Author's Notes: Well, it's good to be back! Not that I was away long, mind, but it's always so good when you get to post something. So I present you with the chapter my lovely beta-reader sent me just before the weekend – trouble is, when I stay home in Bordeaux I can have access to Internet only through the university library. So there :o) The title is a song by Blue Öyster Cult, and I'd thought it fitted the mood – and what happened. Basically, Alex wonders, Evy ponders, and Tom makes a bold move :o)

Oh, and those (and there is a whole lot of you!!) who liked/loved Laurie M's Deeper Within Darkness can check the sequel, Chasing Shadows. First chapter looks fantastic – go, Laurie :o)

Disclaimer: A friend of mine who's not into fanfiction asked some things about what I was reading/writing and, as someone who likes the matters of law and how it applies to the Internet community, she also asked me about the disclaimer. So I said that, basically, I stated that although I used characters, names and various things that were invented by others (in this case Steve Sommers) and were owned by other others (in this case Universal Pictures), there were some things in my story that were mine and mine alone, such as the characters of 'Charles Hamilton', 'Fahad Hakim', 'Sheik Razek al-Simbel' and 'Abbas' – not to mention 'Tom Ferguson'. And boy, you must be bored to tears if you're reading this. I just hope you're not after my money :P

FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM

Chapter 10: In the Presence of Another World

Alex O'Connell usually got up pretty quick in the morning. There was always something interesting to do then, even – especially – on Sundays, when he was the first awake. For instance, grabbing a stool to try and nick some interesting books in the library – those he was forbidden to read, of course. So far, he'd fallen across a number of books with plenty of images about how to make mummies (see Picture n°3 for details), something about medicine and anatomy that left him wondering certain things for a few weeks, and a couple of stupid novels about folks – especially girls – 'discovering life' and doing mushy or yucky stuff. Those had been by far the least interesting. They weren't even funny.

But right now, as he slowly became aware of sounds and things surrounding him, his eyelids still stuck shut by sleep, Alex wasn't in any kind of hurry to wake up. He was curled up in his bed, breathing deeply, and he felt rather good about it. Now he understood what so many people liked about lie-ins.

However, he realised that it was pretty hot inside the room as he brushed his fringe, plastered on his forehead by sweat, from his eyes. He didn't know what time it was, but it seemed that the worst of the afternoon heat was passed; it was dark too, as he noticed, even through his closed eyelids – his mum must have closed the shutters when she had put him to bed last night. Or morning.

Now there was a good question. When had the conversation finished last night? Alex swore inwardly, cursing himself for not staying awake to hear the rest of the conversation. Maybe he hadn't heard it, but they had actually found a solution. Heck, knowing Ardeth and the Medjai in general, maybe they'd already set up some sort of miracle plan to get his dad and uncle out of whatever place those strange guys had taken them to.

Alex's eyes popped open as if of their own accord. Maybe his dad was already here. Maybe if he went over to his parents' room, he'd find his mum and dad sleeping in each other's arms. Maybe Uncle Jon would then stumble out of his own room, yawning and scratching his neck, walking with his eyes closed and bumping into the walls until he fixed himself some tea. And he and Alex would grouse in chorus because, as usual, Mum and Dad would hug and kiss and stuff.

For a second, this wild hope turned Alex's heart upside down, and he sat up quickly, almost expecting all of this to happen. A half-second later, he started when he saw Ardeth Bay sitting on a chair a few feet away. And the wild hope that had flared for a second in his chest died down, leaving the boy with a very slight knot in his stomach.

"Good, you're awake. I thought that you might wake up before your mother."

Alex made a quick mental note of never laughing at Uncle Jon again when Ardeth startled him by appearing out of the blue, and asked, a bit puzzled, "What're you doing here?"

Ardeth actually gave a grin. Discreet, but a real one. "This question seems to come back a lot where I'm concerned."

"Yeah …" Alex ran a hand through his hair. His neck was soaked. "I s'ppose. Sorry."

"Do not be. I came here to bring some news. And bring back the letter to your mother."

"What letter?"

"When your mother came home this morning, she found a letter from the men who have taken your father and your uncle. But it is nothing of great importance."

'Nothing of great importance' It was important if it was from the kidnappers! "What'd it say?"

Ardeth looked at him seriously. "It only meant to frighten your mother. But I highly doubt that she would be frightened so easily."

Yep, he's got a point there. "Mum?" Alex gave a broad grin. "She's afraid of nothing."

"Don't you think that's giving me a little too much credit?" came a soft voice by the door. Alex hadn't even heard his mum entering the room.

She came to sit on his bed and ran a tender hand through his hair, smiling. And he let her do, because even if it was a tad embarrassing to have his mum fuss over him in front of people, well … she was his mum. And, come to think of it, Ardeth wasn't 'people'. Ardeth was Ardeth – almost family.

"How are you, Evelyn?" Ardeth asked. She rubbed the back of her neck and blinked a couple of times.

"I'm fine, thank you." She did look tired, though, Alex thought, looking at the slight bags under her eyes. "Do you have news? What did you make of that letter? And why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"Well," Ardeth said slowly, but firmly, "you needed rest. That as much was obvious. As for the letter …" He stopped and dug the said letter from a pocket in his robes and handed it to Evelyn. "… There it is. It only proves what we talked about last night – O'Connell' and Jonathan's kidnapping has something to do with the Diamond of Ahm Shere. All this letter tells you to do is to wait until they are returned – no ransom demand, no clear instructions at all. According to what I know of kidnappings, this one seems very peculiar."

It sure did. In every film Alex had seen so far, when people – usually pretty blonde girls – got kidnapped, their kidnappers asked for a nice big ransom. Of course, they never could get it, because the fearless dashing hero always managed to save the girl in time.

Watching movies in theatres was both less and more fun than when the adventure stuff happened to you and your family.

Mum nodded, not looking at anything in particular; then her eyes swiftly shifted back to Ardeth. "So, do you have any news?"

A slight smile slowly made its way across Ardeth's face. "Yes," he said. "That's why I came here. I've just heard – word of mouth, again – that Tom Ferguson has been sighted in the village of Nazlet El Samman, near Giza."

Evelyn's eyes went rounder, "Then what are we waiting for? If someone can give us any answers, this man can – and now we know where he is!"

Alex jumped quickly out of bed and began looking for his clothes, "Comin' in a tick!" He was grateful to see his mum and Ardeth going out of the room, no doubt to give him a little more privacy. Or rather, he was grateful that Ardeth walked over to the door and stepped aside to let Mum out; she would surely have wanted to help Alex get dressed, and although the hugs and kisses were kind of okay, the idea of a mum helping a ten-year old lad to get dressed just made his skin crawl. After all, he did have some sort of reputation at school.

When he ran into the living room to join them, dishevelled, his tie undone and all but dragging his jacket on the floor, they were waiting for him – he only had time to wonder how his mum had managed to change clothes so quickly when there was a knock on the door.

Ardeth turned to Evelyn. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No," she answered, sounding unsure. She glanced into the bag she was carrying, and Alex saw with surprise – mingled with not a little bit of excitement – that she had brought a small number of Dad's guns. Did he miss something – were they going to fight?

She walked carefully to the door, and opened it in a swift gesture.

Alex's mouth fell open.

On the threshold stood the most extraordinary old man he'd ever seen – and this was saying a lot. He was very lean, but quite tall, and almost seemed to be blocking the light of sunset that came behind him. He wore long black robes embroidered with what looked like thin gold thread, a white turban and a long, light white scarf, one end of which fell down on his chest. But the most unusual was his face. The long white beard made stark contrast against the bronzed colour of his face, his cheekbones were high and his nose was long and thin; it was probably his eyes, though, that stood out most. Slanted and black, they seemed to be thousands of years old, with the wisdom that comes with long life that Alex had seen when he had met some of the older Medjai. Those eyes made him feel like some sort of ghost from Ancient Egypt was staring at him, hidden in the envelope of a stately old Egyptian man.

"Good evening," the apparition said in a low, deep voice. "Are you Dr Evelyn O'Connell?"

Realising he was gawping at the newcomer – and probably not looking particularly smart in the process – Alex shut his mouth and looked at his mum. Evelyn blinked, an astonished expression on her face, then gave a nod, her eyes not leaving the old man's face.

"Y–yes, I am," she said at last, gradually regaining her usual assurance. "What … I'm sorry – who are you?"

A small smile – it looked like one to Alex, anyway – stretched the strange man's thin lips, and he gave a slight bow. "I am Sheikh Razek al-Simbel, and I dwell at Nazlet El Samman, near Giza. However, I have other, higher duties."

Glancing at Ardeth, Alex thought he saw something like recognition flash in his eyes.

"Indeed, if I am here to speak with you, it is not as the Sheikh, but as the High Priest of Osiris."

Right. Curiouser and curiouser, like they say. The whole thing was becoming wilder and wilder.

To Alex's relative relief, his mum looked just as nonplussed as he felt. After a few seconds, though, she stepped aside to let the stranger in.

"I thank you," he said, in that extraordinarily deep voice of his. "You must be Commander Bay," he added, turning to Ardeth, who bowed respectfully. "I have heard of your deeds and that of your people. You deserve great praise."

"I did nothing," Ardeth said slowly, "but lead a courageous and honourable people to battle while four persons I am honoured to call my friends –" and there was something in his eyes that smiled as he glanced very briefly at Evelyn and Alex "– held the fate of the world in their hands. The Scorpion King was vanquished thanks to them, not us."

"Really?" Something like a smile twinkled in the dark slanted eyes. "Well, seldom have I seen a Commander so modest. If the nobility of your soul equals your modesty, then the Medjai people is fortunate to have you as their Commander, young Ardeth Bay."

For a half-second – a quarter, really – Alex thought he saw more colour on Ardeth's cheeks. Maybe it was just an illusion, because the next second, he looked his usual calm, mysterious self. Still, despite the seriousness of the situation, Alex couldn't completely suppress a snort at the thought of Ardeth Bay blushing.

The Sheikh glanced swiftly in his direction, and suddenly the boy felt his own cheeks grow distinctly hot. Darn it.

But Sheikh al-Simbel didn't say anything. Instead he turned to look at Evelyn, who said quickly, "I'm sorry if I sound rude, but – what is the reason of your presence here? Why did you come all the way from Giza to my house?"

"You are not rude at all, Dr O'Connell. In fact, if someone here was forgetting their manners, it would be me." He spoke an elegant, flowing English, without any trace of accent, although it did sound as if a textbook was speaking instead of an actual person. Kind of like Ardeth, actually, minus the accent. "You were about to go outside, I see, weren't you?"

Alex saw the dark eyes dart from the jacket he still clutched in his hand to his mum's shoes. Elementary, my dear Watson.

"Yes, in fact we were," said Evelyn, sounding a bit desperate. "My husband and my brother have been gone for twenty-four hours now, and we're looking for a man who might know something about their disappearance – we've heard that he was in Nazlet El Samman a little while ago, perhaps you –"

"Calm yourself, Dr O'Connell," Sheikh al-Simbel said slowly. "If you are speaking of Thomas Ferguson, it was he who sent me to you."

Alex's jaw hit the floor for the second time in ten minutes, and it wasn't the only one to do so. The next thing he felt was a hot surge of anger, one not unlike what had coursed through him when he had heard that Ferguson had been a traitor all along. Oh, he wasn't going to fall for stuff like that twice.

"You're with them, aren't you?" he shouted, making his mother jump slightly. "You're with those who took them! You –"

"Alex!" Evelyn and Ardeth had both spoken sharply, almost snapped, and while it didn't make his anger die down, it sure as hell surprised him enough to calm down a bit. Especially considering the double bright glare that went with the words. It was hard to tell whose eyes were flashing hardest.

When there was something in your Mum's eyes that was not unlike the look the most powerful Medjai Alex knew got in his eyes when he was genuinely furious, you knew you'd got yourself into trouble. Big time.

"Right," he mumbled in the end, sobered up a bit. Through his blond fringe he looked up at the Sheikh, "Sorry."

The Sheikh's eyes looked sterner than his voice sounded when he said, "I understand your tongue ran quicker than your thoughts, young master O'Connell. From the information I could gather about all this, your reaction is comprehensible."

While he turned to Evelyn and exchanged a few words with her, Ardeth slipped quietly to Alex's side, and whispered, "What you must understand, Alexander, is that this man is in his own way more powerful than any king or emperor – he is the last High Priest of Osiris, the Keeper of the Dead, and although he may not appear so, he knows things and can do things that are beyond imagination. And he is very, very old."

Something in his words struck a chord in Alex. "W-wait", he said, "Priest of Osiris? You mean, like Imhotep?"

Ardeth looked a tad uneasy, but he nodded, "Yes, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named fulfilled this duty before he became the Creature. He was the second most powerful man in Egypt, right after Pharaoh, as has every High Priest been before and since. Razek al-Simbel has inherited the powers and the knowledge of five thousand years. Some even say he was gifted with long life – something I tend to agree with, since both my grandfather and my great-grandfather knew him to be what he is."

Whoa … Alex made a mental count, and his eyes widened. "Jeez! He's not that old, is he?"

"He is," Ardeth said with a slight smile. "So, as your mother would say if she was listening to us right now, mind your manners when you address him. Not necessarily, as Fahad said yesterday, because you ought to 'keep quiet whilst the elders speak' – but simply out of respect for a man wiser than most."

That was Ardeth for you. One second, he could be all gloom and doom, shoot you down with a single glare, and pull it off thanks to his usual mysterious demeanour; the next, his eyes twinkled, a smile was playing at the corner of his mouth, and you knew nothing bad would happen to you. "Right," Alex said with a grin. "Well, I'm glad I did apologise. Could've turned nasty for me otherwise, couldn't it?"

"You overreacted because you were driven by anger and concern. I can tell you that, having known your family for eleven years, I'm not unfamiliar with such a reaction." Ardeth shook his head. "You truly are your father's son in many ways," he added with a real, fully-fledged grin.

Alex grinned back, his chest swelling with pride. The last person who had said that to him had been Imhotep, so it was quite a nice change to hear it coming from Ardeth Bay.

On the other hand … Alex remembered his dad's reaction when Mum had been kidnapped by Lock-Nah and his men – lashing out at Ardeth as if he was the one who'd brought the guys in red to their house and slamming him against that statue. Oh sure, as Alex understood it, he'd more or less apologised afterwards, but it was also true that Rick never seemed to be really comfortable whenever Ardeth was around. Each time, for the first few seconds anyway, he seemed to be expecting some sort of catastrophe that would eventually lead to the kidnapping of a member of the family, and, incidentally, to the end of the world. Guess you can call that overreacting.

That said, ever since Ahm Shere, Dad had seemed to make an effort not to 'overreact' anymore when Ardeth dropped by to say hello when they went to some dig site or other in Egypt – probably, Alex thought, thanks to Mum, who all but chided his Dad for being so ridiculously superstitious. The little he'd been able to see of Dad's face from the staircase where he was hiding when she had told him that had been hilarious.

So the comment was both a praise and a dig. Knowing Ardeth, he should have known.

Alex gave a crooked grin, and the Medjai leader laid a hand on his shoulder briefly before turning to Mum and the Sheikh.

And from what he picked up of the conversation, it was very interesting. Not to mention scary as hell.

Tom Ferguson was back in his small office. After he absent-mindedly finished writing the report he'd abandoned earlier to go and see Jon and O'Connell, he had leant back in his chair, put his feet on his desk, and stared at the ceiling where a fan turned round and round, supposedly to bring some air in the sultry room. The bloody fan had been turning for something like three hours now, and been failing its purpose completely.

He felt sick to the stomach. Literally. And not because of the spinning fan.

He would never, in all the world, have guessed the extent of Hamilton's 'projects'. Even if he did have some sort of idea about why they had taken the diamond and its former owners in the first place – the idea being that the diamond somehow allowed entrance into the Pyramid of Ahm Shere – he had to admit to himself that he had had no clue as to what they would do once inside the pyramid, until the conversation in the basement of a house in Giza a few hours ago.

He would never have guessed that Hamilton wanted to use a legendary army to destroy a whole nation of people!

Jesus.

The fan turned and turned on the ceiling, but it didn't come even close to the speed Tom's mind was spinning. The last time he had felt so sick was in the Diamond's chamber in the Museum, when Bane and his guys had burst in through the door; he'd whirled round just in time to see Jon crumple lifelessly to the floor, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and Bane standing above him with a smug smile on his grim face. At that moment, Tom had felt a violent desire to take the sceptre thing Jon had held in his hands and bash Bane's head with all his might. But he had controlled himself – with an effort – and yelled at Bane, "What'd you do to him?! You just had to stun him, that's all!"

"I did stun him, Ferguson," Bane had said, perfectly calm, and Tom fought back once more the desire to strangle him. "I just did what I was told."

"That's not called stunning, you idiot," Tom had retorted sharply. "You nearly smashed his head in, for Pete's sake!" He walked over to Jon, ignoring the movement in the back of the room indicating that the diamond was being placed in some sort of basket, all the while glaring at his fellow agent. "If he's dead, then so help me …"

Bane had looked at him with disdain as he put two fingers on his friend's neck, and couldn't help letting out a slight sigh of relief. Of course Jon wasn't dead. Bane could be a pain in the arse and a downright bastard, but he was a good agent, and he obeyed orders. But Tom never trusted him. Some other agents he trusted, some even were good friends, but Arthur Bane … Well, maybe it was the way he enjoyed missions like this one a little too much. As a general rule, agents must never let their personal feelings be taken into account – that led to way too many problems.

He had stood up and looked around the room, to meet with the gaze of the young assistant, Jamal Hassan. The boy looked at him sadly for a few seconds, then followed the other agents in charge of the diamond up a rope ladder to the broken window and outside.

Tom turned back to Bane, who kept smirking at him. "What're you lookin' at?"

Bane's smirk widened. "Oh, just wondering how it felt to betray someone who thought of you as a friend. The two of you were friends once, right?"

Tom's eyes flickered down to Jon's still body for a second, then back up to Bane. "That's right," he'd said coldly, "I forgot – you've never had any friends to betray."

Bane's smirk slipped off and turned into a glare. It had been on this small victory that Tom had allowed another fellow agent to knock him on the head, and his last conscious thought was relief that it hadn't been Bane.

The fan kept turning, but although Tom's eyes were still fixed on it, it wasn't what he was really seeing. Instead, he was picturing an army of jackal-like soldiers devastating countries, slaughtering the inhabitants, and sweeping across the world like dark waves with nothing to stop them. Because Jon did have a point. If the army existed, the god Anubis would be the only one to truly control it, and Hamilton was an established nutcase.

Not that he wasn't already. God, for all the time Tom thought he was just a control freak with the proverbial umbrella stuck up his –

The chair gave a nasty crack and Tom almost fell over, arms wheeling in an attempt to regain his balance. It worked, and he sprung out of the chair before it gave away for good – honestly, the quality of the furniture they were stuck with in this place left much to be desired – and began to pace his smallish room absent-mindedly.

He had to think something up, and quick.

Of course, the number of options he had was a tad limited.

He couldn't go back to Jon and O'Connell now – Hamilton had probably made sure that the two agents would not let him in a second time. And he couldn't go to see Lisa, either, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he worried about her.

Where could he go? To whom? And to say what – that some mad Englishman wanted to raise the mythical Army of Anubis and claim it for his own?

Tom almost kicked in a pile of books in anger, but his respect for decade-old leather and paper prevented him from actually doing it. Instead, he stopped pacing and took a second look at the books.

The ghost of an idea slowly taking shape in his mind.

He picked up a small book hidden beneath some bigger others, brushed the dust away with his sleeve, and grinned broadly when he managed to make out the title: A History of the Cult of Osiris in Ancient Egypt.

Gotcha. The outlines of the idea he'd had looked a bit more definite now.

Feverishly, he leafed through to the index, found what he was looking for and read.

"Although the Pharaoh was considered a living god on Earth, thus being the head of state and religion, the High Priest of Osiris had many powers as head of one of the most important cults in Egyptian mythology, and, aside from him, the priests under his command could only take orders from the Pharaoh in person. As the Keeper of the Dead, he presided over the embalming and burial of those of royal blood, and was in charge of the two legendary books containing all the rituals in Egyptian religion, the Book of the Living and the Book of the Dead."

Right, this part he already knew. Tom returned to the index and searched it for something … anything … that might be useful to him right now.

"The High Priesthood was passed on from each dying High Priest to the one he decided was most worthy. No-one knows for sure when exactly the tradition died out. Some say it did during Persian occupation, some others say Greek, others again say Roman, and for some others it disappeared during the Arab occupation of Egypt. But there are a few historians who believe that the Priesthood never factually disappeared, and that there is still a High Priest of Osiris, and that he still has followers, even if they are but a very minor part of the current Egyptian population."

Tom's eyes darted down the page.

"If this is true, then the most likely of locations for such a high figure to dwell would be anywhere near the necropolis of Giza, which has stood for millennia as both an emblematic place for solar cult – the gods Ra and Horus being central solar figures, and Horus being the son of Osiris, which demonstrates the close link between the world of the living (Horus, the sun) and the Underworld (Osiris' realm) – and a mythical place, with the statue of the great god Re-Harmakhis (also named Harmakhis-Kephri-Re-Atum), or Sphinx, which has stood there for even longer."

His heart now racing madly in his chest, Tom put the small book in his pocket and began to rummage about in search of a map of Giza. It took him a little while to find one among the sheer number of files, papers and books lying about, but he finally got his hands on a rather recent map of the plateau of Giza and its surroundings.

He all but swept aside the mess that lay on his desk in a swift gesture, and unfolded the map.

The three pyramids – Mykerinos, Khephren, and Kheops – stood in the centre of the map on a diagonal line; the road to Cairo stretched north of Kheops, and on the right of the Great Pyramid was the smallish Arab village of Nazlet El Samman. The Sphinx nearby looked small in comparison with the two bigger pyramids, forming with them an almost perfect equilateral triangle.

Apart from the Mena House hotels near the road to Cairo, the only lived-in area was Nazlet El Samman.

Tom Ferguson was not an idiot. He knew perfectly well that, alone, there was nothing he could do to help – but there seemed to be a man whose help he could ask for to clear up this nasty business.

Some more research later, Tom was leaving his office, looking carefully round the corners – he didn't know whether Hamilton was paranoid enough to put a shadow on him, but he didn't want to take any chances. He discreetly grabbed a bicycle that was lying about and set off, with the firm intention of returning it later.

He dismounted once in Nazlet El Samman, and headed for the tiny bookshop lost in the midst of houses that looked pretty much similar. Abbas, the bookseller, had sometimes got him out of some tight spots, and over the years he had grown a particular fondness for the old man. Also it didn't hurt that he probably fixed the best damn mint tea in Giza.

The atmosphere of the small room was still the same – dark, hot, with dust flying in the few rays of sun, blinking each time somebody walked in front of the shutters outside. The afternoon light fell on old shelves crammed with Arabic books of various sizes and shapes, but it was too dimmed to light up the back of the room, and Tom almost started when a hand drew back the curtain at the door to the back shop, making the small copper coins hanging to the heavy cloth chink.

"Ah, Tom, my friend." Although his voice was even more hoarse and rasping than it had been last time Tom had seen him, Abbas unveiled his missing teeth in a broad smile. "Is there something I can do for you? Or perhaps you came in here only to pay me a visit?"

"Such was indeed my intention," Tom replied in his rather halting Arabic, returning the grin and following the old bookseller into the back shop where he poured him a cup of steaming tea. "Thank you. I wanted to ask you how you fared – you didn't look so well the last time we saw each other, and I see that it's not much better now. Are you ill?"

"Is old age an illness?" asked the old man, looking at Tom with the intent, cryptic gaze the Englishman had always known him to possess. "If so, yes, I am indeed very ill, my friend. Now, what did you really come to see me for?"

Tom looked down at the table and grinned sheepishly. "All right, I'm sorry … I should've known. Well, I did come to see you, but I am also looking for someone, and I need to find him quick – but I do not know his name."

Abbas looked at him curiously. "Is that so? Tell me, then. If I can help you, I will."

"I know." Tom nodded and swallowed the hot tea. "Well, I don't quite know where to begin …"

"I have no need for explanations, my friend. Only tell me whom it is you seek."

Tom put his cup back on the table, relieved and grateful. "All right, then. What do you know about the High Priest of Osiris?"

Abbas slowly took a sip from his own cup, put it down, and looked at Tom in surprise, "I know not what you are talking about, my friend. Egyptian mythology has not been a living religion for many centuries now."

He looked quite innocent, with his bright eyes shining out of his dark face, and the halo of thin but wild white hair flying around his head. But Tom saw a little colour disappear from his cheeks.

"Come now, Abbas. I know you're lying. I'm serious – I really have to talk to him! Who is he? And where does he live?"

The old bookseller scrutinised Tom's face for a while, before saying softly, "You know I'm lying. You must also know why I'm lying. Why do you expect me to tell you the truth when I know that, in lying, I will protect people?"

There was a silence, and Tom answered hesitatingly, just as softly, "Because I've been doing some lying too, recently, and it has hurt people. I'd like you to tell me the truth because it might set some things right."

Another silence followed his words, and the Englishman began to wonder if he hadn't made a complete fool of himself together with saying something that might have upset Abbas, when the latter gave a genuine grin, warm and kind.

"You are a good man, my friend. Very well, I will help you … Wait here for a minute." He disappeared through the curtain into the shop, and came back with a piece of paper and a pen. He scribbled a name and an address on it, and handed it to Tom.

Tom quickly memorised what was written, having a feeling that he wouldn't be able to keep the piece of paper; sure enough, after a few seconds, Abbas took the paper back and put it in the fire above which the kettle had been boiling.

"Now that you have convinced me," he said, turning from the fire back to Tom, "I hope you realise that, if your motivations are by chance not as honest as I think they are, you will not live to regret it."

Tom swallowed the last of his mint tea and gave a smile. "I'm aware of it, my friend. I want to prevent a catastrophe from happening, that's all."

Abbas accompanied him to the door; once on the threshold, he gave a slight bow, and said in English, "I like you a lot, Tom Ferguson. Take care. And I hope this catastrophe you speak of will not happen."

Tom returned the bow, and smiled, "Insh'Allah, my friend. So do I." He picked up the bicycle and looked at Abbas, "And take good care of yourself as well. I might tell you what did happen, someday."

If we're not all dead by then.

And he pedalled off into the dust and sand, a small lump in his throat – hoping that it would not be the last time he saw the kindly old man.

After turning a few corners, riding down a couple of streets, and scaring a couple of camels, he dismounted in front of a plain-looking house with a green door and wild grasses around the threshold.

Before he even raised his hand to knock on the door, a deep voice came from the inside, "The door is open, stranger. Do come in."

Tom blinked. The person inside had not spoken Arabic, but perfect English. He slowly pushed the door open and stepped in.

The room was small and square, with walls of red roughcast and elaborate Arabic window frames, and he walked in on a floor of hard-packed earth, with a big carpet in the middle. In the centre of the room was a low wooden table with a handsome oriental kettle. And behind it, in a wooden armchair that did not look so comfortable, sat a very strange old man drinking tea in a small glass.

Something special emanated from him, from his sharp features and keen slanted eyes, and despite the sober outfit he was wearing. This old man sat on his wooden chair like a king on his throne, with the same natural majesty and steadiness. As if he had been doing that for all his life. And judging from his looks, 'all his life' must be a very long time.

Impressed in spite of himself, Tom walked to the old man and bowed deeply. "Peace be on you, Sheikh."

Sheikh Razek al-Simbel gave a polite nod, and put his glass on the table. "And peace be on you as well, Effendi. What do I owe this visit to?"

His deep, low voice sounded like a bell of bronze. Tom realised he had no trouble at all believing that this man was the possessor of the knowledge of Ancient Egypt. He certainly looked – and sounded – the part.

"Well," he began, feeling the beginning of a sudden hesitation, "my name is Thomas Ferguson, and I came here to ask for help."

"If your purpose is honest, and your intentions pure, then help you shall find here."

"But … It is not the help of Sheikh al-Simbel I have come to ask."

The Sheikh raised a single long white eyebrow.

"I came here looking for help from the Keeper of the Dead, He who makes the two worlds join."

There was a long silence, during which Tom found himself under the close scrutiny of a pair of piercing black eyes, almost reduced to slits as Razek al-Simbel took his time to assess him. The result seemed to be in the Englishman's favour, because when the slanted eyes went back to their usual shape, the Sheikh's face had lost some of its severity.

"So, Thomas Ferguson," he said quietly, his eyes not leaving Tom's face. "What brings you into my humble home?"

"It's a long story," Tom replied, feeling a bit uneasy about telling this imposing character everything about the mess going on.

"Then take your time to tell it. And please, sit down."

Right. He's got an answer for everything, has he? Tom took the offered chair with thanks, and scratched awkwardly the back of his neck, thinking about where to begin.

"Thank you. All right … Well, eight years ago I became a member of a British governmental organisation called the Chamber of Horus, which searches Egypt for potentially dangerous artefacts in order to make them safe – that's what I was told at the time. Now, two years ago, a very important artefact was retrieved from the lost Oasis of Ahm Shere by a family of Egyptologists, Rick and Dr Evelyn O'Connell. However, they did not keep the Diamond of Ahm Shere, but sold it to the Cairo Museum of Antiquities.

"It just so happened – although I was unaware of it at the time – that the one who made the transaction with the curator, Dr Hakim, about the Diamond, was an old friend of mine, Jonathan Carnahan, Dr O'Connell's brother.

"A few months ago, in the wake of dark events in Europe and Northern Africa, the Chamber decided that the Diamond of Ahm Shere was no longer safe in Egypt, and had to be removed to England where it could be watched more closely. So, as I understand it, Evelyn and Rick O'Connell were asked by the Government to go to Egypt, negotiate with the curator, and bring the Diamond back to England."

Tom hesitated a bit at first, but felt more and more self-assured as he talked and talked, choosing his words carefully and always looking at the Sheikh in the eye. Razek al-Simbel listened with his eyes half-closed, his long, lean fingers crossed in front of him; however, when Tom stopped to regain breath and think about what to say next, he opened his eyes and politely invited him to carry on.

"I was one in a team of agents sent here a week ago with my superior, Charles Hamilton, to see to it that the Diamond was in good hands and that nothing would happen. However, what I wasn't aware of at the time, was that Hamilton had very special projects of his own concerning both the Diamond and Ahm Shere, which I just recently learned had nothing to do with given orders.

"Six days ago – that is last Tuesday – I ran into Jonathan Carnahan in Cairo. That was a complete surprise, because I didn't know he had followed his sister to Egypt, and a welcome one, because I was glad to see him again after all this time. The problem is that Hamilton heard of this chance encounter on the very same day and took the opportunity to act. He gave me orders to take advantage of my 'good situation' with Jon and the O'Connells in order to steal the Diamond of Ahm Shere. I refused, of course. Then he gave me the proof that my wife was being held captive in a secret place, and that if I still refused to obey orders, I'd never see her alive and well again."

Tom stopped again, to try and swallow the lump in his throat. Al-Simbel opened his eyes and gazed at him intently, but did not say anything.

"What was I to do after that? The day after, we – I mean Jon, his sister Evelyn and I – were going to see the Diamond at the Museum. Somebody created a diversion that led Drs Hakim and O'Connell elsewhere, and in the meanwhile, agents broke in the Diamond's room me and Jon were 'guarding', knocked both of us out cold and left with the Diamond. I was rather relieved to think this was the end.

"Two days after that, though, Hamilton sent agents to Cairo, and kidnapped Jon and Rick O'Connell. My cover was blown as I helped in the taking." Tom felt his voice quiver a little bit and waited a short while before continuing, "They were held first in the basement of the British Consulate, then in a house in Giza. It was there that I tried to talk to them, and Hamilton turned up at that moment and explained his plans to the three of us."

Okay, the moment of truth. "Maybe you know some things about Germany and its Chancellor, Adolf Hitler. Hamilton is persuaded that Hitler's going to cause some sort of huge human catastrophe someday, and he plans to go to Ahm Shere, use the Diamond to open the pyramid, and claim the Army of Anubis for his own so that he might wipe out the threat Germany's leader stands for, in his opinion, by simply wiping out Germany."

Another silence settled – a different one, though, now that Tom had finished his story. He just sat cross-legged on the elaborate carpet, feeling out-of-place and staring wordlessly at his still-untouched glass of mint tea that had stopped steaming a while ago. Sheikh al-Simbel stared at him for another couple of seconds, then said slowly, "Why have you come to see me? What sort of help have you come to ask for?"

Well, that was it, wasn't it? Tom braced himself and looked up. "Beside the fact that what Hamilton plans to do has to be stopped, I can't help thinking that he's got it all wrong. I mean, what are the chances that the Army of Anubis will answer a mortal? He says he's relying on the legend, but what does the legend say exactly?"

Sheikh al-Simbel actually gave a small smile. Or at least, one corner of his thin mouth crept up slightly. The result might have been pretty scary if his slanted eyes hadn't appeared to be genuinely smiling.

"Whom do you wish to ask – the Keeper of the Dead, or the Dead themselves?"

"Anyone who can give me the truth about the Army of Anubis," Tom answered eagerly. The Sheikh looked appraisingly at him for two more seconds, then rose from his chair, picked an unlit torch from the wall, and walked to a door in the back of the room.

"Come."

Tom followed him out of the room into another, with little light and much darker walls. There was a trapdoor in the middle of the room, and before the Sheikh opened it, he turned to the Englishman and pinned him with a very serious stare, "From now on, whatever you hear, whatever you see, keep still and silent. One move, one sound – and you are dead."

Tom gulped with some difficulty, but nodded, and followed Sheikh al-Simbel through the trapdoor.

The two men walked down a long flight of stairs, and Tom couldn't help but notice that the air around him was getting colder and colder. Maybe it was only a trick of his imagination, but as they went down a narrow corridor – the only source of light being the torch al-Simbel had lit up before they got down the stairs – Tom found himself almost shivering, and it made him wonder exactly how far they were below the surface. To be that cold in one of the hottest parts in the world, it had to be pretty far.

They finally came to another door, which the Sheikh opened slowly. The room inside was rather small, with a very high ceiling and stonewalls; near the opposite wall was a small table covered entirely with a long tablecloth that could have been blue or dark red – Tom couldn't really tell because of the lack of light. There was a silver censer in front of the table, containing an odd mix of strange small pellets and bits of what looked like coal. The whole thing smelt to high heaven of burnt wood and myrrh.

Razek a-Simbel beckoned him to stay near the closed door, and brought a thin long finger to his lips. He didn't need to. The atmosphere felt so strange to Tom that there was something in his throat that forbade him to let out any sound.

The Sheikh turned his back on the Englishman to face the censer, the table, and the wall behind it, and began chanting in a language Tom didn't recognise, his deep, low voice sounding even deeper and lower. Tom felt the air around him change – not only was it turning even colder, if such a thing was possible, but it also seemed to be growing scarce, or heavier. As if the air was sucked in from the room to go revolving around al-Simbel instead, whose black robes were billowing in a wind Tom couldn't feel.

Both terrorised and excited, he watched on, mesmerised, as a blurry figure began to appear as though sketched out on the wall, above the table, as if floating in the air. It was tall, imposing even, and as the outlines grew more definite Tom could make out a dark head like a jackal's, and a body wearing the white linen robe of Ancient Egyptian priests.

The jackal-headed god Anubis was standing before them.

Tom managed to stop his jaw from unclenching with a violent effort of will, but it was close. He was too terrified by the Sheikh's words to him to attempt anything that might resemble making a 'move' or a 'sound'. He even tried not to shiver too much and kept his back against the wall, vainly searching for warmth.

An unearthly voice poured down into the room, accompanied with another wave of cold. Tom couldn't make out one word of it – but then, at that point, he wouldn't have understood a thing even if it had been speaking plain old English. Tears were stinging his eyes, and he couldn't feel the fingers he'd stuck into his sleeves to keep warm.

For God's sake, make it stop …

Unlike him, the Sheikh didn't seem to mind the cold; in fact, Tom wondered whether he felt it at all. He was talking to the tall, somewhat blurry figure floating above the table, otherwise standing completely still, not heeding the small whirlwind around him either.

Then Tom saw him give a deep bow, and the form on the wall vanished. So did the wind, and, he noticed, air seemed to settle back into the room just as the paralysing cold departed, leaving a much more reasonable temperature. He relaxed a little bit, his heart pounding in his chest, and looked around him, bemused. Al-Simbel walked toward him, and briefly lay a hand on his shoulder before opening the door and going through it. It felt to Tom as if some sort of spell had been broken, and he could move again. But his throat still felt too tight to talk.

His legs wobbling, and his mind buzzing with questions he couldn't even list, he followed the Sheikh back into the corridor, then up the stairs, and into the Sheikh's living room. The difference in temperatures was shocking.

"Here," said al-Simbel, handing him a cup of something, "sit down, and drink this. You look like you are in need of both."

So he did look just as he felt. Great. Tom accepted the cup and held it in a shaky hand, careful not to spill it over the carpet as he sit down. When he dipped his lips in the liquid, he found it to be a strongly-flavoured mazbout. He closed his eyes as he drank the excellent Egyptian coffee.

"Do not think that I call upon the gods every day, but now time is of the essence. For it seems that you were right, Thomas Ferguson," Razek al-Simbel said as the Englishman put his cup on the table. "There is indeed a mortal willing to claim the Army of Anubis for his own. According to what I've learned, he will attempt it in three days, at the coming New Year, which will herald the Year of the Jackal."

Tom nodded. "That's what Hamilton said."

Al-Simbel's black eyes narrowed at him, suddenly keener. "Does he know that this is not the entire truth?"

Tom's head snapped up. "I don't know. What is the entire truth?"

"A mortal cannot summon Anubis' Army and use it for his own purposes," the Sheikh said grimly. "If a mortal attempts to raise it, the Army will be unleashed in this world, with no master, and no purpose but to kill and destroy."

Tom gulped. So that's how you felt when you heard the end of the world was a few days ahead. He couldn't help but make a mental note to ask Jon how he had felt, the two times – if he had felt so scared and so cold so quickly.

His bet was on 'yes'.

"But there is another thing you must know. Ahm Shere was created after a pact a mortal made with Anubis. As we speak, Anubis is claiming Ahm Shere. On the next new moon, it shall be forever destroyed."

Blimey. "Wait," Tom stammered, "wait, that – that means –"

"Yes. The New Year coincides with the next new moon."

Tom's jaw went slack and something icy and sharp crossed his stomach.

They're going to be in that bloody pyramid at the exact moment it's destroyed. Of all the luck …

There was a little voice inside of him that reminded him Hamilton would probably not have the time to carry out his projects thanks to this particular fault in his plans, and that this was a very good thing. But the major part of his mind was screaming that he ought to do something – everyone who would be in the pyramid at that moment would be killed. Fellow agents he considered as friends. O'Connell. Jon.

He must have paled a good deal, because Sheikh al-Simbel was looking at him with something that might resemble concern in his slanted eyes.

"Are you feeling well?"

Tom looked around to avoid his eyes, feeling sick and cold despite the heat. "Y–yes, yes, thanks," he finally stammered absently. Then he took a deep breath and looked up at the Sheikh. "No," he said, more firmly. "No, I'm not."

Anger flared up inside him, and he just stopped thinking about what to say next. "Hamilton's a madman who doesn't care about killing thousands of people, but the people he's going to take underground with him in the Pyramid don't deserve to die!" Oh, hell. "I've friends among 'em! And I don't care if Jon thinks I'm just a bloody traitor – I'm not lettin' him die in there either, dammit!"

Tom had forgotten that he was speaking to what was probably the most important man in Egypt, that he was sitting on his carpet and drinking his coffee, and that he had just witnessed this particular man having a nice little tête-à-tête with a god from Ancient Egypt. He hadn't even realised he was shouting. And when he did realise that, he felt not a little afraid.

But Razek al-Simbel didn't seem offended. Not to the point of actually doing something that might threaten Tom, anyway. In fact, if anything, he looked a little bit amused by the sudden resurfacing of Tom's accent.

The Englishman took a second or two to calm himself down a bit, then muttered, "Sorry. Guess I got carried away."

"It certainly sounded so," al-Simbel said, almost pleasantly. "Now, what are you intending to do?"

What did he intend to do? Good question. "I'll – I'll, ah …"

Oh, be honest with yourself, for once. "Sheikh, there's nothing I can really do now. There is a roll call at seven o'clock, and if I'm not there by then, I'll be grounded and truly incapable of doing anything this time."

The Sheikh nodded gravely, and Tom's heart plummeted in his stomach. There had to be something that could be done to set things right, there just had to –

His heart suddenly skipped a beat. There was something. "The Medjai!"

"What of them?" Sheikh al-Simbel asked politely, with something in his slight smile that would have made Tom think, if he had noticed it.

"The Medjai were there last time the Army of Anubis arose – and their Commander's friends with the O'Connells – somebody's got to get them!" He searched his pockets frantically and eventually found a crumpled piece of paper and a pen, on which he scribbled hastily the O'Connells' address in Cairo.

"If someone could go there – and ask for Dr Evelyn O'Connell, to tell her that her husband and her brother are fine –" there he hesitated a bit "– for the moment. You'll recognise her easily, she's a beautiful woman, with black hair and bright eyes, and she's very intelligent. Tell her also to go to the Medjai, because if somebody can set things right, it's them."

According to what he knew of the secretive desert people, that is.

Tom rose and took a deep bow, "I'm sorry, but I've got to go now if I don't want to look suspicious."

"I understand, Mr Ferguson," the Sheikh said in that deep voice of his. "Dr O'Connell will be informed, and the Medjai alerted."

"Thanks a lot, Sheikh. Thank you."

On those words he meant as a parting, Tom headed for the door. However, he stopped there when Razek al-Simbel's voice rose again behind him.

"You seem to treasure friendship, Mr Ferguson. That is a noble thing. If your friend values friendship like you do, you do not have to worry."

Tom turned his head to look at the stately old man sitting in his wooden armchair, the exact replica of the image he'd seen when he first entered the room. He nodded and forced a smile.

"Thanks."

Once outside, as he picked up his bicycle and proceeded to pedal like mad to get to Giza in time, he wondered about the Sheikh's last phrase. He didn't know why on Earth the old man had said that – surely it was not only to make him feel better, was it? Why would he bother?

Well, maybe Tom was completely wrong. Or there had been some sort of riddle, of hidden message behind the phrase. He didn't know. How would he know, after seeing a god from the other world of Ancient Egypt come back in front of him? That for sure would unsettle anyone!

Once thing was certain, though. Whatever the Sheikh might say, it wouldn't be this easy to make it up with Jon. He could be pig-headed about that sort of thing. When somebody messed up with him one way or another, he often forgot, but never forgave. The exact contrary of Tom, who sometimes forgave, but never forgot.

Tom cringed.

No, it definitely wouldn't be that easy.

Interestingly enough, Abbas' character just popped out of my head even as I was writing him – he seemed to sneak in the story and be comfortable. I like him; I don't know if he will be back, but I do :o)

I know 'Shout-outs! Yay!' is a bit unoriginal, but I really feel like 'Yaay!' Because of the reviews. Thanks for making my day, folks! :o)

Adele: You're right, making people suffer does help build up the tension of the story. Or maybe it's the opposite; anyway, I'm glad you still seem hooked up, and I hope that this chapter was quick enough :o) Thanks!

EggSalad My friend, I'll never sing your praise loud enough. Writing is very much an egoistic process, and before Internet was used by so many people, I guess fanfiction writers kept most of their stuff to themselves. Now that we have means to communicate so fast to people so far from us, and with the whole system of reviews, writers that post their stories don't only write for their own personal pleasure, but also for the pleasure of readers… and, whatever they may say, for the sheer joy of receiving feedback. I'm no exception, and reviews such as yours just make my day for quite a while; besides, if I ever wonder whether I'm using the free time I have in front of me or not, I think of the kind of review I'll get from you and I just stop wondering. There you go :o)

As for the research… well, it's going to be my job in a few years – I want to be a school librarian, a "documentaliste" we say, so looking for/gathering pieces of information is a piece of cake when it's a subject I love! Besides, I love history, especially 19th/20th century history. (And I love writing this story, even though there are some times when I feel very, very frustrated that I can't get this or that paragraph right. You know?) Well, I don't know if "love" is the right word; but I've always had a great interest in WW2 and what led to it.Howhuman beings couldprove so inhumanalways wonder.Interestingly enough, while the 'international Jew conspiracy' explanation was often used by Hitler in the 30s to justify horrors such as the pogroms, the laws and whatever public knowledge there was about the camps, there was no other 'justification' than the idea of 'purifying the Aryan race' to the killing of thousands of homosexuals, stateless people, handicapped people, mental defective… Not to mention the German opponents of the regime, and afterwards, the opponents from various occupied countries. Maybe the fact that I'm French – one of the countries occupied by the Nazis – has something to do with this interest, I don't know. I guess Europe and North America have very different relationships with WW2… Hmm… /rant :o) Sorry! Anyway, I really hope I won't disappoint you.

Eris Thanks :o) The idea of Hitler wanting to use Ahm Shere was not something I wanted to write, but I did want to allude to it. I still don't know if it's a legend, but Hitler did seem to take great interest in the occult – see Raiders of the Lost Ark, The Last Crusade or even some Alias episodes with the Rambaldi plotline. It just seemed logic that, at this point of history, only two years before the invasion of Poland and the declaration of war, a device like Ahm Shere would be appropriate. Then again, the Nazi ideal was to rule a pure world, not a dead one. Anyway, you're completely right – nothing stops a really determined psychopath. But I wanted to make Hamilton not your traditional psychopath with world domination – he genuinely wants to save the world. Well, hell is paved with good intentions, they say :s

Wrenn (or should it be TTFN?): Thanks for the nice words! I never thought to be any good at suspense :o) Yes, Jon has been doing some growing-up, but not too much, I assure you! ;)

Louise: Well, join the club ;o) A lot of my friends can back that up – I'm a wee bit head over heels (?) for John Hannah, and, envy me, mortal girls! my boyfriend doesn't mind :D I'm not as bad as pals of mine, though; one of my friends' got a (serious!) thing for Brad Pitt, and it's lasted for ten years now. Anyway, so I'm a Jonathan fan, ready to stand up to him with teeth and nails bared if someone says something bad about him – or just not grounded with facts :D

Well, I'm sending the 11th chapter, and embarking on writing the 13th. It's going to be a long ride, but I guess we're reached the… second third of the story :o)

Much of love,

Bel :o)