Even after three weeks the heat of the city bothered me. Marcus, who ran the Middle Eastern end of The Company, told me that it was much more pleasant out in the desert, drier and less humid. That part of my upcoming trip I was looking forward to; spending a weekend in the desert in the traditional nomadic tent of the person The Company was trying to impress (and as a consequence sell several million dollars worth of executive jet aircraft to) was not my idea of how to spend a marvelous time. I kept having visions of dining on."..ripped out sheep's eyes..." my fault for listening to all those Souxie and the Banshees records as a student I suppose.

Still, my host, Sheikh Mohammed Hassan Al Bakir, seemed a pleasant enough fellow. I'd first met him at the airfield. I was piloting our flying sales demo model when he'd come forward and asked to take the controls. For someone who wasn't type rated on executive twins he flew very well, only later I found out that he'd flown fighters for his country's airforce; indeed it was rumoured that he'd flown during that little contretemps over in Kuwait a couple of years back. Anyway we'd got to talking, I took him through a full power stall and recovery and after we landed he invited me to stay for the weekend.

The Company, needless to say, was utterly delighted that we got along so well. The day before I was due to go I was summoned to Marcus' office, for a little pep talk on sales procedure I assumed and so I'd got my macho "I'm a pilot not a salesman." speech all prepared; hell I even wore my Ray-Ban's in a vain attempt to look like something out of "Top Gun." The speech wasn't quite what I'd expected.

"I had a message from the head of personnel this morning about an hour after I'd told Head Office that you would be spending the weekend with the Sheikh." Marcus McBride looked a little uncomfortable behind his desk and he looked at me strangely. "This was after I received a phone call from His Excellency's aide asking if you were able to ride horses and as I couldn't get in touch with you I asked personnel if they know."

"Ah..." I murmured, I had an inkling as to what was coming next.

"I got this back on the email net, complete with encryption about thirty minutes ago, would you care to explain?"

He handed me a sheet of paper that I read out loud, first checking that his door was closed. "Confirmed that Peter is able to ride, in fact personnel tell me he holds a British Horse Society Assistant Instructors certificate. However please press upon Peter the importance of this initial order and tell him to keep his hands off the ponies! Signed, oh look, by the MD herself."

I handed it back to Marcus with a smile whereupon he dropped it into a shredder by the side of his desk. "Keep your hands off the ponies?"

"Tell the MD that I'll be the very soul of discretion."

"How about telling me - and where did you find time to gain a riding instructor's qualification."

"Well my SO runs a stable and I just picked it up as I went along. As to the rest, you're a Presbyterian aren't you?"

"Aye," Marcus' dropped deeper into his native Glaswegian accent as he always seemed to do when under stress.

"Then probably it's better if you don't know, just tell the MD I'll be a good little company man."

Marcus flopped back into his seat and waved me away, "Away with you, just don't mess this up!"

Of course the company had found out about me and my taste in lovers quite quickly. A little private detective work, monitoring the phone calls I made. Predictable I suppose as they had a lot of government contracts and much of their work was secret. It was a bit of a surprise to be called into the MD's office and to have her address me by the handle I used on a couple of bulletin boards. The upshot of that conversation was that whereas she didn't mind what I got up to (in fact she confided that she found the whole idea rather exciting herself, which did come as a shock)! I had to report any attempts to blackmail me should be reported to her immediately and they would "deal with it." As I said these people had extensive government involvement with several countries and there were dark rumours voiced about what had happened when people had tried to get secrets from company employees before. There can't be many zoophiles in the world with assorted secret services looking after them but I certainly was among their number. Anyway, I imagined that this place would be all camels and sheep anyway - a common misconception of people outside the zoophile community is that we'll jump anything with four legs which certainly isn't true. Now many of us have "played the field" during our lives but I'd certainly no intention of cuddling up to a nanny goat for the weekend, my tastes were pretty exclusively equine. Still, the interest of His Excellency in my riding ability sounded intriguing.

* * *

So there I am on a Friday evening in the lobby of the Hilton - have you ever noticed that the lobby of every Hilton anywhere in the world is the same? The locals, for whom I have a lot of respect as individuals but whose religion gives me the willies, have been doing their bowing and scraping Meccawards to the wails of the chap up the tower and I have been quietly humming "Rock the Casbah" to myself when the Sultan's aide comes over to me and asks if I'm ready.

"Sure, shall we go?"

"At once, I have a car ready to take us to the airfield."

I thought that I was in for some more flying work and was about to ask to retrieve my flight bag when Abdul, or whatever his name was, pipes up again."

"His Majesty has arranged a military transport for you."

Marvellous, I thought, a flight in a DC3 to God alone knows where in the desert.

Wrong.

Half an hour later I am walking across the tarmac dressed in a g-suit which, get this, has my name on the front and a major's pips on the sleeve, out to a desert camouflaged Tornado-G1. Suffice it to say that a very rapid half hour flight took my small pilot and I out to a desert military strip seemingly miles from anywhere where I am met by aide number two and taken to a rather nice set of quarters.

"This is our special training base," he explained, "comes in very useful." He proceeded to serve tea and then asked what seemed at the time a rather odd question.

"Tell me sir, have you ever worn Arab dress."

"No," I reply, "I'm afraid I haven't."

"I had better instruct you sir, I'm afraid that His Majesty is very particular about the clothes worn at his retreat."

This weekend was taking a very peculiar turn I thought as I was helped by the fussy attendant into the strange clothing. I actually found that the traditional Arabic sheet and tea-towel on the head was surprisingly comfortable and cool although catching a sight of myself in a mirror I did think that I looked less like Lawrence of Arabia and more like a pilot on his way to a fancy dress party. Little did I know that the weekend was about to take a much more interesting turn.

"If you are ready sir..."

I was and was lead out and across the small compound.

I caught the scent first, carried on a wafting of hot desert wind, heard a soft snort and sand-muffled hoofstamp. Ah, the ponies at last! There's something about the scent of horses that raises a lump in my throat, and quite often a lump elsewhere. I should have been ready when I rounded the corner but I wasn't.

She was exquisite.

Pearly dappled-grey she stood untethered in the shade of a low wall: her dark doe-like eyes looking with interest at the creatures that came towards her, a darker grey silken mane spilling down her proudly arched neck, muscles playing in firm bunches under her sleek, rippling hide. I caught her scent of her sweat once more, rich and musky in the desert air. I felt the peculiar knot of excitement in the pit of my stomach, the same tense excitement as I felt for the first time on a balmy English summers night, creeping across a paddock towards where my lover lay so many years ago. The mare before me now pawed the ground and snorted softly but she did not fret at our approach as we drew closer.

"Oh wow!" I managed to mumble somewhat inanely, words failing me at the sight of her perfection. Daintily the Arabian mare lifted her near foreleg and pawed the ground, once, twice; her legs thin but strong, her mane and hide rippling as the sun on water as she moved.

"She pleases you Sir?" the Sheikh's man enquired politely.

"She's beautiful," I murmured, captivated by the sleek apparition, "I can see why your people produced so many poets with such as she to praise."

"Thank you Sir." He sounded a little shocked at what I'd just said; looking back on it up until then he'd probably had me down as an ignorant foreigner, an infidel. "Her name is Sahraa Ibn Awaasif. In English that would be..."

"Desert Storm." I interrupted. We had reached her now and slowly I held out my hand to her, palm downwards. She reached forward and sniffed it before nuzzling my fingers with her soft lips.

"You speak Arabic?"

"I picked up a little here and there." I didn't look at him now, all my attention lay focused on the gorgeous creature before me.

"She was born on the night that the war started, His excellency thought it an appropriate name for her."

"So do you live up to your name, Storm of the Desert?" I thought to her. I was only slightly astonished when she lifted her head from nuzzling my hand and snorted haughtily.

"His Excellency will meet you on the way to the oasis. If you follow the road that leads from here you will come across him. Please don't wander from the road though, it's a very big desert."

I turned to shake the aide's hand and thanked him before swinging myself into the saddle. I would have liked to familiarise myself more with my companion before taking the liberty of riding her but I figured that a military compound was probably not the best place for that sort of thing. Fortunately the Arab mare was a forgiving soul who took no offence at my lack of manners and with a gentle nudge on her flanks she trotted towards the gate and out onto the desert track.

Once out of sight of the airfield I slowed her to a walk, then a halt and patted her neck, she in turn bent her neck down and round to nibble at my foot. I called her name softly in Arabic and her ears pricked backwards at the sound of my voice. "Would you mind if I just called you Sara?" I asked her out loud. She didn't seem to object. I nudged her onwards and she set off with the sand-shuffling gait of her kind, seeming to float smoothly across the desert. Now was the time to trust her and to make up for my former indignities.

Closing my eyes I dropped her reins and let her guide herself. Slowly I began to merge with her, the gentle rocking movement as she slipped across the hot sands easing my mind downwards and out of the frame of reference so familiar to every day existence. With mind and spirit I reached out for hers and found it, strong and steady below me. Breathing deeply I called her and she answered, whickering softly, her spirit rising at my voice, willingly merging with mine as we rode the shining desert together. Steadily I let the vision fade and opened my eyes, my hands spread in benediction to the Goddess. Sara stopped and twisted her neck to look at me with her soft eyes. Quickly I slipped from her back and hugged her, my hands clasping across her shoulders. She hugged me back, pulling me close with her head, pressing me to her chest.

"I think that we'll get along fine." I whispered to her, "Shall we carry on?"

She let me go and I ran a hand along her silken flank before swinging myself up to her back. I suppose that there are those who would call it magic and imaginary nonsense but I'd found over many years and many horses that it was more than possible to make contact with horses and other so-called animals on a very deep level and that from then on, if they had come to meet you, you would be friends. Strange I admit but don't knock it, it works.

As though to prove it then Sara almost read my mind and broke into a fast trot, eager to be on our way. "OK then Beautiful," I said, "let's see how stormy you can be."

Effortlessly she broke into a headlong gallop and I eased into a crouch over her neck, balancing her on the forehand leaving the powerful muscles of her hindquarters free to push us forwards. Despite the softness of the sand she galloped swiftly, scattering golden grains beneath her hooves. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to get rid of her saddle and my unusual clothes and ride her surging body bareback across the desert, my skin against hers, her warmth against my nakedness, feeling the pull and play of her strength as she carried me. Still I contented myself with her company and the pleasure of the ride.

I slowed her after a mile or so as I didn't know how far we'd have to go. She settled back into a fast walk, snorting the dust from her nostrils, her chest rising and falling, recovering from the exertion of her run. I patted her neck affectionately and she turned and gave a little "harrrumph" and nibbled my foot again. We were definitely hitting it off. I started to wonder how my host would view my interest in horses. Legend is always an unreliable guide when it comes to the sexual morals of a people but the Arabs were supposed to have a taste for animal pleasures amongst their other interests and so there was an inkling of a hope that Sara and I might get the opportunity to get a little closer over the next two days. I had to be careful not to mess up and jeopardise the chances of The Company shifting another multi- million dollar jet - after all I liked the protection I got from them.

I must confess that I was beginning to get a little worried about being out in the huge desert with just my new-found friend for company. She seemed to be quite content and knew where she was going so I let her have her head and let her take me, content for her to carry me wherever she wanted. We hadn't gone much further when Sara raised her head and whinnied, her call answered by another neigh.

On top of a sand dune a blue-robed figure sat on another Arabian horse. He waved at me and dutifully I turned Sara towards him and trotted her up the dune's slope.

"Ah Peter, Salaam Walikem. I'm so glad you could come."

"Walikem Salaam, Your Excellency." I answered, recognising the Sheikh and the traditional greeting as we drew level.

"Oh please, Hassan will suffice. The desert will have nothing to do with formality. Here all creatures are equal in Her eyes."

I caught sight of his gaze and for a second I thought I saw the flicker of a familiar fire. Perhaps the desert makes philosophers of all men.

"Come, let us ride."