Pharai
The desert heat was hard enough to crack bone, but Suetekh was growing cold.
It started the moment Hathor's gentle amber light receded from his hands. The divine flesh on his palms had knit together beneath my torn linen wraps, but the dark, anti-divine poison from the cursed bronze chains had leaked deeper into his veins. His golden eyes—usually burning like twin fires—turned dull and translucent, like amber buried under gray ash. Around his nostrils, his skin took on a sickening, greyish cast, and the fierce temperature that normally radiated off him in waves began to drop precipitously.
He swayed.
A god of storms did not sway. But Suetekh stumbled, his knee nearly buckling on the sun-baked gravel before he caught himself against the hood of the lead G-Wagen. The thick steel groaned under his weight, leaving a dent in the dust-coated metal.
