Lestat, come to me. Hatshepsut let her words flow into the night, the stars visible in the warm darkness as she stood perched upon some rock ledge of the great mountain. In the morning, her eyes would behold greater things, but for now, she had been content to cloister herself among the faceless stone obelisks.

The Egyptian had caught his bitter scent as she traveled; surely he had followed her here, the dark angel, beautiful killer. "Yes," she whispered to herself, crossing slender forelegs as her gaze searched Nut's dominion for any sign of Akasha's beloved. "I know who and what you are, my demon."

Any resident of Karnak or the surrounding cities, even to the smallest village, knew the story of Akasha and Enkil. It was an old tale, now relegated to childhood fables, but Hatshepsut knew better than to dismiss such an outrageous tale, for it had been from the blood shed by the two paragons of darkness that Lestat and his murderous bedfellows had sprung, in time. But she did not fear him. The Egyptian feared little, and only that which she did not truly understand.

Silently, she awaited the fallen one, a sphinx gilded and set upon a pedestal of rock.

He appeared, moon-pale and savage, as seductive in his approach as he ever had been. Even she did not know her every reason for keeping Lestat near her, only that she desired his company with a hunger that penetrated her very core. She gazed upon him, knowing such a lust was not gathered in the flesh, in her loins, but rather in her soul.

"What have you been doing in our separation, my fallen angel?" the Egyptian murmured softly, making no move to stir from her respite as her lapis eyes moved to hold his own. Perhaps he had been engaging in the murder of innocents, or those not so innocent — the devil must slake his bloodlust somehow.

But Hatshepsut was glad he had followed her, stood before her now. Pleased with his ethereal presence, she awaited his words before she spoke. Some force of spirit had led them here, and theirs was a purpose needing to be discovered, but, though she would never admit it, the petite Regent was unsure of where to start.

Lestat spoke, and Hatshepsut let herself be lulled by the exotic flavor of his syllables, so different from her own. They had been born — though one could argue that Lestat's 'birth' was quite unlike her own — countless hours and countries apart, yet here he settled himself alongside her now, and the Egyptian breathed in the scent of him, and was content.

"An open relationship?" she parroted scornfully, already unimpressed with the seemingly orgiastic sexuality of whatever ruffian group Lestat had stumbled across. He was a carnal one; perhaps such things interested him, but the small Regent was not given over to such things. "They are godless heathens," Hatshepsut muttered dismissively, "to be so swayed by their genitals, like the savages we wrestled out of Karnak."

"I met a man named Njal Sveijarn. I know nothing about him, and yet I liked him immediately. There is a pack of wolves who live beside a Swiftcurrent Creek, and while this man was one of them, and had been for some time, he was intending to move his family away and depart their waters. Why, he did not say. He also informed me of a pack who lived upon a nearby mountain, that it would be wise to stay away." Her lapis eyes flickered once with cool amusement. "Thus far, he has been the only wolf with whom I would consider an alliance."

She would have liked to hear Lestat argue with her — his words were always tinged with the faintest sarcasm and suggestion. But he did not, and so they moved along in their conversation. The Egyptian wondered at the true thoughts about Njal behind her consort's eyes, but again, his cool nature and general reservation held such knowledge away from her.

"You will not join me?" Hatshepsut asked quietly, lapis eyes laid gently upon those of her exotic companion. Preternatural as he was, the man could not wander forever; soon snows would be upon them. He had come from the mountains however, changed forever by one who called him Wolfkiller, and — "Lelio," the bantam woman murmured, using for him the old, old name that Magnus had given him, "where will you go?"

"Ah," she purred, "perhaps not. There do not seem to be many of the unrighteous for your feasts, Lestat," Hatshepsut observed softly, her eyes holding a bright affection reserved only for him. He spoke, and the Regent leant into his words; she enjoyed the cadence of his voice, and though she would not call such emotion 'love,' for she loved only Neferure, perhaps her emotions toward Lestat bordered the same.

"Keep me appraised of your trouble," the Egyptian laughed, "though I daresay I shall know of it before we meet again." The man before her was given over to sensation, to flash and to passion; the calculating fire of his mind complimented well the cool hunger of her own. "None yet," Hatshepsut lilted airily, "but I am sure there will be enough enemies for the both of us, in time. I have not gone far, but I have seen the sea. Such a deceptive, ugly place. I do not like it."

They spoke for some time before parting ways, Hatshepsut remaining upon her chosen ledge, gold eyes watching Lestat disappear into the night.