Aştarte

Kneel, little priestess. You have let the wine grow warm and the incense burn low.”

“Have you forgotten the rites that keep My hips oiled and My thirst slaked?”

“Pour the red wine into My chalice—three times, for the blood, the womb, and the mouth. Burn sweet myrrh for My name. Offer fat and figs, and the sweat from between your breasts.”

“Who will sing Me wild hymns at moonrise? Who will kiss the soles of My feet, polished with sacred oils?”

“Will you not open your thighs to the temple floor and offer yourself as My altar?”

“I am Aştarte, Mistress of Battle and Blossom. Your goddess. Your hunger. Your ruin. And if you wish to taste My favor, you will give Me more.”