ting, almost crying, she put her hand on his head. "No more. This way
of the Turks is wonderful, but I want you inside me now."

He stretched himself full length beside her, put his face, wet with her
own sweet liquor, against hers and kissed her with lips and tongue. She
seized his shoulders, her nails digging into his muscles, and pulled him
over on top of her.

The way was so well prepared that he was within her in an instant. He
knew that he could not hold himself back very long, and he gave himself
up to the floodtide of pleasure. He raised his head a little so that he
could look down into her wide amber eyes, and so that she could see into
his soul at the moment when he gave all his force to her.

Almost at the same moment the muscles in her face tensed and her neck
corded. Through clenched teeth she cried out again and again and again.

Their bodies relaxed together. Daoud felt that now, in the aftermath of
frenzy, their flesh was melting and flowing together and becoming one.

They lay in silence, and a distant growl of thunder told him that the
storm outside had passed. He had not noticed its dying away. He felt a
cool breeze blowing through the windows.

It seemed as if hours passed while they lay there in silence, arms
around each other, legs entwined, and he listened to her breathing
slowly grow calmer.

She stroked his cheek and played with the blond hairs on his chest. "Is
anything changed now?"

"For us, I think, much is changed."

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I love you. Does love mean
anything to you Muslims?"

He laughed softly. "Of course it does. _In this world, women and perfume
are dearest to me._ So spoke our Prophet, may God commend and salute
him."

She shook her head and ran her finger down his forehead and nose. "I am
glad I am as dear to you as perfume. You say 'our Prophet,' lying there
looking more French than Simon de Gobignon. Of course, that is why your
sultan sent you here. If I, who know what you are, still find it hard to
accept you as a Saracen, those who do not know would never suspect."

As she spoke the name de Gobignon, he felt a twinge of anger. Just his
name, mentioned in their bed, was an intrusion. Her eyes flickered
momentarily away from his, as if she, too, realized it was an error.
Best, he thought, to say nothing about it.

"Yes, I am truly a Muslim, and Muslims know more of love, I believe,
than most Christians." But now he thought of Blossoming R