Lion Head Mesa stele

wild creatures were uncertain beneath the mesa. ramesses saw it in the well-bred lines of her, how she sat stiffly and uncertainly. her voice remained soft as silken petals beneath rain. pharaoh saw much, perhaps more than she intended.
he reached for a slice of the tender meat and washed it down with a deep drink of the bracing draught. it was not sweet as the fermented berries, but it held its own allure, and in the concoction was the lightest infusion of poppy, undiscoverable unless one drank much.
"i have received no word of epoch, lady meadow." he reclined on one elbow beside her, watching his guest. "who are its leaders?"
his mouth, mobile with a smile; eyes guarded, movements languid. a perfect god.
lord pharaoh. meadow learned swiftly, and his pulse quickened for want of reyson's ultimate sundering.