Author's Notes: This is the sexy times chapter. If you're opposed to such things despite acknowledging that I gave this story the "M" rating for this exact reason, I recommend you skip everything after Pegasus brings out the wine basket and go to the last break in the chapter for humor and pillow talk. However, if you do want sexy times, commence reading!


THE EGYPTIAN QUEEN

Incense; wine, artisanal beer, and sweet baked goods; but most of all absolute, unconditional adoration, devotion, and loyalty. She is a volatile, unpredictable, temperamental spirit, especially in her path as Ishtar. A well-maintained altar or artistic tributes should be pleasing.

- Recommended offerings to the goddess Inanna-Ishtar, Encyclopedia of Spirits


They were perfectly capable of outrunning museum security, but Pegasus could not outrun the hidden cameras. He had undoubtedly diminished the value of the painting, and after a short discussion with his lawyers, Pegasus agreed to pay $5 million for the ruined Pollock with some chagrin. The day after the suit was settled, he purchased a riding lawn mower and spent the better half of the morning shredding it to pieces on his island while he streamed it live to the Action Artist Association of America.

"He really doesn't like action painting, does he?" Isis asks Croquet on the balcony, taking a sip of Turkish coffee as they both watch Pegasus run over the shreds of canvas for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

"It is because of an old art teacher," Croquet informs. "He had taken tutelage under private instructors since he was five years old. Pegasus took to it like a fish to water. He could replicate a Vermeer at seven and do a Caravaggio from memory at ten. Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo to Impressionism, Surrealism, Art Nouveau— just what I can recall off the top of my head. Whatever Master Pegasus was tasked to learn, he excelled. He also formed skills in other mediums such as sculpting and some earth works, but he favored painting above all. He never had any trouble with his instructors until he got a teacher in the postmodern styles."

Isis says nothing, at first, while she glances at Pegasus laughing maniacally on the lawnmower.

"... I take it didn't sit well with him," she finally says.

"It was the first time in Master Pegasus' life that a teacher was appalled with his work. He worked tirelessly to gain approval, but he never received it. Master Pegasus accused the teacher of being a poor tutor with poorer taste, and Master Pegasus was accused of having a stagnant eye due to watching too many cartoons."

Isis hums at this. If there was one thing she knew Pegasus would never tolerate, it was speaking ill of Funny Bunny. That much is obvious as she recalls Pegasus excitedly framing a newly acquired issue in his library once they had reached the island. She still wasn't certain as to why there was a smug grey cat sharing the cover with the pink lagomorphic protagonist, but she didn't press the matter as he had ecstatically said "Now this is art!"

"He had no interest in really learning about the theory behind postmodern styles until he reached college," Croquet says. "After he graduated, he said thus: 'I have made peace with Mondrian and De Stijl. I see the merit in Rothko and color field. I have learned an appreciation for Abramovic and the performers, but I will never accept the likes of Pollock and the mockery of gestural abstraction.' Since that day, he has stayed true to his word."

"I can see."

"His teacher had an original piece by another abstract expressionist, a Kline; it was the prized jewel of his collection and Pegasus knew this. He took it out of the gallery and set it on fire when he was 17 years old."

"He broke into the man's home to destroy his favorite painting?" Suddenly, the soda incident in Las Vegas looked tame.

"He never had to break in. Pegasus was in his house frequently, always going in and out on a daily basis."

"Really?" Isis asks over the rim of her cup. "Why would he frequent the house of a teacher he despised?"

Croquet looks uncomfortable with the question, but gives Isis the answer regardless.

"He was Cyndia's father."

There is a long silence as she considers the flavor that lingers on her tongue, a heavy weight starting in her chest and sinking into her stomach.

"Ah," is all she says.

"I suppose that was one of the things that drew her to Master Pegasus," Croquet continued. "The instructor was a close friend of his father and she was brought to a party that was hosted at their main casino. Until they met, Cyndia had associated fine art with abstract pieces since that was all that was in the house. When Pegasus showed her the first portrait he painted of her, she had been exposed to world of art she wasn't aware existed. This contributed to the tension between student and teacher.

"It culminated toward the end of Cyndia's life. When she fell horrendously ill, her father told the hospital staff not to allow Master Pegasus into the room. As they had been engaged, not married, Master Pegasus held no legal rights to overturn the decision. She passed away three days after she had been admitted to the hospital."

Isis is still quiet, feeling a pang of guilt upon knowing the true reason behind Pegasus' hatred of the abstract. It was not as superficial as she originally surmised.

"The funeral was held on their estate and she was transported to the family cemetery. After the service, he walked into the house, burned the Kline, and flew to Egypt some time later."

Isis stares into the black sludge in her cup, the remains of the Turkish coffee. She never knew...

"CROQUET!" Pegasus shouts from below in a commanding roar, having dismounted the lawnmower and standing with clenched fists at his side. "I NEED GASOLINE!"

"Is the mower running low, sir?"

"NO, YOU FOOL! IT'S TIME TO START THE BONFIRE! GET DOWN HERE AND HELP ME WITH THIS!" Pegasus' tone changes immediately when his focus shifts from Croquet to Isis.

"Isis, my beloved," he is almost singing when he says her name, reaching forward with his arms. "You've barely spoken to me since Vegas. Are you still mad at me?"

"No," she says with a sad smile and a shake of her head.

I was never angry with you. I just didn't understand...

"Oh, good!" Pegasus hops with the affirmation. "After this is done, we can get started in the studio! I can barely wait! CROQUET, STOP GAWKING UP THERE AND HELP ME FINISH THIS!"

"Yes, sir."

- 0 – 0 – 0 -

"You should be kinder to Croquet."

"Oh, he knows I don't mean anything by it," Pegasus literally waves off the comment as he puts together his setup in the studio. "He's had prior training with the CIA or FBI or ATF, some government agency with an acronym. If he survived that, then anything I throw at him rolls off like water on a duck."

Isis wonders about the validity of the statement, but does not comment.

"You know, it was said of Van Gogh that other artists were appalled by his setup, but as I go through all my supplies, I can't help but think he would abhor mine!"

"But you're not painting me in an Impressionist style this time, are you?"

"Correct!" Pegasus confirms, excitedly running back and forth in the studio. "Now, I don't quite have everything I need for the composition, but this session should be a good a warm up while we wait for the leopard to come in from Dubai."

"E-excuse me?" Isis balks. Pegasus stares at her oddly before he has a surge of realization and taps his forehead once with his index finger.

"Ah, yes, I never showed you what I had in mind, did I? Come over here with me and take a look."

He takes her hand in his and guides her over to his personal library. The mahogany shelves take up the entirety of a wall and are overflowing with books, magazines, loose papers and sketches. The organizational system Pegasus uses is known only to him, and he clicks his tongue against his teeth as he searches with his fingertips.

"Once again, it is so embarrassing it took me this long to realize what was missing when the answer was sitting here in my own home. Ah ha! Here it is, Volume One." He pulls out a large paperback printed in the 70s and kisses the cover. "Mwa! The first in a series of masterpieces. This is how I want to paint you."

He taps the cover excitedly and Isis blinks as she tries to process what Pegasus just placed in her hands.

"... A fantasy pinup?"

"Not just a fantasy pinup!" Pegasus guffaws. "The Egyptian Queen! She's the first image you see without even having to open the book. She was selected to be the introductory image for the uninformed viewer, the definitive Frazetta girl!"

"So your idea of capturing my 'essence' is to illustrate me as a sensual pinup with Egyptian aesthetics?" Isis cocks her lips to the side and raises a brow, glancing between the artist and his reference. "Is this how you spent your free time in school?"

Pegasus drops his head backwards and looks to the ceiling, knitting his brow together and bringing his hands forward, fists clenched in desperation.

"You must look beyond the shape, Madame Muad'Dib!" Pegasus sighs, moving his head back to a proper forward position before taking the art book out of her hands and flipping through the pages. "It's the underlying element that is important, the theme."

"Fantastical erotica?"

"I don't deny either," Pegasus confessed. "But that's the point! Other artists portray their nudes as coquettish, inviting, a commodity that exists only for the male eye. Frazetta took the genre and turned it on its head! Yes, there is an unmistakeable erotic theme to it, but his women were not drawn merely as women; they are forces of nature, tempests, they challenge the viewer! With one misstep, a Frazetta threatens to tear a man to pieces. The environment of fantasy only adds to the depth of the piece; it gives one the impression of a deity that is not only desired, but nigh unattainable by mortal hands!"

"Mmm," Isis hums, still not entirely convinced with the argument. Pegasus sighs listlessly and places the book off to the side, taking Isis' hands in his as he guides her to his stool. As she takes a seat, he kneels before her and brings his forehead to her knuckles.

"Isis, what I said back in the museum wasn't spurious," he begins, placing his lips against her hands and looking into her eyes. "You truly are sublime, and that's what has been alluding me in all my portraits until now. I could never get you right because I was not getting you. I kept falling back on what was familiar to my hands and trying to force it all to work when I should have been more responsive to what was in front of me and adjusting in kind. I failed in painting you because instead of trying to find methods and styles that suited you, I kept delving back into techniques that worked with Cyndia."

Her breath stops in her throat at the mention of his prior love, a sense of inadequacy and jealousy and guilt all clinging to her mind. Pegasus can see it in her eyes, and it is a sensitive subject for both of them.

"... Pegasus, I can't replace her."

"I don't expect you to!" Pegasus affirms quickly. "There will never be another Cyndia, just as there will never be another Isis. You are both unique, both your own persons, and I would never place the expectation on you to become her when you're magnificent as you are. No, you will never replace Cyndia; you were never meant to do so. Isis, you are..."

As he tries to form the words, he is massaging her dark hands with a trained reverence, taking careful consideration in the texture of her palms, her digits, her knuckles beneath his fingertips, and wonders if he was a wanderer in another life. He imagines kneeling before a cloaked figure at an alter in an oasis, pouring wine at her feet in tribute and placing chaste kisses on limbs decorated in henna. He imagines lifting her veil and taking part in worship for a night, and in exchange, the promise to serve her for eternity. It's an exquisite notion, and he wonders if it explains the explicit familiarity of this touch between them.

"You are like something out of a dream," Pegasus whispers into her palms. "Like something from beyond this place, as though you're from another realm entirely. It is what sustains me, yet it is maddening in so many ways."

He cannot bring himself to look into her eyes as he places his forehead back to her knuckles.

"Isis, I know you have facetiously said that I, 'the majestic Pegasus,' bear the weight of the gods, but the truth of the matter is that you have always had more strength than I ever did in such matters. I brought the Egyptian Gods to our plain all those years ago, but it was you who took them from my hands and saved me from an early grave. I may have carried them, for a time, but in the end, you were the one who had the power to hold the Gods in your palm and bury them in the earth."

"A lot of good that did," Isis mutters, looking off to the side.

"Don't lament on your failures, my love," Pegasus chastises her, quoting her own words from a year ago. "If it can be called 'failure'. Despite all that, things turned out as they did, and you played a crucial role in it all. Because of your actions, we are here, now, together, and I will always be indebted to you for sparing me their wrath. Their vengeance would have destroyed me, but it was your will and your guidance that saved me. It was all possible because of your initiative, your resolve to see it through. This is only possible because you have a touch of the divine— No, not a touch. As I've said so many time times before, you are divine."

"I think you give me far too much credit..."

He can feel the heat radiating from her cheeks, and he smiles into her knuckles.

"You don't give yourself enough," Pegasus says, a gentle riposte. "Do you have any idea how good you have been for me? I ask myself almost every day what I have done to deserve you. There have been mornings when I wake up beside you and I can't believe it's all real. This is why the style of Frazetta suits you so: each day with you is an ethereal experience, like I've entered a fantasy and never left."

"... You really want to paint me in an elaborate loincloth, don't you?"

He hears her voice waver, a strange sound to his ears, and looks up. A tear makes its way down her cheek and her smile saddens him as greatly as he finds it enchanting. He leans up to kiss the tear, then her lips, taking her face in his hands as he moves to press his lips to the space below the gem on her forehead, an act of devotion.

"If my goddess amalgam will allow it."

"On one condition," she says, putting a finger to his lips and looking into his eye.

"You name it."

"Cancel the order for the leopard."

- 0 – 0 – 0 -

Pegasus spends a brief period mourning a lost opportunity— a proper Frazetta should have a beastly feline at her beck and call, but he accepts her reasoning in that posing with a grown leopard would put her life in unnecessary danger, and Isis would not allow him to name it Sheeta and let it run amok on the island when all was done. Such a loss!

It is a small loss, however, in that Pegasus reminds himself that he does not have to replicate a Frazetta detail for detail. What he needs to do is channel the spirit, bring forth the ambiance to match the intensity of his subject. There is no great need to have a ferocious cat at her feet or a looming sentry in the shadows, no need for embellishments. For Isis is the focus, the center, and when he paints her this time, he will do her justice. It will be her in the portrait, not just her image.

First things first, he has to make additions to his studio. The supplies are ready, but the atmosphere isn't correct. The portrait will be titled The Egyptian Queen Redux, but Isis is more than a queen. She is his goddess amalgam, and she must have a temple. He has marble flown in from Egypt, along with elaborate carpet inlaid with an elegant Nymphaea lotus motif in a brilliant lapis lazuli against a scarlet background. He contacts another old friend of his father's and buys an elusive piece of pottery from his private art collection. He pays another hefty sum for an ornate incense burner, and Isis cannot contain her amazement as she glides her hands over the Persian artistry.

"Where did you get this?" she gasps. "It's from the final era of the Mudrāya! Have you any idea how difficult it is to find anything from the temples of that period? And in this condition?!"

"Would you like it for the museum in Cairo when we're done?" he chuckles.

She realizes how childlike she sounds and tries to remedy her dignity, trying and failing to temper the wonder in her eyes.

"... If you would be so kind to donate it, yes."

He is already a proud man, but he finds himself ever more cocksure as he buys more for the portrait and sees Isis' eyes alight with the relics. The authenticity is reviewed once, twice, and a final time as Isis cannot help marveling at the pristine acquisitions. Before the spirit of Frazetta had shaken him out of his rut, Pegasus' research had guided him through eras of antiquity, and while he does not know all the facts regarding each piece, Isis' confirmation and delight in seeing the artifacts cements his certainty. He isn't going to do this half-way; everything needs to be genuine, possess a hallowed aura, be something regarded with the exact veneration of which she deserves. Anything less would be an act of sacrilege.

After his staff hauls the heavy marble into his studio, he carves the steps, the pillar, the platform of which she will stand. It takes half a year of work, many late nights and early mornings in between his day job and tending to his beloved, but it is what must be done if he is to get this right. It will all be done by his hands and his eye, his time and his dedication, his heart and his soul, and if he is to perish by the end of his work, then it would be worthwhile so long as it will be Isis Ishtar on that canvas.

When the shrine is completed, he lights candles and incense throughout the studio, opening the windows a crack to allow for some ventilation. Isis observes the ritual with crossed arms, hands cradling her elbows, and stares at the platform she is to rest from the bottom of the steps. There is a foreboding air to the scenery with the dim lighting as smoke wafts in the air. The elaborate masonry and hallowed relics remind her of the ruins she once called home, and there is a blasphemous sensation she cannot rattle. What would her gods think of this man placing her upon that pedestal? For her to be dressed as she is now...

"Why so timid?" Pegasus asks, reaching for her hands and holding them to either side to observe her. "There is no need to be shy. You're radiant."

Isis is articulate, exact in her diction, yet in that moment, she finds it difficult to express what she feels. In addition to the artifacts and the shrine, Pegasus had ordered a sum of gold and fabric and had it all tailored to her form. Atop her head rests an intricate design, a headdress of gilded multicolored wings framing her face and flaring backward to form a crest, resembling the rays of the sun, the Eye of Wjdat staring out from the center above her forehead, thin chains of gold with small, intermittent carnelians and azurite draped in a circle around her favored jade. At her neck, a rich indigo silk with gold edges, weaving around like a scarf to trace down her back like a cape. The colors match the loin skirt, high slits up the sides revealing voluptuous thighs and the sensuous curve of the iliac crest, a multicolored illustration of intertwining animals on the cloth: a ferocious whirlwind of stags, lions, bulls, rams, serpents, and eagles, and she wonders just how much of it is going to show in the portrait. There is nearly nothing to the back save for ties to keep it about her hips, as the most substance to the fabric is at the front, four meters in total length intended to flow from her pelvis to decorate the steps of the shrine when she leans against the pillar, a peculiar aesthetic in practice; she will have to grab it in bunches so she doesn't trip when she makes the ascent.

The loin skirt does not bother her quite so much; she is being painted from the front. What makes her feel bare are the wisps of gold at her breasts, two water lilies with thin leaves linking to her backside to keep them in their place at the front so it does not slip, and she feels odd without gold bands about her wrists, waist, or ankles. The precious metals are replaced with henna reaching from her fingertips to the center of her forearms, her toes to the center of her calves, and at her navel is an eight-pointed star. Never has she felt so decorated and so naked all at once. The only thing that feels natural is the kohl lining and turquoise shadow around her eyes.

"I just..." she begins, and Pegasus reflects the motion of her biting her lip. "I've posed nude for you so many times, but this is... different."

"You have 'the jitters'?" Pegasus moves his hands gingerly about her shoulders, taking a moment to brush the raven strands that peak from underneath the headdress. There is a small, nervous curl to the corner of her mouth.

"'Anxiety' is not quite the word. I feel more..." She struggles once more to find the appropriate description. "... Exposed, but not in a physical sense."

"But a metaphysical sense?" Pegasus drawls, leaning his head as close as he can to hers without touching the headdress. "I can feel it just looking at you. The universe will tear me asunder if I mar your divinity. One wrong stroke and I shall be wiped from existence."

"Pegasus," Isis chastises him. "I understand you are taking some artistic license with all this, but I must reiterate that I am only human. I bleed just as you do."

"Not true," he says. "Here you stand before me, yet you bleed once a mo—"

She cannot resist lightly tapping his cheek with her fingertips.

"Do not tempt me into ruining the henna."

"What?" he teases with a cocky grin, massaging the cheek she touched with one hand while pointing to the red jewels at her headdress with the other. "The ancients were never prudish about such things. We both know what all those carnelians represent."

Her eyes glance to the ceiling and she shakes her head with an exasperated smile.

"Think what you will of me, if it suits you," Isis concedes, looking down to gather the fabric of her loin skirt before taking charge to the shrine steps. "'I am the one whom you have pursued, and I am the one whom you have seized'."

"The Thunder, Perfect Mind? Ah ha! So you do believe yourself beyond us mere mortals!" Pegasus laughs as he follows her to her place on the platform. "It is claimed that your namesake was the narrator of that poem, you know."

"So I've heard," she counters with a small smirk, leaning against the expanse of the marble pillar as they had practiced so many times prior in other sessions. Pegasus chuckles in response, humming happily to himself as he adjusts the silk fabric of the loin skirt to the correct ratio of ridges and folds for the painting.

She observes him kneeling on the marble platform before her, reverent hands smoothing themselves over the stretch of indigo and gold, draping the steps with a ritualistic flourish. Isis feels the smirk fade from her lips as the scent of incense wafts through the air, and the lids of her eyes fall midway, a sudden rush of energy spreading from her head to the star at her navel as he continues to hum on his knees and handle the cloth at her henna covered feet. Her hands grip the smooth surface of the marble and she exhales sharply through her teeth, a fire brimming in her chest.

Pegasus cranes his head to meet her gaze and furrows his brow at the sound.

"Is something wrong?" he asks. "Why did you hiss?"

The haze disappears from her eyes as she blinks, cosmic black giving way to sparkling sapphire, and she purses her lips.

"Ah, nothing. Just nerves, I guess," she utters, unsure, uncertain of what she just felt. "I am going to be in this position for a while..."

"I know I've asked so much of you," Pegasus smiles apologetically, his amber eye gleaming in the low lighting of the studio. "I have only made it thus far because of your patience and understanding. You have been so gracious with me, and it is my regret that I must be selfish for just a little while longer. Grant me your time, my muse, my goddess amalgam, and I know, I promise, this painting will be the one that does you justice."

Pegasus bows his head with the vow and goes back to adjusting the fabric at her feet, and with this action, he misses the vibrant, ephemeral glint in her eyes.

- 0 – 0 – 0 -

Pegasus is gripped by very frenzy that guided his hands so many years ago when he undertook the task of painting the Egyptian Gods. Once the brush touches the canvas, he does not stop. Though he sits, he is always moving, eye roaming, fingers gripping a brush handle or squeezing a new tube of paint onto his pallet, wrist rotating in swift motions. He knows the environment inside and out, the atmosphere is everything he envisioned, and Isis— Isis has always been something of a vision, something that taunted his capabilities, a spirit that has eluded his hands, but in this moment, this time, she is within his grasp, and Pegasus will not let her go until he has captured her in her entirety from her throne in the heavens.

If there is weight in his eye, he does not acknowledge it, and he refutes the cramping in his hands and back. To succumb to such agony is for lesser men, and he is not a mere man. He is Pegasus, he who inspires mankind and carries the burdens of the gods, and he will not bend or break under the pressure of the divine. He escaped the wrath of Obelisk, Osiris, and Ra, all in part to the goddess who is observing him from her place on the shrine: she who is splendid and brilliant beyond compare, she who has endured his mania and obsession, she who waits at the pillar with an equanimity he cannot fathom. He will not insult her past efforts, her benevolence, her blessings with weakness. He will finish; he will finish and she will be complete.

They had begun before the sun broke the surface and bled magenta into the sky, and he does not finish until a crescent moon hangs among the stars. His blouse is soaked through with sweat and small droplets of perspiration splash to the floor as the final strokes of his name are beset in the lower left corner with the flourish of a finishing draw in a duel. His breath is heavy in his chest and his hair sticks to his face as he stares at the painting, mouth agape with his panting. Isis dares to tilt her head in question as he holds the brush off to the side— neither of them have said a word to each other since they started.

"Are you finished?" she asks, her voice carrying a calm air, and there is something else she cannot place. She has not seen his face since disappearing behind the canvas and easel, only catching glimpses of his eye throughout the morning, day, and night. She is elated when he reveals his head, and for the first time in ages, he looks wholly satisfied with what he has done.

"It's finished," he confirms, his voice so worn, so tired, as though he has been running over mountain ranges and spinning in circles, as though he is a dervish on the verge of collapsing and transcending to the other sphere. He rolls his wrist inward to beckon her over so she can finally see herself for all she is, to know her true self through his eye, to affirm he has succeeded in his task. She steps down, carefully, traversing sideways as not to trample the fabric of the skirt, and rounds her way behind him. He has just enough presence of mind to be aware of how damp his hands are from the effort and wipes them against the calves of his pants. He wants to hold her, look at her eyes when she sees the portrait, and there is a minute lamentation in that he knows he won't be able to capture that moment when it comes. He shrugs it off, inwardly, for these memories are meant to be private. It will be an experience only shared between them.

He gingerly places an arm around her waist as she stands behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and scanning the portrait. He stares up at her with an anticipatory grin, and it broadens, shines with pride as he sees her eyes jolt open with gasp and her fingers dig into his shoulders. The pain is welcome as she relieves the tension built up in the muscles there, and he sighs as he sees her expression melt from shock to adulation.

"That's me?" she asks, and her voice quivers, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

"Yes," Pegasus replies, reaching up to cup her chin, brushing his thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear. "That's you. Not the body; not the shape; not the visage; it is you, Isis Ishtar, and I have toiled for so long to bestow your essence. Does it suit you well?"

He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear it. Never have any of his portraits invoked such a reaction from her. He knows he has succeeded in his quest, but he so dearly wants to hear praise from her lips.

"It pleases me," she says airily, without the prior quiver. Her reply is crisp and the corner of her lips turn up into a small, collected smirk. Pegasus blinks and his own lips purse as he observes the shift in her eyes. Where there was once a shining blue sea, there appears a shimmer across black waters, akin to stars spread across the sky. Had her eyes dilated that much? He remembers reading somewhere that such a reaction was due to excitement, an attraction of sorts. Did his work spark desire?

"I think a reward is in order for all your hard work," she intones, moving her hands from his shoulders to cup the edges of his jaw. Absurdly, Pegasus misses the undertone of the words and instead worries about his sweat smearing the henna on her hands, and then his eye widens as he remembers a preparation he had made before they started.

"A reward! Of course! So good of you to bring that up!" Pegasus says jovially. "Wait here! I have a surprise!"

She is not disappointed, but her lips settle into a firm line as she cocks her brow in inquiry when he rises from his seat and slips from her fingers. She presses her palms and fingers together, elbows pointing outward and turning her chin up with a curious air as he sprints out of the studio and returns two minutes later with a gift.

"Ta-da!" He presents her with a wine basket, and she blinks appreciatively when she sees the label on the bottle.

"Lebanese wine?"

"Cave du monastère St. Jean," Pegasus preens with a wink. "One of the oldest producers. I thought it appropriate for the occasion, and it is well deserved after I've put you through so much."

"How thoughtful," she hums with a hungry glint, henna-coated fingers flexing, mandalas and hieroglyphs dancing in a wave with the motion. "And the honey there?"

"To have with the desserts," Pegasus points to each item in the basket. "We haven't eaten all day, and I am wise to your affinity for sweets. Aish El-Saraya, Baklava, and of course, Om Ali. I thought it best to have this little jar on the side so you could add the honey as you wished."

"You've certainly done your research," she whispers, eyes aglow with a sinuous thought. "Shall we dine on the temple floor?"

The words sound more as a command than a suggestion.

"The platform?" Pegasus repeats, glancing at the pristine slab.

"You've gone through all the trouble to grab all this from the kitchen, and I do not think I am wayward in thinking you are not in much of a mood to run back. So let us celebrate here," she coos, eyes sparkling with mirth as she curves her fingers in a "come hither" gesture, ascending the steps of her shrine. Pegasus feels his shoulders slump with a lazy shrug and a lazier smile. The lighting is low, the bulbs dimmed for ambiance, the brightest of the light coming from the moon outside the window, thin highlights bouncing off the lines of the steps. He is tired, and feels somewhat unkempt with the sweat drying on his skin, but Isis is so inviting, so brilliant among the relics and marble of her domain. How can he say "no" to partaking in wine and honey with a goddess in her temple?

"Sit here," she instructs a spot next to the pillar, where she had once stood, and he obeys without question. He pulls out two glasses from the basket and takes out the corkscrew, resting his back against the stone as he begins to work on opening the wine bottle. He notes that the marble is still warm from her body having been pressed against it for a day and nearly all of a night.

"Your work is impressive," she purrs, tracing her fingers along the stone of the pillar, stepping with the air of a leopard hiding in tall grass. The fabric of her loin skirt encircles the smooth beam with the movement. "Your dedication is profound. For you to have put so much of yourself into all this, to labour and toil to the point of madness, so you could seize my essence on a canvas..."

"'Seize' is a rather aggressive word," Pegasus chortles, eye focused on his hand twisting the screw into the cork. "I know there was so much talk of 'capturing you' in paint, but I do not embellish when I confess it is out of veneration. You deserve nothing less than the best that I can give, Madame Muad'Dib."

"'The Great Lady Who Points the Way,'" she murmurs. "You have always connected me to the heavens, Pegasus?"

"Your birth name has never offered room for alternate interpretation," he quips, licking his lip as he tugs on the cork. It isn't coming out as easily as he hoped, even with the leverage from the tool. She takes a moment to admire the sinewy lines of his forearms as he fights the vacuum in the bottle. "Isis Ishtar. Born underground, but destined to live a life in the light, and fated to depart to your throne in the stars while your poor, overworked steed struggles... with... this... cork!"

With a harsh grunt, it comes out with a loud "pop!" and he stares at it in bewilderment.

"I may as well have hooves with the amount of work it took to get that out!" With an agitated roll of his eye, he flicks the cork and screw back into the basket and reaches for a wine glass. Before he can put the lip of the bottle above the rim, a decorated hand hovers above the glass.

"Stop," is all she says. He obeys, but knits his brow in response.

"I thought you wanted to drink?"

"Oh, I do," she drawls. "But these have done enough work for now."

She crouches before him and takes the bottle and glass, setting them aside before taking his hands into hers, running her thumbs over his knuckles before placing her lips atop them.

"The hands of an artist," she intones, peering into his eye with a hungry stare, a dark, Milky Way piercing into his soul. "These hands, which dare to paint gods, dare to plunge into the fray of the divine and leave unscathed. These hands that have given life to stone tablets and have built a shrine in my honor. These hands that have held me in esteemed reverence at night and have left me an exhausted heap by morn."

There is a blush across his cheeks as she gingerly bites a digit at the memories.

"These hands, which have done me a great justice and have brought forth my true self. It is with these hands I received a great offering from the magnificent Pegasus, my loyal mount, and it would be so poor of me not to give you my gratitude after such an impressive tribute. So, for now..."

Pegasus had become so absorbed with the feeling of her lips on his hands, what poured from those lips, whatever was in those eyes, that he hadn't noticed the indigo silk of her skirt wrapping about his wrists.

"These take a rest."

He only becomes aware of the silk's presence when she cinches the knot and hoists his hands above his head with a swift pull, and he finds they are trapped there. He gasps, mouth falling open and going dry with a sudden thirst.

"You clever little minx," he smirks, eye narrowing. So that's why she had circled the pillar earlier while he was fussing with the wine. Leave it to Isis Ishtar to find a utilitarian use for all that decorative fabric.

"Minx?" she says disapprovingly, taking his chin in her hand and shaking it ever so slightly. "What happened to 'goddess amalgam'?"

"Forgive me for the momentary transgression. After so many tiring hours of work, your steed is fatigued and forgot his place," he utters, struggling to contain his grin. Oh, what an interesting game this is going to be!

She strokes his cheek with her thumb, a low laugh trapped in her throat and expressing itself through the rise and fall of her chest as her lips curl in a smug smile.

"The steed is fortunate he is so handsome, else he would have faced harsher reprimand. I do not take joy in tarnishing beautiful things."

He bites his lip in anticipation and wonders what she has in store for him as she releases the buckles of his suspenders with two snaps and straddles his waist. His heart skips a beat when she claws at the top of his blouse, and buttons fly when nails tear at the center to reveal his torso. There is a slight frustration in that even after restraining him to the pillar, she still has ample material left to the skirt, hiding a delectable sight, and her right hand drifts into his blind spot. His brow lifts as the wine reappears and she swirls the bottle in a circle above him.

"My thanks to you."

He hisses as the wine splashes against his bare chest and drips down his torso, and the fermented liquid makes his shirt stick to his flesh. Absurdly, he thinks of how the shirt will need to be thrown away, that the wine will never wash out, but the thought is silenced with a groan as her tongue laps at the wine with long, tantalizing licks across his chest. The goddess atop him grows more decadent as she opens the jar of honey and drizzles it along with the wine. She revels in watching him tug uselessly at his binds and is emboldened in hearing the small, wanton sounds that fall from his lips as she savors the mingling flavors on her tongue: the fruity notes of the wine, the floral sweetness of the honey, the salt of his sweat from his labors. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she imagines how terribly cross he would be if he knew of her thoughts as she poured the rich liquids over his body, thinking herself a wicked artist as she treats him like a canvas.

Man exercises their will through objects, but she is a goddess, and the divine do not work through things— they act through people. Who better to serve this purpose than her loyal mount, pale skin aglow in the moonlight and so willing to succumb to her ministrations? Oh, yes, how terribly, terribly cross he would be, as she watches the wine dribble from the mouth of the bottle and splash against his flexed stomach, that she thinks of the gestural abstractionists. How heinous in that she understands their craft where Pegasus abhors them so. How terrible of her to enjoy the art of wayward technique and improvisation, to cherish the action as opposed to the end result.

Her dear Pegasus slaved for a year and a night to achieve a flawless tribute, a painstaking effort, a sacrifice none other could make in her stead. So much work, so much pain, for her sake and in her name. Yet she has bound him to a pillar forged from his endeavors with silk of which he wrapped her with such reverence, only to have her take pleasure in this: watching the slow, taunting flow in a string of honey, marveling at the gold blending with red at his navel before dipping into the cavity and cherishing that sound, a cross between a throaty moan and a desperate whimper, and she loves that only he can make it in that moment. He has made many sounds like it, their dalliances and congress working to rival the stars that dot the sky, but that moment is unique to her, to them, and powerful as she is and passionate as he is, they will not be able to replicate that single moment again— the action is done, the time has passed, and even a goddess amalgam must bow to Chronos.

So instead of lamenting on the past, she celebrates the new moments. For so long as she has Pegasus, so long as she has his devotion, his loyalty, his adoration, she can continue to cherish the actions between them. She knows this, values this, understands this, but she dare not speak of such things. Action painting is taboo, and to take part in the taboo just makes the moment all the more exciting!

"A-ah, Isis! Teeth!" Pegasus shouts. His fingertips grasp in futility at the silk bonds as he arches his back, hips rolling to recoil and thrust back into the intoxicating blend of pleasure and pain. Instead of an apology and a promise to be more mindful, she ignores the complaint and pours more honey and wine on the throbbing shaft, teeth dragging along the length and tongue delving underneath the foreskin, torturing the head in circular sweeps to have her fill. Pegasus has no grievances to her ministrations, but he cannot help but feel as though there is something amiss to the behavior. They are certainly not strangers to this, but there has always been a careful method to Isis, always observing and adjusting to the moment, a back-and-forth energy, a cooperative effort between them, and above all, gentle. As she is now, however, he has had no turn, no feedback, and she is taking what she pleases as she sees fit. It is an aggression, a greed that is alien to the both of them, and he gathers what control he has to tilt his head down to look at her place above him.

It takes a moment, but the lusty haze clears from his head and his breath hitches in his throat. Pegasus was well aware of the dark personalities bestowed by some of the Millennium Items, of the corruption they caused to their holders. Yet the Millennium Torque she once held had always been an Item of light, and even if that analysis were incorrect, Pegasus was still familiar with the energy of the Items. In that knowledge, he is chilled in that it all has absolutely nothing to do with what he sees in Isis' eyes. It is not darkness, but fire: a legacy of stars and supernovas, realms of which lesser men reached the brink of madness in their search for attainment, the fury of which he felt all those years ago when he beheld the Egyptian Gods in the dreamscape.

Too late does he realize, as henna-covered hands roam up and down and a devious tongue dances along his generous length, that he has brought another god to the this plain with his artistry. He must have shown some sort of reaction, because he witnesses her sybaritic smile chisel itself into a predatory grin.

"My, my, you notice now, do you?" she titters with a playful nip. "Why so surprised? Was it not you who dared to render my true self, on the night of my moon, when the eight points of my star reaches for all horizons?"

He dares to glance at the window above them and beholds none other than a brilliant crescent moon cradling the shining light of Venus, and there is an audible gulp in his throat. His hunger, his drive, his will, all of it had been perfectly aligned with the cosmos. Perhaps there really was something to all those astrology articles in the Sunday paper.

"Why so nervous?" she asks with a tantalizing lick to the underside of the shaft. "Do I terrify you so?"

Pegasus cannot form a coherent answer as she takes his entirety into her mouth, massaging the rest with her hands, smiling around the throbbing flesh as she sees him throw his head back with a gasp. He is shaking in her grasp, pulling himself off the ground in his bonds in an attempt to thrust deeper into the wet velvet of her mouth. Surely, then, he isn't that scared of her?

He is heaving as he places his chin back to his chest, vision blurry from the stimulation and his fingertips tingling from the restraint. When Pegasus regains his vision, he catches her stare once more as she slides her lips upward, kissing the tip with the exit.

"Do you fear me?" she asks. There is a tenderness to the words and the sharp glint in her eyes turns to a shimmer. He recognizes the change, and he realizes how foolish he had been upon first impression. Yes, there is an empyrean fire to the goddess before him, but it is not a heat that dares to light him ablaze or strike him down like the Egyptian Gods from the sacred tablet. She burns with the force of the star connected to her name, a force that inspires dread if she so wishes, but between them, what she wills is for that fire to spark desire within him. It is a heat meant to nourish him, to cultivate passion.

"... No," he finally says, eye softening and head shaking with affirmation. "I would be a poor charge if I feared My Lady."

With those words, the glint returns behind her pupils and an emboldened smile paints itself across her lips.

"I am pleased to hear that," she says, rising from her place and positioning herself above him. "Now, relax and enjoy."

If Shadi had chosen to appear at that very moment and said that fucking her would bring about the end of the world, Pegasus wouldn't have cared. A cry tears at his throat and she releases a satisfied sigh as she sinks herself onto him, resting her hands on his shoulders and settling around the fulfilling girth. She moans as her hands move to grip the hair at his scalp and arches her back as she relishes a delightful sensation, the pressure of him against the entrance of her womb. A small frustration still irks Pegasus as the loin skirt still hides everything from his view, but it melts from his mind the moment she puts her forehead to his and cradles his head between her hands.

Pegasus tries to kiss her, but instead grits his teeth and shudders when she does something that can only be described as witchcraft. He can only watch her smirk coyly as the star around her navel flexes ever so slightly in the moonlight of her shrine. She is still above him, brushing his cheek with her thumb and twirling a silver strand of his hair around her finger, but her hips do not move. Instead, she creates waves, a searing heat that flows from the tip of his cock and ripples to the base, spreads into his stomach, his chest, thrums through his extremities and causes fingers and toes to curl. It is a tension so strong, it seizes his vocal cords and he cannot scream; it is a pleasure so great it is almost painful.

She continues to milk him in this manner, taking immense joy in watching him struggle against his bonds and gasping for breath. He soon becomes frantic for more contact, bucking his hips into her in the hopes that she will move, undulate with him, but her hands move from his head to his waist and she shifts her weight so he is pinned to the marble floor.

He is quaking before her, shivering as though he has been yanked from the bottom of a frozen lake, and is far too aware of the silk that binds his wrists. He is an artist, he who casts his hands into the fray of the divine, he who dares to render the sublime, and the once welcome indulgence of his bondage has become torture. Under her ministrations, her ethereal heat, she has made him a desperate wreck. He is a selfish man, a fool who toys with fate, and where most men would be happy with this, to have a goddess subject them to her wicked service, he still wants more.

"Isis, please," he begs, tears pricking the corners of his eye. "Please, let me touch you. I need to touch you."

She stalls in her ministrations and something else flashes across her eyes. Shock? Pity? Concern? Repulsion? Had he insulted her gift of thanks? He didn't quite know what he saw in her eyes then; the reaction is brief, and it disappears just as quickly as he has registered it.

"Is that so?" she drawls with a smirk that shows little worry for his disheveled state. She is not a cold god, however, and wipes away the tear that threatens to stream down his face, before she dips her thumb into the open honey container and places it over his lips as the rest of her fingers curl around his cheek.

"So my steed wants more than a relaxed rut in my temple? Such an insatiable thing you are," she intones, taking a moment to enjoy the sensation and sight of his tongue lapping at the honey on her thumb. He finds some comfort in the sweetness of the gold liquid and is soothed by the tea-like flavor of the henna underneath.

"All this effort to make you work less, and still you bray for more," she continues, eyes sparkling with mischief as she contemplates the silk at his wrists. "Hmm, if that's what you truly desire, then let's put that mouth to good use."

Pegasus is more than willing to fulfill all the implications, so he finds himself rather confused when she leans back and holds his chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes are half-lidded, gazing at him as though she is observing him from a balcony.

"Worship me."

He blinks at the command and his mouth is agape. He isn't entirely certain on how to go about carrying out the task when he is tied to a pillar. There is a low chuckle in her throat as she decides to elaborate.

"Worship me," she repeats. "Convince me, please me, and I will release you from your bonds. Pledge your undying devotion. Prove yourself as my loyal mount and show you are worthy of carrying me forth from the heavens to the realm of man. Praise me and say my name."

There is a pause, uncertainty, as the request seems too easy, but Pegasus manages to utter her name with a shudder.

"Isis..."

She places her arms across her chest and raises a brow with pursed lips, a minute smirk, as though to say "Really?"

I know you did more research than that, Pegasus. Think hard, now.

Pegasus is vexed at the reaction before it clicks. Isis, his Isis and her namesake, is the embodiment of compassion, the goddess of fate, of the throne, of magic, a goddess who works miracles. She is a romantic who adores lit candles and incense, partakes in honey and milk. Isis is a benevolent deity who will do anything for those who revere her and understands the obstacles of the oppressed, for she is a woman who has been oppressed so many times herself. She is a goddess of insurmountable empathy, the epitome of unconditional love.

Praise me and say my name.

But the goddess upon him is not Isis. She is not the goddess of fate and love, but of war and desire. Before him is the goddess who takes up sword and shield, the goddess who rides a chariot pulled by lions and sends her dogs to seek out the survivors, the goddess who consumes wine as though it is water and dashes the empty jugs against her temple's walls, the goddess whose lust burns with all the fire of her star in the sky. She is the goddess who is uncompromising, demands unyielding devotion, and may fulfill your wishes, should you please her so.

"Ishtar," he shivers. The volatile half of her name, what he summoned with his portrait. He groans as she adjusts her hips in acknowledgment, but she makes no move to untie him as her arms stay at their place across her chest.

That's a little bit better.

He is at a loss as she remains still on his person, and she smiles at his bewilderment. She unhinges her arms from her chest and rolls her wrists in a forward wheeling motion with an expectant gaze.

Don't stop. Keep going.

Yet Pegasus is stymied, head flooding with question marks and short-circuiting at the warm pressure between his legs, completely trapped at her core.

"You claim to know what I am," she hints with arched brows and hands on her voluptuous hips in an authoritative stance. "You understand what I am."

With those words, it is as though she has struck him with a bolt of lightning. His proclamation in the museum, his research blended with Frazetta's motif— of course! She did not want him to call upon fragments of herself. She wanted him to call upon her entire identity, her identities! For the woman upon him is not a goddess. She is a goddess amalgam, and she is not one or the other; she is both and all.

"Isis Ishtar," Pegasus begins, and she smiles appreciatively as he draws out both names. "Queen of the Throne; Queen of the Earth; Queen of Heaven..."

Her fingers move from her hips with a nod of approval, hooking behind his neck with a pleasant hum as he lists her many titles. She lifts herself, slightly, and allows him room to start moving his hips again.

Very good.

"The Great Lady," Pegasus continues. He speaks with effort, as the pressure between his legs builds when she begins to move with his thrusts. "Mistress of Magic; Great of Sorcery; Star of the Sea..."

Her eyes develop a soft edge, for these are the titles of Isis, and her fingers stroke his jaw with gratitude and her hips roll as smoothly as the words pour from his mouth. Yet Pegasus knows there is more to her than that.

"Lady of Conflict; Lady of Battle; Lady of Victory," he calls upon Ishtar again, and her eyes shift back to the sharp, starved glint, gripping his hair in balled fists as though holding a pair of reigns with an ecstatic moan. His shaking increases with the harsh tug, and the numbness in his hands almost pales in comparison to the growing intensity of the roll in her hips. He wonders of her thoughts with the erratic change in pace. Did she see battlefields at the words? Did she imagine riding across desert sands and toppling armies in her wake?

"The Many Named and The One Who is All," he strains, sweat dripping down his brow, calling upon her entirety. Yet there is one path, one designation that means more to him than all others, and if this is his goddess amalgam, his beloved Isis Ishtar, then she will understand the weight of the title.

"Redemptress."

There is a pause, a hitch in her breath at the word. The glint of swords and vitality of battle bends to the current of the stars and the sea, and she works to synch her movement with his and massages his scalp. Her lips are so tantalizingly close to his, he can feel her breath, but she is still out of range. He must keep speaking, continue his praise if he is to do right by her and please her in full.

"She Who Is Joy, it is only by your hands that I live so," he starts, eye cloudy and chest heaving, a tired smile to his face as he slows the pace of his thrusts, much to her surprise. "For you perform miracles, and you have performed the greatest magic in that you have given me the gift of life. In this, you have been most generous to me. For in your wake, you not only saved me from the wrath of the Egyptian Gods, but have given me a second chance to truly live."

He can feel her shuddering, shaking, vibrating with the energy, and she looks as though she is close to tears with his words.

"My goddess amalgam," Pegasus intones. "I have committed atrocities, have wronged others for my gain, and paid a terrible price for my deeds. Yet just as I am damned to bear this scar on my face to remind me of my transgressions, I stand as a blessed man— because of you. It is because of your adoration, your devotion, your loyalty that I could move on from that past and truly live. It is a gift none other could give me, for it is the gift of you, Isis Ishtar; it is all you."

"Pegasus," she weeps. Though tears fall from her eyes, her smile is gracious and glowing in the light of her shrine. "Come to me."

With a single pull, she undoes the knot that binds him to the pillar, and all the pinpricks and needles that flow back to his hands cannot contend with the smoldering warmth that rushes through his loins as he greedily wraps his arms around her and brings her flush against his chest. When her mouth parts to accept his tongue, he is flooded with an intoxicating blend, the sweetness of honey and wine over the ketones of lust. So much like that vision from years past as he stood in the wake of the Egyptian Gods, there is a blinding flash of light and his body burns. However, this time, instead of searing pain and waking in overwhelming terror, the flames that engulf him are warm, and he slips into a tranquil stupor.

- 0 – 0 – 0 -

"I can't believe I said all of that."

The mandalas and hieroglyphs of the henna on her hands hide her face. Isis still looks every bit as flawless as she had at the beginning of their session, headdress, fabric, and eyeliner still intact, but her regal air is replaced with one of mortification as she is sitting up against the pillar. The generous (and once insidious) fabric of the loin skirt lays on the ground and sprawls to cover Pegasus' own nether region like a blanket. He chuckles and sips on a glass of wine as he glances up at her from his resting place on her lap.

"I told you that you are divine, but you didn't believe me."

"I still cannot fathom..." she trails off, lifting her hands from her face and reaching for a serving of Aish El-Saraya, breaking off the bread and dipping it in the honey before offering it to Pegasus. "That was all me."

"Did it feel like an 'out of body' experience? Like you lost control?" Pegasus beams, reaching for a piece of Baklava and taking joy in seeing her chew on the offered morsel.

"Not at all!" Isis says with a knitted brow, reaching for her own wine glass. "That is what terrifies me. I never felt more in control in my life than I did in that moment, and I..."

She still cannot find the words, so she instead takes a sip of wine before setting the glass down to reach for the bowl of Om Ali, helping herself to the rich pudding dish with a small spoon.

"Such a curious thing," Pegasus says. "Mayhaps I should start off all my mornings burning incense and leaving dishes of milk as offering?"

She bops the top of his head with the spoon, sulking.

"This isn't a laughing matter. I am in a ludicrous existential crisis whereupon I am questioning my own mortality—"

"Or immortality?" Pegasus interrupts. Isis decides to silence him and forces a spoonful of Om Ali into his grinning maw.

"Mmm!"

"I am not divine," Isis says as she looks down at the eight-pointed-star on her belly, just behind Pegasus' head. She is doing a poor job of convincing herself of the words, and according to his ne'er-do-well smirk, she didn't convince him at all. "I am no goddess nor combination of goddesses. I am a person who bears their names, and I merely found myself moved by your artwork."

"You don't sound too happy with that explanation either," Pegasus teases, dipping his finger into the honey jar and offering it to her above. She doesn't protest and licks the digit as she offers Pegasus another spoonful of Om Ali.

"I have just never felt quite that excited before," Isis says, staring off to the side with a blush and pursed lips. "This place, the candles, the incense, my attire, your artwork, the wine, the food, it all put me in... a mood."

"Then I need to put you in that mood more often," Pegasus drawls, and finds himself mildly upset when she draws the spoon of Om Ali back and feeds herself with the serving, eying him with an irked air.

"Are you really that troubled about what you said?" Pegasus asks, taking another sip of wine.

"I'm troubled about what I made you say!" Isis confesses, worry at her brow. "If I were to be struck down at this moment, I would have the entire pantheon glaring at my heart and hoping for it to sink like a stone. What I forced you to say is sacrilege."

Pegasus' jaw hung open with his eye before he shook his head with a guffaw.

"Sacrilege? My goodness, Isis! You act as though you're the only person who gets excited by sultry talk!" He flips himself over so he is on his stomach and places his lips to her navel. "So you take enjoyment in role-playing, a little ritual and ambiance to go along with the words. There are worse proclivities to have in bed, you know."

She places the Om Ali down and puts her hands on his head, scratching his scalp like one would the backside of a cat with an unsure hum.

"Now, I personally like to entertain the notion that I courted your holiness with my natural-born talent," Pegasus begins, placing intermittent kisses to each point of the star on her womb. He can feel worry pulling the corners of her lips into a frown, and he chuckles.

"If you're still in denial about such things, however, then you can tell yourself that deep, deep down, the magnanimous Isis Ishtar has an egotistical streak."

"That isn't much better, Pegasus."

He lifts himself from her lap, pushing off the ground with his arms so he is level with her face, and the tip of his nose touches hers.

"Then you're going to have to accept that you are divine, and that I am destined to worship you in this life and all others," he completes the quip with a kiss to her forehead. He moves to sit beside her, reclining against the pillar and swiping another sample of Aish El-Saraya. He offers the bread to her and helps himself to his own serving when she accepts. They sit in silence, enjoying the warmth of the person beside them, and Isis glances out the window. The stars and moon are gone, replaced by vibrant magenta hues merging with yellow rays.

"What will happen to the shrine?" Isis asks suddenly. Pegasus makes a mindful sound as he sips on his wine.

"I hadn't thought about it too much," he answers, placing the curve of his index finger to his chin. "I was so focused on building it up in the studio, I didn't have the mind to think about where it would go after the fact. I promised you could have the artifacts for the museum in Cairo. As for all this marble..."

"Are you going to deconstruct it?" Isis is taken aback by how somber her tone is at the thought. Pegasus hums mindfully again as he takes a bite of Baklava.

"In a sense, yes," Pegasus confirms. "It is a shame because I put so much work into it, but it would be a terrible waste to get rid of it all."

"So you're going to keep it?" Isis asks, a tinge of hope at the edge of her voice. Pegasus arches his brow at the tone and smiles over his wine glass.

"It'll be done like Abu Simbel," he decides. "Cut it all up into blocks and put the pieces back together in their new home. We can pick out a room in the castle and decorate it to match the shrine. That way, if you find yourself in 'a mood' again..."

She blushes at the implication and stares into her own wine glass, but she does not deny anything this time.

"It was exciting for me too, you know," he says suddenly, reassuringly, putting an arm around her shoulders and placing his lips to her temple. "And since I painted you successfully, I think we could have a lot of fun experimenting with that as well."

"The painting!" Isis gasps, almost dropping her glass at the realization. It was the entire reason he built the shrine to begin with, the reason he slaved away in his studio for one-and-a-half years, toiling with mediums and styles. "Where is it going?"

"Hmm, another thing I didn't think too much about," Pegasus says, looking to the ceiling and swirling his wine about. A bubble of disconcert forms in her stomach.

I don't think he would want it in the tower with the portrait of...

She silences the thought with a warm smile upon looking into his eye. There was no need for foolish inadequacies. She does not exist for Pegasus to compare or replace. He adores her for everything she is, his undying loyalty and devotion proven on canvas, cemented on the marble of the shrine. She trusts him in whatever decision he will make.

"Oooh, I know!" he says with a snap of his fingers. "It can go in the dining room! It will look splendid there!"

Isis finishes off her glass and shakes her head after she swallows. Perhaps she is mistaken to trust him in all matters pertaining to his artwork.

"Pegasus, you can't hang it in the dining room."

"Why not?" His tone is not one of hurt, but of confusion. "If you have any concerns about it in an open space, I think they're unfounded. You're gorgeous in it, every bit as radiant as you are here in my arms. People will be held in awe! It is as though Frazetta himself blessed my hands for that piece. Why wouldn't you want the world to see you as you are, that beauty, that untamed energy?"

"Because my brothers are flying in to visit and I'm afraid they will go into a fast if they see me in that state."

"... Oh."

Pegasus understands her concerns on the first location, so he opts to hang the portrait in her shrine instead. Like Hieronymus Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights, it is to be a private piece for personal enlightenment. Besides, he reasons—no, decides Isis is far too elusive for the view of common guests. It was by his hands he had painted the Egyptian Gods, his will that brought them to the material plain, and the finest of the pantheon would be for his eye alone.

Isis also didn't stand to have the portrait hung in the ballroom either when he suggested it. Such a pity.

END


Author's Notes: Iconography! Iconography everywhere! Now sit back and have an ice pack to take care of that goose egg I left when I bludgeoned you over the head with it all.

Pegasus is no normal man. The forces that be toyed with him and took his beloved away at the tender age of 17 so he would go to Egypt and serve as the catalyst that began everyone's journey to the End Game with his "invention", Duel Monsters. Pegasus may touch the divine, but as he said often in the story, Isis Ishtar is divine, and it is his hands and his will that can summon the forces behind her powerful names. Such is his talent in the arts, and such is his luck that he channeled the far more intense Ishtar with his tribute as opposed to the more tranquil Isis.

All three chapters are named after works by Frazetta.

From Dusk Till Dawn was the illustration commissioned for the 1996 film directed by Robert Rodriguez, and it is the poster Pegasus saw in the first chapter. Pegasus' interpretation of Isis is not linked to the vampiric subject matter of the film, but to the image of a goddess towering over men, holding dominion over their fate as the earth burns at her will in the backdrop. The snake at her neck reminds him of the double, intertwining serpent scepter held by none other than Ishtar.

Sun Goddess tends to be more obscure as it is not seen by either character or present in the chapter, but the theme of Pegasus' speech is there. She is a goddess that stands at a mountain top with a saber tooth lion as her charge, back arched and arms spread to embrace the sky, one hand open while the other holds a knife. She stands at the peak of her red domain, rules over all, but is willing to sacrifice herself should a cause be great enough to require it of her. Such a piece would remind Pegasus of Isis' mission during Battle City, and the very title Sun Goddess speaks volumes to him, as he announces to the world what Isis is (and more).

The art book Pegasus has in his collection is The Fantastic Art of Frank Frazetta: Volume One. As titled in the final chapter and the namesake of the story, The Egyptian Queen is indeed the cover girl who entices as well as intimidates the viewer, her eyes as ominous as they are tempting. Would you dare to bypass her bloodthirsty leopard and fight the looming guard in the shadows if it meant to partake with her for a night? Only Isis could inspire such dread and desire. She is, as Pegasus claims, his goddess amalgam.

Also, Frazetta's women are positively voluptuous. Mmm hmm.

Thank you for reading.