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Copyright ©2006 by Astrid Cooper

First published in extasybooks.com, 2006

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For Eternity

Copyright ã

2006 Astrid Cooper

ISBN: 1-55410-695-8

Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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"Nedjemet."

Her name was but a whisper upon the wind. The warm breeze, laden with the scent of frankincense caressed her skin as his words caressed her senses. She savored the moment, shivering as the hot sex-flush raced over her skin.

"Neji,” he said. “Are you ready for me?"

Ready? I have been ready for four thousand years!

Her body was throbbing with suppressed longing, and with the thought of what this night meant for them both.

Nedjemet would be truly re-born; no longer would she be just Sara, but Sara-Nedjemet, a woman of two worlds: past and present. And Michael would also attain this duality of spirit—if their invocations were successful.

Sara turned to see him standing in the doorway. For a moment his outline wavered; the clothes of his modern incarnation were overlaid by the robes he had once worn as Prince Kha'em, Priest of Osiris.

In the distance she heard the piercing wail of a police siren and it shattered the ancient memory.

Michael strode forward, his hand outstretched.

"Beloved,” he said.

Sara leaned into his embrace, resting her cheek against his breast, feeling the steady beat of his heart. His hand trembled as he stroked her hair—but not from fear—she knew him too well to think that. No, his was the tremor of restrained desire. The musk of male arousal filled her nostrils. Even through the layers of clothing separating them, she felt his erection: thick and hot against her.

Soon he would fill her; he would take and be taken and the thought of him upon her, within her, cramped her inner muscles. She wanted him now.

Be patient! She forced her mind to another direction. The incantations had to be enacted, and the magic brought forth before they could find their release.

Soon, the time would be right!

Then, and only then, could she have him, take his body into her own. Love and be loved until they were assuaged.

He set her from him, though his hands lingered on her shoulders before feathering down her arms, to her wrists, to her hands. His finger stroked across her stomach, lower, to her pubic bone. There the force of his caress increased, becoming a pressure to torment to delight.

She arched into him and he smiled. His smile and his touch were a teasing repartee of sex repressed; of sex promised.

"All is prepared?” he asked, releasing her.

"Yes, my lord."

"So demure, Neji? Yes, my lord?” he mimicked.

"Soon I will not be so demure. I will bite and scratch and fuck you hard and fast!"

"You promise?"

"You have my word."

Laughing, he drew off his horn-rimmed glasses and tossed them onto the museum display case. The sharp chink of glass hitting glass echoed in the brooding silence of the chamber.

She reached up and tugged his hair free from the thong. Golden hair framed his face and curled about his collar. Such unruly hair, not the square cut raven wig she remembered.

"That look you give me, Neji, as if you admire a stranger?"

"I was remembering you from before: the black wig and beneath it, your shaved head."

He smiled. “I remember that you took great delight in caressing me. Particularly when I lay between your legs and the stubble of my shaven head tickled your thighs and your pussy. You liked that very much, I recall. You purred like a cat and scratched and bit me."

She shivered. “Gods! So long ago!"

"Have you forgotten?'

Sara laughed. “I sometimes struggle to remember, but my body has not forgotten one moment!"

"Yes,” he said, then kissed her gently.

Her heart thudded against her ribs, and her secret flesh contracted, wanting him inside her, filling her with his body, his love, his seed.

Now.

Forever.

He smiled in understanding. “Soon, beloved, soon."

"I have been patient for four-thousand years, another moment is eternity."

"We are well acquainted with eternity, Nedjemet.” With fingers as soft as a sigh, he stroked her cheek.

She shivered with expectation as her gaze held his.

Though his hazel eyes were not the dark amber of her memories, the steady, heated regard was that of her ancient lover, returned to her from across the abyss of time.

Kha'em.

She had known him the moment she had seen him, as he worked on the museum display.

Theirs had been an instant recognition. Instant desire.

Silently, with their clothes hastily flung aside, they had admired one another. He had lifted her against him, their naked flesh straining, shivering. She had wrapped her legs around his waist and with his hand under her bottom, he had guided her over his cock, and while he strained upwards, she had pressed down. His erection slid smoothly into her sex, like a sword into its familiar scabbard. They had fucked amid the relics of the past.

In that first embrace, there was no tenderness. Madness had consumed them, a desperate need to love and be loved, a unification long denied, that for a time was unquenchable.

They moved as one, rolling into varied positions: against the wall, over the table, on the stairs, he below, she above ... inexhaustible. Sucking, biting, licking, teasing.

Sweetness and gentleness had followed in the days after their reunion, but she still remembered that first time; her cries were not caused through pain, though his possession was sudden and intense and total. She had cried for more and more, arching herself into his strokes, opening her body again and again. She denied him nothing; he claimed her totally.

But that was then, this was now and Sara sighed.

Kha'em grinned. “Once the ritual is complete I will satisfy you, Neji, have no fear."

She blushed and he laughed. Born of the intimacy of body and mind, they understood one another without the formality of words.

His smile was knowing. His burning gaze promised her everything. His voice, his touch, brought her to another arousal.

She leaned against him and slipped her hand inside his shirt. Her palm over his breast felt the steady drumbeat of his heart. Its tempo increased as she massaged his skin. Using her nail she scratched over the bronze nipple, bringing it to a tight peak. She trailed her nails over his stomach and a tremor shook him from head to toe.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. The textured warmth of his mouth and tongue caressed her palm. He bit gently.

"I like your bites, Kha'em,” she whispered.

"You taste of hekenu,” he said.

She smiled. “And why should I not? In preparation, I have anointed this room with the holy oil."

She followed his gaze around the room. The flickering candlelight cast shadows onto the lotus-shaped pillars, upon the carved frescoes and the statues of the gods, all plundered from an ancient tomb. The light brought new life to the gold and turquoise jewels, the holy implements Kha'em and she had wielded in the time of Userma'atre'meryamun', known to history as Rameses III. Sacred myrrh, burning in copper censers, permeated every corner of the room.

As Michael breathed in deeply, his chest rose and pressed against her breasts. Her heart throbbed, the pulse fanning out over her body, scalding her with its delicious pain.

"You have done well, beloved,” he said in a throaty whisper. “You must be exhausted?"

"For what's going to occur tonight, I'm not weary, but inspired."

He smiled tightly. “I will inspire you, beloved, with my body and my love. I will fuck you senseless!"

She tossed her head. “Senseless, huh? That'll take a lot of doing!"

"Oh yeah.” He grinned. “Long and slow, just how you like it!"

Sara returned his smile, then studied her handiwork, critically assessing the room and what it contained. She had worked for hours ritually applying the purifying oils of cedarwood, cinnamon and frankincense to every surface within the chamber. And upon the floor, drawn in green paint mixed with holy oil, was the scarab within the ankh: the symbol of Resurrection.

Life.

This, then, the place of their re-birth.

This, then, the place of their revenge.

"Michael—"

"Forget this name! I am Kha'em, as you are Nedjemet."

She smiled at that. “Do you truly think I am sweet?"

He laughed. “My mouth has always found you so.” His hazel eyes burned into her soul. “You are favored by the gods, else we would not be here to finish what we started so long ago in Kemet."

"Egypt is so far away from Australia. Sometimes, the existence before seems but a dream."

"A dream soon to become reality,” he said. “Let us begin."

As Kha-em-Michael strode around the room with feline grace, her body thrummed, anticipating, clenching, clamoring for unification.

He lit the remaining candles and chanted over the flickering flames. His words were secret, so she kept her distance, but she gazed upon him, enjoying the moment, enjoying him.

He moved with that unconscious arrogance she remembered so well, his physique almost identical to that of her ancient lover. He was both Kha'em and Michael.

She would never get enough of this man.

Never.

Kha'em bowed low before the statue of Osiris and made an offering to his god. Finally he turned to her and smiled. Her heart lurched as a memory surfaced, bringing tears to her eyes.

It was the same heated smile, but now in a face so different from the one she had once known and loved. This new man had golden-tanned skin and golden hair. Gold, coveted by the Egyptians, a symbol of eternity, of godhood: how apt that Michael should be golden-haired and golden hued, not sable.

He tore open his shirt, and let it fall to the floor as he strode to her.

Her mouth became as dry as Kemet's desert, her throat constricting as he grasped her shoulders, lifting her up to him so that she stood on her toes, her body arched into his. He lowered his head, his mouth descending to slant over her lips. His tongue tip begged entry and she welcomed him with a sigh. Their tongues entwined like sacred asps.

She drew her arms around his neck, and recollection overtook the present reality: her wrists were bedecked with gold serpent-shaped bracelets. Soon she would remember all, where now she had only tantalizing glimpses of images and half-memories; whispers on the periphery of consciousness.

"These garments you wear offend me. Remove them."

She laughed at his demand, a flush racing from her head to her heels.

Slowly, teasingly, she unbuttoned her blouse, her jeans, casting aside all her clothes until she stood before him naked.

She held her arms above her head and pirouetted on one foot, offering him a complete view.

"Do you like what you see, Kha'em?"

She saw his eyes darken as his fierce gaze feasted upon her. Her woman's mound pulsed, a silent cry for him to plunder her, to impale her, as his eyes now plundered and impaled.

"I like it well, Neji,” he said. “And soon I shall like all that I cannot see. Do your muscles tighten at the thought of my cock within you?"

"Yes,” she said hoarsely.

Laughing, he walked to the ebony chest and drew from it a pot and brush. Kha'em returned to stand before her, placing the paint pot and brush on the cabinet.

He loosened her hair from its pony tail and gently raised her russet tresses to his lips. “Even Great Lady Isis would not have locks as yours, beloved."

He smoothed her hair back over her shoulders, his fingertips caressing.

"Your skin is like silk, Nedjemet. I want to feel your skin against mine. I want to feel my flesh inside you; I want you to weep for me, and enfold me in your shroud."

She shivered. “I will do all this for you, Kha'em. Soon. Have no fear."

Nodding, he turned away. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he lifted the brush. He dipped its tip into the clay pot, his slow movements ritualistic.

Facing her, he smiled. “You are ready?"

"As you see."

He raised a dark brow. “I cannot see inside you, sweetheart. A woman hides her secret desires, unlike a man. But your arousal does scent the air."

"And you like the perfume?"

He smiled, a secret male smile that held a hint of mischief. “I will taste you, draw forth your nectar. But first—the ritual!” Positioning the brush over her heart, he drew the first hieroglyph.

She loved the frown of concentration on his face as he drew the ankh. He lifted his gaze to her, their mutual regard heated, silent and intense.

Kha'em slowly dragged the brush over her skin, a slow sweep of his wrist anointing her with more ciphers.

The bristle tickled her. “Oh.” Was it a sigh, or moan? Born of pleasure or torment? Both, she thought, as she flinched from the delicious pleasure of his deft brush strokes.

"Hold still,” Kha'em directed. “I must anoint you with the power of Wen-nefer and Djehuty."

Osiris and Thoth: Sara immediately translated the gods’ names and then rebuked herself. She was Nedjemet-Sara and she served the gods and must try to remember to use their true, ancient names.

The brush tip swirled over her breasts, depositing green paint down her rib cage, lower to her stomach, over her thighs, down her legs to her ankles. Her skin shone with the oil-paint: green for Wen-nefer-Osiris, the God of Resurrection.

As Kha'em worked quickly and expertly, she shivered with desire, repressing it. Soon his ministrations became an ordeal.

Did he know what he did to her? Of course he did. How could he not? His sex-magic was unparalleled—in this reality and in their previous incarnation.

His ceremony was necessary, but he extended the exquisite torment long after the final symbol was painted on her skin. He was playing with her, now, and it took all her mastery of mind and flesh to remain immobile. She would not allow him the satisfaction of knowing how much she suffered!

Great Lady Isis ... What, now?

The brush moved upwards to her inner thigh, followed by a gentle sweep across her nether lips.

"Oh ... You are teasing me, Kha'em, you do not have to do it there!"

He raised a dark brow. “Do I not, Nedjemet? I anoint as I see fit! Hold still."

The brush teased her again, a gentle rubbing over her clit. Back and forth, a swish, a scrape, the bristles coaxed and caressed.

She shivered and moaned. Great Isis! Let the torture end. Make it last forever. Oh ... yes! Do that again! Oh...

The bristles stroked and scrolled over her inner body, across heated flesh that wept and quivered for more tribulation. The brush tip dipped inside, a pricking harassment of sensitive skin that drove her to the brink.

"Kha'em ... Oh! Please, do that again."

"This?” he asked and plunged the brush into her, twirling it around. His gaze held hers. “More?"

She breathed deeply, denying her release, denying Kha'em's power over her.

Her body ached, every cell throbbing, pounding, reaching a crescendo at the apex of her thighs. Throwing her head back, she squeezed her inner muscles, imprisoning the climax, restraining the magic.

"It is done.” He glanced at her and smiled, a crooked smile that caused her sex to contract. “My beloved, was it such an ordeal?"

Sara let out a long, low breath. “You made it an ordeal, darling. You know your art too well."

His eyes lit with amusement and Nedjemet grasped his hand and guided it to her aching mound. His hand cupped her, a finger probing her depths. Their gazes locked. Secrets were shared back and forth between them as his finger massaged her. Her juice spilled onto his hand.

"Ah, soon, we will become one,” he said huskily, driving his finger deeper inside her, finding that hidden spot that he worried and tugged.

"You're killing me Kha'em."

He smiled. “Later, I'll give you a taste of death, Neji!"

"Truly?"

"Oh yes, truly!"

He withdrew his hand and Nedjemet leant back against the table for support.

Again, Kha'em walked to the ebony chest and drew from it a collection of jewelry. Returning, he knelt at her feet and fastened a golden girdle encrusted with turquoise scarabs around her waist. His secret spells were whispered against her thicket of cedar curls, a lover's pledges anointing her.

She gasped a ragged breath as one of his fingers slid into her slit to plunder the hard nub secreted within.

"My wife is like a lotus bud, so tight, so ready to blossom."

His warm breath provoked her skin, as his lips pressed against her belly. Shivering, she clutched his head to her. She felt his smile against her skin.

"For you, Nedjemet, I shall become Re, the sun. Your petals will unfurl with my heat."

"Please, my lord."

"I will please you, beloved. When the time is right.” He rose to his feet. “Await me, I shall not be long."

"I am not going anywhere, Kha'em."

His laugh was molten honey, intoxicating like some heady drug. It caressed and cajoled; hinted and promised. Her body pulsed and wept anew for him.

He returned to stand before her, naked except for a talisman-encrusted girdle about his waist. His magnificent cock stood erect from the triangle of gold at the junction of his thighs. Her vision clouded as she remembered another time, another reality...

Naked; bound in chains, together, kneeling before Pharaoh and his Court. Accused. Pharaoh savagely grasping Kha'em's hair, wrenching away the jeweled wig in a ceremonial display to humiliate Kha'em before all; the malicious triumph on the harsh face of Sabaf the Vizier as the sentence was pronounced.

Oh, why, why, had she and Kha'em failed? If only they could remember and undo the evil...

"Beloved,” Kha'em whispered against her mouth.

His voice returned her to the present. “Forget their betrayal. We have this chance to live again, and we must take it, now, or forever remain divided. Are you ready?"

"I am."

He handed her the paint-pot and brush. As Kha'em had done for her, now Nedjemet decorated his body with sacred oil mixed with paint. She swept the brush slowly, provocatively over his skin, pleased to see that he shivered with the effort to remain unflinching. She drew talismans and sacred hieroglyphs over his flesh all the while moving inexorably lower.

Kha'em's stomach muscles tensed as the brush tip slid over his abdomen. Her heart pounded in her ears as she saw his reaction, knowing the authority she had over him. She wielded that power unmercifully, as he had wielded his power over her.

Lower, she scraped the bristles over his tumescent flesh. Kha'em groaned and swore, a mixture of modern and ancient expletives. She sketched the symbols of life and breathed her spells over his erection. She knelt before him and ran her cheek along the length of his cock, kissing its flared red crown.

"Now you tease me, Neji. Will you bite me?"

"Like this?” She nipped and then licked, then bit again.

"Oh fuck—yes!” The silence was punctuated by the lap of her mouth and his fevered groans. “E ... enough, Neji. Please, enough!” He stepped back from her, his breathing rapid, a man on the brink of surrendering. He smiled tightly. “You are too clever for my own good!"

"I will show you clever soon enough, my lord."

He drew in a steadying breath and turned away.

Resting on her heels, she watched as he took up two candles, one in each hand and paced back and forth, imbuing the room with more protective charms.

Within the room shadows shivered. The candlelight wavered. Overhead the skylight flared as lightning pierced the sky.

"It is time,” he said, holding out his hand. “We begin. The circle awaits."

As Sara stepped into the circle, she gasped with delight. Ancient magic, familiar and welcoming enveloped her as she stood within the safety of the ankh and the scarab. She had drawn a power-ring on the floor, defining its circumference with symbols and spells. Amulets and talismans were located at specific sites within the circle.

Her invocations, now combined with his, would protect them as they sought to undo the evil that had consigned them, alone, to eternity.

"Do you feel it, Kha'em? The power?” It was like an electric current flowing around her, through her, bristling her hair and setting her teeth on edge.

"Oh yes.” He joined her side. “This circle is magnificent! Always, your work is beyond compare. Truly a worthy daughter of Isis!"

She inclined her head, acknowledging his praise.

Kha'em pulled her against him. His lips possessed her greedily.

"We begin,” he whispered into her mouth.

Breaking free of her, he reclined upon the floor, his hips resting on the tattered remnant of the papyrus that still contained enough magic upon which to focus their ritual.

Nedjemet took his wrists and laid them upon the hieroglyphs painted over the floor. Parting his legs, she guided his ankles to rest over more symbols. She used one finger to stroke, to trace upwards from his foot to his thigh. Beneath her touch, his skin goosepimpled and muscles twitched.

Nedjemet laughed. “You must not move, Kha'em, or you will break the circle of life. Remember this. No matter what occurs."

"I understand,” he ground out. “But you are like the sun. Your caresses burn me! I endure a thousand agonies not to hold you in my arms and make you mine."

"You shall suffer a million agonies, Kha'em before you shall have me."

"If it is only a million, I can endure it."

With her right hand, she gently squeezed his erection, slowly pulling upwards to the tip. She let her hand slide down to the base and probed a finger into his sacs.

She pulled upwards again, squeezing hard and pressed her finger into the cock-tip, parting the slit. She rubbed her finger back and forth, probing deeper with every foray.

"Blessed Re! Neji, have mercy!"

"Mercy from me, my lord, is hard won.” She pressed her finger into him. “Soon, nothing will ever separate us.” She withdrew her hand and squatted back on her heels. Drawing in a deep breath, she began her ceremony.

Standing up, straddling him, her legs wide Sara lifted the two incense burners and swung them around. She glanced down at Kha'em and smiled to see that his focus was on her sex. Ah, good! He could not ignore the spectacle of her open to his gaze.

"I love you, Nedjemet,” he said. “Every part of you."

She swiveled her hips and bent her knees and he groaned.

"I want to fuck you so hard! I will be unmerciful!"

Sara-Nedjemet laughed and swung the incense pots, the scared smoke wafting over his length.

The cedar-incense drifted across the floor. Then, when it met the invisible, magical barrier where they both sheltered, it coiled upwards. Like storm-clouds, the smoke rolled and pitched against the ceiling before trailing down the walls.

She heard his chanting, and the world around her darkened and spun; the magic was exerting its force over time.

Standing over him, her ankles against his knees, she beheld him in all his glory. Naked. A living god, his cock was noble, erect, glistening. Straining. Waiting for her; only for her.

She lowered herself until she felt the velvet tip of his erection against her cleft. She grasped his length and stroked her entrance, scrolling him around her sensitive skin.

"My Lady is like the Nile, ready to immerse me in her sacred water,” he whispered huskily.

"I will soon bathe you."

She smiled at him, seeing his flushed face, the beads of perspiration on his brow. Unification would be theirs at the appropriate time; only then, else all their machinations would be for nothing. This, she knew, but how difficult it was to deny her instinct and take this man into her body!

"Hail to thee, beloved Osiris; Wennefer. Hail to thee beloved Thoth; Djehuty. It is Kha'em who beseeches thee."

"Hail to thee, Wennefer. Djehuty!” she intoned. “It is thy daughter, Nedjemet."

In unison with her chanting, she rubbed his erection between her lower lips, faster and faster.

"Now, beloved!” Kha'em's voice was raw with long suppressed desire. “Join with me now!"

"Wait."

"We have life again, let us not waste a moment!"

"Patience; just a while longer.” She studied the light oscillating above her. The colors waxed and waned. Slowly, the green of renaissance held sway. The sanctified smoke swirled over and around everything in the chamber.

It was time!

Lowering herself, she lay upon him, spread-eagled. Their hands enjoined.

Shadows wavered, time peeled back ... ?

Pain lanced across her back: the memory of the lash as it descended upon her flesh millennia ago. She heard a woman sobbing. Screaming. She screamed and sobbed and writhed against invisible bonds; bonds that had torn her skin long, long ago, now wounded her anew.

She pulled away from the sting, from Kha'em and sat upright upon him, her pudenda against his groin.

"Fear not, it is but a memory. It cannot harm you, beloved! Do not break the connection!” Kha'em warned.

Sara swallowed her pain and fear and bending forward, silenced his mouth with a kiss. Her left hand seized his hard sacs, gently kneading and squeezing, while her right hand palmed his cock up and down, gently pumping.

He groaned against her mouth and strained away, turning his head, so that he could capture her right breast and scroll his tongue over the areola.

"Oh, this is what I want, Kha'em. Harder. Faster. Please!"

He obliged and she gasped in delight. His mouth fastened on her neck and he sucked and bit, his tongue probing between bites.

"This is all I may do, Neji,” he said. “For the moment."

"It's killing me, Kha'em! I want your hands upon me; I want every inch of you within me.” She breathed in a steadying breath, knowing that she must direct the rite; Kha'em must be the anchor.

"Quench me with your nectar, beloved!” Kha'em whispered hoarsely.

In encouragement, his hips lifted beneath her making her slide forward to his mouth. His lips caressed her crevices, his tongue splaying them wide, so that his mouth could possess her more fully. She moaned as she felt the gentle graze of his teeth over her clit. He teased and suckled it, bringing it to a throbbing peak.

She focused upon that deep shuddering throb which tore her inside out. Her heart beat and her veins sang in time as he worked his male magic.

The tension within her built and built. “Kha'em!” she screamed.

Against her, his body quivered as he fought for control, to maintain his submissive position within the ankh of resurrection. His mouth lavered and his tongue lashed her, over and over around and around. Into her, around her, into her again, back and forth. His plundering was exquisite and merciless. As he had promised.

By all that was sacred, how could she endure it, this pleasure? This pain! Isis give me strength!

The voices of unknown, ancient singers and the beat of drums echoed about the chamber. As she arched herself against Kha'em's mouth, a green-gold halo formed around them.

She heard him, again, beseech the gods, his lips against her dewy folds. His secret spells washed over her, his warm breath light and teasing, enflaming.

Images and memories coalesced, intriguing and tormenting ... re-birth was so very near! She stretched out her mind and remembered.

The memory was vivid: she and Kha'em were swimming in a pool amid lotus flowers. The sweet scent wafted around her. He laughed at her as she went to reach out to him.

The vision fled, leaving in its wake a darkness, a bone-aching chill...

Sara shook her head. “Damn it! So close; so far!"

"I remember that day, Nedjemet,” Michael said. “We share memories; let us recall more. Give me your body."

She drew back from him and came to squat at his hips, her knees against his thighs. His dark gaze held hers as she grasped his cock and lowered herself. She guided his rigid phallus towards her cleft. His body shivered.

Carefully, deliberately, she used the tip of his cock to stroke and tease her slit. Back and forth, again and again, she tormented them both.

"Ah!"

The moan—was it hers, or his? In that moment they were united in mind, so that each felt the erotic-pain of the other.

She stretched herself upon him and hearing another evocation, touched his soul with her own. Her thoughts became his...

Kha'em undulated his hips. Her body rocked against him. This new woman possessed an exciting weight and warmth. Familiar, yet strange—the embodiment of two lovers.

In the distance thunder echoed and through the window, he saw lightning flash across the sky. He knew the storm was near its zenith, and above him his lady was near her peak, too. His skin prickled with the storm—that storm without and within. He shivered as he felt her female heat wash over him, around him, enticing him to possession. Remembrance would follow possession.

His memory of their life before was clouded, dim, yet more real to him than his present incarnation.

He had lived a half-life, dissatisfied with all he encountered, never finding fulfillment. His was a restlessness of mind and spirit that no woman, no experience, could assuage.

But all that had changed since that night, two months ago, when a dream-trance had urged him to the attic of his ancestral home.

He had been directed by whispers in his mind to uncover a trunk that had been forgotten by time, hidden by dust and cobwebs. Inside the chest he had found several ancient scrolls. He had quickly deciphered the hieroglyphs: erotic poetry combined with enchantments and sacred lore that made him shiver with desire and terror.

Great Osiris—yes!—the fear of the power the spell promised to its wielder. It tantalized with the guarantee of godhood—if he dared.

He had awoken from the trance with a throbbing arousal that could not be soothed. He had tried; the gods knew he had!

And thereafter, when he could catch a few moments of sleep, his dreams were haunted by visions of a female body: olive-skinned, nubile, suppliant. Shockingly inventive.

She took his breath away with her eroticism: her mouth, tongue, every inch of her body she used to seduce and intoxicate. To extort excruciating pain before excruciating pleasure...

Her name was Nedjemet and she was his beloved. And she would be his beloved again, if only he could find her.

The thought of her provoked him brutally. He ate little and slept less; he lived in a twilight world of desolation.

He had used the ancient spells, seeking her, calling her back to him from across time and space.

Each night he invoked the ancient Egyptian pantheon to aid him in his quest. He shed blood, tears and sacred man-fluid to augment his convocations.

All to no avail.

Half mad with desire and with the grief of thwarted purpose, he had returned to the museum to the work of displaying some of his family's precious artifacts, “acquired” (in truth, stolen) by his famous Egyptologist great-grandfather.

He had been polishing the Osiris statue when the hairs on the back of his neck lifted and he heard a whisper.

"Kha'em?"

He had turned to see a woman standing in the doorway, her white linen robe billowing around her, though there was no breath of air in the room to stir her gown so. Then the vision had shattered and he saw a young woman, dressed in jeans and faded check shirt.

It had been mutual recognition.

He, who had been a Prince, was now an archaeologist, and she, who had been his consort, was now a cleaner, to pay for her university tuition.

What was she studying? he had asked and then laughed when she told him she would be a linguist. Her mouth, he had said, should be used for more pleasurable pursuits.

Their mouths had joined. Their bodies united soon thereafter in a wild orgy of desire. Insatiable, imaginative, their coupling continued until they had exhausted strength, but craving remained unquenched.

In a quiet interlude, he had held her fast against him, weeping anew.

He had beseeched the aid of his gods. They had answered. And in the days thereafter, in between the rituals to uncover forgotten secrets, they had fucked themselves incoherent.

And now, here she was above him. Real. His Nedjemet.

How she enchanted him, teasing and subduing with a delight that hurt. Theirs was a sweet delirium. Sweeter now than that first time he had loved her among the museum relics. An irony, for they were relics, too, old souls in new bodies.

And always memories flowed between them, in the aftermath of orgasm, some tantalizing, some obscure. Many only frightening fragments.

There were so many shards of memory to be re-assembled. So much to understand. So much forgotten.

He used meditations, and when Nedjemet joined his secret rites, her sex-lore adding to his potency, he remembered the first conjuration that would eventually restore to them the knowledge of resurrection. And through it they would undo their punishment for having dared to defy tradition, to seek immortality, to become gods in a land of living gods.

Four thousand years ago, he and Nedjemet had almost attained their goal. But they had been discovered by their enemies in the inner temple undergoing the final prayers.

A blood royal Priest was allowed the inner sanctum; she, a foreigner was forbidden it. As sentence was pronounced, he had stood at her side, unrepentant, willing to share her death rather than be parted from her.

Like jackals, his enemies had closed in for the kill. His name and hers were to be purged from every record, to be forgotten by all.

What greater loss for any Egyptian than to be denied the remembrance of their name? For to speak the name of the dead is to make him live again—this, the ancient Egyptians believed.

Their foes had sought complete annihilation, denying Kha'em and Nedjemet a house of eternity: no tomb to receive their remains and celebrate the passage of their ka. Their bodies had been torn asunder and burnt, their ashes scattered over the desert sands for all men to trample.

But their enemies had underestimated the love between Kha'em and Nedjemet. Prince and Consort had shared a bond beyond flesh, beyond intellect that defied even death. For they had faithfully served their gods and their loyalty had been rewarded.

Moments before expiration, he and Nedjemet had spoken Thoth's ancient formula that would enable them, one day, to take a new form and live again upon the earth.

Centuries had passed. Theirs had been a limbo of existence, alone, wandering in the darkness, close to extinction. They wrestled against the oblivion, seeking the path to cognition; to new life. The scrolls must be found! This one thought guided their existence, guaranteed their existence if only the papyri could be discovered!

The scrolls Kha'em had written had lain hidden by time and sand. Eventually, they were unearthed by Michael's great grand-father and brought from Egypt to Australia, to again lie hidden, this time in an attic, forgotten, until that day, Kha'em, as Michael, had inherited the house and its priceless Egyptian collection.

This was the Beginning.

And it had all culminated in this night, their quest to resurrect the knowledge of self: Kha'em and Nedjemet would live again, as he promised her so long ago.

Now, he lay upon a fragment of the sacred parchment that invoked eternal life. But to remember all, to become whole, they must find the missing pieces of the papyrus or remain forever incomplete...

Kha'em felt his body hovering between two realities and then darkness washed over him as his core was drained by his beloved.

"Beloved Kha'em! Oh my!” Sara-Nedjemet moaned.

Her voice intruded, bringing his thoughts back to the chamber, to himself. He gazed at her.

In that instant he loved her with an intensity that was terrifying. His heart raced and his head spun as she squirmed above him.

His penis tip demanded entry and in response her muscles enticed.

"Your sacred water anoints my loins, beloved."

"Kha'em, let my nectar soothe you.” She swiveled her hips invitingly.

He remained on her periphery. His own body trembled from the control he exerted to hold himself in check until the moment when the universal forces converged and unification could be attained.

She teased him, caressing his cock with her dewy softness. He groaned and writhed. Clasping him, she led him to her, slowly granting him entrance, before her hand grasped him, insisting upon his withdrawal. Again and again, she allowed a motion that was a slow thrust and drag, a deliberate surge and retreat that flung him across the brink, his seed showering them both.

"Life!” she cried. “Your sacred sperm brings forth life."

She lowered over him, his phallus embedded deep within her.

With bodies united, energies combined.

Kha'em-Michael chanted the ancient, divine spells that he had re-discovered. Immediately the air electrified; emerald light shimmered about the room, bathing all with its intensity.

"For eternity, Nedjemet!"

Again, he lunged eagerly upward into her and she cried out as his length filled her. He surged against her and she felt his life flowing into her, hers out to him. Their heat merged.

Unification—at last.

Other sounds and voices joined the rite: chanting, accompanied by the sharp tinkling bells of the seshesht. A drum beat kept in time with their coupling, and the rhythm of their hearts.

Time, memories, like a curtain peeled back.

"I am Nedjemet! Whole! Alive!"

"I am Kha'em! Whole! Alive!"

"Be welcome, my lord, my lady! At last you are with us!” a deep male voice intruded.

She opened her eyes to see men and women, in ceremonial white and gold robes, form a circle around them.

She no longer rode Kha'em: she knelt before him and he fucked her from behind. His hands crept under her, across her, up to her breasts, stroking their soft roundness. His movements against her, within her, were slow, deep, unhurried. He possessed her again and again until she was light-headed.

About her, within Thoth's sacred inner temple, she heard the rapturous moans of the priests and priestesses. She watched as, one by one, they incited the Thoth magic and physically united with their partner while she and Kha'em connected in mind and body.

The room was filled with the sounds of lovemaking: soft moans, harsh cries, the slap of flesh against flesh and the liquid suck of joining bodies.

"Nedjemet!” he whispered. “My priestess. Invoke the gods! Now!"

She felt him lean into her, pressing her down to the stone altar, his arms and hands cushioning her as his body undulated against her. Light and heat lanced through her: she received Kha'em's body, his seed, his life, as she received the secret knowledge.

"More! More!” she cried, her own voice strange to her ears as she spoke the ancient tongue.

Kha'em plunged into her with strokes driving deeper and deeper. He attained her utmost recess. He groaned and shifted, rocking his hips from side to side, incredibly finding more depth.

On and on. She gripped the altar stone to anchor her as she sobbed her release, as Kha'em cried his release, as the others in the ritual screamed their release. Darkness swirled around her.

The golden light of the gods beckoned. It was almost within their grasp...

Darkness lashed at them, burning, hurting, destroying...

"It will not be!” Rough hands seized her and flung her away.

The severing of her rapport with Michael-Kha'em and with their servants, was like a knife lancing her brain from inside out. Sara screamed and sparks danced before her eyes.

She came to her senses and saw Kha'em prostrate upon the museum floor, within the circle. A shadowy figure crouched, singing, over him, a hand splayed over her lover's heart.

Sabaf, their enemy, had infiltrated their ritual!

The vizier chanted and in response to his foul spell, her heart beat erratically, almost stalling. Corruption swept the chamber, where before there had been life and love and promise.

"Kha'em!” Sara reached out to him telepathically, but recoiled from the emptiness she found. Sabaf controlled the Prince's mind and body.

She scrambled to her feet and launched herself at Sabaf, only to stagger back as she collided with the invisible barrier surrounding her ancient foe. She tried again, this time using both her physical and mental powers against the vizier.

The viscous shield parted and she grabbed him, her hands and nails clawing. With the ferocity of her assault, fabric and flesh parted.

Sabaf cried out, then angrily swept her aside with a back-handed blow.

Sara reeled away and crashed against an obelisk that teetered and fell, shattering into pieces upon the floor.

Sabaf held up his palms towards her. Obsidian light flashed from his hands. The words he chanted caused her lungs to burn; she gasped for every breath.

Ignoring all, save her nemesis, she struggled to counter Sabaf's spells with her own.

The vizier's voice grew louder, more ominous. From the folds of his robe he drew out a torn parchment. His smile was malicious, triumphant, as his dark gaze fell upon her.

He held the parchment aloft. “I have all knowledge, all power within my keeping! I need not the whole papyrus. Do you see, Nedjemet, what I have?"

As he spoke the ancient tongue, his enchantment enveloped her. In response her heart labored, her blood slowed. He sought to command both, dominating her life, as he now dominated Kha'em.

"No!” she screamed. Her power was superior to his: always Isis prevailed against the darkness of Sutekh!

"In the life before, you refused my offer, Nedjemet,” Sabaf's deep voice droned. “And see what has come to pass? I have it all. You have nothing! Even your precious Kha'em is under my sway. I, only I, have the knowledge to rule all worlds, all times!” He waved the parchment, conjuring more evil.

About her the chamber shivered and cracks laced the length and breadth of the walls. The statues of Isis and Osiris and Thoth trembled on their pedestals.

Nedjemet countered his darkness with light.

"Fool!” Sabaf screamed. He chanted again, using words that were ancient even before the birth of Egypt's gods.

For a moment the universe stood still.

In fascination and horror, Nedjemet watched as Sabaf's body became shrouded by darkness. The corruption encasing him was thick like treacle. It spread over the floor, engulfing Kha'em's body. Moments later, her beloved vanished.

"No!” Nedjemet leapt at Sabaf even as the vizier's body began to dissipate.

Her life-force merged with Sabaf. His thoughts lashed her. Malignancy. Hatred. Love. So much hatred, amid so much love for her that she felt her breath catch in her throat.

She screamed as her essence was ripped apart. Darkness descended and cold engulfed her. She knew no more.

Sara slowly opened her eyes. Her first impression was that of evil. Its stench clung to her body, her mind. It swirled around her in a swathe, its taint making her retch.

Disoriented, she pushed herself to her knees. About her the museum room was ephemeral. Mists swirled over the walls. One moment she saw the museum decorations and display cases, the next she saw temple walls, painted with gods and hieroglyphs.

She shook her head, trying to clear her senses.

Horror paralyzed her anew.

Not two meters away she saw Kha'em spread-eagled within the resurrection circle. Yet, it was not Kha'em. His body was spectral: solid one moment, transparent the next. He was clothed in the robes of Priest, then he was Michael, naked save for the jeweled girdle he had chosen for the ceremony. The images fluctuated, neither claiming ascendancy.

Sara crawled to him. Tentatively reaching out, her fingers encountered a warmth, a resistance. Pressing harder, her hand slipped inside his ghostly mantle, breaching him. Her energy merged with his. She found neither Michael, nor Kha'em. What remained was less than the sum of either man.

The Michael-specter moaned feebly.

Confused, Sara shook her head. What had happened? Had their resurrection become corrupted ... ?

Corrupted!

Sabaf!

He had invaded the ceremony, destroying it.

She ran a tired hand over her eyes. Would Sabaf always oppose them; hunt them in perpetuity?

What had he done to Kha'em—this time?

The talismans within the circle had protected them from the worst of Sabaf's malice, but Michael's life-force was diminished. He hovered between reality and dissipation. There was little left of the essence that was Kha'em. Where was her beloved?

Sara paused as memory and images coalesced. Not where—when.

Time had been violated.

The enormity of what Sabaf had dared was incredible. What he dared—for hate; for love...

In that instant of rapport when she and Sabaf had become one within the circle, she knew that Sabaf had used the ancient spells to drag Kha'em-Michael's ka back in time four-thousand years.

In the life before, Sabaf's desire to possess her and her rejection of him had goaded him beyond rationality. His devotion had turned to enmity and all his machinations were to ensure that if he could not have her, no man would.

Even if it meant destroying her.

And this he had done, by denouncing her and Kha'em before Pharaoh.

Yet, love had vanquished hatred that day; Kha'em's counter-spells had gained them a reprieve, but not a final victory.

It would never be over—while Sabaf lived.

Michael was trapped, and so, too, Kha'em. The two men had been divided. Somehow, she must return the essences to the one body. If she could not, each would be lost to her and Sabaf would have his triumph.

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Sara worked her magic upon Michael, so that he might remain alive while she sought to undo Sabaf's evil.

Sara lay upon her lover. His lingering presence, his aura, welcomed her, enveloped her. She kissed him. He sighed and his eyelids flickered and opened. She watched as he struggled to consciousness, then to remember. He mouthed a word: a cry of anguish, a plea for help that pierced her heart and soul.

"I will, beloved. Wait for me,” she whispered into his mouth. Beneath her, his body pulsed against her. She took his spectral length within her. His phallus, no longer of substance was like a brand of sunlight; a gentle warmth that would be her anchor.

Again, she summoned her energy, and combining it with the forces contained within the resurrection circle, she probed the imprisoning corruption.

She wrestled against Sabaf's spell, questing beyond, further and further, parting, tearing. Down, down into darkness and oblivion.

The chanting was familiar. Yet ... different.

She shivered and forcing open her eyelids, saw a darkened chamber, the white-washed walls alive with colorful murals: Isis, Osiris, Horus, Re: the complete Egyptian pantheon, but Osiris and Re given precedence. The chamber was strange, not as she remembered ... ?

Where was she?

Every bone in her body felt bruised. As if she had been hit by a semi.

Nedjemet froze at the foreign word invading her thoughts. Who ... what is a semi?

In answer, an image filled her mind. Knowledge and memories coalesced, layering one upon the other.

Yes, I am Nedjemet, but also Sara ... Sara ... who?

She swallowed down against the panic. She was neither one woman nor the other. She was divided; incomplete.

Who was she? Where was she?

Beloved! A strong, calm voice intruded. Remember me!

She knew that voice—how it soothed and strengthened!

Michael-Kha'em. She remembered fragments ... The chamber. Their incantations. Sabaf.

Sara struggled to stand on unsteady legs. She felt detached. The girdle, firm and heavy about her hips, was the only thing of substance in a world that seemed ephemeral.

Great Lady Isis! I, Nedjemet, thy servant, ask for strength, for understanding.

In response, light and warmth washed over her, through her, leaving strength in its wake.

She glanced down at herself. Her body shone with green oils and perspiration; the two had mixed, streaking her body, fragmenting the ancient hieroglyphs painted upon her.

Nearby, chanting reached a peak. Her heart beat in time with the prayer.

She smelled incense and the perfume of flowers, the sweetness amid the acridity of smoke.

Sara staggered forward, yanking aside the dividing curtain.

She gasped.

Wonder and relief flooded her consciousness in a rushing tide that made her giddy. For one moment she thought that she might faint.

She knew the man who knelt before the altar, recognizing him through a more intimate, deeper knowing than sight.

It was Kha'em, but also Michael. Both men, yet neither. Sara felt the corruption of his life force: he lacked his familiar vibrancy.

Externally, he appeared as she remembered: a warrior-prince, his body of harsh planes and taut flexing muscles; no indolent courtier, but a man of strength and action, a cinnamon-hued god-man that she loved and would die for.

Had died for...

He wore a simple linen kilt that hugged his lean hips, highlighting his masculinity.

She watched as he made another obeisance before the altar. Then, standing before the statue of Osiris, Kha'em chanted and held aloft his last offering.

Behind him, Sara saw a man creep between the shadows of the lotus-shaped pillars, a knife in his hand. His stench of malevolence was overpowering.

"Michael!” Sara's warning echoed in the chamber.

Kha'em twisted about to face her. The assassin's blade slashed the air. In a flurry of speed the two men grappled for possession of the weapon.

Sara raced forward and snatching up a jar, brought it down with all her strength onto the head of the would-be killer.

With a grunt the man crumpled into a heap at Kha'em's feet.

"Michael! Thank the gods!” Sara grasped her lover's forearms. A thin trickle of blood tracked down his arm from a gash in his shoulder.

Sara heard the sound of feet running and then hands wrenched her away from him.

About her shrill voices accused. Men, robed in priest garb held her firmly.

Another man, with shaven head and wearing the leopard skin of High Priest strode forward, halting before Kha'em.

"My lord—?” His hand rested on Kha'em's shoulder.

Kha'em shrugged aside the older man's concern.

The High Priest turned to Sara. “Who are you to defile the ritual?"

She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzz in her brain, trying to comprehend the ancient Egyptian tongue.

"She saved my life, Ptah-hep,” Kha'em said.

"Ptah-hep? Is it truly you? I didn't recognize you!” Sara began and stopped. He was not the man of her memories: his face was different, his obsidian eyes harsh and wary. His gaze had always been warm upon her, now he was a hostile stranger.

Ptah-hep grasped her chin and twisted her head towards Kha'em. “See you, my lord, she is of Sutekh. Look, the color of her hair: red for chaos. Even her woman's curls are tainted! And her eyes—she is an outsider!"

"Yet, her skin is painted with our symbols, Ptah-hep,” replied Kha'em gently. “Not so much the outsider, I think!"

The two men frowned at her, taking in her every detail.

No Egyptian considered nudity an embarrassment, but Sara shivered as her modern sensibilities warred with her Egyptian persona. It took all her resolve not to cover herself.

But worse, a thousand times worse, was the way in which her lover regarded her. His gaze was cold and distant, devoid of any memory of the intimacy they had shared during many days and nights of mutual obsession.

What had happened here? Had Sabaf's sorcery thrown time and history out of kilter? She shivered anew and hugged her arms about her body.

Only then did Kha'em smile. From the altar he took up a length of linen and wrapped it around her.

"Is that preferred, lady?” he asked, his hand lingering on her arm.

"Thank you.” She smiled.

Ptah-hep snorted. “Be wary of her, lord! I will interrogate her. And as for this one,” he said, nudging the assassin's body with the toe of his sandal. “From him, I will discover the names of your enemies."

Kha'em sighed. “As you wish."

"But my lord, first, let me tend your wound,” the priest said.

"It is nothing."

"The blade tip may have been poisoned!"

"My enemies are not that subtle."

"The gods be praised for it!” Ptah-hep snapped.

Kha'em studied her, and for a second, Sara saw almost recognition in his eyes. Then the moment fled. He glanced at the priest hovering at his side.

"More was at play here, Ptah-hep, than I understand.” He bowed to Sara. “For your assistance, lady, I am indebted.” He smiled, a slight smile that might have held a hint of warmth, if his eyes had not been so dark, so ... confused.

"She will be questioned!” Ptah-hep hissed. “How did she gain admittance to the temple? I, personally, saw to it that you were alone and safe."

Sara straightened her shoulders, raising her chin. “I am Nedjemet. Don't you remember me?” She searched the faces about her. “I serve My Lady Isis. She sent me. I am—"

"Sacrilege!” Ptah-hep snarled.

Nedjemet tossed her head in challenge. Then, she spoke the secret words known only to an initiate of Isis.

"She blasphemes, my lord!"

"Be at peace, Ptah-hep. She saved my life and in so doing, is to be honored. After my wound is tended, bring her before me in the audience chamber."

Ptah-hep sighed and took Sara's forearm in a grip that would have been brutal if she had resisted. She allowed herself to be led away.

Glancing over her shoulder she saw Kha'em's troubled gaze follow her.

In a small bedchamber Ptah-hep assigned her, Sara reluctantly submitted to the ministrations of three handmaidens.

She was methodically washed, dried, then massaged with perfumed oil before the servants drew a fine linen robe around her, smoothing it over her figure. They smiled and laughed, admiring her, nodding to themselves.

"You will make a fine pillow for our lord,” one whispered.

"Between her thighs, he shall find a lotus flower!"

"He will pluck her petals!"

"His Rod of Re will bring her such delight—"

"Enough!” Sara cried.

The women laughed and proceeded to add bracelets to Sara's wrists.

Glancing down she could see that the pleated garment hid little of her body. The thick tasseled belt hanging around her hips granted some concealment, but not enough for her modesty, or mood.

She shrugged. Kha'em had already seen her naked, what difference did it make now?

"Our lord will be pleased to receive you,” one of the women said. “You are certain you do not wish us to cut your hair?"

"Quite certain,” Sara said.

The women regarded her doubtfully.

A few minutes later, two of Kha'em's personal guards arrived to escort her to the Prince. Silently, they marched her to the audience chamber.

Sara made a perfunctory bow at the entrance and awaited the Prince's acknowledgment.

As governor of the City of Thinis, Kha'em's audience chamber reflected his exalted position. Dazzling murals of gardens and a river hunting scene adorned the walls and exquisite furniture and artifacts filled the room.

In her previous incarnation, she had first beheld Kha'em in this hall, surrounded by his courtiers. Her regard, then, as now, had been solely for Kha'em.

Her present reality clashed with the memories of that time before...

She had been sixteen. Sweet, innocent sixteen.

She, a captured barbarian from beyond the great sea: wild, uncouth, would be a novelty to curry favor with Pharaoh's youngest son and so, was offered as tribute to Kha'em by the Governor of On.

Unlike the other captives—both male and female—she had been spared rape and was kept intact for Kha'em to deflower as he saw fit.

Then, she had understood little of the ceremonial exchange and the memory of fear swept through her again. She pushed it to the back of her mind, but it nagged her, the horror of the strangeness about her; the way the men viewed her body then—as now—covered only by a diaphanous gown.

The chamber wavered about her, her thoughts traveling back to her first encounter with Kha'em.

"She is for you, my great lord,” the Governor had said, his obsequious gestures matching his voice. He stroked her arm. “Have you seen such skin? Like alabaster!"

"Bring her forward."

She had been forced to kneel, her forehead to the floor, as she had been formally gifted to the strange man with the painted eyes and black hair.

'The Prince’ her captor called him. Her new master had spoken and she had been lifted to her feet.

Kha'em's smoldering gaze traveled her length. “Your gift is beyond measure,” he said. “I want her bathed and prepared.” His nose wrinkled. “Properly bathed."

A servant hurried forward, and tugging at her arm, had led her from the chamber. At the doorway, she had glanced back and the Prince had smiled at her.

Later that day, she had been dragged to his bedchamber. Once inside, once realizing what lay ahead, she had fought and scratched and bitten all who sought to subdue her.

She had lived with the threat of rape for weeks and now it was finally to occur. She would die rather than submit.

"You will not resist! Be still!” Someone spoke in her language and she bit the new hands upon her.

Another man entered the room, unfurling a whip as he strode towards her. She was wrestled to the floor.

The crack of the lash split the air. As the whip descended upon her back again, it had been intercepted by another body.

Through her tears of pain, she saw her tormentor fall prone to the floor.

"You have injured the sacred flesh of your Prince, the living god!” the Prince said.

She saw the thin line of blood over his arm.

The man whined and whimpered. “It was an accident."

"And the welt on her back, an accident, too? Since when do you presume to touch my property? Get out” Kha'em had hissed.

He had raised her gently to her feet. His fingers smoothed back her hair over her shoulders. She did not flinch though the weal on her flesh stung.

"I am sorry,” he said, in her native tongue, his accent heavy.

She tossed her head. “You may beat your slave as you wish, my lord.” The last delivered with unmistakable sarcasm that surprisingly elicited a teasing smile from him.

"I do not whip any creature,” he said. “I prefer to tame through gentler approaches. Do you fear me?"

"I fear no barbarian!"

He laughed at that. “Me ... a barbarian? I suppose to your eyes, I am. But to me, you are the savage. Though you wear the robes of Kemet, you are ... exotic. I will not harm you. Do you have a name?"

"Yes."

"May I know it?"

She told him and he had grimaced.

"An uncivilized name, girl,” he said. “It has no beauty. I will call you Nedjemet."

"What does it mean?” She had been intrigued, despite her horror, despite her loathing of him, and her new surroundings.

"It means—sweet."

That made her laugh. “I have never been called that before."

He laughed, too. “Please, have no fear of me, Nedjemet ... now, or ever."

"I am your slave!"

He spread his hands. “In my land, Nedjemet, a slave may rise to prominence, to wealth and power. You have naught to dread."

"I am not afraid."

He had smiled his disbelief. “Then if you have no fear, will you dine with me? I would have you tell me of your land."

And so she had. And during the hours that followed, his words had soothed her and his male magic ensnared her.

He gave her a bracelet plucked from his wrist.

"They took all from me, Kha'em,” she said as the Prince slipped the jewelry up her arm.

"All?” he demanded.

She spread her hands. “As you see,” she whispered.

"I can see most of you, Nedjemet, but not the woman within. Were you ravished?"

She tossed her head. “No, that pleasure was left to you."

His dark gaze burned, not from passion, but anger. “I force no woman to my bed."

"A slave has no choice but obey."

He waved his hand dismissively. “You are slave no longer. I free you."

She regarded him in shocked silence. “You will allow me to return home?"

He smiled grimly. “Is that what you want?"

"I...” She studied him with new eyes, a clearer understanding. “I'm not certain."

"Perhaps I can persuade you that my land has much to offer—as I have much to offer."

"Yes,” she said, fingering the thick gold bracelet. “I have nothing to give you, because they confiscated every talisman, so that I would not contaminate you with my witchery."

He raised a dark brow. “Are you a witch?"

"I am ... was a priestess of the earth-mother. Some might say I am a witch because of it."

"I am Priest of Osiris. I have no fear of a witch, Nedjemet.” His hand covered hers in a fierce grip. “Now, tell me about your goddess. She is like Isis, I believe. If you are her priestess, then we are a good match.” His dark intense gaze held her immobile.

Later that night, greater gifts were exchanged when their bodies and souls had cleaved.

He had taught her the meaning of pleasure; of love.

She had been a virgin, a fitting piece of tribute that no other man was permitted to sample. While Kha'em had been gentle, his possession of her was complete. He had filled her body, gently stretching, gently loving, but branding her for his own, drawing sacred blood from her. He bathed in her essence and tasted her bloodied-nectar. Always, he would cherish her gift, he had said.

That night, they had shared the most potent magic.

And the days and nights thereafter he had proven a patient, gentle teacher and she, in turn, taught him with love, bringing an end to his loneliness. A Prince, a living god, pharoah's son might command love and loyalty from his subjects, but Nedjemet loved the man, not the god, and cared not for his holiness.

She would do anything for him; brave death...

Death.

Darkness washed around her and Sara shivered.

She had returned to the reality of the audience chamber and it took a moment for her to orientate herself.

She was Sara-Nedjemet again, her eyes only seeing the young lord in his ceremonial robes, and golden head-dress.

Sara swallowed against the tightness in her throat, against the hammering in her ears. She had to keep control. Had to...

Unlike before when Kha'em had sat amid a crowded court, now there was only the Prince on his gilded chair and at his right, in the place of honor, stood Ptah-hep. Loyal Ptah-hep. At least his position as Kha'em's confidant and friend remained the same, though many of her first life memories clashed with the reality she now found in his palace.

Sara felt disoriented and afraid.

Had Sabaf's evil stretched so far, so completely? She had much to set to rights. The enormity of the task facing her made her tremble.

Where was Sabaf? Her gaze swept the room, but he was not there.

Kha'em nodded to Ptah-hep and the priest beckoned to her.

With her mouth desert-dry and her legs gone to mush, she tottered forward.

She remembered to make the formal obeisance before Kha'em, though when she lifted her gaze to his, his regard was merely curious. Not like her Kha'em at all.

Oh, the face was Kha'em: the jet wig cut in its square bob, laced with lapis lazuli, the firm jaw, the sensuous mouth that worked such miracles ... all these externals were as she remembered: but his soul was depleted. Gone was the lover who had awakened her.

What was missing was Kha'em's totality: his essence was divided. Part of him remained entrapped within Michael's spectral body, far into the future. She sensed the Prince's discontent and saw his troubled frown.

"You may sit before me,” Kha'em commanded. He indicated the step where his feet rested upon a gilt stool.

She inclined her head and obeyed. This was a singular honor granted her, but she had been accustomed to sitting beside him as his equal.

As she settled down on the stone, Kha'em spoke.

"You will relate to me the events which brought you to my temple."

Great Lady Isis! How can I tell him the truth? Sara stared down at her hands folded tightly in her lap.

She heard the rustling of fabric and the chink of jewelry and the scent of him filled her nostrils. His hand cupped her chin, turning her to face him. His touch transferred sex-heat that was as intense as it was unexpected.

"Tell me,” he commanded. “You have naught to fear from me!"

Their gazes locked. The urgent tattoo of her heart echoed in her ears, the beat vibrating around her body reaching a crescendo in the emptiness between her thighs.

"Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely.

Sara ran her tongue over her parched lips, and he watched intently. She saw him swallow convulsively and sensed the shifting tensions in his body.

"You now wear our clothes and cosmetics, but you are not one of us,” he said. “Whence do you come? Who are you?"

"A friend."

"Truly a friend?” He stroked her jaw, studying her intently, his eyes heated. “Thus I believe."

"My lord!” Ptah-hep protested.

As Kha'em withdrew his hand from her chin, a thousand nerve endings protested against the loneliness. How she wanted his touch: over her, through her, inside her.

Oh yes, inside her! Spreading her inner canal wide with his width and length; moving against her, moving inside her, fast then slow, then ... Oh! Great Isis! The memory of his loving and the anticipation of his fucking her again—soon—made her heart pound, her body slicken with moisture. She wet her dry lips with her tongue, aware that Kha'em watched the path of her tongue, with eyes darkly intense.

"Tell me how you came to save my life,” he said leaning back in his chair.

Sara swallowed down hard and banished her erotic memories. “I cannot remember how I came to be in your temple,” she began. No lie, that!

"There have been many assassination attempts,” Kha'em said. “The last killer may have succeeded, save for your intervention."

"Why should any wish you dead?"

"I thought perhaps you might tell us!” Ptah-hep snapped.

Sara studied the Prince. “If you want answers, then ask that prisoner, not me, Kha'em!"

Ptah-hep took a step forward. “You dare use the name of our Prince—?"

"Be at peace, Ptah-hep. I grant her the privilege,” Kha'em whispered. “Has she not earned the right to our trust?"

The priest snorted and inclined his head to his lord, but all the while his regard of Sara was unrelenting. “We cannot question the prisoner because he is dead,” Ptah-hep said. “The coward fell upon his own knife before he could be speak the truth. This girl, my prince, I am not convinced of her innocence—"

She bit back a laugh. The day I met Kha'em, my innocence was lost ... She paused. Her gaze dropped to Kha'em's kilt, to his arms and wrists bedecked with bracelets, to the long fingers splayed over his knees. Lower, she studied his long legs, lower still to his ankles, bedecked with golden chains, finally coming to rest on his feet and toes.

Kha'em was always in ecstasy when she sucked his toes; Pharaoh's son became putty in her hands. Might that be the road she should take to convince him of her fidelity? Then, when he was conquered by her sex could she tell him of her mission, of all the secrets that she and Michael shared?

"Nedjemet, how is it you know the mysteries?” Kha'em asked.

Sara blinked. “Did you speak, my lord?"

His laugh was molten honey, pure delight. She focused upon his words, though her every instinct was to fling herself upon him, and tear the clothes from his body, to be-spell him with her sultry woman's sex.

Kha'em raised a brow at her. “I know those who have the understanding of the mysteries, but you are a stranger to me. You say you are a Priestess of Isis?"

"I serve her! I invoked her power and that of my Lord Osiris to come to you."

"To me?” He frowned.

She felt her cheeks warm at the intensity of his regard. Their gazes locked.

Time slowed as their magic conjoined. Theirs was a primal need, an understanding without the necessity for clumsy words. They shared and understood.

He smiled. “You know me, Nedjemet?"

"Yes, my lord. In all ways."

His gaze swept over her. “All ways?"

She lifted her chin. “Yes."

In response he smiled: the smile was pure Kha'em and she felt her blood thrumming in her veins. His smile always elicited that response. He knew it, and used it mercilessly. So, also, this Kha'em applied his male magic to great advantage—not everything had changed!

Sara brushed her damp palms against her linen skirt. The blood pounded in her veins, the epicenter between her legs.

If only they were alone ... if only ... then she would commune with Kha'em as only a woman could. She'd make him dizzy, senseless with her mouth and tongue and teeth, and sheathe him with her secret cleft. There would be no mysteries between them then.

Sara clasped her hands in her lap and tried to assume an air of grave dignity. “Has your wound been properly tended?” she asked.

"My lord asks the questions, not you!” Ptah-hep snapped.

"Tepi, you—” Sara began.

Ptah-hep's face blanched. “How is it you know this name? Only my intimate friends have knowledge of it!"

"She is of Isis,” Kha'em said with finality.

"I am not convinced."

"Neither am I!” Sabaf's voice cut across the chamber.

Sara turned to see Sabaf and at his side a woman standing in the doorway. Garbed in pleated white linen, with an elaborate red sash wound tightly around her hips, she wore a golden crown, encrusted with turquoise and rubies. The woman glided towards them, the chink of her heavy jewelry chafing together the only sound in the room.

Sabaf followed a few paces behind and Sara watched him, her nails biting into her palms. His corruption left a bitter taste in her mouth. He halted in the center of the chamber, made the traditional bow before straightening, before locking his gaze upon her. Sara countered his stare with one of her own. He smiled at her tauntingly.

"What do you do here?” Kha'em enquired, a hint of irritation icing his voice, as the woman bowed before him.

"Tsk! My Lord! Is that the way to speak to your hemet?"

Sara's blood chilled with shock; with fury. Hemet: Lady wife. She, Nedjemet, had been Kha'em's wife, not this ... interloper.

The woman bowed again to Kha'em, though she kept her kohl-darkened eyes upon Sara. The two women measured one another; theirs became an instant enmity.

"I heard about the assassin, my lord. I came to enquire as to your health."

"Lady Ahset, it could not wait until later?” Kha'em asked.

"No.” She laughed.

Sara frowned. Ahset. The name was familiar. She probed her memories. Ahset had been Kha'em's childhood friend, but she had died at the age of twelve from a wasting sickness. This Ahset was alive and well—too well for Sara's liking!

"Forgive me, my lord,” Sabaf said. “But when I heard of the assassin, I suggested that your wife needed to be at your side, as I."

Kha'em nodded. “Thank you for your concern, Sabaf, but it is unnecessary. I am sorry that the incident has delayed your departure to my father. Nedjemet saved me from the knife."

"She saved your life?” Ahset demanded, glancing askance at Sara.

"Yes."

"Then we are forever indebted to you, child. How may we make recompense?"

Sara bit back her retort. Which insult was the worst: ‘child’ when it was obvious to all that she was not, or the fact that Ahset used the royal ‘we’ to emphasize her claim upon Kha'em? Anger for both slights cramped her stomach.

"Yes,” Sabaf said easily. “How may I thank the child for this gift beyond measure?"

Kha'em laughed. “Gift beyond measure, Sabaf? There are some in my father's court who would be pleased to have seen the knife in my back."

"You will not fall from a coward's blow, my lord.” Sabaf inclined his head. “Thus I go to pharaoh to silence these malcontents. I will take my leave if you are certain this ... stranger is all she appears?"

"I am convinced as is Ptah-hep."

Sabaf bowed. “Then against your combined wisdom, I will be silent and ask my leave to depart."

"Yes."

Sara watched as Sabaf strode from the room, but at the doorway he turned and smiled at her, a smile that was malicious, calculating and utterly terrifying. She swallowed down hard.

"What payment for your service do you ask, Nedjemet?” the Princess demanded.

Sara eyed the doorway where Sabaf had been standing, before she turned to Ahset. “I would serve the Lord Kha'em,” she replied tightly.

"Only this?” Kha'em asked. “No gold? No titles? No marriage to one of my officials? Men would vie for your hand, as the favorite of the Governor of Thinis..."

Sara smiled bitterly. How ironic; she had been the favorite of the Governor of Thinis. If her plans were realized, she would again be his favorite! “I serve you and the gods, my lord. I am content."

"Then so be it. Ptah-hep will see to your needs.” Kha'em held out his hand.

Instinctively, Sara reached towards the proffered hand. Beside her, she heard Ahset's soft hiss.

The woman swept up the steps to the throne, the hem of her robe slapping Sara's face. Ahset settled herself upon Kha'em's lap and sighed languorously as his hand fondled her breast.

Ptah-hep bowed before Sara. “Lady Nedjemet, come!” His voice was cold with disapproval, his hand colder, rested on her arm, guided her away.

Sara glanced over her shoulder and bit her lip. Kha'em's mouth traced up and down Ahset's neck and the woman stroked the Prince's inner thigh.

The bloody woman, had no right!

Angrily, Sara followed Ptah-hep down the corridor.

That night, Sara tossed back and forth upon the low couch, sleep the farthest thing from her mind.

At Ahset's suggestion, Nedjemet had been assigned luxurious apartments in the southern wing of the palace, as far away from Kha'em's private apartments as possible, Sara noted with rancor.

Fury heated her from inside out. She flung herself up from the bed and threw a flimsy gown over her head and hastily tied the sash. I am Kha'em's wife ... not that bloody woman—

No, I am Sara, not Nedjemet. She must remember this for her sake, and for Kha'em's and for Michael lying between life and death on the museum floor, four thousand years in the future. If she failed, there would be no hope for any of them.

It was not the time for jealousy! She was a modern woman, not ... Who was she really? She was Nedjemet; she was Sara, but she could be so much more than the sum of these two women, if she could counter Sabaf's evil.

But how was that to be done? Sara chewed her lip.

She must find Kha'em, seduce him, re-kindling his memories through sex. There were many ways to control a man, but sex was the most potent. She knew that from Nedjemet's memories.

Sara smiled. Kha'em would not stand a chance! Her assault upon him would be merciless and inventive and immediately executed.

Existing within the palace were hidden passages known only to Kha'em, Ptah-hep and Nedjemet. In earlier, more turbulent times, the palace had been networked with many secret corridors, but in her Prince's time they had been used for lover's trysts, not as tools for security or espionage.

In the antechamber of her apartment, Sara palmed the trigger lock and behind the arras a portion of the wall opened inwards. She stepped through, remembering to take up a lighted taper from the sconce.

The stale, hot air within the passageway made the breath catch in the back of her throat. For one panicked moment, she felt as if she would suffocate.

Beetles and spiders—she hoped no scorpions—scuttled out of her way as she crept along the maze of narrow tunnels. Beneath her sandals she felt and heard the scrunch of things ... she shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about.

After many uncomfortable minutes, she came to the wall with its hieroglyphs scratched into the limestone.

Tears stung her eyes as she read the lover's poem she and Kha'em had written on that first night: her rune-writing beside the hieroglyphs, the merging of two cultures.

The Prince had taught her the Egyptian language and script and he had learned her tongue and writing—no small concession from him because Egyptians believed they were superior to all other cultures.

She traced a finger over the words, then resolutely turned away.

With heart hammering she pushed open the door leading into Kha'em's bed chamber. One lamp cast a pallid circle of light beside the low couch.

Leaving her torch in a brazier, Sara crept forward.

She sighed, releasing the breath she had been holding. Thankfully, Kha'em was alone. If Ahset had been with him on his bed ... no telling what she might have done in a fit of pique and her mission would have failed.

She gazed down at the Prince, her throat dry and tight, her body tight and moist. The deep, still pain of wanting him was more than she could bear.

He slept fitfully upon the bed, his lean, naked body magnificent, his erection jutting from the thicket of dark curls at the juncture of his thighs. Her fingers itched to encase that cock, her inner body pulsed with wanting, with the memory of how he had fucked her, filled her, loved her.

Sara knelt beside the bed and carefully extending a palm over his body, examined him with her priestess skill, a hair's breadth above his skin. She felt his warmth as she examined him from the top of his head, to the tip of his toes.

It was far worse than she had anticipated. Yes, part of his ka was missing, but about him she felt an encasement, something evil that repelled her probing.

Kha'em was ensorcelled. Her Kha'em would never have been thus. He was much too strong, too beloved of his gods to be enthralled by any dark force. But Michael-Kha'em had been divided and so conquered by the darkness of Sabaf's making. This evil bore the hallmark of the vizier.

To counteract the hex, she must be-spell Kha'em in her own way; a woman's way, the way of Isis...

Sara focused upon him, then bowing her head, plunged into a prayer, beseeching the healing goddess, Sekhmet, to drive out the demons causing his illness.

Her prayer was short-lived as her wrist was captured, wrenching her out of her meditation.

"Your service to me does not extend this far, Nedjemet! I do not expect you to share my couch,” Kha'em whispered hoarsely.

She smiled to herself. His voice betrayed his inner desires. “I want you, my lord.” As I know you want me!

"My Lady, Ahset is..."

Sara placed her finger on his lips. “I am your heart and soul, Kha'em, don't you remember?

He frowned, shaking his head. “I ... Part of me understands, part of me does not. Explain it to me, Nedjemet."

"For the moment, I cannot. But listen to me...” She leaned forward and whispered over his flesh, secrets of the light that no necromancer could ever know.

Immediately, Kha'em's body vibrated; stiffened. His hand threaded through her hair. She licked his skin and tasted sandalwood and man-salt.

Lower and lower she quested until she reached his toes. She sucked and teased and tickled. Kha'em's feet curled in ecstasy. Against her, his thighs trembled and a droplet of precious seed spilled forth from his erection.

"Nedjemet! Ah, gods! Gods!” He shivered uncontrollably.

She scrolled her tongue around his small toe, gently nipping. Each toe, she loved and bit before moving to the toes of his other foot.

"How do you know this ... this...?” He flung an arm across his eyes, shivering beneath her ministrations.

"I know many things, my Prince. This ... is where you like to be teased with my hair.” She took up her braid and scraped it over his cock, back and forth, slapping gently.

"You torment me, Nedjemet. Please do not stop!"

Slowly, she pressed forward, until her lips found his erection. She gently kissed it, while using the tip of her braid like a feather, to tickle Kha'em's sacs.

She dipped her finger between his balls and moved to the place between and carefully stroked.

"Do you like this, my lord?"

"Aaah."

"I'll take that as a yes!” She paused. “Perhaps I should taste you, my lord? Would you like that?"

"Yes."

Smiling to herself, she bent forward to his rigid flesh and brought him into her mouth. She worked her earth-mother magic over his mind and body, combining it with the magic of Egypt that Kha'em had taught her.

She immersed her mouth over him and then retreated. Her next foray brought only the tip between her lips. The next descent was entire. She established a rhythm and Kha'em thrashed from side to side.

"Nedjemet!” He raised himself on his elbows to look at her. “Please, will you...? Aaah!"

She paused, her mouth encasing his turgid flesh. She pulled back, raising a teasing brow.

"What is it you want, Kha'em?"

"Everything! Don't stop."

"But you spoke my name. I must answer my lord. I cannot talk with my mouth full."

"Speak silently over my flesh, take me in your mouth, Neji! All of me into your mouth. Bite me. Tease me!” He flung himself back against the cot. “Beloved ... Give me the pleasure and the pain."

She bent dutifully to her task, all the while running her nails across his belly, dipping into his navel, gently probing.

Against her, his body, misted with perspiration, trembled and writhed.

Little by little she sensed the dark-magic evaporating.

"Nedjemet,” he moaned. “I remember now. I have often dreamed of you. Let this not be another dream!” His fingers knotted in her hair, holding her close to his body as his hips undulated against her face.

She smiled. Time to move in for the kill. “Will you watch me, my lord? I have something to show you."

"What?"

"Look!"

Turning around, she straddled his body, and with her bottom facing him, she bent to her sucking with renewed enthusiasm.

She heard his muffled moan and glanced back, smiling. Kha'em watched her, his eyes fever-bright, his fists curled at his sides.

What man could deny the sight of a woman's body, open, inviting and vulnerable as she now presented herself to his gaze?

She was Delilah, Cleopatra, Mata Hari, the embodiment of all seductresses from all times. She was a woman fighting for her man, using the oldest allurement. She wiggled her hips and heard the sharp intake of his breath.

Sara gasped in delight, in triumph, as she felt the tip of his finger beg entry to her. She pressed back against his hand in silent acquiescence.

A finger, then two, quested into her, scrolling around, plumbing her depths, working in time to the rhythm she controlled with her mouth upon his adamant flesh.

Then she felt his fingers withdrew, to slide across her secret skin, spreading her folds. He flicked the nub of flesh with a finger, back and forth.

She gasped against him and wriggled.

"You like this, my Nedjemet?” he asked. “And this?” His finger plunged into her, twisting, delving, finding at last the place that drove her mad.

Within her mouth, his body shuddered and she took in his life force; no precious drop could be spared. He reared up against her time and again.

And when he lay unmoving beneath her, his body bathed in perspiration, the heat of his flesh inflaming her, she lay motionless upon him, her arms outstretched, her hands stroking his toes.

His fingers were heavy inside her; she enjoyed the pressure that taunted her hungry mantle. His other hand brushed over her buttocks, back and forth, gentle slaps followed by a pinch that was pure bliss.

He turned her so that she sat facing him, her legs bent and parted over his thighs.

His gaze fastened on her and she shivered with delight, as she allowed him to see all of her, no secret denied.

He frowned. “I ... Nedjemet?"

"Yes, my lord?"

With impatient speed, he leaned forward and pulled her up against him.

"I want to love you. Make you weep. Please."

Sara reached down and took his arousal, guiding it to her valley.

"Let me bathe you, my lord."

"You are like the Nile with your sacred water..."

Tears stung her eyes. Almost the exact exchange would be spoken between them, four thousand years in the future, if ... if she could remedy the evil that now possessed him.

Leaning forward, she kissed him, not with her lips but in the Egyptian way: nose to nose. Then she possessed his mouth with her own, holding Kha'em's head between her palms as her tongue probed inside.

He tasted of honey and spice and man and she kissed him greedily.

He broke free and laughed with his lips and eyes. “This is a practice from your land?"

"We call it a kiss."

"It is nice. Do it again."

She obeyed and there was a tentative response from him. Then his kiss became demanding, almost harsh in his desperation to claim her mouth. The kiss was electric; Kha'em was nothing if not a fast learner.

"Beloved! Let my rod of Osiris worship your hidden temple!"

Sara laughed.

"My words amuse you?” he asked.

"Yes."

"Then what words should I use?"

In answer, she pressed her hips down and her pussy took his length slowly, deliciously, devouring every inch until he rested hard and deep within her. His cock spread her wide; a deep weight pressing adamantly against her clenched muscles.

They moved together, languidly, but passion mounted and their coupling became fast, furious. His hands gripped her buttocks so that he could drive himself upwards as she arched downwards. Sweat-slickened skin met sweat-slickened skin: his scent of sandalwood, her scent of amber, mixing, mingling as their bodies mixed and mingled.

She cried out as the first current of pleasure fanned outwards to immerse her, then ripple after ripple followed. She hung suspended between life and oblivion. Moments later, Kha'em shivered and surrendered to his own explosion. She arched downwards, accepting his gift.

At that moment, god-magic mingled with goddess-magic; she felt a tingling along her spine, its apex at the base of her skull.

She drew in her breath and channeled the energy, placing her palms against Kha'em's chest, above his heart. The Light of Isis transferred from her body into his.

He shivered once, then breathed deeply. “Neji,” he whispered. Kha'em surrendered to the power and slept. Sara watched over him, tracing more wards over his flesh.

When he awoke, some hours later, Kha'em knelt beside her on the cushions.

"I'm sorry, beloved. It is not my habit to fall asleep before my woman has had her pleasure."

"I had my pleasure, my Prince."

He smiled and shook his head. Leaning forward, his fingers gently, carefully, teased through her hair, parting and fanning it away from her face.

"I do not believe that red hair is a sign of evil. My grand-sire was rumored to have this coloring.” He rubbed his cheek against her tresses, breathing in its fragrance and drawing strands into his mouth, suckled them. “It is as if I have always known you. Your taste is familiar. How can this be?"

Sara almost answered him, but the truth would be difficult for him to comprehend. It was too soon. He must understand in his own time.

"The gods have sent you to me,” he said.

"Perhaps."

He smiled. “You will not tell me? I have ways to interrogate you. My assault will not hurt. Not very much."

He moved to kneel at the base of the couch. Gently, he clasped her ankles and parted her legs, exposing her to his penetrating gaze.

"So beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely. “I could bury myself within you every moment of every day. Ah!” He chuckled. “That is exactly what I shall do—every day!"

A spasm of pure delight, pure carnality made her shiver. His gaze lifted to hers.

"This arrangement is acceptable to you?"

"I might tolerate it,” Sara whispered.

His dark eyes were heated; harsh with excitement. Slowly, so slowly, he traced a finger up her thigh, to her apex, higher, sweeping every inch of flesh before returning to her cleft.

His right hand spread her nether lips wide. “I have never seen such a woman as yourself, Nedjemet. Your outer flesh is pale like the moon, but your inner skin and your scent...” He leaned forward. “Ah, your scent is more fragrant than the lotus.” His fingernail teased against her clit and she almost lifted from the bed. He placed a restraining hand on her abdomen. Again, he teased her, this time a little harder. She bit back a cry.

He chuckled, impaling her with his heated gaze. “Is your cry one of pain, or delight?” He did not wait for her reply. “Both, I think. Do you like that?"

"Mnn.” Sara curled her toes against the delicious sensation of three fingers entering her, twisting around, filling her, rolling against her muscles.

"And this?” He quested deeper.

"No more, Kha'em! I can't stand it!"

She went to seize his hand, but he captured her wrist, holding her at bay so that he could torture her without hindrance.

"You will endure it, Nedjemet.” He paused, laughing. “Now, will you tell me the truth? How came you to be here?"

"I can't think."

"That is a pity. Perhaps later, when I have finished you may have your reason returned. Perhaps."

She writhed like a mad thing beneath his ministrations.

Leaning forward, he caressed her secret folds with the velvet tip of his cock. “Nedjemet..."

"Yes?"

"You are mine,” he whispered huskily. “Always, forever mine."

"Yes, my lord. I am Nedjemet, your wife. Kha'em, remember me!” She took his rigidity, guiding him to her.

She sighed and he moaned when flesh met flesh.

He dipped into her, his erection hot and thick.

As Kha'em moved against her, she wrapped her legs about his waist, taking him all the way into her. As far as he could go.

"Yes, always you will be my Nedjemet! I thank the gods for your return!"

In triumph, Sara smiled, and gave thanks to her own gods for the wonder of this moment.

Sara watched as dawn illuminated the bedchamber, the light tingeing the white walls gold and rose.

Kha'em's tongue swirled around her ear. She shivered from the thrill that raced from her core to seize her body.

"I have a surprise for you!” he whispered.

"Oh?” she replied, her hands reaching for him. “Another? How many surprises can a man—?"

"I am not a man, but a god, Neji!” Laughing, he tugged her to her feet and led her out into the courtyard garden adjoining his apartment. Spread over a thick rug were dishes containing fruit, cheese and bread. “I thought we might dine here, and perhaps swim in my pool."

"What about your duties, Kha'em?"

He sat down on the rug, reclining in a fluid movement. Propped up on an elbow he rested against a pile of cushions and watched her with dark, hooded eyes, and a sultry smile. Seductive. In command. Kha'em had truly returned to her. She knelt beside him.

"My duties, Nedjemet, are for you. Only for you, this day.” He touched her knee, his fingers stroking upwards. She batted his hand away.

"Now I have a surprise for you, Kha'em. You must promise not to move."

"If you insist."

She arranged the fruits carefully over his body, paying particular attention to the junction of his thighs. She bent forward and using her mouth, plucked a date from his navel, sweeping her tongue over his flesh.

Slowly, deliberately she ate the fruits picked from his body. After licking up the sticky residue, occasionally, she bit his skin. All the while Kha'em lay tense, warily watching her progress.

His rigid maleness jutted upwards from a nest of dates. She paused, frowning at it, then regarded him. “But what is this? It is neither a melon, nor a pomegranate, nor a date. A banana, perhaps?"

"What is banana?"

She laughed. “I don't think I can peel this banana, Kha'em! But it is ripe for the picking. How shall I eat it?"

"Gods!” he moaned. His body convulsed in anticipation; his penis grew harder, larger as she bent to take him into her mouth.

Sara sucked him once, then lifted her mouth a fraction from his flesh. “So sweet, this is by far the nicest fruit in your garden, Kha'em!” She blew along his length, and traced her tongue over its contours.

"Please, Nedjemet!” he cried hoarsely. “I can't endure this."

"Be brave, Kha'em.” She laughed. “And these two pomegranates, should I harvest them, too?” she asked, rolling his rocks between her fingers.

"Yes. Gods, yes!” He pushed his groin upwards as she lowered her mouth.

Sara loved him again and again, while Kha'em shivered and thrashed from side to side upon the rug, upsetting the plates in his frenzy.

"Aaaaah,” he moaned his release.

Her blood pounded in her ears, and her heart beat so frantically that her breasts shook. She sat back on her heels, watching Kha'em in the throes of orgasm.

Minutes passed. Slowly his breathing returned to normal, and the hot flush that spread over his body abated. He opened his eyes and lunged upward, dragging her down beside him.

"My Lady has dined well. But hunger claws at me. May I also feast so resplendently?"

He swallowed her answer in a searing kiss.

Kha'em placed cushions beneath her hips. After collecting grapes and other fruits, he spread them over her body. He carefully inserted a slice of melon into her.

Sara gasped and wriggled at the cool wetness of the fruit against her heated muscles.

"I will eat this melon at the last, Neji. Coat it with your nectar, sweeten it for my mouth.” He rubbed her clit with a finger tip.

"Great Isis! I can't stand it, Kha'em."

"Yes you shall. You are a priestess, always in control ... at least for the moment."

Crouching over her, he stroked her left breast. He teased and nibbled at her flesh. He drew her nipple into his mouth, feasting hungrily, before moving relentlessly downward. Several grapes rolled away from his questing tongue. He pursued each fruit, his tongue leaving a moist, sticky trail over her skin.

"Kha'em!” She writhed beneath his exquisite, deliberate torment.

At last the final fruit remained to be devoured. He settled between her raised legs and dined upon the melon, drawing it forth slowly. His teeth grazed her, his tongue probed her.

"Yours is the sweetest orchard, hemet!” he said, his warm breath tickling her cleft. “I will become drunk from this spring."

She moaned as his tongue lapped and his teeth nipped. A finger, then two, then three sought her depths, while his mouth devoured her.

The first wave of heat rippled outwards and she clutched his head. “Kha'em!” she cried and spoke Egyptian words of love.

He continued to plunder her with lips and tongue and fingers, on and on until oblivion claimed her.

Some time later, Kha'em carried her to the edge of the pool and settled her against him, resting her feet in the cool, fragrant water. He reached for the glass phial and poured oil onto his palm.

"Cedar, your favorite, beloved,” he said.

"You remembered?"

"I ... remember many things. It gives me a headache to recall..."

"Then,” she said, putting her hand to his temple, “do not remember. Not now."

He massaged the oil into her body with languid strokes.

She took his hand and guided it to her hungry folds, her sex welcoming his fingers.

"So, my lord is too busy for his duties, today!” Ahset's brittle voice intruded.

Kha'em frowned at Sara as she squirmed away from him to cover her nakedness with arms across her breasts. He drew her back into his embrace, his hand possessively cupping the place between her legs.

"I'm sure this latest concubine of yours is most inventive,” Ahset said, her eyes narrowing at the disarray upon the rug. “But surely she is not important enough for you to neglect—?"

"Not concubine, Ahset. She is my hemet!"

Ahset's brows raised almost to her hairline. “Your wife!” She smiled, her gaze harsh as she studied Nedjemet. “I will be pleased to instruct the child as to the duties of subordinate wife."

"I will give her all the tuition she requires!” Kha'em snapped. “Leave us. Do not venture here again."

Ahset gasped, then bowed low and strode away, her robe flapping about her with the speed of her departure.

Kha'em turned Sara to face him. “I have made an enemy for you this day."

Sara stroked his cheek. “We were rivals long before..."

Kha'em leaned his face into her palm. “I should have been more prudent. Since your arrival, Nedjemet I see only you, want only you. Have you be-spelled me as Ptah-hep thinks?” He shook his head, laughing. “No, beloved I do not doubt you; I know you aren't evil. I will placate my wife with gold and jewels. She favors these trinkets above all else.” He smiled wistfully. “I was wed to Ahset when I was very young, too young to see beyond her obvious charms. I regret, Nedjemet, that you are not my first wife, but you shall want for nothing. You will be favored above all. I will erect monuments—"

"This is the only monument you need erect for me!” She grasped his cock. “And I see it is already standing like an obelisk stretching to the heavens!"

Kha'em laughed and rolled into her, drawing her across his body, entwining his legs around her.

"Where are you taking me?” Sara asked.

Kha'em tugged at her wrist, drawing her along the verandah outside his private rooms.

"It is a surprise. Patience, Nedjemet!"

"Another surprise?” She rolled her eyes.

He strode forward across the courtyard and halted before a gilt chariot. In the shafts were two grey horses, their headstalls bedecked with red feathers and ribbons.

A groom held the horses until Kha'em leapt into the chariot and took up the reins in his right hand. He extended his left hand and assisted Sara into the chariot.

He easily tooled the horses out of the compound and into the desert.

Once free of his holding, he gave the horses their head and they galloped across the shimmering sands.

Sara leant back against Kha'em, his arms on either side of her.

The wind whipped around them, her hair trailing behind.

She caught his scent, felt his thighs braced against her, felt his manhood unyielding at the small of her back.

This was freedom; she had never felt so alive. The horrors of her mission were left far behind. The universe existed, now, only for the two of them.

"Would my lady care to drive?” Kha'em whispered against her ear.

"I don't know how."

"I will show you. Put your hands thus."

She took up the reins and his strong fingers curled over hers.

"They are gentle horses, Nedjemet. They know where they go, so no need to grip the reins as if your life depends upon it.” He laughed. “Relax. Yes, good! Relax.” He slowly slid his hands from hers, tracing up her wrists, her arms. Across the small of her back his fingers quested, downwards to her buttocks, lower, pressing through her gown.

"Kha'em..."

"That is my name. You have not forgotten me.” He laughed. “Now, be silent, and relax. Enjoy me."

"I..."

"Hush, Neji."

His right hand plundered lower, parting her thighs, finally halting at her core, fingers pressing into her body, through the sheer fabric of her kilt. For a moment the linen was abrasive making her flinch, then her dew softened it. The material caused a friction that heightened her arousal.

His left hand stroked down her buttocks, into her crack, descending underneath to find her clit. The right hand in front, the left behind, worked in tandem to pleasure her core and nub.

"I can't concentrate!” Sara said. “You have to stop. If you don't stop, I'll crash ... the ... chariot ... Kha'emmmmmmmm."

"I won't stop.” He laughed against her ear, nibbling her lobe. His fingers rolled over her nub before plunging inside her, to return, moments later, to her outer lips. “You weep for me,” he said.

"Yessss,” she ground out.

His knee between her thighs parted her, lifting her skirt high.

His erection begged entry and in one flex of his thighs he was inside, embedded to the hilt.

"Aii!” Sara moaned, dragging on the reins. The horses halted.

Kha'em's pace quickened. He lunged into her, his thigh muscles hard against her, lifting her with the force of his thrusts. She bore down on him, her hands braced on the sides of the chariot, the reins forgotten.

"I want you to hurt me,” she whispered. “No more the gentle lover, Kha'em, I want you to hurt me. Harder. Faster. Yes. But more. More!"

His thrusts became slow, deep. She felt his body tense and then surge with the power of each foray into her. She lifted heavenward.

"You like this, Neji?"

"Oh yes. Do that again."

He paused in his stroke and leaned into her, bringing his body deep inside her.

His was a complete possession and for a moment her muscles protested.

"Hurt me, too,” he whispered.

She clawed at him, as he again plunged into her. She scratched, and bit and pumped him.

Later, the horses resumed their pace across the sands.

"The desert heat is nothing compared to you, Nedjemet!” he said. “You scald me with your sacred river."

"And you burn me with your blessed essence."

He laughed and probed with his tongue tip in her outer ear. “That to appease you until we reach our destination, then my mouth will plunder your sacred wine."

Sara squirmed. “Only your mouth?"

"There is nothing only about my mouth, Neji; or have you forgotten this morning?"

"My memory needs constant reminding..."

Kha'em laughed. “Then, I shall not be remiss in my duties."

For some minutes they crossed the desert in silence.

Ahead, she saw the hills, the dazzling white limestone rockface.

Kha'em halted the chariot before a hill. Sara saw piles of rubble heaped beside a shadowed entrance leading into the rock.

Kha'em jumped down and lifted her off the chariot. He released her, allowing her body to slide slowly down his length.

"My lord,” a voice intruded.

Sara glanced over her shoulder to see a man striding forward.

"Imhotep, my architect,” Kha'em said.

"All is prepared, my lord.” The man bowed. “Your servants thank you for your presence here at their humble work."

"Not humble, Imhotep. Assure them of that."

"They also thank you for their holiday.” Imhotep bowed to Kha'em, then to herself. The architect took the horses’ bridles and led the chariot away. “I will see they are tended for you, lord."

Kha'em inclined his head, then turned to Sara.

"What is this place?” she asked.

"Come inside. I will show you."

The interior was cool and dark. Kha'em lifted up a lamp from the passage entrance and taking her hand, drew her down the narrow corridor.

The silence was all encompassing, the outside world left far behind.

On the walls she passed, Sara saw decorations: hieroglyphs, half-finished frescoes, recognizing the traditional embellishments for a tomb. They passed many rooms hewn out of the bedrock, some remaining to be decorated, others completed with frescoes and scribed incantations.

Ducking beneath a lintel, Kha'em led her into a huge chamber. Its walls were carved with colorful scenes of the river, of animals, of people hunting and swimming, playing music, dancing.

She gasped, and swiveled about, taking in the scenes before her. In the twenty-first century no person had ever seen an Egyptian tomb in pristine condition. The beauty of it made her want to cry.

"There is more, beloved, come."

Kha'em ushered her forward into another vaulted chamber supported by carved round pillars, but as yet many were unpainted. A granite statue of Anubis rested on a simple altar. In the center of the room a large square block was covered by a gold cloth.

On the cavern ceiling she saw the stars and spells to invoke the afterlife.

Kha'em lifted his lamp and the shadows wavered, making the frescoes about her come to life.

These painting were neither stark nor symbolic, but vital, depicting the life and love of Kha'em and Nedjemet. Their likenesses were breathtakingly intimate. This was a complete break with the traditional tomb artistry of Egyptian culture. The only comparison was the tomb decorations of Akhenaton, the so-called heretic pharaoh and his beloved, Nefertiti.

"I demanded that my artisans forgo the cold symbolism of our tradition ... I wanted this tomb to vibrate with our life and love. It pleases you?” he asked. “Nedjemet, I wanted your image to live forever. Imhotep and his artisans have caught your likeness ... as much as stone and paint may do, though the original must be beheld in all her glory, to truly appreciate she who is my beloved."

"You are a poet, Kha'em.” Tears stung her eyes.

He bowed, acknowledging her praise. “This is my house of eternity, Nedjemet. Yours, also. I will share the afterlife with you. See!” He strode forward and tugged at the cloth covering the structure in the center of the tomb.

Two large granite sarcophagi were revealed, polished smooth like marble, the surfaces of each carved in relief. She saw her cartouche and his upon the lid of each: joined in name and spirit for eternity.

She choked on her tears and turned away.

Kha'em intercepted her, blocking her escape. “You are not pleased?” he asked gently. “Tell me what offends you and I shall have it altered."

"It ... pleases me."

"Then why do you weep?” Bewilderment marred his features.

"Because...” She bit her lip.

"Because?"

"Because my great beloved ... because we do not have an afterlife."

The lamp he held wavered, such was his shock. To deny any Egyptian an afterlife was inconceivable. He frowned at her, not understanding. “But see you, Neji, the prayers, the incantations on the stone, these will be done to perfection, as, too, the rites, when our bodies are no more.” He smiled, gently, cupping her cheek. “You do not comprehend our ways, beloved."

Sara ran a hand over her eyes. She suddenly felt so tired, so alone. “Hold me, Kha'em."

He placed the lamp upon the sarcophagus and pulled her into his embrace. He stroked her hair, and brushed her temple with his lips.

"Will you not tell me your fears? In this place there must be truth between us."

Sara kissed his throat, pressing her mouth against his neck. “The truth, Kha'em? I hardly know where to begin. We were betrayed. We were branded as traitors, killed in such a way that neither of us could resurrect."

He stepped back from her, holding her out at arms’ length. “Who? How?"

"It is a long story. You will not believe me."

His eyes narrowed. “You speak the truth to me, upon Ma'at's scales?"

"Yes."

He nodded. “I will listen and I will believe.” He folded his arms, his regard intense, his body motionless.

So, she told him all she could ... all she could remember. Her narrative lasted many minutes and in that time he said nothing, but his regard became tense, before understanding, before true fear grew in his eyes.

"Sabaf is much admired,” Kha'em said finally. “My father gifted me with his service. I have known him since I was a boy. I have trusted him. Always!"

"Yes."

"But I believe you, beloved. What you tell me of him, no outsider can know. As you have said, he has urged me to probe the mysteries, while Ptah-hep has cautioned against it. Is this why he turns upon me, because I refuse to join him in his quest for power—power that only one of the Pharaoh's kin may fully harness?” He studied her intently. “What is it you do not tell me, beloved?"

"A man may come to insanity if the object of his desire is denied him."

The silence stretched before them.

"Ah,” he said, letting out a long, slow breath.

"So you see why I am here, why I must try to undo the evil he has done: to you, to your other self?"

"Yes.” Kha'em paced back and forth, then turned to her. “Sabaf underestimates me, beloved. He will not win. He will not have you.” The last said in a low snarl. She flung herself into his open arms and he kissed her deeply, his tongue entwining with hers.

She tugged at the girdle about his waist and flung it aside. His kilt fluttered down his legs.

His brow raised at her; he smiled. “You take the initiative, Nedjemet?"

"Does it shock you?"

"Of course not. It is a pleasure to know that you desire me so and wish to do these things to me, with me.” He smiled.

She slanted her mouth over his nipples, bringing each to a peak. Her hand cupped his erection. “Get up on the sarcophagus,” she ordered. “Sit!"

He bowed. “As you command, so I obey.” He inched up on the carved stone and watched her, his dark gaze still and deep.

"Lie down,” she commanded.

"In what way?"

"On your back, open your legs."

"Like this?” he demanded.

"Oh ... yeah!"

Sara stood between his legs. Taking his cock in her hand she ran her fingers up and down, beginning a slow, hesitant pump, using different angles and strokes to vary each motion, while her other hand stroked and probed his sacs.

"Aaah, Hemet! Hemet!” He exploded, showering the sarcophagus with his essence.

Kha'em lay shuddering on the stone as she continued plundering his flesh.

"You like it this way?” She directed her hand to the left, then to the right, then center, tugging him, alternating between hard and fast and slow and gentle. He came, again, crying her name.

When, minutes later, his sanity returned, he smiled crookedly at her.

"Time for you, Neji!"

Before she could elude him, he had flung himself upwards, dragging her back onto the sarcophagus. He stood at the edge of the stone and opened her legs. Their gazes locked.

Kha'em tugged off his wig and let it drop to the ground. In the muted light, his naked skull was shadowed, his beautiful face shadowed. His smile, his eyes were only for her. And then he bent forward.

Sara felt the warm skin of his naked head between her thighs, the light rasp of day-old hair chafing her flesh. He knew she loved the feel of soft smooth skin and the bristle hair; he used the contradictory effects to full intensity. She groaned as he twisted his head back and forth against her pussy, her inner thighs. Then, bending closer, his tongue tip found her pulsing nub.

She lifted off the stone.

"My lady likes this?” he asked against her nether lips. “It is good. You taste of spice and honey.” He delved into her. In the consuming silence of the tomb, all she could hear was the sound of Kha'em's plundering: the smack of flesh against flesh as his mouth lathered her cleft, from inside out, back and forth, over and over. He licked, he bit, he sucked, spreading her lips wide to gain greater access. The slurping noise as he lavered her intensified her arousal; he feasted, smacking his lips, her lips, with relish.

Mine,” he whispered against her pussy. “Forever mine.” A finger plumbed her depths, as his lips suckled, as another finger teased down on her nub.

She erupted against his mouth, but still he did not stop. She came again and screamed.

Kha'em rested beside her, gazing down upon her. He smiled indolently. “Our life forces bathe the stone, beloved, a sacred wash, as sacred as the mighty river."

"For the gods’ sake, Kha'em, fuck me!"

"What is this word?"

She reached down to guide him to her, but he reared back.

He caught her wrists between his right hand and dragged her arms above her head. He leaned over her, settling into her.

"Am I too heavy for you? The stone does not hurt?"

"I can't feel a thing. Just do it!” she ground out.

"Patience, beloved. Patience!” he laughed, and licked her cheek. Slanting his lips over hers, he plunged his tongue into her mouth. She tasted their mingling of essences and drank deeply from his spring.

His free hand rubbed his erection back and forth over her crease, parting, stroking, plunging the tip inside, retreating before her inner muscles could capture him. He controlled the pace of his sultry dance, seducing and tormenting.

He fastened his mouth upon her left nipple and gently suckled it, rolling it with his tongue before his teeth fastened on it; he gently nipped. He turned his attention to her right breast, all the while his cock stroked against her cleft.

He paused, shuddering and drew in a deep breath.

"Are you in pain?” Sara asked.

"Oh yes...” Kha'em breathed. “The most exquisite pain a man may know."

"Then fuck me,” she said.

"Later."

"How can you endure it?"

He smiled. “I am a god. I can hold my release but other men lack this control. It is the magic of Osiris."

In another time and place, Sara knew it would be called Tantra, the sex magic of the Indus. Tantra or Osiris magic—it all amounted to the same thing: a man's ability to control his own release and bring his woman to pleasure as many times as he willed...

Great Isis! She reared upwards as his mouth, hands and tongue and erection assaulted every orifice he could find. She exploded and still he plundered.

He lifted her from the stone and turned her, placing her on hands and knees. His tongue lapped down her spine, his teeth nipping at every bone. His hands stroked over her waist, coming to her curls. A finger dipped inside her, finding her clit and she screamed.

Kha'em plunged into her, his cock deeply embedded. He remained unmoving, breathing heavily.

"I want to spill my seed inside you forever."

"Yes,” she replied. “Forever."

He moved against her, resting his right knee against her side. She gasped; the movement absorbed every inch of her.

Slowly he rocked, drawing himself back to her entrance, returning inside her, like a tide, ebbing and flowing. But soon his movements became a tidal wave. Against her, he moved backwards and forwards; joining, parting, joining with her over and over. The sound of his loving filled the tomb, and then her ears heard only the rushing of blood to her temple, the throb of her pulses as the first wave crashed through her. She came; screaming her release and still he continued to love her; on and on, relentless, dipping into her, measuring his strokes to vary every entry. Sideways thrust to the left, then full ahead, then sideways thrust to the right. A gentle probing, followed by a single thrust to her very depths ... Three thrusts deep, one shallow, one to the left, two to the right.

"Kha'em!"

"Yes?” He paused.

"I didn't ask you to stop!"

"You want this? How? Like this? he asked gently probing her. “Or this?” he plunged into her, aiming to the left.

"Both. Oh ... oh yeah..."

Exhausted, Sara lay atop him, his arms enfolded her. No words were spoken—none were needed. He kissed her temple, and she kissed his neck.

"I do not want you to fear for me, Nedjemet,” he said. “I know my enemies. I will deal with them as Pharaoh's son."

"But—"

"Hush!” He put a finger to her lips. “No politics for our time here, hemet. Let me just be a husband."

"Again?"

He laughed. “Again."

Dawn saw them returning to the Prince's holding and was it her imagination, Sara wondered, as Kha'em led her across the courtyard, that there was a darkness about their home that had not been there the day before?

She shivered as if someone walked over her grave. When Kha'em turned to her for explanation, she shook her head.

"I am hungry,” he said. “You?"

"I have eaten,” she replied, smiling.

"You are shocking!” He laughed. “I meant food."

"So did I!"

Laughing, he raised her hand to his lips.

They did not see the figure lurking by the pillar and as they turned to go, the shadow flitted back inside the temple ... ?

In an orchestrated show of indignation and sorrow at her husband's rejection, Ahset retreated to her private apartments and was rarely seen. When she did venture forth, she was all attention and humility.

Kha'em lavished gifts upon his former wife, attempting to appease, but not apologize.

Sara had no illusions as to Ahset's melodrama and neither did Ptah-hep.

The priest had become her friend. Little occurred within Kha'em's domain that the wily old priest did not know and was more than willing to share his knowledge and his fears with Nedjemet.

They both agreed that Ahset was scheming and thus at her most dangerous.

Two days after Ahset's display, Sabaf had returned to the Prince's holding and immediately was brought before Kha'em.

The vizier prostrated himself before his Prince, weeping, wringing his hands. The performance was accomplished.

"I am innocent of these charges. I am no sorcerer. I am not scheming.” He raised his gaze, his malicious hatred clear to Sara as he regarded her.

"I believe otherwise, Sabaf. I know you have sought the forbidden scrolls, and one such was found in your chamber."

"That is so, my lord,” Ptah-hep said stepping forward, holding a platter containing a tattered papyrus. “This invokes the chaos, the darkness. I will not handle it, but it is obvious to me that Sabaf has. His writing has been added to the document, further proof of his dabbling in forbidden lore. I accuse him of treachery to Osiris and Isis. He must be punished."

"So he shall, and it will be my great Father Pharaoh who does so.” Kha'em drew in a steadying breath. “Sabaf, my guards will take you to my father, the living god, and there your sentence will be pronounced. Get out of my sight!"

Hands reached for him, but the vizier shrugged them aside. “These are lies! I have been wrongly accused, my lord, while those who are truly guilty stand at your side. The old man and the whore..."

Kha'em sprang to his feet and hauled the vizier upright. “Have a care, Sabaf! Speak again and I will have your heart here and now! Guards, take him to Thebes, but bind his mouth and eyes so that he may cast no more evil."

Sara breathed deeply as Sabaf was hauled from the audience chamber. It was over. Now, she could concentrate on locating the hidden papyrus, so that she could discover the means to join the spirits of Kha'em and Michael. Then, and only then, would she be free to return to her own time.

About the Prince's holding, it seemed as if a great weight had left the household. People could be seen going about their duties with a smile or a laugh, with a spring in their step. No less, Kha'em.

During the day, the Prince worked with his usual skill and vigor at administering his Nome on behalf of pharaoh, but at night, he administered to Nedjemet also with skill and vigor.

Since the time in the tomb, he was more like his old self: his loving was gentle, demanding, fierce, inventive and inexhaustible. He took delight in telling Sara, in the greatest detail, what he would do to her that night and then as dusk descended, he proceeded to deliver the promises he had made during the day.

When she understood the rules of his game, she reciprocated, making him blush with her inventive descriptions of what she intended, coloring her narrative with modern words that made him gasp—once she had explained their meaning.

Gone were his descriptions: blessed Rod of Re; lotus jewel and other such euphemisms. He used the language of the streets.

"You cannot do it that way!” Kha'em had once protested.

"Is that so?” She proved him wrong and he apologized for having doubted her. She smacked him on the buttock, and he had laughed and caught her hand, biting her palm, licking her fingers. He smacked her back. She liked it and asked for more.

But for his enemies, they knew only the Prince's ruthless nature. Two priests, formerly in the employ of Sabaf were discovered destroying the protective hieroglyphs in the Osiris Temple, and were executed immediately.

Ptah-hep and his priests were kept busy cleansing the Temple.

Seven days after Sabaf's dismissal, Sara's fears returned.

On those rare nights when Sara-Nedjemet did not share his bed—and she knew from Ptah-hep that no other woman filled the empty space on the Prince's couch—Kha'em cried out, alerting his bodyguards. The High Priest was always called for and Ptah-hep watched over the Prince, his spells and medicines to no avail. Kha'em remained sleepless, raked by headaches.

When sleep did finally claim him, Ptah-hep said to Sara, Kha'em was plagued by nightmares. Ptah-hep and his circle of priests tended their lord, but always the cause of the Prince's illness remained unknown, untreatable.

Sara, using her Priestess-knowledge, soothed and relieved Kha'em as best she could, knowing that she was to blame.

She had told him too much. She should have coaxed his memories to return—slowly, gently, like a whisper upon the wind. Now his thoughts and memories raged at him like a tempest.

How could Kha'em possibly understand the memories he shared with Michael?

Despite her magic spells, each day her lover worsened, becoming feverish, then on the sixth day, he grew feeble.

When he no longer complained of bad dreams, Sara realized that her lover's illness had nothing to do with her. Kha'em was caught up in a battle: on one side her magic of the light, on the other the magic of the dark. Yet, though she invoked a finding-spell, no necromancer was discovered within the palace.

And with each passing day, it also became more difficult for her to summon her magic.

As Kha'em was divided between two worlds, she realized that so was she, divided. As Priestess of Isis, she ought to have been able to protect Kha'em and locate the source of the evil. She was diminished, her essence spread between two life-times, that were separated by four thousand years.

She increased her vigilance, and her conjurations, to little effect.

"He is much worse,” Ptah-hep said, joining Sara's side outside Kha'em's bedchamber.

"Let me see him."

Ptah-hep's face tightened. “My orders—"

"Orders? From whom?” Sara demanded.

"From My Lord and his ... first wife."

Sara regarded him. Though he spoke without respect, even Ptah-hep could not countermand the orders of a princess. Nedjemet may have pride of place in Kha'em's esteem, but hierarchy must be maintained. A Princess ordered and a Priest must obey...

Sara folded her arms. “Tepi, I sense that Kha'em is not himself. I am a Priestess of Isis and Sekhmet. Let me examine Kha'em in your presence."

"I trust you, Lady, have you any doubt? But—my orders are explicit. You are forbidden his presence."

"Time is short for him, Ptah-hep!"

"Yes. He is being driven to the darkness.” The priest paused. “I will choose the light.” He bowed, waving her ahead of him. “If you will, Lady."

They entered the bedchamber and paused, horrified.

Kha'em lay writhing on his bed, tearing at his head. Great fingernail rents marred his flesh. Blood stained his pillow and body.

With a cry, Sara rushed forward and knelt beside him.

"Beloved! Hush! Do not do this!” She placed her palm against his forehead. The torment spiraled out trying to ensnare her, too. She drew in a deep breath and looked up at the priest. “Kha'em is ensorcelled."

"I have sensed nothing. How is it that you may do so and a Priest of Osiris may not?"

Sara smiled and touched his arm. “Often love recognizes truth when even the most powerful cannot. A search must be made of his chambers, the entire palace, for talismans of evil. Meanwhile, Kha'em must be taken to a place of safety. We have to cleanse him in the Temple of Osiris, as you cleansed the temple itself not so long ago!"

Ptah-hep studied her intently. Sara remained unflinching, knowing that he was probing in the manner of a High Priest. She relaxed her mental barriers, slowed her breathing, allowing him to search where he willed.

He sighed, nodding. “It will be as you say."

"And the orders given you?"

Ptah-hep spread his hands and shrugged. Leave her to me, the thought flowed between them. “And if Kha'em is angry for my disobedience, so be it. I have braved his wrath before.” He smiled wearily.

"You are a good friend, Tepi."

He inclined his head.

Ptah-hep's entrusted priests carried Kha'em upon a litter and conveyed him to the Temple. They made a bed for the Prince on an altar located between two statues of Osiris, so that the god, all-seeing, all-knowing could guard him. About the bed they formed a healing and protective circle using smaller statues of Isis and Sekhmet.

Sara watched, horrified, as Kha'em lay rigid upon the shrine. Then he screamed, clawing at his body. Ptah-hep and his priests held Kha'em so that he did not tear at his flesh, but he seemed to have the strength of many men and it was all they could do to contain him.

Ptah-hep sprinkled herbs over the Prince's body and intoned healing spells. Slowly, Kha'em ceased his thrashing. He sighed once and then lay unmoving.

Ptah-hep examined his master. “He sleeps, at last! He has peace.” His eyes glittered with unshed tears as he looked up at her. “I will only ever serve you, Nedjemet.” He placed his hands across his heart and bowed.

He hurried away, leaving behind Kha'em's guards to protect the physical body of their lord, while the temple gods, through the priests, protected his ka.

Sara painted Kha'em's naked body with potent symbols of healing and protection and that done, she sat upon the altar, allowing Kha'em's head to rest on her lap. She stroked his forehead, all the while whispering spells of cleansing and healing over his prone body.

For two days Kha'em lay oblivious within the temple, while within his holding all was in uproar.

As Sara had predicted, the search of the palace located many miniature replicas of Kha'em imbued with dark sorcery. Bound around the heads of each doll were bands of leather, twisted tight, cutting into the effigy's ‘flesh'.

Ptah-hep and his senior priests were kept busy destroying the idols and restoring the palace to the ways of the light.

It was a minor victory, for Sara knew that she was not strong enough to defeat the source of the evil. Her ka had been diminished by her confrontation with Sabaf in the museum.

How might she gain ascendancy over her enemies? Just who were the enemies she must face?

If she did not conquer them, she would be lost, and so, too, Michael and Kha'em. Her defeat would mean annihilation for them all...

In the safety and silence of the Osiris Temple, Kha'em sighed deeply. As Sara leaned over him, his eyelids fluttered.

He captured her hand and drew her palm to his lips. “My sweet lady!” He smiled, but as he beheld where he was, his face grew troubled. He tried to sit up, but Sara easily restrained him.

"Rest, beloved. You have been ill."

"I ... I feel disoriented."

"The sorcery was meant to rob you of your reason, so that you would become a pawn..."

His gaze probed her face. “Your words are strange to me; my dreams even stranger."

"Tell me what you've seen."

"I cannot recall exactly. You and I were in a different place. I was both Kha'em and another. Two men, but ... neither."

"Yes. I explained this to you that day in the tomb..."

Kha'em's brow furrowed. “I do not remember.” His fist crashed against the cushions. “I do not remember! All I see is darkness and pain. Although...” he paused, a smile lifting his lips, “I do think you and I have shared much ... my body remembers.” He glanced down at his erection straining against the linen coverlet.

She lifted her gaze to his. “Do you wish to know the truth, my lord?"

"Yes."

"However strange and frightening?"

"I command it."

She smiled sadly. “It shall be difficult to accept."

"You fear to tell me because you think I will spurn you?"

The Prince's insight always startled her, and that damn smile of his tore at her resolve.

"My lord..."

"I promise upon the gods that I will not scorn the messenger of truth,” Kha'em said.

"Very well,” Sara whispered. “But what I have to say is for your ears alone."

"Leave us!” Kha'em commanded the priests and the guards. They bowed and hurried from the chamber.

So, once again, she told Kha'em and he listened in silence to all she said.

"But Sabaf is gone! He has been nullified. Ptah-hep destroyed the papyrus."

"Sabaf must possess more."

"Then we must find and destroy them! Do not fear, beloved!” He paused. “The evil will be dispatched. Forget all that concerns you. I am your husband; I command it!"

"Yes, I was—am your wife, Kha'em. And I will be again, in the future.” She stroked his cheek. “But I cannot help but worry—the battle is still to be fought."

He stilled her hand. “Do not do that, beloved. When you touch me thus you make it difficult for me to think of anything except for the having of you.” He paused. “The man of the future—this one named Michael—part of him lives within me? He is the source of my disquiet?"

"Some of it, yes, beloved. The ka of two men inhabiting the one body; you are Kha'em and Michael. And Michael has part of your essence trapped within him. Sabaf's spells were inadequate to completely separate the two of you. But there is also dark magic attempting to conquer us."

"Your words are indeed strange; your tale even stranger, yet I recognize the truth you speak. I will use my power to find the magician who attempts to ensnare us.” He regarded her deeply. “I understand this mystery. As you have discovered, there is a papyrus, ancient even before the first Pharaoh ruled blessed Kemet, that speaks of life after life; future prophecies ... The history speaks of evil and heroism, of knowledge found and lost and misused...” He shook his head. “It is knowledge no man should—"

"You have read this parchment?” Sara's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"Yes."

"Where is it now?"

"Within the safety of this temple. Only Ptah-hep and I know its location. It is not for the eyes of man, this book, for its charms are potent and if used ill, would incite the darkness."

"I must have it to undo the evil done to you, and Michael."

"Ah yes! This future-man, this lover of yours! He means much to you, does he?"

"You, he, and I are inexorably linked."

"And after this final battle, you will return to him? I do not wish to lose you.” Kha'em placed his finger against her lips. “There has never been a Nedjemet in my life until now. If I give you this knowledge you will leave me. I could not bear to live without your sweetness."

"You will not be alone, Kha'em. Nedjemet existed in this time because I have her memories. When I am gone, she will come to you.” She paused. “At least I think so."

"You think so?” He snorted and turned away from her. “I want assurances, Nedjemet. Honor dictates that I must do as you wish.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “But I am a man. And my love for you clouds my reasoning. Would it be such an ordeal to stay here with me?"

"You must give me the papyrus, Kha'em!"

"Must I? Who are you to tell me what I must do?"

Sara felt the icy touch of fear sweep her veins. If Kha'em refused to give her the papyrus, then she would be trapped in this time with Kha'em and Michael forever divided. And she? Her place was in the future, not in the past—no matter how much she loved Kha'em.

Or was Kha'em correct? If she returned to the future, might she be condemning him to a life of loneliness? Maybe she was the only Nedjemet that Kha'em, in this reality, would ever know. Gods, what a mess! She ran a hand over her eyes.

"This man,” Kha'em said tightly. “You love him?"

"As much as I loved ... love you.” She rested her hand on his wrist. “Michael is your future, Kha'em."

He smiled gently. “I could use the knowledge contained in the papyrus to bind you to me, here and now."

Sara stepped back from him, her heart aching with fear and horror.

"But,” he said, “I would be as evil as my nemesis if I did thus, Nedjemet-Sara, to deny you the life you seek. You must return to this lover of yours, this man of the future."

"All will be determined by what we do here and now."

"What I do here and now has nothing to do with the future, or another man.” He pulled her into his arms and drew her down to the couch and loved her with an intensity, a desperation, that was frightening.

"Remember me, Nedjemet! Remember how I pleasure you; how I make you cry and scream."

"I will remember, beloved husband. I will never forget! You have my promise."

Kha'em held her and wept.

The next morning, Sara, Ptah-hep and Kha'em met in the side room behind the Temple shrine.

From inside his cloak, Ptah-hep withdrew a golden key. Kha'em, produced a matching key from a pouch inside his girdle. The two men approached the back of the altar and slid away one stone slab. They dragged an obsidian box from within the cavity of the altar and each man used his key to open the locks on the box.

Ptah-hep gasped and Kha'em swore.

"What's wrong?” Sara demanded.

"The papyrus is gone!” Kha'em said.

"Gone!” Sara raced forward, not doubting Kha'em for a moment, but wanting to see for herself.

"No other has knowledge of this box, or the papyrus. We were very careful,” Ptah-hep said. “I placed a spell over this place, so no man would discover it."

Her stare challenged them.

"It is the truth, Nedjemet! I have not hidden it in an attempt to detain you,” Kha'em said icily. “Only a magician of power equal to our own could remove the papyrus."

"Sabaf!” Sara said.

"Apparently."

Ptah-hep bowed, his hands across his chest. “I have failed you, my lord. Forgive me."

Kha'em swung about to face the priest. “Failed me? How many assassination attempts have you foiled, Tepi?"

The priest spread his hands. “I did not foresee that your enemies would be black magicians intent on stealing our greatest secret. I am not fit to serve the gods."

Kha'em gently shook the priest's shoulders. “None of us are worthy, friend. We do our best. It is not always good enough."

"Listen to him, Ptah-hep!” Sara said. “We must call upon all the powers at our command to undo the evil. Bet at peace, Tepi, we do not have time to waste on recriminations."

"You are wise beyond your meager years, Nedjemet.” Ptah-hep bowed.

Sara bit her lip at the irony of the priest's words. From a certain point of view, she was four thousand years old.

But wisdom and old age weren't helping her combat Sabaf. How had he managed to steal the papyrus? She thrust her hand into the box and her fingers tingled with the remnant of two powers contained within it: Ptah-hep and a terrible corruption that was Sabaf's psychic residue.

Sara had expected that Sabaf's power and reputation had been crushed once Pharaoh had read the damning evidence detailed in Kha'em's scrolls. Was it possible, had Sabaf, somehow, managed to elude his fate?

Doubts nagged her.

Someone was manipulating the Prince's energy fields, and it could only be Sabaf! But how?

All she had to rely on were her capricious memories and experiences of the past—the past in which she was now living, but subtly altered, so that often she did not know who or where she was.

Sabaf was but part of a conspiracy that went beyond mere politics, reaching out to steal ancient lore to invoke the darkness. The former vizier was the focus, but not the only enemy she must face.

Egyptian law dictated that she could not accuse anyone without proof, especially for a charge of sorcery. No matter how much it rankled, she must bide her time and find irrefutable, tangible evidence damning Sabaf and his allies—evidence that a court of law could examine and accept.

"I will double my efforts,” Ptah-hep said. “My agents will scour the land."

Kha'em frowned. “My enemies will move quickly. We have not long to wait, I think.” His gaze caught Sara's. He smiled sadly and held out his hand. “Not long for us, lady!"

Not long to wait. The words echoed in her mind as she saw Sabaf stride into the Prince's audience chamber. Following behind him were his assistants and a priest, and at the last stalked Lady Ahset.

Sara stood at Kha'em’ right, and at her side, Ptah-hep, the two of them sharing the position of honor.

"Lord Sabaf, to what do I owe this ... visit?” Kha'em asked, his voice hoarse with anger.

Sabaf bowed. “The great living god, your father-pharaoh, has been anxious that I see to your welfare and has sent a company of his most trusted warriors to guard your person."

"He read my testimony?"

"Yes, my lord.” Sabaf bowed again. “Though it pains me to think how little esteem you have for me, I only wish to make amends for any slight I may have caused.” He raised his gaze to Kha'em. “Your father, the great living god was inclined to think that you were mistaken in your condemnation of me. He thinks that malcontents have poisoned your ears. He trusts me implicitly. I am sent to tend you."

"I am already well tended.” Kha'em smiled tightly and glancing to his right he indicated Ptah-hep and Nedjemet.

"Be that as it may, my lord.” Sabaf bowed deeply. “I have my orders. The misunderstanding between us is forgotten, my lord."

"Misunderstanding?"

Sabaf spread his hands in appeasement. “I have messages from your father, solely for your eyes and ears."

"I will receive you tonight."

"As you command, my lord.” Sabaf bowed low again.

Once Sabaf and his entourage had departed, Sara turned to Kha'em.

"Do not see him alone!” she said. “Please. I don't trust him!"

"He plays his games, beloved, but I have his measure. Let him tangle himself in his own deceptions. Do you think one such as he can ensnare me? I know he is not to be trusted and how he insinuated himself with my father, Ma'at only knows.” Kha'em paused. “Ahset has denounced her uncle. In this you and she speak with one voice."

"Sabaf is her uncle?"

"I thought you knew."

Sara's heart beat an urgent tattoo against her ribs. Great Isis! This was not how it had been! Ahset was from Punt, the daughter of the Governor ... not Sabaf's niece!

Now she understood the depth of hatred arrayed against her. She had overlooked Ahset, believing her rival's enmity stemmed from mere jealousy, not blood loyalty. And Kha'em believed Ahset had spurned her uncle? The Princess was playing a game, too; Sara doubted that her rival had the wit to do so alone. No, Ahset and Sabaf were arrayed against them and soon they would make their move.

"We should retire, Nedjemet, there are things I would discuss with you in private."

She inclined her head and followed Kha'em from the audience chamber.

Kha'em closed the door of his bed-chamber and turned to Sara. He stroked her cheek and kissed her.

"I thought you said we had private matters to discuss?” she demanded.

He grinned. “So we have, Neji. Private matters ... between a husband and his wife."

"No,” she said.

"No?"

"You have to get rid of Sabaf. He has pharaoh's favor, and Ahset ... you can't—"

"Forget Sabaf. I will deal with him. Now, I want to deal with you."

"But—"

She shivered as Kha'em's fingers teased down her arm. Questing across her stomach, he parted her robe, stroking her mound. She halted his hand. “Don't distract me, Kha'em."

"Too late for that beloved, I think. My lady is weeping for me.” He stroked her flesh-pleats. “Let me quench your tears with my own sacred water."

"We have plans to make. I have to think!” She slapped Kha'em's wrist. “Ahset has denounced her uncle?"

"She is loyal to me. I may have to..."

"You may not!” Sara whispered.

Kha'em chuckled. “I was going to say that I may have to gift her with more gold and jewels. Perhaps a temple, or even a household of her own, away from here."

"Far away!” Sara paused. Guilt flooded her. How could she condemn Kha'em for his appetites? When she was gone, he would be alone, awaiting a Nedjemet who may never arrive.

Before, he had shared life and intimacy with Ahset, his first wife ... How could she deny him what pleasure he might receive in the future from another woman, even if that woman was Ahset?

"Kha'em—"

"Better alone, beloved, than bed a woman not one's heart and soul."

"Other men just close their eyes and think of Egypt."

He smiled tightly. “I am not other men. Have I not proven it?"

"Not recently."

"Then, come here!"

"Oh, very well, if I must,” she said in mock resignation.

Kha'em strode away. “If it is such an ordeal, you may leave."

He stood with his back turned to her and Sara took the opportunity to ready herself.

"Kha'em!” she called.

"Have you changed your mind?"

"My answer awaits you. See."

Slowly, he turned and the shocked delight upon his face was more than she could bear.

She had positioned herself on his couch, hands behind her head, her knees bent and spread wide apart. “I am very lonely for my lord,” she purred. She wriggled on the couch. “Very lonely!"

Kha'em groaned and flung aside his girdle. His robe fluttered down his thighs as he strode forward.

He dropped to his knees before her and raised her into his arms. “I will never have enough of you, Nedjemet. Never!"

Everything receded except for her need for him. “Yes, Kha'em. Yes. Quickly!"

"Not ever quickly, beloved! I will never take you with the speed of an ignorant youth. Pleasure is always enhanced from postponement, not consummation. Be still. Be patient. Let me love you as the gods have intended that you be loved ... by me!"

"Kha'em—"

His mouth silenced her protests as his body stretched above hers.

That evening Kha'em had his private audience with Sabaf. He felt soiled by the vizier's presence. Sabaf sat opposite him, his lazy repose a façade.

"Beloved Pharaoh has been pleased with your progress here, my lord,” Sabaf said, glancing at Kha'em over the rim of his cup.

"But...?” Kha'em asked. “This praise is suffixed with a ‘but', I think."

Sabaf smiled and inclined his head. “You are as observant as always, my lord."

Kha'em waved his hand dismissively. How he disliked obsequious servants. Odd, that he had never noticed it in Sabaf before. But that was before Nedjemet had awakened him to all possibilities. He stirred uncomfortably in his seat, as a fleeting memory of the hours just passed in her embrace intruded into his thoughts. He swallowed down hard, willing his body to return to normal, to attend to the problem before him. To this inevitable meeting with his former Vizier who had the favor of Pharaoh.

Sabaf handed the Prince a papyrus scroll.

Kha'em scanned the text, then glanced up at Sabaf. He did not doubt that the vizier would know every word contained in Pharaoh's private messages to his son.

Kha'em cleared his throat. “My father writes—"

"You wish to share your secret dispatches with me, my lord? I am honored.” Sabaf inclined his head.

You obsequious bastard, Kha'em thought and again cleared his throat. “My father says: Rumor has reached the Pharaoh, your beloved father, that recently my beloved son has deferred his duties to spend more time studying ancient texts, to the detriment of his sacred office.” Kha'em glanced at Sabaf. The man's face was downcast. Inscrutable. “Sabaf, whence has my father learned of my so-called dereliction to duty? It seems there are spies within my palace as well as assassins and sorcerers?"

"Doubtless,” Sabaf agreed. “This foreign woman whom you have favored is—"

"My hemet!"

Sabaf spread his hands in appeasement. “I am desirous of aiding you in discovering your enemies. Let me speak, I beg. I have failed you and you consider that I am your enemy. I am grieved that you believe it. Grieved, my lord!” Sabaf's dark eyes glittered with tears. “This woman, now your wife, appeared suddenly to thwart an assassin and since that time she has connived her way into your ... trust, to the exclusion of your former confidants."

"She saved my life on two occasions!"

Sabaf smiled and poured a fresh goblet of wine for Kha'em. “All speak of your illness which only Nedjemet could cure. You had no signs of this disease before her arrival, and the talismans found in the palace were of unknown origin."

Kha'em drank the wine in one gulp and frowned. Minutes passed before he felt he had his temper under sufficient control so that he could speak. But when he opened his mouth to flay the vizier to the bone with his denunciation, Kha'em paused. He ran a hand over tired eyes.

Sabaf's logic was conceivable. Perhaps ... No! He shook his head, to clear the fog, the doubts. Nedjemet was his life, his love. Not an enemy, no matter what any said.

"Your father has decreed that you shall return to the court and take a new position as High Priest. You are to leave behind the duties of governor and priest. The woman must also be discarded."

"I will not forsake Nedjemet!"

"Pharaoh has commanded it."

"Nedjemet shall accompany me. When my father sees her, he will understand—"

"No!” Sabaf said. “His decree was most specific. He wants no shadow of sorcery in his court."

Kha'em frowned and raised his goblet. He found it empty. Silently, Sabaf re-filled his cup.

"This wine is very good, Sabaf."

"I am pleased that you find it so. It comes from my own farm."

Kha'em twirled the goblet between his fingers. “I shall consider your words."

Sabaf's lips tightened to a narrow slash in his thin face. “Consider my words as you will, lord, but you cannot deny Pharaoh."

"I understand my duties and responsibilities, Sabaf! I do not need a lecture from you!"

"My lord misinterprets me—"

"Do I?” Kha'em snapped.

"Ever have I been your friend. It is for your sake I dare speak so!"

"Yes, yes,” Kha'em said. He slumped back wearily in his chair. “I am tired. Forgive me. I will speak to you tomorrow, when I have read the remainder of the documents."

"And since you enjoy my wine so much, I will have a servant bring you more.” Sabaf bowed and slid from the chamber like a ghost.

"My Prince's orders are that you are to leave the palace within the day. You and Ptah-hep are exiled by order of Pharaoh and by order of Prince Kha'em!” Sabaf's eyes and face were gloating, positively radiant with malice. Behind the vizier, six guards bristling with weaponry stood at attention.

"I don't believe you!” Sara hissed.

She and Ptah-hep had been brought to the audience chamber, but instead of Kha'em sitting on the throne, there now Sabaf reposed and at his side, Ahset.

"Your belief is of no consequence to me.” Sabaf waved a dismissive hand—a hand, Sara noticed—that was now heavy with gold and turquoise rings, bearing Kha'em's personal seal. “The soldiers will escort you to the boat. You are to sail by dusk, or forfeit your life."

"I demand to see Kha'em."

"The days of your demands are over!” Ahset said.

Sara pursed her lips. Argument was useless. Subterfuge worked much better. She forced herself to bow low before her two enemies. Let them think they had had their victory! Her victory over them would be swift, total and merciless.

The thought was sweet.

She paused. She was becoming more Egyptian with every passing day, her modern memories subverted by Nedjemet's more earthy persona. She now had to struggle to think of herself as Sara and remind herself of her mission at Kha'em's court.

"You will leave our presence, at once!” Sabah whispered.

"As you command.” Sara half turned away.

"Woman!” Sabaf's voice halted her. “Be warned. I have guards stationed about the lord's apartments. You will not gain admittance to him again."

We'll see about that, Sabaf! Sara bowed again and strode away.

Sara raced through the secret corridor to Kha'em's bed-chamber. There was not a moment to lose—for her sake and for her lover's.

She found Kha'em prostrate over his desk. About him, papyrus scrolls littered the floor. At his elbow was a pitcher of wine and his gold cup lay upturned, its contents spilled, like a river of blood across the document he had been reading.

She caressed Kha'em's shoulder. He shrugged aside her hand and groggily opened his eyes.

"Who disturbs me?” he slurred.

"Are you drunk, my Prince?” she whispered.

"And what if I am?"

Sara frowned. Kha'em enjoyed his wine, but never to excess. His only excess was his lovemaking.

"My lord, I—"

"What is it you want now?” Kha'em asked.

Sara put her fingers to his lips. “To see you, beloved."

"I am not your beloved,” he said. “I understand, because I see my duty clearly."

"From the bottom of a cup of wine?"

"Your words are trickery; your actions have been false. I know this—"

"From Sabaf?” Sara demanded. Leaning forward, she raised the pitcher to her nose, then tasted the wine. She spat out the acrid liquid, her mouth becoming immediately fuzzy from the drug it contained.

"Kha'em—” She stroked his forehead and bent down to kiss his head.

"Treason!” Behind her Sabaf's voice shouted. “Not content with witchery, now your true purpose is revealed. You seek to kill the lord! Guards!” Sabaf screamed and in answer six tall Nubian warriors raced into the chamber. “Arrest this woman!"

Sara struggled against the imprisoning hands of two men. “Help me, Kha'em!"

He raised his head and regarded her with drug-clouded eyes. “Vizier Sabaf is to be obeyed in all things. Take her away!"

She fought against the soldiers, but was overpowered. They dragged her across the courtyard and into the stables.

One of the men tied her to a post, while another chained her wrists together. Her arms were hauled above her head, the chain secured into a ring at the top of the post.

Sabaf strode into the chamber. His gloating face was sickening as he stood in front of her. The acrid stench of his malice made her gag.

"You should not have come here, Nedjemet!” he said. “The world moves differently now. I am master here. I control all, even Kha'em. I can destroy you, him, anyone ... anything ... that crosses my will. I can even become Pharaoh!” he paused. “I give you this last chance: join with me and I will spare your life."

"Never!” Sara said.

Sabaf smiled, a chilling smile. “An interesting concept never. Until the mystery was revealed to me, I did not understand. Now, nothing remains hidden from me! I am a god!"

Sudden understanding brought sudden chill to her heart. “The papyrus!"

"Such simpletons as Ptah-hep and Kha'em cannot comprehend the magic it truly offers."

"Enslavement and evil, that's all you ever see, Sabaf!"

"What else is there, Sara?"

She gasped. “How do you know my name?"

"I know you for who you are, Sara Matthews. All times, all worlds are mine to command. Those who are my enemies will be swept aside. I will be immortal. Even mighty Lord Re will tremble on his knees before me! This primitive civilization and its primitive gods know nothing of the truth of immortality!"

"Damn you!"

Sabaf laughed. “Damn me? I think not! But what about you, my dear? Shall I damn you to eternity, or give you a glimpse of my true potential? Both, I think!"

Sabaf dug his fingers into Sara's gown and tore it from neck to knee. His hand went straight between her legs, his fingers parting and probing.

She bit her lip against the pain, against the disgust of his defilement, but she could not stifle the cry as he savagely thrust into her.

"Yes, you shall cry with pain, Sara. Beg for your death before I grant you oblivion.” He dragged back his hand and raised his fingers to his tongue. He sucked them noisily, greedily. “Ah, you are well named, Nedjemet, for you are sweet. As sweet as honey, but tinged with spice."

"You disgusting bastard!"

He smiled tightly. “I have not yet taught you the meaning of disgusting, Nedjemet."

Unlacing the thin leather thong about his waist, he raised his arm. The strap snapped through the air. “Pain and pleasure, girl, are but two faces of the same coin.” He raised his arm.

Sara tensed, awaiting the first lash stroke. It never came.

Shouts and movement erupted as a dozen priests invaded the chamber. Behind them, Kha'em staggered, leaning on Ptah-hep.

"If you harm her, Sabaf, it will be the last thing you ever do!” Kha'em's voice, a little slurred had some of its usual authority.

Ahset, screaming and crying and begging for mercy, was carried in by one of Kha'em's guards.

"You are defeated, Sabaf! Your evil—” Ptah-hep shouted. “Surrender!"

"I am just beginning, priest! Watch me! Witness real magic from one who uses it as it has always been intended! Release the lady Ahset—you carrion!” Smiling maliciously, Sabaf waved his hands towards the soldier and Ahset crumpled to the ground. “Get on your feet, niece. Remember the blood that flows in your veins! Give me the talismans!"

Ahset shook her head. “The priest took them from me, my lord! I could not face him alone!” She dragged herself across the ground and grasped Sabaf's ankles for succor.

Snarling, the vizier kicked her away. He intoned words that made Sara shiver. Evil, such evil—how could any man speak such and live?

Sabaf raised his arms above his head. “I will have the future-woman for mine own. I will bring her to the darkness. Her heart and soul will cleave to me! TO ME!” Obsidian shards flashed around him, through him. The earth trembled.

"Forget her!” Ahset clutched at Sabaf.

"Do not touch me! The power—No!” Miniature shards of light erupted from Sabaf and lashed Ahset. The woman clung to him and the two of them collapsed onto the floor, engulfed in flames.

Sabaf screamed more incantations to counteract the energy tearing at his flesh. The flames flickered, then died, leaving Sabaf naked, scorched, but whole, though he appeared unconscious. Beside him, Ahset's body was a blackened husk.

"There is not much time!” Sara cried. “Sabaf will recover from his injuries. In this place we cannot fight his sorcery!"

Ptah-hep quickly freed her from the manacles and threw a cloak over her nakedness.

"The soldiers are coming!” a priest shouted.

They sped across the courtyard to the river where they boarded a small barge. Men pushed it away from the shore, while two priests frantically raised a sail. The remaining priests took to the oars.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Sara saw a contingent of soldiers race across the jetty. Several raised bows and arrows were loosed, but they fell into the water, just short of their mark. The priests rowed for their lives and that of their precious cargo.

Kha'em, once again in a stupor, lay under an awning.

"Where are we going?” Sara asked.

"To my lord's country estate. We will be safe there,” Sabaf said.

"But for how long, Ptah-hep?” Sara asked bitterly.

"Long enough,” he responded. “The energy converges, my lady, and the reckoning soon shall be..."

"I said and did these things to you?” Kha'em asked, reaching out his hand to Nedjemet. His eyes were moist with unshed tears.

"You were drugged, lord. You were not responsible,” Ptah-hep said gently.

Sara studied the Prince. He looked so tired, so diminished in spirit.

"It is as you said, Nedjemet, I am not myself. I am incomplete. Will this imperfection increase the longer I am sundered from Michael?"

"Yes."

Kha'em frowned. “Sabaf has my father's trust. He will again speak to Pharaoh and we shall be branded as traitors, at very least. It comes to pass ... again."

"You must explain to your father, before Sabaf has a chance to corrupt him with his lies."

"You have friends at court, my lord!” Ptah-hep said. “No less the High Priest of Re's temple! Lay the charge of sorcery at Sabaf's feet and see if he can deny it this time. We have witnesses!"

Kha'em glanced down at his hands. “I cannot go alone,” he said. “Sabaf is too strong."

Sara and Ptah-hep exchanged glances. Kha'em had not recovered his usual vigor, or authority, since leaving Thinis. Kha'em's life-force was being drained away. Like a leech sucking his blood, so Sabaf was diminishing his enemy. Daily, Kha'em's strength lessened and more and more he found it difficult to make decisions. The simple act of rising from his bed each day, Sara knew, required a determination that was heart-breaking to watch.

"We must fight Sabaf on his own terms,” Sara said.

"Evil with evil?” Ptah-hep asked. “I will not—"

"We will summon the light. Isis can overcome Sutekh's darkness."

"And you, beloved, shall become another Isis and resurrect her dismembered husband?” Kha'em stroked her cheek with a trembling hand.

"It will not come to pass, beloved! This time we will prevail!” She turned to the priest. “We have preparations to make and little time in which to do so. Tepi?"

"I am ready, lady."

Sara nodded and rested her hand on Kha'em's shoulder. Beneath her palm she felt the shivering, cold flesh. Her heart skipped a beat. If she failed, Kha'em and Michael would die and the world as she knew it would cease to exist. Sabaf would have dominion over all.

The inner sanctum of the Osiris Temple was feverishly prepared. As she would do so, four thousand years in the future, Sara-Nedjemet lovingly applied scented, sacred oils to every surface within the sanctuary.

Within the Osiris Temple, Kha'em's weakness was lessened and he insisted on making his own counter-wards against Sabaf. He and Ptah-hep lavished talismans upon every stone.

The altar, the place where they would make their final stand against Sabaf, was last to be sanctified with holy oil and potent conjurations.

The priests and priestesses fortified themselves for the encounter. Spells were invoked; the air was charged with magic and it made Sara's skin itch, as if a thousand ants were crawling over her flesh.

After hours of preparation, Sara and Kha'em stood before the altar to make their votive offerings.

Gently, Kha'em turned Sara to him. “Whatever happens—"

"I know, beloved.” She put a finger to his lips.

He cast aside his sheer linen cape and Sara flung off her covering. Their bodies shone with oil and green-painted hieroglyphs: the protection of Osiris. About their brows they wore the ureas, the protective asp and over their hearts they wore the sacred Eye of Horus.

Kha'em bent forward and took Sara's mouth in a searing kiss. He swung her up into his arms and placed her face first upon the altar.

The priests carrying drums and the priestesses carrying seshesht encircled the shrine and commenced their chanting. Ptah-hep controlled the ritual from where he stood between the statues of Osiris and Isis. He wore many amulets and forming a circle around him were papyrus scrolls.

Ptah-hep had gathered all the papyrii from the Temple library. The scrolls contained the magic lore that had been collected by High Priests for a millennium.

Kha'em raised Sara to her knees and leaning forward, his body covered hers.

Again, she felt his trembling. From desire? From pain? From weakness? All three, she knew.

About her, the chanting of the priests increased in volume.

Upon the altar, another ritual commenced. Kha'em's erection splayed her nether lips and Sara gasped as he pressed home in one long, sharp shove. It chafed, this intrusion, but there was no time for foreplay, no time for anything but the ceremony, and the invocation and the resultant release of power. But with his third thrust, her body moistened and he slid into her easily, a back and forth slow drag and retreat. She moaned with pleasure and Kha'em increased his tempo.

Ptah-hep approached the altar, summoning more spells from a parchment so ancient that only he could read it. In response to his incantations, light washed over her, through her, and Sara trembled.

Within her body, she felt the man swell. Against her, Kha'em's hands and body tensed. She heard his deep breath and then he dove into her again and again. Keeping pace with the rhythm of their bodies, they chanted their own prayers.

Sara gasped in pain as something plunged into her mind, its rhythm a parody of the pace of Kha'em's body inside her.

"Great Isis!” she whispered as darkness, malice, fear overcame her. Kha'em cried out and was torn mentally and physically from her.

Sabaf grasped Sara's hair and dragged her from the altar. “Blasphemy! See you this blasphemy!” He screamed and struck Sara across the face.

She reeled away into the ranks of Pharaoh's soldiers.

"You are the only blasphemer!” Ptah-hep cried. “I call upon Osiris and Thoth to—"

Sabaf waved his arms. “Stop him! Stop the Priest!"

Ptah-hep held up a thick papyrus and with a clear voice summoned more power. White light crackled about the room. Enveloped by the energy, the soldiers collapsed onto the floor.

Sabaf leapt to the altar and overturned it. The sacred stone cracked in two.

"I, only I, can control the light and darkness.” He drew forth from his robe the yellow parchment that Sara knew could only be Kha'em's secret papyrus.

Sara launched herself at Sabaf and they fought for possession of the magic scroll. It tore in two. Sara retreated from Sabaf, clasping the shard of paper to her chest.

Sabaf screamed and fell to his knees, clutching his heart.

"Your dominion is at an end, Sabaf!” Ptah-hep cried. “You command no one. Nothing! Relinquish the evil and live. Refuse and die!"

The priests and priestesses closed in around him, their chanting strong and clear. Ptah-hep led the invocations, his voice shrill with emotion.

Sabaf lurched away like a drunken man. He snatched up one of the soldier's swords and before any could stop him he flung himself at Sara. In a blur of speed, body and sword swung in a deadly arc towards her.

Kha'em hurled himself in front of the blade.

"No!” Sara screamed and raced forward.

A red gash appeared across the Prince's abdomen. He collapsed against Sara, dragging her with him to the floor.

She cradled his body against her and tried to staunch the wound with her hands, but it was useless. Blood pumped strongly between her fingers; an artery had been severed.

Sabaf, meanwhile, lay fetal-like as the priests and priestesses converged upon him. Ptah-hep spoke above the vizier's shuddering body and brought out an effigy of the vizier, with his name carved upon it.

"Sabaf, your name is lost. Sabaf, your body is broken! Sabaf you die.” Ptah-hep broke the effigy in two and flung it into the brazier. Beneath the wooden doll, the hot coals flared to life.

The vizier whimpered as his flesh began to smoke. He screamed as power lashed against him. All over his skin tiny splits appeared, as if he was being cut by hundreds of blades.

Overcome by god-power, his necromancy imploded. His name was destroyed; his body was contained.

Ptah-hep jumped forward and snatched up the remnants of the papyrus just as it caught fire.

Sabaf's body began to smolder. Moments later he was engulfed by fire. The priests and priestesses, maintaining their ceremonial configuration, backed away as flames roared upwards to lick the ceiling of the chamber.

Then all was silent, motionless, with the stench of burnt flesh and evil magic in the air.

Ptah-hep crouched before Kha'em.

At Sara's silent question, the old priest shook his head.

"You can save him, Ptah-hep."

"It is beyond my ability ... this!"

"Use your magic! Please!"

"I cannot,” the priest said, sobbing.

"Please..."

Kha'em smiled weakly. “Beloved. Weep not for me! I will live again, in the body of your lover. We have had our victory. Sabaf is gone. Soon I will become an Imperishable."

"He speaks the truth, Nedjemet,” Ptah-hep said. “We were united to fight the ancient battle against evil. Now it is over, you must leave us."

"You must return ... to your rightful place ... take your new lover in your arms. I will be there with you."

"No!” Sara cried. “Kha'em, I can't leave you. I can't."

"I will return to you, Sara-Nedjemet! Wait for me! And...” he smiled faintly. “I will have my house of eternity!” Kha'em's body convulsed as he took his final breath.

"No!” Sara cried, her anguish echoing about the walls.

"Take this!” Ptah-hep thrust the two pieces of papyrus into her hands. Kha'em's blood stained her body, her hands, the parchment.

"Use the book to return, or else his death will be for naught!"

Through her tears, she recited the ancient text. A green mist swirled around her. Electricity sparked the air.

"Sara!"

Glancing up, she saw Michael's specter. He held out his hand.

"Sara!” He again commanded, this time more forcefully.

She rose on trembling legs and then looked back across the time-portal to see Ptah-hep raising Kha'em's body from the floor.

"My lady, go! I will tend him well. He will rest easily in his tomb. I will ensure it! Go!"

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Sara reached out towards Michael and his hand fastened around her wrist.

"Sara, to me! To me! Quickly, or all is lost!"

She took one step towards him, halting as pain lashed her body from inside out. The papyrus dropped from her hands and darkness swirled around her, dragging her down, down ... ?

Wave upon wave of orgasm shivered through her.

Sara cried out, her sobs muffled against naked skin. She clutched his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin. His body thrust up into her again and again and she rode him instinctively, gripping him with her inner muscles, with her legs, with her whole being.

But ... Something not right. The thought intruded before passion again carried her over the brink, beyond rationality.

His fingers probed, to find her clit. On and on, over and over, he forced her into a world where only pleasure existed—intense, delicious pleasure.

She arched against him and screamed, as Michael moaned and screamed her name and his own release.

Energy coruscated about the room, through her, through him. They merged to become one; all powerful. Invincible.

"I want more!” Sara cried.

"Patience! We have waited this long. All will be ours soon enough.” As he sang additional spells, she united mentally with him, and felt his life-force surge through his every cell, through his cock, to inundate her. Her body transmuted all that he bestowed.

Triumphant, she screamed. The power she had always craved was hers: the knowledge hers. So potent. How had such a simple thing eluded her? With this wisdom, she could be a goddess; an Imperishable...

"It is done, beloved!” Michael whispered. Now, no longer needing to remain enjoined to the talismans on the floor, he reared up into a sitting position. He grasped her legs and wrapped them around his waist. His fingers glided over and through her skin to, again, find her clit. Phallus and fingers worked in tandem to pleasure her.

"Harder! Faster!” she cried.

He complied, brought her to the brink and halted.

"Do not stop!"

"I am not your slave to be so ordered. I am your lord."

"Are you man enough to truly be my lord?” She laughed and pushed the hair from her eyes.

As he stared into her face, she returned his gaze. She saw that the eyes of her lover were suddenly colder, a hint of fear creeping into the hazel depths. His hands fastened on her hips.

"Does my lord remember?"

His tongue tip moistened his lips.

"I see that you do,” she said.

"You defied tradition!"

"I sought to take what was mine—ours—by right. We will finish what we started.” She arched her hips to again consume the man, but his hand covered his cock, thwarting entry.

"We begin only when I say, Nedjemet!"

She glared at him. “I want this. I want you. There is much we have to do!"

Laughing, he held up his arms, clenching his fists. Then, slowly unfurling his hands, he studied his own flesh. “I am whole! The blood flows strangely through my veins. I feel more alive, as if I am a god. I am Michael. I am Kha'em!” He laughed, again. “So long have I awaited this moment—"

"Is this enough for you? We lost four thousand years of life, Kha'em. Was it for nothing that we endured their punishment? I will have my revenge."

"Our enemies are long dead."

"So they are. But the world still turns and we will have it all.” She shook his shoulders. “Kha'em, in the life before, your lack of knowledge and your impatience caused our misery. The time was not right.” She gazed at him. “But you are not the man you once were. There is strength to you now. Our long sleep has granted you wisdom. Seize what is offered you!"

"And what is that?"

"Immortality. The knowledge of the ancients. Through my journey to the past, I have learned more rituals, more spells. No knowledge will remain hidden from us. But if you are afraid—"

He drew in his breath and his hands gripped her fiercely. “I fear nothing. No one. Not even a sorceress!"

She smiled to see the fury in his eyes. Laughing, she pulled away from him. Leaving the haven that had accomplished their resurrection, she strode to the sarcophagus.

She found the hidden compartment within the first secret chamber and drew out the papyrus roll.

She turned to watch Kha'em. He sat where she had left him, cross-legged, his rampant cock against his belly, glistening with their mingled life essences.

Great Isis! He was beautiful, this new man who housed the ka of the man she had once loved so desperately, so long ago. The gods had smiled upon her for, re-born, he was stronger. Wiser. A man suitable, in all respects, to become her consort.

His gaze was unwavering; his eyes promised her everything. Heat raced from her head to her heels as she saw him take in her every detail. His smile was slow, sultry, seductive. Her body clamored for him, flooding with anticipation of that rigid flesh again embedded within her.

Her hands shook as she unfurled the papyrus.

Something wrong. Again, the thought intruded, but was gone in an instant.

Kha'em rose to his feet and joined her side. “What is this, Nedjemet?"

"This scroll contains the path to our immortality,” she said slowly.

"Yes.” Kha'em-Michael frowned. “I should have seized the opportunity when you offered it before. I was a fool to deny you."

"And are you a fool, now, Kha'em?"

His smile turned to a grin. He drew her against his body. Cupping her chin, he raised her face to his. She swallowed against the tight dryness in the back of her throat.

"I will prove what I am.” His hard male flesh against her body reinforced his words.

"I will take a lot of convincing!” Her laughter mirrored his.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the sacred space. Taking the papyrus from her hands, he placed it on the floor within the magic circle. He lay her gently, reverently, upon the parchment and knelt before her.

With a sweep of his arm, he raised her legs. His finger quested to her depths while his thumb caressed her clit.

His touch was a flash of quicksilver that ignited her. His enchantment bound her to him. He teased her, brought her to the pinnacle and held her, teetering, on the edge of that sweet oblivion.

Over and over she cried his name in the ancient tongue and then his tongue plunged into her depths draining her of every ounce of reason. She knotted her fingers in his hair, he—her only anchor in a passion-maddened world.

She felt the first ripple of climax and moaned. He halted and raised his head. His smile was slow, teasing; his eyes, fierce and triumphant.

Her gaze met his. He lifted her into his arms and locked her legs around his waist and lowered her onto his cock, allowing the velvet tip to caress her folds.

"Kha'em, please! I want you to take me."

"As my lady commands."

He nudged at her entrance, parting, sliding, to finally sheathe himself in her liquiescence.

In the reflection of the glass display case she watched his powerful body flex. Muscles flowed and bunched beneath her hands as he moved against her, within her. Claiming. Conquering.

Every stroke into her seared her to eternity. She crossed her ankles and held him imprisoned against her and bore down on him as he raised himself to meet her thrusts.

"I have a surprise for you, hemet,” Michael-Kha'em whispered.

"What is that?” she managed to breathe.

"This.” He lifted her and still intimately enjoined, he carried her to the corner of the room. A coverlet lay on the floor.

She regarded him, impatiently. “Kha'em?"

His mouth pressed against her lips, silencing her. He kicked aside the silken sheet. She gasped.

She knew her eyes were wide and disbelieving as she looked at him, and saw the triumphant return of his gaze.

"It is part of the temple altar stone!"

"Yes."

"But how did you find it?"

"At night when I could not sleep, I pondered the secrets of the scrolls. I searched everywhere. At last I found it. I stole it from the descendants of our enemies. After the witchery of this night, I know where the other pieces are located."

"Kha'em!” She tightened her thighs and squeezed him from inside out.

"Gods!” He moaned.

"Do you know what you have done, Kha'em?"

"Tell me,” he whispered.

"With that sacred stone and with the scroll, there is no place, no mystery we cannot explore. But first we must finish what we started so long ago in Kemet. I will read the sacred writings and you must possess me upon that stone. Our enemies have turned to dust, but we will live on, Kha'em. Our revenge is complete."

"And sweet?” He laughed. “You are aptly named, Nedjemet. My sweet temptress.” Gently, not breaking their sacred union of mind and flesh, he lowered her to the stone.

"And you, Kha'em. My lord. My beloved. You will be Pharaoh, as you should have been so long ago."

"More than Pharaoh, my Nedjemet. Together, we shall rule for eternity. We will join the Imperishables in the heavens. Our dominion will spread past this one world."

Sara-Nedjemet smiled against Kha'em's shoulder as he fucked her harder, deeper. Her hands flailed against his back as she sought to control her release. Her fingers flung outwards and touched something brittle. It rustled like dry leaves.

As she grasped the papyrus, fear seeped through her.

She gasped and grew chill and rigid and tried to tear away from Kha'em.

He stopped and raised himself on his elbows. “What is it, Nedjemet? What is wrong?"

"This! This is wrong!"

She flung him aside and he knelt beside her, anger and confusion clear on his face and in his eyes.

She unfurled the papyrus. For a moment her hands were covered in blood, her body smeared with Kha'em's life-force. Memories overlaid in a confusing array. Then cleared.

Two lives. Two deaths. Time out of kilter. Futures coalesced, then divided. What pathway would she choose? And at what cost?

For a moment her vision clouded, the museum-chamber was in ruins, then time righted itself and the chamber was whole; thrumming with power.

"Read the papyrus, Kha'em. Remember."

The chamber was deathly silent, brooding, as Kha'em read the invocations to life.

Minutes passed, the only sound the hammer of her heart in her ears as she watched Kha'em; watched and waited.

He glanced up at her, frowning. “I have two memories of a past life. How is that possible?"

"We have lived these realities. My journey to the past altered one life-line, but we retain the memory of both, for we were protected by the magic circle.” She chewed her lip. “One reality being where we died at the hands of our enemies, the other where Kha'em died, so that I might live and return to you with the papyrus—not in pieces, but whole, so that we both could be made whole.” She glanced up at him. “The pathway to evil exists. I can feel its temptation even now. We once sought a path that was wicked. The papyrus must be destroyed."

"But in so doing, we will lose our immortality. Would you give it all away?"

"Would you become as Sabaf and enslave all times, all worlds?” she countered.

Kha'em frowned. “We would never do that!"

"Wouldn't we? We might begin with good intent, but the papyrus will corrupt us, Kha'em! No one can possess this knowledge for good. That is its danger. In the reality before, the Prince and his Priest kept the papyrus secret for the very same reasons we now sense. This papyrus is for the eyes of the gods, not for mortals!"

"We could become gods ... But...” He closed his eyes a moment, shaking his head. “I ... We would become as Sabaf” He regarded her with a sudden deep understanding. “No, you are wise, Nedjemet. This thing is evil. Even now it whispers to me of possibilities of ... power. While we have the will, we must destroy it! But how?"

"At the altar, before Osiris and Thoth. Our rituals tonight opened a pathway to this world. More evil may enter. I have no wish to become an instrument of chaos!"

Between the pillars of Osiris, on the remnant of the altar stone, they placed a burning brazier.

Nedjemet and Kha'em knelt before their gods and prayed. They invoked Osiris and Thoth, Isis and Sekhmet, and then each holding a corner of the papyrus, they raised it high in offering, before lowering it to the flames.

For a few moments the papyrus was immune to the fire. Slowly, ever so slowly the parchment caught light. Within the flames they saw the faces of nameless magicians who had tried to possess the papyrus and had been, in turn, possessed by its corruption. The last face was Sabaf and then the papyrus crumbled to ashes.

Kha'em glanced at Nedjemet. His hand clasped hers. “We will grow old and die, hemet. I regret that."

"So long as we grow old together, Kha'em, I care not. Besides, death is not an end, but a beginning. We know this!"

"Yes. Kha'em knew this. He died for you. I would die a thousand times for you, my Nedjemet!"

"As I for you, my beloved!” She touched his face and he pressed his cheek against her palm. The action was so much like the Kha'em of old.

"The only thing this night has proven is that I can never have my fill of you. Come here!"

"As my lord commands, so I obey."

As Kha'em's body gently covered hers, she stared up at the ceiling. Through the skylight, dawn tinged the glass and the walls with gold: the color of Re. She glanced at the statue of Osiris and as the first of dawn's light touched the granite, the god's eyes flared, and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Her imagination, surely?

As Kha'em loved her, she snaked her hand beneath his body and rested her palm against her belly. Kha'em had died knowing that he would live again, rejoined in the body of Michael, but not knowing that he had placed a son within her womb that day in his tomb, four thousand years ago. Her pregnancy, then, the longest gestation in human history! And two men, the father of her child!

She smiled as Michael-Kha'em whispered the ancient words of love in her ear and probed the depths of her body.

Life blended with life in a love that would last for eternity.

Glossary:

Djehuty: Ancient Egyptian name of Thoth, god of writing and knowledge.

Hekenu: Magical, or sacred, ritual oils.

Hemet: Ancient Egyptian word for ‘wife'.

Ka: Ancient Egyptian term for a person's spiritual essence.

Kemet: Ancient Egyptian name for Egypt. Literally means: ‘black land'.

Ma'at: the goddess of truth and order. The ancient Egyptians believed that when a person died their purity of heart was measured by weighing the heart against Ma'at's feather. If the heart and the feather were balanced, this person was considered honorable and was welcomed into the afterlife. If the heart was heavier than the feather, this person was wicked and was sent to Ammit the eater of the dead.

Nome: administrative division of land in Ancient Egypt, each ruled by a Governor.

Sekhmet: Ancient Egyptian goddess of healing: she was also called upon to drive away the demons from those people who had been made ill.

Seshesht: Sistrum. Ancient Egyptian musical instrument primarily used by women in ceremonies or rituals.

Sutekh: Ancient Egyptian name of Set, god of chaos and confusion.

Wen-nefer: Ancient Egyptian name of the god Osiris who is principally associated with death, resurrection and fertility.

About the Author

Astrid has been writing since she was five years old and even then her stories were of the “fantastic": aliens, spaceships, knights on magical quests. Astrid is an award-winning, best-selling author whose works encompass many genres and many formats (traditional print, electronic and POD). Active in s.f. fandom, she has organized s.f./fantasy conventions, edited over 100 fanzines, and run several fantasy ‘fan’ groups. When not writing, Astrid works in her two and a half acre ‘garden’ in rural South Australia. She has other speculative fiction and paranormal erotica with Extasy Books (Pride's Passion and Forbidden Nights—an anthology of stories set in her popular “hunter/hunted” universe), and is planning/editing a mainstream fantasy novel of ‘epic proportions', has been offered a new contract by Zumaya for her best-selling book ‘Crystal Dreams’ and is contracted to edit an anthology ‘The Fabled Towers’ featuring stories about the Arthurian myth.

Astrid invites all readers to her website: www.astridcooper.com and maybe sign her guestbook and/or email her, as she enjoys hearing from readers and other writers!