To exist without water for days in the Desert of Kings was a torment beyond that any torturer could devise. She endured it for longer than most, but there was only so much a body could take. Her seconds stretched on, each one its own eternity. 

The sands had ended stronger and wiser intruders. They made meek the gods of civilization and devoured armies. Nothing could step across them without paying a cost except those things that were already a part of them.

Forgotten was everything except the desert. Ilati crawled on her hands and knees across the burning sand, too dizzy and weak to stand. She was burned to blistering from the sun on the backs of her hands and her legs, but that was just a whisper of pain against the pounding in her head and the screaming fury of her own thirst. Cramps seized the muscles in her back and legs as she moved, slowing her progress even more. The world around her twisted and shimmered to her eyes as if the very substance of it was coming apart. She knew even through her haze to stay in the shade, but that was not going to save her.

She had no memory of how long she had been in the desert, nor how far she had gone, except that she had gone as far as she could. She barely even knew she was dying. Her throat and mouth burned with an unquenchable drought that robbed her of all sane thought.

All she wanted was for it to stop. 

Ilati, daughter of King Amar-Sin, granddaughter of the most powerful king that had ever lived, crawled like a beggar through these titanic ziggurats of sand and wept dry tears. Her lips were cracked and abraded by windblown grit. There were no more brave declarations in her thoughts: oblivion was here, draining her dry one drop at a time.

She had space for only a wordless prayer, a desperate plea inside the pounding confines of her heart to the goddess of this desolate place. An end was all she wanted.

Wind scoured across Ilati’s face with a sudden force, cooling her feverish flesh. She looked up and saw her answer.

There, moving towards her like a cresting ocean wave, was a great wall of churning earth and wind: a sandstorm. Perhaps she wouldn’t die of thirst, but suffocate. What was it like to drown on land, lungs filled with sand? Or would it rip her apart instead? 

At the top of the wall, purple-white lightning crackled from cloud to cloud. The stories said that sometimes the storms of the desert could be both sand and thunder. They were said to be the very expression of Ki-sikil-lil’s rage at her most towering.

She had no strength to run, not that it would have saved her anyway. Ilati pressed her face to the sand as if groveling in front of an enraged king as it approached, faster than even the waters of a flood, then covered her face with the scarf she carried. She closed her eyes and continued the only prayer she could manage.

Please, make it stop.

The wind hit her like a falling tower, knocking her back with its force. The sand was everywhere around her, scouring at her eyes and the cloth covering her nose and mouth. She stayed in her position curled up on the ground, aware distantly that the storm could carry things larger than just grains of sand with its howling winds. All sense of direction except the direction of the earth beneath her vanished. She screamed in a hoarse bark as it tore across her already damaged skin, but the storm drowned all hint of it out with the violence of its own roar. Then came the voice of thousands speaking at once, tearing through the sands.

“Hail Ilati of Kullah, Queen of Thorns, Lady of the Floodwaters. 
Hail the Devastator, the Destroyer, who breaks chains and kingdoms alike in her teeth.
Hail the Exile who shatters the cages of her people. 
Hail the Mother of Havoc who stirs the dead from Ersetu and sets mountains aflame.”

The words hit Ilati like blows, leaving her curled and rocking in the middle of the storm as disjointed visions tormented her at every turn. It would be so easy to die. All she had to do was remove the cloth. Then this would all be over.

Ilati dragged together her thoughts. She couldn’t voice them with the thirst or the brutal sands that blasted across her whole body. Please.

The winds responded like a thing alive, withdrawing from her until a column of clear air surrounded her. Beyond that tiny circle of safety, however, the sandstorm still raged. Ilati hesitated, then lowered her cloth. She spat out sand that had leaked past her imperfect covering. Trembling and weak, she forced herself back up to her knees with all the energy she had left. 

The air shifted, a charge building, and she threw up an arm to guard her face. Lightning struck the ground dangerously near her, the after-flash in her mind a silhouette of a woman. Heat sizzled across the molten sand, glowing faintly in the darkness. 

Ilati inhaled sharply in fear, but there was no smell of blood as the presence within the storm settled into the area. The bitter, aromatic scent of myrrh filled the air, mingling with something sweeter and alluring, some desert flower’s bloom. 

Another bolt of lightning cracked with a thunderous boom, this time arcing purple from cloud to cloud above, and Ilati leaned forward as she knelt, placing her face to the sands in supplication and awe. It was in the silence after the thunder, perfectly audible without the need for Ilati’s ears, that the goddess spoke not with the growl of a beast, but with the midnight softness of owl feathers.

What do we have here? 

Ilati could not speak with the dryness in her throat and mouth. She coughed out more sand, digging her fingers in the earth to try and center herself. The goddess’s power burned in her bones, overwhelming even above the howl of the winds. 

To the priestess’s surprise, as she struggled to spit the sand so she could answer, moisture suddenly flooded back into her mouth and throat, a revitalizing sensation of drinking cool water without actually drinking. It spread into her stomach and then her limbs, slightly easing even the pounding in her head. She was still dying, but for a moment there was a reprieve, a stay of execution. 

Speak, daughter of men. I wish to hear why you have persevered so far into my domain.

It took Ilati a long moment to collect herself. She sensed the goddess’s patience wearing thin, so she hurried as much as she could to speak. “My city is slain, my city destroyed, my body tortured by the evils of men. I came here seeking you.”

Woe such as this is terrible indeed. The presence seemed to flow around her, stalking like a great predator amongst the storm. Here and there, smaller crackles of lightning jumped across the sands or flashed high in the clouds, rumbling as only an omen from a god could. Lament to your own gods, woman of sorrow. I am no consolation. 

“The gods of Kullah abandoned my people. Even beloved Zu fled the hounds of Nadar with no thought to those who sang her praises.” 

You were such a one. The goddess’s voice curled knowingly around Ilati’s shoulders, brushing against her back like delicate claws. Have you come here to die? Surely you know that such is the fate of those who intrude upon my domain.

Ilati looked up, face crusted with dirt and sand. She had never been further from privilege in her life. “Where I am going, I will need a goddess. One who will not abandon me.” 

You do not understand my nature, o daughter of men.

The dying priestess pushed back. “Who might? Ki-sikil-lil is a mystery, known only as wild and wicked.” 

As well I am. The voice seemed closer now, echoing inside Ilati’s own beating heart. You truly wish for my aid?

Ilati nodded. 

Unseen, sharp nails scraped along Ilati’s cheekbone, just barely short of breaking skin. The next words mixed scorn and a sharp, sardonic humor. Zu’s love is that which tames. She lured the stallion to whip, gave sheep a gratitude for being shorn, and for lions she dug seven and seven pits, all in the name of men. Her love sets husbands and wives in their places and stills mewling children. Her priestesses offer pleasure in the gentle arts and in all things, she is as yielding as the soil of the sacred riverbanks. For this, men sing her praises. The voice paused and then returned even more sarcastic in its mocking tone. How sweet of her. 

Ilati went to move and found herself caught by the flash of leonine eyes in the darkness as lightning crackled above, the vision there one moment and gone the next. “What of you?”

I am not Zu, my poet. I am the fire that burns, the lightning of the tempest, the howl of the night winds. I offer not contentment, but power. Is that what you desire?

Ilati looked back in her mind’s eye to the sacking of Shadi before she answered. “Yes.”

If you wish my aid, know that I will offer it in my own way. The suggestion of sharpness stroked her cheek. Accept my love and one day you will sing my praises in the place of Nysra’s gods. On that day, you will belong to me, to anyone, no longer.

“You wish a priestess?” No story had ever claimed Ki-sikil-lil wanted veneration, only the seed of men to birth more monsters, only the outcasts of women to become her daughters.

The storm rumbled like a laugh. I desire you and all that you are. That is my price. Are we agreed?

Ilati took a deep breath. This was no small thing and it would be so drastically different from the distance of Zu. She found her resolve quickly. “My name is Ilati, Mother of Demons, and if that is your price, know all I am is yours.” 

Then know my proper name, not that which men have given me. I am K’adau. Lightning cracked when the goddess spoke her name, and the illumination of the after-flash again painted the image of a woman, this time far closer. 

Ilati bowed her head deeper. 

If this is the bargain you would strike, kiss me and taste what it is to be wild. 

Ilati didn’t understand. The presence was still intangible, unknowable. She just nodded foolishly. 

A sudden heat hit her lips, searing like the heat across the sand where the lightning had struck. There was a flash behind her eyes and the smell of the storm flared around her body. An unseen force gripped her face with pointed claws, holding her still. You will carry my marks until the end of your days, to remind you of this covenant and to remind you that you are Zu’s no longer. K’adau dragged her claws across the poet’s face, earning a cry from Ilati. The deep gashes dripped blood like tears and the priestess sobbed in pain. When she heard K’adau speak again, the voice was gentle, like the purr of a cat. Shh. I will soothe as I have hurt. The presence enveloped Ilati and her wounds knit closed with a throbbing pain that eased in seconds. 

Water pooled in the sands before Ilati, held to the surface by K’adau’s power. She saw her own reflection dimly, bloody and haunted. It was hard to even look at those fresh scars, dark red and angry, marring the beauty Zu had given her at birth. She had to trust that K’adau had her reasons. 

Wash. 

Ilati obeyed and rinsed her dirty scarf in the water. She tried to remove most of the sand from the fabric before using it to wipe the blood and dirt from her face. As she did, the rest of the filth faded from her body. She was clean and strangely renewed.

So long as you walk the desert sands, you need never fear thirst. Return to your companions with my power slumbering in your chest, with this promise ringing in your ear: I am not Zu. I will not abandon you, so long as you honor my name.

Ilati touched the scars across her face. “I will never forget this.” 

A lioness slipping through the spears of men indeed. 

K’adau’s power disappeared as quickly as it had come and the storm died around Ilati until it was only a slight stirring across the sands. Even the thunder and lightning subsided and a gentle rain pattered down on the sun-scorched lands around her. 

Ilati started her long walk back towards the camp. She could follow the setting sun to the west, her body slowly returning to what it had once been. Each step came with more confidence and strength since the last. 

It took her several days to find the oasis, since there were no tracks of hers to follow. The heat was no longer unbearable, only invigorating. The thirst was gone, though hunger still twisted in her stomach. Her bruises and other injuries were as healed as the ones to her face, so she could keep a much faster pace than she had before.

The sign of a fire glowing beneath the trees of the oasis gave her hope. Ilati pressed on as quickly as she thought she could manage for a length, moving more easily as the dunes grew smaller and smaller. Sunset was just beginning as she reached it and she saw two figures stir from the fire. Ilati held still at the edge of the oasis to give them the opportunity to decide if she was real or not. "Eigou! Menes!”

“Ilati? You live?” Menes leaped up in surprise, eyes wide as he took in the figure coming out of the desert. He went to approach, but a weathered hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

Eigou tapped his own cheekbone beneath his empty eye socket. “Let me have a look at her first. Even in the day, one must be wary of spirits in the wild places of the world. It could be Ilati, or a demon wearing her form. After so long…”

Ilati froze at those last words. How long had she been gone? She glanced over to see everything neatly packed in the cart. They were prepared to leave, and there was a great deal of earth disturbed by pacing—no doubt Menes in action. The priestess held her arms out from her sides and made no other moves or sound as Eigou advanced.

The sorcerer dipped his fingers in a pouch on his belt as he approached, pulling out a pinch of something. “It certainly looks like her, Menes,” the sorcerer said, gazing at her with his ghost of an eye more than his surviving one. He stopped only a few paces away and cast the contents of his hand at her. Grains of a white crystal struck her over her heart. 

Ilati furrowed her brow as she looked down at the grains. She didn’t know what Eigou had just done to her, but he seemed as pleased as a kitten with a belly full of milk. The old man beamed at her. 

“I knew it! Welcome back, Ilati.” 

“What did you just throw at me?” 

He pulled out a few more grains from his pouch and held them out to her. “Pure salt, taken from the sea itself. Such a thing is well known to wound demons. I cannot say that it would deter K’adau, but her children most assuredly.” He looked her up and down. “Those scars…but you are alive!” 

Ilati sighed in relief as the reality of her return sank in. Part of her still felt like it was in the desert, in that mystical twilight between life and death, but slowly she was returning to this world. “How long was I gone, Eigou?” 

Menes approached with a leopard’s hunting tread. “Twelve days.”

“You stayed?” Ilati blurted out. She knew no one who had lived so long in the desert without water. I should have died four times over, perhaps five. The Mother of Night Winds was most generous when she gave me back my life. 

“I insisted,” Eigou said, spreading his hands wide. “I thought you were meant for too great a purpose to die in the desert. It seems I was correct.” 

Ilati’s face hardened even as a little kernel of suspicion formed in her chest. It would take time to get Eigou to tell her more, she knew that much. Still, she could think of only one purpose. “The ruin of Nysra.”

The coal-skinned warrior shook his head. “That is no small thing. He wields an army without equal. You know better than most what devastation he can wreak. We would need the hosts of many kings to turn him back.”

She lifted her chin and looked directly into his dark eyes. Menes lowered his gaze almost immediately. “I know perfectly. I will not allow Nysra to wreak more grief, more broken hearts, more corpses. Let the ashes of Kullah choke his fire until it burns no more.” 

Eigou squeezed Ilati’s shoulder with one hand. “What did I tell you, Menes?” 

Menes bowed his head and directed his gaze towards Ilati’s feet. She had never seen a man so submissive before, a reminder that he was different from Nadar’s hounds. “War is no place for a woman,” he said quietly, “but perhaps it is a place for a desert lion. You have much to learn, Ilati. If you wish, I will teach you what I know of combat.” 

“You surprise me,” Ilati said. 

“Clearly I cannot keep you from battle.” Menes shrugged slightly. “It would be wrong of me to send you without a spear and shield. Allow me some time to prepare.” 

As Menes walked back to the fire, Ilati ran her fingertips across the scars on her face, lingering on the twisted mark across her cheek that tugged at the corner of her mouth. 

Eigou shook her shoulder slightly. “I know what you are thinking and I have an answer.”

“Speak, soothsayer,” Ilati said, more a tease than a serious command despite her weighty thoughts. 

“Beauty has many forms. Not all of them are as readily apparent as what Zu prizes.” 

Ilati let her hand fall away from her scarred face. His accuracy was unsettling. “Perhaps.”

“Some truths grow with time,” Eigou said. “Now, what gifts did K’adau place upon your brow like a wreath of fronds?” 

The priestess brushed some of her dark hair back behind one ear. “A question for the ages. She did not say, other than that I would not thirst in the desert.” 

“Well, then we had best begin finding out with speed. Nysra will not sit idle.” Eigou put an arm around her, guiding her back to the fire. 

Ilati’s thoughts lingered in the desert. “What would be a proper offering to make to the Lady of Tempests? It is better to appease a god and it would only be right to thank her for her blessing.” 

“Those who are wise and seek to win her favor use flesh and blood as their offerings, befitting a god whose home is the untamed. She scorns the fruits of civilization and rebukes those who offer thoughtless things so suited to other gods.” Eigou took a seat by the fire and picked up a handful of sand. 

Ilati drew a line across the inside of her arm with one finger, thinking hard. “When we have gone to the edge of the desert, I will make my farewell.”