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"You can't read her mind, can you? You're entombed in her maker. You can't ..."

"I do not read her mind from Mekare's mind, you fool," said the Voice. "I go stealthily into her mind as I go into yours! She cannot lock me out! But oh, if I were to seek to speak to her how I would terrify her, how I would drive her over the edge!"

Pacaya, an active volcano in Guatemala. Rhosh was gasping for breath. He was trembling.

"You must come now," said the Voice. "Khayman is lost somewhere in the north where I sent him to destroy. He is a ruin of himself, I tell you. He was never crafted for eternity as you were. The mere sight of him goads her to despair. He is a broken instrument. Come to me now. Do you know what a machete is? There are machetes all over in this place. Machetes. You know how to use a machete? Free me from this body! And if you do not, I will sing my songs to someone else!"

It was gone. He could feel that it was gone.

Where had it gone? Off to turn some desperate fearful blood drinker somewhere against another? Or to tempt Nebamun wherever he might be, or even Sevraine?

And what precisely would happen if the Sacred Core was transferred to such a being? What if the very worst happened and somehow that impulsive Lestat de Lioncourt got control of it in his young body? Perish the thought.

And Pacaya, what if she took her twin with her, rose into the air, and sought out that inferno? Oh, what agony would descend on each and every member of the tribe throughout the world as unquenchable heat and flame sought to burn the host of the Sacred Core?

Benedict had fallen asleep on the bed. Barefoot in freshly laundered jeans and a white dress shirt open at collar and cuffs, he lay there dreaming.

There was something about the sight of him sleeping so trustingly that touched Rhoshamandes. Of all the blood drinkers Rhosh had ever made or known, this one's body and face were a true reflection of his soul no matter how much time passed. This one knew how to love.

No wonder it had been Benedict who brought the memoirs of the Vampire Chronicles to Rhosh and insisted he read them. No wonder Benedict had so cherished Louis de Pointe du Lac's suffering and Lestat's wild rebellion. "They understand," he'd told Rhosh. "We cannot live without love. Doesn't matter how old, how strong, we are, what we possess. We cannot exist without love. It's absolutely impossible. And they know it, young as they are, they know."

Rhosh sat down gently beside him, and touched his back. The cotton shirt was soft, clean against his smooth skin. His neck and his soft curly brown hair were silky. Rhosh bent to kiss his cheek.

"Wake up now, Ganymede," he said. "Your maker needs you." He ran his hand over the boy's hips, and his slender powerful thighs, feeling the iron muscles under the starched denim. Had there ever been a more nearly perfect body in the Blood? Well, perhaps, in Allesandra, before she'd become a crone of her own making, twisted, leering, mad, a ragged monster of the Children of Satan. But this was surely the next-best body, wasn't it?

Benedict woke with a start staring blindly forward.

"The Voice," he murmured against the pillow. "The Voice is saying come, isn't it?"

"And we will, but you are to stay some twenty feet behind me. You come when I call to you."

"Twenty feet against monsters like this."

Rhosh stood and pulled Benedict to his feet.

"Well, fifty feet then. Stay out of sight, but near enough to hear my slightest command and come instantly."

How many times had Rhosh instructed Benedict in how to use the Fire Gift, how to muster it and send it against any blood drinker who ever tried to use it against him, how to fight off the power of another older killer, how to slam back with full force against gifts that seemed on the surface to be overwhelming? How many times had he demonstrated how he might do things with his mind which he'd thought impossible, opening doors, shattering them, blowing them off their hinges?

"No one knows the full measure of anyone else's powers," he'd said countless times over the centuries. "You survive the attacks of others when you fight! Fight and flee. Do you hear me?"

But Benedict was no natural warrior. In that short span of his mortal life on Earth, he'd been a prayerful scholar, only tempted by the sensuality of the natural world all around him to abandon his Christian god. He'd been a being made for monastery libraries and royal courts, a lover of gorgeously illustrated manuscripts and books, of flutes and drums and lutes playing, of blended voices in song, of the love of men and women in silken beds, and in perfumed gardens.

Not a warrior, no, never. He'd only sinned against his Christian god because he couldn't see the harm in loving passion. And the satisfaction of his rampant desires had always been easy, harmonious, pleasant.

A deep chill passed through Rhosh. Perhaps he had done the very wrong thing bringing Benedict here, but was he not infinitely more vulnerable miles away, even in the crypt, to some trickery on the part of the Voice?

Well, there was no time to go over a plan now, not when Maharet was returning to her fortres

s and when she might, with those preternatural ears, hear what she could not hear telepathically.

"Put on your shoes, we're going now."

Finally, they stood like dark shadows in the open window. Not a single mortal eye saw them ascend.

And only moments passed before they came down silently into the jungles surrounding Maharet's compound.

"Ah, you are here and not a moment too soon," said the Voice, fearlessly inside Rhosh's head. "And she is here. She comes and she leaves the gates open behind her. Hurry before she presses all her magical electric buttons and closes me off in this prison!"