---
The leather licked into flame. She fed it dry grass wads she picked from the desert bushes, then bits of shaken reed fluff, then branches of cut strap. The fire grew big and hard and clean. She walked it to the first pile in her two hands and set the edge.
She blew once. It caught on. Oil from belts and straps woke the flame. Hair hissed. Leather shrank. It smelled bad at first. Then it smelled like a sad cook fire.
She moved to the second pile and did the same. The heat found its own road through cloth and hair and scraps. The moon watched the ants bodies burning. The wind leaned the flame one way and then the other and then let it go up straight.
"If he tries to run," Kai said, "take his feet without any hesitation."
Azhara walked back and took the leash again. She planted her feet and tested the feel of a man on a string with no arms. "I will not wrap it around his throat until he tries anything funny ," she said, not joking.
