Slowly, Veronica opened her eyes. Her entire body hurt. Pushing her blonde hair back, she sat up and looked around. At first she thought nothing had changed, but as she stretched her arms, her back, her neck, and then finally stood, she realised that the wind had stopped. Although the funnel of light still engulfed the tree-house, discordance no longer emanated from the golden glow. The trion, clutched tightly in her hand, continued to radiate both light and heat, but the pain and burning was gone.

"Why isn't it over?" she asked the empty room. "What more can I do?"

She repositioned herself at the centre of her mother's markings on the floor. Once again she held her pendant aloft, but this time with more confidence. "All right," the beautiful jungle girl said decisively, "all right, now we bring them back." She closed her eyes and concentrated on her friends and on the plateau as it was. Everything had to return to its proper state. She wouldn't allow for any other outcome.

********

Marguerite struggled vainly against the strong hands holding her, pressing her down against the stone altar. Bochra's replacement, his dark, greasy hair hanging in his pasty face, smiled down at her malevolently. The druid raised a large, crude dagger high above his head.

There had been many times when Marguerite had feared for her life, but never had she stood to lose so much. For the first time, she had a family and a man she loved desperately. And the real miracle: he loved her too. "Roxton," she screamed in desperation; crying for the future they would never have, "where are you?"

The lead druid began chanting in a long forgotten tongue, but for Marguerite it might as well have been common English. "Take this darkness," he began, "return the light. Bind the evil one for all time." Over and over he chanted his litany, and the robed followers joined their voices to his.

Closing her eyes, the beautiful heiress conjured Roxton's face. This cave had nearly killed them both, almost succeeded in tearing them apart, and ended up bringing them closer than ever. It was almost fitting that she die here.

But she didn't want to die. "Roxton," her mind screamed, "you've always saved me before. Please, please, just once more."

The robed figures grew quiet.

Marguerite's eyes flew open to see the dagger gleam high above her. As it descended rapidly toward her breast, she screamed, "NO!"

********

Edward Malone sat up and shook his head. Untucking his shirt, he used the drier spots to wipe mud from his face. "Maybe I lost them," he muttered hopefully. A sear landed inches from his thigh. "Or, maybe not," he revised. Jumping to his feet, he took up the spear and resumed his flight.

As he ran, he began to wonder about the Viking who looked enough like him to be his twin. Could he be a relative? Some distant ancestor? Or was it mere coincidence? Marguerite always claimed there was no such thing as coincidence.

The reporter struggled to keep his footing in the slick grass. The Norsemen were gaining on him. He continued into the thicket hoping to elude his pursuers. Ahead, the bushes began to stir. He skidded to a stop just as a raptor lept from the rustling shrubs.

"Great," Malone grumbled, "death by raptors or barbarians. Some choice."

********

A metallic glint in the grass caught Roxton's attention. He stopped and grabbed up the small weapon.

"Marguerite's gun," he said with trepidation. The empty feeling in the pit of his stomach began to spread. A cold dread gripped him. "Not only alone, but unarmed," he fretted. "At least I'm on the right track."

He checked the pistol. It was still fully loaded. Holding the gun in one hand, he weighed it against the branch he still held in the other. The stick hit the ground as he continued his search with renewed urgency. There was now a trail to follow. It was apparent from the footprints that Marguerite had been seized by a large group and she hadn't gone willingly.

********

The hollow echo of his own footsteps seemed to be the loneliest sound that Challenger had ever heard. Tall, empty buildings climbed skyward on either side; buildings which had once teemed with life and now stood as collapsing, forgotten relics of a dead civilisation. The jungle was reclaiming the city. Vines bit into concrete and attempted to strangle steel girders. Vegetation appeared to be the city's only resident.

The Professor walked on with only the clatter of his footsteps to keep him company. He walked aimlessly until, weary in both body and spirit, he sat on the ruins of a toppled statue.

The sound of footsteps continued.

A voice behind him said, "Hello, Challenger, it's about time."

********

Roxton hurried along, following the blatant trail left by Marguerite's abductors. They evidently had not feared pursuit as they had made no attempt to hide their path.

The trail ended at the mouth of the cave, just as the handsome hunter had expected. The cave's entrance was no longer blocked. More accurately, the cave-in had not yet happened.

Readying Marguerite's pistol, Roxton cautiously entered. As he neared the large chamber, he heard chanting. He flattened himself against the rough wall and inched closer until he was right at the entrance to the main cave. He tentatively peeked into the cavern. There he saw several figures in hooded brown robes. Their attention was on the altar. Their appearance was very familiar. "Druids," his mind supplied.

And then he saw his beloved Marguerite. Four of the druids held her securely to the altar stone, and a fifth held a knife high, tip pointed down -- right at Marguerite's heart.

The chanting stopped.

Roxton pulled back fearing that he'd been seen. He counted to three, cocked the pistol, and charged into the chamber.

The dagger raced downward.

Roxton screamed, "No," his voice mingling with Marguerite's. The pistol roared, and the druids holding the heiress to the altar fell. But the blade plunged deep into Marguerite's breast. Roxton heard the blade scrape against the stone beneath the woman he loved as his own voice continued it's agonised cry alone.

********