Lord of Desire (52 page)

In a third corner, an old beggar in tattered rags sat beside two baskets wrapped with strips of linen.

"A snake charmer," Jafar responded to Alysson's questioning glance. He tossed the old man a silver coin and ordered a performance, and almost immediately a crowd gathered around.

Alysson was accustomed to the snake charmers in India, but they were nothing like this. From one basket the old man drew a giant lizard—a varan, she thought. The reptile had a leather strap tied tightly around its neck, which the charmer used to tease it, first letting it scurry around, then yanking on the leash. Alysson winced with every pull.

Finally, from the second basket, the man drew a dark yellow serpent with brown spots and little horns protruding just behind the eyes. The deadly horned viper raised its head threateningly at the crowd, opening its jaws to display venomous fangs.

Remembering the deadly poison of the scorpion that had stung her, Alysson instinctively edged closer to Jafar, and was comforted to feel the strength of his muscular arm come to rest at her waist.

The next moment the two reptiles spied each other. The small viper froze for an instant,
then
attacked. Alysson gasped. As large as it was, the lizard would have no defense against the deadly fangs.

The battle, however, was not one-sided at all. The lizard whirled and smote the viper with its powerful tail, then caught the serpent in its mouth, as if to crush the small skull. Swiftly, the old man yanked on the leash once more, rescuing the viper. Then calmly he replaced the two reptiles in their baskets, signaling the end of the performance.

"How cruel to keep them imprisoned so," Alysson murmured to no one in particular.

Beside her, Jafar went still. He stared down at her for a long moment until she became aware of his scrutiny and looked up.

"Come," he said finally. "I'm sure you are hungry."

Lifted from her momentary depression, Alysson laughed, surprised to notice that for the first time since her illness, her appetite had returned. "I could devour an elephant."

They walked on through the gathering darkness, up the climbing streets, till they came to the heart of the town. Here the celebration was more circumspect.

When Jafar finally stopped before a house, Alysson could
hear the music of violins and native guitars and the plaintive tones of a flute issuing from within. The place seemed to be the equivalent of an English tavern, she decided as they entered. A blue haze of smoke hung like a veil over the huge room, while dozens of gaily robed customers sat cross- legged on the floor, drinking coffee and smoking the pipes of Barbary.

A small man met them at the door—the proprietor, Alysson assumed. With an obsequious bow, he escorted them up a narrow flight of stairs to the open rooftop. There, oil lamps glowed at discreet intervals, giving the scene an exotic golden cast.

They followed their host across the roof to an area decorated by thick carpets, where a low table waited. As Alysson settled herself upon a cushion beside Jafar, she glanced curiously at the group of musicians who sat off to one side. Besides the drums and tambourines she had seen earlier, she noticed two reed flutes, a double-stringed lute, an instrument similar to a violin, and one resembling a bagpipe. With a flourish, they struck up a tune.

It was only then that Alysson realized she and Jafar were the only guests present. Suspecting Jafar had bought the entertainment for the evening, she glanced at the tall, savagely handsome, enigmatic man beside her. Had he done it for her? In Barbary it was not the custom to allow women to eat with men or enjoy the same entertainments. It warmed her to think that Jafar had gone out of his way to ensure her pleasure.

Their host served them himself. Watching Jafar in order to emulate him, Alysson took a sip of the drink she had been given, and promptly gave a gasp. She hadn't expected it to burn her throat so.

"It is called arrack," Jafar said.
"The honey of the date tree.
Do you not care for it?"

"Yes, it is fine. I just wasn't prepared."

Warned now, she took another cautious sip of the fiery native drink. It was both sweet and tart, and highly potent. "I did not think Muslims drank spirits," she commented.

Jafar smiled. "The strict rules of Islam are relaxed on the borders of the Sahara. Moreover, Berbers are not as religious as Arabs in general." When she appeared inter-

ested
, he expounded. "We think nothing of eating wild boar's flesh or other animals branded as impure by the Koran. The wearing of tattoos is expressly forbidden by the Koran, yet it is a custom which prevails among our tribes. Indeed, we have many customs that are not shared by Arabs. We drink arrack and fig brandy . . . we break our fast at Ramadan . . . we are more superstitious . . . we pay our Saints more reverence . . . we do not despise Jews . . . our celebrations are far wilder."

Though fascinated, Alysson regarded Jafar curiously, wondering why he was telling her about his people and their customs. "Mahmoud said a festival was in progress today."

"Yes, a traditional Muslim observance—the Feast of Bairam.
It honors Abraham's obedience to God in sending his son Ishmael into the desert."

The first courses of the meal came then, and they truly were a feast. With the lamb and chicken was served an incredible array of vegetables—roasted eggplant, turnips, carrots, and hazelnuts, to name a few. Then
came
a delicious couscous, eaten with chunks of lamb cooked in chopped onion and nuts. For dessert there was fruit, dates and melons and tangerines, followed by rich strong coffee.

Then
came
the dancers, women with tattooed foreheads, painted cheeks, and henna-red palms.

The first to perform had jet-black hair and proud beautiful features, with a light, slightly olive complexion and enigmatic eyes. Her regal robes were accented by a golden crown of peacock feathers, while broad bracelets, chains of
gold,
and heavy earrings adorned her arms, neck, and ears.

When the music struck up, she began to dance in a slow sinuous rhythm, all the while throwing Jafar languorous looks from half-closed eyes. The come-hither glances held a familiarity that Alysson could not misinterpret.

"Do you know her?" she asked Jafar, surprised at the sharp emotion she felt; it was jealousy, hot and stinging and unmistakable.

"Her name is Fatum."

His oblique answer did not at all satisfy Alysson. She slanted Jafar a glance, her eyebrow raised expectantly.

“The women of the Ouled Nail tribe range all over Barbary," he explained. "Their dances are famous in every city."

"I would not have thought their men would approve of them dancing in public," Alysson murmured, recalling how protective the Arabs were of the female gender.

"Their men not only approve, but encourage them." Jafar smiled when Alysson's eyes widened. "These women are courtesans,
Ehuresh.
They make their living dancing and selling
their . . .
ah, charms to the other tribes of the kingdom for a handsome price. In fact, their men think nothing of selling their wives and daughters for the money they bring."

They were prostitutes, Alysson thought weakly. "How barbaric," she managed to reply.

"On the contrary.
It is all quite civilized. They provide a valuable service, and in exchange, earn money to bring home to their husbands, or collect enough for a dowry so they may marry."

Disturbed, Alysson turned back to watch Fatum dance, yet as the slow expressive movements changed into a flaming, sensual frenzy, she couldn't help but wonder precisely what the dancer's relationship was to Jafar. She was grateful when Fatum finally finished.

Fatum was replaced by a second woman with the same thin aquiline nose and fiery eyes, the same jet-black hair. This dancer, however, wore
chalwar—
full pantaloons of scarlet satin brocade—along with a fringed sash and a black velvet bolero embroidered with gold thread. On her head was a small black cap, and on her feet were red suede slippers. She also sported gold anklets in addition to the excessive amount of heavy gold jewelry similar to that which Fatum had worn.

The new dancer's long black hair swirled around her body as she twisted her ample curves in an age-old pantomime of desire, showing to advantage her savagely beautiful and graceful figure.

"I suppose you know her as well," Alysson murmured, unable to keep the waspish note from her voice.

Turning, Jafar raised an eyebrow at her, observing her curiously. There might also have been a hint of amusement in his eyes as he replied, "Her name is Barca."

He deftly changed the subject then, explaining the meanings of the various ritual dances. While Fatum had performed the Dance of the Handkerchief, this was the Dance of the Sword. Next an entire group of half-wild women of the Ouled Nail tribe came out to dance and sing of heroism and love.

Then Fatum and Barca returned to dance more of the burning dances of the desert, sinuously
undulating
their firm young bodies, emitting a violent and savage sensuality. That, as well as their alluring glances at Jafar, Alysson found profoundly disturbing. If they had not yet known the ecstasy of Jafar's bed, they were certainly amenable now.

Perhaps, Alysson thought, pressing her lips together, Jafar hadn't been lying when he claimed to have no concubines. With beauties like these at his beck and call, Jafar would have little need for a permanent stable of mistresses.

Other than an appreciative interest in the artistry of the dance, however, Jafar paid little attention to the women posturing and swaying before him. And he paid no attention at all to the alluring glances cast by Fatum and Barca. Whatever erotic thoughts he had were solely focused on the young woman sitting beside him. Whatever arousal he felt was due entirely to Alysson Vickery.

And he did feel arousal. Her nearness, her very presence, was like an elixir in his blood. Even now, although sitting quite still, she was so intensely alive that other women seemed tame in contrast.

Involuntarily, Jafar shifted his glance to Alysson, letting his gaze caress her. She was so different from the women of his country, yet she didn't suffer in comparison. Not only was she as fiery as any impassioned daughter of the desert, she possessed the proud and courageous spirit of the Atlas highlands. Her very vitality inflamed his senses.
That,
and his own vivid recollections.

He felt his blood heat as the image of her lying naked beneath him raced through his
memory . . .
her slender, flushed body, so shapely and supple and sweet-breasted. He wanted to have her that way again. He wanted her passionate. He wanted to pleasure her, to please her . . .

Alysson chose that moment to meet his gaze. A mistake, she realized at once. In Jafar's eyes she saw an unsettling, smoldering possession that roused as acutely as a touch. Her breathing shallowed. The blatant desire in his golden hawk's gaze was too provocative, too naked. She had to look away.