Runner's Revenge was blasting a cover of the old tune "Do You Believe in Magic?" over the trideo system at LAX. They'd done something strange to the song, pumping a reggae beat under the glass- shattering shriek of the cyberjacked vocals of the lead singer, whose species, much less gender, I had yet to determine.

As the lead singer seemed to pop from the trideo, I looked around for connecting flight info. Nothing as simple as a screen showing takeoffs and depar- tures, I thought. Just as I was about to get on a tear about the uselessness of technology without practi- cality, Caimbeui grabbed me by the arm and steered me to a bank of flatscreens on the opposite side of the trideos.

We had ten minutes to make our connection to Portland on Cinanestial. Wasn't that always the way of it, though?

"We'll never get through Tir customs in time," I said. "When's the next flight out?"

Caimbeui grabbed my bag and slung it over his shoulder.

"Oh ye of little faith," he said. "While you were puttering about with Thais, I was making a few calls. No need to tell me how much you appreciate it. Let's just say we'll be experiencing no trouble about our VAVs. And, most importantly, there will be no need for your strong-arm tactics. Now, don't give me that look."

"I'm not giving you a look," I said as I raced along beside him. Though I am long-legged, I had to break into a quick trot to keep up with him. After all, he is a good head taller than me.

"I knew you'd never give up a tissue sample, and you know how persistent these low-level customs security types are. I didn't want you to do to them what you did to our friend in the UK."

"It got us in, didn't it?"

"But here it might set off alarms. And I want our arrival to be as quiet as possible. I've arranged things with a friend. We should have no problems."

I frowned. "And who are we going to be beholden to for this favor?" I asked. "I don't like owing any- one anything if I can help it. This will be dicey enough. You know what the politics are like here. They make the Borgias look like a close and friendly family."

"I'm the one with the favor owed, not you," he said. He sounded a bit exasperated. "I had forgotten how difficult you can be on a trip. At least you've learned to pack a little lighter."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" I said. But it came out more like, "And… just (gasp) what… isthatsupposedtomean?"

"Nothing," he said. "Do you have your Visitor's Authorization Visa ready?"

"Yes," I said. "And don't change the subject. I don't recall you ever complaining about my luggage before. Have you been nursing this grudge for long? As I recall, the last time we traveled together for any length of time was back in eighteen ninety-eight. Vienna. And everyone had trunks, not just me. You had two of them. Plus a rather large leather portman- teau that never would have fit on any horse…"

"We're here," he said.

I slid to a stop. The sleek silver, green, and white of the Cinanestial counter was in front of us. A male elf stood at the counter with a datacord jacked into a silver slot in his left temple running to the 'puter hidden behind the top of the counter. At the door to the plane stood another elf, who looked pleasant enough until you noticed that she had cyberware implants in both arms and a nasty-looking taser slipped into a tasteful sleeve on the side of her uniform.

Both elves were wearing the Cinanestial uniform: skin-tight dark-green material with bold color blocks of silver and white. Though I suspected they were both expert at being polite and serving the passen- gers, anyone who gave them any grief would likely be pulling pieces of his favorite anatomy part from his throat for a long time to come.

Before we even reached the counter, another uni- formed elf appeared in front of us. I didn't see where she came from, and the fact that she got the drop on me irritated me to no end.

"I need to see your VAVs, please," she said. The please was a mere formality. I had spent most of my time avoiding Tir Taimgire-and with good reason. Now I was waltzing in chin-first. Even with Caimbeui as my companion, I wondered if this wasn't a bigger mistake than facing Ysrthgrathe alone.

I passed my VAV across to Caimbeui, who put it with his and gave it to her.

"Stay here," she said. She turned and walked over to the elf at the desk. They talked together in low voices for a moment, then the counter-elf said something to the one with our passports. The customs elf put a deliberately blank expression on her face, then walked back to us.

"Go on through," she said. "Have a good flight."

Caimbeui took our papers and walked past with- out saying a word to her. I followed, trying hard not to give a smug grin. I failed. Oh, well.

Just as we reached the door to the loading ramp, I heard a commotion behind us. I looked over my shoulder in time to see the customs elf tossing a scared-looking troll to the floor as if he were a rag- doll.

All brawn, no brains. Some things never change.

The flight to Portland was about two and a half hours. I didn't make small talk with Caimbeui. I was afraid I might blurt out that he'd been in my dream, and then I'd have to listen to him crow about that for the rest of the flight.

He was a conceited bastard under the best of situations-I didn't want to think about how obnox- ious he would become if I told him.

And what was going on with my dreams anyway? I hadn't dreamed of Ysrthgrathe in several nights. It scared me because if he wasn't coming to me through that window, where was he going to come from?

Was he already here and waiting for me? Waiting to rip my life apart again? Or had I just dreamed him up? Pulled him from my nightmare past as surely as I had pulled him to me all those millennia ago? I wasn't sure now. No, I had to be sure. The fate of the world was riding on me. There was no room for mistakes.

We sank into the gray clouds as we made our ap- proach to Portland. From up in the golden sky to down into the rain and muck. I could barely make out the green land below as we popped in and out of the clouds. Rain smeared the double-paned win- dows.

"How are we going to get the Council to hear us?" I asked.

"I'm going to petition the High Prince," he re- plied.

"Lugh Surehand?" I asked. "I didn't realize you were on such close terms."

Caimbeui looked away.

"Don't tell me," I said. "He has no idea that we're coming, does he?"

"I'm sure he knows we're coming. There's very little that goes on in Tir Taimgire that he doesn't know. But I haven't contacted him directly. I thought it would be better to wait until we're actually in Portland."

"Why? And stop fidgeting."

"I'm not fidgeting. I don't fidget. That's an awful word. Fidget. You make me sound like a three-year- old."

"If the age fits."

He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the band that held his ponytail. Then he cursed when the band got tangled up in his hair. The more he tugged at it, the worse the snarl became. I slapped his hand away and gently began to work it loose.

"It's Aithne, isn't it?" I asked. "You're worried that when Aithne knows I'm in Portland, he'll do everything he can to see that I'm not heard."

I was surprised to see him look so embarrassed. The band came loose and I ran my fingers through Caimbeul's hair to make sure there weren't any more tangles. It was as silky as I remembered, cool on top and warm near the nape of his neck. It was an odd moment, filled with promise and regret. Then I pulled my hands away and held out the band to him. His fingers slid over mine as he took it, and lingered there for a moment.

"It's been so long, and he still hasn't forgiven me," I said. "I know I have no right to expect that he would, but all the same there's the hope in me that he might."