousand men on the outside, if the desert gods favored their mission.

And Nasaan was on good terms with his gods.

What was the name of the city’s ruler, anyway? Dervash? Dervastis? Son of a chieftain from a minor tribe that few men respected. It was amazing that the city had accepted the rule of such a man, given the weakness of his family line. Nasaan carried the blood of ancient kings in his veins, and with it the spark of their greatness.

Jezalya deserved such a leader.

Slowly, torturously, the massive gates finally began to swing open. Nasaan could see a wave of anticipation sweep through the ranks of his men as they tensed in their saddles, preparing to ride forward. Not yet, he thought. Raising his hand to signal them to hold their ground, cautioning them to have patience for a few moments longer. Not yet! His small army was positioned much closer to Jezalya than would have been possible during the day; his witches had drawn upon night’s own darkness to augment their protective magics. But the greatest risk of the operation would be in its first moments of aggressive action, a mad dash across open the open plain to the city’s entrance. Not even all his witches acting in unison could obscure something like that. They needed to wait until Nasaan’s men inside the city had finished their job and controlled Jezalya’s main gate. If Nasaan’s men tried to storm the gate before that had been accomplished . . . well, it would be one hell of a bloody mess, that was certain.

This prize is worth bloodshed, he thought. And he whispered a final prayer to the god of war under his breath, promising to build him a great new temple in the heart of Jezalya if the battle went well.

And then, at last, the gates of the city were fully open. The massive armored doors would not close quickly or easily, Nasaan knew; his first objective had been accomplished, and all of it without raising the city’s alarm. So far so good.

But there was no way to manage the next phase of the invasion without alerting his target. Hiding a host of warriors from sight when they were moving stealthily in the depths of night, keeping to cover whenever possible, was one thing; masking the charge of an attacking horde riding noisily across open ground was another. Better to abandon witchery entirely, now, and claim whatever advantage speed and fury could buy them.

A tense silence fell over the armed company, punctuated only by the impatient snuffing of a few horses. They, too, could feel the tension simmering in the air. But no one was going to move without Nasaan’s command.

And then his hand fell. And with a war cry so terrible it would surely strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, his men kicked their horses into sudden motion. Thundering across the dry earth, the beating hooves raised clouds of dust so thick that it seemed as if a sandstorm were bearing down upon the city, faceless and terrible. This was not merely a human army descending upon Jezalya, but the very embodiment of the desert’s fury.

Fear us! Nasaan thought fiercely. Gripping his reins with one hand as he raised up his other arm, positioning his battle-scarred shield high enough that it would protect him from the enemy’s fire. Fear us so much that you choose surrender instead of risking slaughter at our hands. Choose life instead of death.

He had agents inside the city who would tell its leaders that this was their only choice. That they could either surrender to the tribal army and know peace, or suffer the full fury of its wrath. Nasaan himself hoped they would choose the first option—it would leave more of the city intact for him to rule—but he suspected that many of his men felt otherwise. They lusted for the aftermath of military conquest as much as they did for battle itself, hungering for the thrill of unbridled rapine and destruction that would follow a lengthier siege. Nasaan’s greatest challenge, if the city surrendered, would be to keep his own men from destroying it.

Of course, if the leaders of Jezalya did not surrender . . . then he would rule over whatever was left once his men were finished sacking the place.

A sudden sharp blow struck his shield from above. Then another. Arrows were being launched at them from the upper reaches of the wall. There weren’t as many as normally would be expected—Nasaan’s agents had apparently taken control of the nearer portions of the wall, denying Jezalya’s archers access—but still there were enough to send a thin steel rain hurtling down from the sky, lethal in its velocity. One arrow pierced through Nasaan’s upraised shield right next to his arm, gouging his bracer. Another struck a bolt on his shield with a sound like the crack of lightning and bounced off. He heard several of his warriors curse as they were struck, but no man fell, and no man faltered. They all understood the importance of getting inside the city gate before Jezalya had a chance to mobilize.

Even now the alarm must be sounding in all her barracks. The head of the night watch would be cursing his own inattention as the daylight officers staggered naked out of bed, fumbling for their armor, yelling for information. No doubt they would order the great city gate to be closed, unaware that Nasaan’s men had taken control of it.

Closer and closer to that gate Nasaan rode now, desert blood singing in his veins. Then the first of his men passed through it, ululating in triumph as they entered the city. Nasaan’s agents inside Jezalya had done their job well. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure all was well behind him—

And saw death bearing down upon him.

A vast mounted force was coming up swiftly behind his men, and it did not look friendly. Where it had come from he did not know, but its witches must have been touched by the gods, to be able to obscure the presence of so many men. Judging from the cloud of dust this new army was raising, it was several times the size of his own, and it was bearing down upon them with the speed of a sand-spawned whirlwind. The bulk of Nasaan’s strike force was about to be trapped between the great wall and this furious army. And now sounds of battle were starting to ring out from inside Jezalya’s walls; without timely reinforcement, Nasaan’s men inside the city would not stand a chance.

Even as he cried out a warning to his men, arrows began to fly at them from behind. Those who were holding shields had not positioned them to defend against a rearguard action; arrows pierced both human and equine flesh. One horse reared up as it took two arrows in its side, nearly throwing off its rider; another went down with its rider still in the saddle, and both were trampled underfoot. One of Nasaan’s witches quickly cast a spell to protect them, but there was little she could do other than fend off the arrows one by one as they arrived. There were no natural obstacles here that could be manipulated to greater purpose, no sunlight to be angled into the enemy’s eyes, not even cloudy skies to help provide a bolt of lightning . . . only an empty, barren landscape, devoid of any tool that a witch might use to lend added force to her efforts.

As the human whirlwind bore down upon them, Nasaan’s rearmost ranks wheeled their horses about to confront it. Feverishly Nasaan prayed for the war god Alwat to favor him and his warriors as he braced to meet the enemy head-on. It was said that Alwat favored those who had the courage to fight against impossible odds; if so, then Nasaan’s situation right now was sure to please him.

Suddenly something massive and dark swooped down out of the sky, right over the enemy’s front line. The men attacking Nasaan seemed to falter, with no visible cause. It was a strange thing to witness, as if a wave of uncertainty were somehow rippling through the enemy ranks, man by man. Even the horses seemed to grow confused, and several stumbled, becoming dangerous obstacles to the men behind them. Never in all his life had Nasaan seen anything like it. But he was not one to question a gift from the gods. Voicing a war cry that echoed across the vast plain, he signaled for his men to charge.

Whatever the dark creature was, it hovered overhead as the battle was joined, its vast wings barely visible against the dark sky. Nasaan could not spare a moment to look up at it, but he could sense its presence overhead even as he braced himself for impact. It was watching them. Waiting. He knew that instinctively, just as he knew instinctively that this was not a natural creature, and that whatever it was doing to the enemy was not a natural act.

Steel continued to ring out against steel in the barren plain as the two armies fought, and dust arose in great plumes all about them. But there was clearly a sickness in the soul of the enemy now, and they could not stand their ground. The first man Nasaan engaged seem to move lethargically and could not manage to turn aside Nasaan’s sword, nor could he swing his own powerfully enough to make his blow count. From what Nasaan could glimpse out of the corner of his eye as he dispatched the man, others were acting similarly. The enemy’s horses were stumbling about like untrained colts who had never seen a battle before. Several reared up in panic and tried to flee the battlefield, colliding with others as they did so, fostering utter chaos. All semblance of military formation among the enemy had been lost. Even as Nasaan thrust his sword into the side of a third enemy warrior, he wondered what sort of terrible power could have caused such a thing.

And then he saw a vision. Or maybe it was not a vision. Maybe there really was a woman standing in the middle of the battlefield, in a circle of utter calm. Maybe the tides of violence really did part around her like a rushing stream, without any man being consciously aware of the process.

At first glance she appeared to be a woman of the desert, with the golden skin and the finely chiseled features of a tribal princess, but her bearing proclaimed her to be something more. Her body was wrapped in layered veils of fine silk, and the long sleeves beat about her body like restive wings as men fought to their deaths on all sides of her. And her eyes! They were black and faceted, like gemstones, as inhuman as they were beautiful.

She was staring straight at him.

Nasaan knew that there were demons of the desert called djiri, wild spirits who sometimes aided tribal warriors in battle. He also knew that their help did not come without a price. Tales were told around the campfire of warriors who had been saved from the brink of death by such creatures, only to discover that that the price demanded was their firstborn child, a favored wife . . . or even their own manhood. The djiri were capricious and cruel, and notoriously unpredictable. One of Nasaan’s own ancestors had supposedly received the aid of such a demon, back when he had led his tribe in battle against the Tawara, and the ancestral songs hinted at a price so terrible that he became a broken man as a result and ultimately took his own life.

None of Nasaan’s men seemed to be aware that the djira was present, nor did the horses appear to see her. Yet the tide of battle parted as it approached her, like rushing water parting around an island. Men fought, bled, and died on all sides of her, but no matter how chaotic the battle became, they did not move into her space. Blood spattered across the ground not far from her feet, and clods of earth torn loose from the earth by pounding hooves came flying in her direction . . . but men and horses all turned aside as they approached, seeking bloodshed elsewhere. No living thing would come close to her.

All this Nasaan absorbed in a single instant, and then an enemy warrior engaged him, and he was fighting for his life once more. Not until he had dispatched the man—an easy task, given the enemy’s confusion—was he able to look back at the woman.

She was still there. Untouched by battle.

Her eyes were as black as the desert night and filled with promise.

A wounded horse staggered by Nasaan. Its rider, a young man in brightly polished scale armor, took a swing at his head. Nasaan caught the blade on the edge of his shield and turned it aside easily; the man’s blow was as weak as a child’s.

She did this, he thought, as he gutted his opponent with a quick thrust and watched him tumble to the ground. Overhead the great beast was beating its wings steadily, driving dust down into Nasaan’s eyes. He blinked it away just in time to meet the attack of another assailant, decapitating the man with a single sweeping blow. Even as he did so, the man’s horse fell to its knees, so swiftly one might think it had been hamstrung.

Magic.

Even without looking at her, he knew that she was smiling. He could feel her presence against his skin, cold fingernails of promise pricking his spine. You want Jezalya. The words were like ice against his flesh. I can give it to you. Had his ancestor experienced something like this? Had the offer of his own djira been simultaneously terrifying and seductive, casting his soul into such confusion that he could barely think straight? The touch of a desert spirit should not be cold; Nasaan knew that. But that observation was a distant thing, and his focus right now was the immediate picture. As he turned aside the blade of yet another attacker, only her offer mattered.

I can give you victory, she whispered into his brain.

If he refused her, did that mean the enemy would suddenly come back to its senses? Perhaps even gain a magical advantage in turn? The thought of his own warriors being infected with that strange mental sickness was daunting. Courage alone could not shield an army from such a power. No human effort could.

He took advantage of a moment’s respite to look out over the battlefield. His men were doing well; they had taken advantage of the enemy’s strange weakness to decimate its ranks, despite the odds against them. They might be able to carry the day even if the djira turned against them now. But time was everything inside Jezalya, and every minute they wasted made the situation more precarious for his people inside those walls. Any minute now the great gate might start to close, so that his men in the city were left isolated. He could not allow that to happen.

Gritting his teeth, he looked back at the djira. Dead men and horses were piled around her in a perfect circle, like some ghastly siege wall. Fresh blood, gleaming blackly in the dim morning light, soaked the ground surrounding her feet.

He waited until she met his eyes, then nodded.

Go, then. The words resounded in his brain as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud. Ride to Jezalya. Take the city.

For a moment he hesitated . . . but only for a moment. Then he wheeled his horse about to face the city once more, and cried out for his men to follow him. A few looked at him as though he were mad, but something in his manner must have convinced them he was not. Or else they were just willing to follow him anyway. One by one they worked their way free of the battle’s chaos to join him. Stumbling, confused, the enemy did not pursue them. The last living strength had been drained from their limbs, the last vital energy from their hearts. Whatever power the djira was using on them was truly fearsome, and Nasaan was glad he had not given her reason to turn against him.

Hooves pounding, his small army thundered toward the city, ranks reforming as they rode. This time there were fewer arrows to contend with; clearly Nasaan’s agents within Jezalya had been dealing with the guards. The gate was still open, and through it he could hear the sounds of battle—human cries and collapsing defense structures and the ringing clash of steel-on-steel—while the sun breached the eastern horizon at last, sending lances of harsh golden light spearing across the plain, crowning his men in fire as they rode.

He passed through the city gate with his sword raised, the names of his ancestors a prayer on his lips. And Alwat’s name as well, a prayer of gratitude for this improbable victory.

And he rode into the fires of Hell.

And glory.

Jezalya’s surrender was finalized in the House of Gods. Nasaan had disdained the splendor of Dervasti’s palace as well as the grand plaza where his predecessor had staged official celebrations. The grandeur of such places seemed empty and artificial to him, bereft of true power. Here, in a windowless temple at the edge of the city containing all the gods of the region, was where the true power of Jezalya lay. And Nasaan meant to make it clear to all just who controlled that power now.

Standing in the House of the Gods in his blood-spattered armor, surrounded by several hundred idols, the conqueror of Jezalya received the city’s leaders one by one. On all sides of him ancient gods watched silently, gold-chased statues sitting side by side with crude tribal totems, sacred rocks, and even a handful of artifacts whose precise identities had been forgotten long ago. Every tribe in the region had placed an image of its deity here at one time or another, every merchant his patron god, every pilgrim his protector-spirit. Jezalya honored all the gods of the world, and in return, it was said, all the gods of the world protected Jezalya.

Even now the priests would be struggling to work Nasaan’s invasion into that narrative. Some were now whispering that the fall of the city must have been the will of the gods all along; Prince Dervasti had displeased the ancient deities, and so they had brought him down. Perhaps it was because he had moved the city’s sacred business from the House of the Gods to his grand but soulless palace. Or perhaps he had offered some more subtle insult to the desert deities, out of sight of his subjects. One thing was certain, all the whispers agreed: The city would not have fallen if the gods had not willed it to happen. And if the gods had not wanted Nasaan to take over Jezalya, then he would not have been able to do so.

Nasaan had paid well for those whispers.

Now, as the city’s leaders came to him one by one to offer their obeisance, he could feel the eyes of those ancient gods upon him. The fact that he was willing to handle this business in front of them should grant him legitimacy in the eyes of the locals, even if there had been no overt oracular signs in his favor. And he would garner the approval of the priests for choosing to stage his business here, rather than in the opulent, hubristic palace that Dervasti had built. Which was no small thing in a city that was the center of worship for hundreds of tribes. The setting could not possibly serve him better.

One by one his reluctant subjects entered the windowless chamber, bowed to him—with varying degrees of respect—and then approached. There would be no open defiance of him, of course. The row of heads on pikes just outside the city’s main gate was a clear warning to anyone who did not like the current state of affairs that his opinion on the matter was not being sought. Whatever misgivings these men might have about the current situation, they would keep it to themselves. But it was not an easy thing to dissemble in the presence of so many gods, and those who had the most to hide from Nasaan were visibly on edge. He took note of their names for later, even while he accepted their formal protestations of loyalty. A newly conquered city was extremely volatile and he meant to watch this one closely.

You are a prince now, he told himself. The title felt strange to him, like ill-fitting armor. Maybe when he washed the blood out of his hair and picked the crusted gore out from under his fingernails it would seem more natural to him.

The lords of the city who had survived his initial purge offered him not only vows of loyalty but generous tribute as well. Some presented him with treasured heirlooms, empowered by generations of tribal reverence. Others brought rare perfumes, precious incense, aromatic spices. Still others placed hemp bags brimming with coins at Nasaan’s feet, a simple but eloquent offering. They were all bribes, of course. Those in high office who had survived the conquest were anxious to keep their heads on their shoulders. Others whose positions were less precarious hoped to win the favor of the city’s next administrator. And there were offerings from outsiders as well: merchants who regularly passed through the city, travelers who depended upon her generosity, tribal representatives who wanted to make sure that Nasaan did not add their ancestral lands to his military agenda. The new prince would keep half of all the treasure for himself, and the rest would go to his men, a reward for their courage in battle. And especially for their restraint afterward. Most of the city was still standing, and most of its women were unviolated. Such things did not come cheaply.

And then one of Nasaan’s warriors stepped into the sacred chamber, glancing anxiously about as he did so. Many of the tribesmen were nervous about being in the presence of so many gods, and were clearly in awe of their leader for feeling otherwise.

“Yes?” Nasaan asked. “What is it?”

“There’s a woman to see you.” The man hesitated. “She came alone.”

Nasaan raised an eyebrow. The few women who had come to see him thus far had all been accompanied by sizable retinues. When they’d been forced to enter the House of Gods without their attendants in tow they had done their best to mask their fear, but Nasaan could smell it on them. Would this new prince respect their status, their alliances, and their families, or consider them the spoils of war? Jezalya had been at peace for long enough that none of them had been through this kind of thing before. None of them knew what to expect.

Yet this woman came to him alone.

“Who is this maverick?” he asked.

“She would not give a name.” The man paused. “She said that you would be expecting her.”

A chill ran down Nasaan’s spine. Only one woman would have reason to introduce herself like that . . . or one creature that was not a woman. Would the gods be angered by a djira entering their sacred space? Or would that be deemed an offense only if she claimed to be a god herself?

Drawing in a deep breath to settle the sudden tremor in his stomach, he waited until he was sure that his voice would not betray his unease before he nodded to the man and ordered, “Send her in.”

She looked more like a woman now than she had on the field of battle, but he was not fooled by that. Her eyes were human in color and shape now, and the layers of silk that draped her frame lay still about her flesh like normal human garments, but the power that emanated from her person filled the chamber like a costly incense. Sweet, musky, intoxicating. He licked the taste of it from his lips and felt its power pass into his blood. Desire and dread combined, a heady intoxicant.

“You know who I am?” she asked.

The djiri did not have names, at least in their natural form. Only when they took on mortal flesh for an extended period of time did they bother with such human trappings. Was she testing him, to see how much he knew about her kind? Even the legends of these creatures—what few there were—offered little clue as to their true motives. Each djira was unique, with a nature as mercurial as the shifting sands of the desert. That was part of what made them so dangerous.

“I know what men call you,” he answered.

She walked toward him, her dark eyes taking in the piles of gold surrounding them, a flicker of a smile playing across her lips. The presence of so many gods did not seem to concern her at all; her gaze passed over them briefly, then fixed upon the treasure at his feet. “So do you require an offering from me as well?” she asked. “Or is my past service enough?

She was testing him, he realized. Daring him to haggle with her over the price of her aid. But he knew the ancient legends well enough to know where that would lead him. The djiri did not look kindly upon those who tried to wriggle out of their contracts. And he had seen what this one could do to mortal men if she wanted to; he had no desire to be at the receiving end of that kind of power.

“Your service is worth far more than merchant’s gold,” he said graciously.

“You owe me your victory,” she said bluntly.

There was no way to deny it. Lips tight, he nodded.

“Your entire tribe is in my debt as well.” The dark gaze was mesmerizing, merciless. “Had I not changed the course of battle, your men would have perished outside the gates of Jezalya. Your women would not have had warriors to protect them after that, when neighboring tribes moved in to claim their land, their wealth, their persons. Within a year your tribe would have perished, and within a generation all its proud history would have been forgotten. Do you not agree?”

He stiffened. “I am the one who made a bargain with you. The price is mine to pay. Leave my people out of it.”

“Ah.” Her eyes narrowed. “So the new prince is a man of honor. Little wonder that men are willing to die for him.”

His expression tightened, but he said nothing.

“Surely such a prince must hunger for more than a single conquest. Surely this one city, no matter how well appointed, would not be enough to satisfy him.”

After a long day of battle and bloodshed, Nasaan suddenly found that he did not have the energy for riddles. Not even from a demon. “If you came to name your price, then do so. If not . . . .” A spark of defiance took root in his soul. “I have other business to attend to.”

Was that anger in her eyes? For a moment it seemed he could sense the supernatural power that was coiled tightly within her, ready to destroy anything and everything in its path. But he was not going to roll over on his back for anyone.

She needs me for something, he thought. Else she would not go to such effort to expand upon my debt. Still, he had taken a risk in confronting her. The gods alone knew where that would lead.

“There are cities to the north,” she said to him, “even more prosperous than this one. Roads that lead directly to Anshasa and beyond. Bodies of water so vast that you cannot see the far side of them, even on a clear day.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, low and seductive, as her power wrapped itself around him; his flesh stiffened as if warm fingers were probing his manhood. “Do you not hunger for those things, my prince? Do you not dream of possessing them? I can help you establish an empire such as most men only dream of.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “I imagine it would cost a man his soul to pay for such a service.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “For some. But I am a simple creature, with simple desires. I am content to ally myself with a man of power and bask in his glory.” Irony was a black fire in her eyes. “Is that too high a price to ask?”

A shiver ran down his spine as understanding came to him. “You want to rule by my side.”

“Every king must have a queen. Even if she is not openly acknowledged as such.”

“And what will my people say when I give a creature that is not even human power over them?”

“Your people will know only that you found a woman who pleased you and took her in to serve as your counselor. Whether I appear to be your wife, your concubine, or your queen is irrelevant to me. Only you and I will know the truth. As for having authority over them . . . .” A cold, dry smile flickered across her lips. “I offer you my counsel. Nothing more. Take it, and my power will be wedded to your ambition. Deny me, and you will fight your battles alone. That is my offer.” And my threat, her expression added.

It was a strange offer, coming from a desert spirit. She could easily have demanded more. He was surprised she was not threatening him more openly . . . though the threat lurking between her words was no less powerful for being unvoiced.

“This will satisfy you?” he asked. “Even without public acclaim? It is enough to satisfy my debt to you?”

“To plant the seed of an empire and help it grow to strength? Yes, that will satisfy me.” With a smile she stepped forward, closing the space between them. Her strange perfume filled his nostrils as she reached out to touch his chest, slender fingers tracing a thin line of blood that had spattered across his breastplate. “Besides, I find a man of power . . . enticing.”

A sudden rush of heat to his loins cut short his breath. Was it some djir spell that was stirring his blood, or just the female power of her presence? He had fought in enough wars to know that a man was quick to arouse in the hours following a battle. What if she adopts the role of a prince’s concubine? Will she play the part in private as well, in all its aspects? For a moment it was hard for him to think clearly. Then, very slowly, he brought his hand up and closed it over her own. And lifted her hand away from his chest, putting distance between them once more.

“Your price will be met,” he said quietly. Feeling the blood pound in his veins, not sure whether desire or ambition was the greater driving force. Never mind that he had just sold his soul to a desert spirit, whose nature and motives were a mystery. She had stirred up more a more powerful desire in him than any simple lust. And proven, in doing so, just how well she knew him.

No, he thought. Jezalya is not enough for me.

Smiling triumphantly, she stepped back from him. “Then I will leave you to your other business. For now.” Her eyes glittered darkly, reminding him of his vision of her on the battlefield. Faceted eyes, black as jet. Such secrets in their depths! Hopefully he would learn their true source before they consumed him.

It struck him as she walked to the door that he should have asked about the winged creature that was at the battle. Too late now. He would have to remember it for later.

“Oh. One thing more.” She turned back to face him. “All the tribes that make their home within your territory and accept your rightful authority, I will protect as though they were my own kin. Those outside your borders, however, are mine to do with as I please.” She smiled coldly. “I trust that will not be a problem for you.”

This time she did not ask for an answer, nor wait to hear one, but left him alone amidst the city’s gods to make his peace with the price of victory.