See chapter 1 for author's notes and disclaimers.

The sun was high in the blue afternoon sky over Olympia. The stadium was filled to overflowing with the throngs of anxious spectators. While most who watched were men, a great number were unwedded young women who scouted the games for the very best eligible men their country had to offer.

At the moment the short footrace was about to begin. Twenty men were poised at the starting line, their nude bodies glistening in the sunlight. Most were intensely focused on the race about to begin, but one scanned the crowd, analyzing the eager onlookers. He was about to dismiss them all as uninteresting when his eyes fell upon the most spectacular creature he had ever seen.

She was sitting in the second row, mere paces from the starting line. A regal air surrounded her as she perched upon her seat, her pure white gown flowing gracefully about her. The sunlight danced upon her fiery red curls and gave her alabaster skin a warm golden glow.

She turned and looked at him, and as her emerald green eyes met his hazel ones, Methos knew he was lost. In that instant he decided that he would not only win this race, but he would win it for her.

She surveyed the competitors disinterestedly. They were all the same: boring, brutish men just like the ones her father invited to dinner in hopes of finding her a husband. She turned her head slightly to watch the start of the race, and that was when she saw him. He was the last man in the starting line, and he was staring at her. She felt her heart skip a beat as she took in his lean and muscular form, short dark hair, sharp facial lines, aquiline nose, entrancing hazel eyes...

Before she finished her appraisal of this intriguing man, the race had begun. All of the men ran faster than many a warhorse, but the speed of the one who had caught her eye surpassed them all. When he crosses the finish line, he was a good fifteen paces ahead of the rest.

The officials led the winner to a small raised platform before the crowd and placed the crown of olive branches upon his head. The head official announced him to the crowd, "I give you your champion, Methos of Sparta."

As the spectators erupted in celebration, Methos' eyes roamed the stands for his captivating beauty. But she was gone, her seat empty. He sighed inwardly; he had really wanted to... 'What? Impress her? Really...' he thought, 'A 2,000-year-old man needing to impress a teenager. That's ridiculous.' Even as he scoffed at the notion, he knew it was true.

He laughed derisively at himself as he descended the platform and left the stadium, making his way to the temporary competitors' village. The distance between the housing and the stadium was about twice the length of the raceway, and each side was lined with a double row of fine marble columns. The outer set of columns stretched high towards the sky, soaring over Methos' head like old growth trees. The inner set were about waist high for a man and each held the statue of previous games' champions.

As he walked taking in the majesty of the causeway, he noticed a flash of white and red disappear behind a column about ten paces ahead of him. 'So,' he mused smugly, 'I drew her interest more than it seemed.' Methos decided to play with her.

She had no idea where he was. She couldn't hear him, and she hadn't peeked around from her hiding place for fear of being discovered. Her heart pounded, sounding loud in her own ears, as she wondered when it would be safe to come out.

His bare feet made no sound as he crept toward her. When he got to the column, his arm reached around with an uncanny speed and grabbed her arm. He pulled her toward him, and when she let out a shriek of surprise and protest, he quickly clamped his other hand over her mouth.

Methos turned her to face him and began to laugh as her eyes narrowed at him crossly. He removed his hand, and she came toward him menacingly, beginning a tirade about the impropriety of frightening and manhandling young women. This, and the fact that she was a full head and a half shorter than himself, only made him laugh harder. That only infuriated her further. She began to walk away angrily when he composed himself and called after her. "I'm sorry. Wait."

She stopped walking but kept her back to him. "Why shouldn't I go after the way you've behaved?" she inquired, more calm now but still upset with him.

He'd been moving toward the girl and was now directly behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and lowered his head to whisper in her ear. "Because I don't even know your name yet."

He was so close, she could feel the heat radiating off his body, and that, combined with his breath caressing her neck and the sudden realization that he was still very naked, made the temperature seem to rise several degrees.

She tried to speak, but no sound would come forth. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly very dry, and finally got her voice to cooperate with her. "Lykia," she managed quietly, still facing away. "My name is Lykia."

He noticed with amusement the effect he was having on her and decided to continue toying with her. He brought his lips so close to her ear that they all but touched her and introduced himself. "I am Methos."

She stepped away from his grasp to regain control of her senses. "Well, Methos, if I don't go now, I will be late for the Feast of Eros, and I'll miss the dancing."

A puzzled look came over his face. "Only competitors and former champions are permitted to witness the Dance of Eros..."

She smiled slyly, "I'm not going to watch; I'm going to dance." With that she left him standing speechless, and with interesting images drifting through his head...