Luneshale Pass [m] body right teeth white knife sharp gettin'

From? A mazoi.
Desert flower. My name is Jendayi.
She had not instruments, but her voice comes soft and willowy; her body twirls in practiced movements, languid and hot-blooded. From her lips oozes a hymn to the Mistress of the Sky.

Come, oh Golden One, who eats of praise,
Because the food of her desire is dancing,
Who shines on the festival at the time of lighting the lamps,
Who is content with the dancing at night.
Come! The procession is in the place of inebriation,
that hall of traveling through the marshes.
Its performance is set,
its order is in effect,
without anything lacking in it.

Eset, she thought, would be proud of her.
Rumbling low in her throat, she twists and shimmies; a descent further into the grasp of raven-black claws, a turn away in hopes of leaving him breathless.

When the royal children pacify you with what is desired,
The officials consecrate offerings to you.
When the lector exults you in intoning a hymn,
The magician reads the rituals.
When the organizer praises you with his lotus blooms,
The percussionists take up the tambourine.
The girls rejoice for you with garlands,
The women with the wreath-crown.
The Drunken celebrants drum for you during the cool of the night,
With the results that those who awaken bless you.

Her finale is breathless, light laughter as her nose presses to the curve of his cheek. My Prince.