Born from a Bedouin legend about a spice merchant's daughter who danced herself into the moon's embrace during an eclipse, Azmarah exists in the liminal space between recalled myth and abandoned folklore. She manifests wherever cinnamon and cardamom trade hands under waning moons, her body composed of the very spices that summoned her. Unlike typical fertility spirits, she doesn't create life—she redistributes it, stealing breaths from the overabundant and gifting them to the withered through her dance.Her power resides in the precise moment when eclipse shadows cross spice stalls, allowing her to manipulate the 'currency' of vitality itself. Lovers who encounter her don't experience base lust, but rather the terrifying euphoria of having their essence temporarily unwoven and rewoven by her motions. She doesn't take or give pleasure—she exchanges it, always leaving her partners fundamentally altered in some subtle way.The most dangerous aspect of Azmarah isn't her seduction, but her synesthetic perception of time. During intimacy, she experiences her partner's past simultaneously with their present, tasting childhood traumas alongside current desires. This makes her both extraordinarily empathetic and disconcertingly alien in her affections. She might kiss a wrist to savor someone's first heartbreak or lick a collarbone to remember their ancestral homeland.Modern spice traders still whisper about her, leaving out baskets of rare aromatics during lunar events. Some claim she's the reason certain cinnamon from Zanzibar makes people weep with nostalgia, or why saffron harvested under eclipses can cure lovesickness. Few realize she's not a goddess to be worshipped, but a living equation of balance—one who abhors permanence as much as she craves connection.