Enet swept up the dice and moved them and the world mat to the side, then shuffled forward on her knees until they touched Xac’s. She put her hands on his face, unable to be away from him any longer. ‘But you are the Singer,’ she said with ragged passion. ‘You are glory incarnate.’

‘I am a prisoner in a luxurious cage. And I am sick of fucking luxury.’ He slapped her hands down. ‘I am sick of beauty and hymns of praise. I am sick of pretty slaves and pretty courtesans and pretty food. You, Enet – I am thoroughly fucking sick of you.’

But despite his words she could feel his desire pressing against her like a hurricane. She flipped up his kilt and hers, swung a leg across his hips and lowered herself down, driving a long groan from both their throats. His fingers would leave bruises in her flanks.

‘You know when I feel most alive? When I watch the holy Setatmeh accept their offerings,’ he gasped. ‘Not even this compares.’

Enet grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled hard; she darted her head forward and bit his shoulder. It wasn’t enough; she could tell by his face that all these sensations were no longer enough. Still, he didn’t stop her as she rose and fell in his lap, squeezing and rocking, long, painted fingernails scoring his flesh. He shuddered once, twice, and then stiffened with a roar part release, part frustration. She wasn’t there yet, though she was so close it was enough to make her want to scream her own frustration, but she didn’t protest when he shoved her off. The sex, the divination, the discussions of the war – none of it had soothed him. She knew what might, if she dared. If Enet had the courage to take the next step on the path of destiny.

She could still taste the residue of the tonic she’d drunk before coming here, the tonic that had set her on a trail she couldn’t now turn back from. She was already on that path. Committed. She ran her tongue over her gums and let that taste strengthen her, the flicker of magic in her mouth and belly.

‘I want to experience something … anything,’ he panted, reaching for honeypot and throwing it back in one gulp. ‘I want more. I need more.’

And I live to serve you, great Singer. ‘Then, holy lord, I have a gift for you,’ she said, fighting against the throbbing, sullen ache of unfulfilled desire at her core. She bowed shallowly and then stood and crossed to the bamboo cage. She opened the lid and gently picked up the little creature. It struggled and bit the meat of her thumb, but she took it back and placed it in his lap. Reflexively, the Singer grabbed it before it could run off.