Lord of Desire

None of them spoke as they made their way through a darkening forest of giant cedars. The quiet intensified, broken only by the soft rhythmic thud of the horses' hooves.

Beside him, Alysson began to feel closed in, surrounded as she was by the thick, sharp scent of cedar and the sentinel tree trun

ks, down here so low where the fading sunlight couldn't reach. She was relieved when they finally left the forest. It seemed warmer out in the open, even though the sharp wind penetrated the wool of her burnous and the final rays of the sun were thin and weak.

The terrain immediately became more rugged and forbidding, and the Barb horses, which had been bred on such rough ground, had to step carefully as they wound in and out of the rocky hills.

Twilight was falling when they reached the area where the woman had been killed. The air was strangely silent— perhaps, Alysson reflected nervously, because the panic- stricken inhabitants of the mountains were hiding in their homes. Her feeling of disquiet intensified, and she wished she could call even the weak sunlight back.

When Saful's mount snorted, Alysson gave a start, and then felt foolish for letting her courage desert her. Selfconsciously she glanced at her two companions, who wore their rifles slung on their backs.

"The lair will likely be up there," Jafar said tersely, pointing at the jagged peaks to the northeast.

They began climbing toward the masses of rock above, negotiating scanty ledges and naked slopes. Shortly they reached a narrow ravine where they were again required to ride single file.

"Keep behind me," Jafar commanded Alysson as he took the lead.

Thick shadows reached out to envelop them as they picked their way along the almost nonexistent track. It was only minutes later that Alysson suddenly felt her mount tense beneath her. As the mare sidled, nervously, Alysson uneasily searched the gloom around them. The ridge just above their heads was surrounded by the skeletal shapes of thorn thickets, an ideal setting for an ambush.

Foolish or not, she reached for her rifle. Drawing it from its scabbard, she checked the cartridge, then rested the weapon in the crook of her arm, feeling reassured by its weight. She closed her finger around the trigger at precisely the same instant she heard a low rumbling sound—half purr, half snarl.

Her heartbeat arrested, Alysson jerked her gaze upward to find a pair of savage golden eyes glaring down at them in the dim light.

Part of her dazed mind registered the lioness preparing to spring, another part the terrified horses that suddenly went wild with fright. Jafar's stallion reared while her own mount swerved hard to the left, nearly crushing her leg against the rocks. Alysson had the flashing impression of a tawny body and long tail, of razor-sharp teeth and claws bared for attack, of a great golden weight gathering for the vault.

Then, with a blood-freezing primordial scream, the beast exploded into the air, leaping directly at Jafar.

Chapter 24

Alysson had no time to think, no time to take aim, no time to shake off the paralyzing fear that gripped her at the lion's unearthly growl. She had only the instinct of desperation. Raising the muzzle of her rifle, she fired.

The sharp crack of the rifle echoed loudly amid the snarls and shouts and screams of the horses. At the same moment, the lion's sleek golden body jerked and twisted in the air, then fell with a heavy thud to the ground.

Breathing in hard gasps, her heart pounding violently as she tried to control her terrified mare, Alysson stared down at the result of her marksmanship. The deadly assault was over as suddenly as it had begun. She had hit her target. She had shot the lion in midair.

She raised her gaze to Jafar and caught the glitter of curved steel in his hand. He had managed to draw his dagger to defend himself from the murderous beast, but even armed thus, in the close confines of the ravine he would have stood little chance against the vicious attack. Very likely he had escaped serious injury . . . or even death.

Jafar seemed to know it, for his intent gaze found Alysson's the moment he had brought his plunging stallion under control. The expression in his eyes was impossible to read in the gathering darkness.

"It seems I owe you a debt of gratitude, Ehuresh," Jafar said in a low tone that held a harsh note of regret.

Alysson couldn't find the voice to answer. With surprise she realized she was trembling; the image of Jafar being mauled and savaged would not go away. Weakly, she slid down from her horse, needing the feel of solid ground beneath her.

Saful, who had leaped from his mount, was cautiously approaching the corpse of the lion, in case it had only been wounded. Touching it with his rifle muzzle, gingerly at first, then with more force, he rolled the head to the side. There was no question. The sovereign of the forests was dead. The bullet had taken the beast directly between the eyes.

If was an impossible shot, Alysson realized. If she had tried a hundred times under ordinary circumstances, she could never have been so accurate.

She flinched as another gun report split the silence. In the manner of his people, Saful had raised his rifle triumphantly in the air and fired it over the body of the prostrate foe. Alysson sank to one knee. She couldn't seem to stop shaking.

She was grateful for the strong arms that drew her up and surrounded her. With a sound that was nearly a sob, Alysson buried her face in Jafar's shoulder, trying to draw comfort from his nearness.

He stroked the curve of her spine soothingly and murmured tender, unintelligible words of solace in Berber. Words that had nothing to do with the tormenting emotions assaulting him.

In one dim corner of his heart he felt a fierce mingling of pride and gratitude . . . Pride in Alysson's skill at defeating a savage foe. Gratitude for her quick action in saving him. But the bleak sense of loss raking at him overwhelmed any sweeter feelings.

There were no options open to him now. He had given his word. Her freedom for killing the lion. He had to let her go.

An ache rose up in him that was so intense, so raw and anguished, that he had to squeeze his eyes closed against it. He wished he could take the words back. He wished . . .