She stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at the sleeping king. Was her mother in his dreams? She threw off her veil and unlocked her ornaments, her movements cautious but hurried. Through the drapes, the moon glared at her naked body. Her boldness disappeared. She fluttered around her father’s pallet to escape the moon’s castigating stare. Silver hair tumbled down her hips and slashed the dark. She leaned down to sweep her tongue over the moist bush under her father’s arm. The moon scrutinized her. She rose and danced around its beam, skipping to the left and right, under the windowsill, behind the ottoman, in back of the drapes. The chilling light was at her side, under her toes, trailing her, daring her.

She searched the room for a hiding place, behind the partitions, the cushions, the sculptures, but the fear of being alone behind some inanimate object stopped her. She slipped under the covers, sinking into the scent of black roses.

Eyes heavy with narcotic sleep, the Shah wrapped his arms around her waist and crushed her to himself. Her lips parted, embracing his tongue, sucking the wetness. Her mouth clung to his, replenishing her cells, rejoicing at the increasing hardness against her belly. She inhaled the tart odor of hashish on his breath and was saddened that he needed opiates to calm him. With all her inhuman strength, her thighs held him in their grip, and in fear of missing the moment when he awakened, she did not blink.

Through gauze and veils and curtains, the Shah had illusions of being immersed in ivory flesh. He felt the softness of thighs, the smoothness of arms, the tap of fingers. Was this a dream? Had opiates taken over? His eyes were heavy, but he felt with exceptional sensitivity. He inhaled a scent he could not place. The perfume embraced him as if he had spent all his life swimming in it. His palms cupped perfectly round mounds. Had Gold Dust come to ask forgiveness? This was not her fragrance of jasmine. His fingers trailed the indentation of a slim back, up to the curve of a lean neck. Moon Face? She had never felt warm to the touch, never had soft lips, and she wore the essence of crushed aphrodisiacs. His hands crawled into a harvest of silk; lush strands streamed through his fingers as he raised them to his nose. The scent of wild spices filled his nostrils. Only one woman wore this daring perfume.

His eyes sprang open. Silver strands cascaded through his fingers. Only one woman had hair this color.

He saw ruby eyes.

Only one woman had eyes of fire.

“You are mine.” An urgent whisper. A pledge. An order.

Only one woman owned this strong yet feminine voice.

He moaned, the narcotics rushing his blood.

He had to rise. Break away from her. Rush out. Call the guards. Order them to remove her. He searched for the bell to summon his men. His hands were paralyzed, his legs dead pillars.