Niall now felt himself rising above his own slumped body, not so much forced into the astral as ascended into it. He saw the whole of the pattern around him and drew it down, through the focal point within himself, concentrating it, filling the cauldron to overflowing. It shone like the bright Dagda's own, but around it the darkness of the vengeful Morrigan herself grew and cloaked his body like a black glove.

Then, like feeling the sun break through the clouds and begin to warm his face, he felt the presence of the spirit with him once more, searching for him, supporting him. He snapped back into his body, and was astonished at his own state. There was no pain, despite the blood on his hands and face. Not even any sense of fatigue. Within himself, Niall felt only power. It made him want to run forever, to go shouting down the stars with the sheer joy of it all, and at the same time wanting to be still, quiet, to save it, hoard it, to always feel like this. Blood mixed with salt as tears trickled from the aching corners of his eyes. He knew how very close he had been to death, and worse.

"Hold this," Mathanas whispered to him. "You are very vulnerable now, because you feel so strong. This is not the time to act."

The spirit held him and he felt pain return to his body. It was making him aware of the damage he had suffered, using its powers of healing on him; but making sure that Niall was not so intoxicated with his power that he became oblivious to the danger he was still in. He groaned as sensation returned to his chest and every breath felt like a tearing of his rib muscles. Even the touch of Mathanas, choosing to materialize himself just enough for the healing, was painful.

"Yes, I understand," he gasped. "Where can we be safe?"

The shimmering face of the spirit seemed to smile almost playfully. "You have asked me that these last six years," it said.

"This is no time for jest," Niall said huffily, aware that he was on the point of breaking into exultant, joyful laughter despite the painfulness of his chest. He began to untie the ropes, groaning again with the effort. Somehow, he was going to have to walk away from here. Even with Mathanas' powers, that would not be easy.

"I should have been an Arab sorcerer from the Arabian nights," he grumbled. "A flying carpet would be extremely useful right now."

"How do you know you weren't?" Mathanas shot back. The spirit was obviously in a flighty mood today. Niall wondered how the storm might have affected it; it was something he hadn't given enough thought to before.

"Let's worry about that later," Niall said, taking his first steps.

"I cannot change the terrain here. It would be detected," Mathanas said as the elf almost stumbled over the small stones littering the ground. "It would leave a trail."

"I know," Niall groaned. "And it's four miles to the car." He looked down at the cauldron, quite ordinary to the untrained eye, screaming with power to anyone who had the talent to penetrate its magical cloaking.

"Then again, having come so far, what are four miles?" he said in a voice far more cheerful than he felt.

The spirit followed him. It knew better than Niall how the delayed shock would affect the elf, who would need everything Mathanas could give in the form of concealment until he was able to rise and use the power he had gained. Mathanas loved Niall, feared for him, drew power of his own into that cloak around the cauldron. Within days they might yet be utterly destroyed.

"Frag off," Serrin growled sleepily, throwing a pillow at the door. If that fraggin' Englishman doesn't stop banging on the door, he thought angrily, I'm going to strangle him.

"Look, come on. The flight's in two hours. Be a good elf and get out of bed," the sniggering voice came from outside.

Serrin hadn't gotten much rest. Pumping music had kept him awake half the night, and clicking roaches most of the rest of it. Michael's idea about staying here might have been fine in theory. In practice it had turned out to be bad news. The clock said it was nine in the morning, his body told him it was still somewhere around midnight. And somewhere in between those times, Serrin remembered, was the commonest hour of death from natural causes, when the body just gave up on the struggle. It felt like it, too.

He felt slightly nauseous as he dragged his legs out of the bed and sat up. He wasn't entirely sure why; he'd drunk little and eaten still less the night before, happy to sit and listen to Kristen offering scraps of her past history, almost incredulous that he could possibly be interested in it. And, in all honesty, it was a small life; a drunken father, early abandonment, drifting and scavenging. In terms of significant events, it wasn't a footnote on a page. But she described people in ways that made their faces come alive in his mind's eye and she seemed to lack even a shred of bitterness or malice. Even when dismissing someone with that back-of-the-throat hiss she had, it was to mark them as an individual to avoided for the sake of survival and never as an object of revenge or even a grudge.

There hadn't been as long to talk as he'd have liked; she had to get the passport which looked like a decent enough fake, though Serrin doubted it would pass muster back in UCAS and unbeknownst to him, get a crash course in the hazards of the bush.

Halfway through brushing his teeth in the sterilized water from the jug beside the sink, he relented and opened the door. As usual, Michael was immaculately groomed. For that too Serrin could have strangled him.

"Everything's arranged. I've booked one of those tourist packages, camping in the veldt, that kind of thing. It'll give us the chance to ask questions when we get there. I've hired vans along the way as well. If we ever need to make a run for it, we'll have transport arranged. Here's

your copy of the paperwork," he said, stuffing a wad of paper into one of Serrin's back pockets.

"Fangyur," Serrin said through the toothpaste. He rinsed out his mouth, avoiding the tap water as Michael had urged him to do, then picked up a towel and headed for the bathroom. Opening the door without checking for occupancy first, he suddenly found himself with his arms full of the mostly naked girl stamping her way out of it. Startled, he began to mutter some apologies just as Kristen arrived at the top of the stairs.

The girl flounced past him, leaving him looking mortified. Michael creased up with laughter behind him.

"I didn't know it was occupied," he pleaded.

"So was Norway in the last World War and it put up a bit more resistance than you did," Michael shot back and vanished into his room, leaving a clear corridor between Serrin and Kristen. She hissed down the stairs at the girl, then glowered at him. He took refuge in the bathroom and drew the latch against her.

What the hell is this? he wondered, wetting his face and working up the soap. I'm thirty-five years old and she's half that. It's not lustful, not on my part. Is it a big-brother thing? Why does it feel like I've always known her when I don't feel that way with most of the people I have known for a long time?

Why the frag did I just cut my face?

The morning passed in a whirl of preparation, packing up, checking all the papers twice, then spending the inevitable extra hour hanging around the airport for the delayed flight.

This certainly wasn't any suborbital. More like the pride of Federated Boeing's 777A fleet, circa 2020. All that was missing was an ad for International Scrap Recovery Inc. adorning its tail.

"Oh swell," Serrin said miserably. "Did you dig out any data on aircraft disasters out here?"

"Yes, but I didn't want to worry you. There's a much higher chance of being murdered for your wallet on the cross-country trains anyway," Michael said coolly. Not sure whether or not the Englishman was joking, Serrin picked up his hand luggage and ambled through the heat haze toward the van offering to convey them the last hundred yards to the waiting flying coffin. It seemed singularly pointless. He could have walked it in a minute, but instead had to sweat it out for twenty inside the superheated van interior waiting for the last of the puffing tourists to board.