Dance

Khalid gestured to Conan, not leading her deeper into the curtained recesses of his tent, but instead ushering her out of one tent and into another. This new space enclosed the heart of the oasis: the spring that nourished the palms and reeds of this desert haven. It was a marble sanctum surrounding a blue pool, its clear turquoise waters rippling with azure hues.

The tent’s interior was spectral—candle-lit—limned and illuminated by a flickering, ethereal blue light. The waves from the pool reflected in shimmering, beautiful patterns across the convex ceiling made of spider silk.

“Two… tents?” Conan asked.

“Yes, I am feeling tense, my dear… Connie, wasn’t it? A Cimmerian, no less. I once met one of your countrymen—a huge brute named Conan. Tall as you are small. Muscled as you are not. I don’t know why I mentioned him; I much prefer your company. Now, here: dancing cymbals, a veil, and kohl. I would have you apply your makeup for me. And I would have you wear these at the start of the dance, slowly divesting yourself of each one in the slowest, most excruciatingly erotic detail.” He handed her the dancing cymbals, the kohl, and a heap of shimmering brass necklaces.