Chapter 9

I danced.

Musicians played, but I didn't need them to guide me. The rhythm of my footfalls was steadier than any drumbeat. The musicians followed me. The real music was in my blood, in the pounding of my heart. My master watched me, eyes avid. He cared no more for the music than I. It was me he wanted. It was him I danced for. No one else mattered.

I danced closer to him, close enough to see him tense as he controlled the urge to seize me. Laughing, I whirled away. My body glistened in the lamp-light, bare skin gleaming with scented oil and sweat. The air in my lungs burned like wine. The second that the music stopped, I would be in his arms. I wanted that. I needed it. Yet in the intoxication of the music I prolonged the dance, tormenting him, tormenting myself. I drew out his anticipation and my own, wanting him half-mad with passion when he had me at last.

My whirling progress took me to the edge of the carpet, then back. I leapt towards him, spun to my knees, then in a flash onto my feet, dancing away again. The musicians felt the intensity of my movements as I alternately lured and repulsed him; they began building to a crescendo in time with me. I swayed near him, almost touching, then pulled back, his hands reaching for me against his will. Muscles surged beneath my skin. Dancing was a drug in my veins. The drums were my pulse. As the climax of the music came, I drew myself up before him, arms raised, holding the pose for a last, defiant instant while the flutes and drums still played. Then I dropped to my knees and bowed my head.