She stopped within arm's reach and Sul Tarkus felt the heat of her, hotter than the noon sun on the radiant stones. He smelled her sweat like honey and roses, tasted her on the heavy air, salt still on his lips from when he had buried his tongue in her cunt so many ages ago.

She would not look at him, her eyes cast down and he stepped closer and caught her wrist in his hand, circling it, insistent.

He realized then that she held a bottle in her hand, a bulbous shape of golden glass, as though she held the egg of the sun between them, and Adita raised her gaze to meet his, eyes green as valley fields, alight with golden sparks, like precious coins scattered across the sward.

She put the bottle to her lips and drank slowly, reveling in the wine, a line of rose wetting her lips, gathering at the corner of her perfect mouth. She held the bottle out to him, her eyes filled with desire and darker things. Sul took it from her and drank. He tasted the high mountains and the desert at night, the chill of first frost and endless rime, the finger of some all-powerful god of the snows pressed against his heart and in the burning inferno of noon, Sul Tarkus shivered.

"Zenthe's Chill," the High Priestess whispered. "Made from grapes that grow in a single vineyard in the entire world. It's located within the rim of the crater here. The wine eases the heat of summer but does not touch the fever of desire. Do you feel it?"

"Aye," replied Sul Tarkus, his voice tight. His cock stirred against his leg, pressing against the loose blue pants he wore and he knew the truth of her words.

Adita's gaze moved down, her vision fixed on the movement in his pants, and she smiled. For a heartbeat she became a coquette of some lowland village, and Sul Tarkus saw the moment in the planting season, a swain of the fertile valley, a maiden in the cornfield, Zenthe's mystery between them, and all the hope of the world in their sudden lust. His breath grew harsh in his throat and the words he had brought with him, the demands and the promises - not all of them threats - fell away and he was left with only the aching rush of craving.

The golden robe disappeared like mist as he tore it away with a growl. Adita, High Priestess of Zenthe, pressed her hard breasts against his bare chest, sweat slick, nipples stiff as fingers, his hands on her back and bottom, drinking in the amazing heat of her, the wine coursing through his body, the bottle cast aside, shattering on the stone in a skim of frost that burned at once to steam.

She pitched against him, but Sul could not tell whether it was from dread or passion. Her struggles added more heat to their bodies and Sul did not care about the nature of her squirming, nor did it matter, for he would have her, this goddess, this woman, here. He would fuck her until she cried out his name again, worshipful, reverent, and conquered.

With one hand, Sul Tarkus held both Adita's wrists behind her. She writhed naked, her belly pressed to his and the wide, thick length of his cock rose as though trying to split the silken fabric of his trousers. With his free hand he tore at the waistband and pulled his length free, sliding the pants down his legs.

The sword of Kahmudj, the unsheathed, veined splendor of it, would have brought cries of pleasure from the most jaded whores of Bethemet's slums, and Sul marveled at the power of Kahmudj within him now, unlike any other moment he had ever known. His prick, almost as long as his forearm, thick and fat-headed, jutted out from his groin, the sword of eons' destiny within it, pulsing, ripe unto bursting to fulfill this last great act to bring Kahmudj to full glory.

Adita's breath raged as he released her hands and caught her around the waist. Her struggles vanished, somewhat to his disappointment, and instead her fingers drew shapes on his bare chest. She looked up at him, her green eyes dancing with wicked anticipation. Sul gripped her tight around the waist and lifted her, holding her just above the hard, pulsing slab of his cock, savoring the moment when he would penetrate her, to feel the very core of the goddess break beneath him, to work in her and spend himself deep and endlessly in the very heart of her being.

His heart jumped and the noonday heat made a wavering curtain of his vision. A voice, familiar as breath, whispered. Kahmudj. It must be Kahmudj, for no other voice ever spoke within him.

"What if you fail?"