Marcus grabbed Rhys’s shoulder and spun him about. “Did you hear that?”
Trevor looked up from securing his raft and grunted. “Hear what?”
“Gwen, calling Rhys.”
“Rhys, brother, I need ye. Please answer.”
Rhys shook his head. “I hear nothing.”
Marcus spit out a curse. “How can you not? She’s in trouble. She’s calling you.”
He scanned the forest. Surely Gwen was nearby. Her voice … it couldn’t be magic. It was impossible. He
had
no magic. “I hear her …” He swallowed. “It sounds like she’s inside my head.”
Rhys stared. “Ye hear Gwen in your mind?”
Marcus nodded.
“Has … has this happened before?”
“No. Of course not. How could I—” He broke off. “I have not heard her in my mind. Not like this. But I’ve
felt
her there. Ever since …” Ever since the night they’d made love in the woods near the barley fields, after he’d watched her shift. The night she’d told him she loved him. “I didn’t realize what it meant until Gwen left Isca and I went after her. I found her because I … sensed her. And now I hear her. She’s calling you.”
“Answer her,” Rhys said tersely.
“What?
How?”
Rhys made an impatient gesture. “Just concentrate … and direct your thoughts to her.”
“But … that’s magic.”
“Aye. It is.”
Marcus hesitated, then nodded. Drawing a deep breath, he reached inside for Gwen’s presence. It felt … ridiculous.
“Gwen?”
There was an instant of startled silence, then, tentatively, incredulously …
“Marcus?”
“Yes. I … can hear you. Gwen, are you with Strabo? Has he … has he harmed you?”
“Not yet. But Marcus, he intends to have me. Soon. I convinced him to leave the mining camp. I told him I wanted privacy. I thought I could get away, but he’s smothered my magic. I cannot fight him. I could not call Rhys. But ye …”
“I’m coming for you.”
“But Marcus, I do not know where I am! Strabo has conjured an illusion around us.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can find you. As I did before. Do whatever you can to delay him. We’re not far from you, I think.”
“We?”
“Rhys and Trevor are with me.”
“Ye met them on the road?”
“No. In Avalon.”
“Avalon? But how did ye find your way—”
Gwen broke off abruptly.
Her fear burned hot in Marcus’s mind.
“Gwen? What is it?”
“Oh, Marcus
—hurry.”
“Come, my love. It’s time.” Strabo held out a hand. He gave no indication he was aware Gwen had spoken with Marcus in her mind. Marcus! Not Rhys. She could not quite believe it.
She kept her voice steady. “I am not the woman ye … lost. Having me will not bring Tamar back.”
“You are the very image of her. Tamar would be glad to see us together.”
“She would not, knowing that I do not wish it.”
He gave an impatient shake of his head. “You do not understand. You are mine now. You have no choice. And truly, there is nothing to fear. I will give you pleasure.” His lips twisted. “And power. Power that flows from a desert land.”
“Egypt.”
“Yes.”
Delay,
Marcus had told her. She seized on the subject. “Tell me of that land. It is vast and dry, is it not?”
“Yes. The desert goes on and on, like a sea. A sea of sand and heat. The gods there are ancient, their powers vast. And for one who has learned their secrets, as I have—”
“Secrets of Deep Magic.”
“Yes.” He waved an arm. “I have gained the favor of a god—some call him a demon. Men know him as Apep. Ah, I see you cannot conceive of the power he has granted me. I will show you a taste of it.”
He spoke a Word. A ball of Dark flame appeared in his right hand. As Gwen watched in horror, Strabo passed the flame over the bare skin of his forearms. Flesh puckered and burned, its stench assaulting her nostrils. Strabo’s face was rigid with pain; his teeth clenched and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. “Apep,” he said softly. “I am ready.”
Gwen was aghast. What manner of Deep Magic was this?
She bit back a cry as the flame expanded, consuming his body until it burned like a hideous human torch. Then she blinked, as his outline shifted. Reformed.
Great Mother.
Strabo was a shifter, like herself. Like Rhys.
The flame burned out, leaving Gwen to gape at what Strabo had become—a beast far beyond Gwen’s darkest nightmare. Twice as large as a man, its long, sinuous body glittered darkly, supported by thick, squat legs. Sharp, jagged teeth protruded from an elongated jaw. Dark wings, webbed like a bat’s, unfurled from its back.
Its roar was like thunder. When it reared, tongues of fire shot from its mouth. She fought to keep her voice steady. “The beast … it cannot be real. It must be an illusion.”
Abruptly, the creature collapsed in upon itself, reforming into the shape of a man. Strabo stood before her once more, obscenely calm and unruffled. His forearms, which she had seen hideously burned, were smooth and unmarred.
His white teeth flashed. “No illusion. My demon form is real. More real, perhaps, than my human form.”
“What … what did ye become?”
“A son of the god Apep, who is the sworn enemy of the Egyptian sun god, Ra. Apep is the Darkest aspect of Deep Magic. His is a power that can never be defeated.”
“He grants ye that form in return for your pain?”
“A small price to pay for the powers of Darkness and Deep Magic.”
“And yet, ye have yet to smother Avalon’s Light.”
“Light.” Strabo spat the word. “Cyric may shroud his sacred isle with Light, but eighteen years ago, he did not hesitate to call Darkness down upon his enemies. Upon me. He should have killed me along with Tamar. Since then, I have dreamed of nothing but Cyric groveling at my feet, begging for mercy that I do not grant him. I
will
destroy his loathsome mist. When I do, I will show him I have taken you as my own, in Tamar’s place. And then, I will kill him.”
Strabo reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. Gwen stifled a scream as he yanked her down on the fur-strewn bed.
“Enough talk. You are mine. The sooner you understand that, the easier it will be. I will give you pleasure, that I promise you. And you will love me, as your mother did.”
He pressed her into the cloud-soft mattress, aligning his body with hers. Gwen felt his arousal, hard and heavy on her thigh. How had Mama loved this man? Was it true what he said? That Cyric had killed Tamar?
Or was Strabo lying to gain Gwen’s favor? Her senses filled with horror. She struggled to get free of him; he caught her arms and pinned them to the furs.
Panic clogged her throat. She closed her eyes and summoned the wolf. Her Deep Magic was dim, but present. She reached for it, only to have it recede into a blue-black fog. And Marcus? Where was he? She called for him with her mind. Strabo’s magic flared, smothering her call.
His hips shifted. His shaft prodded, his knee forced her legs to part. Pure terror struck; Gwen twisted, gasping and kicking with all her strength. But all her strength was like nothing compared with his. When she realized her struggles only inflamed his lust further, she stilled.
He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply. “Ah, Tamar, how I’ve longed for you. How lonely these years have been without you.”
“I am not my mother,” Gwen whispered. “If ye truly loved her, ye would not do this.”
“Hush, my sweet.” He nibbled the corner of her mouth. His hand came up to cup her breast. “We will be together at last. I swear it.”
“No,” a hard voice said. “You will not. Release her. Now.”
Marcus! Gwen tensed. Strabo’s head jerked up. Without moving even a fraction from Gwen’s body, he glanced behind him.
Marcus stood with sword drawn and murder in his eyes. Rough and dirty and forbidding, he was an incongruous figure within Strabo’s elegant garden bower illusion. More warrior than smith. With Exchalybur’s tip trained on Strabo, he advanced.
Strabo laughed. Dark smoke began to seep from the ground. The mist rose quickly, partially obscuring Marcus behind a hazy veil. He slashed at the barrier. The sword struck it and rebounded as if the smoke were solid.
“Who is this man? No sorcerer, though his sword holds some slight magic. You are Roman, so I will be kind. Go now, and perhaps I will forget you were here.”
Marcus’s expression did not change. Twisting Exchalybur’s angle slightly, he slashed again at the Dark mist. This time, the sword cleaved it in two, creating a clear path through Strabo’s enchantment. “Get away from her. Now.”
Strabo released Gwen’s wrists and shoved himself off the mattress. Gwen scrambled backward. Her feet hit the ground on the opposite side of the bed just as two figures materialized behind Marcus. Rhys and Trevor, with Words of Light on their lips. White Light arced between them. Strabo’s garden illusion cracked, then dissolved, running into the ground like muddy water. The edge of the swamp melted into view. The silken bed changed into a patch of moss.
Strabo threw back his head and laughed. “Do you think your spells of Light will stand against me? I can kill you where you stand. But for what purpose? I do not bear hatred for any of you.” He addressed Rhys. “Especially you, Tamar’s son. I only claim what is mine. This woman and Cyric’s life. But know this: I
will
kill you if you persist in this folly.”
Rhys and Trevor continued their chant as if the sorcerer had never spoken. Gwen recognized the spell they invoked—a powerful protection of Light. It beat back Strabo’s Darkness; her own magic surged in response, suddenly free.
Strabo countered with a guttural Word. Gwen felt the evil even before the fire appeared in his palm. Dark flame consumed his body; his form began to change. The wolf, recognizing its enemy, rose on all fours, fur bristling. In the marrow of her bones, she felt the shift begin. In that moment Gwen understood she had no choice. The beast inside her would not be restrained. As the wolf, she could not wield the Lady’s sword. The weapon would remain with its maker. Marcus.
His gaze swung to her. He felt the wolf, she realized, even before it had emerged. “Gwen, no. You must take the sword.”
She tore off her tunic, wrenched the pendant from about her neck. “Nay. The Lady’s sword is yours. Use it, Marcus. Help me defeat him.”
They were her last words before the wolf took possession of her body.
Marcus gripped Exchalybur. Magic swirled, Light mingling with Deep Magic and Darkness. How he was able to stand in the middle of it unscathed, he did not know. Did the sword protect him? Or was Rhys shielding him with Light? He did not know.
He could feel Gwen changing. She’d left the Lady’s sword to him. He was no Druid; he did not have the magic to wield the sword. And yet, it seemed the duty had fallen to him.
The ground heaved under his feet. He shifted his stance. The scent of burning flesh filled the air. He blinked into a Dark mist, searching for Strabo. There.
Rhys’s chant faltered. Trevor bit off a curse as Strabo laughed. The sorcerer held fire in his hands; as Marcus watched in disbelief, Strabo allowed the tongues of fire to consume his flesh. An unearthly sound emerged from his throat as his body went up in flames. His outline shifted and re-formed; black smoke thickened and folded back upon itself. Marcus blinked as it congealed into a creature with a snakelike body, squat legs, and a hideous, sharp-toothed snout.
He reached for Gwen with his mind.
“What is it?”
“Strabo. In the shape of a demon of Egypt.”
Flames spewed from the thing’s mouth, blistering the air. Exchalybur vibrated. Marcus held it aloft; the bright iron absorbed the fire. The demon turned on Rhys and Trevor; a Dark blast of fire issued from its mouth. The Druids’ Light sputtered and died as black smoke enveloped them. When it cleared, they lay unmoving.
“Rhys!”
Gwen’s horror burst into Marcus’s mind. He could not see the wolf; it was somewhere behind him. But he could feel her human agitation, merged with the panic of her animal mind.
“Steady,”
he told her.
She didn’t reply.
The demon swung toward Marcus. Its eyes glowed red; its jaws gaped. As the monster charged, Marcus leaped to one side and swung his sword. Exchalybur connected with scaled skin. Thick black blood spurted forth. The impact nearly caused Marcus to drop the sword. Then it righted itself. The bright iron seemed almost … alive. As if it possessed intelligence of its own.
That intelligence hated its opponent with a rare and deadly zeal. It wanted to fling itself into the demon’s jaw, and did not care if it took Marcus with it. Marcus fought with all his strength to keep the weapon under some semblance of control.
He swung about, anticipating the demon’s next charge. But the thing hung back, circling slowly, swiping almost leisurely at its prey. Marcus met each attack with a slash from Exchalybur. Some blows missed, others struck deep, drawing blood. Marcus continued this course until he realized each injury seemed, paradoxically, to strengthen the demon.
With a flash of insight, he understood. Strabo was absorbing the Deep Magic of the Lady’s sword, and making it his own. With an oath, Marcus retreated. There was no merit in fighting if his every blow only made his enemy stronger.
* * *
Rhys and Trevor lay prostrate; Marcus was faltering. Strabo’s demon form was drawing power from Exchalybur. Gwen fought the terror welling in her human mind. Consciously, she allowed the wolf to take control. The animal was a creature of Deep Magic as much as Strabo’s demon was. It could fight him, where Gwen’s Light could not.
The demon’s long neck twisted, its horrifying mouth spewing flames in Marcus’s direction. He met it with Exchalybur’s blade, absorbing the Dark fire. As he did, the demon seemed to grow larger. It reared back, gathering its strength; Gwen was sure its next blast would kill.
With feral strength, she leaped, skidding to a halt between Marcus and the beast. Ignoring his shout, she darted between the demon’s heavy legs, evading one of its sharp talons by less than the length of her tail. Flames shot out, singing her fur.