With a jolt, I realized that the prisoners’ front rows were all children, the adults behind them. Their skins presented a patchwork ranging from darker to pale colors and all wore rags of tattered mummy winding gauze.

This close I noticed that the “children” more resembled Bez. I doubted Ric had. A brief glimpse of this scene had stirred his rescue genes. He hadn’t yet encountered Bez and realized that the prisoners were petite ancient Egyptian adults and even smaller dwarves combined with-I blanched-some tall, pale folks in shredding knit tops and shorts… the occasional kidnapped tourist.

That dozens of stubby fingers clutched the rags of the taller bedraggled figures behind them was even more heartbreaking. Worst of all, I discerned a few of the “adults” cradling packages that were probably babes in arms.

“They’re still here,” Ric breathed, as if hoping such a nightmare couldn’t be glimpsed again.

He knew better, and so did I.

Beside me, Quicksilver sneezed and boxed at his wrinkled snout. To his sensitive canine nose, the very air we breathed was a torture of noxious, yet carnivore-tempting scents.

It was hard to imagine the immaculately clad Egyptian aristocracy, vampire or not, venturing down by the cave-side to pierce and suck these filthy throats. Expecting a smidge of nicety from a ravening vampire was probably a romantic twentieth-century fantasy the Millennium Revelation hadn’t debunked yet.

Ric had evaluated the whole nauseating setup. His expression showed how impossible this rescue mission was, even as the tourists cried, “Help!” and the smaller adults, dwarves, and children called out in no recognizable language but need.

Though Ric’s obsession to return here was crystal clear, what two humans, a dog, and a lesser Egyptian god could do for these lost souls was muddier than the banks of the River Nile in ole Egypt Land.

Small, smudged fingers reached across the twenty feet or so between us. Oh, lord, the last thing I could deal with at this moment was unclaimed orphans. And more ancient Egyptian vampires and gods.

Yet those ancient syllables called for aid.

Then I realized the most chilling fact of all.

They were not beseeching Ric and me and Bez, but someone-or something-behind us.

WE ALL TURNED around with a grim sense of foreboding.

I glanced at Ric and Bez, then looked to what they were staring at. The same thing I was. Nothing. Just the same-old, same-old decorative pillars.

Quicksilver sat still, ears on alert, a frown furrowing his canine brow. Then I looked up the pillars instead of just at the stone on my eye level.

This front rank displayed more than a wallpaper of earth-tone painted hieroglyphs carved into their sandstone surfaces. My eyes followed the ground-level vertical lines of cinnamon-skinned legs and traveled up to discern the subtly incised shapes of huge heroic figures marching fifteen feet high across the several pillars behind us. From the collared necks down, they were the traditional human. From the necks up, they bore the heads of animal, reptile, and insect.

No vegetables, thank goodness.

A glint of gold to my right made me turn that way.

Oh. Ah. Anubis.

Ric grabbed my arm at the same moment. “All these impressive figures must be Egyptian gods, but who and what is the black guy wearing enough gold to be the sultan of Brunei?”

On a pillar far down from where our party had broken through the front lines, thus making a surprise appearance, stood the most spectacular pillar sculpture of all: not cinnamon-skinned, but the muscular night-black human body of jackal-headed Anubis, god almighty. This was a giant version of the gleaming statuette I’d seen at a St. Louis museum. His sandals, kilt, armbands, headdress were all bright gold against his smooth, Nubian-black stone skin. The jackal head’s sharp black nose and tall, perked ears made Anubis the most impressive animal-headed god in a pantheon that included gods and goddesses with lion, cow, hawk, crocodile, and cat heads.

“Anubis,” I whispered in awe.

“Wanna bet,” said Ric, “Anubis drove the most awesome dune buggy on the beach in his day?”

Anubis was king of the pillar gods down here, no doubt.

“Along with Osiris, he was the head god of the dead,” I explained. “He specialized in embalming and protecting the dead on their journey to the Underworld and Paradise beyond if they were found worthy by Osiris. Osiris ruled and judged, and was the one to pass muster with. Or else.”

Anubis obviously meant a lot to the people penned together across the pit, but such commoners were often unable to afford mummification. While we gawked at the spectacular figure of Anubis, Bez stationed himself before another pillar down the line.

“Here he is, here he is,” Bez’s joyful voice broke through our joint bedazzlement.

Bez’s small figure already looked distant, but he was only eight pillars away, gazing upward with a grin.

“Come here,” his gruff voice ordered. “Anubis is pretty and more powerful, but here’s the only one who can help us, and them!”

A stone god could help us? Ric and I exchanged dubious glances as we hurried to examine Bez’s friend. We saw another fifteen-foot-tall Egyptian man, the only one not wearing an animal head. This guy stood in a shallow boat, and if he could climb off that stone carving, he could indeed help us. I stood transfixed to see the magnificent carving up so close. On this huge scale, the low-relief carving was quite deep, cut an impressive four inches or so into the stone.

I have to admit I’ve always prided myself on being a sensible girl. I’d never been a sucker for a boy band or rock music idol. Still, examining these half-naked ancient Egyptian wall studs was getting on my nerves. Was this a minor side effect of the Brimstone Kiss? Was I starting to become a hunk connoisseur at this late date?

Wowsa! Irma agreed. Does he play bass lute? This boy definitely needs to go electric.

I decided to act the reporter and objectively dissect the mystique. I’d never regarded these Egyptian male art figures as sex objects, but “dead” was no longer the negative it had been before the Millennium Revelation.

Whether depicted as a vibratoriffic nine-inch-high statuette or much larger than life, I had to admit they were impressive, always posed in action, one foot ahead of the other in mid-stride.

Knife-sharp pleated, white-linen kilts set off their native BC tans. They sported the deepest richest tans since George Hamilton, a terra-cotta pigment coursing with life. They always presented their powerful facial profiles, with “maned” wigs brushing broad shoulders that emphasized slim hips.

Front-facing kohl-outlined eyes seemed to look directly at the observer-you, the lone chosen girl in the mosh-pit crowd-despite their aloof, sideways posture.

They fostered the Brimstone Kiss groupie’s eternal hope: If only you could get this ancient hottie to look your way, he’d be lost, or at least interested.

This particular dude stood in a boat and held a staff. His headdress featured the sinuous upright form of a cobra with neck fanned for striking. I knew this “uraeus” was a royal or godly symbol. A star incised the sky on each side of the cobra-surmounted headdress.

No question, this guy was a stone star.

Immobile stone. What was Bez thinking? How could he help us free the penned prisoners? A god this size could have ferried them away with those bulging biceps for many return trips and still have left behind teeming masses yearning to breathe free.

Too bad. He was pretty but not useful.

Another glint of gold in the low light made me contemplate the Hunk Afloat on the Boat again.

Yes, that fugitive glitter came from his form, perhaps high-karat gold touches applied to his wrist and ankle bands, and the wide collar over his shoulders. Why did he merit the only gold work on a pillar god besides mighty Osiris, this mere boatman who didn’t even rate an animal head?