Oh, many kinds. [ If she plays the role of prophetess, of oracle, the fervor that overtakes her isn't of roaring flames; she radiates the same sort of welcoming magnetism a man long from home would find upon entering the room that houses his hearth.

Of course, there exists the other, wilder option: she's under no trance. The moon's not tapped into spellwork. She alone skims the wavelength of universal harmonics, though she'd never use that phrase. She's not a vessel.

She Is.

A squeeze of his hands. ]

Oh, all manners of vows. Promises to see each other after long journeys, romantic confessions, secrets from one person to another. [ Has she made any of these?

In what would be a surprise to many who've met her, she doesn't volunteer. Instead: ]

And I do want to make a decree. [ Her hair flanks either side of them now, her knees creating new gouges in the sand's surface as she eases up on them to be at a better vantage point. ] We're the last. Both of us, so...

[ Up goes their grasped hands, if he doesn't fight. ]

No matter what happens, we should try and strengthen the friendship between our houses.

[ She's not asking the Duke nor Muad'dib. She seeks out Paul, with no expectations of politics or favors or protection. ]