Lion Head Mesa forty-second

veneration. yes. he knew such when it was seen, malleable. he saw it in the set of her jawline and the way her eyes drank upon him as if he were not something she was allowed to behold.

it was as if senmut stood once more before the altars of Amun, but instead of his own soul there tied by wrist and ankle it was that of legend, and instead of senmut's usual pious fear, she burned up at him in oil fires of her own.

every twitch of lash and curve of mouth was attuned toward him, and through these things senmut felt as if he might have known her once before, or if through her came the message of the gods: that the divinity of the queen and her ancestry had somehow brushed the high priest.

high priest and she the priestess who kept her gaze only upon his. senmut felt his breath hot and fluttering, and wondered if he should give in to waiting or have what they both wished now, the etching of his rights over her exercised in a way he had not before.

"then come to me tonight," the prince ordered lightly, the verdancy of his green eyes darkened by pleasant anticipation. he traced her lips; once; and dropped his paw.

dismissal for only the exquisite wretching wait of several hours.