Lord of Desire

He also spent a large portion of his time riding, whether for work or pleasure she wasn't certain. Sometimes when she sat at the outer door of the tent, observing the camp, she could glimpse Jafar galloping one of his mounts; for some inexplicable reason she had no trouble distinguishing him from all the other tall, fierce, black-robed Berbers. He was always occupied with training his horses, or participating in wild Berber games that were conducted on horseback, or hunting with falcons, if she could judge by the number of small game birds that she sometimes spied tied to his saddle when he returned.

In the evenings, he read, or studied his maps, or readied his weapons. This last activity did nothing to relieve her concern that he was planning some act of war. And always it brought home the fact that he was a savage warlord, with some sinister purpose in mind.

His ruthless determination was ever-present. The only time he shed it, it seemed to Alysson, was at prayer. He was not an overtly religious man—most Berbers weren't nearly as devout as the Bedouins, in any case, Alysson remembered hearing. But Jafar performed his devotions with

a simple sincerity that made her wonder how he could ever wish her harm.

Did he wish her harm? He had not hurt her physically yet, despite his threat to become her lover. But if he didn't plan to ransom her, what then did he intend to do with her?

She was contemplating that question for the hundredth time late one afternoon as she watched Jafar and his Berber warriors exercising their mounts at the outskirts of the camp. From the shelter of Jafar's tent, shielded from the worst of the sun's glare by the tent wall and a haik covering her head, Alysson could see some two score horsemen showing off their skill. Her guard, Saful, was positioned a discreet distance from her, oiling a rifle, but he seemed to be paying her little attention.

In the distance, the mounted warriors tilted at one another with swords, wheeling and evading, exhibiting their mastery. Others rode at a full gallop and scooped up sashes from the ground. The most picturesque feat, however, was when a horse leapt into the air while its rider tossed his musket high overhead and then caught it again.

Witnessing their marvels of horsemanship, Alysson couldn't fail to be impressed by either the warriors or the splendid horses they rode. Superbly trained, the animals would stop short at a full gallop, or stand quiet when the rider simply dropped the reins.

She knew it had taken years of careful training to manage such responsiveness. During the past week, she'd seen for herself the infinite patience and care the Berbers showed their mounts; apparently the Berbers, like the Bedouin Arabs, loved their horses like children.

But it was Jafar who caught her eye time and time again. A magnificent horseman, he seemed to have been born to the saddle. Not only was he a graceful rider, but his superiority was apparent, even to her untrained eye.

She watched with bated breath the astonishing feats he performed. He would place one hand on the stallion's back and vault over to the other side. Or, putting the animal at full speed, he would disengage his feet from the stirrups, stand up in the saddle, and fire at a mark with the utmost precision.

It was at one of these moments that Alysson felt a quiet presence beside her. Mahmoud, to her surprise, had paused in his work and come out to observe the warriors with her. He, too, was watching Jafar's performance with rapt attention.

"I wish I could ride like that," Alysson murmured a short while later, not aware that she'd spoken until she heard Mahmoud's soft scoffing sound.

"Females do not ride war-horses," he pronounced with a masculine certainty that was almost smug.

Alysson couldn't help the wry retort that sprang to her lips. "Females generally don't shoot firearms or engage in swordplay, either, but I am skilled at both."

The boy flashed her a highly skeptical glance, but she merely returned a disarming smile before focusing her gaze on the horses again. What would it be like to race, wild and free, across the desert plains on one of those magnificent Barbary steeds? With the wind in her hair—

"You can fight with swords?" Mahmoud asked in the same tone of wonder he'd shown when she'd claimed she never beat her servants.

"I know how to wield a rapier and can hold my own in a match with many of my male acquaintances, yes. Does that shock you?"

"Yes. You are a very strange lady," Mahmoud said slowly in bemusement.

That brought a ripple of laughter to her lips. "So I've been told."

"Have you killed many men?"

Alysson drew a sharp breath, taken aback by the eagerness of the child's question. "Not a one, I'm afraid. Have you?"

"No," Mahmoud said sadly.

He fell silent then, while Alysson wondered what she might say to draw the boy out. "Can you ride a war-horse?" she asked finally.

That seemed to strike the right note, for Mahmoud's face brightened. "I can ride all the horses of our tribe," he answered with pride. "Even the lord's, though he does not permit me to ride the black. I can do many, many tricks. My leg loses the weakness—" Abruptly the child stopped, as if realizing he'd said too much. "I know how to ride," he continued, his tone suddenly sullen again.

"I would like to see you someday," she said, keeping her tone casual, knowing better than to press.

Mahmoud shrugged his bony shoulders, saying as he turned away, "If the lord permits."

Disatisfied with her slow progress, Alysson regretfully watched him go, while his last comment echoed in her ears. If the lord permits. It always came back to that, she thought with a sigh. But the lord evidently did not intend to permit her to do much of anything.

She sat there for a long while, watching the horsemen until they finally disbanded and the usual stillness of the desert was restored. All around her, the camp still bustled with activity as the Berbers prepared for evening, but Alysson ignored it, instead focusing her gaze on the distant horizon.

The red glory of the setting sun was magnificent, awe- inspiring. Seeing the rippling dunes and ridges of golden sand like this, in