A/N: Call me voyeuristic, but I've always had a morbid curiosity about what Ramses' and Nefertiri's sexual relationship must have been like, in the context of the film. Hauntingly vague and discreetly obvious references like "whenever Ramses took me in his arms" didn't help. Personally, I find Yul Brynner's portrayal of ol' Pharaoh rather delicious (I have something of a soft spot for smoldering-eyed bad boys, particularly when their onscreen sexuality is restricted to a bare torso and discreetly obvious references to taking someone in their arms), and I pretty much had to ask myself whether the character of Nefertiri, perhaps in a moment of unthinking abandon, ever allowed herself to think the same—despite her unapologetic and open disdain for him. This scene I've written, incidentally, is supposed to take place fairly early on in their marriage, perhaps a few months or so.

And, as a last note, my favorite line of Ramses, in the film, is this: "Whether you enjoy it or not is your affair. But I think you will."

She could practically feel the jellied tension in the air, as a trickle of sweat rolled down her perfumed back. Waiting was the worst part, sitting here on the edge of this cursed marriage bed, knowing only that she had been Sent For—that malignant, hateful phrase uttered so often by his messenger—and that he soon would come.

She tried not to let herself slip into the other dream, that it was Moses she was waiting for, Moses with his chiseled face and gentle, rumbling voice. Like a rock he had been, carved from stone. But he had always yielded before her—stone become flesh, cold marble becoming warm, soft lips. His kiss was but a faint memory now, but she felt a tingle on her lips still whenever she thought of it.

Moses, Moses, she thought in anguish, picturing his face, his arms, his strong, wiry body.

What would it have been like, for them to become one? Beautiful, she thought, much better than this, this awful waiting, being treated like some kind of amusing trophy. She knew with a woman's instinct that this was all she was to Ramses, a shining prize, gilded, on a shelf. He took his prize to admire it whenever he desired—and gladly threw the fact in her face.

"I detest you! Bah!" she whispered, and spat upon the floor.

It was then she heard his step on the polished marble, and hastily wiped away the spittle on the floor with the sole of her sandal. Why she was unwilling to let him see it, she couldn't have said. She only wanted to get this over with, and quickly.

She pasted an ingratiating smile on her face, one that she knew he would know was false. "Come to ravish me again, O Pharaoh?" she asked bitingly.

"Not to ravish, my sweet," he said off-handedly, as the doors closed behind him and he stripped off his royal ornaments, "but to take my rightful fill of that wealth which remains suspended in front of me." He turned his back to her, buttocks rippling a little as he removed his garment and let it drop to his feet.

"Ha!" she said, but her voice was dull. There was a fleeting moment, while his back was still turned, when she let her eyes wander over his well-formed shoulders, his powerful back and legs. She immediately hated herself for it. Curse you, Moses, for leaving me in his hands.

Slowly, deliberately he turned, that odiously smug smile carved into his visage, his manhood already rising with anticipation of what was to come. She tore her eyes away from it, sighing the bored sigh of one who endures merely out of long-suffering, counting on it to jab him. She wasn't disappointed when she saw him flinch a little—he never failed to be at least a little barbed by her coldness, no matter how well he attempted to disguise it beneath his smug exterior.

"Go on and get it over with, Ramses, if you must," she said with a roll of her eyes, and his mouth tightened into a thin line. One more point for me, Ramses. We'll see who wins this clever little game.

Up he came, quickly, pinning her arms above her head and putting his face close to hers as he straddled her lightly clad body. "One of these days," he said, his nostrils flaring, "you will look forward to these little sessions, my dove. In fact I think that perhaps you already do so, and merely wish to hide it from me with your poison barbs."

Her color rose as she struggled to think of a retort. For some reason with his body pressed against hers, she could think of none, and he smiled. Very well, Ramses. The score is still two-to-one, however, and I am on the winning side.

He gripped her filmy gown with one hand, and she barely held back a gasp as it was torn in two and flung unceremoniously onto the floor.

"You'll pay for that, Ramses," she said between clenched teeth. "That was one of my favorites."

"You shall have thousands of others," he said, nipping a little at the skin above her breasts, making her wince. "Perhaps in the future you will take care not to wear your favorite gowns when I call for you."

"Oh!" she snarled, her fingers curling into claws. She could do nothing, however, for her hands were still pinned firmly above her head, held fast by a strength that far outmatched her own. Two-to-two, Ramses. A draw, until you make a mistake and I rake these nails into your back far deeper than even you are used to. I'll draw blood from those powerful arms. I'll leave fingernail scars all over your conceited face. We'll see who looks smug then.

The breath was driven from her body as he thrust that spear of flesh into her center, pain and despicable pleasure mixed into one. She drew her lips together to keep from crying out.

Her eyes closed, she tried to imagine, as she had at the beginning, that it was Moses, but it was impossible, feeling Ramses' hot breath on her face and smelling the male scent of Ramses, which was entirely different from that of Moses. Ramses' scent was a thick, overpowering musk, mixed with his sweat, the smell of one who was accustomed to being in control. Moses' scent had been much less assailing to the nostrils, more subtle and contained. Everything about him had been more peaceful, more gentle. Even the passion of his kisses had carried a kind of reverence to them. Ramses' attentions were always violent, always frenzied. He vaguely reminded her of an angry bull.

She could not summon the image of Moses' face. She knew it was Ramses atop her, no matter how much she tried to imagine otherwise, and she was furious.

Once, weeks past, in a fit of daring to spite him, she had screamed out Moses' name, and he had struck her hard across the face, so hard that there was an ugly bruise the next day that could just barely be covered by thick layers of powder and a discreetly different styling of her hair. He had apologized later, which had seemed unusual, but he was stiff and business-like about it, making her wonder whether or not he really meant it. He made it clear, however, that if she ever even breathed another man's name while he was taking his fill of her, especially He Who Would Remain Nameless, he would probably kill her, and he made no apologies for that.

How she hated him! Despicable man!

Again and again he pounded away at her insides, like the waves of the Nile in a strong wind, furiously thrusting into the core of her body, breathing hotly and heavily against her face, her throat. Determined to get something out of this, suddenly, she raised her legs up a little so that he might go even deeper, and a little lightning-bolt of pleasure coursed through her as his pelvis ground against hers. Suddenly getting a kind of perverse, twisted thrill out of the fact that she was almost entirely at his mercy, this powerfully-built man who wanted her, who could very well take her life if he so chose, Nefertiri let out first one cry, and then another, and then another. Louder and louder her cries grew, until they were very nearly screams. This drove him on to a kind of wild frenzy, even greater than before, until she felt a coursing outward burst of wave after wave of ecstasy, and screamed out, "RAMSES!"

He spilled inside of her then, shot his white-hot seed into her womb, and she knew with almost perfect clarity, some deeply primal intuition, that there would be a child from this night's work. She was unsure whether to be joyous or sickened.

He collapsed on top of her, taking deep, fatigued breaths. Feeling strangely connected to him—not just by the flesh that still lay embedded inside her body—she allowed him to rest for a moment before pushing him off of her and rolling over so that all he could see of her was her back.

Between his deep breaths, she heard him chuckle, and in that moment, all of her hatred returned. He couldn't simply be content, could he? He had to rub salt into the wound, make it fester and give it oozing pustules.

"Oh, I hate you," she said in a low voice, and then he laughed out loud. She clenched her fists, ready to turn around and strike him, but he was too quick for her. His arm snaked around her body, pinning her arms to her sides. "So soon the serpent returns to take the place of the one who cried out my name in passion," he said grinningly into her ear, and she wriggled, trying to get free. His slick, now-limp manhood slid against her buttocks, and she tried to kick backwards, like a mule. The soft sheets hampered her feet, and his legs wound around hers to prevent movement. She was trussed up by his body like a prisoner of war.

After a moment she ceased her wild struggling and her anger turned to maddened despondency. She relaxed, her temper flaring up again momentarily when he lightly squeezed her breast with one hand. "Remember this night, my sweet," he murmured, that smugness she so longed to wipe from his lips oozing from every word. "Remember that you were mine—mine!— and will always be mine, and that you knew it with such clarity of vision that you cried out the name of the one you belong to. Not He Who Shall Remain Nameless. Not any other. But Ramses, Pharaoh of all Egypt, king of the world and of your body and mind. Think on that, my pretty dove, and sleep your hatred away. Perhaps by morning you will remember that it is not well to hate your husband, and perhaps you shall scream out my name again when I call for you next."

"Not likely," she said between gritted teeth, and he laughed again. "Damn you, Ramses. Damn you."

"Sleep now in this bed," he said, releasing her. "Dream pleasant dreams, O fairest Queen of the Nile." His laughter echoed in her mind long after he had clothed himself and gone, leaving her naked and trembling with rage, staring at the ruined gown on the polished floor.

You won this night, Ramses. But there will be other nights to play our game. And I won't be caught so easily next time.

Finis