The question hung quivering in the air as Amira watched silent and thoughtful. Blood dripped from the blade of the sword pattering almost inaudible to the sand. The room stank of fear and death, the last spurt of arterial blood from the decapitated eunuch merging with the final choking gurgles of the second slave and adding the coppery scent of fresh blood to the melange. The slave master continued to sob on his knees, head in hands as he rocked back and forth.

"Please, please take it back," the man whimpered, making a half heated effort to clutch at her feet but succeeding only in toppling forward into the sand and curling into a fetal position. Amira ignored the fat pathetic wastrel and considered the slaves question. There was anger in his voice, that was natural and proper although the lack of self control was a failing.

"It is unimportant," she said in her soft melodious voice and then paused to consider the question again.

"Though I suppose that is an impractical answer. In this place I am known as Mistress Sand," she declared, her lips turning up by the smallest of margins as if in some secret amusement. 

"Come slave, the night will not last forever and there is work to be done."

[@POOHEAD189]