She had to cast her megrims aside and focus on the task at hand. Lucy was a bright, cheerful little girl, if a bit mischievous, and Sarah couldn't bear to think of her turned into a goblin. Not while she had anything to say in the matter.

There was one sure way to the center of any labyrinth, a solution Sarah had learned as a side note in some mythology elective. Place one hand on the wall, and never remove it. You might go into every dead end, and turn a thousand times, but you had to reach the center eventually. Sarah tried that, despite remembering that the labyrinth had changed all around her the last time. It seemed depressingly solid now, and perhaps the mundane method might work.

Within an hour, she knew it wasn't going to. The Labyrinth was simply too big. Her feet were sore even in her good walking shoes, her stomach was grumbling over her missed lunch, her hand was scratched by the crumbling stone and the thorny weeds growing out of it, and she couldn't help but notice the lack of restroom facilities. A real labyrinth turned out to be a real pain in the ass, much like the Goblin King himself.

Just as she thought that, she came to something familiar: a pair of doors. The ornately-wrought shields on them didn't speak, didn't even have faces. They were just heavy cast bronze, imposing yet inert. She could've hoped for speech, for some kind of clue, but there was nothing, and that made Sarah scowl. The Labyrinth had never been about random chance before.

Things had changed, and she might as well accept that. She picked the right-hand door and gave it a shove, stepping back quickly. That single step was what saved her; the door opened on a yawning pit, and the stone she'd been standing on tilted forward to drop her into it. Piece of cake, she thought with a smirk, congratulating herself for having avoided the drop-tile.

At least, until the one she'd moved to also tipped forward. Despite her precaution, despite turning to bolt the instant she felt the tile move, Sarah still lost her balance and fell, sliding down the pit's stone throat. Her reflexes were as sharp as ever, and she kicked out, bracing her feet against the opposite wall. Her hands flailed outward, seeking some kind of grip by which to drag herself out of this predicament. She managed, barely, to catch the edge of a tile with just her fingertips. It was enough to keep her from falling further, but not enough to pull herself up.

Suspended, Sarah could see the trap into which she'd almost fallen. No helping hands here—the walls of the pit were lined with sharpened stakes. The bottom was too far down to see, but she doubted she would've survived even if the spikes hadn't been there.

He's trying to kill me. The rat bastard is really trying to kill me this time, she thought, amazed and horrified. The rational, normal part of her mind stepped in to insist this was a particularly vivid dream, and of course she couldn't die in a dream. But the smell of stone dust just beneath her nose, the feel of grit under her palms, it was all too convincing. Sarah couldn't pretend she wasn't inches from dying.

She heard footsteps, boot heels on the tile, and knew exactly who was sauntering up even before she craned her head back to see him. The Goblin King again, resplendent in his finery, knelt down to regard her predicament. Sarah gritted her teeth and tried not to look ridiculous. She didn't think she was succeeding: sprawled on her belly, clinging to a crack in the tile, both feet pressed hard against the walls of the pit, most of her body hanging above the deadly drop, and not enough leverage to kick and claw her way free.

"Well, then," he said musingly. "It appears that the Labyrinth is somewhat more than a piece of cake, at least this time."

"Fifteen years, I get that you had to redecorate," she muttered. "Can't say I love what you've done with the place, though."

His expression turned quizzical. "I? No, Sarah. The Labyrinth responds to the mind of the runner."

"Bullshit," she said flatly.

"Come now. You've done your research, Sarah. You know what I am, and you know we do not lie." Yes, well, she'd read up on mythology and folklore, even while grounding herself in solid realism. Those studies, those stories, came in handy for analyzing children, who often cloaked real dangers in fairytale terms. Or so she'd told herself.

She'd learned the fae might not lie, but they could shade the truth a hundred ways, and Sarah knew that inability to lie was not the same thing as honesty. She didn't respond, only glaring at him, and after a moment he continued. "When you first came to my realm, you were still half a child. And like many adolescents, you could not conceive of your own mortality. A pit trap like this one was lined with hands that broke your fall and lowered you gently into the oubliette. Now, though, you are older and wiser, more aware of the cruelties of the world. You have faced the fact that the world began before you were born, and it will not end when you draw your last breath. Now, the stakes are higher, and any mistake could be lethal."

"Duly noted," Sarah said. "Are you going to stand there and preach at me about it, or get out of my way?"

"Actually, I had it in mind to assist you," Jareth said.

Sarah blinked in utter surprise. "Why would you help me?" she blurted out.

For a fraction of a second, his expression seemed hurt. But then the vain and prideful king was smirking at her again. "Oh, I do not mean to offer you such a boon for free, precious one. If I help you, it will cost you an hour."

"Hell no," she spat.

"As you will, then," Jareth replied, and made no indication of getting up or leaving.

So he meant to stick around and watch her inevitably-humiliating attempts to extricate herself from this particular screwup. Great. At that precise moment, Sarah felt the soles of her shoes slip a little against the wall, and scrabbled for a better hold on the tile.

Jareth's hand closed over her wrist, and it was just enough stability for her to get her feet set against the wall of the pit again. He let go as soon as she did, and spoke in conversational tones. "It is a generous offer, Sarah. You cannot hold on forever, and I will only take away an hour."

"Ten minutes," she replied.

That startled a laugh out of him. "Do you think this is negotiable?"

"Twenty," Sarah offered. Her fingers were going numb, and her leg muscles were starting to tremble.

"I admire your spirit. Forty-five minutes."

"Half an hour—shit!" That was it, her feet slipped, and Sarah threw herself forward in a desperate clawing scrabble for purchase. Her fingernails scraped the stone, bending painfully back, but it wasn't enough to hold her up, and she could feel those spikes ready to plunge into her legs.

Jareth grabbed her, yanking her up and toward him. Instinctively, she clutched his arms, falling back against his chest as he tugged her closer. They both ended up sitting down just out of the trap's range, with Sarah practically in his lap. Adrenaline coursed through her, and Sarah found herself panting to catch her breath. That had been way too damn close.

And so was this, she realized, as Jareth's arms tightened around her. He smelled like leather and sandalwood and spices, a scent she could bury her nose in and breathe contentment. His strong, lean body cradled hers as if they'd been made for each other. She was relaxing into him without even thinking about it, as if by instinct.

That's his magic at work, she told herself, but before she could shrug out of his embrace, he moved. One arm was still around her waist, but he pressed his other hand over the center of her chest, just at the neckline of the blouse. "Your heart is racing," Jareth observed. His voice was a whisper against her neck, his gloved touch was warm supple leather through light fabric and on delicate skin.

The effect he had on her was as predictable as it was dangerous. Sarah started to tip her head back, offering him her throat, and her body was already going loose and languid against him. The dreams she'd denied for so many years flashed through her mind: wrapped up in him, his lips on her neck, his voice husky, his body warm and strong, his hands moving over her possessively.

She caught herself in time, jerking away from him with wide eyes. Her legs were still a bit too wobbly from the near-death scare to hold her, but Sarah could scramble out of his lap, at least. "Forget it, I'm not that easily fooled anymore," she said, harshly enough that even she wondered who she was trying to convince.

His eyes were stormy, flecked with opalescence, but he schooled his features to stillness. "Of course not. Now, my last offer was forty-five minutes…" A clock faded into existence behind him, and the hands began to spin.

"My last offer was thirty," Sarah interjected, and crossed her arms.

It was worth it to see the Goblin King taken aback. "Nevertheless, I did not agree to it. I rescued you because there's no point negotiating with a corpse. You could not have held on any longer, so my final offer should stand."

He had an irritating point, but Sarah wasn't known for backing down, Aboveground or Below. "Fine, forty-five … minus fifteen for getting handsy, Your Perviness. I did not agree to being snuggled and groped."

Jareth actually rolled his eyes at her, an expression she was much more used to seeing on Toby's face. "Sarah, Sarah. As if you hadn't dreamed of such, and more."

"You wish," she spat.

His smile was dangerous. "Ask not what I have wished, precious one. However, I can afford to grant you the time, seeing as how you've barely begun the Labyrinth. Half an hour, as you insist." The clock's hands spun, and he rose gracefully, offering a hand to help her up.

Sarah refused to accept it, getting to her feet on her own. "Just out of curiosity, how the hell was I supposed to solve that puzzle?"

He gave her an arch look, then gestured toward the doors. Both of them opened, revealing identical traps. "If I were to hazard a guess, this appears to show that all choices are flawed and futile," Jareth mused. "Or perhaps that shortcuts are often the opposite. Ask yourself these questions, Sarah. It is your mind informing the Labyrinth now."

That sounded too plausible, and Sarah narrowed her eyes at him. "What about my friends? If the Labyrinth was running to my expectations, why aren't they here?"

Jareth's smile was crooked. "It answers to your belief, not your expectations. Do you truly, in your heart of hearts, believe that a cowardly dwarf, a gentle-hearted night troll, and a too-valiant fox-knight can help you now? Or, more to the point, do you believe there is anyone who would aid you? Is your life not a monument to your own independence?"

That hit a little too close to home. Sarah had to break their locked gazes, covering it with a heavy sigh. "If I find out you did anything to hurt them, I'll have your head on a spike. You know that, right?"

"You have an interesting way of answering questions, Sarah," Jareth said. "Consider this. Just now, the Labyrinth is as dangerous to them as it is to you. Or to me. In any case, I give you my word, I have not harmed your friends. Not in the immediate aftermath of their treasonous betrayal, and not now."

She glared at him. "Betrayal? That's rich. Who threatened Hoggle into giving me that damned peach?"

"Hoggle is my creature. My employee, in fact; he is the Royal Gardener. Sarah, you speak as if the peach was the worst harm anyone had ever done you," Jareth observed.

"It was a scummy damn trick," she spat.

"It was your dream," he insisted.

"Bullshit."

"You do keep saying that. Who, exactly, are you trying to convince?"

Her temper got the best of her, and Sarah stalked into his space, jabbing an accusatory finger at his chest. "If anything it was your dream. A bunch of lewd dancers fawning over you, and the 'beautiful young girl' chasing you around the place in a virgin-white ballgown? Only to practically fall into your arms like some empty-headed romance novel trope, and end up dancing with the guy who, one, is way too old for her, and two, kidnapped her brother!"

Jareth only cocked his head and regarded her curiously. "You still believe this is about Toby?"

"Oh, fuck me, it can't all be about me," Sarah snapped, throwing up her hands and stalking away.

"It can, and I would be delighted," Jareth replied easily.

Sarah came to a sudden halt and looked over her shoulder at him in utter disbelief. That lasted just long enough for her to wish for something to throw at him. Preferably a javelin, or a cannonball, or maybe a grenade. "That was a figure of speech," she said at last.

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "In any case, you know what I am, and how long-lived my kind are. Even should you live to celebrate your centennial, I would still be 'too old for you'."

"Point. Made." Sarah ground her teeth in rising fury.

"Fortunately, I am not overly concerned with such nice distinctions," Jareth continued blithely. "Nor are you, considering your history. I do believe every man you've loved has been older than yourself, if only by a year or two, have they not?"

She didn't trust herself to answer. Jareth was obviously baiting her, and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of losing her temper. Yes, she'd tended to go for slightly older men, if only because guys her age and younger usually didn't have their act together enough for her to want to bother. As she'd said once to Karen, flustered over the biker five years her senior, she preferred men to boys.

Jareth smiled at her, predator's teeth glinting white. "And there is also the matter of your dreams, in which you are utterly unconcerned with my age."

"Liar," Sarah spat out, the blood draining from her face. There was no way he could know about those illicit fantasies…

"Sarah, I cannot lie," he reminded her.

"You're ridiculous," Sarah said, striving to keep her voice level. "You're so hung up on yourself, your picture's in the DSM under 'Narcissist'. What makes you think I'd dream of you?"

"I don't think. I know," Jareth said conversationally. "Let me correct one of your misapprehensions. You've never seen my bedchamber, Sarah. I have never kept black silk sheets on my bed, save in your dreams. I most certainly would not do so if I were bedding you, with hair so dark as yours. Royal blue, or deep green, perhaps."

All the blood rushed back to her cheeks, burning crimson all the way to the tips of her ears. Sarah was torn between embarrassment and outrage. How dare he speak of her—not just her silly teenage dreams, but her—so casually! Color-coordinating the choice of bedding for better contrast with her hair…! As if he assumed she'd just swoon at his feet as soon as he mentioned it.

The worst part was, some tiny fragment of her fifteen-year-old self pictured the way her hair would look fanned across dark green silk, how it would brighten her eyes, how it would highlight her fair skin—and his—and wanted to swoon. "I hate you," Sarah hissed.

"You've said that in your dreams, too," Jareth replied. "As I recall, it did not stop you. Which, I assure you, I would have appreciated very much, had they not been only dreams."

That was the final straw. A loose brick caught her eye, and Sarah snatched it up, ready to chuck it straight at his gloating face. But Jareth had disappeared again, and she could only throw the brick at the spot where he'd been standing, swearing loudly and comprehensively.