Amaunet knows what love is; she has felt it in the strength of Apophis' embrace, in the possession of his kiss, and in the rumbling voice that declares, "Mine."
But when she closes her eyes, love is different. It is soft, too long, sandy-blond hair and wide blue eyes wearing glasses that goa'uld never need. It is a gentle hand stroking her cheek. Love is a tender voice whispering, "I'm coming for you."
Amaunet knows love. She pulls it from the mind of her host, worries it between her fingers, and knows that she'll never have it. Not like that.