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Nadir met Erik as he left the harem and he could see as soon as he looked at him that he was in an evil temper.

"She wants amusing deaths!" he shouted. "By God, she shall have them!"

Nadir stilled, and then swiftly began walking again, trying to catch up to Erik's storming pace. It would be futile, he knew, to attempt to relieve Erik of this foul mood, but Nadir was stubborn. He had to try, especially since the khanum had apparently just ordered her newest toy to imagine amusing deaths—and Erik was just the sort of person, poised on the brink of darkness, that would fall into her wicked schemes and become the sort of person Nadir feared he could be. "Erik," he called after him, a trifle breathless. "I don't understand why you insist on these audiences with the khanum in the first place, if you're only going to—"

Erik stopped short and turned suddenly placid eyes onto Nadir. His tone was calm, collected, cool: deadly. "Would you have me disobey a direct request of the shah's own mother?" he asked, head cocked to the side, as if he was truly curious.

"No, of course not, but—"

"That's the problem with you, my dear daroga," Erik said, his voice burning into Nadir's like a seeping acid. "You never want to do anything wrong and you always want to do what you're told. You're so moral, Nadir—you're a hypocrite, is what you are. One day you'll find out that you can't always do both those things, and then where will you be?"

"Hopefully still doing the right thing," Nadir said, his less refined voice packed with the same venom that was in Erik's tone. "I hope, at least, that I will always follow my conscience."

Impulsively, Nadir leaned forward, suddenly gentling, and placed a furtive hand on Erik's arm. "I know you have one too Erik, even if you insist on denying it. Why don't you listen to it?"

"I do," Erik replied coldly. "She told me to devise amusing deaths."

Nadir's hand fell as if it had been burned, and yet Erik did not feel the victory of that barbed comment finding its mark. His head turned away, eyes idly caressing the séance-like shadows of the shade garden, he said: "You do not approve of my choice, daroga? Tell me, who would better be my conscience—you?" Erik gave a short bark of laughter. "If I listened to you I would be spinning in so many circles trying not to cause any trouble that I would never have time to work on my building plans—and frankly, I find those far more important than having to constantly justify myself to my conscience." He paused, and sharply, turned away. "I find that the khanum is all the justification I need to avenge myself on God's sickening excuse for—'his own image.'"

Nadir wasn't sure whether the last hate-filled words Erik spoke were Erik's sardonic form of self-reference, or a way of labeling the rest of humanity. Erik, perhaps, hated them both, and felt the need to revenge himself on both—for the way the world had treated him, the way his face had allowed him to be treated. Erik was walking away now, his fury-filled step fast paced and deliberate. Nadir felt helpless. How to work on a man who had just taken a commission to kill on a whim? On a man who was just as ruthless as the jaded, heartless woman he served?

Instinctively, Nadir shied away from the comparison. Erik was not the khanum; Nadir knew what that woman was capable of, and after seeing Erik with Reza Nadir was certain Erik had something redeemable and untouchable that woman could never have. And so, dogged, as ever, Nadir turned on his heel and quickened his pace. "Why do you need the khanum's justification, then, Erik?" Nadir called after Erik's swirling cloak. "Why don't you just devise those amusing deaths for your own gratification, if it's really going to satisfy some sick desire for revenge of yours?"

The dark form of Erik's retreating figure stopped cold. Abruptly, Erik was there, eye to eye with the daroga, quite close. "You do try my patience, Nadir," he hissed quietly, in a voice that was somehow quite close to the dargoa's ears.

Nadir swallowed. Erik's hands were nowhere to be seen. Somewhere, the daroga was sure those long, cool fingers were fingering a Punjab lasso. And yet Nadir, headstrong and not familiar with regret when he felt he had done the right thing, said, quite bluntly: "It's not as if you don't try mine. But I'm your body guard, remember. It's a good idea to keep me around."

The dangerous gleam dulled a fraction in Erik's eyes, and softly, he began to laugh. "Nadir. You are stubborn, aren't you? It's one of those things I admire about you. I forget what the others are at present," he said with a flick of his wrist and a feign of menace, "but it is one of those things I like: that you are so stubborn."

"It's my job," Nadir said briefly. "Well? Go devise those deaths for your own purposes, if it brings you pleasure. I won't complain. But I don't see why you'll do it for hers."

Steadily, Erik regarded Nadir. After a moment, he asked silkily, "Did it ever occur to you that I enjoy the khanum? That I find her . . ." Erik paused, searching for words. "Intriguing?" he offered, with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "That I do her bidding as a measure of my gratitude and devotion for her . . . attention to me?"

Flatly: "No."

Another soft laugh. "And why not, Nadir? Is it so impossible to believe that a man such as I—if you can call me a man; do you, daroga?—would not enjoy the company of a—I must say—remarkably beautiful woman?"

"When she uses that fact—that she is a beautiful woman and you are, in the end, only yes, a man, Erik, with needs of his own—when she uses that fact against you? Again: no."

There was a flare of something in Erik's eyes, and then a sudden stillness—far more ominous than any rage might have been. "You will explain that comment, please," he said coolly, and nothing moved when he said it, nothing, not lips nor eyes, so Nadir was held riveted for a moment, too cold to answer.

Then he shrugged. "Just gossip among the eunuchs."

"I'm surprised that you listen to idle gossip," Erik said, tilting his head conversationally. It was the tone of amicability that let Nadir know he was not on safe ground. "Come, humor me. What do they say?"

Nadir wanted to look about the shade garden, to avoid Erik's eyes, but the ice blue ones held his own as if the pale, bony fingers held his very eye-lids open. "They say . . . oh, you know what they say, Erik. Today, for instance, she offered you a woman. She only did it to disconcert you. She constantly alludes to your manhood. She wants to see your reaction to the idea of someone wanting you or having you. She just does it because . . ." he trailed off.

"Come, come, Nadir," Erik said, lightly; "I'm finding this enlightening." And indeed, there was a gleam in Erik's eyes. The subject had never come up before, Nadir knew, because Erik was too proud to ever reveal to anyone the ways the khanum tormented him. It would be too humiliating for him to come to Nadir like a confused child in the middle of puberty and ask why a woman might be toying with him—but now Nadir had broached the subject, and now Erik, danger in his voice, merely asked. "What is your—delightful, I'm sure—theory as to why she does it?"

Nadir felt like shaking him. Why did this have to be so hard? Why was it that anyone could understand the petty, power-hungry mind games the khanum played, except the man who should have been most capable of it?—for self-preservation, if nothing less? Wouldn't Erik be better off just knowing what was going on?

"She wants you," Nadir said mildly, and shrugged. Immediately, he knew that was the wrong thing to have said. He didn't know why, but he could see it in Erik's eyes. Indeed, Nadir was suddenly very much aware that his own life could be in danger just now. Confused, and still not completely understanding what he had done, he said hastily: "Come on, let's get out of the garden; it's too cold, and someone might—"

"We," Erik hissed, "are not going anywhere." His voice was a snake, winding its way up the gooseflesh that suddenly pricked Nadir's arms, and twining itself around his body, around his neck, until the daroga felt as if he would have trouble breathing, all from the sound of that voice, that voice that was a vice, crushing vitality and admitting—fear—and the deepest, darkest submission. "Now. You will continue to explain this—interesting—comment that you were so unfortunate to have made, and you will not dismiss it off-handedly; in fact, I'm going to rather enjoy watching you go into detail—" he said this much as if he was speaking of torture, which perhaps he was—"and when you are done you are going to tell me to whom you have been spreading this insidious lie."

"It's everywhere, Erik!" Nadir snapped angrily, breaking out of that gripping tone. "Everyone knows it but you and the shah! Everyone knows she would lie with you if she weren't so afraid—of you, and the consequences. She wants you, Erik, any man would know it, just that you're too blind to—"

"I am not any man," he sneered.

"Precisely," Nadir countered, and made as if to go on, but Erik cut him off with a smooth movement of his wrist.

"You miss my point, daroga, and you have not explained yourself adequately. The point is, daroga," he went on, his voice the sound of a knife, sinking into soft, giving flesh, bleeding, "that I do not look like any man—or have you forgotten? The point is, daroga, that woman do not want men like me."

Suddenly, Erik's voice loosened, and he stepped away. Nadir had not realized the other man had gotten so close. "We will not discuss this again," Erik said flatly. "No one will discuss this lie again. You will not think this lie again, Nadir; you will remember my face when you do it. You will remember my face and remember that I have told the khanum—that lovely woman—that my face matches my imagination. If I ever chance to hear of it again . . . Nadir, your death will be highly amusing, I assure you. Why, the khanum . . . she will clap with delight at it—and the both of us . . . why, we'll laugh. We'll laugh and clap, she and I, and your wonderful conscience will all have been for naught."

And then Erik was gone, the torment in his voice lingering like a caress on the trembling leaves of the garden.

*

As Erik walked into the seralgio with his signature graceful step, and sank into the stool that always waited beside her with a single, fluid movement, the khanum frowned and propped herself up on an elbow. Long ago she had taken to receiving him lying lethargically on her couch, so familiar with him that she did not even raise a hand at his presence. But now she lifted herself and peered at him through the gauze keenly, surveying him up and down. She had not expected to see him so soon after her command: that he concot death scene spectacles for her. "There's something different about you today, Erik," she remarked, with a slight pique of interest.

Languidly, Erik waved his hand. "Perhaps I have not slept well."

Uninterested by his reply, the khanum flopped back onto her settee and waved. One of her hand maidens came forth, bearing a silver bowl of fruits. Negligently, her neck arched, the khanum pointed at one, and then the other, and at last selected a vine of grapes, which were to be fed to her one by one. After three, she deigned to notice he was still there and raised a brow. "Slept well?" she repeated, as if he had just spoken. "Do your apartments not please you?"

"The apartments, madame?" he said, affecting blankness. "The apartments suit me quite well. It is the bed, at times, that I find frustrating."

Snapping her hand at the servant girl with the grapes in annoyance, the khanum turned to Erik with suddenly narrowed eyes. A knowing, devious smile was playing at one corner of her lips. "The bed . . . Why Erik, how come I didn't hear of this before? It shall be remedied instantly, I assure you. What is wrong with it?" Her smile widened, almost unperceivably. "Is it too . . . cold?"

With apparent unconcern, Erik uncurled his legs from under the stool and extended them in front of him, stretching his lanky frame. He met her eyes, raised a brow, and said shortly, "It's not long enough, madame."

"Oh." Disappointed, the khanum fell further back into her couch and gestured for the grapes again. She appeared to be quite interested in them for a moment or two, but presently began to frown when she sensed Erik's eyes following her every move. "You're playing at something," she said sharply, suddenly turning back to him. "You're playing at something and I don't like it." The frown in her face smoothed deliberately as one of the servant girls placed a round, taut grape into her mouth. She licked her lips, as if unconsciously, and blinked at him, as if surprised again that he was still there.

"You are different today, Erik," she said at last, "and I know what it is. You've come in here like a man who . . . wants something." Her eyes held his for a moment, her hand idly playing with the gauze curtain between them, and then, dismissively, she dropped her hand and turned back to the grapes. "You do know that very few people—men or women—come out of here with what they came in wanting. You do know, don't you Erik, that I despise people who are trying to get something out of me. The fact of the matter is—" here she chewed and swallowed another grape—"the fact of the matter is that very few people come out of here alive, if they come in here wanting something from me at all."

Erik remained apparently unconcerned, watching her eat the grapes with a disinterest akin to negligence.

His very disregard fascinated her. So few people were always able to remain so calm in her presence, and it both excited and frustrated her. Her gaze snapped to his and he met it easily, and she demanded: "What is it you want, Erik?"

Instead of answering, Erik's gaze trailed lazily away from hers and fell finally on the silver bowl the servant girl held. "That fruit looks delicious," he said at last, conversationally.

The khanum did not move. Disinterest was intriguing, to an extent, but she did not want him to forget who was in power, here. Gently—and that gentleness was the sign of the highest form of danger—she said, "I asked you a question, Erik."

"Yes of course, madame," Erik replied, his tone easy as he respectfully met her eyes. "What I want . . . well, I would tell you now: I should very much like some of those grapes you're eating."

A startled guffaw escaped the khanum. She met Erik's serious eyes, and another sharp bark of laughter left her. Suddenly, she was giggling. "The impertinence!" she burst out. "Oh Erik, I knew I could count on you. You never fail to amuse me!"

"I don't see what's so funny," Erik said, sounding slightly indignant. "In my homeland it is considered common courtesy not to eat in front of someone without offering a portion."

The khanum had stopped laughing, but mirth still danced about her eyes. "In your homeland," she spat with amusement. "How long have you been gone from there, Erik?. . . How long since they chased you out?"

He allowed himself to stiffen. These verbal jabs she poked him with had long since stopped hurting, but the khanum liked to feel her power. She liked the thought that she could hurt the feelings of this closed-off man with simple words like that, and he let her think it. "They didn't chase me out," he said, allowing his voice to be harsh. "I left."

"Oh that's right. I forgot." She smiled contentedly, and, as if in amiable confidence, leaned closer to him. "Now tell me, Erik," she said conversationally—a dangerous tone that reminded him she knew he was getting at something, something she perhaps might not like—"why would a man who rarely eats so presumptuously demand I feed him?"

"Ah. This is true. I rarely . . . indulge." His eyes flicked to her body with the word, the syllables falling over her to settle about her thighs. "But I must say madame," he went on, amiably, "that just because I hardly eat doesn't mean that I am not . . ." Erik shifted in his chair, echoing her movement of leaning a little closer, and finished: "hungry."

He looked at her in such a way, then, that the khanum was disconcerted, vaguely uncomfortable, and partially aroused all at the same time. She was unused to being caught off her guard, even with Erik, and the very idea of it intrigued her. She leaned forward still further, the space between them very small now. "And what are you hungry for, Erik?" she asked, her voice a thin veil over her excitement.

Erik settled back into his chair a bit. "Those grapes, if you please," he said negligently, and waited.

If the khanum was disappointed, she didn't show it. She only settled back into her cushions and lazily looked away, to where the serving girl waited with the fruit. Deliberately, the khanum took one of the grapes into her mouth, glancing overtly at Erik as she did so. Erik only watched her, not evincing any emotion to her attempts at provocation. "This bears consideration," she said at last, rolling one of the small fruits in her hand, back and forth, not looking at him. "You would have to take your mask off to eat, wouldn't you?"

"I have taken it off in front of you before, madame," Erik said calmly, shrugging fluidly. "My face does not seem to disturb you."

"Oh it disturbs me," she snapped over at him, letting the grape roll out of her hand for one of her women to collect. "Make no mistake about that." She was peering at the mask, seeming to slowly become distracted by it. Her voice was absent went she spoke again. "It disturbs me . . . a great deal . . ."

Her finger-tips were skating along her midriff, and then further down, along the outline of her hips through the cloth of her garments, and then inward, where her thighs met—"The question is," she said abruptly, lifting her hand and plucking another grape off the stem, as if every movement of her hand had been just as chaste, "does it disturb you?"

He merely steepled his hands and pretended that he and she were two of a kind. "The question," he said calmly, emphasizing her earlier statement, "is: do either of us mind being disturbed?" His eyes flowed over her body, quickly, tracing the path her hand had taken, and then he innocently met her eyes. "Do we perhaps . . . like it?"

"Well, you're forced to like it, aren't you?" she said sharply. The khanum was not about to let this game of words and desires be one sided; she was in a position to constantly remind him who, exactly, was in control. Suddenly, smiling and lazily vicious, she asked him: "What do you think when you look in the mirror, Erik? How does that face strike you?" Her voice was deliberately cruel, now, her words each a harsh blow meant to pain him.

"I never look in the mirror, madame," he replied flatly.

"Of course you don't," she said, apparently delighted with the idea, and laughed. "And the rest of you, Erik? Tell me, is your—body—as hideous as your face?" Her eyes trailed over him languorously, pausing on his chest . . . his hips. "Your hands, you know, are quite . . . Let me see your hands, Erik. Open your palms and bring them closer . . ."

Invisibly gritting his teeth behind the mask, he unfolded his hands with a sensual elegance of which he was highly aware. His left, as if accidentally, brushed his upper thigh as his fingers unfurled themselves one by one, each as if a graceful, sentient creature in its own right, and as he lifted his palm to her scrutiny, his hand traced the vague outline of her form in the air.

Breathing more quickly now, in response to that single, erotic movement, she looked down on his palms until he could feel the warmth of her breath on them. And then she sneered and turned away. "Yes, they're ghastly, and such a viciously ugly color." Ignoring the servant girls' administrations altogether she selected a segment of a peeled orange and bit into it, at last catching his eye out of the corner of hers. "You never answered my question," she snapped impatiently. "Is the rest of you as hideous?"

"I hardly know, madame."

"What do you mean, 'you hardly know madame'?" she retorted, crudely imitating his tone.

"When I look at myself I assure you I appear quite normal to my eyes. It's the rest of the world, it seems, that finds my visage so completely . . . disturbing." It was a lie, of course, but with her, in this, lies were only fair.

"Yes, yes," she said vaguely, waving her hand. Her interest in this conversation was waning, he saw, and he had learned early on it was not prudent to bore the khanum. "But you've seen other male bodies by which to judge of course," she went on apathetically.

"Of course," Erik answered, settling still further into his chair. "I've seen plenty of nude forms in art, both male . . . and female."

Her interest was suddenly piqued, and a sly smile began to form behind her veil. "Ah. Is that my answer, finally, to the . . . delicate question I put to you of your—virginity, Erik? You never really did answer me, you know, but now you've unwittingly told me all I wanted to hear."

"I've told you nothing," Erik replied, almost as if bored by her insinuating conclusions. "The act can be performed without removing a single article of clothing." He stirred, cocking his head to one side. "Did her worship not know? A pity," he went on, shaking his head, "the lack of education in this country . . ."

Her voice was venom. "You're beginning to bore me," she said softly, in response to his insinuation, and turned away. "And really Erik. Art? That's your only basis for comparison? The khanum finds, upon reflection, that this creature is quite . . . pitiable."

Erik bent his head and murmured, "I thought it would interest you, madame."

"Really, Erik?" she demanded. "What in the world could possibly interesting about useless paintings?

He gave a soft laugh. "Your mind is small, your worship," he told her acidly. It was, of course, a dangerous thing to say, but it caught her attention immediately, jerking her head up, as if on a string. "I was not speaking about paintings, but sculpture. I assure you it can prove quite . . . fascinating. I personally find it—" here he flexed his hands—"almost sinful."

This, he knew, interested her, but she did a very good job of not showing it. "'Sinful'," she said scornfully, sniffing. "There is nothing sinful about a statue."

"Perhaps," Erik conceded mildly. "Then again, a statue of a woman, if one is touching it . . ." He let his voice trail away.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Erik. I don't see anything sinful about touching a statue. You forget I don't find masonry as riveting as you do." She turned away in annoyance, looking for the serving girl again. And yet he had her riveted; she was listening attentively for his explanation—only she didn't know it yet.

Erik gave a little shrug and sat back in his chair. "As you wish, madame. I simply thought you might find something fascinating in the idea of the sculptor. Pygmalion, you see, created the perfect woman: Galatea. Her cold stone was as flesh, more malleable than any living woman's, more obedient to him, in the end, more . . . pleasurable."

The khanum blinked and leaned forward, the pretense of the fruit forgotten. His voice went on, enthralling in the sensual way it seemed to take up the space between them. "His hands," Erik went on, "are allowed to caress her perfections with an intimacy no woman can really allow . . . The mason finds that cold, unmoving stone fulfills fantasies in a much more immediate way than any female—remote and intangible to him—ever could . . ."

The khanum was faintly surprised. Erik never talked like this—never talked of what a man who had never touched a woman might feel in response to such a twisted idea: erotic pleasure gained from something so cold and lifeless. And yet, the idea fascinated her. It was, in fact, the sort of obscene insinuation in which she delighted, and which interest he himself provoked in her.

Erik observed the khanum, listening to his sonorous voice with an open mouth, her eyes suddenly wide and hot with something that he had never seen before. He recalled his own words with the ghost of a mirthless smile—yes, she did enjoy being disturbed. In her case: he enjoyed it too. He could practically smell his victory, and he did so with an exaltation that was almost as perverted as hers.

"Galatea?" the khanum inquired suddenly, refusing to directly respond to that in his speech which had excited her. "What kind of name is that for the perfect woman?" She had butchered the pronunciation, of course, but, uncaring, she churlishly went on. "I find I dislike your tongue at times, Erik; the names are so coarse."

"That is because," Erik replied simply, "Pygmalion is not of my tongue. I assure you, the language of my homeland is far more . . . sensual. Indeed, was under the impression my—tongue—pleased you."

"And why should it do that?" she challenged furiously. The suggestion in his tone unsettled her; the entire conversation unsettled her. At last, he seemed to know what he did to her, and was using it to a shocking extent. She couldn't decide whether that aroused her or displeased her, and that, above all things, was dangerous.

"Why," Erik said, shrugging languidly, "I know so many languages . . . tellement beaucoup, vous porc répugnant. Or Italiano, if you prefer: tanti, voi maiale disgustoso. In Farsi . . . what is it . . . oh yes: so many, your worshipful eminence."

Allowing his eyes to travel in a line down from her lips, he continued, "Why, you ask? Because my tongue, you have said before, is . . . skilled. Masterful, I believe, is what you said." He now allowed his eyes to travel further down, below her navel, and then innocently, he shrugged again, and met her eyes.

She was breathing harshly, rapidly against the veil. She turned away, and her voice was sharp. "Erik! . . . Are you still hungry?"

"Ravenous, madame," Erik replied mildly. "You'll find that my—appetite—is quite demanding."

"'I'll find'? What do you mean? I demand to know your meaning!"

Erik stirred briefly, regarding her with eyes that were alight with something she had never seen in him before. She moved uncomfortably on her couch. The balance was tipping inevitably in favor of arousal. She felt like licking her lips. "I only meant, madame," he said slowly, "that you would find it so if you chose to attempt to try to sate me." He waved his hand dismissively, and continued, his voice suddenly quite cool: "If, in short, you planned on giving me some of those grapes I asked for."

"You're impossible," she breathed. Then, loudly, waving almost wildly at one of the women: "Give him what he wants!"

"I daresay I am," Erik replied tepidly, and glanced up at the frightened woman approaching him. She was trembling in terror at the thought of holding the fruit before his mouth, at the thought of the revelation of his face. Uncontrollably, pity swelled in his breast—but he had gone too far for that. He had gone too far for many things. He tipped backed his head and lifted his mask, only off of his chin and lips—and then, her hands shaking, the serving woman began to feed him.

He knew what the khanum's twisted mind was seeing. She was seeing a masculine neck, completely bared to her. She was watching the fruit enter him and her mouth was watering as she saw it pass through his throat, down into parts of him she couldn't see and wanted to. Most of all, she was held fast by the way his distorted lips touched the fruit, his teeth breaking the firm skin of it, his tongue lashing out to catch the luscious juices of it. Oh, he knew all this. Eating, done the right way, was a very sensual process.

And it was all he could do to contain his revulsion. He felt like he was on show again, in a cage. He did not like to be fed—not like this—it only provoked memories better left undisturbed: Javert shoving food down his throat and his small, child's stomach revolting, vomiting again and again and again, while still more was forced down into him. In a very absolute way, the khanum was Javert in this moment, taking pleasure in her cruelty to a man that before yesterday, had still been innocent of the idea that there were more people than Javert in this world who took sexual pleasure from cruelty. No, she was not forcing him, but she had driven him to this. It almost disgusted him enough to end this farce and spit the fruit in her face—but he did not. Too much was at stake in this game, and he had said it before: he would not accept defeat.

The khanum was shifting on her couch, crossing her legs and uncrossing them. At last, even he could sense the weight of her desire in the room—he, who had been so blind to it before—and he waved the trembling servant girl away into the far corners of the apartment. "Erik," the khanum said restlessly. Her very voice was wet. "Erik . . ." She looked away from him, away from him settling his mask back over his face, the lifting of which had been to her so very much like an unveiling . . . or an undressing. Regaining some semblance of steadiness to her voice, she demanded suddenly, "Are you satisfied, now, Erik?"

"Satisfied, madame?" he replied, as if amused. "Your worshipfulness . . . I think not."

"Erik . . ." Her hands were twisting now in her plush cushions, her cashmere wraps and throws. "Tell me how you would . . ." She released a humid breath, and suddenly narrowed her eyes. Abruptly, she became aware of what he was doing to her, what game he was playing. She knew what he had come in here wanting, and she knew, within herself, that today, he would get what he wanted.

But when she gave it, she also knew that it would because she wanted it, not because he did, because she manipulated him, and not the reverse; because in all her deepest, darkest fantasies, when she lay with him, it was herself who was that hot, driving force of passion, and he, in the end, who was defeated, while she was rejuvenated with the cold, acidic purity of the ability to destroy.

This idea of carnal blighting, this self-assurance of her power, caused a malicious smile to lick her lips, slowly, with a sensual pull of one cheek muscle in one direction and the tug of the other in the opposite—beautiful, and deadly. "I wish you," she said slowly, lazy confidence in her voice, "for a moment, to imagine: I have placed before you a woman. A beautiful woman, and yet one who has committed many crimes. Yes," she said, waving her hand laconically and grinning wider now: "you've said you wouldn't punish a woman. But Erik, it would . . . please me. It would please me to no end. So tell me, if you wish to . . . satisfy this urge . . ." Here she yawned, anticipation barely concealed in her eyes, and then, the crux of it: "Erik, how would you kill her?"

Erik shuddered, hid it, and offered a prayer for forgiveness to the one who would receive it: God, Allah, his conscience?—Nadir? And then he took a deep breath, and told her.

He spoke of how he would use the Punjab lasso to close a noose about her neck, caressing lightly the exposed vulnerable skin. He described how he would tighten it, watching the red abrasions of it flare on her lovely throat. Then he told the khanum how he wouldn't use the lasso to kill the woman, only to frighten her; how he would gently remove it from her and allow his cold hands to touch the brutal bruises on her skin. He told the khanum that a knife, when it is sharp enough, can be used unfelt; he told the khanum how strong a person's fingernails are and how much pressure it takes to remove them from the fingers. He told the khanum what ribbons of flesh can be used for, how long a person can live without certain parts of her anatomy, and at last, the final desecration: the things a sword can do to a woman's body.

While the khanum worked herself into a frenzied state, even the eunuchs in the background huddled in on themselves with fear at the things he spoke of, and the serving girls had tried to shut their ears against his seductive, enthralling voice long ago—and still, it seemed to crawl and curl into them through every oriface.

When he finished, the khanum was breathlessly pleased. She was teetering on the brink of her prurient supremacy, fascinated by the sheer foreignness of the realization that perhaps: she had gradually, without her even knowing, been seduced. "Tell me, then," she pressed onward, almost heedlessly. "Erik, tell me what you would do to a woman if—if you were to take her."

Slowly, supplely, he rose from his stool in a single liquid movement. "Perhaps," he said, voice winding circles around her and delving deeply into the waiting parts of her, "I might show you."

The presumption of it should have shocked her, but what shocked her was how much she admired it, how much she found herself submitting to it. In the end, it didn't matter. She would be the victor. She would control his desire and bend him to her will, and he would submit because he would come to understand that pleasure is submission, is pain, is the admission that she is the freezing, tidal force and he is only the wavering flame. But—to have almost met her match, to have found someone who would, for a moment in between moments, dominate her—to at last, finally be startled out of the monotony of every day—to be surprised!—this was pleasure too.

She lay back into her cushions, trembling with liquid heat, and breathed still faster as his hand dallied with the gauze curtain between them. An enterprising eunuch stepped forward, holding out his hand. No one was supposed to approach the khanum; she was to be protected first and foremost. Languidly, as if drugged, the khanum turned her head to the corner, where her ladies and eunuchs stood waiting. "Get back," she hissed. "Don't move for the next hour, or I will have each of you killed, and your families too. Get back—and watch." Then she turned her face back to Erik.

"You accept, then?" Erik asked simply, leaning over her. His hand was suddenly touching her neck, causing her to gasp and arch her back toward him. He held her chin very, very gently. "Would you have me show you how I'd take a woman?"

And looking up at him, she realized with a furtive epiphany of doubt that he had been waiting to ask that for this entire conversation, that their talk had been a mere manipulation focused on the revelation of it, and that she had not quite realized it until he asked it. He had planned on this, this element of control—that it would be him subordinating her to his will, not as she had fantasized,--but as he had: Erik, dark, sinister, menacing above her, instructing her—him controlling her. He wanted her, yes; she was beautiful and powerful and the epitome of femininity in his eyes—and it was for these reasons he wanted to be in control. In shock, she realized that he was demanding that she submit to him.

And, she was realizing with a thrill of fear: she would submit. She was submitting, because she was willing to give anything—anything: her dignity in front of her women and her eunuchs, her sanctified command of them and of him, even her own first born child—just for him to show her, exactly: how he would take a woman. She wanted him that badly. She needed him that badly.

"Yes," she expelled. His hand tightened on her chin, as if with a reluctant student, emphasizing her complete surrender, forcing her to pant and follow even this whim of submission to him. "Yes," she told him, more loudly now.

"You would . . ." he said reflectively, and, in the final show of her acceptance, his other hand pulled the veil off and revealed her face completely to him. He blinked once, twice, and then: "But I would not."

Her eyes changed at that, and then she realize just how firmly he held her: one hand at her chin, the other at her shoulder. "In the future, madame, you will ask yourself why. I could give you many reasons. You are a whore, for one, and weak, for another. In the end, you are petty—and powerless to control me. But most of all, madame, the reason I don't want you is this." He gripped her face with both hands now and looked directly into her eyes. "You are hideous."

And then he was gone.