She is irrefutably sent of Set, he thinks, as he presses the flat faces of his teeth where he wanted so badly to plant them firm enough to mark her as Antares had Sayyida. His eyes are dark, scalding, burning with the agony of refusing himself the appropriate answer for such a tease as leading him by her haunches like she had so recklessly done. The dying of her flames only make her the more potent, meant that she had been torturing him for too long for his sanity to bear it without response.

It could have been so easy, he mourns. So easy to take what she dangled before him as though he could not--- no. No he could not let his mind wander into those inky black places. He is too near her now, inhaling the warmth of her flesh as he slipped his mask to let a little of the hellfire peek through. He shows her what the Priestess of Min had been so frightened of, had made it clear he was to never indulge again in the body of a woman. He was to only take those made for the brutality of one accustomed to killing, not loving. It had made him laugh when Antares confided that he deemed himself broken for love.

The High Prince hadn’t known a fraction.

She turns back to reach for him even then, sighting the threat of his body and his wanting behind the earnest attempts to shield her from himself. Even still, his flesh shudders where her breath touches him like a fluttering mad thing. He almost groans, but he manages to choke it back, removing himself from the branding-iron-like incense of Qetesh’s fire. "I am not so fragile to break from a single glance," she tries to coax, the slithering of her words threatening to ldraw to sleep the guards on the rampart of his mental wall. She snakes into his ears a false ease, teasing him in a whole other manner.

It makes him wild, mad almost, to continue to refuse himself what she (even unwittingly) offers with her entreating reaching and her poorly placed flanks all but under his nose. She is no child to mistake him, surely. Surely she is not such an innocent as to misunderstand what he warns her from. "Press what Atair," she asks, though. Press what? Press what?

Press What?!
He is choking on the innocence, on the naive persistence.
"What world do you wish to explore then? Is it beyond the dunes here?"

He groans at last, stamping hard his hind hoof and lashing his tail before he lifts it high, striking out a single forehoof to paw at the shifting sand beneath his feet. “I would press my claim into your flesh where you felt my teeth and take you as my brother has taken Sayyida.” In both ways, in every way, but he does not say that initially. Not out loud yet. “I would take you, nevermind that you cannot fathom what I am. I would take you, nevermind that your Sakhmet thinks you are hers to keep.” His eyes grow dark again.

“The world of flesh, Eness. Beneath Nut and over Geb, I would sew my soul to you, if I did not think you deserved better than would come of my taking. And there is a moment where the want could not be denied in his face. I would feed the fires of Qetesh in you, match them with the flames of Min that burn in me -- give you every aching atom of my being...”

He floats, high on the adrenaline of keeping this woman at bay, the demon at bay, the fires of Min fraying every binding cord of his control as the flames in her own body called out to him. “You burn me to my core, acting with wanton naivety, prying this from me as I go half mad to keep you whole and unto your own mastery.” He had never begged. Not in battle and not in private, but he knows now why his brother could not withhold himself from Sayyida and he wants to wail to the stars that they had beset upon her the demon of his inner self - that they’d be so cruel as to parade her before him and know he could not partake.

“You say you are not so fragile to break from a single glance, Eness, but I tell you it has nothing to do with your fragility of form.” He flattens his ears, stepping a single step back from her, baring his teeth not in anger but in fear for her. “And everything to do with that of my self-control.”