The coronation torches were still lit when the twelfth dawn of the new kingdom arrived in hues both pink and bronze, like the blush on the cheek of Aphrodite. Fragrant the morning fires that signaled the waking of the marketplace with its spices, food, and perfumes. Fragrant the wind that snapped the flags of the approaching caravan.
     Seventy-two maidens danced upon the clouds, their feet lighter than air, their wings seeming no more than brilliantly colored veils around their shoulders and waists. The morning market calmed its chaos as business dissolved into wonder in their coming, in their dancing, in their singing.
     One hundred and forty four hands tossed rose petals the color of the dawn -- pink, blushed orange, deep red, fiery crimson -- and dark eyes in the multi-hued visages of the Houri of Dreams enamored and entranced those who watched below, watched the procession of miracles.
     And in the middle of this wonder, in the midst of spectacle and phantasm, another of their kind, a maiden of maidens, sat upon a gilded pillow held aloft upon the back of a winged leopard. Clothed in white, she was peerless among the peerless, pure among the inviolate.
     Upon the High King's palace this caravan landed, the procession of Houri continuing their dance around and between the many pillars and columns of the royal atrium. By gentle hands, they led their lady from the back of the leopard and ended their singing, their dancing, in an unisoned kneel.