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"Is it!" Her voice had risen to a shriek. She saw the fear in him, she saw the ... what was it? He was not repelled as the others had been. No, it was something else as he stared at her. "Tell me where to find him!" she screamed. She took another step towards him, driving him towards the wall. "I will tell you a secret, Lord Rutherford. You are weak, all of you. Strange beings! And I like killing you. It soothes my pain to watch you die."

She rushed at him, grabbing him by the throat. She would shake the truth from him, and then kill him if he did not tell her. But suddenly strong hands laid hold of her, wrenching her backwards. For a moment she could not get her bearings; she screamed, blundering, and then saw the blue-eyed man standing before her. Who was this! She knew, ah, but it was just beyond her grasp. Yet the word broke from her: "Ramses!" Yes, this was Ramses, the blue-eyed one.... She ran at him with her hands out.

"Get out," he shouted to the other. "Get away from here. Go."

His throat felt like marble. She could not snap the bones! But he could not throw her off, either, no matter how hard he tried. Vaguely, she knew that Elliott, Lord Rutherford, had left the house, slamming the door behind him. And she was alone now, battling her nemesis, Ramses, who at another time had turned away from her; Ramses, who had hurt her. It didn't matter that she couldn't remember. It was like the name. She knew!

Through the room they struggled and into the other. She freed her right hand only long enough to scratch at him with her bone-bare fingers, before he caught her wrist again. With all her strength she fought him, seething with rage. Then she saw his hand go up. She tried to duck, but the blow caught her, and she fell back on the bed. Sobbing, she turned and pushed her face into the pillows. She could not kill him! She could not snap his neck.

"Damn you," she roared, not in the new tongue but in the old one. "Evil Ramses!" She spat at him as she lay there, hands drawn under her breast, gazing up at him, wishing she had the strength of a cat to spring at him and slice open his eyes.

Why did he look at her like that? Why did he weep?

"Cleopatra!" he whispered.

Her vision blurred for an instant; a load of memories so vast and heavy hovered just near her, ready to wipe out the moment utterly, should she give in. Dark, awful memories, memories of suffering she never wanted to revisit again.

She sat up on the bed, looking at him, puzzling over the tender, wounded expression of his face.

Handsome man he was; beautiful. Skin like the young ones; firm, sweet mouth. And the eyes, the large, translucent blue eyes. She saw him in another place, a dark place, as she rose up out of the abyss. He'd been bending over her saying the ancient prayer in Egyptian. You are, now and for always.

"You did this to me," she whispered. She heard the glass breaking, the boards shattering, felt those stones under her feet. Her arms had been blackened, withered! "You brought me here, to these 'modern times,' and when I reached out to you, you ran from me!"

Like a boy, he bit his lip; trembling, tears washing down his cheeks. Should she pity him in his suffering!

"No, I swear it," he said in the old familiar Latin. "Others came between us. I would never have left you."

This was a lie. An awful lie. She had tried to rise off the couch. The poison of the snake was paralyzing her. Ramses! In panic, she'd called out; she could hear her own call. But he hadn't turned from the window. And the women around her, they pleaded with him. Ramses!

"Liar!" she hissed. "You could have given it to me! You let me die!"

"No." He shook his head. "Never."

But wait. She was confusing two different crucial events. Those women. They hadn't been there when he said the prayers. She'd been alone ... forever and ever. "I'd been sleeping, in a dark place. And then you came. And I felt pain again. Pain and hunger, and I knew you. I knew who you were! And I hated you!"

"Cleopatra!" He came towards her.

"No, stay back. I know what you've done! I knew it before. You've brought me back from the dead!" she whispered. "That's what you've done. From the grave, you raised me. And this is the evidence of it, these wounds!" Her voice had almost dried in her throat from pure bitterness. Then she felt the scream coming; she gasped, unable to hold it off.

He grabbed her by the arms, shook her.

"Let me go!" she cried. Calm now. No scream.

For a moment, he held on to her and she allowed it; after all, fighting him was useless. But then she smiled slowly. The thing was to use her wits. To understand all this once and for all.

"Oh, but you are very handsome, aren't you?" she said. "Were you always so beautiful? When I knew you before, we made love, didn't we?" She lifted her fingers and touched his lip. "I like your mouth. I like the mouths of men. Women's mouths are too soft. I like the silkiness of your skin."

Slowly she kissed him. Before it had happened; before it had been so heated that all other men had meant nothing to her. If only he had given her the freedom, the patience, she would have always returned to him; why hadn't he understood? She had to live and breathe as the Queen of Egypt. Hmmmmm, kissing him, hot as it had been then.

"Don't stop," she moaned.

"Is it you?" he said. Such pain in his voice. "Is it really you?"

She smiled again. That was the horror, wasn't it? She didn't know the answer herself! She laughed. Ah, it was very funny. She threw back her head laughing, and she felt his lips on her throat.

"Yes, kiss me, take me," she said. His mouth mov

ed down her throat, his fingers opening her dress, his mouth closing on her nipple. "Aaaaah!" She could scarcely stand it, the searing pleasure of it. He held her captive suddenly, his mouth clamped to her, tongue stroking the nipple, pulling on her with the ferocity of a suckling child.