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I stare at the remaining magic smoking off our arms. Was that…supposed to happen?

But Memnon’s not looking at our clasped hands. He’s been staring at me, his expression fervent. Yes, he breathes into my mind. Finally. He sounds both relieved and delighted. Our flesh and our souls are fully joined to one another. Where one goes, the other must follow.

I don’t follow the nuance he sees in this moment, but it doesn’t matter. His ardent words and intense expression are enough to make my breath hitch and giddy warmth to spread through my veins.

Mischief sparks in those irises of his. Now, little witch, there was something I meant to do the first time I married you , he says.

What was that? I say, searching his gaze.

Kiss you. He pulls me in and presses his lips to mine.

In my shock, I drop the horn, letting the last of the bloody wine spill across the ground as Memnon’s lips sweep over mine.

Around us, the cheers turn to whistles and howls. My skin pricks at the noise, but I’m too consumed by the taste and feel of Memnon to pay it much mind.

When he pulls away, his lips glisten. He grins then, the flash of his canines making his smile a little wolfish. I smile right back, drunk on this moment.

The priest steps forward, holding a golden diadem in their hands. It is fringed with dangling gold beads and inset with smooth, round rubies.

I realize as the priest raises it above me that this is my crown, that right in this moment, I’m not just marrying Memnon but also getting coronated.

My eyes widen as the priest places the diadem on my head, fitting it so it rests over my forehead just as Memnon’s circlet rests along his.

“I crown Uvagukis Roxilana queen .” More cries from the audience. “I present to you all your newly married king and queen! Let no man break what the gods have joined.”

Bonfires roar around the central clearing, and undiluted wine and kumiss are passed around by the jugful. A musician has struck up a lute, the plucked notes of it quick and jaunty, and the massive clearing is now filled with dancing and singing, drinking and laughing.

Set before the open space are two gilded chairs—our thrones—and on them Memnon and I sit. The only one missing is Ferox, who skipped the evening’s festivities to prowl the grasslands beyond camp.

Sarmatians approach me and Memnon to pay their respects and deliver gifts.

Already there are piles of exquisitely wrought weaponry and jewelry, intricately woven textiles and perfume encased in blown-glass bottles.

It’s more wealth than I could possibly imagine, and there is still an unending line of guests waiting to introduce themselves.

My gaze strays to the twisting bodies, and yearning heats my blood.

Will we get to dance? I ask. My eyes linger on Katiari, who laughs as she twirls among the dancers, her partner another young woman.

Would you like to? Memnon asks, glancing over at me.

Yes. The word rides on a wave of longing.

Memnon reaches out, ignoring the line of waiting guests and his mother’s arch look from where she stands nearby.

Are you sure it’s okay to leave? I ask, glancing back.

They have your entire reign to meet you, but we only have until dawn to enjoy this wedding night.

With that, Memnon leads me from my seat and into the sea of dancing guests.

Once they notice us, they clap and cheer, reaching out, fingers brushing against our hair and clothes and skin.

It should be invasive and uncomfortable, but I have already drunk a horn and a half of undiluted wine, and it’s chased away whatever misgivings I might’ve had.

Memnon pulls and spins me about, causing the golden adornments on my outfit to shiver as the two of us move.

Sarmatians dance differently than Romans, but my limbs feel fluid, and there’s a rising wildness in me that might be my magic or inebriation. It causes me to arch my head back and laugh with abandon at the dark sky.

When I lower my gaze, Memnon’s fire-bright eyes are on mine, along with the grazing touch of his hands. He’s looking at me like he could live in this moment forever; I know I could.

I wind my arms around his neck and pull him close, threading my fingers through his hair. The gods must hold us dear , I say down our bond, because I am sure no woman has ever felt the way I do about you.

This love is the thing of dreams and wishes. Too sweet for the real world.

Memnon touches my lower lip. And no man has ever felt the way I do about you, Roxi, though I’m sure some have killed for even a shadow of it. You are my everything.

I can’t stop the smile that comes then. I wonder if people have died like this—intoxicated on their own happiness. It would not be half so bad an ending. Much better than Cleopatra’s exit, an asp bite to her breast, her heart already broken. Much better to die at the peak of love.

What makes you think this is the peak? Memnon interrupts. There’s a secretive glimmer in his eyes, like he already knows more about what’s to come than I do.

Who knows, maybe he does.

We dance as one song blends into another and the stars tilt in the sky. We stay until sweat wets my hair and drips between my cleavage and too many people press in on us.

Are you ready to leave? Memnon asks.

I glance around at the revelry, which seems livelier than ever.

Can we?

You are a queen. You don’t need someone else’s permission , Memnon says, a smile curving his lips. But you’ll be pleased to know us leaving early is part of the tradition.

He whistles between his teeth and, holding my hand tightly in his, weaves us in and out of the dancing guests.

Someone must hear Memnon’s whistle because a man to the side of the clearing brings Memnon’s horse to us, the creature now adorned with garlands of wildflowers.

Already, guests are drawn over by the activity. Before more of them can stroke my skin and clothes, Memnon lifts me onto his steed, then follows me onto the saddle.

Amongst the gathering crowd, Tamara comes over and shouts above the rest, “The royal bride and groom are riding out for the night. Let’s give them a final toast—to the king and our new queen!”

The revelers cheer, horns and cups rising into the air as the fires around us crackle and pop.

With that, Memnon clicks his tongue and off his horse lunges, the guests parting as we pass through them.

Hands touch our clothes and legs as we ride by.

Then we’re through the main crowd and charging down the trampled paths, the tents flying by us.

Every so often, we pass a stumbling guest or indiscreet lovers.

Is that typical? I ask when my eyes fall on yet another couple tangled off to the side of the path, the man driving himself into the woman from behind.

I can feel Memnon’s rising humor. Yes. After a moment, he adds, We’re a city made of tents. There are few secrets here even with the aid of walls, and many don’t care about those.

We reach the edge of the settlement, and the land opens up before us, the ground and the sky two different shades of black.

“Where are we going?” I ask as Memnon steers us into the darkness. Somewhere out here Ferox prowls.

“Away,” he whispers against my ear.

We ride until the settlement is nothing more than a few pricks of light on the horizon. Eventually, even that disappears.

We ride for some time longer before Memnon’s steed slows, then stops.

“This is it,” he announces, swinging off his horse.

I stare into the darkness. Even in the weak light of night, I can still tell there is nothing here. No buildings, no tents—there aren’t even fences or ruins. Just vast grassland.

Memnon holds out a hand for me to dismount, and I swing off his horse and into his waiting arms.

Our heads are close, our mouths even closer, and my heart patters like rain. We have spent weeks upon weeks being intimate, yet here I am, nervous .

“You don’t need to be nervous,” Memnon says softly. “It is just me.”

Just him and little else.

I glance around us. Stars dapple the sky, and among them hangs a thin crescent moon. The balmy, late-summer air has a chilled edge to it, and I feel as though I am swimming through water. The only noise here is the soft hush of the wind through grass.

“What is this place?” I ask softly. “Why have you brought me here?”

“It’s tradition for the newly married couple to ride out and spend their first night alone on the steppe. Something about getting back to the basics of life—so long as you have the earth beneath you, the sky above you, and your woman at your side, you have an enviable existence.”

After a pause, I say, “So we’re camping again.”

Memnon’s laughter breaks through the darkness. “I hate to confess this to you, my queen, but we will spend more time than not… camping .”

Do I tell him that I could fall in love with this way of existing? If it means more of his laughter and closeness, I would happily endure it.

Memnon releases me so he can hold his hand before him. In his palm, his magic swirls as it forms an orb. Gradually, it begins to glow, the bluish light of it pulsating brighter and brighter until Memnon flicks his wrist, and it lifts into the sky. It floats only a short distance above us.

Beneath the orb, Memnon smiles, the glow casting his face into unearthly blue hues. His eyes shine like pools.

He raises a finger. “Give me a moment.”

“Okay…”

Memnon gives me a long look, like he can still tell I’m jittery, and I swear he almost says something before he returns to his horse, pulling two items from the saddlebag strapped to the beast’s sides.

When he returns, he shakes the first item out, unraveling a blanket he then spreads over the grass.

The second item, he presses into my hand.

I realize a moment later it’s a canteen.

When I unstopper it and take a sip, I taste wine spiced with cinnamon and clove.

It’s not diluted the way it would’ve been back in Rome, but it’s spiced the way I like best.

I choke on a laugh, my eyes watering for some odd reason. “You got me spiced wine?” I say. The Sarmatians don’t usually season theirs—bloody wedding rites aside.

Under the light of his magic, Memnon’s gaze grows soft. “I will get you whatever your heart desires so long as you draw breath—maybe even after that as well,” he says with a wry twist of his lips.

I laugh again, then take another deep pull from the skein. “You’re just trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”

He presses a hand to his heart like I’ve wounded him. “You’ve figured out my master plan.”

I pass the wine to Memnon, who also takes a long drink of it.

“I really do like this,” he says, pulling the canteen from his lips and appraising it. He restoppers it and tosses it onto the blanket he set out. “Now come here,” Memnon says, his magic reaching out for him. “I’m cold, and your body heat might be the only thing that will keep me warm tonight.”

Another peal of laughter escapes me. It’s high summer. “So dramatic,” I say, even as I all but trip over to him.

“How dare you suggest such a thing,” he says dramatically . He leads me over to the blanket, where the two of us sit, our eyes on the heavens. Only then does he grab the canteen and pass it back to me. “I swear the stars look different since you’ve been by my side,” Memnon says.

“Different how?” I ask, bumping his shoulder playfully.

He bumps me back. “Less lonely. And far more beautiful.”

“Is that right?” I say.

He turns to me. “Everything is more beautiful since I found you—the sky, the grass, horseshit, all of it.”

“Ah yes, lovely horseshit, how can we forget that?”

The two of us laugh, leaning together like coconspirators. Somewhere in there, I hiccup, which causes us to laugh harder.

On a whim, he turns and presses a kiss to my shoulder. I don’t even think it’s meant to be amorous, but my body reacts, and I tilt my head to his, finding those lips with my own.

He tastes like spiced wine and wonderful, wicked thoughts. I cannot get enough, taste enough. I get to my knees, pulling him closer. I need him closer—much, much closer.

His hands find my face, then my shoulders. The tingling sensation of magic slips up my arms, under my tunic and kurta, down between my breasts?—

I inhale sharply. It feels like a caress. An intimate one.

Memnon smiles against me. “Do you like that?” he whispers.

“Are you doing that?” I ask.

He smiles. “What do you think, little witch?”

I think that if he is going to tease me with his magic, it’s only fair I do the same.

Tentatively, I send my own power out, imagining it like phantom limbs. I will my warmth into the touch as my magic moves over his body.

Memnon inhales sharply when it reaches his cock. He bows his head and groans. “You’re going to torment me?”

“Just a little.”

Then, things happen in a rush. Armor and weapons, clothes and boots—we strip away all that glittering, intimidating opulence until there is nothing between us.

Memnon lays himself over me, his face so close. “I love you, my queen,” he says, searching my face, his expression serious, fervent.

“And I love you, my king.”

Memnon smiles then, and not even the darkness around us can dim the light of it. He shifts his hips, the head of his cock right at my entrance.

Memnon kisses me fiercely as he sinks into me. There’s only me, him, the endless grasslands around us, and the heavens above us.

“I am yours forever,” he breathes against my lips. He pulls away to search my gaze, his features bathed in the soft orange glow from my magic. “Forever.”