Chapter 11

Strong arms held Zohra close, warm lips tasted hers, hands caressed her. The aching of desire burned within her, and she cried out for love, but there was nothing. The arms melted away, the lips turned cold, the hands withdrew. She was empty inside, longing desperately for that emptiness to be filled. The pain grew worse and worse, and then a dark figure stood above her bed.

“Khardan!” Zohra cried out in gladness and held forth her arms to draw the figure near.

The figure raised a hand and a bright, white light shone in Zohra’s eyes, burning away the dream.

“Waken,” said a cool, smooth voice.

Zohra sat up, her eyes watering in the sudden brilliance. Holding up her hand to shield them, she endeavored to see the figure that was reflected in the white light.

“What happened to me?” Zohra cried fearfully, the memory of the arms and lips and hands all too real, her body still aching for the touch even as her mind revolted against it.

“Nothing, my dear,” said the voice, a woman’s voice. “The drug was given you prematurely.” The white light became nothing more than the flame of a candle, illuminating the taut, stretched skin of the sorceress. Placing the candlestick on a table beside Zohra’s bed, the sorceress sat down next to her The flame burned steadily and unwaveringly in the depths of the woman’s ageless eyes. Reaching out a hand, she smoothed back Zohra’s mane of tangled black hair.

“I believe, however, that it has proved most instructive. You see now that you are ours—body, mind, and soul.”

“What do you mean?” Zohra faltered, drawing back from the woman’s touch. Finding herself naked in the bed, she grasped hold of the silken sheets on which she lay and clasped them around her body.

The Black Sorceress smiled. “Had not another requested you, my dear, you would have now been languishing in the arms of one of the Black Paladins; perhaps within a few months, bearing his child.”

“No!” Zohra tossed her head defiantly, but she kept her eyes averted from the stern, cold face.

The Black Sorceress leaned near, her hand touching Zohra’s cheek. “Strong arms, soft kisses. And then nothing but cold emptiness. You cried out—”

“Stop!” Zohra thrust the hand from her, glaring at the woman through tears of shame. Clutching the sheets to her breast, she scrambled back as far as possible from the woman—which wasn’t far until the carved wooden bedstead blocked her way. “I will eat nothing, drink nothing!” she cried passionately. “I will never submit—”

“The drug was not in your food, child. It was in the clothing you put on. The fabric is soaked in it, and the drug seeps through your skin. It could be in these bed sheets.” She waved a hand. “The perfume with which we anoint your body. You would never know, my dear. . . But”—the sorceress rose languidly to her feet. Turning from Zohra, she walked away from the bed and began to pace the floor slowly—”do not concern yourself. As I said, you have been chosen by another, and though He wants your body, it is not for the purpose of breeding new followers.”

Zohra remained silent, disdaining to question. She was barely listening, in fact. She was trying to figure some way to avoid the drug.

The Black Sorceress looked toward a small leaded glass window set into the wall of the cheerless room. “It is only a few hours until the dawn of what will be for us a new day, a day of hope. When the midhour of night strikes, our God will return to us. Zhakrin will be reborn.” She glanced around at Zohra, who— catching the sorceress’s gaze and seeing that some response was required—shrugged.

“What is that to me?”

“Everything, my dear,” the Black Sorceress said softly, her eyes glittering with an eager, intense light. “He will be reborn in your body!”

Zohra rolled her eyes. Obviously the woman was insane. I have to get out of here. The drug . . . perhaps it was that musky odor I smelled. There must be an antidote, some way to counter it. Usti might know, if I can persuade the blubbering coward to help me—

A pang of fear struck Zohra. She glanced around hastily and saw her rings lying on the table beside the bed, gleaming brightly in the candlelight. She sighed in relief.

The Black Sorceress was watching her gravely. “You don’t, believe me.”

“Of course not!” Zohra gave a brief, bitter laugh. “This is a trick to confuse me.”

“No trick, my dear, I assure you,” said the Black Sorceress. “You are to be honored above all mortals, your weak flesh will hold our God until He attains the strength to abandon it and take His rightful place among the other deities. If you do not believe me, ask your djinn.” The sorceress’s gaze fIxed upon the silver ring. Zohra’s face paled, but she pressed her lips tightly together and said nothing. The sorceress nodded. “I will give you a few moments alone to ease the turbulence of your soul. You must be relaxed and peaceful. When I return with the dawn, we will begin preparing you to accept the God.”

The Black Sorceress left the room, shutting the door softly behind her. There came no sound of a lock, but Zohra knew hopelessly that if she tried to open it, the door would not yield. Silently, unmoving, clutching the sheets to her bosom, Zohra lifted the ring.

“Usti,” she called out in a small, tight voice.

“Is she gone?”

“Yes!” Zohra checked an impatient sigh.

“Coming, Princess.” The djinn drifted out from the ring—a thin, wavering wisp of smoke that writhed about on the floor before finally coalescing into a flabby body. Subdued, miserable, and frightened, the fat djinn had the appearance of a lump of goat’s cheese melting beneath the desert sun.

“Usti,” said Zohra softly, her eyes on the candle flame, “is what she said true? Can they. . . give my body…to a God?”

“Yes, Princess,” said the djinn sadly, bowing his head. His chins folded in on one another until it seemed likely his mouth and nose would be swallowed up by flesh.

“And . . . there is nothing you can do?” Her spirit broken, her fears beginning to conquer, Zohra asked the question in a wistful, pitiful tone that wrung the djinn’s nonexistent heart.

“Oh, Princess,” Usti wailed, twisting his fat hands together in anguish. “I have been a most worthless immortal, all my life! I know that! But I swear to you that I would risk the iron box—I swear by Hazrat Akhran—that I would help you if I could! But you see!” He gestured wildly at the door. “She knows I am here! And she does nothing to try to stop me. Why? Because she knows I am helpless, powerless to stop her!”

Zohra bowed her head, her black hair tumbling over her shoulders. “No one can help me. I am all alone. Mathew has deserted me. Khardan is undoubtedly either dead or dying. There is no escape, no hope. . .” Slowly, despondently, she let the sheet slide from nerveless hands. Tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped onto the sheet, spotting the silk.

Usti stared at her in dismay. Flinging himself upon the bed, nearly upsetting it in the process, he cried, “Don’t give up, Princess! This isn’t like you! Fight! Fight! Look, aren’t you furious with me? Throw something! Here”—the djinn grabbed hold of a water carafe. Splashing water recklessly over the bed, he thrust it into Zohra’s unresponsive hands—”toss that at me! Hit me on the head!” Usti snatched off his turban, offering his bald pate as a tempting target. “Yell at me, scream at me, curse me! Anything! Don’t cry, Princess! Don’t cry!” Tears rolling in torrents down his own fat face, Usti dragged the bedclothes up over his head. “Please don’t cry!”

“Usti,” said Zohra, her eyes shining with an eerie light. “I have an idea. There is one way to prevent them from taking my body.”

“There is?” Usti said warily, lowering the sheet and peering over it.

“If my body was dead, they could not use it, could they?”

“Princess!” Usti gasped in sudden terrified understanding, flinging the sheet over his head again. “No! I can’t! I am forbidden to take a mortal life without permission from the God!”

“You said you would risk anything for me!” Zohra tugged at the fabric. Slowly, the djinn’s face emerged, staring at her woefully. “My soul will plead for you to Holy Akhran. The God has done nothing to help us. Surely He will not be so unjust as to punish you for obeying the final request of your mistress!”

Usti gnawed on the hem of the sheet. Zohra’s gaze was steadfast, unwavering. Finally, the djinn stood up. “Princess,” he said, his chins quivering, but his voice firm, “somewhere within this fat body I will find the courage to carry out your command.”

“Thank you, Usti,” Zohra replied gently.

“But only at the last moment, when there is no . . . no hope,” the djinn said, the final word lost in a knot of choking tears.

“At the last, when there is no hope,” Zohra repeated, her gaze going to the window to watch for the dawn.