“You are strong, little girl.”

“I brought you here to wrestle,” she says.

He glances toward a blue couch, then back to the girl, a small smile occurring upon his lips.

She shakes her head, slowly.

“Not as you think. First must you defeat me in battle. I want no ordinary man, whose back might be broken by my embrace. Nor do I want a man who will tire after an hour, or three. I want a man whose strength flows like a river, endless. Are you that man, Wakim?”

“You saw me in battle.”

“What of that? My strength is greater than that of any man I have ever known. Even now you are increasing your efforts to draw me to you, and you are not succeeding.”

“I do not wish to hurt you, child.”

And she laughs and breaks his grip upon her wrist drawing his arm over her shoulder and seizing his thigh in a version of the nage-waza that is called kata-garuma, and hurling him across the love garden.

He comes to his feet and faces her. Then he removes his shirt that was white, drawing it up over his head. He reaches high and places it upon a limb of the great tree.

She comes forward and stands before him.

“Now you will fight with me?”

In answer, he snaps a rose from the trellis and offers it to her.

She draws her elbows far back, tightening her fists at her sides. Then both her arms drive forward, fists twisting in twin blows which strike him in the abdomen.

“I take it that you do not want the flower,” he gasps, dropping it.

Her eyes flash blue fire as she steps upon the rose.

“Now will you fight with me?”

“Yes,” he says. “I will teach you a hold that is called ‘The Kiss,’ ” and he takes her in a mighty embrace and crushes her to him. His mouth finds hers, though she twists her head to the side, and he straightens, raising her above the ground. She cannot breathe within his embrace, nor break it; and their kiss lasts until her strength slackens, and he carries her to the couch and lays her upon it.

There are roses, roses, roses, music, moving lights, a flower that has been broken.

Now the Red Witch is weeping softly.

Her familiar does not understand.

It will, though, soon.

The mirror is filled with man upon woman and woman by man.

They regard the movements of Blis.

Osiris sits in the House of Life, drinking the blood-red wine. The green glow fills the air about, and nowhere is there anything sharp or cold. He sits in the Hall of the Hundred Tapestries, and the walls are invisible behind them all. The floor is covered with a fabric that is thick and soft and golden in color.

He puts down an empty glass and stands. Moving across the Hall, he comes to the green tapestry, raises it, and steps into the cubicle which it conceals. He touches three of the coordination plates set in the wall, pushes aside the tapestry, and steps into a room located 348 miles south-southwest of the Hall of the Hundred Tapestries, at a depth of 78,544 feet.

The chamber he enters is semidark, but a portion of the green glow can be felt within, it.

The one who wears a red loincloth and sits cross-legged upon the floor does not appear to notice him. His back is turned and he does not move. His body is normally formed, somewhat slim, and his muscles seem those of a swimmer. His hair is thick and as dark as hair can be without being black. His complexion is pale. He is leaning forward and does not appear to be breathing.

Suddenly, another is seated across from him, in an identical posture. He is dressed in exactly the same manner. His complexion, hair, and musculature are the same. He is the same, in all respects; and he raises his dark eyes from the small yellow crystal they contemplate. Looking up, he sees the orange, green, yellow and black bird-head of Osiris, and his eyes widen and he says, “I have done it again,” and the one whose back is to Osiris vanishes before him.

He scoops up the crystal, places it in a cloth bag with drawstrings and hangs it at his waist. Then he stands.

“Nine-second fugue,” he says.

“Is that your record?” asks Osiris, and his voice sounds like a scratched recording that is being played too rapidly.

“Yes, father.”

“Can you control it yet?”

“No.”

“How much longer will it take?”

“Who knows? Ishibaka says perhaps three centuries.”

“Then you will be a master?”

“No one can really tell in advance. There are fewer than thirty masters in all the worlds. It has taken me two centuries to advance this far, and it has been less than a year since the first movement. Of course, once it is developed, the power continues to grow…”

Osiris shakes his head and steps forward, laying his hand upon his shoulder.

“Horus, my son and avenger, there is a thing I would have you do. It would be good if you were a master of the fugue, but it is not essential. Your other powers should prove sufficient to the task.”

“What task is this, my father?”

“Your mother, wishing to gain once more my favor and a return from exile, has offered me further information as to my colleague’s activities. It appears that Anubis has sent a new emissary into the Middle Worlds, doubtless to locate our ancient enemy and destroy him.”

“This would seem a good thing,” says Horus, nodding, “if successful. I have my doubts, though, since he has failed each time he has tried. How many has he sent now-five or six?”

“Six. This one he has named Wakim is seventh.”

“Wakim?”

“Yes, and the bitch tells me he seems to be something special.”

“How so?”

“It is possible that the jackal spent a thousand years training him for this job. His fighting prowess may be equal to that of Madrak himself. And he appears to bear a special token none of the others bore. It would seem that he is attuned to draw energy directly from the field.”

“I wonder how he thought that one up?” asks Horus, smiling.

“It would seem that he has been studying the tricks certain of the immortals have used against us.”

“What would you have me do? Assist him against your enemy?”

“No. I have decided that whichever of us succeeds in destroying the Prince Who Was A Thousand, that one will gain the support of his fallen Angels who are numbered among the immortals. The rest should follow. Those who do not, will doubtless enter the House of the Dead at the hands of their fellows. The time is right. The old loyalties have been forgotten. A new, solitary liege would be welcomed, I feel, one who offered an end to their fugitive existence. And with the support of the immortals, one House can emerge supreme.”

“I see your reasoning, father. It may well be that it is correct. You would have me find the Prince Who Was A Thousand before Wakim finds him, and slay him in the name of Life?”

“Yes, my avenger. Do you think you can do this?”

“I am troubled that you would ask that question, knowing my strengths.”

“The Prince will be no easy prey. His strengths are mainly unknown, and I cannot tell you what he looks like, nor where he abides.”

“I will find him. I will end him. But perhaps I had best destroy this Wakim before I begin the search.”

“No! He is on the world of Blis, where even now the plague should be beginning. But do not approach that one, Horus! Not unless I bid it. I have strange feelings concerning Wakim. I must find out who he was before I permit such an attempt.”

“Why is this, mighty father? What should that matter?”

“A memory of days before your days, which shall remain unspoken, returns to trouble me. Ask me no more.”

“Very well.”

“The bitch your mother bade me lay different plans concerning the Prince. If you should meet with her during your travels, do not be swayed by any counsels regarding leniency. The Prince must die.”