Madrigal Feyen followed the pointing finger of Little Venik. "Back there," Venik offered, "is where he'll be. A booth at the very back. Give me my money now in case he kills you." His smile was a yellow stain in the dim light of the club. The stain was ten centimeters above her eyes.

Little Venik was a cowardly snitch, but he was a big one.

The room smelled of hummus, roasted lamb and dark coffee in the Turkish style. Small kerosene lanterns sat in various styles on the small tables of the quiet cabaret. Madrigal shifted her eyes towards the near side hall, nodded at it, then walked there. She wasn't going to hand over cash in the common room. Her wits were the only thing that might bring this to a success.

Little Venik grunted and trudged behind her. Once a step into the hallway, he complained, "I have quick hands and could have shielded you handing it over with my body. I've done this before, you know."

"So have I." She flipped open the leather satchel purse. She dug out the pre-wrapped amount. She watched him closely as she dropped the old bills into his hands.

The bundle vanished into his left sleeve. He nodded.

"Thank you, honored one. And now, I go. I ask you do not remember me." He grinned and strode quickly away.

She made a disgusted noise deep in her throat where only she heard it. It was unpleasant to have to deal with trash such as Little Venik, but this man she sought had a reputation that most normal sources would not touch. Most street informants did not know he existed, though some only pretended so. Her slippery objective was a wanted felon in several of the countries of the Mediterranean coast. Libya still had a standing reward of three million dinars for information leading to his capture or death.

Here in Tunisia, such things had indifferent results, even though it still amounted to over a million dollars American.

Madrigal eased back to the main room, checking the visible quadrants. It would be so easy for Little Venik to sell his information to others, especially if it meant she disappeared here. Music from hidden woodwinds somewhere in the room softly covered what noise the few customers were making.

The place seemed quite undisturbed and normal. She moved deeper into the club.

Her senses strained for each scrap of information. She spotted the dark booth in the furthest corner and moved carefully in that direction. In the draped shadows there, a figure wearing the faded colors of a farmer or a common laborer slouched with a view of her approach.

She moved slowly and kept her hands visible. She stopped at the booth. If I've guessed wrong, I'm lost. The bureau won't condone the things I've done to get here. She cleared her throat softly. "Please. I would like a few words with you, Ancient."

The hooded figure didn't move, as if he was in a stupor. She eyed the bottle half-empty on the table.

Allah preserve us, I hate drunks. I was so sure that Little Venik wouldn't dare try to dump me with a con. Dogshit.

"Egyptian, yes?" The slouched figure straightened and gestured to the booth. "Why did you call me 'ancient'?"

The voice was only a whisper. She slid into the hard leather seat. She had come this far and the informant money was gone. This might be what she had been looking for. She had to play it out. "I am looking for Fariq Lyr, sometimes called the Quick Knife. If you are he, then I believe the honorific is appropriate. Your career is a testament of five decades."

A stained glove of pale leather moved to the bottle. She noted the slender hands and the long fingers. Slowly and carefully, the dark liquor poured into the tiny glass on the table. He murmured, "Ah, I see. I'd offer you a drink, but you didn't bring a glass, my tanned dove."

She looked into the gray shadows of the hood. "I am willing to pay. I have a sister who is lost to me. I want her back. You can get into the 'Closed Club' and get her out."

The gloved hand tipped the glass up into the hood. There wasn't a hint of sound.

Madrigal moved restlessly. "You know the Club? My sister---."

"Forget her."

"I won't."

"Go and supplicant yourself to the Owner. Beg. If you amuse her, she may let your sister go. It has happened."

Madrigal sneered, "I've been there. I've seen my sister dance in the lights for men who aren't fit to lick her feet. I've felt her blank eyes ignore me. I've talked to everyone in Cairo. I've tried money. I've threatened them with the authorities. The owner won't see me. I've talked to the police. Nothing. They pretend my sister doesn't exist. That's why I need you to take her out by force."

Silence.

She studied what she could see. Who am I talking to? A legend? Or a con artist? Could Little Venik have hired someone to play the part?

He slowly poured another drink. "Sure you won't join me? I could get you another glass."

"I will pay---."

"It can not be done for money," he returned in a voice so low she leaned forward to hear.

It can not be done for money. Her heart started a faster beat. This was the phrase she had been waiting for, the phrase that the Quick Knife was said to live by. He was never for hire. He only bartered service for service. He named a price for any service he consented to perform, always a trade of some kind. He never failed. That was what she needed against the owner of the Closed Club.

That was his reputation at any rate. She took a slow breath. By a hundred names, this man was known across Europe and the Middle East. If she had any chance of getting her sister out of that obscene den in Cairo, it had all come down to this man. This legend. Everyone else was terrified of the Closed Club. She had used her contacts with the Bureau. She had tried the "for-hires" of several levels of international crime.

She felt foolish anger. She wasn't used to being unsure and ineffective, so many months to get to this point. "If you are Fariq Lyr," she said coldly.

He reached up and edged back his thin hood. "Do you know what he looks like, this Fariq? How clever are you, my tanned dove? Eh?"

He surprised her showing his face this way. She looked back at his green eyes, shocked. He did not fit the sketchy descriptions she had. He wasn't even Arab with that golden blond hair and pale skin.

Her angry thoughts cooled. Venik. I'll find him and kill him. This is a hired boy. I've been conned.

His face was scuffed with fresh abrasions, probably from being thrown to the rough street after a night of drinking. He was dirty. His blond hair dropped in a wild spray over sleepy green eyes lacking spark. His skin was too pale. An opium dreamer might have such a face, long shielded from the day's sun. A boy's face, perhaps all of sixteen years.

In fact, he could be younger. The dirt and scrapes make him look older, I think.

He calmly examined her while he poured another drink.

She looked closer at him. Dogshit. I've been had.

She shifted, started to slide out of the bench.

"Don't go, my dove. You haven't had a drink."

She scowled at him. "And I don't---."

He poured a second glass full, and then used the bottle lip to push the glass to her side of the table.

She froze. She consciously willed herself to relax as excitement stabbed through her thoughts. There wasn't a second glass on the table. I know there wasn't. He hasn't moved. I haven't closed my eyes. No one has approached the table. What just happened?

She eased back against the hard wood booth behind her. Her hidden hand slipped around to the holstered automatic in the small of her back. "Fariq doesn't look like you, little boy. So are you his runner?"

He smiled for the first time. "I am Fariq, Ramone, Haziz, Christian, Aeos, Belloq, and a few others I've forgotten, not necessarily in that order." His soft voice caressed the grimy table and dark surrounding air. "You have no idea who you are talking to. Here. If you want your gun, take it."

His gloved right hand appeared and slid the small black weapon across to table to her.

Her thighs tightened. Her buttocks felt like frozen meat, the chill crept up her back. Then her hidden fingers touched the empty holster up under her jacket.

Her gun. She looked at it as casually as possible. She decided to leave it there, some show of strength while she gathered her wits.

That was her gun.

Impossible.

He flipped a shiny card onto the table. She stared at her Bureau identification.

"So you must really want your sister back, if you'll cross your own principles and consort with scum like me. Or are you dirty as well? We can be honest here. It won't affect my decision."

She pushed her own worries aside again at the mention of her sister, Metis. She schooled her face. Focused. She was prepared for this. Pretending to be a 'dirty cop' was a backstory she had assembled coming here. One she had used successfully many times.

"No, I'm not." Her eye ticked. What?! That wasn't what she'd tried to say! Her thoughts burned even as the coldness in her spine spread to her armpits, freezing the dampness there.

"So you are an active agent of the ARE's Federal Bureau. On holiday? Or tracking me? Is this really personal, or business?"

"On holiday. Definitely personal. I'm an active agent, but not the Federal Bureau. We just carry the FB identification. I'm with the President's Spoken Word Bureau." She squeezed her fingers hard on the small glass of liquor she did not want. She was babbling secrets as if this was a conversation between old friends. This was completely wrong.

Something registered with those green eyes watching her.

"Ah! SWB. Well, I'm honored to be speaking to one of Allah's Faithful." The tone was unmistakably mocking. His voice, always soft had taken on a cold glittery edge that pushed a button deep inside her groin. Fear. She felt her bladder about to go. That single element unlocked her mind and her body galvanized by reflex. Her cover was blown. Something was so wrong here it could not be made right. She whipped the glass and liquor at his eyes, shifted and rolled out of the booth, sweeping up her weapon and ID with her other hand.

Then she was running for the street door. Voices shouted behind her. A blinding stab of daylight and heat greeted her as she slammed through the door. She went left. She broke through strolling crowds of idlers. She confused her direction several times, and knew it had worked when no angry voices kept pace with her. She changed to a normal stride quickly and looked for a taxi. She slipped the weapon into the spring holster at her back.

Nothing in this district.

She crossed through an alley. A small figure was tending to a garden patch under a rusting metal awning. She passed with a smile, emerging in a better street, still deep in the poor district.

She saw a cafi with clean tables and good shade. She swung off the street and stepped under the canopy. Here she could think about what had just gone wrong. She sat a corner table.

Allah! She closed her eyes tightly as she pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. She had never run from an encounter like this, and this one had been the most important in her memory. Ah, Metis! My sweet tortured sister. I've failed you. With a desperate sadness, she began to wonder why she had panicked.

"Headache?"

She opened her eyes. The soft voice matched the drab colored clothes of the hooded figure sitting across from her at the table.

She jerked in place. She swallowed a scream. Her heart hurt, pounding in her chest.

Fariq Lyr leaned closer. "You are very good. Very fast. Did you try to get your sister out yourself? Yes. I think you have. I think you failed. I like desperate people. It makes business so much more interesting. Shall we order something?"

A smiling waiter crossed the outdoor space and stood at the table. Madrigal swallowed again, barely resisting a temptation to pull her gun and shoot the man she had sought for months.

"Coffee. Two. Strong." The waiter nodded and left smiling. "I know your voice. I dreamed about it last night. I like you better in person. I think we have met before. Not recently, but definitely there is something about you that is familiar. How old are you?"

She felt overheated and exposed. She was sweating like a pig. In all her years, she had never felt like this. She thought fleetingly about the Koran. What did one do when forced to speak to demons?

The waiter returned, setting down two very black coffees. "Do you want cream?" he smiled below an inky well-tended mustache.

Madrigal brought her hands up and cupped her breasts, squeezing, "Don't I look like I have plenty of cream?" she snapped.

The waiter's eyes widened. He nodded once and retreated quickly. Very soft laughter came from her table companion.

Her face burned. She put her trembling traitorous hands on the table, ignoring the coffee. "What have you done to me?"

Fariq's gloved hand tipped the cup upward into his hood. There wasn't a hint of sound. He put the cup down. "Just a joke. Forgive me. I have a terrible sense of humor. It is just my way. I mean nothing ill by it. Did you see his face?"

"I saw it." Her blood pounded furiously.

"He'll have a story to tell." Fariq chuckled and indulged in his coffee again. "I'm interested in your offer."

"I withdraw it. I had no idea I would be dealing with a demon."

He nodded as if acknowledging that she couldn't have known. "Regardless. I'm interested. I'll help you. I'll get your sister out. Free her of the influence of Isis, which you didn't think to ask for. I'll return her to any place you mention that you think will be safe. I recommend outside of Egypt, just in case Isis wants her back. Tunis perhaps. You know my price will be fair."

"I do not know it and I don't want your help. You frighten me. The idea of you touching my sister makes my skin crawl. Our business is done before it ever started."

"Don't be foolish, my tanned dove. I am one of the few people in the world that can help you. Your destiny brought you here. I bow to it, even though I have never sought to cross The Temple That Walks. My life will be in danger on behalf of your sister and I must confess that my life is the most precious thing I own."

She spoke the oldest blessing against evil she knew staring into the shadowed hood, "In the name of Allah, may this Thing be destroyed."

Nothing happened. He put down his coffee cup empty. He whispered, "In the name of the Great River, may this bargain be sealed. A life for a life. Your sister shall be freed of her enslavement. You shall become my slave. It is done."

She laughed at him. Tried to. Her voice failed to a weak gasp. Mind trembling, she seemed to feel a hot wind swirling through the shaded patio. She glanced around at the other patrons. They seemed to feel nothing. No!

I've agreed to nothing! Nothing! I would sooner die than---.

The scalding wind passed away. Gone as if it never was.

She looked back at the intent of her quest.

Gone. Gone as if he never was.

Madrigal Feyen followed the wandering streets of Zarzis. She stopped often along the way, making furtive glances over her shoulder. She looked into the reflections of shop windows to scan the faces behind her.

At the hotel overlooking the beach, she relaxed. She got her key from the front desk. No messages. She walked up four flights and opened her room.

On the bed was a package wrapped in fine creamy paper and tied with a black ribbon.

She stared at it knowing it could not be a good thing. She locked the door, and then carefully tested the package before opening it. It hardly weighed a few grams. More delicate white paper inside wrapped around and around something fairly flat and small.

She read the note in an exquisitely delicate hand. "Wear this tonight. Join me at Club Shame behind the Market at the twenty-second hour. I have many questions to ask before we start our business."

It was unsigned.

She searched her wits for some way to break this surreal venture back into the real world. She pushed and pulled the beautiful papers until she had the contents of the box exposed. She stared, feeling revulsion.

Small black lace pasties studded with diamond-like chips at the centers were the only things in the box. Not even a whore would wear such things out for a night on the town. She felt her nipples hardened and burn with ache.

Then she remembered something she should have noted at the cafi. Fariq's clothes had not been drenched in liquor. He'd told her she was fast. She'd thrown the full glass at his face from twenty centimeters and she hadn't hit him with it. Not a drop.

Coldness settled onto the back of her neck. She remembered the hot wind at the cafi. I just have time to shower, eat dinner, and then dress again. Moreover, I have no idea why I'm going.

Special Agent Madrigal Feyen entered the 'Den of Shame' as the bouncer held the door open for her.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside. The music drifting near the ceiling blended with a woman singing in French. Madrigal recognized a ten-year old tune from the European dance-pop charts. She walked by the coat-check and two elegantly dressed prostitutes in a quiet conversation about money.

Allah! Grant me the strength to not kill Fariq until I find out what he wants.

Against her will, Madrigal was meeting Fariq Lyr here tonight. A planted note in her hotel room had included a "present" from him and a promise to continue plans for the rescue of her sister, Metis, being held in an obscene private club in Cairo. She looked around for the small robed figure of Lyr. She wasn't sure how the scruffy little man might wrangle admittance to this sort of club. The people she saw here were military officers and high rollers. She noted a few foreigners. The women wore the latest Italian fashions.

She recognized a shipping magnate from Malta with unsavory connections. Memories of many file photos she had reviewed in the SWB slipped to the front of her mind. No, she couldn't be an agent tonight. Still scanning the room, she walked past the 'dirty' businessman. Madrigal regretted that the black skirt and conservative jacket she was wearing might pull attention in contrast to the range of short skirts and heavily made-up women throughout the club. Yet she wasn't here as an agent of Egypt, she was here to deal with Lyr, hopefully for the last time.

Let them look at her. No one knew her. Their lurid glances were meaningless.

The Den smelled of French perfume, opium and leather-topped tables. Scattered miniature lighting from Italian designed fixtures made a bright pool of each table leaving the rest of the room seductively dark. Madrigal took a breath to relax. To her experienced appraisal, the place stank of crime and debasement papered over by dirty money. Yet, it was a pleasant enough club on the surface. She was glad her black wool suit made her leather satchel purse seem ordinary. The gun inside it gave her some assurance against everyone here except Lyr. Her cool wits sharpened at the slight tang of fear that thoughts of Fariq Lyr inspired.

She found a space at the bar and ordered a sunset-tango. She didn't drink alcohol unless forced to by undercover work. Her mind drifted right back to the enigmatic Lyr.

True, she had sought to engage him. She had hunted him through four countries and dozens of false trails. True, she had wanted him because of his reputation that he feared nothing. The President's Spoken Word Bureau, those special agents charged with stopping extraordinary or bizarre threats to Egypt, were used to dealing with unsavory and extremist use of power. The owner of the Closed Club in Cairo worried the SWB so badly that they had told Madrigal to forget her sister's unfortunate situation.

Then again, Fariq told me that too this afternoon. 'Forget her.' Did he honestly expect me to listen?

Despite her six years of field experience in the strange underworld of Egypt, Fariq had frightened her. Even given his bizarre reputation, she didn't understand how he had taken away her pistol and identification in the bar today without her notice. She had met pickpockets before and they didn't do that kind of sleight of hand. She had almost concluded that he had hidden helpers, people who must have fleeced her before she sat down with him.

She couldn't quite convince herself.

However, that didn't explain why she had dressed as he instructed and come here despite her fear of exactly what she may have started by approaching him. He had said they had a "deal" and she feared a pact with him. She was afraid this had all been a terrible mistake.

"Buy you a girl, young lady?" A voice whispered at her elbow. "Or rescue a sister?"

She stiffened. A wild thought--- as if thinking about him had summoned him from Darkness. She banished the stupid idea, turning towards him.

Again, Fariq surprised her.

He was even smaller than she had realized. Standing at her side now in black leather jacket and black leather jeans in an American style, he was less than one hundred fifty centimeters tall. She looked down, towering over him. The robes he wore earlier had disguised him well. She hadn't imagined in the earlier sit-down meeting that he was so small. His wild blonde hair was up and swept back with some sort of hair-gel. He had cleaned up. His face, still scraped and scabbed at jawline and chin, was pale as ivory but freshly washed. He sported thin black gloves on his feminine hands. He looked like a street tough. He wore a small set of wire-rimmed sunglasses that hid his green eyes.

She found herself relieved at that. I don't want to see his eyes. Allah! He doesn't appear very dangerous now. I've handled punks of his look easily. He's good at seeming harmless.

"I don't think we can talk about our business here, Mr. Lyr," she murmured.

He gestured at the bartender, who promptly brought clear liquor with a wedge of orange in it. "Let me be the judge of that, my tanned dove. You have put yourself in my hands. I will not fail you." He smiled at her as if he were her chevalier.

She shivered, trying to ignore a hot ache in her nipples that horrified her. She had no desire for him. Even more, she feared him as she had no other person she had ever met. It wasn't right he should appear a fifteen-year-old boy in tough gothic attire. She knew his file at SWB included 'incidents' going back fifty years. It was unnatural. It was very wrong.

Something fell into focus then, and she was angry she hadn't considered it upon meeting him. "You're like HER," she hissed at him. "Like the owner of the Closed Club. You're some kind of ageless demon. You're as evil as the Thing I am fighting to free Metis from."

He sipped his drink, but made no sound doing it. He peered up at her over his sunglasses. Bright green eyes pinned her attention. "Yes, of course. 'Engage an Evil to beat an Evil' and all that. That reminds me, you called me 'Ancient' in the bar. Are you saying you didn't know?"

"That was before I saw you. I thought you'd be an old man."

He looked at her strangely. "I am an old man, my tanned dove. Second question, how do you know that your superiors at the SWB didn't offer your sister to the Closed Club, and then not tell you what they were doing, so that they could get you to find me and interest me in your problem?"

She gasped. "Worthless old Evil that you are, you would think of something like that!" She glared down at him.

He smiled at her with boyish charm at odds with what she knew he was and had done. Even the rough gothic outfit he was wearing didn't take away from his silly grin. Allah, the most frightening part is how harmless he looks.

"Yes, I would. Third question, are you wearing my gift?" His smile became more sexual.

She flushed. Here she could answer honestly and still have a small triumph. She had stopped at a boutique and bought a black string bikini top to wear over the lace pasties he had told her to wear. He had only written she must wear them, not that she couldn't wear something OVER them. The top was tiny and didn't show at all under the jacket she had on. "Yes. I'm wearing your silly gift."

"Good." He leaned his body against hers for a moment.

Strangely, she noted his breath smelled not of liquor or bad food, but of fresh herbs. His soft breath was sweet and green. She felt unwelcome heat again. His eyes were so knowing. Her breasts pressed against him, but she refused to lose ground to him. Then he stepped back and put his drink down.

"I'm going to get us money for the trip. Make a few telephone calls and then we can go. But right now, I want you to pretend to flirt with me. Whisper the entire story of your sister, her captivity and the things you've tried in my ear and make it quick."

She was relieved to hear that they wouldn't be here long. She still didn't understand why such things would be discussed here, even in whispers. Nevertheless, if he needed money and telephones, he must have contacts in the Den. She draped an arm around his shoulders. She shifted her hips and flexed her knees so it would be less obvious how tall she was by comparison and began to tell him about Metis.

She pasted a smile on her lips and told him everything she could.

The Ancient listened to her husky voice in his ear.

It was a tease. It tickled his memory.

Who could she be? He wanted to be sure his mind wasn't playing tricks. This was a find. If she were a re-born match for one of his many lost Companions, then he dared to twist the Cat's tail for half the chance to have more time with Madrigal. Could one such as he not believe in good fortune like this? He did rough figures and calculations, thinking about her flavors. Whose bloodline? Did he sense the Berber vibration? He reached out with his mind and stroked the Great River. He opened his inner archives to a barest trickle from the River. The warm sensation flowed down over his mind while he listened to the mortal, Madrigal Feyen, tell him the trivial details of her doomed pursuit of justice for her enslaved sister.

Images stirred in the bottomless layers of his memory, the entering warmth of the River stirred the dreams and years of his life. He didn't push or hurry. He let the River find its own path through the labyrinth of his primeval mind while he absorbed the minor details of her quest. He watched the hot flow as a spectator, though he carefully examined each illuminated recess as the trickle of power melted its way down through frozen years.

He knew this woman--- or he knew one very like her long ago. One in particular if he could recall it. He always remembered his cherished friends. Their blood pattern was a siren call to him. The patterns returned again and again and he patiently sought them. Yes, an old friend. Certainly some sparkling mortal who had shared his travels and made his heart bright for a short bleed of time. He saw the River finally reach that frozen dream of the past and warm it to life.

"Dirty!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering everything. He turned his face and looked at her. The pieces of her face were all wrong, but the caress of her voice and the vibration of her Little River were exactly right. His guess about the Berbers was correct. Dirty, the vixen. Dirty, the vulgar thief.

She stiffened. Her arm around his shoulders was suddenly like frozen lead. She glared at him as other patrons at the bar smiled at them both. People had turned at his outburst.

They think something she said has provoked my illumination. They think she whispered indecent filthy things in my ear. That's fine. In fact, that's precious good fun. Just like her ancestor might have done to make me smile.

He looked at her.

She was NOT amused. "Just remember, Fariq, that I'm pretending to like you."

He nodded, "As long as you know that I'm pretending you're pretending." He winked at her above his glasses. His sharp hearing picked up the sound of her grinding her teeth. He widened his smile.

She went back to the details of her story.

She finished, wishing that she dared to spit in his strangely interesting face. Instead, she broke the intimate hold on him and took a drink to cool her temper. She was very embarrassed by his stunt. Everyone had looked at her like a whore when he made his lewd outcry.

Evil bastard. Why play with me so?

"I'm impressed," he whispered. "You did more than I expected and should feel no shame of your efforts. Isis probably let you live because she admired the way you played the game."

"It's not a game to me."

"Everything is a game to Isis," he shrugged. Except Egypt.

"You seem much the same," she shot back. "Why do you call her Isis? Is she mad? Does she think she is a goddess?"

His voice sang soothingly back into her anger. "I call her that because that is who she is. No, she is not mad. Yes, she thinks she is a goddess. That is the difference between Isis and I. She is a goddess forgotten by those she loves. I am a lover forgotten by gods. Isis deserves your respect, my tanned dove. She has not abandoned your country despite the fact that the affection has long not been returned."

Madrigal looked at him. She felt some pang of empathy with his poetic retort. Then seeing his leer, she knocked aside her compassion. "Then she is mad. I think you are evil. I think you enjoy it."

"Then you will be particularly pleased by what happens next." He smirked.

"Which is?"

"You're to be a distraction while I get some things done that will make our trip to Cairo a success. I want people here looking at you. So, take off your jacket now and start strolling around the room blowing kisses to the pretty girls. Make it all look hot."

"The hell I will," she spit, taking off her jacket with a shrug of her shoulders.

He took it over his arm like a gentleman. He accepted her purse.

She realized with alarm that he was doing it to her again, making her act out of control. Then the cool air-conditioned air brought her eyes down to her tightening nipples. She was wearing the black lace nipple pasties with the diamond-like chips on their centers--- but no bikini top. It was gone. The soft bounce of her exposed breasts generated a twitch of arousal in her cleft.

She was nearly naked from the waist up.

"And you can have this back," he removed her bikini top from his own jacket and stuffed it into her jacket pocket, "when I return."

Then he was gone. Right before her eyes, he just wasn't there anymore. She squeezed her legs together and put her hands over her breasts. She turned around quickly to see if anyone else had noticed what just happened.

A dark skinned woman with too much make-up around her eyes turned and smiled at her. No. Obvious she hadn't seen the man vanish. Madrigal found herself smiling back. She felt dazed. Her neck was warm. She brought both hands up to her mouth and 'blew' a kiss at the dark girl.

The beauty giggled at that. Faces started turning. In short order nearly half the bar was staring at her under-dressed condition. Her face was burning. She felt restless and decided that strolling around blowing kisses was better than being frozen as a naked embarrassed jackass, which is what she felt like.

Metis, think only of Metis.

She wafted a few kisses at other women and stepped off towards the far corner of the room to make a circuit. She felt painfully out of her depth. Warm arousal trickled through her and she was bewildered. How exactly did one walk about like a whore anyhow? Allah! Please make the evil one come back quickly!

Fariq stepped expertly into the Great River and felt the flow charge his blood and transmogrify him. The Den of Shame took on a soft crimson appearance. His skin tingled as if invisible nymphs were teasing his flesh with their soft fingertips.

He became in truth the Quick Knife. His mind raced with power, his thoughts drove like whipped stallions through his flesh.

He moved in a lazy circle about Feyen and studied her looking at the place he had been with a languorous dawning shock. With an enthusiastic eye, he watched her hands slowly drift up from her sides to cover her black-tipped breasts. Her eyes widened as she registered his 'disappearance' and then he saw her legs tighten together at the thighs.

Yes. There is much fire in the heart of this woman. She is heir to the passion of her ancestors. My old lover lives again in this one. I could make something grand of her.

He kept moving. To stop within the River would cause his flesh to brighten with the energy displaced and he would then leave an image the mortals could see. Slowly circling Madrigal like a shark smelling blood, he stepped carefully to her pulling off his left glove. He walked around her touching her throat lightly and the pulse of her living energy responded. Wet. Relaxed. You are aroused feeling this embarrassment. The eyes on you make your body hot despite your better judgment. You play the wanton now. Think about each minute of your lovely exposure. Your nipples are hard as nuts. Your thighs brushing each other as you walk remind your sweet pussy of tongues at work.

He continued to circle in his heightened realm, studying her reactions and feeling his own erection. He treasured his secret kinship with the Great River. He loved watching beauty moving so slowly before him, a living gallery of interesting bodies and minds moving at mundane speeds. The entire world was a display to his voyeuristic talents.

Enough! I have things to do and I'm not going to exhaust myself playing now. I need to save something for the Cat and Cairo.

Laughing, he strolled away. He was the Quick Knife. He would die with a smile someday.

The crowds immersed in their slow dance of meaningless mortality gave him no pause. He found the small spaces and passages around their bodies. He brushed fingertips across men's faces and found information. He caressed women's asses and found the tingle of the Little River. Occasionally he slowed to watch another pair of eyes discover the erotic display that Madrigal was performing for him. It was a sublime pleasure. Then he moved on.

Never allowing his movement to really stop.

He found the unlocked door he wanted. It was reinforced with quality steel he saw as a deadly black sucking disturbance of the River's flow. He put his glove back on. He shoved against the door, then quickly closed it again behind him once inside. There was no one near enough to notice the breeze that caused. The brief grounding spill of energy through his near contact with the door singed him very slightly. He passed the two heavily muscled men on the other side. They both sported the black stains where he surmised they kept their weapons holstered beneath their jackets. The steel of their weapons created black eddies with the River at this level. He moved through the casino in the large hidden room and gathered a substantial sum of dinars for the trip to Cairo. He took largely from the House and in small, scattered amounts from the patrons.

He moved around the crowds as a dancer might. He fingered the nipples of a beautiful Nigerian and sampled her thoughts. Her wide sweet eyes had caught his attention as he passed. Her body moved between one step and the next. Her nipples were large and her thoughts as he tickled them made him want to linger, but he did not. Never stopping, he gathered more paper money. He circled one of the guards who carried two guns and a knife in his sleeve. The man's face reminded Fariq of a trio of brothers who had worked for the Salamander in Napoleonic France. The fellow's thoughts proved this old pattern was not the case in the here and now. Fariq knew how such echoes clung to Ancients beside himself, so he judged it wise to check. Yes, meaningful faces, bloodlines, or friendships could surface again after a decade or a century. Grinning, he stroked the fellow's cock until it was hot and hard, and then left the mortal with thoughts of a donkey joyfully mounting his own sister.

He peered at cards kept close to chests out of curiosity. He traced a finger over rumps in tight skirts. He moved through them as a searing breeze that their insensitive minds could not feel or see. When his inner pockets were full of money, he moved to the phones in one of the small private rooms.

Easily moving past a wooden door, he stepped out of the Great River and heard the normal murmur of voices resume as he returned to a speed that made those sounds sensible. Colors came back to their true tints. His flesh smarted even through leather and clothes where he had pushed the armored door in his accelerated state.

No matter, he healed well enough. The burn was the price of cold iron when he danced those levels of the Great River.

He languidly ran a gloved finger along his jaw and sent the pain away for later. He dialed a few numbers and talked to many helpfully vicious men. Smiling, speaking in different tongues with each separate call, he made a quick business of it.

Madrigal felt her face grow hotter with each small chuckle that she heard. She despised her own weakness. She knew she was only pretending to be a wanton, but she knew these people had already relegated her to something worse than a whore.

A slut. A foolish exhibitionist harlot.

Think of Metis.

She wasn't as pretty as many of these women here. Not like Metis. Madrigal was an athlete, not a clotheshorse. She saw in the faces of the men and women that they assumed this was her way of getting attention for her lack of beauty, exposing herself as a lewd clown for their laughter.

Vile.

She also found it tightened her hot nipples even more and made her clitoris feel as if it was being licked by a man's tongue. She felt drunk on the attention. She was fast becoming too aroused to walk straight. She turned around, made a 'kissing' moue to a woman who was clapping her hands with delight and made her way back across the room.

Metis, think only of Metis. Yes. Metis dancing under the lights with bells clamped to her nipples.

Dazzled, she showered kisses to every woman who would make eye contact with her.

Oh! Metis' wide blank eyes as she danced with a young woman tonguing between her spread legs.

Now she couldn't stop thinking of Metis. What kind of pleasure made the mind surrender so?

Metis. I will come for you.

Had it been five minutes yet or fifteen? Would this horrid act never end?

Then she saw him. The evil little demon was standing near the entry to the Den holding her jacket and purse. She changed course and made straight for him. Damn whatever plan he has. I'm leaving now!

She stood in front of him. She prayed that the awful wetness between her legs was not below the hem of her conservative skirt. "Well, Fariq Lyr? Can we go now?" she said softly but with bite. She did not want to anger him.

"Of course. Turn around and I'll help you with your jacket."

She allowed that. She tried not to rush the buttoning of the jacket front. Shortly then they were leaving. The warmth of the night-cloaked street outside was nothing compared to the hot sopping between her legs. She wanted to make certain that he didn't think she enjoyed any of his 'plan'. "That was horrid."

"Yes, Forgive me. I have a terrible sense of humor. It escapes my control at times. I have another question. Fourth serious question for tonight, I asked you today how old you were--- I want that answer now. " His smile was hard. His eyes were cold and alien.

She wanted to tell him to fuck himself. "I'm thirty-one next month. Metis is twenty-six."

He made no reply.

They walked further along the street. She saw they headed for the beach and her hotel. She refused to look at him. She hoped that made a difference somehow.

His soft words reached out of the dark. "Pack. Tonight we leave for Cairo. A taxi will come to your hotel at three. Be ready. A seaplane will take us to Alexandria."

"You're letting me go with you? Good."

"My tanned dove, I never leave my valuable property where it might get lost," he whispered. "I expect you to help me. Further, my plan hopes that you may have some sway with your sister when I have her out of there."

She ignored the quickening of her heart. She looked at him now. The streets were dark. The buildings they passed were unlit. She couldn't see his expression, but it didn't sound as if he was laughing at her. This small figure was going to challenge a goddess. The evil fiend planned to battle a wicked goddess for her sister. She wanted to hate him.

She tried to imagine some way to do that.

She failed. "I'll be ready."

Madrigal Feyen closed the lipstick and stared at herself in the mirror of the ladies' room. She was about to destroy her career as a Special Agent in a most humiliating way. "I tell you this plan will not work. It will do nothing to help my sister, you scheming dog. Don't make me do this."

Her small companion smiled, "Nevertheless, my tanned dove, I promise you that if you do this, Metis will be rescued. Trust in my knowledge of the stupidity of men."

She fussed with her purse, refusing to look at her outrageous costume. "I don't know why you make such promises. Allah knows that Evil such as you may speak of things that will never happen."

Fariq looked at her. He was wearing clothes that marked him as a European tourist, white baggy slacks, wraparound sunglasses, and a pale green linen shirt. His tiny frame carried the clothes with elegance. He slouched with white-gloved hands in his pockets, resembling a young boy trying to look 'cool'.

Madrigal knew what he really was--- something wicked, powerful, and inhuman.

He slowly took off the glasses. His green eyes, often sleepy looking, were now twin emeralds of intensity. "What if I pledged on Allah's name?"

She swallowed and stared at him. Could he do that? No. Well, if he could. Yet---. She looked at herself in the mirror again. She was wearing white from head to toe, a color favored by those members of the exclusive Closed Club where her sister was held. Likewise her face was made up heavily, earthy smoke-gray eyelids, and flaming red lipstick, thickly applied. A cloud of incense surrounded her clothes.

If I was generous and thought of them as clothes.

She wore a linen dress very generous of material. It would have looked like a nun's robes for length and shape but for the fact that it was of the thinnest material and became transparent in any decent amount of light. White high heels, white thigh-high stockings, and no briefs were the rest of her ensemble; she shivered with horrid lust.

I never would have believed that wantonly exposing myself could bring such pleasure. I am so ashamed. Even though he forces my actions, I can't deny how aroused I become. I'm changing. He has changed me.

They were inside the Bureau's building in Cairo. Fariq had pulled these clothes out of a large shopping bag and revealed his plan to her. At his command, she started to change right in front of him. She found herself enjoying it in a perverse way. Forced display of her body was arousing to her since the Den of Shame in Tunisia. The whole day was a nightmare growing progressively more insane.

Moreover, she was sure now that Fariq would never let her wake. That was the price for Metis' freedom. She was Fariq's slave so that Metis could be freed from the 'Temple That Walks', the owner of the Closed Club. She knew in her heart that it was a fair exchange for this strange man who could not be bought and did not fear the goddess or her wrath.

Her sister for herself. That was the deal.

She had given up the pretense she did not agree to it all. "Yes. Vow on Allah's name that Metis will be taken from the Closed Club and returned to me."

He nodded. "I, RiverDancer, the Sgian Dubh, called the Quick Knife, master of Madrigal Feyen, pledge to rescue Metis Feyen and return her to you in the name of Allah." My old lost Companion, may his sleep be blessed.

She nodded. "I'm sure it's a trick, but I accept your pledge."

He shrugged and grinned at her with a lascivious smile.

The door to the room rattled, then started to swing open.

Fariq vanished in a blur.

Madrigal stared at the space he had been in, before looking quickly away. A simply dressed woman entered the room with a brush in her hand. Madrigal saw her eyes widen with shock at the way the agent was dressed. She went to the mirror after nodding hello. She fussed with her hair. Madrigal sighed. This too, was arousing. It had already begun; tongues would wag for months. She looked at herself one final time in the mirror, feeling wicked lust.

Suddenly, the secretary gasped and jumped forward as if poked from behind. Her face flamed red and her hand instantly was on her buttocks rubbing there as if pained. She turned closer to Madrigal and slapped her. Then hissing she left the room.

A soft chuckle echoed around the tiled space.

Madrigal closed her purse with an angry snap. "Yes, yes, I know, Fariq. You're quite sorry." She fumed, "Your sense of humor is barely controllable. You beg my forgiveness."

Gentle breath, sweet and green seemed to blow in her ear. "I appreciate your understanding. I'll try to do better."

"Fuck you!" she whispered. A pulse of pleasure followed her curse. Strange how wonderful it felt to blasphemy the Ancient in such a vulgar way.

She walked alone to start the plan in motion, but she was sure there was ancient menace at her side.

Shamik looked up as the office door opened. She gaped. Feyen?

Special Agent Madrigal Feyen entered like an obscene sleepwalker. Dressed in a nearly transparent gown, Shamik could see Feyen's hard dark nipples. The agent's eyes were unnaturally wide and blank. The doorknob drifted slowly out of her hand and she glided into the office headed right for Director Aman's door.

"Agent Feyen, is something wrong? Do you have a problem?" she jumped up to intercept the woman.

"Messssage. Mussst give messssage," she whispered in monotone.

A struggle began in which Shamik had an easy advantage. Agent Feyen seemed to move sluggishly and it wasn't hard to keep pushing her away from the director's door. "Please, Feyen. You're not yourself. Stop a minute and talk. You can't go in there this way."

"Messssage. Mussst give messssage," she whispered again. Her movements were clumsy but determined.

"Feyen! Stop!" The scuffle sounded loud in the small office. Shamik became aware of how firm the flesh under her hands was. How warm it was.

The director's door opened. Aman stepped out. "Shamik?" Then he saw Feyen and halted, gaping. "What's going on here? Allah forbid! Feyen, you can't walk around dressed like that!"

"I told her that!" Shamik offered. "She doesn't hear me. She's in some sort of trance. She only says she has a message---."

Aman's eyes narrowed. "Bring her in here, Shamik." He pushed his door open.

The assistant guided Feyen into the inner office. She moved her to a chair, but it was obvious after a moment that Feyen couldn't see the chair or didn't understand she could sit.

"To Director Aman, from The Temple That Walks, greetings. I want---." Feyen whispered on in a monotone.

"That is all, Shamik, out!"

The assistant recognized that crisp tone and despite her growing excitement at hearing the beginning of Feyen's message, she valued her position more than her curiosity. She bolted from the room. The door closed loudly.

Feyen continued oblivious. "--- to thank you for your offering of the young woman, Metis. Unfortunately for you, the sister, Madrigal, who is, I know, one of your people, could not keep her nose out of my business. I am generous with your inquisitive people as a rule, Director Aman. But this agent's persistence I could not permit to continue. If you wish to feel aggrieved at this, I would be glad to discuss it with you at my Club. I don't think you have the nerve for that. As a consequence, I return your agent to you without her fine mind. You will see to her medical care as you have other vegetables I have returned to you."

Feyen stopped and simply stood.

"Foul blood of a rabid dog!" Aman cursed. "Repeat the message."

Feyen began again word for word with no change in tone. Her still face showed nothing of any reaction. She ran down to the end, "---without her fine mind. You will see to her medical care as you have other vegetables I have returned to you."

Aman slammed his fist down on the desk. He picked up the phone and dialed. "Berganesh. Yes, Aman. Feyen just returned to my office a fucked zombie. She must have done something stupid at the Closed Club. What's worse, Isis knows we tried to draw her out. Knows we dangled Metis for her to pluck. She sent Feyen back as another message that she can squash the best we have."

A pause.

"Yes." Aman looked up at the blank-faced agent. "No. I thought she was in Tunisia trying to track the Quick Knife. She had been researching his whereabouts. What are we going to do about the Old Cat?"

A longer pause.

"Look, I understand the President's concerns, but I can't afford lose agents like Feyen. I agreed to this plan on condition that Feyen be watched and assisted if things went bad. We all know how dangerous the Cat is. I warned you. Now we have nothing."

A brief pause. Aman gripped the phone tighter.

"I understand. Goodbye." He hung up gently, and then cursed for two minutes. He roughed at his face with one hand. Finally, he stood up running one hand back over his thinning hair.

"Feyen. Can you hear me?" He grimaced.

Nothing.

Feyen stared at him, thinking furiously beneath the placid mask that Fariq's commands had fashioned. Aman had been her mentor, like a father. She knew he was stern, but a dedicated man. She thought he was a man who fought evil.

No.

It was all true. Fariq's plan had revealed all. Aman was stained with the battle. He was filthy with innocent blood. And he had trained her. He had made her a soldier in the war. So she was just as dirty. Her own sister. She was played in a game for her own sister. She was dirty.

Fariq had been right. He had been deadly accurate in his guesses. The first day they had met, he had questioned the circumstances of Metis capture. He had put his finger directly on the element she had not seen in all her frantic work to effect a rescue. Her sister was offered to Isis as a pawn. A living gambit to reveal weaknesses in the wicked goddess. A cynical way of spiking passion in one of the Special Agents, and perhaps a way of drawing another ancient Evil into killing the Old Cat.

Vile. All of it.

Aman's expression had grown darker. He made some decision. Suddenly he stepped up to her and slid a hand up her hip and over her tender breast. His thumb played with her aching nipple. It felt good, but then her mask snapped as some hot fluid sluiced through her mind. "In the name of Allah, may this Thing be destroyed," she spit in his face.

Aman started back. Then he grunted loudly in surprise. He pulled her nipple hard.

Fariq materialized sitting on the forward edge of Aman's desk and nodded at Madrigal. "A wise choice."

Aman turned at the voice behind him, looking even more surprised.

Madrigal noticed a spreading crimson stain down Aman's back, and then saw the slender silver knife sticking out of his back. She gasped. Where had that come from? Where had Fariq managed to hide that?

Aman turned around, blatant wonder was on his face. He tried to speak, then quietly folded to the floor.

She stared at Fariq. The silver knife was in his hand now and clean. Or it was another? She looked at Aman on the floor. No. There was nothing in his back now. The blood was spreading fast. A wound directly to the heart would do that. She felt as though she was standing on the edge of a cliff looking down at Aman's body. She was dizzy with the height.

She looked back at Fariq. "Why? Because of what I said?" She felt like an entranced doll standing over the dead man.

He nodded. "Such is the power of faith, my tanned dove. You had me swear this mission by Allah's name. I am his hand now in this. The quick hand of Justice."

She shivered in realization of how her words had destroyed her sister's defiler. And inside the numb trance, she began to boil with strange arousal at that knowledge.

"And I recommend that Shamik not escape the wrath of Allah, either. She can name you as being here. Others in the building who might have seen you can be discounted."

Innocent blood? No. Probably not that one. Shamik was of the inner circle of Operations at the Spoken Word Bureau. "Yes. There is also another. Berganesh. He is the President's national security advisor. It was his plan it seems."

Fariq nodded. "Very well. I want you to make your way to the Closed Club now. Change back to your street clothes. I will find you before you arrive at the Club. It won't take me long to finish here." He hopped off the desk.

"Yes, Fariq." She felt oddly grateful to him. He didn't question her choice or her pain. He had said this would work. He had said he would free Metis.

She turned and opened the door stepping through into the outer office. She heard Shamik make a small squeak and turned to look at the assistant as she moved to the exit.

Shamik was standing now trying to pull the slender silver knife out of her breast. Blood spread down her blouse to the waistband of her brown skirt. This time Madrigal noticed more; how the knife glinted in the harsh lights above, how the hilt was wrapped in dark leather and the handle ended in small curved horns. Shamik collapsed having only tugged on the knife lightly. There was no sign of Fariq.

She opened the hallway door, imagining the Hand of Allah now loose in the building. Perhaps Berganesh was falling to the floor this very moment with a puzzled look on his face. She felt a hot righteousness. She smelled her arousal. She walked quickly back to the ladies room to change.

Eighteen minutes later, she left the building for the Closed Club.

Fariq was waiting for her at the small alley entrance to the Club. He lounged in the shade of a recess.

She studied her own reflection in his wraparound sunglasses. "Tell me something, Fariq Lyr."

"Perhaps."

"Why did you want to know how old I was? Why is that important?" She watched him closely.

"Greed, my tanned dove. I was wondering how many years I might enjoy your company before your mortality took you away again." He moved easily to the oak door of the Club. "Let us proceed. Your sister awaits."

They went within.

The bouncer was a big man, wide at the shoulders and his arms gleamed with muscle. He squinted at them as they stopped. He looked at Madrigal and frowned. "You again."

She nodded.

"I don't have you on my list," he said simply. "You're going to have to leave. We aren't going to tolerate your antics here anymore."

"Am I on your list?" Fariq asked. "She is with me."

I belong to him. And at a word from me, you would already be dead. Madrigal remained silent, even as her cleft registered more arousal. She was curious to see how this diplomacy would work.

The big man looked at him. "You, I don't know. Name?" he asked politely.

"Le Poignard Rapide."

The fellow's hand pulled a thin white leather book from a small recess. He flipped through and then scanned a page. He looked back at Fariq. "This is an old account. I'll have to call."

"Do so."

He spoke into an old style phone for a moment. He hung up and sketched a bow with his head only, "Yes. The Club's owner wishes to speak with you, M. Belloq. You and your guest may go right in. Your account is in good standing."

It was too early for the nightclub to be active. The dark interior was silent. No musicians lounged behind the stands. The tables were set with their white linens and scented flowers for the coming of night.

This was the first time Madrigal had seen it quiet like this. This was the only time she appreciated the daze of today's events. She felt safe with Fariq in this dangerous place. The daze buffered her thoughts and there was no tension in her.

She glided. Fariq seemed to float at her side. He stopped to admire a pedestal display of an elegant headpiece and a scepter mounted on a soft drape of white silk. He nodded to himself and sketched an elaborate sign in the air with his gloved hand.

"Henri Belloq, you little scamp, why have you been absent for so long?" the soft voice was like liquid flame pouring in Madrigal's ears.

She glanced away from the antiquity and took in the woman. Yellow eyes looked back from under dark lashes. Orbs slitted like a feline's. Very long and flowing black hair ran like a glistening river down her back to her ass. She wore a white dress that was very like the one the agent had worn at the Bureau, but on her, it did not look shameful or tawdry, it looked like a mantle of near invisible temptation. It displayed dark full breasts, a flat stomach of slight soft curves highlighted by a gold navel ring, and a pair of legs that stunned her with their perfection.

Suddenly, Madrigal's mouth was watering and she was having a tremendous erotic response. Her cleft was sopping wet.

This must be the owner that had always refused to see me. A kindness then, for surely I would have fallen in love with her on sight. Today, the daze of my thoughts, the events of the day seem to protect me somehow. But it is a close thing.

I want her in a most wicked way. Now would not be too soon.

Fariq smiled and spoke quietly. "Isis, you leave me breathless. To remember your beauty is to be cheated, only in person can you be truly contemplated. Memory is too frail a thing to hold your Truth." He put a hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

She smiled as if his words were only her proper due. She purred, "Henri, you aren't still playing at Knight Errant are you? Please don't tell me you've taken up this girl's cause. Metis is mine. I won't give her up without getting quite nasty. You know how protective I can be when my property is at stake."

Madrigal swallowed. I want to taste her. Yet she talks about my sister as if I'm not here. Mortals are just playthings to her.

"Let me tell you a story, Mother Egypt." He waited.

"Very well, Father Knife. Let us be comfortable about it." She led them to a near black room with three lit candles. They reclined on silk cushions in the scented air.

Madrigal couldn't take her eyes off Isis. She started to play with herself with her hand up her skirt. She knew it was awful. She hoped Isis would notice. She hoped that Isis might smile at her or motion her closer, but the goddess only had eyes for Fariq.

Which is absurd. Fariq cannot compare in any way to Isis. He will never free Metis. I should not have asked. She is too much for him, for anyone. She is magnificent.

Refreshments on silver trays were brought by oiled sweet young women. The two ancients began to speak in some language that Madrigal couldn't follow. Fariq told the tale with gestures and expansive changes in tone, as if it were an adventure of fabulous myth. His voice changed as he did uncanny impersonations of Madrigal and others in the drama. She recognized the voices of other figures from the last few days of travel. Certainly, even through her languid sexual heat, she noted the tones of Director Aman's voice as Fariq laid bare the events that had brought them here.

She couldn't penetrate the language, but then again, she pretended to be glad that they were so involved that no one was staring at her while she masturbated. She couldn't seem to find orgasm, but it didn't slow the pleasure of trying. She sat in pure pleasure, imagining that Fariq might sell her to Isis.

Then she and her sister would be together again. She imagined what kind of pleasure that might be.

A nude oiled woman stepped silently to block her vision of Isis. She leaned close. Her sky-blue eyelids were outlined in ink. "Would the lady like to move to another room where I might tongue her wet fire?"

Madrigal spread her knees wide. She wanted to be fondled. Yes! Oh my hot cleft! That would be---.

Isis' calm voice spoke Arabic again. "No, Teu! The lady is a not a normal guest. Leave." The girl fled immediately to the retreating sound of bare feet.

Madrigal blushed with shame. Now the only thing saving me from making a slut of myself is an Evil goddess. How much lower will I sink?

But she could not stop fingering her hot pussy.

Fariq finished his story. "And so I came to talk. I think you are badly treated by these Egyptians of yours, Isis. I thought, perhaps you could use the warning of their activities. I found their actions cowardly and I'm afraid that my sense of humor did get the better of me."

He paused, as if admitting the next was a burden. "I killed them for the harsh things they said about you." He shrugged. "And so I am here and my tale is ended. I hope you find it interesting." He dropped his face and held his arms out from his sides.

Isis laughed. She brought her hands up and clapped. The motion sent a shiver of flesh through her breasts and her smile reflected enchantingly from the candlelight. "Wonderful. Truly wonderful. I miss the old tales. No one knows how to do it as well as you. Thank you for that."

She shifted her glance to Madrigal. A teasing sound seemed to come from Isis' throat, a low purr. "So the Spoken Word Bureau thinks I'm a mouse they can trap, do they? They dare much and understand little. Because I choose the comforts of my own home and do not wander, they think they can predict me or hold me in any way?"

"They are fools, Isis, and mortal besides. They do not understand how like spiteful children they are," Fariq offered.

Isis shifted from her cushions. She moved like a slow rolling fold of a huge velvet tapestry until she leaned close to Fariq. "Sgian, you and I---."

He grinned. "Yes? Understanding that I'm not your type."

She laughed sweetly, her slitted eyes widened. "Understanding that, yes, but I like small and clever things. I think I could make you over as a very pretty girl."

He leaned closer. "To be a pretty girl for you would be sweeter than drinking the Salamander's blood, oh Isis."

Her eyelashes made a slow sweep. She breathed heavily across his face and licked her lips.

He cocked his head like child, his eyes reflecting the wonder of Mother Egypt.

She laughed and pulled away. "Well. We can dream about such things, can't we?"

He nodded.

"I don't want you to leave without something. You've given me a fine afternoon, an excellent story, and a pleasant amount of blood spilled for me. I choose to forget I gave you no permission to come here. I remember you still have one free passage granted you anyway. That is still yours."

"Isis is generous," he smirked.

She laughed again and almost touched his chin, but stopped the required distance from doing so. "Old Father, how do you stay so young?"

"How do you stay so beautiful? It is what I am." He shrugged.

She smiled into his eyes, and then looked at the slowly masturbating agent he had brought with him. "Would you like a matched set? I have her sister. She's a fine dancer and licks like a hungry kitten."

He studied his quiet slave and said nothing.

"Yes. Take the sister with you. No doubt, you've made promises? Some choice barter?" she probed slyly with a grin.

"It could be," he said.

She nodded. She shifted slightly and clapped her hands. Bare feet came at a run. A naked girl went down on her knees and touched her forehead to the floor.

"Fetch young Metis. My old friend is going away with a gift. Go."

The girl bolted to her feet from the floor in an instant and left.

"I'm honored, Isis."

She nodded. "You may kiss me farewell, if you like."

He laughed softly. She joined him with an earthy voice.

"I'll have to hold myself strongly to resist that offer. You are still the Temptress."

"And you are still a wonderful liar," she purred. She stood first.

He came up from his cushion. He reached a finger into the Great River and tugged Madrigal's invisible leash. She stood up, pulling her hand from her dripping snatch.

"Farewell, Father Knife," Isis purred.

"Until the world conspires to put us together again, Mother Egypt."

He left to gather Metis.

Madrigal awoke in her own dark apartment. She tried to remember how she got there. Nothing. They had gone to the Closed Club. Inside, the guardian had let them pass.

Then what?

She shifted and found a slender body sprawled next to her. She quickly searched with her hands and peered closely. "Metis! Allah be praised."

"Allah is kind," came the quiet whisper from the dark.

She stilled. "Fariq." She swallowed remembering the price. "Why have you brought me here? Am I not your property now?"

"Yes."

"So?"

"So enjoy yourself. Report back to your Bureau. Brazen out your return to the fold. I'll be back when I want to see you. You will know your master's voice when it calls. You will never know when I might be watching you undress or reaching to stroke your sex."

She was stunned. "I don't think I could work for those Bureau bastards." She pointedly ignored the greater revelation of his words.

"Whatever. It is your choice."

"And now, Metis? Will Isis ever come to take her again?"

"No." His soft words reached out of the dark. "My tanned dove, I leave you to your sister. She will need affection and sexual attention. She is changed and I do not think you have thought that through. She will need a strong mistress, if not you, then some other woman who may not love her as much or as well. I advise you to be the strong woman she needs now. I've heated and doused you in the Little River. You're stronger. I've tempered you as well I might after this brief affair. We shall see how you grow now." She heard him blow her a kiss from the darkness.

Then nothing.

She still wanted to hate him. She couldn't. It frustrated her.

She tried to grasp what he meant. Stronger? Tempered? He made it sound as if he had plans for me. Damn, him! Why does that fill me with such tight hot anticipation?

END