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4 Days Later, the Tomb of Isetnofret

Gathering his djellaba around him, seeking to keep out the frigid cold of the desert night, Ardeth shivered slightly and held his hands out to the small fire. Fortified by thick, bitter coffee, flat bread and a generous ration of dried meat, he had watched the tomb of Isetnofret since nightfall, relieving the previous watch. A life-long desert-dweller, he was well accustomed to the contrasts in temperature between day and night. Tonight, however, was colder than usual. Concealed in a large natural hollow in a dune, he could see the rectangular flank of the tomb, a slice of pitch black against the chilly blue greyness of the sand.

Lured by the warmth, a small scorpion scuttled towards the crackling fire, pincers held aloft, shiny carapace dotted with flecks of sand. Unconcerned, Bey flicked it away with the tip of a stick, watching as it skittered off into the darkness. Following the meeting with the Council of Elders, the decision was made to watch the tomb, and the temple at Hamunaptra, should the mysterious woman decide to seek artefacts. There was concern she was seeking magical objects like the golden bracelet of the Scorpion King that had roused the jackal army of Anubis. Remembering the relentless howling, cackling jackal-headed monstrosities tearing across the sands, Ardeth flinched. That bloody confrontation had cost the lives of hundreds of Med-Jai.

During the twilight of the Egyptian dynasties, Isis was a benevolent goddess, taking on the maternal, protective attributes of Hathor and Bast. Earlier in prehistory, she was the goddess of vengeance, punishing Set for his dismemberment of her brother-husband, Osiris. All versions of mythology agreed that she was goddess of sorcery and magic, queen of the heavenly pantheon.

Woman or dead thing mimicking life, she has power, Ardeth thought sourly. And she bears the marks of Isis, most powerful of the goddesses – she could seek to rouse the Creature or some other nameless evil… But she did not kill us. She could have, but did not… why?

Mulling over the possible reasons, the leader of the Med-Jai frowned, dark brows dipping over the bridge of his nose. In his experience, most preternatural beings that stalked the sands had a propensity for slaying anyone whom deliberately or inadvertently crossed their path. Every few years, an unseasoned or careless Med-Jai fell victim to the whispering spirits that inhabited the halls and gullies of Hamunaptra, lured into the clutches of a tomb-bound afreet or over a ledge into nothingness. Ardeth frowned again, recalling his own encounter with a vicious serpent afreet as a youth. He had not really believed his father's tales until that point. It was a mistake he had not made since, a silver crescent-shaped scar across his lower back serving as an indelible reminder. Despite himself, he smiled a little.

I was more afraid of what my father would do when he discovered I'd been wandering where I should not, he thought wryly, with an inner chuckle. Never mind the week long fever from the afreet's claw wounds.

Adding a few more sticks of kindling to the fire, watching as the orange flames danced in the chill breeze, he shifted position. A quiet snoring reached his ears and he realised the young scout, Uthman, had fallen asleep. Uthman had volunteered for watch duty, and to the surprise of many experienced Med-Jai, was selected for the job. Ardeth believed the boy to have promise. Picking up the scout's rifle, he prodded him hard in the ankle with the butt. With a startled snort, he woke, spitting out the loose end of his turban that had fallen into his open mouth.

"You will see nothing if you sleep, my friend," the voice of his leader, filled with mild reprove, said from across the fire.

"Yes, Mawlana," he muttered obediently, knuckling his eyes and inwardly cursing his rebellious body for its overwhelming need to sleep.

Bey gave his customary slight smile and warmed his hands over the fire as Uthman groaned softly and stretched the kinks out of his back.

"Staying awake is a skill you learn with time – and many pokes in the ribs," he observed, black eyes twinkling.

The young scout grinned self-consciously and stifled a yawn with a hastily upraised hand. Turning his attention to the silent hulk of the tomb, he watched the night wind sweep and swirl curls of fine, dry sand, creating an ankle-deep mist. A column of seething wind appeared at the broken door of the tomb, a rough cone of slashing black disturbed air and flying sand. At first, Ardeth paid it no attention, as dust storms of varying proportions were common. When it gathered into a tall, slender figure in dark Bedouin dress, moonlight playing mercury fingers across the silhouette, he stiffened.

"Get your rifle," he ordered softly, taking up an unlit tallow-soaked brand. "And follow me – our white lady has graced us with her presence."

Silently, the Med-Jai crept across the cool sand, staying low, following the lazy contours of the dune as they approached the desecrated tomb. With a snap of her fingers, the cloaked woman produced a globe of fey light that cast glittering eggshell blue beams. Cupping it in her palm like a child's ball, she held it above her head to light her way. A gradually diminishing cerulean luminance at the doorway denoted her progress deeper into the tomb, making it seem like a peculiar jack-o'-lantern. Pressing themselves against the grainy buff stonework either side of the door, the Med-Jai waited a few moments. Taking an engraved silver lighter from his belt pouch, a gift from Rick O'Connell, Ardeth lit the brand. The flame puffed and snapped into life as it greedily consumed the greasy tallow, casting wavering carmine shadows across their faces.

Nodding to his companion, who raised his rifle to his shoulder, Bey led the way into the tomb. Sighing against the thick fabric of his sash, his scimitar glinted redly in the torchlight as they followed the eldritch blue glow. Careful to keep a sensible distance between them and their quarry, Ardeth drew a lump of chalk from his belt and marked a cross on the nearest crumbling wall. Uthman looked momentarily puzzled, then his brow cleared with comprehension – it was easy to get lost in large tombs. The chalk scritched suddenly, causing the Med-Jai to freeze, listening intently for signs they had been heard.

Eyes glistening with reflected torchlight, Ardeth cocked his head, then resumed walking, beckoning to his scout. For long minutes, the only sound was the almost inaudible pad of tough desert boots on the soft, powdery white sand. The walls bore formerly magnificent carved relief panels, the rich gold accents stripped by human greed. Pausing at a foot high cartouche, Uthman touched a finger to the smashed hieroglyphs. Great sections of painted frieze were similarly defaced, scratched away by purposeful hands centuries ago. A low, breathy moaning filled the wide corridor, akin to a tortured voice, but the Bedouin paid it no attention. The wind spoke in many tongues.

The corridor took a left turn, then a right, then three more lefts, and finally opened out into the central burial chamber. Illuminated from within by the strange light, the hue now shifting between lilac and silvery blue, the chamber was clearly occupied. The light fluctuated, strobing beams pushing against the surrounding darkness. Dropping to one knee, Ardeth thrust the burning torch into the sand gathered inside a shallow niche in the wall. Placing a finger to his lips, he concealed himself behind a wide pillar carved with a geometric design and motioned for Uthman to take up position behind another. In a blur of black cloth, the young man obeyed, peering out from behind his rifle.

First checking he was hidden in the pillar's shadow, Ardeth peeked around into the large, low-roofed burial chamber. As with every other frieze in the building, the walls were marred by ugly gouges and scrapings, certain hieroglyphs obliterated. In a sorry state of disrepair from centuries of plundering and the corrosive migration of sand, the sarcophagus lay at a drunken angle on its plinth, bathed in the lavender glow captured in the hooded woman's hand. As the Med-Jai watched, she sighed and lay her free hand on the time-smoothed lid, index finger tracing the almost invisible contours of glyphs at the head.

"Ah, my faithful one – loyal even after so long." Her voice was low, suffused with mingled gratitude and sadness. She spoke in the Coptic tongue, the words dropping from her lips with ease. The dialect was so old that even Ardeth had difficulty translating. "And look how the ignorant reward you – they deface your resting place, steal your grave goods. May Osiris seat you at his left hand, Isetnofret."

She tossed the light sphere into the air, where it bobbed gently, putting Ardeth in mind of the ridiculous balloon contraption that had almost outflown Imhotep's tidal wave. It elongated, stretching and dividing like an organic cell until four tiny globes hung suspended in nothingness. They darted away to the corners of the room, their luminance increasing in intensity. Uthman ducked a little as they zoomed overhead, and clutched his rifle tighter, but to his credit did not make a single sound.

Patting the sarcophagus with what seemed to be affection, the woman reached up and threw back her hood, the thick material rustling as it settled about her shoulders. Skin milk white, almost luminescent in the sorcerous light, her complexion and features were too delicate for Egyptian descent. Her nose lacked the aquiline profile typical to the desert peoples or the roundness of the city-dwelling Arabs. Large eyes balanced by a strong, mobile mouth, her face was oval with a slightly sharp chin. Parted down the centre, her hair was secured with two gold bindings, magpie blue black cascades framing her features. Despite her traditional garb, she was unmistakably European with her fair skin, light eyes and height. She was tall, easily outstripping the average five foot three inches native women reached.

Studying her countenance, committing it to memory, Ardeth was struck by her apparent youth. She hardly seemed more than twenty-five years old, and had he not seen her power for himself, would have judged her vulnerable. If you did not look too closely at her eyes, she had the same gamine innocence as Evelyn O'Connell. Bey's black eyes narrowed and his hand crept to the leather-bound hilt of his scimitar. He did not need reminding how deceptive looks could be.

A small sound in the darkness to his back, a scuffing of the sand, made him gaze around. A faint tangerine glow highlighting the juncture of the corridor proclaimed the location of the hidden torch, everything beyond that lost in impenetrable blackness. Across from him, Uthman's brows shot up questioningly, and he darted a nervous glance back into the darkness. Seeing nothing untoward, Ardeth gave a minimal shrug and turned back to watch the nameless woman.

"The Horn of Isis I seek," she chanted, again in the ancient tongue, her tone formal and ritualistic. "Bequeath unto me my birthright! Isis! Isis! Isis!"

Clapping her hands together, the sound echoing loudly, she pulled them apart, a thrumming cord of chartreuse green light arcing between her palms. Chased by the sudden increased luminance, the dark fled, scurrying back before the hissing, writhing brilliance. Wheeling on one heel, Ardeth flung himself around as the direction of the shadow cast by the pillar changed, leaving him exposed. Back colliding with the hard stone, heartbeat quickening, the breath left his lungs with a muffled grunt. Wedged in the space between the pillar and the dividing wall, taking advantage of his smaller size, Uthman looked to his master for instructions.

Cheekbones sculpted pale julep from the sorcerous radiance, the woman's head snapped up as she spied the Med-Jai. Lips thinning into a line of annoyance, her eyes flashed gold and she threw up her hands, snuffing out the light slicing between them.

"Med-Jai!" Her voice seemed to fill the cavernous burial chamber, taking on an uncanny resonance. "Hiding in the shadows while you eternally watch! Do not cross me! Khepri! Layla!"

A deep, rumbling growl emerged from the lightlessness to the Med-Jai's backs, causing them to start and whirl. Twin sets of slanting golden eyes appeared, unblinking in their terrible scrutiny.

"Allah protect us," Uthman whispered, voice strained. "Dybuk."

Tails lashing with lazy menace, two enormous feline creatures emerged from the dense blue blackness at the junction of the corridor. Tawny furred and solid muscled as hunting lionesses, they possessed the faintly cruel humanoid features of the Sphinx. Steel-taloned and dagger-toothed, they advanced, leaving dinner plate sized paw marks in the sand. Each bore the mark of Isis across their barrel chests.

"Djinn," Ardeth corrected, snatching at his Browning and pulling the trigger.

The gun roared and spat streaking fire, echoed by the nearest djinn as the bullet ripped through its flesh. Uthman took aim and shot the second between the eyes, exclaiming with dismay when it failed to topple over and die. Gaping, he stared with bulging eyes as the ragged, oozing hole began to knit. Scrambling past the momentarily disorientated sphinx, Ardeth grabbed the young scout's sleeve and forcibly dragged him down the corridor. Hauling the lad to his feet when he stumbled, kicking up a spray of tomb dust, Bey ran full tilt. Risking a stolen glance back, he saw the pursuing djinn galloping on velvet pads, claws striking white sparks from the stonework. His heart sank as they gathered themselves to leap, bounding effortlessly along the walls and ceiling. Magical beings of a similar ilk to Imhotep's undead mummy warriors, the laws of gravity did not necessarily apply.

Flinging out an arm, he let off a shot, unsurprised when it missed completely and pinged from the opposite wall. An icy rectangle of desert sky loomed ahead, dotted with winking stars. Sobbing for breath, the Med-Jai flew out of the tomb into the spectral purple grey desert night. Breath showing as curling white steam on the cold air, they raced in the direction of their makeshift camp and waiting horses. Clamping a hand onto Uthman's arm, Ardeth stopped dead, making the young man yelp.

"Wait!" he cried, poised motionless against the light-studded sky, staring back at the tomb.

Uthman's features crumpled as he unsuccessfully tried to bring under control his instinctive desire to flee.

"Mawlana!" he exclaimed, voice rising. "The djinn!"

"No," Bey said slowly, with disbelief. He shook his head and brushed sand from his curling hair. "They are gone."

Eyes huge in his tanned face, Uthman peered back, expecting at any moment to find his throat ripped out by vengeful sphinx. The Tomb of Isetnofret stood brooding and utterly quiet, seemingly deserted. Moments ticked by and nothing changed. The Med-Jai stood alone, only the furrowed sand trail of their running feet indicating anything had taken place. Swallowing hard, the scout shouldered his rifle and looked to his master for answers, a sheen of perspiration clinging to his brow.

"She did not kill us," Ardeth stated wonderingly. "Again, she did not kill us. Why?"

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