“She’s my love,” Korbyn said. “Once her soul inhabits your body, we will be together again.” As Liyana stared at him, he lifted the waterskins out of her hands. “Allow me.” He headed toward the well.

Belatedly she hefted the pack onto her back. Her wounded arm sent sharp stabs of pain up into her shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she followed her goddess’s lover across the oasis and then into the desert.

The sun seared the desert. Liyana felt the heat rise through the soles of her feet, even through her beautiful shoes, and she felt the wind wick the moisture from her skin as it scoured her with sand. Over the distant dunes, the air waved and crinkled. She placed one foot in front of the other and tried not to think about how much her muscles still hurt from her endless dance or how much her arm throbbed from her wounds.

Korbyn seemed untouched by the heat. “Once, Bayla was the beloved of Sendar, the god of the Horse Clan, but he valued his horses more than her and lost her affection. He was irate when he learned that Bayla had chosen me to replace him, and he challenged me to three races. One, his choice of mounts. Two, my choice. And three, we would both choose our favorite.”

Every time Liyana breathed, her lungs felt raw, scraped from the sand she had inhaled during the storm. She tried to focus on his words to distract herself. “You have horses in the Dreaming?” Talking felt like scratching her larynx with a fistful of needles.

“We have whatever we wish in the Dreaming. One’s will determines one’s surroundings . . . unless, of course, you encounter someone with a stronger will. Keleena of the Sparrow Clan is so indecisive that the land changes around her like the surface of the sea. You can grow a city around her without . . . But I was telling you about the three races.”

On the horizon, the air wrinkled in the heat. Sand clung to her feet as she trudged with Korbyn up and down the red dunes. She flailed in the looser sand.

“First race, he chose horses. I lost dismally. Second race, we flew.”

She yanked her feet out of the sand with each step. It felt as if the dunes wanted to pull her down into them, sweep her into their slopes, until she was a part of the sandscape. “You can fly?”

“I cannot fly here.” He raised and lowered his arms as if to show her. His sleeves billowed. She thought of his totem animal, the raven, and she thought it was apt. He did move like a bird, fast and alert. “But in the Dreaming, there are no rules. It’s a place of pure spirit.”

She fell to one knee at the top of a dune. Struggling, she stood again and continued down the slope, jarring her knees painfully with each step. “Why would you ever want to leave?”

He grinned and raced down the slope past her. “For this! All this!” He stretched his arms wide as if to encompass the whole world, and then as she descended the dune, he caught her hand and pressed the top of her hand to his lips. “And this.” Releasing her, he unwound the bandage from his burnt hand. “Even this.”

She still felt his kiss tingling on her hand. Trying to ignore the sensation, she studied his burn. The blisters looked blotchy. “It needs more aloe.” She swung her pack off her back, and pain shot down her arm from the gashes, making her breath hiss.

He waved her away. “I can fix it.” His face became blank as he held his palm steady—a trance again. She marveled at how quickly he could enter a trance. Sweat beaded on his forehead and instantly dried. His hand shook, but he did not move. Slow at first and then faster, the skin smoothed, and the red faded. In a few minutes, his palm was smooth and perfect.

“You can heal,” she said flatly.

He beamed at her. “I have many tricks.”

She clenched her jaw. Of course he could heal. Even Talu had some basic skill with mending cuts and bruises. Liyana should have realized it sooner, but she hadn’t been thinking straight ever since Korbyn had walked out of the swirling sand. In as polite a voice as she could manage, she asked, “Would it be possible for you to heal me?”

“My pleasure.” He bowed.

Liyana rolled up her sleeve and unwound the bandages covering the claw marks. Red and oozing, the gashes were worse than before.

Korbyn flinched.

“Sand wolf,” she explained.

His voice was gentle. “I am sorry.”

“Sand wolves always come,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.” Granted, if he had arrived a day earlier, it wouldn’t have happened—and her clan wouldn’t have left, thinking her unworthy. She didn’t say that out loud.

He took her hand in his left hand and then placed his right hand on her shoulder. He drew close to her. She didn’t move. She knew from Talu that proximity helped the magic. Still, being healed by Korbyn was very different from being healed by Talu. His body pressed against her so closely that she could feel him inhale and exhale. His breathing slowed, deep and steady.

She felt the skin on her arm tingle, and then heat spread from her shoulder to her elbow to her fingers. As she watched, the dried blood dissolved, and a thick scab wove itself over the wounds. Fresh skin blossomed at the edges of the scab, and then it began to spread bit by bit. She thought of a weaver, adding row after row to a blanket. New smooth skin inched across her arm, shrinking the wounds. Watching her skin knit itself whole, she lost track of time. It felt as if the world had shrunk to just her and Korbyn. She breathed in time with him.

Then he released her. Her arm was perfect, as smooth as sand-scoured stone. She ran her fingers over her skin and marveled at it. No scabs. No scars. No trace of the gashes. She had no pain in her arms or in the rest of her, either. She felt wonderful throughout, as if she had drunk her fill from a crystal clear well.

Korbyn staggered backward. His chest heaved as if he’d run for miles.

“Are you all right?” Liyana asked, reaching toward him but stopping just short of touching him, remembering he was a god. He might not want a mortal’s assistance.

He pitched forward. She caught him in her arms, sagging to her knees as his full weight sank against her. “Korbyn!” Oh, sweet goddess! Cradling him, she lowered him onto the sand. “Korbyn, are you all right? Korbyn!”

She checked his pulse. Still beating. He wasn’t dead. Just . . . asleep? Unconscious? “Wake up!” she said. “Please, wake up!”

He didn’t. But he continued to breathe, evenly and softly.

The sun beat down on them. Liyana checked his pulse again. His skin felt warm. “Oh, Bayla, what do I do?” She should get him into the shade. Working quickly, she pulled her tent out of her pack, and she unbent the poles. In a few minutes, she had pitched the tent. The rip fluttered in the wind.

“Korbyn?” She knelt next to him. “The tent is ready.” She touched his shoulder. She felt the curve of his muscles and noticed how strong he was. She snatched her hand away.

Still he didn’t wake.

“You’ll sleep better in the shade,” she said.

No response.

Gently she shook his shoulder. “You can’t stay out here.” She contemplated him for a moment. He looked so peaceful and so vulnerable and so beautiful. “Forgive this indignity.” Grabbing him under the armpits, Liyana dragged him toward the tent. As she braced herself to hoist him inside, his eyes popped open.

“What are you doing?” he asked in an ordinary voice.

She released him so fast that she fell backward onto her rear. “You’re all right!” Her heart beat so hard that it almost hurt. “I thought . . . You didn’t . . .”

“Too much healing. Plus there was the well water and the fire. . . .” He made a face. “So much for my illusion of omnipotence. You’re still impressed with me, right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said automatically.

“Excellent.” He crawled into the tent. “Then let’s pretend this never happened.”