Free Stealing Fire by Jo Graham

had even less patience for it. I thought that a man who had so much time to spend on the perfection of his muscles must not do a lot of work.
    He was very accommodating, helpful and eager to go over the tax rolls with Ptolemy, delighted for us to be his guest at any number of entertainments. There were banquets and symposia, concerts and dancers. Of course Manetho and the other Egyptians were not invited. Cleomenes had kept the Persian custom of not including the natives. I thought that perhaps that was not wise, but Ptolemy kept his own counsel and attended each entertainment, though his good humor seemed to be wearing a little thin. He should rather spend time with the tax rolls and the other work of the governor. I suspected he was being diverted.
    The eighth day in Memphis, Cleomenes arranged a hunt in the desert. We left very early. The sun had not yet risen above the wadis of the eastern side of the river and the sky had only begun to pale. The men stood about in little groups, laughing and sharing a jest and bread. I dismounted and left my horse with a groom.
    Ptolemy looked up and offered me a flask. “Sport of the pharaohs, eh?” He was dressed in chiton and leather, not full harness. Who could walk about the desert during the day wearing steel?
    I took it and drank sparingly. Strong unwatered wine for breakfast made my head spin. I shrugged. “Hunting is hunting, my Lord. And it is best to be seen to do as the pharaohs, of course.” It had occurred to me that at least Ptolemy could appear a proper overlord.
    “It will be good hunting, I hope,” Ptolemy said. “But it's the cats I'm not used to.” A short distance away, three cheetahs paced on light leads of scarlet leather, their handlers beside them.
    I raised an eyebrow. Their thin leather cords wouldn't stop the cheetahs for an instant if they wanted to go. It was their training that kept them within the bounds of the leads. “I've never hunted with them before,” I said, my eyes following their pacing, lean muscles moving beneath perfect, mottled hides.
    “You can see them in the paintings on temple walls, back a thousand years,” Ptolemy said. “But they don't capture the beauty of the animals.”
    “Not hardly,” I said, admiring the way one sleek female turned, her graceful tail carried high like a pleased housecat. She looked at me then, and I did not look away. Green eyes met mine, as though it were she who assessed me. I tilted my chin, but did not break the stare.
    She moved toward me then, her handler following, telling her to stop. Ptolemy reached for the knife at his belt reflexively.
    I looked into her eyes. I thought that she might be the mother of cats herself, so steady and intelligent was her gaze.
    “My Lord, don't move,” the handler said as the cheetah reared up on her hind legs, resting her forepaws on my shoulders. Her claws pricked through the linen of my chiton, just barely testing the skin, her green eyes raised to mine, her massive jaws almost at my throat.
    I was not afraid, and I did not need the handler to tell me that. She looked at me keenly, measuringly, her hot breath against my face. And yet I felt no menace in her, only curiosity.
    “No, my Lord,” the handler said again, as I heard the scrape of Ptolemy drawing. “Wait.”
    She bent her head, butting at my chin with the soft fur of the top of her head, nudging at me like a cat. I leaned forward, butting back with my chin at the top of her head, my cheek rubbing against her. For a moment we stood thus, like lovers locked in an embrace.
    Then she disengaged, her paws leaving my shoulders as she dropped down and ambled a few steps away, where she sat down unconcernedly to wash.
    Ptolemy let out a breath, his sword in hand. “That was… interesting.”
    The handler was looking at me closely. “She wanted to see you, my Lord. And you must never run from a cat.”
    “I know,” I said, my eyes still following her with admiration. “She's gorgeous.”
    The