THIRTY-SIX
Philemon awoke to the sweet smell of the soft girl in his arms, and for a moment, he wondered whether he had died in his sleep and flown direct to heaven. But Anahita was no houri. She was a living, breathing woman he would do anything to keep.
A woman who deserved a proper husband, not one who would turn back into a frog when the sun rose. And she did not deserve to wake up beside his slimy self today, after the pleasures of last night. He should leave now, and return to his hiding place among the water skins to await their journey home.
He must have jostled her, for her hand shot out and grabbed his arm. "Don't go." Her oasis eyes reproached him.
"It is nearly dawn, and you know what happens then," he said, pulling away.
"Make love to me once more. There is still time
