She threw herself across her bed, weeping into a pillow. She knew just what she wanted -- the desire was a fierce ache inside her. But fiercer still was the knowledge that it was beyond the reach of a female.

Nafsha is so concerned with my virginity. I am beginning to think she would wed me herself. Alas, the only tool she might use to make me a woman is her tongue -- and it is far too sharp for me to allow it beneath my skirts.

In the dull, persistent beat of her heart, she hears the rhythm of hope. It is faint and thin as a thread, but it is there.

Still, if I don't believe in the possibility, I might go mad from fear.

There is nothing humble about this woman.

Because it is my destiny, Zabdas! Because I've always known the gods made me for something more -- more than just a wife, just a mother, just a woman. They made me for power!

Her voice is still pitched high, thanks to her youth, but it has a certain incipient darkness to it, a low richness that will mature in the coming years to the smoky tones of a priestess or a queen -- a woman of great natural power.

Men always laugh whenever a woman says she has political skill. But it's not such a difficult thing to master.

She will not bow her head to any woman or man, so why, indeed, should she bow to a needle?