Ajaman took his keffiyeh off its hook and slipped the white head-cloth over his hair. Ruha stood and straightened it so the long apron hung square across his shoulders. "Stay alert, Ajaman," she said. "I would be disappointed if you let some boy cut your throat."

Ajaman grinned. "Have no fear of that, Ruha," he replied, reaching for his scimitar. "I watch from El Ma'ra's crown. I'll see our enemies from miles away."

Ruha knew the place to which her husband referred. A mile outside the oasis, a lonely spire of yellow sandstone towered more than one hundred feet over the desert. That pinnacle was El Ma'ra Dat-ur Ojhogo, the tall god who lets men sit upon his head.

Keeping her voice low so she would not be overheard, she said, "After dark, I'll bring you apricots and milk."

Ajaman nearly dropped his scabbard belt. "You can't do that!"

"Why not?" the young bride demanded. "Is there any shame in a wife bringing food to her husband?"

Ajaman scowled at the challenge to his authority. "There is enough shame in violating your purdah," he countered.

"The purdah is to keep frightened young brides from returning to their father's khowwan," Ruha said. "I am hardly frightened, and I have no desire to go back to the Mtair Dhafir. You have no need to isolate me."

"I know," Ajaman whispered, his tone losing its earlier sternness. "But if someone should see you-"

"I'll say you told me to bring you supper," Ruha responded slyly.

Seeing that his wife would not be denied, Ajaman sighed. "If all women of the Mtair Dhafir are this willful, perhaps they are the ones who should pay camels the next time they send us a bride."

Ruha smiled, pleased that her new husband was not the type to bully his wife. The young bride had no idea how she could safeguard Ajaman from whatever the vision presaged, but at least she would be with him to watch for ominous signs.