He was in no mood for laughter, nor for letting his mind stray anywhere but to the grim labor of survival. Though she had seemed at first to be nothing more than a woman, Julius had begun to suspect she might be yet another of the desert’s cruel tricks—a deadly, beguiling caress, a siren sent to usher him to his grave. And yet, behind the amused smile, behind the mocking sway of her light-footed step, she, who appeared to be but a delicious extension of that gilded tomb, had somehow managed to kindle the illusion that she might, in truth, offer him aid.

It had taken no more than that for Julius to hasten after her. Without hesitation, he pressed his head against the woman's gold-clad leg, urging her forward with the gesture, while at the same time assuring himself of her reality, of her tangible presence.
No word escaped his lips, only the desperate breathing of a man parched beyond endurance. Never had he suffered so beneath his heavy northern cloak; he longed to tear it from his body, to strip it away until nothing remained but raw, exposed flesh.