In the harem of the sultan of the Ten Oases, the women talked of only one thing: Who would become the sultan's third wife?
They spoke enviously, piling the wishes so deep a djinn would have needed a century to shape them, though of course they knew the honor would fall to none of them. They were already his wives, concubines, and odalisques. This third bride would be like the first, a princess of a neighboring caliphate. Or like the second, the daughter of a high official.
Seritha retreated to her alcove, escaping the chatter. Earlier that evening, at a state dinner, the emir of South Oasis had offered his daughter to the sultan, complete with a magnificent dowry. Seritha had been there, serving wine, and all of the harem women wanted to know what she had heard.
"I have nothing more to tell," Seritha had pleaded. "You have devoured my every word."
Sometimes she was pleased to have the attention of the wives and concubines. Who could blame the women for their curiosity? Aside from the eunuchs and the sultan himself, only slave girls like Seritha were allowed to travel between the harem and the rest of the palace.
But for now, Seritha did not care to waste vigor talking. The sultan would arrive momentarily. A zephyr of anticipation ran up Seritha's legs and spun in cool, tingling circles around her Gate of Heaven, especially at its hooded, fleshy lintel.
If anyone were going to exhaust her, let it be him.
)
