Beneath the high noon sun, with its golden rays cascading down upon the mortal realm, the world below stood divided in its judgement of it.
In the lush and fertile lands of the Empire of Romelia, the sun was a gift from the gods, a divine beacon of warmth and prosperity, men grew under its warm embrace, plants become treed that bore fruit and flower, a thing a man thanked heaven for over his harvest.
In the desolate sands of Azania, it was a ruthless deity that demanded its tribute in fire and in blood, and had never once gone undone without letting his displeasure unknown.
At the heart of a vast plaza of the great golden city, flames flickered in a perfect ring around a towering pyre, their tongues stretching hungrily upward in a bit to claw the sky as boys and girls of all ages feed woods to it. Around the blaze moved the priests of the Fire God, tracing intricate symbols in black coal across the scorched ground, working in complete silence, their devotion absolute and their faces running with sweat they did not wipe away.
The boars shall charge the viper, and the hot sand shall have its due and spit the bones back.
Before the pyre stood twenty bound men, their pale skin glistening, their muffled cries smothered beneath the thick cloth gagging them.
Even the sunlight seemed to scorn them, recoiling from flesh so starkly unlike the bronzed tones of everyone living under the Sultan's rule. Long braids swayed like whips as they thrashed against the ropes, terror mounting as the searing heat came close enough to kiss at their soles. The smell of burning flesh had already begun to thicken the air.
They were the latest tribute from the Bedouins who had dared to make their homes deep inside the Sultanate without his blessed permission.
Their whole life wasted at the worship of false gods, living lives without aim and use, merely predating the fruits of other's works. They did not sow, they did not reap, they only took from others.
But finally they would find in the end of their meaningless existence their meaning.
Vermin and flies shall come from the mouth of the hunter, where the tender meat of the boar lies.
The prophecy had been whispered long before, and like the rising of the sun it had come to pass in its own time, as they always did.
"FIERY AND RED THY SKIN IS. TO THY MAGNIFICENCE, THUS DOTH THY SON PRESENT THEE GIFTS!"
A woman's voice rang out, sharp and fervent, over the roar of the flames. Her dark hair swirled loose about her face. Her eyes were blackened with sacred chalk, six painted lines running down from her lids to her chin like the tracks of old tears. With each verse of the chant she raised a cane high above her head and brought it down against the stone in a steady rhythm.
She did her best not to smile.
"BLESS THY SON AND LEAD HIM TO HIS FATE. BLESS THY FOLLOWERS WHO OFFER THESE GIFTS!"
The flames roared up in answer, licking higher as if breathed upon a great wind, as though the god had been listening all along and was only waiting to be addressed properly.
With measured steps she approached the pyre, the way a mother approaches her child, with no fear in her at all and a great deal of love abreast. The heat warped the air around her into something that rippled and bent.
She did not waver.
Without hesitation she thrust both hands into the inferno that unfaithful man would have feared as if trying to feel the fire's touch. The crackling drowned out the anguished sounds of the men bound to the stake, whose struggles had never once mattered. Her fingers pushed deep into the heart of the blaze, and her face betrayed nothing. No pain. No discomfort. Not so much as a flinch.
Untouched. Unburned. Her god would not harm her.
Was she not his beloved?
Was she not the daughter of the flame, cherished by the father and by the son both?
From the fire she drew out something no one else could see, something meant for her alone. She crushed the sacred chalk between her fingers and smeared it across her eyes, and the world blurred and bent, shadows twisting themselves into shapes that belonged to her and to nobody else.
She stood very still, watching the fire, waiting on it.
And then she felt it come.
The flames parted before her as she stepped forward, their hungry tongues licking the air on either side and refusing to touch her. She felt her god entering her, moving through her, turning her over in his hands as a man turns a thing he is considering buying.
She did not resist him.
She opened herself and welcomed it.
Then she walked headlong into the heart of the inferno. The searing heat wrapped close around her and did not consume her, and there, deep inside the blaze, the vision took hold.
Four young boars tore themselves free from the charred remains of their mother, gnashing teeth and gleaming eyes full of a hunger older than hunger.
Snarling and snapping, they fought viciously over her flesh, engorging each other bellies in the attempt, driven by something deeper than need.
Above them a bird through an empty sky, its talons already stained crimson.
It loosed a cry that split the heavens open. Then it folded its wings and dropped, beak and claws set for the killing.
The fire burned the vision away.
The god had spoken.
She exhaled, her heart hammering, her whole body alive with divine purpose. The Sultan would rejoice at this. Once again the flames had promised him his triumph. He would fall upon them like the eagle, and his victory was already written.
She smiled.
The boars shall charge the viper, and the hot sand shall have its due and spit the bones back. Vermin and flies shall come from the mouth of the hunter, where the tender meat of the boar lies.
That was what she had said to the Sultan, the first time, the words arriving in her mouth without passing through her mind at all.
The nobles had laughed behind their hands. The priests had scowled at her arrogance and muttered about the correct forms.
The Sultan had smiled. Smiled at her.
He had felt it in his own blood, had understood at once what ran between her and the god, and he had bestowed upon her the title of High Priest that same hour.
It was a title held until death.
It had also been occupied at the time. That detail delayed the Magnificent One by rather less than a breath. A single wave of his hand was all it took to grant the title and to collect the life that stood in its way.
The awe he felt for her did not stay awe for long.
And she had wanted him in return, for the son of her god had desired union with her, and she had thrown herself into his arms the way she threw herself into the fire, which is entirely, and without once considering the burning.
She had felt the result of that union settle in her belly. The god's own spawn was in her now, and blessed beyond measure would their line be.
Now she had a second revelation to carry to her beloved, and she could hardly bear to wait.
She would come to him bearing two gifts: a son in one hand as she already knew it would be, and in the other the sight of his enemy falling beneath his claws.
Truly, it was a blessed day.