(The Chaos Chronicles continue)

 

The sun rose over the high rocky ledge of sparse, wind-twisted pines, known as the Fifth Tier. It warmed the thin, chill air and woke the campers and their mounts, sending Adam off to the Crystal Falls with the massive red gelding and their empty canteens. The stallion and the dragon's child were already up, off down the mountain meadow, playing tag, or some more violent form of the game, throttling each other, kicking and leaping and generally having a high time together like mad March hares.         Duncan offered to go with Adam to the falls, but the Old Man was in the mood for a walk with his four-footed friend and some quiet time to think about things. Duncan took that as a good, if entirely out-of-character; sign. Adam usually just let things roll by him, quick to make biting sarcasm over anything that even hinted at introspection.

        Of course, Duncan thought to himself, as he stirred and rebuilt the fire, the Old Man was more likely just looking for an excuse to be far from this place when the manure hit the fan blade, as it surely would. He remembered that he needed to clean up the bear carcass, but when he went searching for it, he found someone else had beat him to that chore, everything was buried beneath what little earth this ledge afforded and then covered in an enormous cairn of stones. The bear skin had been stripped beautifully and lay curing, pegged inside out across a boulder.

        Well, he thought, the "little woman" doesn't lack for talent or industry or initiative. Perhaps she would not lack for patience when he told her about the one condition of their "marriage" which had thus far gone unspoken. Setting up the coffee pot which contained the last of the water, Duncan wondered just how he would broach the subject with Adam's very odd mother. He hadn't even begun to think what he was going to say to Anne MacLeod, or Joe Dawson, for that matter.

        He glanced westward and saw that the stallion had stopped playing and was cropping the sparse grass and flowers. Where had Ram--?

        "Duncan?"

        He would have to get used to that again. How she was always there, just when least expected. Maybe he would even stop jumping when she did it. "Ram," Duncan offered her a seat and took one himself on the log by the fire.

        Ram sat down and waited. She was bare-legged and bare-footed, scratched and bruised and cut from her knees down. Not that this seemed to bother her at all. It bothered Duncan, but he would deal with that later. "Ram?"

        Ram turned sideways and studied his face, "What distresses you so?"

        "I can't take you back with me--"

        "Suits me fine," Ram interrupted.

        "--without some precaution," Duncan finished.

        Ram watched him rise and retrieve something from one of the packs. He brought a small, canvas sack to her and told her to open it.

        "I gather this isn't in the nature of a wedding present," Ram worked at the knot with her long fingers.

        "More in the nature of a ring," Duncan replied, but it was clear the joke was unfunny even as he made it.

        Ram bounced the bag on her palm, "Sounds like coins. A bride dowry?" She slipped the knot and loosening the drawstring, peered inside, and then spilled the contents into her hand. "Oh."

        "Give them to me," Duncan said.

        Ram handed over the three lengths of linked chain, one long, two short, crafted like jewelry, the links carved to lay flat, with a curious flanged open loop at the end of each chain. "Well, I suppose you could have brought the shackles, but don't hold your breath if you are waiting for any expression of gratitude. Why exactly did you think I would agree to be iron clad again?"

        "Put out your hands, Ram. I am not asking," Duncan waited for the woman to react in any one of the ways, all violent, which he had envisioned. She did not react at all. Ram put her hands out and waited for him to place the wrist links on each forearm and to close the locking links on each.

        Then Duncan stood up behind her and placed the neckpiece and locked it. Not one of the three chains could now be removed except with a diamond saw. The links were very special steel. "All right?" he asked.

        Ram drew a breath and started to say something outrageous, or so it seemed, but she paused and said nothing. A very loud, very angry nothing.

        "If they are uncomfortable--" Duncan began.

        Ram raised her hand, palm forward, warning him to silence before he got what he deserved.

        "I'll see to the stallion," Duncan suggested. After all, he couldn't start breakfast until Adam returned with the water and it was clear that the aprés breakfast chat was ground to a dead halt.

        "I am sure the beaste will be jealous that he didn't warrant so fine a set of hobbles," Ram's voice drifted through the bright morning air, more chill than the ice that fed the Crystal Falls a mile north, where Adam and the gelding were busily splashing and rolling and, as an afterthought, filling the canteens.

        The journey was slower returning because they were one horse shy and had to take turns walking, but it seemed slower still because of the silence. The silence itself would not have been so wearing if it were as absent of malice, as it was of noise. The building camaraderie of the trip to the falls had quickly deteriorated into a journey of three separate souls, the only companionship evident being that of the stallion and the gelding who politely ignored the two-foots' sullen indisposition.

        They walked, they rode, they ate, they slept, and by the fifth day they were finally in sight of the red barn complex and the first gate home. Adam stayed with the horses to arrange for the rental of a truck and trailer to bring them to Seacouver and Duncan paid the rest of the bill, calling his bank to transfer the funds. Then he packed the T-bird, drove down the road, and picked up Ram, waiting at the forest's edge, so they wouldn't have to answer troublesome questions about how this bare-foot wild child had newly come down from the mountain wilderness, with no reasonable explanation of how she had gotten there in the first place.

        Duncan had long since grown tired of her silence. He leaned over and punched on the radio. "Do you want to sing something?" he asked, wishing that Adam had come along and that they'd taken the barn manager's advice to have the horses transported by a professional contractor.

        Ram's head turned slowly on her long neck, "It would not matter if I did."

        "If you sang?" he asked.

        "If I wanted to," she answered.

        And it sounds just like English, Duncan mused. "What do you mean?"

        "I can't any more," Ram explained.

        "Some rule?" Duncan wished he'd thought more about this plan of bringing Ram home.

        "Some fact," she corrected him. "Of the many things I lost in Hell, that was one."

        "Malak, too?" Duncan regretted the question, but it was already in the air. He was just struck by the idea they'd never be rolling down the road doing Motown songs again.

        Ram stared at him, amazed. She chewed her lower lip and tried to control the ridiculous anger that sprang suddenly from an irrational rivalry that had no real competitor. "You really meant it that my being Malak would not bother you."

        "I like Malak," Duncan had bought into this discussion. He would follow it through. It was better, in any case, than the silence.

        Ram held her arms out in front of her and jingled the "bracelets."

        Well, he'd walked into that one with both eyes open. They still had a good ten hours' drive back to 'Couver and Duncan was beginning to miss the quiet already. "They are staying on, Ram."

        "You would like him less now, believe me," Ram grumbled.

        "I'm sorry, Ram," Duncan apologized to her, to himself, to the beautiful scenery going by unheeded, except for the minimal attention it took to keep the T on the road.

        Ram was particularly unmoved by his regret. She slumped down in her seat and closed her pale eyes. "Why did you go to such trouble to trap me?" she asked sleepily.

        "Is that how you see this, Ram?"

        "I wish I could still laugh," was all she replied.

        "Ram," Duncan jostled her gently. "Wake up. We're stopping for something to eat."

        "Size seven," she replied.

        "Excuse me?"

        "Shoes, Duncan," Ram stretched and sat up, "I need shoes, if they have any. I am not hungry."

        "If I get you some tennies, will you come in and eat something?" Duncan leaned on the open passenger door.

        "No," Ram snuggled back down and closed her eyes again.

        "But you haven't eaten since--"

        "--the bear," she replied.

        Duncan counted back, "Ram! That was five days ago!"

        "Tell me about it," Ram sat up and perused the gaudy tourist trap and gas station. "Like I would eat here, even if I could, Duncan. It would be nice if you stopped teasing me about food, though."

        Duncan wondered how a relatively simple language could be so unintelligible. "I'll get the shoes."

        Ten minutes later, he returned with a bright red pair of size sevens and a plastic cylinder of water and sparklies that made a tornado when you shook it. Ram put on the shoes and rolled her eyes at the tornado. Then she followed him silently into the greasy spoon, which smelled a little like a dragon's den at that.

        Settled in a booth, Duncan, ever the optimist, tried again at the devious art of conversing with Adam's mother. "What would you like?"

        Ram looked up at him from the smudged, hand-typed menu, and smiled like a lizard with a mouthful of flies.

        "To eat, Ram," Duncan felt his temples begin to pound with the tedium.

        "Will you stop?"

        Duncan slapped down his cracked plastic menu holder and leaned over the table, "What are you talking about?"

        "Have you ever been poisoned?" Ram leaned forward and hissed in his face.

        "No," Duncan answered, "Well, there was that turkey dinner one Thanksgiving at a friend's house a while back."

        "When the poisoning hit, did you feel like eating?" Ram whispered.

        "No," Duncan answered, reaching for the water glass and setting it by his right temple.

        "Well then, stop asking me," Ram pushed back and fished out some ice from her water, holding it up to the light to inspect it before popping it in her mouth.

        Duncan closed his eyes and rolled the glass around to his forehead. "What are you talking about?"

        "You put these things on me and you don't even know how they work?" Ram hit him in the shoulder so hard, the glass spilled down his face. "God, I miss laughing," she said.

         "Well I am glad you are feeling better," Duncan wondered if slapstick counted as a form of humor so basic that even Hell could not erase its appreciation. Ram might not be able to laugh, but the incident of his dousing seemed to have lightened her spirits considerably.

        "I wish I could say I am sorry, but I am not," Ram replied, the twisted smile widening.

        "Why are you acting like this?" Duncan thought he'd take advantage of her change in mood.

        "For that," Ram sighed, "I am sorry. But you have to understand, of the four of us here--"

        "Four of you?"

        Ram reminded him to watch the road. "Yes, Duncan. Of Malak and Marak, Set and Ram, there is--pathetic as it may be--only myself to pretend to rationality. The others are--what is the colloquialism?  --ah, yes, toast. It may not seem like it, Lord Victorious, but I am doing the best I can. Not to sound self-pitying, but I cannot eat or drink, I am more ill than I ever was carrying Sean. Physically ill. And I am very wounded by my time in Hell. I can do little more than remember how one acts in the World of Men and then reproduce it as accurately as I am able. I don't seem to be able to remember how it actually felt to be alive."

        "Go on," Duncan tried to listen to what she was saying, but some of it came too close to his own dilemma.

        "I almost miss Hell," Ram said. "At least I had learned to have no expectations there, at least nothing there ever disappointed me, so long as I did not try to hope."

        Duncan stretched his fingers, one hand at a time, and straightened his back. "Ram, you cannot mean you want to return to that pain?"

        "Hell isn't about pain, Duncan," Ram replied, "that is merely a tool. Hell is about a complete absence of feeling. Pain, pleasure, love, hope, faith, all those unproveable entities which guide and inform us--Hell strips all of these away. Hell robs us of the Greater Lie, and leaves us only the bare Truth. And the Ancients were right, the Truth will set you free: free of want, free of attachments, free of life itself. In a way, I was spoiled in Hell. I miss the freedom. I am accommodated to Hell and I cannot find a reason for this world. I have become too aware."

        "Oh, well. That's a relief," Duncan shook his head, "I thought for a minute there you were going to be self-pitying."

        Two silent beats, and then Ram understood he was making fun of her somber and woeful diatribe, that he was paying her no respect whatsoever. "Don't you care?" she asked indignantly.

        "I can't imagine you'd expect me to," Duncan replied, his dark eyes glued to the road ahead. "What with coming from Hell so lately and all."

        The argent eyes pinned him in a rare, acute assessment. "You think this is funny?"

        "Hey, you're breaking my heart," Duncan injected a little catch and sob at the end, putting one hand over the broad barrel of his chest. "I shall surely weep soon."

        "Did I remember to tell you just how much I hate you?" Ram smacked the dashboard with both her palms.

        "At least you spared me that sorrowful lai about how the Wizard proved to be imperfect just in time to give you a good excuse to run like a rabbit for the nearest thorny thicket and brood on your belly scales in some cold den," Duncan was weary of her moodiness. He just wasn't going to put up with it any more--not when she persisted in wearing it as a mantle of such great importance.

        "You sorry--!"

        "I don't know what exactly you argued with Joe about, Ram, but--"

        "Would you like to?" Ram said with every indication she would tell him anyway.

        "I can see you'd like to tell me, Ram."

        "You, Duncan, we argued about you, and how you'd cuckolded him, your best mortal friend with his wife. Adulterer!"

        "The incest thing, the dragon thing, the Malak thing--these didn't bother him first?" Duncan asked. "And, excuse me, but doesn't it take two to 'adult'?"

        "Oh, I can't talk to you, Warmeat!"

        "Noooo," Duncan let the word run out slowly, "you cannot listen to me. There is a difference, Ram. I am not here to pity you. I am here to remind you who you are."

        "And to keep you from killing too many folk in the process," he added.

        "And to force feed me when I start dying," Ram added.

        "What?" Duncan pulled over on the shoulder, stopped the car and turned to look straight at her.

        "It would be the same if you fed me a little arsenic every day," Ram hooked a slender finger beneath the neck chain. The skin was red and blistered beneath. "I will start dying from starvation tomorrow or the next day. I am so sick now I can barely keep from spewing. I am very strong, Duncan, but there are limits, physical limits, whether you choose to pity me or not. At least in Hell, I had times of rest," she finished, her words of themselves emotion-filled enough to rise above her very flat and affectless delivery.

        Duncan turned his wrist over, looked at his watch and gauged the time, "I can get us back to 'Couver by four or five in the morning, then I'll get in touch with the jeweler who made those and have him take them off. I am sorry. Adam said, well he didn't say anything about this. I doubt he knew."

        "I doubt he cared," Ram pouted.

        "You know," Duncan turned the key and started up again, cruising up to ten miles over the speed limit. "Sometimes you sound so damnably human it hurts."

        "It does, at that," Ram agreed.

        "In that case, Ram, we can only blame your indisposition on my idiotic trick with the iron cladding and we can expect other, more graceful emotions, besides rage and indignation and petty vindictiveness will soon reappear in your armamentarium," Duncan decreed.

        "I am amazed, Warmeat," Ram said, seemingly astonished.

        "Because I have an insight now and again, Ram?"

        "Why no, Duncan," the sinister smile reappeared. "That except for 'armamentarium' I wouldn't have thought you knew all those long words."

        Duncan watched the bay city floating in the far distance like a gaudy paste emerald in an amber, sunrise sea. "Lucille," he spoke into the cellular, "We'll be at your garage in twenty minutes. No, I'm not changing my mind. If you won't go with us, we'll just go ourselves. I know it's four in the morning. I would know in any case, since you've said it about ten times now. Bye." Duncan punched off the cellular with his thumb and threw it in the empty passenger seat.

        Ram peered over the seat back, waking slowly. "What was that all about? Oooh, look, Pandemonium in a lake of fire!"

        Duncan shivered. He had not himself been away from Hell long enough that the idea escaped him he might still be there--God forbid, he might always be there in some fashion or another. "I called Sweet Lucille to find out where to find her friend, Master Xavier, who made those chains."

        Ram laid her head on his shoulder, "Master Xavier? His name? Or is that just what Lucille calls him?"

        "I don't know, Ram," Duncan leaned his cheek against the top of her head. "Lucille is not at her best early morning. She was not pleased."

        "And," Ram kneeled behind him on the back seat and began kneading his shoulders.

        "When all this is resolved," Ram began, "Can you teach me how to drive?"

        Duncan felt his shoulders release and the tension went out of his neck, "Sure."

        "So Sweets was unhappy?" Ram prompted.

        "Seems the jeweler is at some private club down by the river called The Drieg. She says it would still be going on until later this morning. We wouldn't be let in without her, and even if she came, she thought we'd be kicked out as tourists. I tried to explain we couldn't wait to get those off you. Luz said Cassandra was going to kill her. I'm sure--oh, right there is just--" Duncan's right shoulder collapsed suddenly and his hand dropped off the wheel. "Careful, I don't want to end us up in the bay."

        Ram reached over and gave his biceps a pinch and the tone returned to his arm. "You are sure?" she prompted.

        "Oh, I'm sure Cass is worried you're going to be flying around Seacouver, flaming the populace and wreaking general havoc, ala The Knacker." Duncan leaned forward and Ram worked her way down his very tired back.

        "What do you think, Duncan?" Ram asked.

        "I think you will come to understand that your imperfect feelings for Joe represent a more blessed state than most of us attain in our lifetimes. I think you will learn to laugh and to cry and to sing again," Duncan said it with a comforting certainty, "I think that Adam and I will probably find ourselves waking up in bed together some sunny morning and decide that it wasn't such an important thing one way or the other, after all. I think we will all be more than busy enough trying to raise the children to a healthy adulthood, and whatever comes after that."

        "And I think that you and I will be forever bonded by Hell itself. That except for each other, there is no one on the earth will understand what that was like. So whether we are brothers or lovers or Sean's parents, or whatever, we are that to each other--" Duncan twisted his back to the side.

        "That's touching. Sounds like old war buddies, Duncan," Ram stuck a knuckle in just the right place and Duncan moaned.

        "We are that, Ram."

        "But it doesn't sound much like a marriage," Ram added.

        "Well, whatever it sounds like, Ram," Duncan slowed the car and flipped the signal, "We're there."

        The dusty black T pulled into the parking garage, picked up the sorely miffed Power who stood there waiting for them and turned back into the dawn and lights of the sleeping bay city.

        "All right," Lucille threw a very short white silk T shirt and a black silk pair of "jeans" into the back seat. "Take everything else off and put these on," Lucille dug into her enormous purse, "And then wash up with this." She produced a warm, wet towel, soap, a dry towel...

        "Do you have a sink in there too," Ram commented as she dressed.

        "I'm not in the mood," Lucille warned. "Both of you," she unbuttoned Mac's shirt down to his navel. He started giggling. "Just listen very carefully. The Drieg is a--special, yes, very special sort of place. It--"

        "It's a leather bar," Ram interrupted.

        Duncan started rebuttoning his shirt.

        "No, Ramikins. That's not it at all. Give me the washcloth back." She proceeded to wash Duncan's face, nearly ending them up on the sidewalk. And then she unbuttoned his shirt again. "It's a very exclusive, very expensive and classy club which caters to the eclectic in sexual tastes."

        "It's a leather bar," Ram repeated. "Are we going to have to pierce anything interesting?"

        Duncan started to shift uncomfortably.

        "It is not--" Lucille gave Duncan a warning look as he reached to rebutton again. "Look, Duncan, I know you think--well, I know Adam thinks that such things are rare--that you think Adam's, um, particular preferences are odd beyond believing, but actually some very sane and capable folk, who are likewise economically--"

        "It's a rich leather bar," Ram amended.

        "Will you stop with the leather, already?" Lucille began brushing her own auburn locks, fluffing them out in wild array. She was dressed in a plastic white jump suit with an intriguing zipper that started at her neck and went--.

        All the way around to her back from the look of it, Duncan thought.

        "Will you watch where you're going?" Ram grabbed over his shoulder for the wheel.

        "Sit," Duncan barked.

        Lucille assessed them both and then began the ten minute version of "How best not to embarrass yourself at The Drieg at five in the morning when you haven't even been invited and the party's already been going since midnight."
 

The Drieg was located on the bay shore in the Warehouse/Industrial section of Old Couver in a large round building that looked like an enormous old grain elevator or tower light. No windows or lights graced the dark stone of the tower and there was only a small alley light without any sign or other indication that anything of note existed behind the double, carved wooden doors.         Lucille preceded them up the steps to the doors and knocked. A tall man in a black suit opened the door, spoke with her a moment and then motioned the three of them into the anteroom. Soft lighting washed from the various beams and ledges of the small room, subtly revealing an array of paintings and photographs and sculptures, all in miniature, all with some erotic content as their theme, but none of them either blatant or repelling. A barely perceptible melody drifted around the room, some classical piece, Duncan could not identify.

        Lucille stood in another room that opened out of this one, speaking to the man in the black suit, trying to persuade him to let them enter the premises to look for Master Xavier.

        Duncan began to regret his insistence that they find Xavier now and not wait until evening, but he did not want Ram to suffer any longer from his own stupidity. He tried to remember Lucille's instructions. Duncan was the Master, Ram was his slave--that would be the day. He had to be careful what he said, and above all, he was not to gawk. "If you start starin' and gawkin', Dunks, we're going to go over like a dead penguin."

        Which he took to be a bad thing indeed, by the way she said it.

        Ram stood quietly behind him, hands at her side, eyes down, chin up, the bottom round of her small breasts just peaking below the very short silk shirt and her chains clearly visible. The silk jeans looked like they'd been poured on her slender frame, and Lucille had sorted artfully through her wild, dark curls. Definitely a heroin-chique, androgynous look, given her days of starvation and her hard lean musculature. She might have been a boy. In this light, she looked like a younger, shorter version of her son, Adam. The pink bare feet were just the touch, though there had been an argument about the red tennis shoes.

        Duncan reminded himself again to leave his buttons alone and to stop fidgeting and all those things Lucille had commanded on their ride over here. At least he sensed no Immortals here. Lucille had made him leave the katana in his trunk. Duncan squared his shoulders and tried to look disinterested as Lucille and the man returned to the anteroom.

        "Lady Lucille," the man shook his head, "We really can't have tourists traipsing through the chambers. Really."

        "Look at their eyes," Lucille said softly. "That will tell the whole story. Master MacLeod."

        "MacLeod?" the black suit said, "Not the one in the trial? With the blond slave?"

        "That was a misunderstanding," Duncan's voice rumbled at its lowest register and brightest brogue. He stepped forward and looked the man straight in the eyes. He started to think about his time in Hell as Lucille had suggested.

        The man drew quick breath and staggered back. "I see what you mean, Lucille. Perhaps we are too tame for your friends here. Perhaps..."

        "Ram," Duncan affected his best Lord Victorious tones. "Show the man your eyes."

        Ram glided forward and slowly raised her gaze.

        The man in the black suit shoved the web between his thumb and index finger into his mouth and turning away from her, bit down until he drew blood. "You are welcome here," he murmured, "but you will find our fare bland indeed." With that he engaged the inner door mechanism and they entered into The Drieg.

        The tenor of the place this late into the gathering was more of afterglow than heated passion, but the entire hall was musky and heavy with spent passion and tender consolings, sore muscles and gentle confidences. As with the anteroom, gentle washes of indirect lighting cut curtains and shadows artfully round the circular central hall, and a subliminal music breezed through the open center along with the various fragrances of almond and myrrh and cloves and lavender and...

        Blood. Not a great deal, but Duncan's warrior senses could not miss that tinny, bright smell, even among the stronger scents of the old wooden beams, the musty brick beneath their feet, and somewhere across the open central area, the beginnings of breakfast being cooked in another room.

        Ram followed behind them, eyes down, in a sinuous glide, in alternating light and shadow as they traversed the hall. Duncan tried his best not to gawk, but his warrior skills would not let him cross unfamiliar territory without taking stock.

        The round area they were crossing was open to the fourth floor roof of this place with a large round window open to the lightening sky, but high enough not to allow the dawn this far down into the well. He imagined it was beautiful at night with an excellent view of the stars.  Around the open central area there were at least twenty cubicles set off from the center by transparent drapes and intricate latticework, set off from the center, but still visible in a sort of understood optional privacy. Beyond the drapes and meshwork screens Duncan could see various couples and larger groups in all sorts of dress and undress, lounging like the guests at a Greek orgy. It was really a beautiful place, plants and aquaria and a beautiful bar in one of the alcoves that did not sport drapes or gates. Two of the alcoves contained large hot tubs, now empty. And, except for the odd metal rings bolted into the wall beams at different heights, and an occasional whip left in a corner or on the floor, the place was quite pleasant.

        They passed a room where a young man sobbed softly in the arms of another man and Duncan was instantly reminded to distance himself from the seduction of this place. Been there, done that. They reached the center of the hall where a circular dais, twenty feet across rose one step above the floor level with another circle step only two feet in diameter at its center. Duncan could not imagine, nor did he want to, what that was for. Looking up he noted a second tier of alcoves accessed by several wrought iron stairs around the hall to a walkway that ran around the entire circle and led to another twenty cubicles, a little more private only because they were above view from the main floor.

        Duncan could not fail to note that many of the occupants were assessing their little group as they made their way across the hall to Master Xavier's cubicle. He was used to people looking at him, many of them with lust. He knew he provoked people that way. He had always tried not to take advantage of his looks, but he'd never felt so disadvantaged by them before now.

        But they were here on a mission. Get Xavier to remove the neck and wrist chains and they'd be out of here. And that would be the last he had to know of this strange place. Duncan followed Lucille through the moss green drapes and into the alcove. A man rose as she entered and was introduced to Duncan as the Xavier he'd come to see. Ram was not introduced, nor were the three women sleeping on the large silk pillows arrayed round the low table and the light feast of fruit and chicken and wine. They were a splendid, sonorous collection of curves, belly, breast, and thigh, burnished in the candlelight, a painter's collection of perfect arcs.

        "You admire my girls," Xavier said, placing special emphasis on the "my."

        "You have excellent taste," Duncan complimented him honestly.

        "Of course I do," Xavier replied, "but that is not why you are here at the first shade of dawn."

        "No," Duncan agreed. "I need you to remove the chains from my slave," he neither looked at, nor indicated, Ram.

        "And why should I agree to do that?" Xavier asked.

        "I am sure you will tell me," Duncan answered, wondering just how much this was going to cost him. The chains had been over five hundred dollars and he had just dropped fifty thousand on two horses. His accountant was going to start yelling at him again.

        "It is almost breakfast," Xavier indicated Duncan should sit beside him on a pillow.

        As Duncan lowered himself down, Lucille took a seat on the low table and chewed absently on an apple. Ram sank fluidly down to her knees behind Duncan, her hands at rest on her thighs, her back straight, knees moderately apart, chin up, eyes down, looking the picture of a Gorian fantasy.

        Which was not lost on Master Xavier. "She honors you," he said. "Why do you wish to release her?"

        "I only wish to have the chains removed. She is allergic to them and I fear they will mark her perfect skin," Duncan replied. It was more or less true.

        "We usually begin the morning with an entertainment," Xavier spoke casually, but Duncan was not fooled. "If your slave will dance with my new Mistress-in-training, then I shall remove the chains for you."

        Duncan thought for a moment. "I am not in the habit of displaying my slave to others. She may not be undressed."

        "Agreed."

        "Nor may she be beaten, or hit, or burned, or in any way given pain," Duncan added.

        "Agreed."

        As much as he would have liked to check with Lucille before he agreed, Duncan knew this would be taken as weakness, and that would not be wise. "Agreed," Duncan said and extended his hand.

        "Rise, Ram," Duncan said without looking back at her. She would not be happy about this, but where would the harm be? He felt her stand at his back and he noticed Lucille had stopped chewing on her apple.

        Xavier had meanwhile summoned the "concierge" and the man in the black suit from the front door appeared. He leaned forward over the jeweler and they whispered instructions and the suit left.

        "It will be a moment for the music to begin, Master MacLeod. Can I offer you some wine?" Xavier poured the burgundy into a perfect crystal goblet. "I am sorry I cannot offer you anything more creative or less legal, but they are very strict with the rules in this establishment."

        "Please ask your slave to go stand on the dais," Xavier added, indicating the round step in the room's center. "My apprentice will be out shortly. No, MacLeod, not one of these."

        Ram walked quietly, surely, to the center of the great hall, looking very little like a slave and much more like a king in chains who was used to holding court in this very room. Around the room, the alcoves stirred on the ground floor and in the tier above where sleepy revelers wandered onto the balconies, to taste the next course in the party fare.

        The music began, almost below the level of the waking crowd, then building gradually, imperceptibly until it broke through the threshold of the background noise. An old Phil Collin's tune, "In the Air Tonight," slow, driving, with an impeccable drum track which the sound technician adjusted so it was foremost in the presentation. The sound system had been tuned to the beams and the bricks of the old tower and the speakers were set around the circle and controlled by a complex board which allowed the tower itself to be played with the music. Just as Ram stepped up on the circle platform, the music was adjusted to circle the room, as if the band were floating slowly around the room, or the tower itself were revolving.

        Her partner not forthcoming, Ram walked to the center of the platform where the second, narrow step was placed and there she sat down at elegant ease, looking like an add for satin jeans.

        The music turned the room and Ram focused their waking attention to the center of the swirl, drawing them in merely by virtue of her indifference, that and her odd, genderless sensuality and superb condition. She seemed very young, almost a child, though she was older than any of them there could imagine.

        But in this rare audience, it was her pain that drew them more surely than any of the many odd aspects of her being, though it was nowhere evident in the casual sprawl or the long lean sculptured look of the Danaan.

        From another alcove, Xavier's student strode forward, dressed in shirred black velvet, a sleeveless floor length gown of deepest black, set off by waist-long, deep black hair, pale arms and face, enormous golden eyes. The woman strode like molten obsidian across the brick, moving unconsciously with the building drive of the swirling beat and melody.

        Ram stood as the woman mounted the platform.

        Cassandra! Duncan recognized the apprentice. What had he gotten Ram into here? But Xavier had promised no injury, no--Duncan wondered if Ram wasn't going to have his liver when this was done--or Lucille eat his grits, by the look on her face as he glanced nervously her direction.

        Cassandra reached the center and Ram, now standing, eyes down, hands behind her back.

        The music was stilled suddenly and the entire tower held its breath. Cass walked behind Ram and moved the slave's feet either side of the small central circle. With a motion faster than he could follow, Duncan saw the witch attach Ram's wrists together by their chains and bend them up behind her back almost to her neck where they were fastened by wire or another chain to the neck cladding. Duncan saw Ram contract her shoulders to fight, but then relax and surrender to the awkward position.

        Then the music started again, much louder, the drums dialed in more distinctly now. Cassandra looped her fingers under the back of the neck chain and stood in close to Ram, pulling slowly backward on the chain just until Ram's breathing was affected. Ram arched her back and threw her head backward searching for the slack that would allow her to keep breathing.

        It was an effective display with Ram's legs spread either side of the circular step, her back arched acutely, her breasts lifted by the severe twist on her shoulders and arms and neck. She was already panting from air hunger and beginning to sweat with the struggle. Cassandra pressed a knee between Ram's legs, placed her free hand over Ram's bare belly, and began to move them together in an undulating response to the repetitive, circular, wave-upon-wave of chords and drums.

        Baffles in the high ceiling of the tower began to adjust, bringing the sunrise to focus on the center of the hall and the two women dancing there. By now, Ram was sufficiently subdued, sufficiently aroused that Cassandra's dominant hand was freed to trace its long, red nails across the abdomen and to tease beneath the short shirt, while the second hand loosed the jeans' fly button and lowered the zipper.

        Xavier watched with pride his student's obvious talent and command. He was confused by MacLeod's reaction, though. This Master should be proud of such a responsive slave. A woman with such elegance and abandon was an honor to any Master, even if she were so obviously willful, and so odd looking, not truly ugly, but certainly androgynous, which made her almost more fascinating. But this MacLeod was obviously worried about her, though just as obviously aroused by the display. What was this amateur doing with such a slave, Xavier wondered.

        And how might I talk him into letting me have her, he thought.

        Somewhere in the course of the display, the platform, like the music had begun to rotate, affording all a clear view of the dancers. Cassandra held the writhing woman against her entire front, shoulder to pelvis, seeking Ram's heat even as she fed it, one hand fondling the hard nipple beneath the silk shirt, the other buried deep below the open zipper, stroking and probing and pushing Ram with the music. The passion of the entire tower built around the two women dancing at the absolute center.

        Lucille stared straight ahead, unseeing, her hands wrapped over the edge of the low table, her knuckles white as bone. She would not allow herself to be moved by this.

        Duncan could not slow his breathing. He was being drawn into the display despite his guilt and his anxiety. He did not want to be in this place ever, and here he was again, as he had been with Adam, taking the exquisite pleasure of their exhibited passions. Duncan would have liked to think this was something more than sheer base desire of the flesh, but it was certainly all of that, painfully so. He could hear the entire tower breathing raggedly, with his own inspirations, to the music, to the women.

        Then the music built one more step in volume and Cassandra, in perfect control, moved her hand down the back of Ram's loosened jeans, eliciting a loud, rolling moan that echoed with the thrum, chunk percussion, and similar lesser clarions of empathy from the alcoves and the balconies. Cassandra, through Ram, was pleasuring them all, flavoring their jaded palates with the offering of a king.

        Xavier watched closely as Cassandra brought the slave to a perfect finish, just ahead of the music's end. The woman came convulsively, explosively. Xavier was not surprised she would be one of those rare females who ejaculated, but the stain across the black satin was clearly that. He was surprised when Cassandra stepped back and the woman fell, senseless to the floor. He had heard of such, but never in his vast experience seen...

        "Get them off of her," Duncan's tight growl commanded.

        Xavier stood and walked to the door of his cubicle, "That will be enough," he warned them away from the platform, at least thirty of the patrons had gathered around the fallen woman. Even unconscious and spent, she drew them. "I am a very wealthy man, MacLeod," he said. "I would buy your slave."

        "I cannot sell her, Xavier," Duncan said, shifting his position, waiting for the pulsing and pressure to subside.

        "And why is that?" Xavier asked.

        Duncan thought a moment for a way to explain this to the man, "Because I am her slave," he said finally. It was in some ways true.

        Xavier patted Duncan's knee, "I know exactly what you mean, Master Duncan. That is just the way it is, after all. And you are wise to know this." With that he signaled the concierge to take her to another, more private room where Ram could wake and he could remove the chains.

        By the time they headed back to Couver Towers in the T, the sun was up and the sky had turned a bright sapphire, there being just enough sea wind to clear the smog. They'd all had a wonderful breakfast, strawberrys and cream, peaches and champagne, steak and a special helping of grits, which Xavier had ordered at the last minute for Lucille, when it seemed his superb chef  was about to commit a cullinary faux pas.

        Xavier had most particularly enjoyed watching Ram eat, something she did with the same impressive sensuality and abandon as she seemed to do everything else. After breakfast, the Master ushered them into one of the hot tubs while he saw his other patrons out, some of which were not enthusiastic about leaving, even though the party was over. Xavier, ready for any contingency, produced robes and towels and Drieg jogging suits to go home in, all on the house. He did suggest directly to Ram that she might want to stay with him for a while, an abject breach of protocol, which would buy Xavier a tidy bit of grief from his new student, Cassandra, in the week to come. But Ram declined, or rather shook her head, she had not spoken since returning to consciousness.

        Nor did Ram speak now, draped dazed and sleepy across the back seat while Duncan waited for Sweet Lucille to give him "what for." He did not have to wait much longer.

        "Dunk, or are we going to have to start calling you 'shit for brains'?" Lucille was incredibly angry. Salty as her language usually was, she almost never descended to common cursing. "How could you?"

        Which, Duncan surmised, was not a question as such.

        "Really, Dunk," Lucille shook her head. "I told you to be careful. I told you to let me do the talking. How could you, how could you? Look what happened? Duncan!"

        "I am aware what happened, Lucille," Duncan took it she meant him to answer. "I am sorry I did not foresee." He really was sorry that his second stupidity had hurt Ram when he only meant to rectify the first stupidity that had likewise hurt her. "What is Cass doing there?"

        "She is learning a new skill. And that is not the point, Dunk."

        "No, I suppose not. I am sorry, Ram," Duncan glanced back. Ram was asleep. "She does not seem any the worse for the wear."

        Lucille made a noise deep in her throat like the beginning of a fearsome roar. "Men!"

        Duncan left the furious Ms. Lucille at the Towers and drove back towards Cambie Street and the dojo. Anne and the children would be out at their house north of town. Adam wouldn't be back with the horses until tomorrow. Duncan made a mental note to locate a boarding stables. He dialed up Anne, got her mother, who reported the house was still asleep, but that, yes, she would relay the message that he and Ram were back and at the dojo. Ah, what exactly to tell Anne? That everything was all right and that Adam would be along tomorrow with a present for the children.

        Mrs. Lindsey pressed him and Duncan caved. Yes, horses. Yes, they needed a place...

        Anne's mom knew of a fellow down the road who had a friend two miles up the valley and she would take care of the boarding, if Duncan would contact Adam and give him the directions.

        Well, Duncan hit off the power on the cellular, that went easily enough. He pulled the T into the alley and turned around to wake his passenger. "Ram?"

        The woman woke slowly, dragging herself up to sitting by grabbing the back of the passenger seat. "What do you want now, Master?" the way she said this last word was not encouraging.

        Duncan opened the door and climbed out. "I'll get the luggage later," he said, holding the door, "I thought we might get a little sleep. I know I am tired, and after five steaks, I can see a nap would be in order for you as well."

        Ram climbed out awkwardly and leaned back against the car, yawning.

        "Joe said he would get the water damage fixed before we got back," Duncan offered.

        So, Ram stretched, the Old Wizard had let the tub flood over before he discovered she was gone. "I think I have about fulfilled my wifely duties for the day, Duncan," she grumbled, following him into the dojo and over to the lift.

        "I am certainly not suggesting," Duncan began.

        "And it's a good thing you're not," she agreed, leaning her forehead against the lift side..

        "I'll sleep on the couch," Duncan grumbled, apologizing to his back ahead of time.

        "That would be just about as stupid as everything else you've done up to now," Ram exited the lift with all the grace of a drunk sailor. "I'll take the couch. It's not big enough for thick-headed, hulking sorts like yourself."

        "Okay, Ram, if that's what you want," Duncan tried to tread carefully through the mine field.

        Ram plopped down on the couch, plumped up the pillows, and snuggled in sleepily. "Would you stop pretending to care what I want, Warmeat," she murmured.

        Duncan dragged himself over to the bed. Damn! While he called to give Adam directions and report they'd arrived safely, he noticed the dark stain on the hardwood that ran from the bathroom door almost to the bed. It would have to be refinished. What? No, Adam, no problems. Yes, see you tomorrow.

        He put down the phone and went to open the bathroom door. Some of the tile was already peeling and curling. Splendid. Oh, well, he'd have to worry about that later. Sleep first. Replenish his energy and strength.

        Duncan was not so thick he didn't suspect he'd need every resource at the ready when Ram awoke for real.

"I appreciate this, Joe," Duncan poured the coffee into two large mugs and brought them over to the table by the window where former Northwest Territories Watcher Chief, Joseph Dawson, sat, drumming his fingers on the table and humming a blues run, he couldn't quite seem to master. They were reopening the club tonight and he always had trouble with this piece, no matter it was so oft requested.         Joe's attention was neither on the song, nor the coffee, nor Duncan's overtures to conversation, but rather on the sleeping woman sprawled over the leather couch beneath a pale peach afghan. "And you are sure she's all right?" he asked the Immortal who use to be his second career.         "A lot has happened, Joe," Duncan began. "Let me just start at the beginning..."

        Duncan recounted the trek to the Crystal Falls, the fight with the Bear, and bringing her back. He hit the highlights and skirted the more difficult particulars.

        "So," Joe took another sip of the coffee and gazed out the window at the bay bridge, dusty and dark with afternoon shadows. "Ram accepted the apology?"

        "No, Joe," Duncan studied his empty cup as if it were a scrying tool like tea leaves, "She said you'd already discussed the things you told me to tell her. She said she was incapable of loving anyone and she said whatever vows existed between the two of you were not valid, legal....I forget exactly."

        "I see," Joe gauged the dark Scot's countenance, "So how exactly did you get her to return?"

        "Well," Duncan dodged his gaze, "that's were the problem lies, Joe."

        "Go on," Joe set his mug down. His mind was somewhere back in the story about the bear...the dragon part of the story. He knew they'd been keeping something from him about his wife, Adam had almost said as much. Duncan had started to explain something on several ocassions, but never succeeded. What Adam had called "in between" as in, in between Malak and Ram and Set, that in between these facets, his wife was something else entirely. A dragon. It made a sort of sense, at that.

        "Joe?" Duncan touched the Watcher's arm.

        "She is a dragon?" Joe said, trying to encompass the impossible.

        "Oh, my God, Joe! Oh, I--" Duncan shook his head. "I have meant to tell you--"

        "I know," Joe shrugged, "I just can't--. I just can't picture--. It seems so--"

        Duncan couldn't think what to say that would make this any easier. "She isn't that any more than she is Malak, or an angel, or--"

        "What?" Just about the time Joe had a darling little wyvern clearly focused in his head, Duncan brushed it aside with--what?--angel? "What are you saying?"

        "They seem to be the same thing," Duncan hadn't given this much thought. He just didn't have a bean-counter personality that would enable him to back out of the situation and take that sort of stock. His contingencies were always more in the moment.

        "Dragons and angels?" Joe blinked and tried to get a grip on his wits.

        "When you think about it," Duncan stood up and wandered over to the kitchen to see what there was to eat. "It's the six-limb thing." The larder was woefully bare. Adam had cleared out the place before they left for the north country sojourn. Maybe he could interest them in going out. If Ram ever woke up.

        Joe digested the thought. When you considered how birds and dinosaurs were related, how feathers were evolved from scales. "Oh, shit!" Joe said suddenly.

        "You okay, Joe?" Duncan stopped in the midst of making a large bowl of cereal with some very iffy milk.

        "Angels," Joe said vacantly, his mind going back six months to a moment, now lost forever. "They were practicing the Messiah in the next room. A host of angels, Mac! And I was too busy to stop fussing with the bills and go hear them! Damnation! The last heavenly choir, and I missed it. Do you think Ram will sing for us when she wakes?"

        Duncan shook his head, "She says she can't sing any more."

        "Oh," Joe said sadly, "that long list of 'I can't any more's'?"

        "Yeah," Duncan brought the cereal back to the table. Joe declined.

        "How did you get her to come back with you? Dragon leash?" Joe laughed.

        Duncan choked on his cereal. "More or less," he replied when the milk cleared his windpipe. "She told me she would marry me if I asked her after she told me three things about herself. This was the day she turned into Malak, after she turned into a dragon. I didn't ask her, of course."

        "Three things?" Joe was nothing if not acutely observant.

        Duncan leaned forward towards the Watcher, "I will tell you, Joe, but I have to have your solemn promise that you will speak of this to no one."

        Joe agreed.

        "Ram is my--" he nearly said "Brother," because that's what she always said, but he translated, "sister. Half-sister," he amended.

        "Which makes Sean and Adam your nephews, Mac?"

        Duncan put his palm up and held his breath. Iffy milk or no, this late-day breakfast was doomed. He got up carefully, made his way to the bathroom and was thoroughly ill.

        Joe sat alone at the light washed loft table and tried to add all this new information into the pattern of his personal history files. He was the best resource library extant for the NW Territories, now that their computer system was mute and probably dead. This would all be shelved in the Arcane Archives once he got it sorted.

        "Hello, Wizard," a sunny voice called from the couch.

        "Ram! Darlin!" Joe leaned his weight forward on the table and pushed.

        "Don't get up," Ram bounced off the couch and caught him in an enthusiastic hug. "I was so stupid," she said, settling into his most appreciative lap. "Do you think you can forgive me?" she traced his mouth with the knuckles of her right hand.

        "Well," Joe nipped at her hand, playfully, "I think if we arrange to fix the floor and the bathroom flood damage, then we can all just forget what happened."

        "I really don't love you the way that I want to," Ram said, chewing her lip.

        "God doesn't love me that perfectly, Ram. That isn't the point."

        "It isn't?"

        "Love is about dealing with the imperfections, Ram. For instance, I am afraid," he kept his eyes on hers, "I suppose I will always be to some extent."

        "Of me?" Ram asked.

        "You are fairly scary, yes, Ram."

        "Oh," she said it as if this had never occurred to her before. "Too scary?"

        "No, Darlin'," Joe replied. "I'd say just about scary enough."

        Ram laughed. It was more a meager chuckle, but it qualified nonetheless.

        "So, what are we going to do now, Ram?" Joe said, being careful not to put too much weight on the moment when her "I can't any more" went the way of all lies.

        "I don't know, Wizard. You will have to ask Master MacLeod," Ram climbed off  his lap and went to the refrigerator for ice.

        Joe watched her complicated ritual with the ice and the mug at the sink, picking the cubes, crushing them just so, draining off the water. He wondered how she could ever have survived in the mountains of the north wilderness.

        "I flew to the high peaks and ate snow," she said, never looking up from smashing the cubes.

        "And are you an angel?" Joe asked, knowing full well it was not as an angel she'd flown to the snow, but he wasn't ready to delve too deeply into the dragon thing.

        "Well," Ram looked up from her ice work, "more of a fallen angel, but yes, would you like to see?"

        Joe caught the subtle song underneath her light suggestion. He remembered the Winged Victory episode with Lucille. Sweets had gone nearly mad seeing Ram in this form. Would he fare any better?
"Should I be afraid, Ram?" he spoke to that tone in her question.

        "Oh," she said, "This is how you felt when you didn't want me to see your legs. Not because you didn't trust me--well, not really--just because you did not know me well enough yet."

        "Are you afraid?" Joe asked.

        Ram nodded and laughed again. The sound moved up more easily this time, much less strangled. "You are just scary enough yourself, Wizard. Yes, I am afraid you will finally see me as the monster I am."

        "It is possible," Joe agreed, "but I doubt it."

        "But if I love you," Ram asked, "why am I afraid?"

        "Because I have nothing to do with your fear," Joe replied simply, "and you have nothing to do with mine."

        Duncan, done spewing the bad milk and his own disgust about affairs incestuous, leaned against the casing of the open door and listened to the Wizard's sage assessment, committing it to memory.

        "If I did manifest, I couldn't stay in the form very long, Joe," Ram said, chewing up the last of the ice she'd prepared. "I am too tired from the party this morning."

        Joe heard Mac choking back at the bathroom door and thought, from the sound of it, he might be getting sick again. "Party?" he asked.

        Ram wandered back over and described the morning's activities, explaining about the iron cladding, the visit to the Drieg to get the iron off so she would not be ill any longer, the display with Cassandra, everything. Duncan laid himself down on the bed and waited for Dawson to shoot him, or whatever.

        To his credit, Joe listened to the whole tale with considerable control. "And how did you feel about what happened, Ram?" he asked when she was done with her all-too-accurate recounting.

        "What do you mean, Joe?" Ram knelt by the Wizard's chair, "Are you going to be mad about this, like you were about Duncan?"

        "No, Ram," Joe replied. "What are you doing down there?"

        "Honoring my Master," she replied. "That's what they do at the Drieg."

        "Maybe, Darlin', but--"

        "You don't like it? Does that mean you are going to be mad?" Ram asked again.

        "Ram, I am just worried that you were hurt or shamed," Joe put out his hand for her to take.

        Ram took his hand and rose. "I don't think so. I am not sure I would want to do that again, but it was interesting. I could see why Adam likes--" Her eyes went wide and her hand flew up to her mouth.

        "It's all right, Ram," Duncan's voice drifted over from the bed. "Cassandra found your letter to me. What is it Lucille says? The grits have already hit the griddle." He walked over and held his hand out to Joe.

        "What's this, Mac?" Joe looked up.

        "My apology for letting things get out of hand this morning, Joe," Duncan explained.

        Joe nodded and placed his hand in Mac's. "You'll have to pay though," he said.

        "Anything," Duncan sighed.

        "I've taken a fancy to this slave of yours, Master Duncan," Joe began.

        "Yes?" Duncan played along.

        "I want to buy her," Joe said. "Is she well-behaved?"

        "Not at all," Duncan replied.

        Ram leaned over the table and laughed so hard she couldn't breathe.

       Adam Piersen geared the truck down and exited the freeway north of the bay city. The two horse trailer he'd rented was a trial coming down the mountain with Red and the stallion doing the rumba every time an eighteen wheeler wooshed past. They were on the last leg of the trip now, though, and Adam started to breathe a little easier. Both the horses had drunk and eaten well, and they hadn't bashed each other's brains in, despite the barn manager's bets to the contrary. Mrs. Lindsey's directions were precise and thorough, down to "turn at the second green mailbox with the daisies."

        He'd had five offers over three hundred dollars on the bear skin, from truckers and bikers and such. And that was without even unrolling it, which he did not dare do, since the frosted fur marked it grizzly and grizzly was illegal. By the third gas stop, he'd rolled it in a tarp and buried it under the two spare tires in the truck bed.

        Adam slowed down and turned off on a gravel road. This was going to be one hell of a drive from town, he thought, but the area was lovely, rolling pastures framed in forests of beeches and oaks, and orchards of apples, and all manner of little bucolic touches, old refurbished barns and covered bridges and a working mill.

        Adam stomped the brake on the rig and the whole thing went sliding on the gravel. Left at the mill, he chided himself as the truck and trailer came grudgingly to a halt. The stallion and the gelding both kicked the sides of the trailer, registering their complaint with the clumsy chauffeur. Adam backed the rig up carefully, trying not to jacknife it, and took the left turn wide.

        After sixteen hours on the road, Adam was more than relieved to see the beautiful barn loom up on the far side of a small rise. An old stone affair, completely redone, white rail fences and all. The man who owned the place bred and trained hunters, jumpers, and dressage horses, warmbloods and thorough- breds. Mrs. Lindsey said he was excited about the black Arabian that Adam was bringing. In any case, Adam was pleased to note, they would be in the best of quarters, far nicer than the hunters' outfitting post whence they'd come.

        A teenage boy, bright blond hair, sky-blue eyes, met him at the gate, and held it for Adam to drive the rig through, then joined him in the cab to direct him to the main barn, where the two horses' stalls awaited them. Adam drove under a high archway into the quadrangle of buildings and parked. Getting out, he stretched his legs and popped his back. He grabbed a lead rope from behind the truck seat and proceeded around to the back of the trailer. Eeny, meeny, Adam decided to let the gelding out first. He popped the latch and opened the door when the boy signalled that the gelding was untied.

        Red stumbled back out of the trailer and righted himself on still ground. Adam clipped the lead on his halter and followed the boy around the quadrangle and up a shallow ramp into the eastern building and down an airy, clean aisleway to the open stall door. Mounds of new sawdust, like pink snow, bedded the box stall. Red buried his large muzzle, eye-deep in the stuff and blew up a cloud.

        Then a boom, clang and thud out in the quadrangle, followed by a screaming nicker, shot their attention behind them. Adam groaned. The Stallion had muscled his way out of the trailer. Damn! Grabbing a bridle off the wall and letting it out its full length, he quickly exchanged it for Red's halter and vaulted up, galloping the gelding down the aisleway and out into the quadrangle, clearing the ramp in a single leap.

        The Arab had already exited the quadrangle through the archway opposite the one they'd entered, making a beeline for the back pasture and a collection of lovely mares. Adam urged the gelding on, and Red did his best given his legs were done for from the long trailer ride, but he couldn't catch the stallion. As they neared the pipe-railing of the back pasture, the black-bay bunched and sprang, light as a deer, over the fence. Adam reined in the gelding and slipped off to open the gate, though he was loathe to put Red between a stallion and a whole herd of mares. He knew enough about horses to know the mares would probably kill all three of them.

        Then Adam saw a trim, dark figure moving at top speed across the field in an intersecting route across the stallion's path. Not the boy, Adam thought, glancing over his shoulder. The blond was still back in the archway, waiting. No, this was a slim, short man, compact, an athlete like a gymnast or a jockey. He made the distance with remarkable agility, coming to a standing halt straight in the stallion's happy path.

        The stallion never slowed, or even heeded the man on the ground. Adam feared the man would get run over, but as the stallion reached the man, Adam saw the man step sideways and roll effortlessly on top of the stud, turning him away from the mares with just his legs. Duncan wasn't kidding, an expert rider did not need reins or bit. This man was surely an expert. He wheeled the stallion and rode him back towards the gate, slowing his rate to a trot, and then building his speed to clear the gate six feet east of where Adam and the gelding stood staring.

        "Now then, Old Man," the small man said.

        Adam's head snapped around, but he was talking to the stallion.

        "You may have a taste of the mares when they say, and only then, if you are wise," the man dismounted. He kept his right hand buried in the stallion's mane and walked them both back towards Adam, extending his left hand. "You must be Adam Piersen," he greeted Adam in cheery, full tones. "And this must be," he addressed the gelding. "Oh, bless my soul," he exclaimed, "Leo San Gallante, as I live and breathe!"

        Adam stared, "You know this horse?"

        "Of course I do," the man said, "he was probably the best Grand Prix Dressage horse on the west coast."

        Adam took another look at Red. He didn't see it. This dark man was probably joking, but if he was, then his wit was dryer than the Sahara. "And you are?" Adam asked as he followed the small man, he was only about five feet, seven inches, if that, back into the quadrangle.

        "Thomas Cross," the black man called over his shoulder and halted the stallion at the archway.

        "You're the chief groom?" Adam asked catching up with him.

        The ebon features turned slowly Adam's direction and the chisseled countenance appeared to be looking down on him though that was physically impossible. "I will give you that one mistake, Dr. Piersen, because you interest me, but do not make such a mistake again."

        Adam's mouth opened in a silent "Ahhh." "You're the owner?"

        "You were wrong," Thomas addressed the stallion, "he is not thoroughly dense."

        "Oh, he never said that," Adam protested, following them, with Red, up the ramp.

        "You don't think so?" Thomas let the stallion into his new stall, next to Red's. "God," he called.

        "God?" Adam echoed.

        "His name," Thomas explained. "Used to be my nickname among my more intimate acquaintances, 'Black God.'"

        "God," he called again, "come over here and tell Adam what you said."

        The stallion came over to the half door. He looked at Thomas and then at Adam and then he slacked his ears down sideways. Then he went back to inspecting his new home and talking through the walls to the other horses.

        Adam watched Thomas repeat the gesture with his hands in place of ears, going from up to down and to the side. "Duuuuuh," said Thomas. "That's what it means."

        Adam did not doubt it. "Black God, eh. But he's bay, not black."

        "Come along to the house, Adam," the black man moved like modern dancer, all his weight in his slim pelvis. "That is what Arabians call a black horse, much in the same way a pink honky terms a splendid bay person like myself."

        Adam did not laugh, but it was certainly funny. "I'll just be going on into town and turn the rental--"

        "No, Adam," the black man smiled, "You will be staying here with me and having a discussion over lunch. Gerret and Chad will take the rig in for you, if you sign the paperwork." He held the door for Adam and they walked out of the barn into the back yard of a three-story stone building that was stunningly modern. A veritable Frank Lloyd Wright edifice of high glass planes and rugged natural pillars rose above them atop a gently sloping lawn and garden.

        "But how will I get back to Seacouver?" Adam remembered to ask when they reached the house.

        "You won't be going back to Seacouver for quite some time, Adam," the small black man, perfectly sculpted as if out of ebon or onyx, smiled pleasantly and opened the last door into his lair.

"You do have a beautiful house here," Adam commented halfway through a perfectly baked trout and white wine that was as dry as his host's wit.         "Yes, I do," Thomas agreed. "You will like it here."         "You keep saying that," Adam declined the offer of cheesecake for dessert. "Why do you think I will be staying?"         "I do not think it, Dr. Piersen," Thomas picked up the wine bottle and divided the last in exactly half for Adam and half for himself. "I know. I have many things you will find most useful."         "And those things being?" Adam sipped his wine pensively, beginning to wonder if he'd been drugged.

        "You will stay because you want to. What I have to give you is knowledge," Thomas answered both the spoken and unspoken question. "And because you want to spend some time with your horse, and some time away from your friends, and your mother, and because you need me."

        Adam pushed back and laughed, "You could be right at that. What knowledge?"

        "Oh, I know many things, Methos," Thomas spoke the first so fluidly, that Adam almost missed it.

        Adam bolted up.

        "Oh, sit down, Elder," Thomas put both of his hands on the table, palms up, the universal gesture of many ages. "I am also Immortal," the second revelation did not pass Adam by.

        "But how--?" Adam felt no aura, even this close.

        "One of the things you will stay to find out," Thomas replied, cutting himself a small piece of cheesecake. "I can recommend it. I am an excellent cook," Thomas said this without a hint of boasting, just simple truth.

        Adam sat back down and reached for dessert, "And why then, would I need you?"

        Thomas' hand wrapped suddenly around Adam's and squeezed, slowly, inexorably, until Adam grunted with pain. "To take that smart ass, sophomoric prep school tone out of your voice, for one." Just as suddenly, he released Adam's hand.

        "I am leaving!" Adam announced, cradling his injured hand to his belly. He stood up and headed for the stairs.

        "You can fuss about this all you like, Dr. Piersen," Thomas said quietly. "But you are wondering, even now--" He let the thought drift after the beautiful man at the head of the stairs.

        Adam paused, "What am I wondering?"

        Thomas turned his fork over and licked the tines slowly. "Oh, perhaps," his tongue glided lazily over the silver, "you are wondering why it is you are once again drawn into the company of a Horseman."

        Adam closed his eyes. He pictured Sean and Duncan before him, in the city, not very far away--a whole life he had come to know, waiting down by the bay, in the world of light. People who knew him and who still loved him anyway. He tried very hard to see them clearly, but all he saw were couples, and no one, really, for him. He could be alone. He knew that way well enough, being his usual road of choice, or of necessity, over the ponderous ages.

        But he felt Thomas' hands wrap around his upper arms, felt their power, and through them, the power of the man. He heard the man's voice, tidy and quiet and honest, like the man himself.

        "You need tending, Dr. Piersen, bedding and grooming and training. You need someone to take you in hand and show you the value of your own balance, your own impulsion, so that you will stop dissipating your incredible grace to the winds, like the untrained limbs of a green colt. You can see the sense of this, even if you do not yet feel, or believe, it. You have been badly started, Methos, but I can bring you back before that start and take you on with the brave grace and form with which you were born."

        "You will stay with me, because there is no one else on the earth knows you so well, not even yourself. Nor is there any other who values you so highly. You have already surrendered, Dr. Piersen. The rest of this is only childish whining and tantrum. We have the whole afternoon to ourselves, alone here. You will be sorry you have wasted this time in meaningless posturing."

        Adam felt Thomas' words whispering away his will, taking the strength from his resolve, from his legs, taking him to the floor, beneath the strong hands, taking him far away from the bay city and the world of light.

        Adam had always fought before. He could not think why this time it would be so different. But he fell so easily beneath the steady voice and the sure hands, the strong legs and the perfect mount.

        And he felt like the stallion being turned back from the mares.

Thomas Cross glided soundlessly across the flagstones of the airy upper floor, a dark, perfect counterpoint to this ledge of light and wood and stone. Adam contemplated the man as if he were an animate statue, a perfection of sculpture, or one of the daunting natural perfections, perhaps a panther. For all Thomas was not tall or wide, still there was a ponderous density about him. Like a dark star, Adam thought, consuming even light by the sheer weight of its presence.         He knows I am watching him, Adam thought. He has stepped out of the tub in the far alcove, dripping like molten black magma, and he is coming back across the room like a great cat with a full belly who can't quite decide whether to stalk or to play. Adam felt his own flesh react to the man even at this distance, not the aura of Immortal to Immortal, but something more human, more primal. Adam ran his fingers lightly down the plane of his sternum, in much the same way one touches something metal after crossing a wool rug in the middle of winter. He did not let his hand wander down further. Thomas had made it clear that was simply not done, not in this place, not in the Master's House, not without Cross' permission.

        The black man stopped ten paces from the pale, gaunt giant on the window couch. Thomas had an acuity of taste that was at once eclectic and sublime. This young warrior, for all of his chronological age, was essentially superb, a true son of the woman Cross had been unable to buy at any price. He had not his mother's strength, nor her restraint, such as even that was, but he had the fine, patrician features, the limb length, the grace. This son had the lean lines and elegant form that always followed from excellent breeding, but his birthright was blunted in a morass of fear and bad handling, where shoddy or ignorant prior Masters had misused the very charisms which should have been his strength.

        Like many a ruined horse, Cross thought, so fine and talented, so athletic and resilient, that even crippled, you seem sound. He had never attempted training so thoroughly soured a mount before this, nor would he have even considered doing so now, had he not seen this man's fine dam. In one afternoon, however, Cross knew he had not made a mistake with this one. The pale man was a wonder of sensual abandon, sinuous long back, fine tapered hands, and a central, tender willingness buried far beneath the gritty veneer of witty stubborness and affected cynicism.

        And Adam was so beautiful. Thomas Cross did not say this of many things. He reserved this word for the best of the best. Even crumbled round the edges and obscured in ages of patina, this man was that. Just the sweeping line from his prominent pelvic wing along the double curve of his long thigh to the knee set Thomas' heart thumping and made his palms tingle.

        Adam reached above his head and ran his hand along the window casement. "So is this a copy of Fallingwaters?" he asked.

        Like so many difficult ponies, Cross thought, the main problem with this one is too much intelligence, but that strength, Thomas never discouraged, either in his four-foots or his two-foots. "Not exactly, the site is too different. There is some Taliesen in the place and a great many improvements."

        Adam rolled to his side, facing Thomas, with his head propped on his hand, "You can improve on Frank Lloyd Wright?"

        "Oh my, yes," Cross chuckled, crossing the rest of the distance and sitting on the window couch even with Adam's middle. He took Adam's hand in his and started bending and flexing the fingers. "Master Wright was not very concerned with comfort or practicality. He thought plywood was wonderful stuff for making furniture. Of course, it isn't. I have made a sizeable income from a factory of mine back east which does nothing but manufacture decent wood laminates to restore Wright furnishings so they don't fall to pieces so fast. I have also redone the interiors to accomodate larger residents. Frank was a small man, like myself."

        "Somehow I doubt that," Adam took his hand back and ran it lightly along Cross' upper thigh, not pressing, but only waiting for permission.

        He learns very quickly, Thomas thought. This may be the one beyond my abilities. "I cannot say I am privy to knowing that much about the man," he replied to Adam's spoken question. "And you," he guided Adam's hand towards its intended destination. "Have one nasty streak of bigotry in you, Dr. Piersen."

        "Well," Adam fondled the impressive attribute of this otherwise diminutive man, "you know what they say--"

        For which impertinance, Cross had him slammed back against the window, his arms stretched wide, his wrists shackled either side of the window casement. Thomas stood before him, just out of reach of Adam's furious heels.

        "What?" Adam screeched in indignation and not a little fear. "I don't do--!"

        "Binding?" Cross supplied, "Yes, I know, but it will be good for you to get over that. And while I might have been flattered by your reference to my endowments--in other circumstances--I take that comment in the same category as your earlier question about my being the stable boy here. I told you not to make that mistake again. I am two hundred and fifty years old, sometime this year, in fact. I began my life in slavery and I have used that experience to make a career for myself, but listen closely, Methos. I will not abide bigotry or prejudice, it is the refuge of the lazy and the weak, and I will not tolerate it!"

        Adam stopped struggling and kicking. "I am sorry, Thomas, truly sorry, I meant no disrespect."

        "And I accept your apology," Cross nodded and sat down again beside him.

        "Then let me loose," Adam suggested.

        "No," Cross replied, tracing an electric line along Adam's right collar bone. "And if you don't stop kicking, I'll be forced to tie your ankles up by your wrists. That would be most uncomfortable, believe me."

        Adam was suddenly very still except that he began shaking, "I don't like this."

        Cross chuckled lightly, running his fingers down across the tight pectoral plane to the erect nipple and playing there, watching Adam bite back a moan. "There you go again, fussing and lying about the most obvious things. You waste your time, Adam, with this pretending. It is really for no one's benefit, not even your own." The velvet purple lips settled gently over the swollen nipple and suckled and nibbled there.

        Adam's muscles arched his back away from the window and into the pleasuring. The pulse and burn at his groin made him want to hurry this, to beg, but he kept silent until Cross moved away. Then he made a very embarrassing noise, something like a lion who has just missed the gazelle.

        "You will remain bound until after breakfast tomorrow," Cross always found it was important to impart the end of a discipline, to give it limits in time, otherwise a mindlessness was engendered that completely undid the intended training.

        "But--" Adam glanced at the head of the stairs, the entry into the house.

        "Yes," Cross answered, "Gerret and Chad will return before then. They will not touch you. They may stare, but that will be the extent of any interaction--unless you engage them in conversation. I don't see that happening somehow."

        Adam closed his eyes tightly as the various permutations of his predicament played themselves out in his mind. He opened his eyes and stared at Thomas' amber orbs. "You're just going to leave me like this?" Adam asked, clearly not referring to his bound wrists.

        Cross smiled, "Well, I should. It would be a good lesson for you." He glanced down at Adam's pulsing erection, set so fetchingly in the soft brown fuzz at his crotch. "I do need to go down and feed the ponies soon, but I might be tempted," he said casually, teasingly.

        Adam's eyes never left the amber stare. The hay racks were filled, Cross must mean the evening grain. The horses would not be going hungry on his account. He doesn't want me to beg. He has made that clear enough already. He wants me to figure out for myself what to do to please him, to please myself. Adam thought a moment. He wants my obedience. And this is so important that he is just standing there quietly, giving me all this time to come to an understanding.

        Adam's long legs were stretched out in front of him, his heels resting on the floor where they'd thudded when Cross told him to stop kicking. He bent his knees and drew his legs in towards the couch. Taking a deep breath, and not quite believing he could be doing this, Adam lifted his feet up onto the couch, either side of him, opening himself in spread display. Then he arched his back and set the crown of his head back against the cool pane of the window. All he could think was, "You could kill me so easily in this position."

        Cross watched the elder Immortal bending his will with a supreme strength that took the black man's breath. Thomas might have stood there watching this erotic display for a very long time, but he did not have that luxury. He rushed forward to reward this splendid beaste.

        Reaching under the couch, he retrieved the oil and prepared himself in an instant, mounting the white giant firmly, but not too swiftly, reaching between them to stroke the man in the rhythm of a slow canter on a dominant lead, a perfect rolling motion across an endless sunny plain. "Excellent, Adam, excellent," he praised, even as he gasped with the reciprocal lust which threatened to render him mindless, heedless.

        Adam pushed them faster, moaning and then howling the wordless demands of his flesh.

        But Cross knew the value of collection, of restraint, and he held them back, rocking smoothly at the verge, learning the ways of the wise.

        When Cross judged they'd learned enough, he moved them out over the verge in one gigantic leap of passionate completion and he felt Adam go limp beneath him, senseless as death.

        The black man dismounted slowly and leaned forward to kiss the giant on his smooth, broad forehead. "Sleep, Adam. There will be many other days for us, but this one moment--"

        He used the word he always saved for the best of the best, the few things that were perfect.

        "Beautiful."

Ram knew well enough just to serve Duncan and Joe their lunch and then make herself scarce. There were no customers. They'd only just started opening the bar for evening fare and they still had not found a replacement for Mike. But the empty bar made a good place for Joe's friends to gather and to talk. Ram knew that look on the Wizard's face and the mirror image on Duncan's. They were both worried about something. The Wizard would tell her in time, or she would come to know it in time, whether he told her or not.         Not now, though. Now was the time for them to grumble their way through lunch and converse and argue and generally work out between them whatever was wrong. Joe was so right about love and working through the imperfections. Ram snuck next door to look in on Lucille and the children. The Child was well, healthy and happy. The other, the baby, was sleeping in his crib. Lucille was singing to The Child, a melody of some complexities, all resolving into a single line about dying. Ram wondered if that were a proper sort of song for any child, but Mary was delighted, pantomiming the verses. Ram shook her head. "But I don't know why, she swallowed the fly--"

        What did it mean?

        "Hello, Ramikins," Lucille looked up as they finished the dying song. "Would you like to feed Sean?" she asked hopefully.

        Ram shook her head, "No, that's all right, Lucille. You do it so well. I would not want to--"

        "It's all right, Ram," Lucille sighed. "I was just asking. You're going to have to at least touch him one of these days," she added.

        Ram started to leave. Lucille called her back and invited her to lunch with Mary and herself.

        Ram grudgingly joined them. "Do you know what is bothering Duncan," she opened the conversation.

        "I think he's a little worried about Adam, Ramikins," Lucille replied. "He brought the H, O, R, S, E, S back and is staying with them north of town, but he hasn't called, or come into town since, and that was five days ago. Duncan called out to the place where he took the beasties and Adam hardly said anything at all, mostly that it wasn't any of Duncan's business and, no the kids couldn't come see the H, O, R, S, E, S yet, maybe in a couple of weeks."

        "Ponies!" Mary squealed, ear to ear in P B and J. "Can we go see the ponies now?"

        Sean woke up, crying. Lucille went over and closed the sound-proof door to the bar. Then she returned to Mary at the small table. "No, Mary, Uncle Adam wants everything to be just right when we go see them. We have to be patient and wait."

        Sean wailed on, a definite complaint, more of rage and indignation, than of sadness.

        Ram watched Lucille and went back to eating her sandwich. No mean feat given she couldn't drink liquids and the peanut butter was wadding up on her palate like a mud dauber's nest. Lucille did not react to the baby's crying, but she did hand Ram a cup of ice.

        "I want to see the ponies," Mary pouted, reaching for her milk and wondering why Auntie Ram wasn't drinking hers. She looked over at Sean, then at Auntie Luz, then shrugged and drank her milk.

        Seeing the ordinary lines of communication weren't working, Sean escalated to screaming, loud, blood-curdling howls of heart-breaking intensity.

        Lucille ignored these as well. "I will ask Uncle Adam how long we have to wait, Mary. I will--"

        "God!" Ram jumped up and ran to Sean, scooping him up in her arms and holding him close, rocking him, saying his name over and over again.

        "I thought you were a caring person," Ram spit the words at the back of Lucille's head.

        Lucille turned slowly and looked up at Ram, "And I thought you couldn't weep."

---

        "Do you think I'm just over-reacting, Joe?" Duncan played with his piece of bread, breaking it into tiny pieces and setting them in rows on the table top.

        "Mac, I can't honestly say," Joe sipped his coffee. "But I do know Adam has lived longer than most mountains and I think we can count on him to land on his feet whatever is going on. We could drive up and visit if you like."

        "No," Duncan shook his head, "I promised him I wouldn't interfere. That I wouldn't barge in."

        "So, Mac," Joe set his cup down and leaned over the table. "What do you think is going on?"

        Duncan shook his head. "I just don't know. He sounded--I don't know--peaceful."

        Joe let his silence lead Duncan forward.

        "He said he was taking an apprenticeship with the dressage instructor that owned the stables, but there was something--"

        "Are you jealous?" Joe asked.

        This question caught Duncan off-balance. He thought a moment. "You may be right, Joe. We had such a good time going up to the Falls. Yes, maybe that's it," the Scot slumped his head forward and laughed. "I knew if I talked to you, this would all make sense."

        "Must come from living with Chaos," Joe laughed.

        "How are things going with the two of you?" Duncan asked.

        Dawson shrugged, "Oh, fine. I didn't know Ram very well before the accident. It amazes me how very like Set she is, that essentially they are the same. I cannot get used to how," Joe paused and tried to think of a way to explain his very unique wife. "There is a brave innocence about her, Mac. It's so stunning at times. I--"

        Duncan curled his hand over Joe's and smiled. "I am happy for you, Joe, more than I can say."

        "Thanks, Mac," Joe said, "but I don't see where you're coming up shy on the people-to-love-you list. That's some harem you've accumulated." He referred to the Four Powers of Anne, Lucille, Cassandra, and Grace.

        "You'd think," Duncan sighed sadly. Water, water everywhere...

        "Meaning?" Joe asked.

        "Well, Anne is busy with the children and her job and her mother just left this morning, so that doesn't look to improve--"

        Joe's silvery eyebrows crunched together in the center of his forehead. "No sex, huh?"

        Duncan's eyes rolled upward and he shook his head. "And Lucille is always busy. Grace moved into another apartment in The Towers and is working non-stop with those blood samples she took from Malak. Lucille spends most of her spare time with Grace, helping with the research. And Cassandra is--whatever she's doing at The Drieg with that short black man who goes by the name of Xavier."

        "Which reminds me," Joe interrupted, "I have been meaning to ask you, when you went to that place, The Drieg, you said you did not bring your katana in, but you weren't worried because you didn't feel any Immortals were there."

        Duncan had expected Joe to read him the riot act about what had happened with Ram, so he really wasn't listening to the question. His mind replayed the words. "Yes?"

        "But Cassandra was there," Joe said.

        "Yes?" Duncan was slow to make the connection. "Oh, yes, she was, but I didn't feel her, even when I saw her walk across the hall. Joe, I didn't feel her at all!"

        "And who else I am wondering," Joe mused, "did you not feel?"

        Neither men had time to follow this intriguing thought any further.

        Ram blew through the door from the nursery, a fury incarnate. "Why didn't you tell me?" she screeched, headed for the two men at the table. "Why?" she smashed both hands down on the table top bouncing Mac's untouched soup off the edge and onto the floor in a rain of split peas and ham.

        "Be still, Ram," Joe commanded.

        "No!" the fury replied.

        Duncan took this as the worst possible sign. If Joe couldn't control her, they were all up the proverbial creek, and--Dear Lord!--were those scales shining on her cheeks? He interspersed himself between Joe and his wife, knowing even as he did this, he was violating the first rule of anybody who had any sense at all.

        Ram stepped back. Her eyes were changing color, the irises altering from circles to rhomboids. "You had no right!" her voice was deepening to an ominous rumble.

        Joe shoved Mac out of the way. "What happened? Stop this nonsense and talk to me!"

        The scales dissolved, the eyes blinked and opened, pale grey again. "The healer stole my blood and gave it to two mortals, Lucille and Anne," Ram said with an edge to her words that would cut diamonds. "And the healer is planning to use my blood as some sort of universal cure. I cannot allow that! I will not allow that!"

        "But you gave some to a horse for God's sake, Ram!" Duncan blurted.

        "What?," Ram grabbed the front of Duncan's shirt, then let it go, "Oh, you mean the gelding. No, his wound was not mortal. I only healed him. I did not--No!"

        "I just thought--" Duncan started.

        "Not one of your strong points, Lord Leod. Stick with the muscle work," Ram growled. "Well, gentlemen, I'm off."

        That was surely true enough, Duncan thought.

        "Where are you going, Ram?" Joe asked anxiously.

        "I shall be back within the hour, Dear Husband."