Having brought forth a populace of lifeless subjects from the depths of Shiva’s divining pool, Ra had ordered them to rise and serve her, and they had obeyed. She had peopled her temple and her soth. Her power was limitless. During the years of MeerRa’s reign in Rhyman, he had diligently adhered to the precepts of his templars and would never have dared to indulge in luxuries simply because he was Meer. Every priceless ornament he’d ever worn had been worn out of sacred duty. And on those annual feast days on which he’d worn nothing but gold paint while he sat on his altar like a gilded idol listening to the wealthiest petitioners, he’d submitted to the ritual of being bathed and painted in the golden grease because it was his duty, not because it was his right. But Ra was done with all that. She was a god, and she would do as she pleased. Instead of reserving the ritual for a single day of the year, Ra decreed that she was to be painted in gold every morning with the rising of the sun over the crags of Munt Zelfaal, so that not even the radiance of daylight could rival her.
