Kasmut tugged back the tapestry—adorned with an image of his Pharaoh hunting an oryx—and peered into the dark courtyard. Only one torch burned; the others had been doused by the wind, and no one was awake to tend them. It was quiet, save for the relentless trill of a nightjar roosting beneath a thorny shrub. Perhaps it is calling its mate, Kasmut thought bitterly. If only I were a bird! I could fly far away from—

“Well?” His Pharaoh’s deep timbre seemed to shake the ground beneath Kasmut’s feet. It was a voice that commanded an army thousands strong, but most importantly, it steered Kasmut. Milfonnos’ voice preceded his every move, whether he liked it or not.

Kasmut sighed, releasing the tapestry. “It is quiet, Pharaoh. Not a soul in sight. Just a bird.”

Resting his palms on the altar, Milfonnos squinted at the Book of Heka. He had been struggling to read since the tumors invaded his sinus cavity and compressed the optic nerve in his right eye.

Kasmut didn’t bother to glance at the page—he couldn’t read even with perfect eyesight. He would never say so out loud, but these days, his Pharaoh looked more like a man than the godhead. Once, Milfonnos was as muscular as an ox, but now he was as slight as a jackal, the sickness eating the meat off his bones. The ostentatious leopard pelt draped over his drooping shoulders made him look even smaller. They had killed the leopard together, riding side-by-side on camelback. Kasmut had pulled back his bow string first, but it was Milfonnos who cut the dying big cat’s throat.

“Pharaoh?”

“Silence, Kas. I’m reading.” Milfonnos reached for the ruby resting beside the book. It was the largest gem Kasmut had ever seen—as big as his palm and heavier than a gurma fruit. As Milfonnos held it up, the gem reflected the candlelight in a kaleidoscope of refracted pinpoints. “Once I start, no one may enter this room. Do you understand?”

Kasmut bit his lip, resting his hand on the scimitar at his hip. He hadn’t minded the talk about the magical spell that could make his Pharaoh immortal, both curing his disease and making him invulnerable. But now that the book had been found and the day of the ceremony had arrived, Kasmut wasn’t so sure. “Why must we start at all?”

“If we do not do something soon, there will be no reason to begin. Time is running out.” Milfonnos sighed. He tapped the golden armbands on his thin upper arms, the bangles resting in the crook of his elbows. “Even these cannot protect me anymore.” The Pharaoh turned to his loyal bodyguard, the fighter he had known since childhood. “You can wait outside, if you’d like.” He gestured to the door, which they had blockaded with a wooden chair with legs carved to resemble a lion’s. “You don’t need to see this.”

The thought made Kasmut even more uneasy. He didn’t want Milfonnos to be alone, especially if he had to straddle the boundary between the Duat and the living world. “And leave you alone to traverse the lake of fire or scale the iron walls?” Kasmut snorted. “I’ll stay. I am your faithful servant.”

Milfonnos nodded, steeling himself for what was coming. The Pharaoh had researched the spell that would both restore his vitality and keep him safe, but he couldn’t be certain that the magic would work. “Thank you, Kas,” he said, before turning abruptly to the book resting on the altar, scanning the instructions he had memorized months ago.

He placed the gemstone back on the altar; as before, it caught the light, bands of crimson stretching across the rough-hewn worktop. Kasmut shuddered, thinking of the blood that would soon dampen the altar. Milfonnos’ blood. “Once I start, you mustn’t interfere,” Milfonnos reminded him.

“I won’t,” Kasmut promised.

Milfonnos scoffed. “You blither like a woman if I so much as scrape a knee.”

“Because it’ll be my head if you’re hurt,” Kasmut grumbled.

Milfonnos clapped a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder. “No one is going to cut off your head, Kas. Not while I’m around.”

What if you perish?

Kasmut swallowed the question where it sat like a stone in his gullet. He mustn’t doubt his Pharaoh, at least not aloud. He didn’t doubt that Ra would rouse the sun come morning, or that Osiris would greet him when he closed his eyes for the last time, so he could not doubt Milfonnos.

Resigned, Milfonnos heaved a sigh. “Let’s begin. Give me your scimitar.”

Kasmut’s hand flexed about the hilt. “I—”

Milfonnos shot him a dark look, baring his squarish teeth like an animal. “Now,” he snarled. “Listen to your Pharaoh.” This close, Kasmut could see the dark circles beneath Milfonnos’ bloodshot eyes. When had he last slept?

Kasmut slowly drew the weapon from its scabbard, handing it over hilt-first. Milfonnos’ face paled as he hefted it, but his expression remained impassive. “Will it be worth it?” Kasmut asked, the words spewing out of his mouth like vomit. If he kept the Pharaoh talking, perhaps the ritual could be delayed for one more minute, one more hour, one more night.

“If you could be impervious to a knife in the back, wouldn’t you do it?” Milfonnos countered.

“If you keep your head on a swivel, there’s no need to bring magic into it,” Kasmut remarked.

Milfonnos chuckled. “I have too many enemies. Surely, my head can’t spin fast enough.”

Without another word, Milfonnos cut his palm open with the scimitar and muttered in a language Kasmut didn’t understand. The words seemed to bounce off Milfonnos’ tongue, the vowels no louder than an exhale.

Thick droplets of crimson speckled the book’s page. Milfonnos swayed.

Suddenly, the door buckled inward, the chair skittering across the mud tiles. When it toppled over, Milfonnos’ head snapped toward the sound. “No!” he cried as men in black robes and keffiyeh poured through the doorway. One raised a sword high, the sleeve pooling down his arm.

“The Amun Henet!” Kasmut shouted, recognizing the winged sigil burned onto the hand of the closest invader; they’d come for the ruby. He snatched his scimitar from his Pharaoh’s hand to defend him. He knew he couldn’t take on all five men, but he would try. For Milfonnos. “We have to go, Milfonnos!” He hadn’t called him by his name since they were children.

Milfonnos picked up the ruby with his bleeding hand, holding it aloft. Not even the Amun Henet could stop him. Blood trickled down his arm, not unlike the Nile traversing the desert. He shouted in the strange language of magic as Kasmut’s sword clashed with many.

“Stop him!” one of the men shouted, his voice familiar. Where did Kasmut know that voice? It brought to mind memories of long diatribes over roasted mutton and copious glasses of beer.

“The gemstone!” another cried. “He has stolen it from Amun-Ra’s temple!”

Milfonnos had done nothing of the sort. It was Kasmut who had ridden into the temple complex at Karnak, his way lit only by the sliver of the moon. It was Kasmut who had subdued the priests who lived there, whispering apologies as he tied their hands and feet. It was Kasmut who had entered the chapel, prying the ruby out of the obelisk with his knife.

Kasmut parried a wildly swinging scimitar, elbowing the attacker in the face. His nose crunched. Before Kasmut could swing his weapon again, he was overpowered by three men and driven to his knees. Someone struck him in the temple with the hilt of their scimitar and his ears rang. Heat scored along his back, and then he fell forward, his body numb.

He caught one last glimpse of Milfonnos. Perhaps it was the concussion, but he swore the Pharaoh floated a few feet above the floor, the ruby embedded in the bleeding socket of his right eye. The gem glowed. As Kasmut’s vision darkened, the Amun Henet surrounded the Pharaoh, their blades smeared with red.

Kasmut was dead, a growing pool of blood spreading beneath his prone corpse. Milfonnos was not sad, even though they had suckled at the breast of the same wet nurse and learned to walk while holding hands.

Milfonnos only felt euphoria.

The Amun Henet swarmed around him like ants on honey, but he was only dimly aware of the blade placed against his throat, dimpling the skin. When it sawed through his jugular, he felt no pain, only the warmth of blood soaking his leopard-spotted mantle. The static of magic raised the hair on his arms and scalp.

It worked.

He should be dead like poor Kasmut, but he felt only elation. He reached up, feeling the new skin of his throat. Blades plunged into his belly, but it was no more painful than a bee sting. He glanced down at the golden armbands encircling his upper arms, flexing his muscles and marveling at the return of his former body. He had always been aware of the dim thrum of protection magic contained within the armbands, but now they were energized, their abilities amplified by the gemstone and the ritual.

“How are you doing this?” the apparent leader of the Amun Henet shouted in his face, spittle dappling the Pharaoh’s cheeks. Milfonnos recognized him—Rahil, one of his supposedly devoted ministers. “What have you done?”

Milfonnos laughed, powerful magic crackling beneath his skin. “I have done what had to be done.”

Rahil blanched, fear tingeing his eyes. “This is blasphemy—an affront to the gods. No one can escape death, not even you, Milfonnos.” For a moment, Milfonnos could hear the honest concern in Rahil’s voice. Even now, he feared for his Pharaoh’s precious soul. A small part of him heard the words, felt the truth in them, but the rest of him knew that without this power, he was doomed. Besides, he was a Pharaoh—he deserved to live forever. Rahil could never understand.

“I am a god. Can’t you see?” Milfonnos felt drunk and giddy. For months, he had been exhausted, too weak to do much more than slump upon his throne, waving away subjects asking for more, more, more. Now, he felt like he could traverse the unforgiving desert, as hardy as a camel. He gripped the hilt of one of the scimitars embedded in his belly, pulling it free. His blood coated the blade, glinting in the candlelight, and Milfonnos triumphantly held the blade aloft.

“You are no god,” Rahil snarled. Quick as a snake, the Amun Henet leader dug his fingers into Milfonnos’ eye socket. The gem shifted and Milfonnos dropped the sword to grab for Rahil’s wrist. As soon as he touched Rahil’s bare skin, his palm sizzled and blistered as though he’d grabbed a piece of hot coal.

Rahil’s lip quirked. “Do you feel that? That is power endowed by the gods.” He cupped the Pharaoh’s cheek with his palm.

Blisters erupted on Milfonnos’ face, the pustules bursting. He tried to open his mouth to speak—to scream—but his lips were melting.

Rahil’s dexterous fingers attempted to pluck the ruby from Milfonnos’ eye socket, and the gemstone cracked—Rahil holding a chunk aloft in triumph. Milfonnos’ vision doubled, and the pain was immediate as the magic rebounded. As tumors filled his lungs, he found that he could not breathe. Milfonnos reached for the magical armbands he still wore, seeking the meager protection he had left.

The other Amun Henet quickly pinned the Pharaoh’s arms as Rahil held the gem up, the ruby drenched in scarlet. Even with the echo of powerful magic still coursing through his veins, Milfonnos could not escape their clutches. When Rahil struck again with his blade, the Pharaoh crumbled. Pain came like a rolling wave.