The crowd was loud.  The music was loud.  The food was hot and spicy.  And the beer! The beer was flowing! A strong hand rolled the dice on the carpet.  A loud cheer resounded as the owner of that hand won yet again! This was truly a good night!  As he pulled the assortment of coins in front of him he was pounded on the back by well wishers and those who hoped some of his luck would rub off on them.

        A voice rang out, one of the more belligerent losers.  "You owe us the chance to win back our money!  You can't quit now!"

        The young man laughed, "It's my money now, and I can do anything I choose!"  He stood and circled his arm above his head, "And I say a round for everyone -- on me!"

        The laughter grew as beer flowed freely and the dice game continued.  The young man continued to win, raking in coin and smiling smugly at those who congratulated him, shrugging off those who begrudged him this streak of luck.  He had decided this would be his last roll. The Turk, who was betting large sums of money, was convinced that just a few more tosses of the dice and the large pile of coins in front of the young blacksmith would be his.  The smith upped the ante tossing in a handful of silver coins.

        "But, but, I cannot match that!" the Turk stammered.

        Laughing and sprawling backwards against the cushions, the smith asked, "What else have you to wager, then?  A king's ransom in precious jewels? What do you offer, Turk?"

        The heavyset, dark skinned man thought, stroking his beard.  Slapping his hand against his knee, he nodded, then threw back his head, chuckling.  "My prize stallions!  You are a smith.  You must be able to appreciate fine animals when you see them, no?"  Rising to his feet, and almost toppling over, the Turk urged, "Come, judge them yourself!"

        The smith pushed himself to his feet, then did topple over, laughing, spilling beer and sending his winnings flying.  The Turk hovered above him, or, were there two Turks there now?  A wide, brown hand was extended as the Turk laughed again, "What is your name, my young friend?"  The extended hand pulled the slim man to his feet.

        Brushing the long hair back from his face, the smith staggered to the doorway, "Joseph, my name is Joseph."

        The Turk gathered his robes around him and pointed do a large dark horse across the way.  "There, my stallions," Turk choked on his laughter.

        Joseph narrowed his eyes.  Perhaps it was the beer, but he guessed there were two horses there, both young black stallions. "I accept your bet, sire," he bowed low, losing his balance and ending on his backside, only to be pulled to his feet again by the Turk.  They returned a few wobbling steps to the dice.  The Turk rolled, a four and a three.  Joseph picked up the bones and gave them a shake before releasing them to the carpet.  Double sixes!  He whooped, dancing around and around and even pulling the Turk into his swirl.  But one more trip around the improvised dance floor was too much.  The room began to tilt and move at an alarming rate.  Then, before he realized what was going on, Joseph, the smith was face down on the carpet in the middle of the tavern.  His winnings were scattered around him.  His fuzzy mind told him to stay put, the room was still moving much too fast.  Somewhere he heard the Turk, bemoaning the loss of his livestock, but still laughing.   Then even the voices dimmed to muzzled noise and in Joseph's world, someone extinguished the lamps.

        Rosy light seeped through his eyelids, there was still considerable noise around him, but it seemed dimmer, now.  Joseph pushed his head up, and the room wavered.  His stomach fought to escape his body, but breathing deeply and swallowing hard captured the part of him that tried to escape.  He focused on an object in front of him.  Ahh, the Turk.  Rising to his knees, the slender, yet muscular man gathered his coin and shoved his winnings into the leather pouch attached to his belt. As he fumbled for his cloak, he motioned the tavern keeper to pour him another beer.  He grasped the clay cup and upended it, then headed for the door. Across the yard his other prizes awaited him.

        The night air was chill and crisp.  It cleared the cobwebs from Joseph's brain and eyes.  So clear, he shook his head.  What by the thunder of the gods was the Turk pulling on him!!  There by the crude shed stood a solitary black stallion.  He turned on his heel and stalked to the tavern.

        "Damn you to hell, Turk!" he bellowed.  "I see only one stallion!  Where is the other horse?"

        The middle-eastern mound of flesh roused, lifting his head and opening bleary eyes.  "Josephhhh," he began, before his head rolled to rest again on the table.

        Joseph grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head and looking hard into the beady eyes.  "My horses, Turk.  I see only one!"

         His gambling companion raised his head and began a belly laugh.  "My friend, I said 'stallions' and I said 'livestock'-- I never said horses."  Another guffaw.  "There is only one horse and the slave."  He struggled to his feet.  "Both animals are hot-headed, stubborn, untamed. Come, I show you."

        They lumbered together to the shed.  The young black stallion whickered as they approached.  The Turk reached for the second rope and pulled on it.  A grunt was heard, and the form of a young man appeared on the opposite end.  Fat, heavy feet kicked the body. "Wake, you camel dung!  Stand and meet your new master!"  Another quick yank on the rope followed by a choking noise as straw rustled and the slave rose to his feet. He glared at Turk, but did not make a sound.  The dark eyes glittered with hatred and fury. His head was held high, reminding Joseph of a prince, not a slave.   Joseph shivered inside his cloak, due not only to the cold night air, but because he himself was very familiar with slavery.  Another shiver coursed through his frame as he looked upon his new 'possession.'  The young man before him had his hands tied behind his back.  His feet were hobbled as one might hobble a horse. His hair was black, matted to his shoulders. A chain belt of flattened bronze links lay around the narrow hips.  His only other garment was a tattered wisp of linen loincloth.  The shoulders were broad, the chest well developed, the legs lean and muscular. His body was perfect.  As he watched, the Turk pointed out the young man's finer points, his hands lingering longer than was necessary on chin, chest, shoulder and finally a rough caress, followed by a sharp slap to the taut rump.  The youngling stood silently, cringing as the pudgy, dough-like hands of the Turk touched him.  Joseph looked into his face, caught by the beauty of the young man's face, the haunted sadness and innocence of the earth-brown eyes. As he watched the slave, he became aware that the muzzy noise inside his head was not from just alcohol. The boy was one of his own kind!

        The Turk handed the lead ropes to him.  "Yours," he grunted, and headed back to the tavern and the warmth of the fire inside.  A rough laugh echoed over his shoulder.  "Maybe I win them back next time we play, heh?"

        Joseph looked at the two of them, his 'stallions'.  What the bloody hell was he to do with a stallion and a slave?  He barely could support himself with profit from the forge.  As he stood looking at his winnings, he thought he could sell one or both of them.  But, the slave, well, it had been a long time since Joseph had owned a slave.  There were other things slaves were of use for, other than mere physical labor. His lips curled into a wicked smile.  That body!  Perhaps this slave was a good thing to own.  And there were more ways than one of possessing someone!

         He turned toward his camp down the road from this small village and started to move.  The slack in the ropes decreased.  The ropes snapped taut.  Joseph moved.  His horse and his slave did not.  A hard yank on the ropes and the stallion danced backward, neighing his objections.  The slave choked against the pressure on his throat, but did not move.  Joseph turned to both of them and said one word, "Come!"  Both beings at the other ends of the ropes stood still.  Joseph tried again, louder this time, "Come!"  He was rewarded with the same result as before. He pulled the braided leather whip from his belt and cracked it at the feet of both of his new possessions.  No movement forward from either the horse or the boy.

        His head was still throbbing from the excess of beer. He was cold and he wanted to go back to his camp.  Acknowledging that he could pull on the ropes all night, and no one would move. He knew another tactic would be needed.  He wanted to forego any form of force or violence here in the village.  He approached the stallion first.

        "Black as night, you are, my friend.  You must have a name."  His hands were stroking the velvet nose as he spoke, and his voice and touch calmed the young animal.  "What shall it be?" He thought aloud as he continued the petting.  "You are black as the soot on my anvil.  Ah, but that is not a fine enough name for a creature such as you."  He paused a moment, thinking as he petted the sleek neck.  "Let's make it Sedilia.  It means the same."  The strong hands rubbed the nose again, before giving him a final strong pat, "Good boy, Sedilia."

        Joseph turned to look at the slave.  The boy held his head high.  Joseph guessed his was a line of nobility, but he couldn't say from where.  "Boy," began the smith, "how are you called?"

        There was no sound.  Only a heavy shudder that overtook the nearly naked form.

        "You have the look of a warrior.  Tell me your name.  I must call you something."

        His answer was again silence.  He gave a slight tug on the rope, his voice rising to a growl, "What is your name?"

        Finally a weak, but proud baritone voice responded, "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

        Joseph chuckled.  "I was right.  A dark warrior, Donnchadh."  He pronounced the boy's name in Gaelic.

        The dark eyes darted to those of his new master, surprise evident in the young face.  He had not thought he would ever hear his name in his native tongue again.  How did this man in this place far from the Highlands of his home know how to pronounce his name in the old way?  He apparently knew what the name 'Duncan' meant too, because he had called him 'dark warrior'.  He stood slightly swaying on his feet, wondering what his lot would be with this man.  He couldn't remember the last time he had had enough to eat.  Couldn't remember how long it had been since he had had proper clothing, or been warm at night or cool during the day.  The man's voice was saying something, but it suddenly sounded to Duncan as if the voice was under water.  He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came from his lips, and then the world was black.

        Joseph looked down at the body as it crumpled onto the bare earth. The lad looks miserable, no clothing, skin and bones.  If I am cold this night, wrapped in my cloak, how much more so is he?  Joseph bent and hauled the young body across his shoulder, hands caressing the broad shoulders, the strength of the other's arms and finally running his hands across taut thighs and tight buttocks. It was then, as he touched the boy's body he felt it.  Felt the fuzzy thrumming, a tiny vibration flowing into his frame.  He cocked his head and could discern the fuzzy vibrating noise in his head now.  The boy is indeed one of us.

        As he walked to the flickering glow from the tavern's doorway, he became puzzled.  Did this mean he would have to kill this young warrior, or should he take him as a student? And if so, exactly what would I teach him? And how long had it been since he had been teacher to anyone?  Perhaps a hundred, no two hundred, ahh, more than three hundred years.  He did not want to be teacher to anyone.  He had grown accustomed to the solitary life, no more 'brothers' to act with, to act for, to kill for. The blood sport was an abomination to him now.  Now he wanted peace. It was enough for tonight.  Tomorrow would sort out these questions for itself.  Right now he needed rest.

        Joseph entered the tavern, glaring at the Turk.  He found a corner near the fire and pulled the carpet that had been their betting floor over for his own needs.  He dumped the body of the slave, but left him tied. Then, because the slave still trembled in his sleep from the cold, Joseph flopped down beside him and pulled his long cloak over the two of them.  Before lowering his head, he made a show of checking his sword and dagger, a warning to all the others still in the smoky room that he would sleep lightly, that they were the ones who should beware.  Possessively, his arm circled the younger man's waist, pulling the supple body into contact with his.  The muscular frame nestled against his was still quivering from cold and exhaustion.  Joseph willed his body's heat to be subsumed by the other, and as the dark warrior relaxed into his warmth, the smith drifted to sleep.  His last thoughts were of other touches he would place on the body of his 'student'.

        He supposed it was the unusual quiet that wakened him in the morning.  The daylight was tingeing the sky with pinks and lavenders.  Joseph propped himself on one elbow and looked at the remaining patrons who had fallen asleep in the midst of their revelry and stayed so for the night. The tavern keeper was clearing the remains of the night before, trying to sort the keepable from that broken beyond repair.

        Joseph stood and approached the plank where the other man worked.  "Food? Can I buy food here?"

        "Aye.  My wife is baking the morning bread, and there is still some stew from yestere'en.  A few coins, then we will be even."  He turned to go back into his living quarters and returned moments later with fresh bread and a bowl of stew.  He filled a pottery cup with cool beer and pushed the items toward the smith.

        Joseph removed coins from the bag at his waist, but before handing them over, motioned toward the fire.  "More food!  I have a starving slave to feed."  The tavern keeper nodded and moved into the other room, returning with another bowl of stew and another loaf of flat bread.  Under Joseph's pointed look toward the one cup of beer, he poured another.  Joseph rewarded the man with a quick smile and nod of his head as he tossed another coin onto the plank.   He returned to the form huddled beneath his cloak, nudging the younger man with his foot.  The cloak moved slightly.  Another, stronger movement with his booted foot and the dark head shot out from the edge of the cloak.  The deep brown eyes were wide with apprehension as the slave recognized where he was.  Joseph placed the food beside him, but made no move to retrieve the cloak. Bending, he removed the hobbles, then untied the slave's hands. He motioned in the direction of the bowl of stew.

        "Better eat it while it's hot," he advised.  He sat, cross-legged beside his slave and ate his own breakfast.  Still the young man watched him warily, not moving to eat.  Joseph lifted an eyebrow.  "It's not poisoned.  Eat!  We must be on our way."  He concentrated on his own bowl, watching from the corner of his eye as the youngling lifted the stew, sniffing cautiously.

        He broke the bread and popped a piece into his mouth, closing his eyes as the warmth of the bread made its way into his stomach. In seconds, the stew was gone and Duncan was chewing the bread slowly, savoring its warmth and taste.  His new master rose, and Duncan halted, waiting for the kick that had resulted whenever the Turk rose.  But instead of kicking him, the slender figure moved toward the tavern keeper and requested the bowl be filled again.  Duncan watched, wide-eyed, as the newly filled bowl was shoved into his hands again. It still stuck in his throat to call anyone 'master'. He suppressed his fury.  This 'master' was showing signs of being human -- providing him with food.  But, that was only because of the hard labor Duncan was sure would be in store for him once they left the tavern.  His skin still crawled with the thought of someone claiming ownership of him.

        His thoughts wandered back to the past year.  The battle with the MacGregors that had resulted in a fatal wound, his miraculous revival, the terrible bitter loneliness when his father had banished him.  He had wandered from Glenfinnan, his Highland home, where none would speak to him or give him shelter, had wandered to the sea.  There one night, after mucking out stables, he had gone to a tavern where no one knew him, where no one would call him demon.  But there was something in the brew, and he had wakened, chained and in a ship, being taken far from his home.  There had followed months of labor as a slave for first one then another master.  He had escaped, but with nowhere to go, he had been easily recaptured. That was when Turk bought him.  For the past few months he had been beaten regularly, fed seldom, worked for Turk or for whomever his master rented his labors.  Always he had looked for a way to escape.

        His thoughts were broken as a rough voice called to him,  "Donnchadh, come."  He pushed to his feet, still marveling at hearing his name, and in Gaelic.  It made him want to know more about the man who now thought he owned him.  The cloak was in his hand, and he extended it toward the smith as they went toward the door.

        Joseph merely raised his hand, stopping the cloak's return, as he walked through the doorframe.   Duncan drew the warm wool about his nearly naked body again.  Once out in the weak morning light, the smith looked around the square at the merchants beginning to stir.  He pushed Duncan before him toward one of the booths.  Speaking a language that the Scot did not understand, Joseph nodded at the man he was bartering with and selected a shirt and pair of breeches.  At the next stall, he motioned Duncan in with him.  Speaking very rapidly, and pointing to his slave, he finally slipped a few coins from his belt and produced a pair of boots.  Tucking his purchases under his arm, he pushed Duncan to the shed where the stallion was munching hay.

        Joseph pointed toward the horse.  "Know your way around horses, do you?" he asked.

        Duncan nodded.  "Bring him," a strong voice commanded, and he turned to walk away from the cluster of huts and booths that comprised the village.  Duncan stared after him, but for some reason, could not run away.  Joseph looked over his shoulder, "Today, boy!"

         Duncan picked up the rope and, pulling on the stallion's lead, followed Joseph down the road away from the village.

        Peering around the corner, Turk watched the threesome depart.  It wouldn't take long to reclaim his 'livestock'.  Perhaps he would take the smith as well.  Who would miss a wandering blacksmith?

        The thin lips of the smith formed a smile as he walked toward his camp.  He didn't have to turn around to know that Duncan was following him.  He could sense that the stallion was balking, could hear the boy as he tried talking the horse into cooperating.

        "He'll beat us both, if ye dinna move, ye stupid bloody animal," the burr urged the stallion.  Duncan pulled on the lead rope.  Never had he come across so stubborn an animal.  He ended up petting the velvety nose, smoothing his hands down the sleek neck of the beast, until at last the animal moved forward again.

        Joseph glanced over his shoulder quickly, then continued down the road.  As his boots crunched on the dirt and loose stone of the road, he cursed his luck.  A stubborn horse and a stubborn Scot, both so young they probably knew nothing. What was he going to do with the two of them? Shaking his head he glanced back at the two of them.  "Hurry!" he bellowed, and taking out his braided whip cracked it just a foot in front of both the stallion and the slave.  The brown eyes of the boy grew wide, although he tried to maintain his sullen expression, and the stallion reared slightly, then they both hurried to catch up to the master.

        Joseph's camp consisted of a small abandoned hut and a lean-to where his anvil and bellows rested.  Behind the hut a stream flowed into a natural pool.  As they approached, Joseph gave instructions to Duncan.  "Tie the horse under the tree so he can graze, then take water to him.  When you're done come out back to the stream."  He entered the hut then proceeded down the pathway to the source of water.

        In a few minutes, Duncan walked down the path slowly and with trepidation. He had the feeling something dire awaited him at the end of this trail.  Perhaps a beating for moving too slowly?  Maybe his new master had decided to end his life.  After all, he was the winnings from a game of chance; the master had not really paid for him.  Swallowing, he entered the clearing.  He looked around cautiously.  A trap perhaps, to make him try to run for his freedom?  Where was his master?  He heard a splashing noise and looked to the pool as a human form appeared from the water's surface.

        "Can you swim, Highlander?"

        "Aye."

        "Drop the cloak and that pitiful excuse for a loincloth and come in."

        Duncan hesitated.  What was going on?  As he watched, the slender form dove beneath the dark surface and disappeared. The cloak dropped to the ground, but he left the strip of linen wrapped around his hips.  He stepped closer to the edge of the bank.  The water felt so good against his skin.  Perhaps the Master planned to drown him.  The cool water swirled around his knees.  Another step, another.

        Without warning something reached for him, pulling his legs out from under him and into deeper water.  Spluttering as he tried to break the surface and breathe again, Duncan felt hands at his waist.  He shook his head to clear water from his eyes, and saw a powerful arm waving a sodden piece of fabric.  His hands slid to his own hips, feeling a conspicuous absence.  Duncan reached for the skimpy piece of cloth.

        "It's all I have!" he yelled.

        Joseph surfaced again, this time behind him.  "I told you to drop this on the bank."  His voice sounded cold, calculating.  Duncan swirled around to face him, anger and shame at exposing his body so totally to this stranger, plain on his face.  "Maybe I should leave you as you are now until you learn to obey," Joseph smirked.  Or maybe I should leave you that way so I can enjoy your beautiful body. His eyes followed each curve of the body before him, noting the sculpted muscle of bicep, chest, belly, thigh.  His gaze came to rest on the bed of curls at the apex of the thighs, and pointedly he licked his lips, then raised his eyes to the angry ones glaring back at him.

        Duncan moved his hands to cover himself, anything to break that hungry look.  He backed into deeper water, thinking to shield and cover himself that way.

        "Stop!" the voice on the bank commanded.  The young man retreated another step.  "More lessons on obeying?"  Joseph asked and the leather whip cracked in the air above Duncan's head. Duncan stopped and dropped his hands to his sides, lifting his head and glaring back.  "Good.  You learn.  You're not stupid."  He reached down and pulled a small crock from the ground.  "Soap," he announced and gave it a toss.  Duncan caught it in mid air.  "Use it, a lot of it."  The younger man moved toward deeper water. "No!  In closer to the bank."  The younger man moved a few steps toward the bank and stopped.  Joseph sat on the bank and began to pull his leather breeches back on.  "Get busy," he advised, "or I'll come in and do it for you!"

        Duncan reached into the small crock and rubbed the soft soap between his hands, lathering his arms and shoulders, still under the watchful eye of Joseph.  His hands worked more soap into lather and smoothed the suds against his belly.  He faltered, glancing at the man on the bank.  A dark brow raised as Joseph told him, "Don't stop now.  Things are just getting interesting!"  Duncan's face was hot and flushed as his hands dropped lower than his belly.  He tried turning part way from the bank, to gain a measure of privacy, but Joseph would have none of it.  The braided whip cracked in the air above Duncan's head.  "Face me!" the strong voice commanded. Humiliation washed through the young man as his hands touched his groin, spreading lather to that most sensitive part of his body, and then to his thighs.  He closed his eyes, so that action would spare him having to look at his captor, the man who was shaming him, the man who wanted to break his pride.

        Joseph yelled further instructions.  "Rinse, then use that on your hair!"  Duncan lowered his body into the water, planning on escaping, thinking on how to overwhelm this arrogant bastard who claimed him as property.  He thought about using that whip on the devil that watched and humiliated him as he took another handful of the soft soap and worked it into his hair.  For a few moments he luxuriated in the feeling of being clean as he ducked his head beneath the water's surface, freeing his hair from the dirt of the past several weeks.  He stood again, and turned to face the bank.  Joseph motioned for him to leave the water.

        Uncertainly, the slave approached the master.  He stepped onto the mossy bank and stopped, still acutely aware of his nudity and the appraising looks of the other man.  His shame was now mixed with fear and apprehension.  What was expected of him now?  Trying to maintain some sense of dignity he walked toward Joseph.

        The self-control and grace were not lost on Joseph.  Here was a proud warrior, a man who was shamed at having someone watch him bathe, a man who treasured freedom, a spirit that would not be easy to tame.  Then again, Joseph thought, Perhaps the spirit needn't be tamed, only gentled, certainly not broken. Pride could be taught to bend.  But the blushes, as he had watched that beautiful body being covered with the bubbles of soap, were worth exploring.

        Duncan halted immediately in front of the smith.  Joseph held out the breeches, shirt and boots he had purchased in the village.  The young man's eyes widened, but he made no move to touch the clothing.  "Take them.  They're yours," Joseph instructed.

        "Why?"

        "Most people prefer clothing.  It's not you native dress, but it will do."

        Duncan bowed his head.  "Thank you," he hesitated, nearly choking on the word, "master."

        "Before you dress, come closer," Joseph instructed.  A shiver of apprehension slid down his spine.  As an ivory hand came to rest on his hip, Duncan stopped breathing.  Joseph slid a finger beneath the flattened link of brass chain still around Duncan's hips.  "A souvenir? Or would you rather be rid of it?" Joseph asked.

        "Aye, I dinna want it on me," the low voice answered in a husky tone.

        "I thought not," the older man responded as he took a tool from his belt.  He slid a flattened blade beneath the chain and closing the jaws of the tool, pressed down until a link snapped and the chain fell to the ground.  He sat back, watching as Duncan continued to dress in the clothes he had offered.

        "How did you become one of Turk's possessions?"

        Duncan related the miracle that revived him from battle with the MacGregors, that same 'miracle' that had caused him the bitter anguish of banishment from his clan and family by his father, and then the devastating truth that Ian MacLeod was not really his father. "But I'm noh a demon!" he asserted, blinking his eyes rapidly to hold back the tears that were ready to flood his soulful brown eyes.

        Joseph listened and watched the youngster, feeling his pain and almost reaching out to encompass the young man with his arms and soothing words.  He waited a moment for his slave to collect his emotions.  "Have you taken anyone's head?" he finally asked, calmly, as if decapitating someone was an everyday occurrence.

        The Scot looked up, horrified, as he finished sliding the shirt over his head and into place. "Och, no! Why would I do that?"

        "To live, boy!  You've had no teacher?"

        Looking very confused Duncan responded, "Teacher?  There was na school in mah village.  Do ya shame me as I canna read?"  His head dropped, not needing this man to humiliate him any further.

        Joseph narrowed his eyes.  Reading isn't the only thing you're ignorant of, I'd wager. His tongue tasted his lips, as he wondered what the flesh of this beautiful boy would taste like.  But, there were other matters that needed to be explored as well, other things that Joseph, with his centuries of experience, could teach.  He would have to work with the boy as he worked with the stallion, breaking each to the halter before trying a bit or saddle. Ahh, but both will be worth the wait, and both will be worth the ride!

        Joseph stood suddenly.  "We will have to remedy that, won't we?"  He moved back down the trail toward the hut.

        His words finally seeped into Duncan's brain, and he followed quickly behind.  "Sir," he called.

        "You will call me Master," Joseph commanded him.  Then turning his back, and continuing on the trail he spoke again, "Do you want to learn to read?"

        Duncan swallowed hard.  He was being offered one of his dreams, but in order to accept it, he had to reduce his pride.  "Aye. . . Master," he hesitated. "Ah dew wan' ta learn ta read."

        Joseph turned to look at him.  " Good.  You will.  For now, gather pine boughs and some sage grass from the field over there and make a pallet. When you're done, curry the stallion, Sedilia.  I'll be at the forge and I'll know where you are, so don't get any ideas of running off."

        "Yes. . ., Master."  Duncan moved to do as he had been told, not knowing the hazel eyes of the smith followed his every move very closely.  He did not know that Joseph's offer to teach him to read would have a price, more than his pride, more than the humiliation of being forced to bathe in front of the other man; the price would be something of greater value to Duncan MacLeod.

        The young Scot followed the directions his master had given him.  As he pulled pine boughs and sage for a pallet, he wondered where he was to sleep. In the lean-to with the horse, if I'm lucky. He found the brushes and began the long strokes to free the stallion's mane and tail from burr and knots and then began the same motions on the sleek hide, taking pleasure in the quivering horseflesh before him.

        "Sedilia," he whispered, "tis a good name fer ye."  Another long stroke with the brush, "Ye'd best learn ta like me, for I'd wager we'll be sharin' quarters again soon."  As he curried the horse, Duncan watched the powerful swings of Joseph's arms as he heated a piece of iron in his forge and hammered it into shape.  A strange feeling began to creep along his spine as he watched his master, not exactly fear, but something exciting.  It was such a strange feeling that he pushed it away, afraid to analyze the conflicting emotions it brought out.

        At last he was done with the horse and he moved reluctantly toward the forge. There was something about this man that drew him, but something that almost made him fear the other man.  That was silly, Duncan knew.  He had been raised as a chieftain's son, as a warrior.  He wasn't supposed to be afraid of things like that. Yet as he thought back over the past several months, he admitted to himself, that there were times when he had been terrified, times when he was alone in the darkest night and he had broken down and wept.  He certainly knew by this time that he hated slavery; no man should own another.  It was dehumanizing, demoralizing.  The thought of having to subject himself to a 'master' made Duncan's proud skin crawl. All I have to do is be on the look out and perhaps I can escape. But as he thought it, he knew escape from this man would be all but impossible.  He wasn't sure how this knowledge came to him with such certainty. And he was not sure why that thought both frightened and excited him.

        Joseph did not even look up as he approached.  "There is salted meat in the keg by the hut.  Put some in the pot with water and add some carrots and dried beans.  We'll eat as soon as it's ready."  Raising his head and pushing his long hair from his face, Joseph gave him a steady look. "Then we'll begin your lessons."  As the young man nodded and turned toward the hut, Joseph's thin lips curled into a smile.  Reading's not the only thing I'll be teaching you, youngster.

        Duncan once more did as he had been instructed, wondering why this voice seemed to compel him to follow those instructions.  While he was busy building up the fire and adding ingredients to the pot, Joseph approached.  He washed up quickly, and sat to watch as his new 'possession' stirred the pot.  Joseph entered the hut and returned to the fire, adding a handful of flour to the contents, then a handful of spices and herbs from a wax-lined basket.  Duncan watched this procedure with wide eyes.

        "They use no flavorings in the Highlands?" Joseph asked, remembering the tasteless oatcakes he had been served the last time he had ventured to the cold, wet weather of the Highlands.

        "Aye.  But they're hard to come by, and costly."  Duncan sniffed the rising steam appreciatively.  He looked at his new master, brows lifted in question.  "Wha' smells so good?" he asked.

        Joseph chuckled, "Herbs, like sage and basil, a touch of salt and some black pepper.  The flour will thicken the broth."  He leaned over the pot and took a whiff of the fragrance.  "You'll like this, boy."  When he glanced at the youngling, there was apprehension and some other indefinable quality in the moist brown eyes.

        "Mas. . .Master? Canna ye call me by mah name?"  He flinched slightly, as if he expected to be hit.

        Joseph stood and looked down at the beautiful body and face, as the younger man knelt beside the fire. "Duncan," he said softly, and reached a hand to touch the dark mane that flowed over the broad shoulders.  He felt and sensed the tightening of the body, the sudden wash of fear that flowed through it.  "Donnchadh."

        Hearing his name in the old language brought a measure of relief to Duncan and he sagged visibly.  He lowered his head, unwilling to let this man see the tears that suddenly burned his eyes.

        Joseph suddenly noticed the pine boughs and sage that his slave had pulled, as instructed.  He looked closely at the boy. So out of his element.  He must figure me for a beast. The amber and emerald eyes closed for a moment as Joseph thought back to the time when he had, indeed, been a beast.  With his eyes closed he could see Kronos and the others riding down on a village, could hear the screams and death wails, could smell the smoke and the blood as it ran over the parched earth.  Yes, he had been an animal.  He had been Death. No more. Those days were gone.  Perhaps he would even one day forget them and forget what he had been. He doubted it. That part of his past would always haunt him.

        He shook his head to clear his mind and looked again at the Highlander as he stirred the contents of the pot.  "Why didn't you put the pallet in the hut?" he asked in a rough tone.

        "I'm sorry, Master.  You didn't tell me where it was to go."

        "Do you think I'd treat you no better than the horse?  You'll have a roof over you head, Duncan, and food enough to eat, and work to do."

        Duncan's head dropped. Joseph shook his own head again.  "Put the pallet in the hut, beside the one that is already there.  There are furs enough to spread over both of them."

        Duncan moved to the hut, dragging the collection of pine and sage with him.  He ducked inside the doorway and manipulated his armload with him.  The interior of the hut surprised him. There was an oil lamp in the shape of a bowl and a collection of wooden and pottery utensils on a small table.  He pulled the second pallet beside the first, rearranging the furs over both.  Then he identified the shelf and the books and scrolls upon it.  He reached out to touch them, but faltered.  They were too precious for the likes of him to even touch.  How did they come to be in the possession of a lowly blacksmith?  How was it that this man was able to read?

        Joseph stood and headed for the hut himself, before realizing he could summon his slave to bring bowls and cups for their meal.  Oh, well, he was on his way now.  As he ducked to enter the hut he caught sight of the slave standing and reaching as if to touch one of the books on the shelf.  The look on the boy's face was one of awe.

        Joseph spoke, "Bring the one on the end."  His voice made Duncan jump since he had not heard Joseph enter the hut.  The smith's long fingers scooped up bowls and cups as he headed for the door.  By the time Duncan rejoined him at the fire, Joseph had filled the bowls.  He handed the cups to his slave and pointed to the water bucket.  Duncan filled them and returned to the fire.  As he knelt, Joseph handed him a bowl and a piece of flatbread.  Duncan was conscious of being watched as he ate, the eyes upon him causing his skin to flush again.

        "So, young Duncan," Joseph's voice interrupted the silence, " ye've not taken a head?  You can't read.  How about women?  How many of them have you tried?"

        The dark eyes looked up at him in surprise.

        Joseph chuckled, "Or are you married?  Some poor lass back in the Highlands crying herself to sleep over you?"

        "It's none o' yer business!" he answered hotly, forgetting that this man owned him.

        "A sore spot," Joseph chuckled again.  "Did you lie with her then she reject you?"

        "No!"

        "Ahh, had your way with her, then had to wed her?"

        "No!  Debra wasna like that!"  He stopped abruptly, waiting for punishment to fall for his insolence.

        "What was she like?"  Joseph's voice became low, suggestive, like rough silk.  "Was she sweet and full of passion beneath you?  Did she beg you to take her?"

        "Stop! Stop!" Duncan cried, rising to his feet.  His entire body shook with his rage, his hands clenched into tight fists.  "I never touched her but to kiss her.  She was promised to mah cousin Robert, but we fell in love.  Robert fought me and I . . .I killed him.  Debra. . ." Duncan's voice softened and his eyes were lost in the far away memory, "she didna want me to leave.  She was at the cliff, at the very edge.  I told her I would marry her, but the cliff broke way.  She fell.  They wouldna let me bury her on Holy Ground."

        Joseph saw the tracks of tears across the young man's face.  It was recent then, this source of sadness in the boy.  As the smith watched, the younger man calmed and took control of his emotions again.  Duncan sank to sit beside the fire again, contemplating the bowl of food before him, and grateful that his master made no further comment.

        Finishing his meal in silence, Joseph watched Duncan through long lashes.  When the younger had emptied the bowl he looked longingly at the pot hanging over the fire.  Joseph motioned toward the pot, telling his slave, "Eat as much as you want.  There is more bread in the hut if you want it."  He closely surveyed the hungry scramble with which the other's bowl was quickly refilled.  "Didn't the Turk ever feed you?"

        Dark sable locks rustled as the Scot shook his head.  "Only the scraps after he and his men had finished, and after they fed the dogs."  Duncan chewed for a few moments, then added, "If there was any left."

        Joseph nodded.  He himself had been treated the same way long ago.  And then he had vowed he would never be treated that way again, and he had vowed he would never treat another that way.  So, what was he to do with the young man seated across the fire from him?  Teach him the ways of their kind?  Sometimes teachers kept their students with them for decades or longer. Keep him as slave?  No, his was a spirit that would never be chained, he could tell that already.  The boy had too much dignity and self-respect and would never give in to that blacker side of each man's nature. Let him buy his freedom? Well, it didn't have to be decided right now.

        Joseph pushed his bowl aside.  "In the morning you can heat water and scrub the bowls.  There is white sand in the hut, use that."  He stretched and then looked at the boy again.  "Come over here.  We'll begin your first lesson."  As Duncan moved beside the smith, Joseph asked, "Can you write your name?"

        Duncan's face dropped, hidden behind the curtain of dark hair.  "Noh. I cannoh."

        "Do you know the letters? The alphabet?"

        "Some of them.  Mah mother tried to teach me, but there never seemed to be much time for learnin'."

        Going on the assumption that Duncan had basically no sources to draw from, Joseph, the smith, the ageless Immortal, began drawing letters in the dirt by the fire.  Each letter had a name, an explanation, and a demonstration of the sound it represented.  Joseph went through the alphabet.  Then he began again, breaking the letters into groups of four, and explaining everything again.  He was pleased that Duncan was so quick to learn, asking for repetition of sounds and redrawing of letters.  As last, Joseph wiped all signs of the lesson from the soft dirt.

        "Enough for now," he announced. "We need rest."  He stood and headed for the hut, leaving Duncan huddled by the fire.  From the doorway he turned when he heard Duncan's voice.

        "Master," the baritone voice choked out, the title still hard to speak, "thank you."  He paused, still wondering where he was to sleep, and almost afraid to ask.

        Joseph nodded in acceptance of the thanks.  "Bank the fire before you come in," he said simply.

        Duncan's dark eyes opened wide at the implication that he was to share the hut with his master rather than the lean-to with the stallion.  Raking out some of the ash from the fire, and adding more wood, Duncan approached the hut.  It took several moments for his eyes to adjust the darkness within.

        On one side of the pallet, Joseph sprawled bonelessly.  Duncan was sure he was meant to find space enough for his long frame on the dirt floor. As he prepared to lie down, Joseph raised his head.  "Over here."  One slender hand rested on the pallet, right beside his body.  Duncan swallowed.  There was something compelling about the mere sound of this man's voice, but a frisson of fear and tension forced themselves down his spine.  "Duncan, over here," the voice demanded.  The younger man moved slowly.

        As Duncan approached the pallet bed, Joseph held back the blanket covering him.  Duncan was startled to see Joseph had removed his clothing.  He was alarmed that his master apparently wanted him to share his bed.  He jumped when Joseph spoke, "I think it would be best to remove those clothes."

        The Scot paused, then leaned over to remove the boots Joseph had provided for him.  His fingers fumbled with the fastenings of the breeches as he realized that Joseph was watching him closely.  He pulled the breeches down his long, muscular thighs and became aware that he was trembling.  Duncan gulped for air, trying to control his body.  Stepping from the breeches, he lifted his eyes to his master.

        "Now the shirt," Joseph stated calmly.  The shirt fell almost to Duncan's knees and covered that part of his body he was most private with.  He made no move to comply with Joseph's demand.  Then Duncan started as Joseph sat up and softly told him, "Don't be so shy.  I want to see you."  Duncan still made no move to remove the shirt.  Joseph rose to his knees and reached for the hem of the shirt, lifting it over the younger man's head.  "You've nothing to be ashamed of, Duncan.  Your body is beautiful, perfect."   Dusky skinned hands moved to cover his nudity from the admiring eyes of his master. Duncan blushed under the perusal of the ancient green and gold eyes, even as other hands moved to his sides, leaving him unprotected.

        "Ahh, just as I told you, you are beautiful!  No, don't pull away.  Come closer."  With slender hands on Duncan's waist, Joseph pulled him closer until their bodies were nearly touching.  Duncan gasped at the feel of another man looking at him so closely, at the feel of warm breath across his belly.  The hands were urging him lower, to lie on the pallet bed.  "There is nothing to worry about, Duncan," Joseph whispered in a husky voice.  Duncan felt the fur as he was pulled to his knees beside his master.  "You've been with neither woman nor man, like this, have you?"  Joseph asked as his hands moved to Duncan's shoulders.

        Shuddering slightly with apprehension and dismay, Duncan shook his head no.  Joseph continued sliding his hands from shoulder to wrist, soothing the Scot as he spoke to him.  "Then there is nothing to compare this night to, Duncan.  Shhh, come, lie down."  And the smith moved back, resting against the cushions and pulling Duncan to lie beside him.  "I've many things to teach you, Dark Warrior, things you have never even dreamed of."

        Duncan continued to tremble and drew shallow breaths as the hands caressed his flesh.  "This isna right," his voice said.  "The Church says. . ."

        "Don't worry about the church.  Don't worry about anything, Duncan."  Joseph's fingers covered the soft lips gently.  "You belong to me, remember that, and you must do as I tell you."  The softly caressing voice became hands that were caressing across the ribcage and abdomen of the young man beside him on the furs.  Joseph's head dipped and his lips rubbed across Duncan's chest, his warm breath leaving the younger man shaking.  Beneath him, the young body tried to pull away from questing hands and mouth.  Joseph slid a long, lean leg across Duncan's and moved closer, trapping his torso between his strong arms.

        The young man looked up into eyes that were jade green one moment and amber the next.  Their hot gaze made him uncomfortable, but he wasn't sure why.  The slender, callused hands were stroking him again, causing pinpricks of hot and cold across his body.  Dark hair slid across his throat and he felt firm lips gently sucking at the hollow there.  He wasn't sure why he had stopped breathing, or when.  Then the lips were brushing against his jaw and up to his ear, fingers tangling his long, dark hair.  A voice as dark and soft as a summer's night was telling him things in languages, known and unknown, of what was about to happen to him.  Duncan began to panic and his body squirmed beneath the questing hands.  Then, somehow, one long fingered hand was wrapped around him, teasing his body to respond in ways he couldn't stop.  As he hardened under the erotic touch that claimed him, his dark eyes closed.  But now, he wasn't sure if he could or could not bear to look into hazel eyes so closely regarding him.  He was no longer sure if what he felt was apprehension or fear or the kindling of desire.  As the thoughts of desire danced through his mind, he tried to push them away.  He wasn't supposed to have these feelings for another man.  But the touches and soft words were wearing away his assurance.  He wasn't sure what he should be feeling and why these things should be wrong.  His mind was swimming, and then he gulped as soft lips claimed his mouth and a hand tightened around his throbbing erection.

        Joseph's lips were pressing against the supple mouth beneath him.  His tongue feathered across the full lower lip, teasing at the corners of the soft mouth and finally gaining entrance.  A gentle sigh escaped the captive mouth allowing Joseph's tongue to explore the sweet, moist cavern.  Duncan's body twisted, and Joseph responded, covering the muscular frame with his own slender, wiry one.  Then without warning, the Scot began responding, answering the kisses as they grew longer and deeper.  Joseph growled softly, grinding his hips against the body rocking below his.  Duncan gasped as the other man's cock rubbed against him.

        The son of the Highlands blushed, knowing his body was answering the rising passion that was being drawn from him.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this shouldn't be happening, couldn't be happening.  But his lithe body was pulled, as a moth to a flame, yearning for a touch of gentleness, of caring. It had been so long since any human hand had touched him in kindness. Then he didn't want the soft, gentle touches to stop.  He moaned, his body absorbing the warmth of the desire-driven body on his own.  As if in a dream, his hands found purchase on the broad shoulders above him.

        As Duncan's fingers pulsed on his shoulders, Joseph's hushed voice told him, "Yes, it is all right to touch me back.  Let me know what pleases you, just as I will show you how to please me."

        That one sentence woke him from his cloud of passion.  Dropping his hands and moving suddenly as if to escape, Duncan tried to push Joseph away.  "No!" he exclaimed.  "I cannae do this!"

        Joseph chuckled and refused to release the body that now struggled against his.  "You must surrender, Donnchadh!  Remember who is master, who is slave.  I will have you, and it will be better for you, easier, more enjoyable, if you learn to do as you are told."  The sensuous mouth nipped his lower lip, drawing a drop of blood.  Still, the youngling struggled, and the passion-drawn mouth above him warned again, "Be careful.  I know ways to take you with ease, or we can do this with pain, if that is what you want!"

        "But I dinnae want this!  Yew canna force me!"

        "I can and I will, if that is your desire.  I have met both women and men who are excited by pain, or the mere suggestion of pain."  He nuzzled the tender throat once more.

        "No!" Duncan exclaimed, his panic growing. "It isna right!  You're a--a man!  I cannae lie with another man!"

        Joseph did not move, merely brushed the fine dark strands of hair from the flushed face, looking into the panic-wide earth brown orbs. The voice became rougher. "Must I bind you?  Is that what you want?"  Hands framed Duncan's face and lips sipped the nectar of his mouth.  "Remember who is master, young Duncan."  Then his mouth was plundered roughly, possessively, taken in a harsh, demanding thrust of tongue and bruising of teeth.

        His fear of retribution warred with the desire that this strange, slender man was causing within him.  He was pinned to the fur-covered bed of branches.  The man who was assailing him was his owner. And something inside him wanted to experience what Joseph promised.  Something inside him wanted to experience the ardent kisses and languishing caresses that Joseph had given.  He wanted the feel of skin touching him, even if it meant surrendering some of the principles he had been reared by.  What did the church really matter if the man he had called father had cast him out, called him demon? His father had denied him and denied his parentage.  No one had been kind or gentle or loving with him for a year, maybe it was even longer now.

        As these thoughts coursed through Duncan's mind, his body began to relax.  Why was he so frightful of what Joseph might do to him?  Because it was unknown?  He had never been afraid of the unknown before.  All during this day, his new master had shown him fairness and kindness.  He had been given new clothes, food enough to eat, and Joseph was going to teach him to read.

        The broad dusky hands again settled on Joseph's wide shoulders.  "Better," the smith growled and renewed the assault on Duncan's tender mouth.  The kisses were again returned, and Joseph could hear the small moans his tenderness elicited.  He rolled beside Duncan once more and his hands began their play on the muscular chest, moving restlessly until sensitive fingers found the tiny peaks and teased them, causing them to ruche even more.  The younger man was moaning louder now, his body writhing against the ivory flesh of his master.  Joseph placed small kisses when his fingers had been, moving lower across the firm abdomen, showering the taut skin with more kisses.

        As Joseph's lips nibbled their way down the perfect body, his hands began their stroking again on the hardening sensitive flesh between Duncan's legs.  The moans were louder now, the firm young body writhing and covered with a sheen of perspiration.  One hand lowered and cupped the heavy sac below Duncan's sex.

        Just when the Scot felt he could take no more, soft lips brushed him.  The stroking continued, pressure and speed changing, to his torment and his delight.  Then a scalding mouth enclosed him, teasing him and bringing a scream from him.  He tried to pull away, but the wet warmth sucked him in and then it was too late.  With a shuddering groan, he spilled into the mouth surrounding him. Duncan gasped with the force of his climax and the strange feeling when Joseph released him and moved beside him again.  Strong arms gathered him close, and a hand gently brushed damp strands of hair from his face.

        "Shhh.  Rest now," a deep husky voice whispered into his ear, and Duncan could not do anything but what the voice suggested.  His eyes closed and he drifted towards sleep, moving closer to the body holding him, feeling relaxed and replete and at ease.

        Joseph lay with the young man in the circle of his arms, but he did not sleep for a long time.  He really hadn't meant to take the seduction of the lad so far, so fast.  Ahh, but once he had seen that perfect golden body again, and then had tasted the sweet mouth, there did not seem to be anything that could stop him.  Remembering the past hour, Joseph finally fell into the arms of Morpheus, a smile lingering upon his lips.

        At some point, during his mind's midnight wanderings, Joseph had decided to teach the youngling what he would need to know in order to survive.  The sunlight of morning firmed his resolve, but he said nothing to Duncan.  As Joseph finished his breakfast, he gave instructions for cleaning the eating utensils, then telling Duncan of his other chores for the morning: gathering firewood, feeding and watering Sedilia.  "Have you ever trained a horse to a saddle?"  Joseph asked as he fed wood to the fire beneath his bellows.

        "Aye," was the eager response.  The other duties he had been assigned were the work of women or children in his village.  He looked forward to doing something worthy of a warrior.  Duncan had shut his mind to what had taken place between the two of them last night.  Merely thinking about what he had felt caused his face to heat and redden.  Thank God, his master hadn't mentioned it this morning.  When he had wakened, Joseph was already gone.  He did not like the way this made him feel now, but he surely had not been bothered with what went on under the cover of night's darkness. Confused.  Tightened up inside and frightened of how he had given in surrendered to this man.  Frightened of how his master had gotten him to acquiesce, and he hadn't put up a fight, other than his weak protestations that were easily forgotten.

        Joseph nodded his head.  "Good, when you are done you can start work with the stallion."  He chuckled, "I have a feeling you two have temperaments that are closely matched."  He turned back to his work, making sure the humming buzz that the other gave off was always within his range of recognition.

        To his credit, Duncan followed instructions well, carrying out each of the chores Joseph had outlined with quiet efficiency.  Joseph watched him as he worked, admiring the grace of movement, the fluidity of the perfect body.  As he watched, the smith heated a length of steel he had taken in trade.  The blade was imperfect, nicked and not well cared for. The balance was off, as well, but with a little effort on his part, it could be a blade worthy of swordsman, worthy of someone who would depend upon that blade for his life.

        The steel heated until it glowed, and Joseph began the pounding, the 'folding' of the blade that would strengthen it.  As noon approached, he banked the fire, and headed for the clearing where Duncan still worked with the stallion.  Folding his arms across his chest, he watched as the Scot accustomed the black animal to his voice, walking the horse in a circle, as he held the end of the rope which was looped over the animal's neck.

        "Food," Joseph announced.  "Give him water and grain before you come to eat."  Then the slender form turned away, walking slowly toward the hut and it's fire.  "You're good at that, boy," he called out over his shoulder and not turning around, as he walked away.

        After the noon meal, Joseph announced he was going to gather honey from a tree he had located in the forest a few days before.  As he gathered torches for smoking out the bees, Duncan watched, silently envious of the break in a day's routine the master was able to take.  Rising to his feet, and gathering a deep bowl, his torches and a rope, Joseph looked at the young man still seated beside the fire.  Duncan was busy studying the soft earth before him.  The smith moved away, whistling a nondescript tune.  He had gotten a mere twelve feet from the fire when he paused.  Duncan waited for the list of chores for the afternoon.  Instead, Joseph turned toward him, a lop-sided grin on his face, "C'mon. We can both have the afternoon off.  The master has said so."

        Duncan scrambled to his feet, jogging after him. Happy, not so much to get out of work, but for the tentative offer of companionship, possibly friendship; at least the man spoke to him, didn't treat him as a demon or something to fear.   As he drew beside Joseph, the older man handed him a torch and the length of rope.

        "Ever gathered honey this way?" he asked.

        "Aye, once with mah da. . ., with mah father and some others from home."  He caught himself even as his voice seemed to clench in his throat.  A frown crossed his handsome face, one that did not go unnoticed by his companion.

        "Get stung much?" Joseph queried.

        "A few times."

        "Best cure for the stings is a swim," Joseph announced.  "Good thing this tree is close to the stream."  He chuckled, enjoying the company, realizing that he was going to relish training this youngling, training him in sword work and sword play.

        They continued walking under the bowered foliage of the forest until they reached the tree.  Joseph removed his boots and scrambled up the tree, calling for the lit torch and bowl.  After a few minutes, most of the bees left the hive and he positioned the torch closer to the entrance. When the buzzing stopped, he climbed closer and reached in, feeling for the combs that contained the amber sweetness.  The bowl was soon filled with the liquid and large pieces of comb, still dripping their goodness.  He lowered the bowl then climbed down carrying the torch.

        "Haha, you've been good luck to me, Duncan!  Look, no stings!  But I think we should head for the stream anyway.  I'm almost as black as Sedilia!"  The two made their way to the stream's bank where Joseph sat to remove boots and vest, then peel the leather breeches down long, powerful legs.  He looked back at Duncan and advised, "Better get those clothes off.  They'll drag you down once I get you in the water."

        Duncan hesitated as memories of his humiliation at the stream yesterday, and then hotter memories of last night, flooded him.  He didn't want to ruin the camaraderie they were sharing, but he also did not want a repetition of those events from yesterday.

        "Hurry," Joseph urged, "get undressed!"  He paused to wait as Duncan cast his eyes to the ground and finally sank to remove his boots.  As he stood, his fingers fumbled with the drop in the front of the breeches.  Swallowing hard, he pulled the shirt over his head and waited for the other man to move.  And move he did, streaking past the young Scot and diving into the cold water of the stream.  Duncan was aware of long limbs and ivory skin blurring past before the shriek and splash as the other hit the surface of the water.

        Duncan waited but did not see any sign of Joseph surfacing.  He stepped to the edge of the bank cautiously, looking across the water's still surface.  Nothing.  He entered the water, still looking around.  How could anyone hold his breath that long?  The water was at knee level by now and still there was no sign of the other man.  "Master?" he called out weakly, tentatively.  Another step into the cold, swirling water, and it happened again.  A strong, long fingered hand grasped him around the ankle and pulled his feet out from under him.  As Duncan struggled to reach the surface and air, the dark head of his master rose beside him.

        Joseph's voice, laughing, rang in his ears, "You are too easy, Highlander!  That's twice I've upended you in the water!  And you think of yourself as a warrior!"  Laughing harder, he suddenly disappeared under the surface again.  Duncan had swum out to deeper water, and as he paused, searching, his face flamed at the insult to his manhood.  As he tread water, looking for the other man once more, he felt something brush by his ankle.  Thrashing for a moment, his head swung from side to side, trying to determine where Joseph had disappeared to this time.

        At the moment he relaxed slightly, the hand grabbed him again.  This time around his knee.  Duncan kicked to try and release himself from the grasp clutching at him.  He told himself he truly did not believe in the tales of monsters in the lochs of home, and whatever had him now was only his master who had seemed in a playful mood all day.  With unexpected panic, he kicked out harder, but the hand slid up the inner surface of his thigh.  Duncan felt himself being tugged back toward the shore.  When the water was shallow enough to allow him a foothold he tried to shake off the unseen thing beneath the water.  As Duncan stood, shaking slightly, Joseph suddenly appeared in front of him, his dark head breaking the surface.

        Powerful arms encircled him and Joseph warned, "Too easy."  Duncan fought the unwanted embrace, but Joseph's dark brows lifted as he spoke again, "I warned you last night about struggling against me."  Before he could draw another breath, soft lips were claiming his, the hands soothing his back from waist to shoulder and back again.  His arms were pinioned at his sides, making it impossible to push away from the heavily muscled torso, but even if his arms had been free, he wasn't sure that is what he would do.

        Joseph's tongue caressed Duncan's full lips, teasing, as he had the previous night, and finally gaining entry.  After moments of delicious plundering, one hand found its way to the silky dark hair.  Fingers twined in that hair, moving and adjusting Duncan for more kisses, long deliberate tastes of his mouth, nuzzling kisses along his jaw and throat, soft nips to his earlobe and the tender skin below and behind his ear.  He could feel the hard hot steel of the other man's erection pushing against him and he tried, weakly, to wriggle free of the touch. Then Joseph's voice was telling him in husky, velvety tones, "Lift your legs, Duncan.  Wrap them around me."

        Duncan hesitated.  "Do it!" the voice growled softly, as one hand reached down and gave him a sharp pinch on his bottom.  He jerked and lifted one leg, feeling a powerful arm sweep beneath him, lifting his other leg and adjusting them until he was wrapped around the man who claimed his ownership.  He felt hands caressing him where no one had ever touched him.  He warred within himself, between the belief that this was wrong, yet wondering how anything that made him feel this way could be wrong.

        The water kept him buoyant, kept Joseph from supporting his entire weight.  There only seemed one place for his arms and that was around the other man's shoulders.  The hands that were teasing moments before now rested on Duncan's hips.  He could feel the solid prodding of the erection beneath him and tried to ignore it.  His face was flaming and he was not at all sure what was expected of him.

        "Not so bad, is it?" Joseph asked, silkily.  "You must learn to obey me.  You are slave now, but that will change soon enough.  I have many things to teach you, Duncan, things you will need to know in order to survive.  Tonight we will do lessons, reading and other things.  I think you enjoyed them all last night."  As he spoke, the young man in his arms began to quiver.    Duncan was not certain if it was in anticipation or dread of what might happen to him tonight.

        Just as the sable-haired man began to relax, soft lips started their nibbling track along the side of his neck.  He found it impossible to concentrate under this tender onslaught, and soon he heard soft moans, not realizing they came from his own throat.  Joseph wrapped one impressively strong arm about his waist and brought the other up to brush knuckles against Duncan's cheek.  "I will not hurt you, Duncan.  There are things I want from you, but they will be better for both of us if they are not forced.  You are not ready yet and I can wait."  The thin, sensuous lips curled into a smile, and it was one of the most beautiful things Duncan had ever seen.

        The powerful body wrapped around Joseph's relaxed visibly as he smiled.  Duncan tried to draw a deep enough breath to cease his trembling and calm the emotions warring within him.  He didn't want to name all the things he was presently feeling; it was all so confusing.  Then Joseph's arms released him and he felt bereft, in a strange way.  Joseph was still smiling as he moved away, then with a wild whoop, he dove into the water and swam away from Duncan.

        Duncan felt a sudden euphoria; he felt like he had the summer that he and Robert had spent so much time swimming in Loch Shiel!  He gave a yell of his own and splashed after Joseph.  They spent the next hour in playing, swimming and yelling as they cavorted.  At last, drained of all energy, Joseph found his way to the bank and hauled himself out of the water. Laying on the soft grass in the warm afternoon sunshine, he watched as the younger man approached.  Duncan's nudity did not seem to bother him so much now, and Joseph was careful to watch the other's face as he clambered onto the bank.  The dark haired Scot sat beside him, leaning back on his elbows and stretching out long legs.

        Joseph flopped over onto his stomach, lowering his head to his folded arms.   With his eyes closed, he spoke to Duncan.  "Do you hear or feel a certain kind of noise when we are close together?"

        "Aye," the other answered quietly.  "I've felt the same kind of. . . maybe heard. . . it before.  Once when the Turk hid me in a stable close to a bazaar."  He paused, reflecting on that other time he had felt and heard the same kind of low thrum.  With a chuckle, he added, "I guess it didna mean too much to me, I thought it was because I'd had nothin' to eat for several days."  He turned to look at Joseph.  "It was one of those times when the Turk was busy makin' money and cheatin' others, and had no thoughts for me."

        "You feel my Quickening."

        "Yer' what?"

        "Quickening.  The way you will be able to tell when another of our kind is near."  Joseph  watched closely.

        "I dinnae understan'.  What dew yew mean, Master?"

        You are the same as I.  We are Immortal.  Didn't you say your father called you a demon because you revived after you were killed in battle?"

        "Aye."  The voice answering Joseph was soft, tinged with the sadness evoked by memories of his home and father.

        "Did you never wonder about the why of it?"  Joseph asked.  "What it all meant?  What you were?"

        The dark eyes looked into Joseph's.  "Yes.  I thought that maybe mah father was right.  Maybe I am . . .what he called me."

        "And what happens when you get injured?  You heal faster than you would think possible, right?  It's your Quickening."  The smith rolled onto his side and began to tell the dark-haired Scot all the "rules", about Holy Ground, challenges as a one-on-one basis, the Game, what would happen when he took a Quickening.

        "But how do I take a Quickening?  If we canna die, I dinna understan'."

        "Oh, we can die, and we revive.  It's happened to you once already, and it's happened to me so many times I couldn't begin to count.  There is one death from which we don't recover, and that is how another gets your Quickening, and you power, and everything you know."

        Duncan waited expectantly, as Joseph paused.  "You take that power when you cut off another's head.  It feels like lightning passing through you, tearing you apart. You can see and feel what your opponent has experienced.  All that he or she was passes into you.  Not always a pleasant experience."  At the mention of (she', Duncan's eyes pierced Joseph's, and the older man knew what he was thinking.  "Yes, there are women Immortals.  They are just as deadly, as lethal as the men are.  You can't let your old ideas about women influence you.  A battle is a battle.  Whether your opponent is man or woman.  Remember that young Duncan.  Remember it well."

        "But I couldna kill a woman!  It isna right!"

        "You must learn to kill whomever you have to in order to keep your own head," the voice growled at him.

        Duncan thought about all this for several long minutes.  He didn't believe he would ever be able to remove a head from a body, especially if it was a woman.  He was fairly good with a claymore, so he supposed he wouldn't have any trouble with fighting, but he felt there was still more he would need to know.  He glanced up at the green eyes still watching him, wondering.

        The remainder of the afternoon was spent in conversation.  Joseph revealing glimpses into the Immortal life and Duncan questioning what he was told.  Some of what Duncan learned was so hard to believe, and as the stories continued, he realized that his master was much, much older than he appeared.  Finally, he interrupted "Master, how old are yew, then?"

        Joseph finished dressing and extended a hand to pull Duncan to his feet.  "Very old, I'm very old, I'm afraid.  Old enough to have seen entire civilizations be born and die."  His eyes clouded as he paused, lost in a past Duncan could not begin to fathom.  As the silence continued and the younger man watched expectantly, Joseph slowly came back to the present. As of now, you are my student.  Since I am your teacher, you have a right to know my real name.  I am Methos and I have lived for over 4500 years."

        Duncan finished dressing and they gathered the honey they had collected earlier in the afternoon and made their way back to the hut.  One of Joseph's snares had gone off and the rabbit within became the main fare for their supper. Duncan asked question upon question about Immortals and the Game on their return to the hut.

        As Joseph prepared food for their evening meal, the Scot fed and watered the stallion, currying the sleek hide as he waited for supper.  He wandered back to the hut and noted that the buzzing within his head became stronger as he approached the older man.

        Joseph motioned for him to take over turning the spitted rabbit, then rose and entered the hut.  A smile creased his face.  He did not intend the youngling to remain a slave.  The conversation of the afternoon had showed him how intelligent this Highland child really was, how perceptive.  He would need to begin his training quickly before another came along to claim that handsome head.  It should only take a few more days to complete the sword he started on this morning.  The other orders for nails and hooks and ladles could wait.  Even the stallion need not be shod until he was more familiar with people.

        Joseph found a small keg and the basket he was looking for.  Returning to the campfire, he set the keg down.  From the basket he drew potatoes and placed them in the ashes to bake.  He located the pottery cups and, drawing the cork from the small keg; filled the cups with the ale it contained.

        When the rabbit was crispy and done, the potatoes were raked from the ash bed and they ate their meal.  They laughed together as, like eager children, they finished the meal by dipping pieces of bread into the newly recovered sweet honey.  Later, as the flames died down, the smith and his slave lounged beside the fire sipping the ale.  At last, rousing himself, Joseph looked at Duncan.  "Do you remember the letters for your name?" he asked.

        The dusky face beside him smiled as he responded, "Aye.  Ah think so."

        "Show me what you remember," Joseph challenged, smoothing out the dust before him.

        Shyly, Duncan began to draw the letters he remembered in the soft dust.  He had a small amount of trouble with the lower case 'a'.  Pausing in the creation of that letter, he glanced up, through his long lashes at the man who was now his teacher.  Joseph placed his hand over Duncan's and together they drew the letter.  At the touch of the other man's hand upon his, a slight tremor slipped down Duncan's spine.  He swallowed, trying to pretend that this feeling did not exist.  It was too much like the hot-cold shivering he had experienced whenever Debra had been near by.

        Joseph watched the younger man closely, noting his hesitation as they formed the letter together, his own hand covering the others.  Duncan had that shy look about him again, the apprehension and insecurity evident in the dark brown eyes.  Before he knew what he was doing, Joseph had leaned closer, his breath warm upon Duncan's cheek.  His lips brushed the soft skin as he whispered, "Very good.  You learn quickly."

        Duncan pulled away, fearful of the thoughts and emotions coursing through his mind and body.  Joseph's hand still covered his, and he hoped the older man would not pull away.  He liked the feel of this man touching him, but could not admit it to himself.  He was so confused.  Things he had been taught were wrong didn't seem so wrong any more.  He was lonely and felt bereft of contact with family and kin.  That no person had considered him anything more than a beast of burden or piece of property for over a year had worn him down.  Worn him to the point that he craved human touch, craved the glimpse of caring in someone's eyes, craved the ability to speak and think for himself again.  And this man had offered it all to him!  The man who still claimed ownership of him was the first to treat him decently in so long.

        Duncan turned and looked into the strange jade and gold eyes that were still gazing at him.  Joseph's look filled him with dread and anticipation all at the same time.  What power does he have over me that I feel this way? What does he want from me?

        Joseph broke the look first, trying not to let the smile creep to his lips, trying not to frighten this exquisite body and sharp mind beside him, trying to control the lust which suddenly flamed through his body.  He pushed himself away slightly and wrote his own name in the dust.  "Tell me the letters I've just made."  It was not a command, but a request.

        The Highlander began, "J, o, s, e. . ."  The rich voice faltered and he looked to the older man for help.

        "P," Joseph offered.

        "P," he repeated quietly.  "And, 'H', I think."

        "Yes," a proud voice told him.  "These letters make my name."  He watched as the younger man said them again to himself and carefully drew the letters for himself. A slight frown creased the dark brow.  Joseph already knew what his question was. A wide smile creasing his handsome face, he added, "The last two letters make a sound when they are together.  Sounds like it should be this letter," and he drew the letter 'F' in the soil.  "What is this one?"

        Duncan thought for a moment then named the proper letter.  He was rewarded with a clap on his shoulder as his teacher nodded his encouragement.  Joseph next wrote the stallion's name in the soft earth. He had Duncan repeat the letters and then had him try to write his own name again, then Joseph's, then Sedilia's.

        As Duncan wrote the names in the dust, Joseph leaned back and watched.  He had forgotten the pleasurable feelings one could derive from teaching another something basic.  They tried another few words, talking quietly and sharing another cup of ale.  At last Joseph banked the fire and reached down to pull Duncan to his feet.  "We have much to do tomorrow. And perhaps another lesson once we are inside."

        Duncan stood and watched the slender figure retreat into the hut.  Something still held him back from entering the small building.  As he stood watching, Joseph returned to the doorway and smiled at him beckoningly.  Looking across the embers of the fire, his master said but a single word.  "Duncan."

        The Scot moved without realizing he did so.  As he stepped across the threshold, into the deep shadows, strong hands settled on his shoulders.  Duncan held his breath and then nimble fingers were unlacing the neck of his shirt and pulling it from his body.  He moved his hands to the fastenings at his waist, but his hands were set aside and he quivered as other hands undressed him completely. Joseph began softly telling him how beautiful he was, how gentle he would be, how much he was desired.  The soft voice crooned the words to relax and soothe him.  Those same hands drew him to the bed, laying him down.  He felt the skin of his companion slide along his, as they touched. . .lying together. . .on the bed.

        Joseph could see the trepidation and a certain amount of fear in the beautiful face before him.  A sweeping glance down the golden form told Joseph that, although Duncan might be apprehensive regarding what was to come, his body was quite prepared already.  Moving closer, Joseph reached out a hand and stroked the semi-hard flesh.  A soft moan escaped Duncan's lips and the hand moved until long fingers were cupping him. "Breathe, Duncan," Joseph said softly, and Duncan did as he was told.

        Duncan tried to control his reaction but this was one battle he would lose.  As the clever hands coaxed a response from him, he felt he was melting.  A powerful arm wrapped about his waist.

        "Hush," Joseph soothed.  Don't worry.  I only want to give you pleasure."  Sensuous lips descended upon Duncan's.  The kiss was deep and passionate, the tongue caressing first the corners of his mouth, then slipping inside to tease and taste the moist recesses still sweetened by the honey he had consumed earlier.

        Soft lips caressed his cheek, and Duncan drew in a shallow breath as fluttering kisses covered his eyes, his nose, across his brow and down the length of his jaw.  Through the heat pressing into him he felt a ribbon of cold, and then he heard the voice telling him to relax, telling him to open his mouth.  He did as he was told, once more, and the satiny warmth of another tongue filled his mouth.  Then he could contain himself no longer.  His arms wrapped around the strong back above him and he returned the hot, plundering kisses even as Joseph tried to take more.  He became aware of the hardness pressing into his belly.  Joseph's hips began to move and a shaft of steel to match his own began stroking against him.

        Never had Duncan experienced the heat or satiny moves of another's flesh on him so.  He stopped moving, stopped breathing, hoping this delicious friction would never cease.  But as his own movements abruptly halted, Joseph moved against him again.  A sultry voice whispered to him, "You like this.  Don't deny it to me or to yourself.  Let go.  Enjoy what I can give you."   As the Scot thought about those words, his mouth was captured in a soft, moist kiss that went on and on.  His mouth, plundered softly, responded and once more followed Joseph's instructions.  He fought his denials, released that part of him that sought warmth and love and physical contact, and gave in to the lips and body that were demanding his attention.

        Duncan returned the kiss and suddenly found his arms grazing the sleek muscles and unbelievably soft skin of the back of the man above him.  Joseph gave a light growl and trailed nibbling kisses and tiny nips of the skin along the defined jaw and down to the silken throat.  He rested his tongue along the pulse point at the base of the throat for a moment, soaking in the taste and texture of the beautiful creature that now shared his bed.

        Slowly, the lean frame slid lower on Duncan's body.  Fingers found the flat copper-colored discs on his chest, rolling one gently before giving a pinch to the nub of flesh.  Joseph's attention focused on the other tight bud as he laved the point with his tongue and suckled delicately.  The body beneath his twisted as passion claimed it, breath coming in raw gasps. The hands fondling him moved lower and Joseph could feel the tiny fluttering of muscles has his fingers stroked the flat abdomen. A blast of heat fanned the nest of dark curls.  Duncan drew a breath and became motionless, anticipating and wanting and afraid of wanting, all at the same time.

        Fingers stroked his hot, hard shaft from base to blunt tip and that sultry voice whispered hotly, "Tell me.  What gives you pleasure?  Show me how you pleasure yourself."  A rough soft tongue fluttered along the edge of an ear.

        Deep brown eyes opened quickly, the look one of alarm.  Duncan's husky voice responded, "I cannae. . ."

        A smile returned his panic.  "Then I will," the voice whispered once more.  A hot mouth  and soft lips traversed his body.  Duncan felt shivers from head to toe as a velvet tongue rasped the hard buttons on his chest once more.  A sharp burst of near-pain as teeth nipped sharply before the tongue returned, softly soothing.  A warm hand still cupped and caressed between his legs, teasing him.  Soft lips brushed his hardened length and the same softness tasted the droplet of moisture collected at the tip. A cavern of wet silk claimed him, moving over his hot shaft.  The rough velvet of a tongue slid over the sensitive tip and Duncan moaned, shifting his hips until he was totally engulfed in the searing heat of the other man's mouth.  Joseph pleasured him, sliding upon his flesh until Duncan gasped, calling out his name. "Joseph, no. . .stop. . .a!"

        "Call me by my real name," an insistent voice murmured.

        "Methos!  Dinna stop."  Duncan's voice was shaky, weak as his body responded more than he thought possible to the clever hands and mouth that worked passion's magic on him. He was engulfed in that wonderful mouth again and felt the tongue fluttering against him.  He was on the edge of a precipice and more than willing to fall, for falling would take him to paradise. He felt the suction on his penis increase and then he was falling, tumbling blindly in blackness as his lover claimed him and his spirit.

        Joseph moved and surrounded the still-trembling form with his strong arms.  Duncan whimpered as his head was drawn to Methos' chest.  The strong, slender fingers brushed his hair back from his brow and lips were pressed tenderly to his temple.  "AHD, Duncan, you are truly a treasure.  My treasure." The still swollen lips were claimed in a soft kiss, and through the touch of their lips, Duncan was overwhelmed with a wave of warmth and acceptance.

        The dark eyes fluttered open and looked into the gilt eyes of the older man.  In their depths he saw not the look of ownership, but a depth of affection and tender caring.  The ancient Immortal smiled at him gently, brushing a dark strand of damp hair from the golden skin.  An insistent prodding at Duncan's hip, and he became aware that Joseph had brought him pleasure and release and sought nothing for himself.

        Not sure how to ask, nor what to ask, Duncan faltered, "You.  How do I. . .?  What. . .about  you?"

        The warmth remained in the amazing hazel eyes, lit with a sparkle of amusement.   "It pleases me to please you," a rich baritone told him in quiet tones. "It pleases me to touch you and to taste you, to bring you sweet release.  The rest can wait until you are ready.  When you burn to touch even as you are touched."  He was silent for a moment, then slid back against the cushions.  He pulled the dark head to his chest and wrapped his strong arms around the satin covered musculature of Duncan's upper body.  "Sleep.  Tomorrow we have other lessons to begin. Sleep, Donnchadh."

        Joseph felt the young body relax into slumber, but before sleep claimed him, Duncan moved closer, nestling into the heat and security offered by the arms which cradled him.  The hazel eyes closed, and a soft kiss was placed on the crown of Duncan's head.  Methos marveled at the feelings he was experiencing.  This was the most content and at ease he could remember being. And all because of you, Dark Warrior.  I thought this much happiness could never be mine again.  You have made this possible. You have given me something to live for -- for you. Still combing his fingers through the sable silk of Duncan's hair, Methos remembered hearing his real name on those delicious lips and fell asleep with a smile on his face.

         The following morning, Joseph woke first and was at the forge when Duncan appeared at the fire in front of the hut.  The dark eyes sought the changeable hazel ones across the small clearing.  Methos smiled at the shy, slightly apprehensive look on the incredibly handsome face.  Leaving the bellows and fire, he approached the young Immortal as he finished his breakfast.

        "Our schedule has changed.  Mornings will be for work, me at the forge and you with the stallion.  Afternoons we will work with swords.  After supper we will continue with the reading lessons."  The somber look left his stern face as a smile took over.  "After that, I'm sure we can find something else worthy of your attentions."  He reached over and his hand caressed the long, dark hair, his eyes going sultry.  He was amused by the flush that stained Duncan's face as the younger man ducked his head, trying to hide his face.

          A pattern developed between the two Immortals as Joseph worked each morning at his forge, pounding at the anvil with the orders he had taken in the village.  He spent the first part of his day working on the  sword he was refinishing for his student.  Duncan was only aware that his teacher was busy at the forge, ignoring whatever projects the smith worked on.  Occasionally someone would stop with a horse that needed to be shod, creating a break in the daily routine that had developed.  Duncan worked with the stallion each morning, training the powerful animal to accept bridle and saddle.

        Early afternoons were devoted to practice with swords, daggers or quarterstaffs.  Although Duncan was a talented swordsman, there were myriad techniques that Methos introduced to him.  With each new step or parry or twist, Duncan wanted to know when and how and where Methos had learned that particular approach. The teacher introduced the able young warrior to basics of some forms of hand-to-hand combat he had learned over the years in the Far East.  Duncan was an eager and attentive student, adapting easily to whatever form of training he was given, and quickly picking up slight nuances in the methods Methos chose for instruction.

        Late afternoons found them often in the pool behind the hut they shared, or on some expedition that Methos created, collecting honey, fishing, searching for berries, roots or edible plants to supplement their food supply.  One afternoon they searched for medicinal  and herbal remedies and Duncan was amazed at the amount of knowledge the simple smith harbored.

         The reading lessons progressed at night after their evening meal.  Duncan was sharp of wit and both the teaching and learning went smoothly.  Methos brought out a copy of  fables by Aesop as the first text for his pupil.  The stories were relatively easy for a beginning reader and often led to discussions of principles and morals the stories were concerned with.   After the reading lessons, other lessons took place on the pallet bed inside the hut. The apprehension he felt the first few nights had been eased, and bedtime had become something to anticipate.  Duncan did not want to admit to himself that he looked forward to the evenings that he willingly accepted and enjoyed the physical relationship he had with Joseph.  There were even some evenings when he was eager to have the fire banked and to join the older man in the quiet hut.

        After many nights of being the recipient of countless gifts of pleasure and comfort, Duncan bravely asked his partner one night how he could please him and give him release.  The sensuous lips smiled at him before pulling him into an incredibly warm and tender, deep kiss.

        "Please me?" the deep voice asked. "You already have.  As for the rest, you know what you like.  Use your imagination."

        The sable-haired lover gave his entire attention to worshipping the muscular, slender body before him.  His caresses started gentle and caring, his kisses sweet and soft.  As the frame below his own responded and urged him on, he forgot about gentle and soft.  He became lost in his own arousal and passion, forgetting that he had wanted this night to be for Methos.  But that was exactly what Methos wanted, for Duncan to lose himself and forget about trying not to injure.  Methos was Immortal, after, and even Duncan's rough loveplay would not cause serious injury.

        Several nights later, when Duncan sought to return the pleasures he had been given, was the night that Methos took what he had wanted.  Still his Highlander did not recognize that everything before had been in preparation for this.  Methos took his own pleasure by letting Duncan give in to the desires he still held in reserve.  Methos would not consider taking the younger man's innocence until he had made Duncan feel the desire in his body and the need in his soul to become closer to anyone than he ever had before, to give in to the darker, rougher passions he knew existed in this child of the Highlands.

        They entered the hut and prepared for bed.  Methos surrendered to his young warrior. The gentle teasing that Duncan started rapidly became the incendiary force that the older Immortal could no longer resist.

        Then Methos was aflame with his desire and passion.  Never relinquishing the tender mouth, he dragged the Scot down to the bed.  "Tonight, Dark Warrior, I will take you!  Tonight I will make you mine in all ways!" the deep voice growled.  He began an assault on the satin skin of throat and chest, placing soft kisses, sharp bites with his ivory teeth and then soothing flicks and laving with his tongue.  Duncan was breathless and squirming below him, and the older Immortal could smell and taste the rise of fear in the young body.

        Lips suckled and nibbled at first one risen point of flesh, then the other, on Duncan's broad chest. Methos was aware of the gasps as teeth grazed one of the sweet nipples, while fingers plucked and pinched at the other.

        "Methos,. . .wait. . .what are. . .yew doin' to me?"  There was a tinge of fear and panic in Duncan's voice.  Never had Methos been this rough or aggressive with him.

         A slender hand slithered down across his abdomen and grasped him, stroking his rigid flesh, causing him to cry out.  "Not yet," Methos ground out, threat evident in his voice.  He dipped his head and tasted the slick fluid that was already present at the tip of Duncan's erection. He moved upward and claimed the pliant lips again.  Pulling back slightly he asked, "Do you like the way you taste on my tongue, boy?"

        Before Duncan could respond, strong hands were positioning him and his wrists were held to the furs above his head.  "Please," he whispered, "dinna take me this way."

        His response was a harsh laugh as Methos replied, "I'll take you any way I like.  Every way you can imagine.  And you'll beg me for more."  The harsh mouth crushed to the full luscious lips again, and Duncan could taste blood as he was bitten and kissed over and over. Methos moved away for a moment and retrieved a small vial of oil.  Suddenly he was on top of the younger man, being as gentle as he had always been before.  His tongue caressed all the points where he had bitten sharply such a short time ago.  "Ahh, sweet Duncan, tonight I cannot stop myself.  Tonight I must have you. If you don't fight me, I won't hurt you.  But if you resist, I cannot promise you will remain uninjured."  The voice was hot and panting in Duncan's ear as Methos spoke to him.

        Duncan whimpered in reply, "Methos, please. . ."

        Even as he spoke, Methos removed the stopper from the vial of oil and coated his own thick cock with it.  He knelt between Duncan's legs and drizzled oil onto his young body.  The gentle caresses Duncan had grown to expect and desire were back, as the ivory hands soothed the oil onto him, gliding down his hot shaft and cupping the tight hardness of his sac and then tormenting the sensitive spot below.  An oiled finger stroked delicately over his most tender flesh, teasing and gaining entrance.  A moan escaped him and Duncan tensed as he felt the invasion.

        "Shh, Duncan.  Relax and breathe," Methos told him in soothing tones.  "I won't hurt you, I want to give you pleasure."

        Duncan sobbed and tried to do as Methos instructed.  "Methos, please, I canna take this."

        "Yes, you can," the caressing voice told him.  "You aren't ready yet.  Just a bit longer."  And with those words, a second finger pressed gently into Duncan's body.

        "God, Methos!  Please!  I canna. . ." and his words were cut off as the other's mouth claimed his again, exploring, tasting and comforting.  He shifted his hips as Methos prepared and opened him, and as he moved, the long fingers bumped some place deep within him and shattered him with an exquisite flood of pleasure and fire. Methos captured the moans as he continued the kiss, thrusting with tongue to match the motion of his fingers.

        Duncan felt fire burning each nerve of his being.  He began to tremble, fearing yet at the same time desiring what other new sensations Methos might draw from him.  He felt the older man moving and then his legs were pressed further apart and lifted toward his chest.  He felt the hot steel of Methos' body against his own and he knew that in the next instant his life would change, he would never be the same again.  The searing heat and pain caused him to cry out, but Methos was kissing him once more, soothing and telling him to be calm, to breathe, to relax, and the pain would end.  He felt the other press into him slowly, relentlessly, filling him with dread and pain and the most wonderful heat he had ever experienced.  Duncan ceased all motion, not sure what he should do, not wanting anything but to absorb the sudden flood of passion and warmth that Methos was causing in him.

        Then, he found he need not do a thing. Methos rocked his hips, forcing himself deeper into Duncan's hot core, and the Scot moaned.  His soul contracted as Methos claimed him and thrust into him. The pain was gone and in its place the most beautiful torture he could imagine. Methos had told him that he would take him, but Duncan was giving -- his heart and body to this man who claimed him as friend, as brother, as student.  The man who taught him and fed him and rescued him from loneliness. Duncan's body began to move, forcing himself closer to the source of this wonderful freedom.

        "Yes, love, move with me!" Methos told him close by his ear, yet very, very far away.  A hot hand claimed his erect flesh once more and Duncan groaned louder.  His own hips rocking him into the hot palm that circled him, then back to the source of his penetration.  Within seconds he cried out and felt the hot, slick silkiness of his own release covering Methos' hand and his own belly.  Before he could succumb to the sweet aftermath of his own climax, Methos grasped his hips more tightly and thrust again, deeper.  Methos' voice joined his in a cry of blissful abandon as Duncan felt the hardness within spasm and flood him in fiery pulses.

        Methos waited a few moments, then withdrew and shifted to lie beside Duncan.  The sable-maned son of the Highlands lay, flushed and replete with his passion, and Methos brushed back a lock of the dark hair, lifting it to his lips before threading his fingers through the dark silken mass.  Duncan turned into the caress as the older Immortal's lips brushed his cheek and the point of his chin.  Methos collapsed beside him, and they wrapped themselves in each other and the worn woolen blanket just before slumber claimed each of them.

        After a few weeks, Methos needed to return to the village with the items of the orders he had filled.  He also needed supplies and looked forward to another match of the dice with Turk. He said nothing of his plans to Duncan, going about his morning activities as usual. They broke for the midday meal, and after eating, Methos announced he needed a swim and headed for the pool behind the hut taking the crock of soft soap with him.  Duncan cleared the items from their meal and slowly wandered back the winding trail himself.

        He stopped as he reached the clearing, standing in the dappled shade watching the sleek muscular body in the water as Methos rubbed the soft soap into his skin and hair.  As the bather ducked under the water's surface, Duncan quickly shed his own garments and waded into the water. Methos had not surfaced yet, so the younger man began to look for him.  He turned back to face the bank and was rewarded with a loud whoop and huge splash from behind.  He turned to find Methos readying to reach out and pull him under.

        "Not this time," he yelled and dove after his master.  But Methos was quicker and was well out of Duncan's reach.  When the Scot surfaced looking for his partner, Methos was already standing on the mossy bank, laughing at him.  "I keep telling you, you must be faster, Highlander!  Don't you believe me, or is it that you can't move any faster?"

        Duncan growled and headed for the bank.  "I'll show you fast," he tried to sound threatening, but his own laughter bubbled through his frame as he stalked the wet man on the bank.  Finding purchase for his wet feet, Duncan lunged for Methos and caught him.  He swung the laughing figure over his shoulder and headed for the water once more.

        Amid the guffaws, Methos reminded him, "You forget who is master!"  But the words had barely cleared his mouth when he found himself flying through the air and landing with a resonant splash in the middle of the pond.  Now it was Duncan's turn to stand on the bank, laughing.  Methos' head cleared the water's surface and he started stalking toward the Scot.  "I have a mind to leave you here," he spluttered, trying his best not to let his own laughter claim his voice again.

        Duncan stopped abruptly.  "What do you mean?  Leave me?  Where are you going?"

        "To the village."  As he reached for his clothing, he tossed the small crock of soap to the younger man.  "Better get busy!  You could use a bit of this if you plan on coming along."

        Duncan caught the small bowl and stepped quickly back into the water. "You mean it?"  he questioned.  "You would let me come with you?"

        "How else am I expected to keep an eye on my 'property'?" the smith asked, as he finished dressing.  At his comment the young man halted, realizing he was still a slave, still owned by this man who had befriended him.  Methos watched the expressions cross the handsome face, aware that Duncan's slavery had almost slipped his mind.  "Hurry," he called back over his shoulder as he walked back toward the hut, "I won't wait forever."

        Duncan swiftly ducked beneath the water, rinsing the last of the soapy lather from his body and hair.  He had mixed feelings about this.  He was grateful that Methos had included him, but wasn't truly sure about how the older man considered him--as slave and property or friend and student or companion and lover.  He grabbed his clothing and tried to dress as he returned to the hut.  There suddenly seemed to be many questions about his status.  He rounded the corner and saw no one.  Finishing the fastenings at the front of his breeches, he thought to himself, Of course he did not mean that I should accompany him.  I am still his property.  I am nothing to him.  The bitterness of those thoughts created a lump in his throat.  It had seemed, with just the two of them, that they were almost equals.  His master did not treat him like a slave any longer, at least not as the Turk had treated him.  And Methos was teaching him to read and sword work, things that the other insisted he would need to know.

        Duncan slumped and lowered himself to the log beside the fire to pull his boots back on.  He should have known Methos was joking with him.  He was not aware of the hooded hazel eyes contemplating him from the shadows of the hut.  He fought the sudden sting of tears, puzzled that it would hurt this much to feel left behind and alone, to feel what he had thought to be friendship could be so easily discredited and forgotten.  And perhaps what hurt the most was that he had shared Methos' bed since that first night.  He had allowed this man to have access to his body and soul, and had done nothing to stop him.  He had enjoyed the attention and learned to enjoy the pleasure that Methos lavished upon him, had just begun to return some of what the smith gave him.  Try as he might, Duncan could not stop the spill of hot tears, feeling foolish as the tracks were created on his cheeks.

        As the Highlander sat on the log, Methos watched silently.  It had taken only moments for the shoulders to bow and the younger man to look so broken and forlorn.  Just as he prepared to step forward with the gift he had for this young man, he heard the catch of a sob in the other's throat and saw the overflow of tears down the perfect golden face.

        Feeling ashamed that he was witness to the display of emotion, and realizing he was its cause, Methos stepped from the hut, one hand behind his back.  Cautiously he approached the dark haired Scot.  "Donnchadh?" he said softly, laying his hand on the soft  still-damp hair.  He stepped in front of the youngling.  Duncan looked up, tears still wetting his face, as he tried to brush away the evidence of his weeping.

        "Ye dinnae leave me here?" he choked out.

        "No, of course not."  Methos crouched before him.  "But you can't go into the village like this."

        The dark head bowed and Duncan mumbled something about being childish, his hands again wiping at his tears. "That's not what I meant," Methos clarified.  "You can't go into the village without protection, without this."  His strong hand extended, palm up, and he presented the sword he had refashioned.  "This is yours now, and you must make it part of you.  You still have many things to learn, and I will reach you everything that I can, but you will eventually need to fi