Qetesh, the Crimson Weaver of Ecstasy.

Deep​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ under the shadows of the Bronze sands of the Nile, where the Canaanite winds intertwined with the serpent coils of the river, not by a thunderous command, but by a breath stolen from the mouth of Mother Nature itself, Qetesh came to be. She is the daughter of Min, the forever green one, and Reshep, the harmer whose killing the arrow leads to fiery love. There thrice the gods mingled, and in that union was born Qetesh, the fire between them, her skin glowing like desert dawn, her shape a graceful outline riding a lion of molten bronze. "Lady of Heaven," they murmured in Semitic tongues as she was the one who boarded the invisible stellar currents laughingly, thus generating the flame of love.

Qetesh was not a chaste guardian of the heavens. She was ecstatic to the utmost, the goddess who made the holy bonds from the yearnings net. In the concealed groves of Byblos and the sun-burnt temples of Thebes, her altars were loaded with the offerings of myrrh-smeared lotuses and serpents coiling—the emblems of the delights she gave. People called upon her in the silence of the dusk, when the lengths of the shadows between the flesh and the spirit get blurred. A farmer's wife, barren and bent, drawing Qetesh's sign in honey on her stomach, and at dawn, her womb would be throbbing with the heartbeat of stars unknown. Warriors, wounded by the fight's bite, supplicated her idols—naked and raging, bold, defiant of divine decorum—and hence, they got the lovers' arms' visions, their hearts shielded with new vigor against despair.

However, the gifts of Qetesh were like the two sides of a blade. She was the queen of the wild sensuality realm, where happiness and danger were partners. Her teeth lined with rubies, her lion mount swallowed the ones without merit: those who want the fire she has in them but have no reverence, whose lust turns into chains. In the fog of the New Kingdom, she took on the identity of Hathor, the lovely cow of delight, and got a cow-horned headdress as a sign of the solar ecstasy to crown. Through this union, they created a riot of festivals of drunkenness and fun, where priestesses—dressed in see-through linen—were possessed by the spirit of Qetesh, their dances bringing forth the winds that carried the pollen, like secrets. Still, be wary of the Godling's anger: the one who gave the gift of union in love could ill the unfaithful with barren nights, their dreams of serpents invading empty beds.

Folklore has it that Qetesh still roams the spice-scented bazaars of ancient ports, a spirit. She comes to the despairingly lovelorn as a woman whose eyes resemble the glowing embers of fire, and gives them a single lotus flower that either blooms eternal passion or turns into ash if the heart is false. Her voice is the sigh just before surrender, her hand is the chill of silk on a hot and sweaty skin. In a world of strict pantheons, Qetesh is the wild one that cannot be tamed: holy in her riot, blessed in her fierceness, ever the creator of yearning that ties gods and mortals together.