PART 2: "It always comes too quickly."

Chapter 7

Michael turned the page carefully. The book he was reading was very old and very fragile. It was also in ancient Greek, the oldest in Jesse's library that Michael could understand. In the ten years he'd been traveling with Jesse, Michael had been able to learn many of the languages of the world. Now he was learning the languages of the past so that he could read the intensely rare, fascinating books and journals that Jesse had kept or acquired over his long life. "Watcher Chronicles" Jesse called them. They were the chronicles of immortals written by the mortals who followed them and Watched them and reported on their lives.

It was a fascinating study. Here was an organization that was thousands of years old filled with individuals who followed the lives of men and women who inevitably outlived them. These Watchers would then pass the chronicles on to other, younger individuals who would then pick up the lives of the immortals and follow them, and the cycle would continue.

Because Jesse was a Watcher, Michael had access to these incredible histories. Being a mortal who was not a Watcher, Michael wasn't even supposed to know about these histories, let alone read them, but what could Jesse say? Technically, Jesse wasn't supposed to know about them either. Being immortal, he was breaking the rules every day just by being a Watcher. So Michael kept reading the Chronicles, reveling in the extraordinary lives written down in the mysterious pages, basking in the unimaginable events experienced by the immortals and the hardships and risks dared by the Watchers themselves on a daily basis.

The Chronicles reported on lives lived, loves gained and lost, and everywhere were tales of The Quickening, the life force released as immortals died. The books mentioned the names of the immortals, their Watchers, and the names of the immortals that killed them or were killed by them.

His favorite Chronicles were those written by Adam Pierson, a name taken by Jesse when Jesse was a Watcher a hundred years ago. Adam Pierson had been on the "Methos Project," a team of Watchers assigned to search for clues on the life and movements of the elusive Methos. Methos was thought to be the oldest immortal alive, 5,000 years old, if you could believe it. Jesse believed that Methos was a myth, a legend that probably didn't exist. Methos was Michael's favorite immortal, except for Jesse, of course. Methos was not only the oldest, he was the most mysterious immortal, the most unknown and unknowable. Michael devoured everything he could about the life and history of Methos, as sketchy and incomplete as it was.

"It Methos doesn't exist, why are the Watchers still trying to find him?" Michael asked Jesse.

"There's been sightings over the years, or so I've heard, or rumors of sightings, more likely. Even if it's only a rumor, the Watchers have to check it, to make sure."

"Did you see Methos at all while you were Adam Pierson?"

Jesse shook his head. "Nobody did. How could we? He doesn't exist. Although there are many people who are still looking for him."

"For his Quickening."

Jesse smiled sadly at his lover. "You are learning, aren't you?"

"Well, if Klepper was coming after you for your Quickening, how much more would he have wanted Methos's, who is 5,000 years old. Imagine the power."

Jesse's mouth tightened. "One can only imagine."

After a short pause, Michael asked a question he asked many times, but this time he had found a different way to ask it. "Jesse, your name now is Jesse Williams. A hundred years ago it was Adam Pierson. How many names have you had?"

"More than I care to remember."

"What was your real name?"

Jesse's eyes narrowed as he looked at Michael. "My real name?"

"You know, the first one, the one you were born with."

Jesse's face settled into stone, a clear signal to Michael that he was treading on thin ice. "I don't remember," Jesse answered coldly.

Michael watched as Jesse abruptly left the library. It was always this way when Michael tried to find out anything about Jesse's long life.

How long was that life? How long had Jesse been alive? Even now, years after even Jesse had to admit that he believed that Michael was Jesse's and only Jesse's, Jesse wouldn't trust Michael with that knowledge. "It's for your own safety," Jesse kept telling him when pressed, but Michael believed that there was more to it than that. Perhaps Jesse was afraid that Michael couldn't handle knowing how old Jesse actually was.

He sighed and went back to the Chronicle. Ancient Greek was a language Michael was barely beginning to master. It was very different from modern Greek, but it was worth learning, even if it was only to read this one, single Chronicle, a "Methos Chronicle." Usually Jesse would help fill in the holes in the Chronicles, telling stories, explaining ancient cultures, but Michael had a feeling that Jesse was not going to do that for him today.

Five years later, Michael was still following Jesse as the immortal traveled from assignment to assignment for the Watcher organization. Their lives were fairly uneventful. Michael had not been in a real sword fight since the bout with Duncan MacLeod 15 years before, and Jesse had not been challenged since Alan Klepper. They kept their edge and their skills up, however, by sparring with each other as frequently as possible, almost every day.

The two men had already started talking about Jesse leaving the Watchers, perhaps by "dying" and then taking another name. Jesse was keeping his interaction with people who had known him years before to a minimum, but it was going to get obvious very soon that Jesse Williams was not getting any older, and, being so close to immortals, someone in the Watchers was bound to make the connection.

For some reason, Jesse wanted to see Duncan, so they were in Paris where Duncan was staying at the time. Jesse had wanted some time alone with Duncan, so they stayed at Duncan's river barge while Michael went sightseeing. They had been to Paris some years before, but they had only passed through and Michael had seen very little. He gladly grabbed the opportunity to go off and see Paris on his own. Jesse was quick to remind him to watch his back, take his sword case and get away from any signs of trouble. Michael sighed and agreed. Waving to Duncan, he was off.

Duncan and Methos, two immortals, watched through a barge window as Michael, a mortal, walked away into the wilds of Paris, his sword case slung over his shoulder. Methos couldn't help but chew his bottom lip with worry.

"He's really sticking it out, isn't he?" Duncan asked, trying to keep it light.

"He sure is."

"Do you know why?"

Methos didn't answer. Finally Duncan continued. "You've left him already, haven't you? Before he found out you were immortal?"

Methos nodded.

"Why did you leave him back then?"

"I was afraid," Methos shrugged, being forthright for once. "I didn't think I could handle it."

"So why did you go back to him in the end?"

"He was in trouble. Allan Klepper had attacked him."

Duncan raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Okay, okay, I couldn't help myself, okay?" Methos admitted. "I had stayed away because he was with Robert and I didn't want to interfere. Well, I did want to, but--." He shrugged, letting the words trial off. "Then when I heard about the attack, it was all I needed to get back there."

"Perfect timing. He and Robert Brown were over."

Methos grunted.

"So now it's you and Michael. And it's been you and Michael for a long time. How is it going?"

Methos was quiet for a moment, then said: "Michael told me about a dream he had."

"Yeah?" Duncan said, pretending not to notice the quick subject change.

"He's an old soul."

Duncan frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Like Jacqueline used to be Elizabeth, remember?"

"Really? Who was he?"

"Jacqueline."

A thick silence fell as a stunned Duncan ran a hand through his hair. So it hadn't been a subject change. "When did he tell you this?"

"Years ago, after the Klepper thing."

"He told you that, and he's mortal, and you still let him go with you?"

"I told you, I can't help myself."

"So why are you in Paris?"

"I wanted to let you know that I'm going to have to leave the Watchers soon."

Duncan nodded. "Inevitable, I guess."

"Yeah. There's more."

"What?"

"Through some of the Chronicles, I found out there are two immortals who are hunting for someone who looks very much like Jesse Williams because they think that he may be Methos."

"Two of them? Who are they?"

"Craig Kallman and Margaret Pierce. Do you know them?"

Duncan shook his head. "How did they suspect that Jesse might be Methos?"

"I don't know. It's not very clear. I've been speculating that they've been talking to every immortal they've come across. They could have gotten a description of Methos from some people who knew Kalas. Apparently Kalas talked to more people than his mortal henchmen. Now if they kept on digging, they could have linked the Methos description to the description of Adam Pierson that they got from Roland Kirkland. I know that they talked to Kirkland, so they could have heard that description first hand. Remember how Kirkland was going around trying to find me?"

"Yeah, I remember. But, Methos, it all sounds so, so, I don't know, incidental and uncertain. Do you really believe that they've been hunting for you all these centuries just on suppositions?"

"I don't know. It does sound weak and implausible, but I do know that they're hunting for Jesse Williams because they think he's Methos. That's for sure. Maybe the Watcher connection linked Adam Pierson's description to Jesse Williams."

"This is unbelievable! How could they know about the Watchers?"

"Probably Kalas."

"That's right," Duncan muttered, shaking his head. Who could forget the way Kalas had found out about the Watchers, torturing then killing them one after the other? In that way, Klepper was probably a disciple of Kalas.

"I guess they don't care that the two of them going up against you together is against the rules of The Game?"

Methos gave a cold laugh. "Obviously they don't care. Somehow they think that they're going to be able to share my Quickening."

"Is that possible?"

"Who knows? Who knew that a Double Quickening was possible?"

The two immortals were quiet for a while as they thought about the time, long past, when Methos and Duncan shared an intense, personal moment gripped in the experience of a Double Quickening. They had both just killed two members of the Four Horsemen, an immortal band, at the same time and the resultant Quickenings linked them for a few moments in a way that changed them both forever.

That intense event was what probably led them to their short physical relationship. It definitely was the reason why Methos and Duncan could recognized each other's Quickening. Normally, all Quickenings felt the same, but because of the moments of the Double Quickening, Methos knew Duncan's Quickening, and Duncan knew his.

Going back to a previous subject, Duncan said: "Did you tell Michael about Jacqueline?"

"Yes. I'm thinking about bringing him to Montauk, showing him around. But I don't know. I've got stuff there that shows how old I am, and he doesn't know how old I am."

"Why not?"

Methos didn't answer, so Duncan said: "How do you feel about this? About him maybe being Jacqueline come back?"

"Well, I promised Jacqueline I'd wait for her. So--." His voice faded to silence as he rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair. "This is really weird, Mac."

"I know. And on top of that, you've got these two immortals hunting you, as Methos. That hasn't happened to you in a long time. What are you going to do about that, especially with a mortal in your care?"

"He's at my back, MacLeod. You've fought him. You don't think he can defend himself?"

"Yes, I do. He's pretty good, especially with all that fear and adrenaline, and if he's been practicing, he's probably even better. But who will fight him? They won't fight a mortal. They'll come after you, even with a mortal at your back."

"But the rules are one-on-one combat with no interference. He'll make sure that there's no interference, with his sword, if necessary."

"Okay, say they do decide that they'll fight a mortal, they could easily be better than him. In fact, it's almost inevitable that they will be. If they've been hunting you for as long as you think, they may be as old as I am. Maybe even older."

Methos said nothing to that.

"Does Michael realize the danger?" Duncan pressed.

"He doesn't know about Kallman and Pierce, of course, but he does know about the danger. He's faced it himself--twice--with Klepper."

"How does he feel about it?"

"We've talked about it in a general way many times. He wants to stay with me. The reason why he learned to use a sword was because I used one. Then, when he found out about everything, he realized that knowing how to use a sword is the only way that he could go with me and be with me. Since facing the danger is the only way, he'll face the danger. I can't talk him out of it."

There was a long pause as Duncan mulled that over. "So that's why you said that to me 15 years ago, so I would react with bloodlust, get his adrenaline going, duplicate the conditions in the field, so to speak?"

"Yes," Methos answered slowly. It was the first time they had spoken of the incident since it happened and Methos tread carefully, not wanting to stir up any bad feelings.

"You wanted to show him what it would be like," Duncan continued, "and to get my honest opinion of his ability." It was a statement.

"Yes."

"My honest opinion? I think you're both nuts, but if that's what you both want, then go for it. His abilities are as good as a lot of immortals and he should be able to defend himself. I think you should try and talk him out of it, though."

"I have and I'm gonna continue to try. It certainly would be easier for me if I don't have to worry about some crazed immortal trying to kill him just because he's traveling with me."

Michael and Jesse met up later for dinner at an outdoors Parisian café. Jesse was jumpy, and kept looking around him all through dinner. Michael was more than aware of the signs and knew that there was an immortal out there somewhere.

"He's playing with me," Jesse muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"He keeps coming into range and then moves out of it right away. It's just enough to tickle, and he won't come any closer."

"How do you know it's a man?"

"I don't," Jesse answered grimly. "I'm assuming, but it could easily be a woman."

"Maybe it's Amanda. You say she's always doing stuff she's not supposed to."

"It's not Amanda. She's tactless and self-centered, but she's not deliberately vicious. This is deliberately vicious."

They could not finish dinner, so they paid up and quickly left the café. They seemed to be just another couple enjoying the beauty of the Parisian evening, but Michael knew better. Jesse was angry, Jesse was on the hunt. He led them away from the bright lights of downtown Paris.

They didn't have to wait too long. In an alley, far from the populated center of the city, a man, sword in hand, stepped out of the shadows and spoke in clear, ringing tones:

"Craig Kallman."

Jesse and Michael stopped in their tracks. Eyes narrowing, Jesse studied at the man at the edge of the shadows. He looked familiar. Tall and pale, he had a bookish quality about him. He was balding and wore glasses, which had to be an affectation since immortals have perfect vision. Perhaps he wore them to accentuate his watery blue eyes and add to the intellectual feel of his persona. His hair was trimmed close to his head, so there was just a fuzz of color where he had hair. He smiled suddenly, a bare lifting of lips, baring his teeth. Except for that grin, he seemed almost sweet, very smart and quite friendly. The hard edge of that grin, however, and the cold, predatory gleam in his eyes let it be known that this gentle-looking man was a cold killer.

At the sight of that deadly grin, something careened off the back of Jesse's head and warning bells went off throughout his body. He snapped up straight, fists clenched, body tense, eyes glazing over with bloodlust.

The night shifted around Methos as the years dissolved as if they had never been. He lost many years in that moment. Not just hundreds of years, but thousands.

Suddenly it was a dark, humid night, and Methos was in filthy, unlit slave quarters, making his way toward his pallet. He, along with hundreds of other slaves, had spent the sun-scorched day toiling to get the barley planted. With great urgency they worked. The spring flood was starting to recede and the river was moving back to its banks. They had to get the crops in before the Nile shrank back to its normal size. But the day was over, and now Methos fell back onto his pallet, allowing himself a stifled groan. He was tired, but the aches and pains, cuts, and bruises from a long day were almost gone. He had to be careful. One thing his long life had shown him was that if the "normal" people around him found out what he was, he would be in for a long, gruesome, torturous death, if he were actually allowed to die. People at this time were not as barbaric as they were at the time of his first death over 500 years ago, but they were still pretty horrible when faced with the unknown.

The mild feeling of "presence" that was almost not there touched the edge of his awareness and Methos let his head fall toward it. As expected, he saw Kalfur approaching. The Sumerian was bleeding from his latest beating. Methos shook his head at Kalfur's stubbornness.

Kalfur was as tall and pale as Methos but older, in mortal years. He was almost bald, his sandy hair receding well back from his forehead and there were fine lines etched across that forehead and around his eyes and mouth. His piercing blue eyes were watery just now, exposing the depth of his pain and anger.

His well-muscled body made spindly by slavery, Kalfur was not the man he used to be: a powerful commander who led thousands of men into battle. An authoritarian figure in his home at Uruk in Sumer, Kalfur was a one of the leaders of the army that protected Sumer against the raids of the Egyptians and led offensives against Egypt in retaliation for the raids. His battalion was defeated one horrible day and, like all other survivors of the battle, he was made a slave. He chafed under the yolk slavery placed on him and rebelled whenever possible.

"It will only get you killed," Methos had warned him on several occasions. "You have to survive until you can find a way to escape. It's the only way."

Kalfur's only answer to this was usually a withering stare. Methos knew that the former military commander held him in contempt, believing him a coward. It didn't bother Methos. Another thing the immortal had learned over his half-millennium was that what people thought about him didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was life.

Methos never rebelled. He did everything he was told to do, no matter how demeaning, degrading or disgusting. It made him look like he was afraid of retribution, and, in a sense, he was. Methos could not afford to be punished since the punishment at that time, in that place in Lower Egypt, was a public whipping. His wounds would start to heal almost before the beating ended, so Methos avoided the lash. He was guilty of minor infractions, but those usually drew only a slap across the face or a backhanded blow.

Methos hated slavery as much as Kalfur.

Methos had been captured and enslaved as he made his way from the Tigris/Euphrates river valley toward the Nile delta. He was hoping to make his way through the swamps, marshes and bogs of the delta to the other side where civilization was not as prevalent. In the river valley he had just left, civilization was burgeoning and there were hundreds of people living in one place. He deliberately avoided Sumer since that area was even more crowded than the river valleys.

Everyone had started growing old around him while he remained young. His hair was as thick and dark, the pale skin that stretched across the prominent bones of his face, as unlined. It was past time to leave.

He had to be careful of the borders he traveled along as he made his way across the neck of land above the Red Sea toward the rich alluvial delta that marked the end of the Egyptian lands. Sumer was having border disputes with the Egypt, again, and one had to be careful with that arrogant new civilization.

Egypt was growing and prospering in its own river valley, learning how to use the yearly floods to grow the grain and cereal crops so vital to a culture yearning to match that of one like Sumer, which had attained its measure of civilization hundreds of years before.

Methos admired this new nation for its ingenuity, but did not trust the laws that changed with each new king. He also did not like their focus on death and the afterlife. They built entire cities for the dead, tomb after tomb, temple after temple, for the worship of the dead.

All of their ingenuity and resources went into monuments of death. Kings were building huge, triangular-shaped buildings just to house themselves after they went to the afterworld. The present king, Seneferu, was attempting yet another a monument to his godhead, the third that he was building, monuments that would stand, he claimed, until the end of time.

Seneferu had been right, after a fashion, but at this point in his life and travels, these monuments were not important to Methos. He was once again leaving a fairly comfortable home, one he had made for himself at Mari, a village on one of the westward-flowing tributaries of the Euphrates River. He needed to find a place he could settle in again before his secret got away from him. So all he wanted right now was to get through the Nile delta without getting embroiled in the turf wars going on at the time.

He was not successful.

Captured soon after he entered the delta, Methos was brought in front of the authorities and accused of being a Sumerian spy. His protests fell on deaf ears and Methos was enslaved by the Egyptians, immediately losing his status as a free man. He was sold to the nobles of a royal house in the city of Memphis near the throat of the delta. It was a powerful house with many acres of land on the banks of the Nile. They could do as they liked with him and they put him in the fields with slaves captured in border skirmishes and raids of the villages of Sumer. Kalfur was one of these slaves.

Methos's lips tightened as he watched Kalfur fall face down onto his pallet. The immortal focused on the welts, waiting for them to heal. They never did.

Kalfur was not immortal, no matter what Methos felt. So he might be pre-immortal. Methos had heard about pre-immortals, people who were not immortal until they were killed, then they woke up, never growing older, never getting sick, and never dying, unless someone took their head.

For the dozenth time Methos thought about killing Kalfur, possibly to gain an ally, and for the dozenth time, rejected the idea. The thought of killing someone before his time, without provocation, turned his stomach.

While Methos looked for and planned a way to gain his freedom, Kalfur fought for his freedom, and paid for it almost daily as the lord of the house worked to break his spirit.

The lord's wife took a keen interest in breaking Kalfur's spirit. The slave quarters were abuzz with it almost daily. For some reason, she enjoyed going after Kalfur. Methos, the (almost) ideal slave, rarely saw her, except from a distance, and after seeing how she treated Kalfur, he worked even harder to stay out of her notice. There was more to her story, however, as Methos soon realized.

The next day was like the last and the one before and the one before that. Everyone was out in the field, slaves and paid workers alike, rushing to get the tender shoots of barley in before the fields dried up. The taskmasters were liberal with their whips and the workers were moving feverishly, urgently, from one row to the next. Back bent, blistered by the scorching sun overhead, Methos toiled like the rest. Kalfur, still suffering from his beating the night before, moved slowly.

Suddenly the horns and "hurrahs" of the house servants were heard over the fields, announcing the approach of the lord or his lady. The workers paused, allowing their hands to fall to their side as they stood, head bowed, awaiting the word of their master. Sneaking a look, Methos saw the noble Lady in the distance surrounded by her entourage. Almost without thought, he glanced over at Kalfur. The Sumerian had gone even paler and was beginning to tremble. Methos frowned, again puzzled at the Lady Na'bir's obvious interest in a slave who was only a former military man. As she got closer, however, the reason became clear.

Na'bir was immortal, and Methos jerked slightly in surprise as the strong feeling of "presence" washed over him. He now understood. Na'bir had to have felt Kalfur's light, pre-immortal "presence," which explained her interest, although it did not explain her love of torture.

As Na'bir approached, her Quickening thrummed through Methos, pressing against his lungs and squeezing his brain. Inwardly, he wanted to start running. Outwardly, however, he didn't move. Hands clenched into fists, head lowered, he tried to disappear into the anonymity of the crowd of slaves around him, but Na'bir had already felt him.

Pausing, she looked around, examining the slaves in sight, knowing it could not be a member of her house staff. Inevitably, she zeroed in on Methos.

"Well, well, well." Her voice tinkled into Methos's awareness, softly modulated and seductive. Methos kept his eyes fastened on the water at his feet.

"Look at me, slave!" she cracked out.

Methos immediately raised his head and looked at her. His posture remained suitably servile, but his eyes were defiant as they stared into hers. She smiled slowly.

"How did you ever get into this predicament?" she asked.

"The usual way, my Lady." Methos fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, although he did allow one corner of his mouth to curl up into a sneer. "Traveling too close to a border with a war on."

Na'bir threw her head back and laughed. "The usual way, indeed." They shared another look, knowledge growing as they sized each other up. They had never seen each other before, but they were both immortals, which meant that they were kin of a sort. They "knew" each other, and despite the great differences in their stations and fortunes, were very much alike.

"What is your name, traveler?" she asked carefully.

"Methos. And yours?"

This time, her smile was cold and hard. "You'd best watch yourself," she warned. "I am not challenging you. I'm interested only for the obvious reasons." Giving a curt nod, she spoke to her guard. "Bring him." She pointed to Kalfur and added: "And that one."

The two men were grabbed and dragged back to Na'bir's mansion.

They were left alone and told to wait in a bedroom/drawing room suite. Methos sank into the nearest chair with a deep sigh.

"I don't understand."

Distracted, Methos looked up. He didn't really hear what Kalfur had said to him. Barely 500 years old and he was about to lose his head, probably for no reason. Seeing Kalfur regarding him suspiciously, what the pre-immortal said finally penetrated.

"What are you talking about?" Methos asked, annoyed.

"She acted as if she knew you. And why did she take you as well? Why are we here, instead of in the dungeon?"

"Good questions, all."

The two men swiveled toward the door, Methos coming quickly to his feet. The short iron sword in Na'bir's hand confirmed his fears. She closed and bolted the door behind her.

"Now we are alone," she purred.

Methos's eyes narrowed as he studied the woman coming toward them. She was the epitome of Egyptian beauty. Her skin was dusky and smooth, the color of burnt amber, and her eyes were an even richer brown than her skin, heavy lidded and alluring. Her hair was as black as obsidian, as shiny as the sun off the Euphrates and full of thick, luxurious curls. Her lips were full and inviting, but Methos could see her cruel nature in their harsh, ironic slant.

She stopped in front of them and leveled the sword at Methos. The old immortal tensed, knowing that the next moments would change his life--somehow. He couldn't just stand and let her cut his head off, but to attack her was an instantaneous death sentence--by decapitation! Methos's mind darted here and there, searching for options out of this predicament.

"I took him," Na'bir said, answering Kalfur's question, "because I know him, although I've never seen him before. And you are here because I am tired of living alone with these 'people.' I want more of my own kind around me."

"Your own kind?" Kalfur asked, confused. "I don't understand."

Methos, however, knew exactly what she was saying and suddenly understood the reason for the sword.

"Like him," Na'bir replied, and pointed at Methos with the sword, gently poking him under the chin. Methos did not budge, only allowing his head to fall back. Na'bir grinned at the gesture, her doe-like eyes hardening with a predatory glare. "Are you offering your Quickening, slave?"

His mouth tightening, Methos's own eyes hardened, the hazel depths revealing the killer lurking just beneath the surface.

Again Na'bir laughed at Methos's show of defiance. "I had heard that the new slave, one Methos from the Eastern Rivers, was meek, mild, willing to do whatever we demanded." Na'bir stepped closer, sliding the edge of her sword along the edge of Methos's jaw. He bit back a gasp of pain.

"Inaccurate, I would guess," she continued, watching as the slight cut healed, ignoring the cry of wonder from behind her. She noted that Methos showed no reaction at all, either from the cut or from Kalfur's cry. "I can guess, now, of course, why you were so compliant, unlike our friend here."

Suddenly turning, she swung the sword away from Methos and without hesitation, buried it in Kalfur's gut. Kalfur let out a strangled cry, and, clutching at the sword, fell to his knees. Looking up, he grinned at his killer, a teeth-clenching grin that hardened his face and revealed the battle-hardened military commander, a killer in his own right.

"You but free me, barbarian whore," he gasped. "You but--"

Death cut off his words and he sprawled onto the floor. Na'bir stared at him for a moment.

"Take the sword out," she ordered. "We don't want to delay his entry into eternity, now do we? Barbarian whore, eh?" she muttered at the bloody corpse. "You will pay for that."

Methos complied with her order without a word. Na'bir watched him thoughtfully.

"He's going to wake up to eternal slavery. I wonder how that feels? Wait!" she cried, pointing at Methos, a cruel smile lighting up her lips. "You're in eternal slavery! Why don't you tell me how it feels!"

Methos's hand tightened on the sword hilt and he started to lift it, but the will to survive took over. He dropped the sword, the cold sound of Na'bir's laugh ringing in his ears.