What a lousy day. Lousy century, for that matter. Some centuries, it doesn't pay to get out of bed. This is one of them. The last one this bad was the - what, sixteenth, seventeenth? That sounds about right. At least until a certain event changed my life forever.

       Oh, interested in that, are you? Sorry, but my throat's too dry to talk - why thank you, I'll have a beer. Ah, that's better. Yes. Well.

       But I should start at the beginning. If I can even remember how the whole mess started. Thinking back, it would have been July, it was certainly hot enough.

       The day it began I stood in the courtyard of the village forge and tried to figure out what the Hades I was doing here. Here was a village whose name I can never remember, but I'm sure it was in Spain. Of was it Italy after all? No, had to be Spain. Possibly at the border to Portugal.

       Now, stop bitching, it's not like it was important. I can't be expected to remember every little detail. Can I get back to the story? Thank you so much.

       Well, yes, the forge. I was the village's blacksmith those days - what the hell is so funny? My body isn't right? I'm too thin? Yeah, says you. The word 'stereotype' mean anything to you? Do I have to arm wrestle you before you will believe me? I happen to have done this quite often in my life. I'm a good blacksmith, and I know I don't look the part.

       Do you want to hear the story or not? Then shut up.

       Right - where were we? The forge. I won the forge, you see. In a dice game at the local tavern. I had a lucky streak in those days, when I least needed it. The man who lost it to me had inherited it from an uncle who'd died childless. Now he was skinny - could not even have lifted the hammer. I expect he was quite happy that I won it off him.

       But here I was, not-so-proud owner of a forge I didn't want to keep. I figured I could sell it for a profit to one of the villagers. No joy. They'd been without a blacksmith for some months now and when I repaired a few pots and shod a horse or two, there wasn't a man left in the place who'd take the thing. So I settled down and became their blacksmith.

       Soon I had a thriving trade, people coming from all over the mountain to have their metal worked on. It was rather vexing. So one night I went back to the tavern, hoping that someone would win the forge off me. Little did I know.   

       Methos knocked back his fifth beer and shook the dice in his hand. 'This is the one, boys!' He threw them among the wine puddles on the table. The other players leaned over to inspect the throw.

       They sat back with disappointed groans. The richest farmer in the area lit another pipe and spat on the floor. 'Lucky dog that you are.'

       Methos shrugged and pulled the coins to him.

       A large man wearing a leather armor was next. He set down half of his coins in the center of the table. 'Six high, highest throw.'

       The barber nodded, as did the other stranger, a merchant dealing in horses. Methos shrugged and the landowner just took another long pull on this pipe. They all added their money to the pile and waited for the soldier to throw.

       Once more, the round went to Methos. The barber called it a night, knocked on the table and left the tavern. The tavern's owner lit two more torches and wished the barber a good night. Methos yawned, only half his attention on the game.

       The merchant sighed, glaring at the money he had lost. But he declared the next throw and the landowner won it. He cursed softly, then his eyes narrowed. 'I do want to keep playing. Will you accept one of my horses instead of coin?'

       The soldier readily agreed. Both he and Methos had been looking at the small herd the merchant had was bringing to Madrid. They were excellent animals, well fed, their coats glossy and not one whip mark on them. One of them had thrown a shoe, so the merchant had stopped at Methos' forge. The Immortal had gotten a fine look at the beast and coveted her immediately. He nodded as well, agreeing to take one horse, should he win. The landowner, a small, wiry man stood and declared he would decide after he'd seen the horse in question. While they debated which horse to wager, Methos called for another beer.

       When they came back, he called the throw and the soldier won it. The merchant cursed his luck and went up to his rooms, his mind on his losses.

       They played a few more rounds until the soldier ran out of coin. He wagered the horse again and lost it to Methos. The Immortal expected him to call it a night, but instead the soldier waved them closer to him, speaking softly.

       'I come from the south, from a small town by the coast. But I've hired out to fight the barbarians to the north. They paint themselves blue and wear curious skirts. In the last skirmish I took part in, we took prisoners. Since there was no other use for them, they were to be sold as slaves. But some of us didn't want to wait that long and took them as our spoils. My share consisted of their leader. I have him with me. Will you accept him instead of coin?'

       The landowner frowned deeply. 'Is he at all useful?'

       Methos had gone still, thinking. He hadn't owned a slave in quite some time. Nowadays, slaves weren't called that, but essentially that was what they were. Servants, serfs, most peasants. Only the name had changed. And a Celtic warrior might be useful in the forge. But he would not end up with a cripple or a half-wit. He pushed back from the table.

       'Show us your prize, and we will see for ourselves.'

       The soldier nodded and stood, leading the way up to his room. On the narrow staircase Methos walked in front of the landowner, hearing his heavy breaths behind him. Suddenly his eyes widened as he felt the thrum of another very faint Immortal presence. Where, who and how? He shrugged his shoulders, making sure that the dagger under his shirt was easy to reach.

       The soldier opened the door to his room, revealing his prize. In a corner sat the Celt, chained hands on this knees. That was pretty much all Methos could see of him. Long dark hair obscured the rest of his face. The soldier advanced on his slave, gripping the hair and pulling him to his feet by it. The landowner's breath grew even heavier, Methos heard, but his attention was focused on the Celtic slave.

       He was a tall man, taller than Methos himself. The hair had hidden a beautiful face, dark brown eyes now squeezed shut in pain. He wore a skirt-like cloth wound about his waist which left most of his skin visible. The body was golden, almost too dark for a Celt. It could have been skillfully sculpted marble, but was far too warm. Methos had known artists who would have died happily if only their bronzes had achieved such perfection. Of course, a few bruises and lash marks marred the glorious body.

       His hands were chained together and a long chain had been fastened to them and the bedstead. When he lowered his hands, Methos could see that his wrists were torn open. So the man was pre-immortal. He had to be the one Methos had felt earlier.

       Of course he didn't know it. He was still shaking his head against the painful grip, not understanding what was happening to him. The soldier barked something foreign at him, shaking him by his hair. The Celt stopped struggling and allowed his captor to raise his head. Methos watched him carefully. The Celt stood, wrapped in not much more than his dignity and glared his defiance at them. Methos felt a smile twitch at his mouth. This boy would make a nice challenge - and he looked truly edible. Methos was tempted to reach out and see what the pre- immortal would do if he felt those muscles instead of looking at them.

       The thought sobered him. He could practically hear the landowner slavering behind him. He adopted an air of unconcern. 'If you must. Let's go down and play it to the end.' Without waiting for an answer, he turned and descended the stairs into the common room. After a moment's hesitation, the landowner followed him. He heard the soldier give more orders to his slave, then he came as well.

       When the other two arrived at the table, Methos had already bought another beer, pretending he had no interest in the young Celt. Nonchalantly, he handed the dice to the landowner to make the call. The older man threw, then the soldier did. Methos yawned again, drank more beer and tossed the dice, hardly looking where they fell. He heard a whispered curse from the landowner and a groan from the soldier.

       The five dice showed a different image each. The highest throw, since it was the luckiest. The Celt was now Methos'. He raised his eyebrows at the throw and stood.

       'Well, caballeros, that does it for me. Bring me the slave, friend, it was a good game.'

       The soldier stood and offered Methos his hand. The Immortal took it, shaking solemnly. The soldier went upstairs to fetch the Celt.

       Methos sat back down to finish his beer. The landowner leaned over to him. 'Will you sell me the slave?'

       Not really surprised, Methos looked at him. 'Why, what do you want with him?'

       'Five in gold,' offered the old man, dodging the question. 'He doesn't even speak our language.'

       'I don't think so. I can use some help in the forge,' Methos said. 'Maybe when I leave.'

       The landowner shrugged, and took a long pull on his pipe. The soldier was returning with the Celt who was struggling against him. The soldier gripped his hair again and forced him in the direction he wanted. Methos rose, stretched, and took the man's wrist chain in one hand. It was only then that the Celt understood that he had another owner now. Methos gave him a stern glance and pulled him to the door. Then he slapped his forehead and turned. 'Friend, I nearly forgot the horse. Will you show me which one it is?'

       The soldier nodded, preceding him through the door. The herd was hobbled by the side of the tavern. He picked out a lovely young stallion with a glossy black coat and a white star on the forehead. The beast was energetic, dancing slightly despite the tethers. Methos took hold of the bridle with his free hand as the soldier unfastened the ropes. There was barely time for the soldier to get away before the stallion reared.

       The Celt picked the same moment to make his try for freedom. While Methos was occupied holding on to the stallion, the chain was nearly yanked from his other hand. Only the fact that he had expected it saved him from accidentally letting go of the slave. The stallion was rearing hard enough to almost lift him off his feet. He hung all his weight on the bridle, forcing the large head down again and pulled sharply at the Celt's chain. The pre-immortal lost his footing and landed face down in the dirt, all wind knocked out of him. Methos used the small blessing and let go of the chain, at the same time putting his boot down on the slave's neck. Now that his left hand was free, he took aim and hit the stallion hard on the side of his head. The horse stood still, rolling his eyes, too surprised to fight. Methos bent down and removed his foot from the slave's neck. He pulled the beautiful face close to his own.

       'You are mine. You obey. No tricks.'

       The brown eyes had gone huge at his tone. Methos wanted to laugh. Good to know it still worked. 'Come.' It wasn't an order. It was a statement that left no room for argument. He didn't know if the boy understood the language, but the tone was unmistakable. The Celt ducked his head and didn't flinch away when Methos took hold of his chains again.

       The stallion was just as docile for the moment. Methos strongly suspected that the condition would change soon enough and resolved to enjoy it while he still could. 

       So there I was. Instead of getting rid of the forge, I had acquired a horse and a slave. Great going, Methos. I did say that was a century where everything went wrong, didn't I? Shit happens.

       Well, I got them up to the forge, which was quite a ways from the village. By the time we got up there, the stallion was trying to bite me - get your mind out of the gutter! Not that stallion. The one with four legs. Though you've got one thing right. My two legged prize turned out to be quite something, too.

       I was getting to that! Honestly, some people... May I continue? Thank you. And stop that muttering. 

       Methos tried to ignore the angle of the light falling on his face, but wasn't entirely successful. His head felt like an overripe melon and his mouth tasted as though a hyena had crapped in it. And there was a dreadful racket going on outside.

       He stuck his hand sideways to grab the bottle he kept there for mornings like this one. Though why Immortality wouldn't take care of hangovers, he just couldn't understand. Luckily there was some wine left and when he had finished the bottle, he felt better. Good enough, in fact, to see what was going on outside.

       Methos staggered upright, clad only in his trousers which had been too much of a bother to take off last night. He threw open the door to the courtyard and stared.

       Somehow the stallion had gotten free from where Methos had tethered him and was acting as though he was performing a St. Vitus dance. And he was shouting insofar a horse could be said to shout. The noise was deafening.

       Methos stepped out of the house, thanking Epona that the forge had a walled court and that the wall was too high for a horse to jump over. But how had he gotten free?

       The answer lay by the well where the stallion had been tied. Not he had managed to break free - the Celt had. Methos swore and slowly moved toward the forge itself. He had a coil of rope somewhere, he thought. 

       Let's gloss over this part. It took ages, it was difficult and I don't want to talk about it. Stop laughing. 

       Later, when Methos had tied the stallion, he saw to the Celt. The young man was dead, his chest caved in when the horse had kicked. Well, he would return to the living soon enough. For now, Methos inspected the chain which still connected the wrists. The Celt's wrists had already stated the healing process. Methos left him there - he felt nothing right now - and looked at the ring in the wall he had bound the chain to.

       It had been bent somehow, with an iron bar that had nearly forced the ring out of the wall. Perhaps that had been the intention, but the ring had not been heated enough to connect the pieces. Sloppy work by his predecessor. Well, that would be rectified. First he had to make the boy understand his situation.

       He beat off the chains, picked up the slowly healing body and dragged it into the bath. He'd added it when it became clear that he would be staying here for some time. In his Greek and Roman years he had learned the value of cleanliness. He'd be damned if he'd suffer the stench of unwashed bodies more than he had to.

       Without much ado, he tossed the man into the shallow pool and went in after him, trousers and all. The ridiculous skirt was removed and thrown to the side of the pool. He wasn't wearing anything underneath. Methos raised an eyebrow. How - barbarian. He picked up the olive soap and ran it roughly over the golden body. He bore a scar or two, this man, always a sign that he was strong.

       And he was just as beautiful as Methos had thought earlier. The scars added to his perfection, they did not subtract from it. Wonderfully even muscles, though they had begun to deteriorate during his captivity. Hair women might kill for, the face of a lover, not a fighter. The impression was strengthened by his genitals. He was well endowed even in a state of rest. The heavy cock and balls rested in a veritable forest of curls. No surprise there, since the man was rather hairy in all.

       Methos had just finished getting rid of the blood and was starting on the hair when there was a slightly trembling breath. He held the Celt's head above the water, anticipating the man's panic. Sure enough, when he realized he was immersed in water, he began to trash. Methos held him, speaking in a calm voice.

       'It's all right. You aren't drowning. Calm down.'

       The dark eyes opened at that and the slave looked right at him. Methos pushed him up. 'Can you sit? Here, sit down on the ledge and I'll finish your hair.' He tugged at his arm and the boy followed him, eyes wide and confused. He stared down at his chest where the last traces of the stallion's hoof were still visible. Methos lifted his head by the chin and continued lathering his hair.

       'Do you understand what I'm saying?' There was no reaction, but the slave ducked his head a little. No Spanish, then.

       'Apparently not.' Methos sighed and tried Irish. This time there was an answer, but it was too garbled to be understood. Methos cursed under his breath. Where else did they paint themselves blue? Maybe England? He had only visited London in the last few centuries.

       'Are you English?'

       The man pulled away from him, outrage on his face. 'I am not an English dog! I am a Scotsman!' The accent was thick enough to cut.

       Methos gripped his shoulders and forced him down again. 'Right, you're a Scot. But here that means nothing. Here, you are a slave.'

       'No!' He shook his head. Methos took his chin in one hand, hard enough to bruise.

       'Yes. I own you. You will obey me.' He put his hand on the man's neck and pushed his head under water, rinsing out the soap. When he allowed the slave to come up for breath, he hoped he had made his point. 'What is your name?'

       'I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.' He said it proudly, if a trifle out of breath. Methos wondered if it would be wise to let him keep his name, but decided to shelve the decision for a while. He got out of the pool, ignoring his wet clothing and nodded to Duncan.

       'Wait here.' MacLeod made a movement to disobey and Methos fixed him with a wry glare. 'Unless you want to run buck naked?'

       MacLeod blushed and turned away a bit. Methos hid a predatory grin. Just you wait, my lad.

       His own trousers wouldn't fit Duncan, so he found a loincloth. Then he had to show him how to wrap the garment about himself. Finished, he slapped the barely- covered ass and told Duncan to sit down on the bench to braid the long hair. The Scot refused, stubbornly remaining where he was, but Methos had reached the end of his patience, at least for today. He closed his hand around the man's throat.

       'What I was saying earlier, still goes. I am Miguel of Madrid. I give orders. You obey. If I say you're wearing your hair braided, you can be grateful if I don't cut it off.' It would be wise to make a few other things clear as well. His other hand wandered down the golden body to the loincloth and inside it. He ignored the reflexive flinch and gripped the flaccid cock hard. 'And if you want to keep that in working order, you will stop questioning my orders, Duncan. Right now.' He pulled on the wet hair roughly, not bothering to comb it first. The Scot made no sound despite the rough treatment. Methos smiled grimly.

       'Stay put.'

       Methos walked away until he was out of sensing range, then came back. Duncan pressed his hands over his ears, trying vainly to block out the ringing. Methos smiled again. 'Do you know what that is?' he asked when the Presence had faded into the background again.

       Duncan shook his head.

       'That lets me know that you're there. You can't run from me. I will know. So will you.' He paused to let Duncan assimilate that. 'The stallion kicked you, didn't he?'

       Duncan nodded slightly, warily.

       Methos nodded. That would do. 'Duncan. You are Immortal. You will live forever. If you die, you will come back. If you are injured, you will heal very fast.'

       'That's impossible,' Duncan whispered, but there was doubt in his voice.

       'No.' Methos took him by the arm and led him into the forge. He picked up a dagger and held it against Duncan's forearm. The Scot pulled away, but Methos held him. 'It's not.' He cut.

       His slave gasped at the pain and the blood flowing from his skin. He couldn't seem to drag his eyes away as the wound closed, blue lightning flickering. Methos watched him slowly come from incredulity to wondering belief. Time to impress on him that he had no chance of escape.

       'You see? There is no way to get away from me. I can just kill you if you run. You will still be alive. You will still be mine. Whatever I choose to do to you, will be gone by dawn the next day. I can beat you to death every day of your life. I can do anything to you and you will still be here in the morning. Always.' The boy shook his head again, but his fear showed in his eyes. Now that he was afraid, he would need to be reassured. 'But I'm not an unreasonable man. Obey me and I will treat you well. I don't intend to starve you, beat you more than necessary, but I will if you fight me. In time you may buy your freedom from me. For now - as you can see, this is a forge and I can use some help here. Can you shoe horses?'

       Duncan took this in, then hesitantly nodded. 'I've helped shoe horses before.'

       'Good. But for now, you need to clean the bath.'

       'But - that's women's work,' Duncan protested, insulted.

       Methos frowned at him. 'There are no women here. It is your work. Get to it.'

       The Scot seemed on the edge of refusing, but reconsidered. Methos could almost see the struggle going on behind those dark eyes. Duncan was humiliated by the idea of doing a serving woman's work, but he had had too many shocks today already. He wasn't ready yet to test Methos' threat of killing him.

       So when the ancient Immortal handed him broom and cloths, he took them without argument. 

       That was the first of very many discussions I had with the boy. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was a Scotsman from the Highlands who had never held a scrubbing brush. But he figured out quickly that there would not be an argument about this, though he always preferred to help in the forge. His third task was the hardest one -

       Right, get it out of your system. Can you breathe again? Good.

       Over this third task we had our first real clash. I never met a man who was that bad at taking orders, in bed or out. 

       In the evening, Methos found out that the barbarian could cook, even if he balked at washing off the dishes. Replete with a good meal, Methos watched his slave bent over the water bucket, cleaning off the pots he'd used. In the loincloth there was not much of him left to the imagination. Methos let his gaze linger over the muscles in his back, moving as he wiped at encrusted food. The position showed off his legs, tension evident in his whole body. Methos had already worked him ragged during the day, and he had to be tired. No doubt he hoped that this would be his last task of the day.

       The old immortal smiled. His new acquisition was in for a surprise.

       'Duncan, come here when you're finished.'

       He didn't look up, but nodded, concentrating on the pot. Well. He would learn proper manners soon enough. He set the pot out to dry and stood before Methos, waiting for the next task.

       Methos' gaze wandered up and down the golden body, admiring the slight sheen of sweat. He was silent long enough to make Duncan shift from one foot to the other in discomfort. He reached out lazily and ran a hand leisurely along Duncan's side. The Highlander's eyes went large and he stepped back.

       'What are you doing?'

       Methos raised his brows and rose, advancing on him. Duncan retreated, but soon bumped against the wall. There was nowhere to go, though his eyes flickered to search for a way out, anything not to have to meet Methos' eyes.

       A hand on his chest stopped that nonsense. 'I would have thought that was obvious,' Methos said silkily.

       'No - it's not right.' Duncan seemed terrified, rather than angry. Odd. 'No. I won't do that. I won't.'

       'Yes. You will, Duncan,' Methos whispered. He stood so close to Duncan that he could feel the heat coming off him. Especially one part of him. He came closer still, touching him all along his body. Duncan's eyes widened, partly from denial, partly from fear, Methos thought. He slipped a hand into the loincloth and stroked the flaccid penis. The Highlander shuddered against him, but still fought it.

       'No...'

       'Yes. Come to bed.'

       He made Duncan bring him to climax with his hands and mouth. There was no oil left to ease his entrance and he had no wish to hurt himself going in dry. There was time for that later, when he had new supplies from the town. It had been far too long, and he hardly noticed that Duncan's hands on him were trembling.

       When it was over, Duncan lay in his arms, breathing shallow, semen drying on his skin. He was still as tense as an anchor chain. Methos himself gave himself over to the afterglow until it dawned on him that his slave was shaking very slightly. He sat up slightly to see his face. Duncan was crying silently, biting his lips in an effort not to make any noise. He wouldn't look at Methos, but when he sensed his attention he spoke.

       'May I go now?'

       The obvious misery of the slave spoiled Methos' own pleasure. He dragged Duncan up, leading him to the forge where he had repaired the ring in the wall. Once the Highlander was chained securely, Methos went back to bed. 

       The next morning saw him in a rotten mood and the stink of piss in the forge did not help matters. He would have to put down a bucket for Duncan in the evening. For now he just cuffed the Highlander along the jaw and sent him to the bath with a colorful threat of what he would do if Duncan ever neglected to use the privy again. He totally ignored the fact that his slave hadn't had the chance.

       While Duncan was busy in the bath, Methos fed the stallion who was still rather badly behaved. Methos twisted his ears to stop him from trying to roll on top of him, then tried talking to him. Unfortunately, the stallion took exception to being talked to and assumed it meant he could kick and rear again. Methos let him exhaust himself and went back to paying work. Duncan was already done in the bath.

       Once, when Methos had to use the privy himself, Duncan decided to bolt. Methos registered the lack of presence and was after him in an instant. He caught his errant slave not even a hundred steps from the gate and dragged him back. The wrist chain was enlarged to fit around his ankles, and Methos wasn't too careful about keeping the hot iron away from Duncan's skin.

       He worked the Highlander mercilessly that day, only sending him from the forge when women came to bring him custom. Once or twice he struck the man when he was being more clumsy than usual. By the time noon had gone, Duncan cringed whenever he came close.

       Then the landowner paid him a visit.

       Methos recalled the man's lecherous interest in Duncan and sent him from the forge to begin dinner. The landowner looked after him with greed in his eyes, but didn't mention him when he spoke to Methos about an iron window screen for his daughter's room.

       When he had gone, Methos' anger was spent. He let work be work and went to the pool to wash off the sweat and grime of the day. Shaking his wet hair back, he opened the door to the common room.

       Duncan was standing bent over the cooking bench, but started upright, startlement and alarm on his face. Methos was reminded of his wilder days when he would strike out with no more provocation than such a look.

       'You've done nothing wrong. Go on.'

       Relieved, Duncan stirred the soup in the pot. He ladled it out into a bowl and handed it to Methos. The ancient Immortal set it to his lips and drank it down. He held out the bowl for another serving and Duncan obliged him.

       'This is good. Have some, too.'

       Duncan sat across from him and ate quickly. Done, he moved at once to clean off the crockery. Methos watched him silently. Duncan was working quickly, as though there was an unpleasant task he wanted to get over with. Methos waited to see what he would do when he had finished.

       Duncan turned to look at him, but did not move toward him. He looked apprehensive, but something in his manner had changed since the last evening. He had lost the fearful look, that was it. But why? By rights he should be even more afraid, Methos reasoned. It was a mystery, and Methos loved mysteries. He could never pass one by.

       'Duncan.' The Scot met his eyes this time. He looked as if he were about to vomit. Methos waved him closer and he came without more prompting.

       Methos repeated his actions from the last evening to gain time to think. Right, Duncan had been afraid before. Then Methos had spent the day beating him and had chained him. He had still been afraid then. So what had happened between then and now?

       The landowner had come by. Methos threw a sharp glance at Duncan's face. Resignation, some apprehension, and a lot of relief.

       So, my boy, you've been spoils and spoiled, have you? Methos allowed his hands wander down to Duncan's inadequately covered buttocks. At once the slave tensed and made as if to turn away, but the motion was nipped in the bud. His hands were clenched into fists as he waited for Methos to do more than fondle him. 

       Well, I'd been there a few times. More than a few, actually, but then I figure all of us old ones have. One of the drawbacks of our age, but the perks make up for it. No lover ever complains again.

       Oh, not this again. That's experience talking, not arrogance. Oh, you'd like to have a go? If you'd just said so - so what if you're married? Who cares? Well, it's your loss.

       Right. Where was I? No, my memory is not giving out on me! I was finding out how far I could go before he'd rebel. From what I'd seen, he'd certainly been at the receiving end of this kind of attention before and hadn't liked it one bit. He'd seen that the landowner wanted him and decided he was safer with me. He thought he knew that what I required didn't include his getting fucked. Well - he was wrong, but he also was a challenge. That was what decided me to keep him. I wanted to fuck him and make him love it. Then, when I trained him, he would be much better in bed, and that was to my advantage. If he had been raped, he would fight it as hard as he could. It had been far too long that I'd had a challenge like this one, and I thought if I broke him, it wouldn't matter. That's what I thought. 

       Duncan did not move away from him. He seemed rooted to the spot, hardly daring to breathe. Methos found a gentle smile somewhere and urged Duncan closer, projecting as much reassurance as he could muster. He felt a spike of arousal lance his body and ruthlessly curbed it. He raised one of Duncan's hands to his mouth and breathed kisses over the knuckles.

       Duncan was breathing heavily but didn't speak. Methos turned the wrist and licked across the pulse. The Scot twitched in response. Methos bit back a grin and ran his tongue further up the forearm. He glanced up at Duncan's face. The dark eyes were closed with feeling but the wary expression hadn't faded yet.

       Methos let go of the arm and stood up from his seat. Duncan hardly moved away. Very good. And when Methos kissed him, he responded eagerly. His hips were thrusting forward slightly and Methos could feel his erection. Methos sternly reminded himself that he had time and would have to go about this slowly. He caressed the Celt's face one last time, then stepped back.

       'Time to sleep.'

       Duncan's eyes snapped open, huge with disbelief and arousal. The look on his face was almost worth going back to bed unsatisfied. Almost. 

       It was working perfectly. I took it slowly, slowly enough to drive myself crazy. Not as crazy as Duncan, though. He seemed never to get enough of my touch, and I let him have a little more each evening, but never enough to satisfy him. I found all the tender places on his body that needed kisses, bites, scratches to inflame his senses. His collarbone must be touched as lightly as possible, with the back of a fingernail. Moistness on the inside of his wrists, then a slow breath across it. Sucking at the nape of his neck, a fast line of a nail run down the backbone. Fingers flicking against his nipples, not quite hard enough to hurt. His shoulder blades must be touched firmly, he was ticklish there, of all places. The lightest of touches along his spine made him writhe. Avoid his buttocks and cleft until the very last moment.

       That had taken me some experimenting to find out. He hadn't been raped, I knew that by the end of the week. Unfortunately, I could not ask what he'd seen to be so afraid. I had to keep my distance from him out of bed. He would love me soon enough, but let him think that I loved him as well, and he would never be truly mine. So I kept silent on the subject, I would learn the truth in time.

       A month after I won him, I knew that he was mine. He had fought it every step of the way, knowing that he was falling in love with me, and unable to prevent it. Each evening he came to me with all the determination he could muster that this time he would not give in, that he would feel nothing, that he would resist me. And each evening he lay trembling under my hands, knowing that I would leave him at the very edge and abandon him there. He came to me knowing that I didn't love him, that I was manipulating him into loving me without feeling on my part. I let him see that lack of love and I knew that he had understood. He still could not help loving me.

       I loved it. It had been so many centuries that I had so completely owned another creature. I had missed it, craved it. I lived for it. 

       But Duncan wasn't useful only in bed. Once he had given in to his shame, he accepted the rest of his fate as well. He worked in the forge all day, shoeing horses and repairing pots. He scrubbed house and bath, and fed the horse.

       Methos knew he had been neglecting the stallion. But he could only handle one such challenge at a time. So when Duncan asked, very shyly, if he could try to tame the stallion, he allowed it. If nothing else, it would be splendid entertainment. But to his vast surprise, Duncan was an excellent rider. He gained the trust of the stallion with a skill Methos could not help but admire and was not sure he could duplicate. When it became obvious that Duncan would be riding the stallion within days, Methos went to the village and bought trousers and shirt for his slave. Despite the dark skin he sported, Duncan was sunburned badly after working in the sun. He still felt uncomfortable with only the loincloth.

       It was a gamble to let the slave continue at this point, but Methos was confident that he would not keep going as soon as he was actually sitting on the horse. Still - the little uncertainty that remained added spice to the challenge.

       Methos set the clothing bundle into a corner and settled down to watch. He had been right. The stallion finally accepted Duncan as his rider. He neither reared nor bucked but merely danced uncertainly. Methos watched Duncan guide him around the plain with narrowed eyes.

       The stallion was clearly enjoying himself. He ran when Duncan allowed it and only reluctantly slowed down. Duncan slipped off his back and praised him for his obedience, petting his long neck and head. He had brought carrots from the kitchen and fed them to him.

       Methos imagined he could almost see the love his slave lavished on the stallion. Amazing, really, he thought. Duncan had a truly generous heart and loved wherever there was any chance. Odd only that the stallion should love him so much in return.

       He waved Duncan to come over and give the stallion a rubdown. When the beast was settled, he gave Duncan the new clothes and sent him to dress himself. The look of gratitude he received was heartfelt and Duncan put on the simple trousers and shirt immediately. Methos went to the cellar to fetch a bottle of wine to celebrate the occasion.

       Suddenly, presence ran along his back and he turned. Had Duncan finished in the bath? He wasn't usually so fast.

       Methos drew his sword from under the leather vest and moved out of the building. Not Duncan after all. The other Immortal was in the middle of the courtyard with his back to him and looking around for Methos.

       'And you are?'

       He whirled, surprised. Methos banished all feeling from his face and glowered at the man. He was of medium height and looked rather old for an Immortal The curved blade he already held caught the dying light and threw it in Methos' eyes.

       'Hamza el Kahir. I am not looking for a fight but - I am told you shoe horses?' He lowered his blade and pointed with his other hand to a bay mare tethered to the well.

       Methos mirrored the gesture. 'I do.'

       Hamza relaxed, letting the blade vanish. He gestured to the stallion. 'A handsome animal.'

       Methos sheathed his own sword and nodded. No enemy after all. Just as well.

       Hamza was inspecting the stallion and making clucking noises over him. Methos bit back a grin. Trust an Arab to look at the horse before asking its owner's name.

       'I am Miguel of Madrid. Your horse threw a shoe?'

       The Arab remembered his manners. 'So she did. The tavern keeper said you could help.' He stroked the mare's neck gently. 'She must carry me a long way yet.'

       Methos smiled and looked at the setting sun. 'But surely not tonight, friend. Will you stay till morning? I offer you guestright.'

       Hamza looked gratified. 'I accept, and gladly. Dear Adla can wait till morning, can't you?' He spoke to her softly while he filled her a bag with oats. Methos looked on and was reminded of Kronos whose horses had been fire eaters, one and all. This man would be far easier to get along with.

       Duncan chose that moment to reappear from the bath. Hamza had just finished tending to the mare and gave Duncan a sharp look as he came into view. Methos bit his lip. Should he pretend Duncan was his student? No, he decided. He might get ideas.

       'Duncan, go and make dinner. We will have a guest for the night.'

       Duncan nodded, not without a curious glance at Hamza and vanished into the kitchen. The Arab looked after him, then turned to Methos. 'Your student?'

       'No. I won him in a dice game. What will you drink instead of wine?'

       Hamza accepted the change of subject. 'Water is fine, friend. Have you been here long?'

       Methos led him out to the bench where they could watch the sun go down. 'No. I won the forge in a dice game, too.'

       Hamza laughed. 'Your stallion as well?'

       Sheepishly, Methos grinned. 'As a matter of fact-'

       The Arab had settled himself on the wooden bench. 'The luck of men and horses.'

       Methos agreed.

       They spoke until the moon had risen to its highest point. Hamza was good company, even more so when Methos had sent Duncan off to bed - he had a cot by the fire now. Nevertheless, Methos slept with his sword close by. 

       That was a good meeting for once. Hamza left the next day after I'd shod his horse and refused to let the stallion deck her. But his visit reminded me of something I'd tried not to think about. I had to tell Duncan the rules at some point. If I hadn't been there when Hamza came, Duncan would most likely have lost his head. The thought didn't appeal to me.

       Though I didn't know how the hell I should explain about the Game. Of course I had students before as well as immortal slaves, but never both at the same time. Even so, I disliked the thought of Duncan dying because I hadn't told him the rules.

       So I did. 

       Duncan stared silently at his hands. Methos waited for the slave to say something, even if it was 'Are you out of your mind?'

       Finally the boy looked up. 'I couldn't kill you. Not ever. Even if we were the last ones. I won't fight you.'

       Methos' stomach knotted up. Duncan was the very picture of seriousness. He meant what he said. He would give him his head. His vision blurred and bile rose in his throat. What had he done?

       When he didn't speak, Duncan gave a slight shrug. 'If that's all, I need to feed the horse.' He got up and left. Methos made no move to stop him. As the slave's presence faded, he collapsed on the chair Duncan had just vacated.

       The curses started low under his breath but gained in volume quickly. Two thousand years since his last immortal slave and he had to fuck it up just as badly as he had with Cassandra. Damn it, curse it, what was he going to do? Of course, it was his own fault. Stupid, really, but he'd been so proud of himself that he'd managed to manipulate Duncan into loving him. And it had been so easy! Now it stuck in his throat like a fishbone.

       He had done this to Duncan. The thought came unbidden, unexpected. It stung like salt on raw flesh and Methos bit his lip against the pain in his heart. He had done this. It seemed worse than anything he'd ever done to Cassandra, to Kleon, to Shelenie, and to any of his mortal slaves. He shivered at the scope of his crime, scarcely wondering where the conscience had come from. Duncan seemed to have found it.

       It had to stop, Duncan had to see sense. But how to destroy a love that was based on power and helplessness? He didn't know.

       But he had to find a way. 

       I tried. I really did. But I had taught him to love even my cruelty. Nothing I did had the power to destroy his love. I'd won the challenge I'd set myself far too well. I'd been so proud! The Greeks have a very good word for that: hubris. I decided that this would never happen again. What I'd done to Duncan, because I was bored, killed my pride and greed stone cold dead. Never again. It's a rule I haven't broken since. I never will. After four thousand five hundred years I learned what shame is. I felt like crawling under a rock and staying there for a decade or so. Before this had happened I hadn't even realized that what Socrates was talking about applied to me as well. I hadn't even known I was evil.

       You think so? I don't know. What is a good man, when you get down to it? But thank you.

       It's a sad thing, really, when you have to be alive for over four millennia before you realize what a sorry son of a bitch you are. 

       Duncan's life improved dramatically. He had his own bed, with a blanket. He no longer had to do all the work in the house. Methos had taken over his share. Two or three hours each day were set aside for sword practice. Duncan received a small wage and was free to leave whenever he wanted. He no longer had to share Methos' bed.

       And he didn't like that one bit. At first he'd simply assumed nothing would change in this respect. In the evening, when they had finished eating, he'd come to Methos eagerly. The most incredulous look stole over his face when he was refused. If Methos hadn't been busy trying to control his urge, it might have been funny. The shock gave way to determination soon enough.

       Duncan stayed in the room with nothing to do and watched Methos for any sign of weakening. When none was forthcoming, he bedded down in the kitchen and began to plan his campaign. 

       Methos felt like a pursued virgin. Duncan had his mind set on getting him back to bed and was doing his damnedest to achieve that goal. The first time could have been chance, the second coincidence. By the third time Duncan waylaid him, Methos believed in a conspiracy. It had passed that stage long ago.

       The morning after Methos had refused him turned out to be rather hot. Duncan wore only his loincloth, claiming he was uncomfortable with the heat. Of course, this gave Methos an excellent view of the boy's body. At noon he couldn't stand it anymore and went into the bath to relieve the pressure. When he came back out, Duncan smiled slightly at him and licked his lips.

       In the forge, Duncan lost no opportunity to brush past him. Methos' erection returned with a vengeance and refused to go away. It was driving him wild.

       Then Duncan ambushed him in the bath.

       Methos had just finished soaping himself when Duncan came in and unconcernedly dropped the loincloth. He slipped into the pool and leaned past Methos to get at the soap, brushing against the older man's erection as he did so. Methos moaned low in his throat, pleasure spiking through him. Duncan straightened and turned slightly, which brought him skin to skin with Methos.

       The ancient immortal's breath caught. Duncan watched him with heat in his eyes. Again his tongue stole out and moistened his lips. He leaned forward to kiss Methos.

       The movement brought him back to his senses. Methos forced himself to gently push Duncan away. 'I said no and I meant it,' he rasped. Then he got out of the bath and dried himself off. Duncan still stood in the pool.

       'I want you.'

       Methos wanted to scream. 'No.'

       'Yes. I know what I want. You showed me - I don't want to lose you.'

       Methos still hadn't turned. 'Duncan, you're your own man. What I made you feel is not who you are.'

       He heard Duncan getting out of the pool, felt hot hands on his skin. 'You don't know anything about me. I know who I am. I know I want you. Please.'

       Methos closed his eyes. Duncan made this so difficult. 'No.' He stepped away from the boy and went out of the bath. 

       A woman, that was what he needed, Methos reasoned. The man was not born who could keep his attention away from women. He just needed to remind himself.

       As luck would have it, the window screen for the landowner's daughter was just finished. He had met Marguerida before and found her enchanting. She clearly felt the same. She was all of seventeen, with a willowy figure and purple eyes. As he installed the screen, she remained in the room, watching him obliquely. He smiled at her and was given a billet by her maid when he left.

       Midnight, at the next full moon. M.

       The M was elaborately drawn. Methos smiled and tucked the slip of paper into his shirt. Full moon was only a few days away.

       Methos spent them in a state of near constant arousal. Duncan had decided to make life difficult for him. The campaign commenced, and Methos had no doubt that eventually he would succumb. Marguerida, he hoped would put an end to this nonsense.

       So when the night came, he told Duncan he'd be out for a few hours and left for the landowner's mansion.

       Marguerida was waiting for him, burning for him. She received him with all the passion of the Highland lad and invited him into herself. Methos took her slowly, reveling in her willing heat. If her face changed shape and her purple eyes turned brown in his mind, he did not let her know.

       As he lay in her arms afterward, languid and content, she bending down to kiss him - they were discovered. 

       Let's gloss over this part, too. So when I got out - who's telling the story, me or you? You don't need to know about that. I - hey! My beer!

       All right, you win. Marguerida's father interrupted the second act, if you will. He wasn't too happy with either her or me. Apparently, she'd done this before. Should have known. She was way too learned in ars amatoria. Only got a slap on the wrist, too. Me, her father locked into the cellar. In those times he had the right to emasculate me if he caught me with his daughter. So I was rather nervous. That sort of thing doesn't grow back. 

       Methos threw another small stone against the wall. It hit mortar and bounced back to him. He sighed. What an idiotic situation to find himself in. It didn't help that this was really his own fault. He wished he could blame this one on Duncan, but knew that he had brought it onto himself.

       Pure stupidity. Which now might get him castrated. He shuddered.

       There was a feeling of another immortal racing across his spine, followed by a sound at the door. Methos came to his feet, eyes wide and incredulous. It had to be Duncan but how in the seven hells?

       The door squeaked open. The hinges needed oil. Methos blinked into the sudden light of the torch, recognizing Duncan and Marguerida.

       'Come on,' the girl whispered. 'My father will be here soon.'

       Methos didn't let himself be asked twice and followed them outside. Duncan was carrying Methos' own sword, Marguerida a torch and the house keys. Of all the unlikely rescues, he thought wryly.

       They went up to the courtyard and out of it through a side door where the stallion and another horse waited. Methos stopped dead. Both horses were carrying packs that held his belongings from the forge. How the hell had they done that this fast?

       Marguerida embraced him, holding the torch away from him. 'Be safe, Miguel. Best ride to the coast, and don't stop on the way. My father will be very angry.' She pressed a kiss to his lips, then stepped out of his arms. She smiled quickly at Duncan and went back into the house.

       Duncan had waited for them to say goodbye, and when Marguerida left, he put a hand on Methos' shoulder. 'We need to go.'

       Methos nodded and mounted the new horse - a gelding he noticed. Probably a good idea, given the stallion's conduct so far. He led the way down to the coast.

       But he and Duncan needed to talk. 

       We made it to the coast without incident, thank God. I really didn't feel like explaining to a pissed father that his daughter had only been a diversion. In Lisboa we rented a room to wait for a ship. I'm saying we, aren't I? Yes, that's right. Duncan did his own part during all of this. He arranged stabling for the horses and found us new names.

       When we were settled, I figured it was time for that talk. 

       Methos set the coins for dinner on the table and motioned to Duncan to precede him upstairs. The Celt's mouth widened in a smile and he stood, unconcerned. Methos bit back another sigh. Duncan had not stopped his attempts at seduction just because Methos had bedded Marguerida. He had just gotten more subtle about it.

       Entering their room after Duncan, Methos closed and locked the door behind him. Duncan settled on the bed as though he didn't have a care in the world, stretching out his legs before him. The position gave Methos a prime view of the young man's family treasures.

       Oh no, that does it. 'Duncan, will you stop that!'

       Pretending complete innocence, Duncan looked up at him. 'Why?'

       Patience, patience... 'Because we need to talk and we're never going to get anywhere if you sit like that. Stop. Please?'

       Duncan shrugged and rearranged himself more modestly. Methos breathed out in relief.

       'Thank you. Now, am I going to get rid of you?'

       'Never.' Duncan smiled. 'Not on your life.'

       'I was afraid of that. So I need to take your head to get rid of you?'

       Duncan nodded.

       'You aren't going to change your mind.'

       'I love you. Not because of the things you did. Because you're you.' A wicked little smile slipped out. 'And you're wonderful in bed. Now if you'd just come here -'

       Methos gave up. He knelt on the bed between Duncan's thighs, bending forward for a kiss. Duncan met him halfway. Methos stopped thinking. 

       No, he didn't leave me. But we do separate every few decades. We need other people, mortals. It's natural among those of us who stay together. Then we arrange a meeting place and go there after twenty years or so. That's right, that's why you haven't met him.

       By the by, look over there. If you'll excuse me - I've waited twenty years for this.

       Duncan.