Shadows on the Aegean (31 page)

The moment she appeared, Cheftu ceased to follow the plot. She struck a chord so deep within him that he fisted his hands
to keep from reaching toward her. Her features were indistinguishable at this distance, but her grace was apparent. With slow,
sinuous movements she coaxed the fruits from the earth. Cheftu guessed the “fruits” were the temple prostitutes, for they
flashed their shoulders and the crowd literally groaned.

Arousal stirred the warming air as the dance became provocative. Another woman danced with Kela.

“She is the bull god,” Y’carus whispered. “She wears the boot.”

The dancer used a snake and a lot of imagination to impregnate the earth mother. Cheftu shifted positions, trying not to stare
at her, want her. She was not Chloe. He looked at the palace instead. It was big, made of hard stone … hard … He swallowed
and looked back at the woman.

They danced in a circle now, an elaborate pattern that first moved forward, then backtracked, like a potter’s wheel. Cheftu
noted their motions as he fought the irrational lust he felt for the unknown dancer. He had no idea why, he just knew he desired
that woman. Desperately. Using gestures that needed no explanation, the women danced with the snakes.
His
woman’s snake was slithering over her breasts, and her dance grew more frenzied, more erotic. Hands on each other’s wrists,
the priestesses were running lightly, spiraling in and out, creating elaborate designs. Cheftu couldn’t pull his eyes away.

The Coil Dancers lay on the pavement, writhing in an imitation of ecstasy that was driving the crowd mad. Summer had never
been so alluring.

Suddenly a woman screamed, and they all froze.

“I am Kela!” she cried. Cheftu was relieved it was not
his
woman. “I bring fertility, fecundity. Celebrate with me!”

Five men from the crowd darted onto the pavement to the Kela woman. She danced with them, her quick movements leading them
closer. One by one the steps of the dance confounded them, and they returned to the crowd. Finally the fifth kept her pace,
until he was dancing with his hands on her waist. The crowd cheered as the two danced into the building.

The other dancers began to move closer to the crowd. Each seemed to be selecting a partner, and Cheftu opened his mouth to
ease the sound of his breathing. Whom would
his
dancer choose?

Her steps brought her close to where he stood, and he finally saw the woman’s face. Beautiful. Her glance flashed over him,
and he groaned aloud. The noise was lost in the heat of the moment, and she moved on.

Moans and gasps carried clearly from the one-columned portico. Cheftu was appalled; he was inflamed. His dancer still sought
a partner, and he focused on her, willing her to him. He caught her glance again. Her expression, her eyes, made his blood
pound.

“The Sibylla wants you,” Y’carus said, pushing Cheftu forward. “She will not choose you unless you extend your hand.”

That’s not all that is extended, Cheftu thought. Stepping forward, cold sweat on his back, he thrust out his hand. A hundred
men stood with outstretched hands and tented kilts. Me, Cheftu thought. Me. Pick me.

Her look met his, and he felt a touch on his hand. He clamped his fingers around hers. She pulled and he followed, a wake
of disappointed Caphtori behind him. The dance steps were easy, all he had to do was mirror her movements. It was a slow seduction,
a taste of the reciprocity that more intimate partnership promised.

The couple in the balcony were nearing their conclusion. Cheftu watched the woman in front of him, her breasts moving with
the dance, each tier of her skirt alive with her energy and passion. He saw no signs of snakes—a relief. His hands were finally
on her waist as they stepped into shadow.

They entered a hallway and she stopped, her heated body against his.

With no invitation he kissed her, his mouth open, his heart racing. Her nails scored his chest delicately, and then she gripped
him, hard. He groaned against her mouth, his eyes wide. A door opened somewhere. His hands touched her skin, soft, her breasts
filled his hands, the peaks hard against his palms.

She untied his kilt as though she’d done it a thousand times, following its slide to the floor. Cheftu fumbled with her belt,
and with a low laugh she undid it, her jacket opening, her skirts loosening.

Outside, the death-throe ecstasy of the priestess rose. Kela was welcomed back; the snake lived, the butterfly flew, harvest
would come. The Season of the Bull was begun.

The woman abandoned undressing herself and straddled him, slowly joining their bodies. Cheftu closed his eyes, the reality
of what he was doing finally penetrating, even as his flesh entered hers.

Like this, he could imagine she was Chloe. Like this, it seemed every muscle in his body, every particle of his being, recognized
her. She rode him hard. Coherent thought was impossible as her unrestrained cries and pleas drove him wild, holding her to
him tightly.

He felt tears on his face and he rolled over, her long legs wrapped tightly around him, her back arching as she accepted and
taunted him. With a swallowed shout, Cheftu climaxed, his face pressed into her neck. Her pleasure began as his ended, and
Cheftu felt her body milk him again.

They lay in silence. Two strangers, intimately intertwined. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes and not see Chloe. He drifted
for a while, lost in a sea of satiation, a morass of guilt.

S
IBYLLA STARED AT THE CEILING
. The quiescent man lay on her, pressing her to the floor, imprinting the pattern of shells on her back. He felt good, though,
a welcome weight. More than that, she craved him: his skin, his scent, his touch. From the moment her gaze had locked with
this golden-eyed man she knew that if she chose him, it would not be just for ritual mating.

This could not happen only once.

His short hair was damp against her cheek, and she felt more wetness against her neck. Did he weep with pleasure? She closed
her eyes, wondering how her decision to forsake the Caphtori in favor of a foreigner would be perceived. He was definitely
not Aztlantu. From his plain white kilt, now crumpled beneath them, to the pendant he’d thrown off after it hit her in the
chin, he was Egyptian. She shifted positions and he sat up, pulling away abruptly, his face averted.

He looked toward the door, his legs crossed at the ankle, his arms resting on his knees. He cleared his throat and spoke.
“I am Cheftu Necht-mer. From Egypt.” His Aztlantu was simplistic.

Sibylla sat up, too, pushing her skirt down, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “I am Sibylla.”

They sat in awkward silence. Sibylla wanted to hear his passion rise again. Though he was turned away she remembered his face.
He had strong features: heavy dark brows arching over his eyes, a straight nose, and high cheekbones. His body was strong,
though scarred. Frowning at herself, Sibylla got to her feet, walking toward the rattan couch. “A rest, Cheftu?”

He bowed his head, silent and removed. A few moments later he answered, “I think not. My gratitude.” He stretched a long-fingered
hand back for his kilt, and Sibylla felt panicked. He was leaving; he couldn’t leave! She thought quickly.

“As you are a foreigner, you may not realize that your service to Kela is not complete.”

He turned around and looked at her for the first time since touching her hand. Sibylla felt his gaze caress every part of
her. She was astonished to see how looking at her had an immediate effect. “Take off your tunic,” he said.

Obviously he didn’t know the word for outer garment, but his intention was clear. Sibylla slowly eased the jacket off her
shoulders. Cheftu stood, legs braced, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Now your—” He gestured at her skirt, and Sibylla
slithered out of it, like a snake from its skin. Cheftu’s breath was harsh as he raised his eyes to hers.

He touched his belly with his hand, then he touched his sex, and Sibylla inhaled sharply. With slow steps he approached her,
his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Are you one of those Coil Dancers?”

Sibylla smiled. Nay, she wasn’t, it was an insult even to ask her, but for him, for him she would do anything, be anything.
“If the Egyptian wishes it, aye.”

He licked his lips, swallowed, and then spoke. “I have not been with a woman—” His expression altered, and Sibylla reached
for him, kissing him, trying to erase the pain in his eyes.

She tongued his ear, his responses driving her further. “What do you want, Egyptian?” she whispered. “Anything you ask is
yours.”

He pulled her flush against him, his erection pressed between them. “Touch me,” he said, his voice cracking. “I starve for
touch.”

In truth the ritual mating consisted of one coupling. Any foreplay was for Kela, the pleasure was for Kela, embodied in the
priestess. There was nothing for the male; he was simply the contributing seed in the equation. Sibylla ignored these thoughts
as she picked up a small flask of hyacinth-scented oil, a gift from Dion.

Sibylla pushed the Egyptian onto the bed, then poured the oil into her hands. His face was turned away from her, he seemed
to hate looking at her, but she felt his skin melt into her hands when she touched him. He wanted her, or her body by proxy.
Sibylla didn’t know which and didn’t really care.

With slow strokes she rubbed in the oil, feeling the texture of his skin, the firm muscle and sinew. Rubbing his back, shoulders,
and arms, she moved farther down his body, settling herself on his thigh. His buttocks were round and tight, the skin lighter
here than anywhere else. He sighed into the linens, his words cutting her before she realized she shouldn’t understand them.
“Chloe,” he whispered. “My beloved.”

Sibylla froze.

C
HEFTU AWOKE SLOWLY
, not the horrified jolting awake to which he had become accustomed, but with a sense of peace. The tang of sex was in the
air, and he felt the slick cement of his skin against Chloe’s.

Chloe!

He opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight. Curled inside the cradle of his arms and legs was a woman. Black curly hair
covered them both, and Cheftu felt equal parts grief, shame, and lust. Lust was winning as the soft heat of her seduced him.
His hand felt the heaviness of her breast, his other cupped her flat belly.

Tears pricked his eyes again. If I didn’t open my eyes, would I think she was Chloe? Would this pain go away? It was too late
for that. He should leave, go to Aztlan or wherever, fulfill whatever destiny the ring foretold, and then … what? He wanted
this woman once more. He wanted to close his eyes and imagine his wife with him one last time.

He slid his hand lower and felt fire run through him. Kissing her cheek, neck, and shoulder, he felt her pleasure rise. Her
body tightened around him, and she rubbed against his chest like a cat. In seconds they were face-to-face and he begged her,
in some language, to look at him. He wrapped his fingers in her hair, holding her head still, forcing her gaze to his.

Green eyes, glazed with pleasure but nothing more. She held him tightly, her forehead wrinkled as she fought toward him for
release. Cheftu closed his eyes, suddenly unwilling to share the intimacy of his gaze with her, then opened them when she
moaned.

He saw into the green shadows of her eyes as if he’d been plunged like hot metal through flesh. Behind the bars of culture
and circumstance, he saw Chloe. He pulled the woman’s hair tight and stared deep into her eyes, pounding his flesh into hers.
Chloe was there! He saw her!

With a howl of fury, frustration, and release, Cheftu poured into Sibylla’s body. She was weeping, kissing him, and caressing
him, and Cheftu rolled off her, his mind suddenly clear.

Sibylla lay gulping for breath. He leaned over her, looking into her eyes, searching. Was it possible? Was he dreaming? Green
eyes. Warm, but not Chloe’s. Cheftu turned away. Just accept your adultery, he told himself. Do not lie to make your action
less reprehensible. Chloe is not here. You saw her broken body. Sate your lust if you must, but don’t envision Chloe in every
green-eyed woman you meet. Sibylla rolled over, already asleep, and Cheftu lay back, staring at the ceiling.