Walking along the dusty road under the full moon, Ares fantasized about Iphicles, remembering their first meeting. He'd seen the king on the battlefield, leading his troops to victory over the Mycenaeans. Instead of taking him on the body-strewn plain, however, as he usually did, the god waited until the mortal came to him. For some reason, this capitulation mattered. He didn't wait long. Iphicles, gore-smeared and ecstatic over his first royal triumph on the field of war, burst into Ares' temple, leaving a trail of blood on the marble floor from a wound to his thigh. Falling only briefly to his knees before the altar, the king demanded the god's presence. Ares was aroused to a new level by Iphicles' arrogance and the smell of fresh blood. He appeared directly in front of the praying king, his arms circling the man's strong frame. The intensity of the king's response startled him, as did its purity. There was no fear, no adulation. Just lust.
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