Why here? It wasn't fair, it really wasn't. The concept of fair, admittedly, was one he'd been mocking for most of his existence, but still it rankled. Darius could have hidden his trinket anywhere and he chose to hide it here.

He tried to keep his mind away from the past, concentrating on anything else in an effort to ensure he didn't raise a flag for Greta to notice. She had been barely with them as they'd left the apartment, running commentary on the hidden world around her with no indication she was aware she was doing so. No, he didn't want her to take an interest in him, not here.

Muted voices came from below as Richie and MacLeod attacked the sealed entrance to what, he knew full well, was once a basement to an inn. An inn that had once sat conveniently against the city wall and one the church soldiers had tended not to frequent.

Standing watch over the open manhole cover, Methos listened to the industry below and huffed warm breath over cold hands.

"I don't know, Mac, this doesn't look so solid." A tapping sound and a low rumble followed. After a second, a haze of upwardly mobile dust was expelled from the manhole and made an escape bid to the darkness above, abetted by the frigid breeze. It glittered where the streetlight caught it which, as far as he knew, wasn't a usual characteristic of dried mud. With a frown he watched it dance for a moment longer, but finally pushed it from his thoughts when no answer to what it could be came to mind.

The sharp smell of winter was still lingering and, under it, the old decay. Pollution and modern life couldn't mask the true scent of Paris; they were just an aging courtesan's perfumes. The lights were her jewellery and cosmetics, once expensive and now cheap, disguising the fading beauty and worn edges. The bustle and the noise, too, could be stripped back to hear her promises through the years; promises she broke or kept on a whim, whispers forever trapped by the narrow streets.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Greta turn to look at him, but he did nothing to rein in the darkly vicious turn his thoughts had taken. A metaphor was working for him, for once, and by the time he realised the road it would inevitably turn into it was already too late.

"Do you vouch this place safe?"


"I vouch no place safe, but find this safer than others."

"Will you give them no comfort, even now?"

"Their comfort is their God and the warming flame of martyrdom - without and within. What secular assurance could compare?"

"Why must you mock them?"

"I must mock us all."

"Mattio, I…"

"Adamo."

"Adamo, then. I …"

"I did, for a while, consider 'Darius' but discovered it to be already claimed."

"And thus chose Adamo, having no great wish to return to 'Methos'?"

"A hit, Priest."

"If you do not care for these people, why do you aid my efforts to save them?"

"I grow bored of this place and I find it as well to leave it having won."

"Their safety is a game?"

"Everything is a game."

"And your prize?"

"To play."

"You play only to play?"

"In all things."

"Then, my friend, you are the wisest fool I have yet to meet."

"You are young, yet."

"And would you suffer the youth to ask a favour of you."

"Asking costs nothing."

"We shall see. I know to whom you go. Do not take his head."

"He will be within the walls before the night ends, and then your flock will die."

"Delay him; buy time and seclusion for my brothers to contain him, aid their efforts. I ask that you trust me in this, do not allow his head to be taken. Never allow his head to be taken."

"I make no promise."

"Your oath, Methos, or what I returned to you can be taken as easily. Would you again become the Horseman?"

"Your God is merciful and forgiving, Priest, or did you forget?"

"His unworthy servant has much to repent for, He will understand a lapse. Your oath, Warlord."

"My oath is given and bound."

"Be safe, Adamo."

"Be damned, Xerxes."

"That cop car's gone by twice." Greta's voice was softly conversational and he didn't turn to look as he replied, only grateful she didn't appear to have picked up on his small sojourn into the past and seemed once more coherent to boot.

"LeBrun did say he'd be watching, although I imagine he can't believe we'd hit the scene of the crime twice in a day."

"We're either criminal geniuses or complete idiots."

"I suspect the only thing keeping us out of handcuffs is LeBrun's inability to decide which."

There was a crumbling sound from below that rapidly became louder. He edged away from the manhole cover but made no attempt to check the men below hadn't been buried alive. Greta looked unconcerned; he took this to mean no one was actually dead.

After a moment they could hear coughing which became louder as MacLeod and Richie hauled themselves up from the depths of the tunnels. They were streaked with yellow mud and other things he preferred not to identify, but there was an unmistakable air of victory.

Wrapping his arms around himself, knowing it would do nothing against this cold, he aimed for amused and settled for sardonic. "You managed to defeat the inanimate object?"

"We're through." MacLeod gave a short nod and he drank from the water bottle Greta handed him.

Adam forced some nonchalance back into his tone, trying to lighten up before he created his very own self-fulfilling prophecy. The inconvenience of whatever happened with those always fell second to the annoyance of having no one else to blame. "Bards will sing songs of your heroics. What's in there?"

"We didn't look yet." Richie coughed and took the water, trying to unclog his throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise we came all this way to knock a hole in a wall and then go away again. Fun!"

From the expressions of the other three, he suspected he may have overdone the cheer a touch and headed right into sarcasm from the other direction.

"What's eating you? Mac just figured we'd let the dust settle down a little first."

"Eminence, I tell you truly: the heretics will flee tonight. Command your men to watch well the eastern wall."

"The church thanks you for your good and faithful service."

Greta was watching him steadily now and he knew just what she was seeing, the tightening of her expression as her vacant eyes stared at old gambits they couldn't comprehend. Witchery. For a moment, with instincts that just barely formed a conscious thought, he wanted her blood on his hands. It was enough. She blanched and then her eyes narrowed. With slow deliberation, she began to speak.

"He's been here before; he was the one who found the way for Darius to take his people out of the city."

Richie squinted as he tried to read her expression. "Isn't that … good?"

"He betrayed them. The Church soldiers were waiting; they were slaughtered outside the walls. Men. Women. Children." Greta coughed hoarsely and looked away.

MacLeod looked from one to the other, clearly trying to work around this information. Finally he spoke. "You're wrong. He wouldn't do that."

"Adam wouldn't." Her voice was inflectionless, the meaning lost on Richie but scoring a direct hit on MacLeod.

A flinch but the man shook his head. "Then there was a good reason."

The surety in his character was touching, if misplaced, and he began to force distance between himself and the attachment he'd allowed to grow to the Highlander. He could cut it away with no regret. He could. He would. And he would do it now, before the knife was given a keener edge.

The nonchalance was easier this time as he shrugged. "Call it spite, if you want. An oath was exacted from me, but no terms were given on how I was supposed to fulfil it."

Now MacLeod looked sick, and there was no exploding barge to allow him to ignore the revelation. "How many?"

"Three families. I believe there was also a small dog."

"Three … You betrayed Darius." There was very nearly awe in the man's voice, as if he could no more conceive of someone doing this than walking on water.

It amused only because he couldn't let it sadden and ruthlessly he let that amusement show with a quiet laugh. "While serving him faithfully to the letter, which is harder than you'd think. But, then, I've had the practice."

Blankly, MacLeod looked to Greta. "Is he even sorry?"

"No, but he had …"

He cut across her before she could effect a salvage operation on his reputation, the fact she'd tried at all stinging at pride he thought he'd managed to eradicate a long time ago. "…that's quite enough, thank you Greta. Your thirty pieces of silver are in the mail." His explanations and his reasons were his own and they would stay that way, thank-you-so-very-much, apologists be damned.

She fell back to stand beside the still silent Richie; he discounted both and turned his attention back to the Highlander, speaking as levelly and impersonally as he knew how.

"Here's your problem, MacLeod. This has wandered into one of a thousand episodes of my past that you would find less than palatable. Normally I would leave town to let you cast your judgements in peace, but I can't do that this time. So I suggest we return to the point and find exactly what it is Darius left for you down there and you can be morally outraged later."

"You betrayed Darius."

Clearly they weren't getting away from this quickly and amusement turned to irritation. "Everyone betrays everyone, one way or another, sooner or later. Why should Darius be special?"

"Because he was a good man and those people did not deserve to die." There was the righteous anger he was expecting, it was encouraging in a way. While MacLeod was passing judgements he was still himself.

He smiled and encouraged the rage, all the better to keep the questions at bay. "How do you know? According to the popular view at the time, they not only deserved to die but God himself demanded it."

"That's not your reason." It took a moment to register that Richie had actually spoken, interrupting his careful orchestration.

After a beat, he changed gears and nodded calmly. "Of course not, but a little perspective would not go amiss. How long do you think they would have lasted outside the walls? They were prey for the first wolf's heads who found them."

"Why did you do it?" The younger man's tone was too measured, too thoughtful.

Adam glanced at Greta who shook her head; he took that to mean she'd said nothing to prompt this and so answered almost cautiously, on unfamiliar ground when Ryan decided to actually use his brain. "I told you."

"No, you gave a reason but I don't think it was yours. Spite? I don't buy it. Revenge I can see, but not spite."

Yes, he was definitely getting out of practice. Perhaps he ought to abscond to some third world country and toy with its government for a while to regain mastery of the fine art of not being thwarted by children. There was a distinctively plaintive tone to his question, despite his best efforts. "Why not? I can be spiteful. I'm even petty, when the situation requires."

MacLeod took a breath and spoke with a calm tone that made it clear his work had been undone, the Scot was thinking again. "What was the oath Darius made you swear?"

"Go look in the hole, Highlander."

MacLeod took a step forward. "Tell me."

For once, he didn't step back, just raised his chin and smiled thinly. "Or what?"

The smile he received in return was hard and unforgiving; there was no room for manoeuvre there. Normally it was tempered with humour or concern; he hadn't been the focus of the face MacLeod showed his enemies before. It was enlightening, if not pleasant. "Or I'll ask Greta to tell me."

After a moment he decided upon the lesser evil. Allowing Greta to speak again would be a dangerously unknown quantity. "That I would never take Doyle's head or allow it to be taken if I could prevent it."

"Why?"

"I assume Darius had his reasons."

The force of will bearing down on him didn't lessen, but he matched it head on for once with his own and was given the satisfaction of seeing MacLeod momentarily surprised.

"No, why did you swear it? What's keeping you to it?"

"Would you believe a higher sense of honour?"

MacLeod's smile widened with no suggestion of humour whatsoever but his voice remained low, almost sing-song "Probably not from someone who allowed three families to be slaughtered."

"Don't forget the dog."

Two large hands came forward, bunched into fists at his collar and dragged him in. Almost nose to nose, he could feel the heat of MacLeod's unsteady breathing. He'd expected shouting, but the voice remained just the same as the intent gaze caught and held his own. "What is it?"

With just the same quiet intensity, without looking away, he replied on a breath. "I won't tell you, MacLeod."

The grip was abruptly released and he stepped back again, smoothing out his collar as MacLeod turned and spoke to the seer "Greta?"

She shook her head. "No."

His own disbelief echoed MacLeod's, though he didn't speak. "What?"

Her fingers worried at the hem of her sweater, nervously picking at threads in the spotlight glare that was the Highlander's full and displeased attention. Her voice shook, cracked, but was understood. "I won't tell you either."

MacLeod's jaw clenched as he grit his teeth, he closed his eyes then opened them again, patently trying to sound reasonable but still conveying more of the Scottish chieftain inclined to swing first and ask questions of the corpse's kin. "But you know."

"Yes, but … I can't tell you." Her voice grew in certainty again and she stood away from the arm Richie had protectively thrown around her.

"You saw what he did."

"I've seen things you've all done. He's just had longer to screw up."

"I have never …"

"I saw what happened after Culloden."

MacLeod looked not unlike a man kicked in the gut. The strings of anger and betrayal were cut from their marionette and he slumped, defeated by one word. His answer was token defence, the knowledge of his guilt plainly written in every sickened line of his expression. "That was different."

Greta spoke with clipped, surgical precision, moving in for annihilation. "Yes. You killed with your own hands."

Even Richie looked appalled, though Adam couldn't tell whether that was directed at the boy's girlfriend or teacher. It didn't matter, the spotlight was off himself. He'd been upstaged and was quite happy to relinquish the floor.

"Michael."

"Mattio. Do you come for my head after all?"

"I wish only to pass the time."

"There is none, the guards will come to arrest me soon. They will take death into their city and my wage will be earned quickly."

"The guards are delayed to the east tonight; it's only you and I."

He watched the police car drive past for the third time, spoke without turning back. "Go and find what your benefactor left you, Highlander. Amanda and Joe are waiting."

-o-

Amanda's voice was more waspish than worried as she spoke. "You realise we're going to have to be rescued?"

She squirmed slightly and Joe twisted his head to avoid a repeat of the stab in the eye he'd received earlier. "I'm trying not to think about it."

Trying not to think about it didn't help the fact it was the case. The ropes had resisted all attempts at working them off and, thoughtlessly, their abductors had left absolutely no convenient sharp edges around for them to utilise. He was a trained field operative with decades of experience, accompanied by a thousand year old professional thief, and they were waiting on MacLeod and Richie to swoop in and save the day. It wasn't just annoying, it was embarrassing and, anyway, he had way too much facial hair to play the damsel in distress.

The silence lasted perhaps two more seconds before the woman lying on him spoke again, her irritation making her snap every word. "This is completely untenable. Do you know how often I need to be rescued when I'm not around MacLeod?"

"Well…"

"Never! I don't get tied up, or thrown down steps, or threatened. Well, almost never."

With some trepidation, he tried to move enough to restore some circulation to his arms. The numbness had set in long ago, as much from the cold as the tightness of the ropes, but it didn't hurt to try. Success, on the other hand, would hurt quite a lot. "It's not exactly my idea of a good time either, Amanda."

"But you've got less pride to lose."

"Thanks." He spoke mildly, knowing she meant nothing by it. Her mouth probably hadn't even consulted her brain before she spoke.

When he had first read her Chronicle, he wondered how someone as apparently flighty and high-strung as Amanda has managed to last so long in the Game. Then he had read again with a more searching eye and seen the core of strength and creative determination, sheer stubbornness and courage, which tempered her recklessness and excesses.

The ruthless vindictive streak hadn't done her any harm either.

So he had no great concern her sniping was an indication of imminent breakdown, only a slight sympathy for the people she would eventually find a way to pay back with interest.

"You know what I mean." Her tone had turned mollifying now and he nearly grinned, then stopped as something creaked above them.

"Did you hear that?"

"Eugh, something's falling, some kind of dust."

Amanda moved again and he tried not to groan. Some of the powder fell on his lip and he tentatively touched his tongue to it. The taste was familiar and, he suspected, safe but he spat to the side just the same. "It's not dust, it's salt."

"You just tried it? You don't even know where it's been."

"'Thanks, Joe, for finding out what' … do you hear that?" There was the sound of metal grating again, this time to his left. Something began to make a sound he couldn't immediately identify until he heard the heavy sound of water hitting the side of a tunnel. Then he felt the first bite of icy wetness as it began to spill into their tiny space.

He couldn't suppress a shiver and felt Amanda fall a little to the side. She didn't complain at being unceremoniously introduced to a severe case of rising damp. He had been expecting a shriek, but her tone was only thoughtful. "Is that … water?"

Now, he decided, was the time to get worried. "Whatever it is, it's not stopping and I'm not tasting it."

Conversation ceased as they listened to the slow gurgle of the low-ceilinged hole beginning to fill, then Amanda spoke again. "You know, I think I could bear for MacLeod to show up now."

He laughed as much as he could with her weight on him and tried to ignore the way the movement let more water rush under him. "Don't get hasty."

Another grating sound, even closer, made them freeze and then came her quick whisper. "What was that?"

"I can't see either, remember? Amanda … it's getting wetter down here." The water was beginning to creep up the side of his head, already lapping against the edges of his ears and introducing a not entirely unpleasant lassitude to his thoughts.

"Turn." Her voice was decisive, He blinked.

"What?"

Speaking slowly, as if he were an obtuse child, she explained her intent. "I'm going to try and roll under you, cooperate."

It felt as if his brain was slowing down to a crawl, making it hard to grasp her meaning. "Why?"

"Have you discovered how to breathe under water or survive hypothermia?"

Her knee dug into his stomach and the pain bought him back with a gasp. "Rolling."

-o-

They had switched which side of the street they watched for police now, and Adam firmly kept his back to the witch. Every part of his body language screamed for her to leave him alone, he knew it did, but he still failed to be surprised when Greta spoke.

"Why do you keep letting him do that?"

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

She huffed as if she were the injured party. "C'mon, you're still angry at me?"

The sheer gall of it broke his resolve to ignore her, which had probably been her intent. Methos wouldn't have fallen for it, he knew, but Adam was clinging on tooth and nail. This is was getting distinctly confusing. "Given it's only been ten minutes since you completely betrayed my trust, what do you expect?"

"You'd kinda have to trust me at all before I could do that. Also, hypocrite much?"

"I don't trust anyone."

"No kidding. So why do you keep letting him do that?"

"Do what?"

"Shove you around, yell. You never stand up for yourself - which you wouldn't have to do at all if you gave him the full story in the first place, and you never do that either. What's so difficult? Just tell him killing Michael might turn you into a psycho of biblical proportions. Again."

The bitterness that had settled as MacLeod and Richie had silently descended back into the catacombs was beginning to lift. Briefly he considered trying to hold onto it like a blanket on a cold day, but it seemed too much trouble. The last frayed threads became a bite in his reply.

"Yes, because that will go over extremely well. And, I'm sorry, when did you become my therapist?"

"There isn't enough money in the world. I'm just a little curious how you can just take it. You don't look like a masochist and it's not like you can't stop him."

"Maybe it's penance. Yes, fine, stop laughing. I do feel guilt, you know."

"But you don't let it get in the way, you're practical. So why?"

"I like being underestimated. If I never fight back properly, he doesn't know what I can do."

Silence stretched long enough that he allowed himself a tentative hope she had decided she'd picked on him enough for the night. Then she started again as if she was in some kind of adjudicated debate. "Okay, so why not give the full story?"

"Same reason, information is power."

Another pause and then a too mild response. "Uh huh."

His irritation spiked. "What?"

"Nothing, I buy it."

"It's the truth."

"Sure, I know."

He mentally consigned her to every hell he could remember and a few he was fairly sure he was making up on the spot, but it was the thought that counted. At the back of his mind there was a slightly nagging sensation of wrongness that he couldn't bring to light, something missing. He let Methos work on it while Adam replied.

"Fine, I don't want him to know, okay? I like being the person he thinks I am." He smirked after a second. "'How hard a thing it is, to distinguish goodnesse from hypocrisie …'i"

"Whatever, Shakespeare."

"Boccaccio. Your ignorance is offensive, what are they teaching in schools now?"

"Relevance. Look, maybe he'd understand. You're not giving him the chance doing things this way; you keep making it look as bad as possible. He wants to think the best of you, why won't you let him?"

"It's just … better this way."

"You mean safer, and easier."

His mistake, of course, had been allowing her to live. In retrospect, he should have poisoned her coffee on first sight.

Levelling his tone, he made an effort to explain his position, realising even as he started that it would sound ridiculous however he put it.

"I mean the person he is won't understand the person I am and, if he did, he wouldn't be the person he is … and if he wasn't, it wouldn't matter. Did any part of that make any sense at all? And why the hell am I even bothering to justify myself to you?"

"I'm very personable. So, basically, you're a superstitious five thousand year old with an identity crisis and an inferiority complex … or you just can't be bothered with living up to anyone's expectations."

"I know exactly who I am and, if I forget, I can just go and read the scrolls about me. Also, I have it on good authority you can see my ego from space."

"So you're lazy and credulous?"

"It's good to see you embracing the path of the gibbering mad woman."

Blessed silence fell and he refused to feel even a sliver of guilt over using her probable fate against her. Then again, she might start crying again now, which would be awkward. Or maybe she was angry, but that meant nothing to him and …

"Thank you." Quiet but, unless she had suddenly developed Oscar-worthy acting skills, sincere.

He was very sure that even Adam should be better at predicting responses than this. "Excuse me?"

"You're not mad at me anymore."

"I am - I'll be conducting a dire revenge shortly."

"Just tell him, Methos."

"Oh, gibber off." Finally the wrongness nagging at him clicked into place. "You know who we haven't seen lately?"

"Who?" She turned to look at him as he walked past her towards the main street where the police car had completely failed to make its ten-minutely drive by.

"LeBrun's little helpers ... stay here."

-o-

"This? This is the worst place you've dragged me into and I remember Ursa's nicely appointed sewer. With the skulls. Remember the skulls? Look, there's some more. The nostalgia's got me tearing up here … no, wait, that's the smell." Richie sidled away from the cracked and broken remnants of bones, a sad little pile half buried by the silt. They didn't belong there; the frequent floods had probably washed them from their supposed final resting place.

"I didn't drag you then and I'm not dragging you now, you followed me." Duncan spared him the scantest attention, eyes following the path of his torch as it sent a thin light over the green-tinged brickwork. Clearly the basement had once been far larger but time and the traffic above had collapsed parts, sealing off one side entirely.

Richie stumbled on the unsteady ground that was mostly hidden under black water and swore under his breath, "Sure, let facts sway your argument."

MacLeod trod carefully, sliding his feet forward, letting them seek and avoid obstacles in the darkness while he searched for a scrap of cloth in the wall. It was a reasonable hope Darius would use the same method of showing the way as he had with the Chronicle except, of course, Darius wouldn't have known he would be the one to find it.

The low muttering continued behind him, he ignored it for as long as he could, appreciating the gesture of the younger man keeping him company. But eventually his final nerve snapped. "Richie, enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shutting up."

To his mild surprise, the muttering didn't start up again three seconds later. Now there was only dripping water, the dull rumble of traffic above and their progress through the debris. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts kept skipping back to the man standing watch above them. His emotions had taken too much of a battering to be able to work up the sort of anger he was reasonably sure he was perfectly entitled to, they hovered around a morose disappointment that was dangerously close to depression.

Brooding was something he was aware he was famous for and, he had to admit, there was enough cause for that. But it wasn't something he could afford now, or at least he could switch targets. The fact they were coming up with nothing but mud, bruises and, from the sound of Richie's cough, pneumonia was fairly disheartening all on its own. Again he second guessed his decision to find Darius' bequest before beginning, if necessary, a basement to basement search of the Latin Quarter.

But he knew it was the right decision, instinct rarely let him down when he actually listened to it. The nagging worry was the length of time whatever Darius had hidden had been down in the damp. If it was a parchment it would have long since disintegrated.

When Richie spoke again, the tone echoed his own doubt.

"Mac, there's nothing here. Maybe he left something and it got picked up by someone else."

There would be something. There had to be something. "No, it's here, we just haven't found it. Look for cloth."

"It's all mulch."

"Okay, check all the bricks."

"We can't check them all, most of them are buried. The only thing still in one piece is …"

They both turned to look back at the solid stone architecture behind them. It looked like it would survive Armageddon and Darius would have known that equally as well.

"…is the door frame. You're a genius." He grinned and ruffled Richie's hair as he sloshed his way back towards the doorway they'd entered through.

The younger man twisted away with a snort. "Any time you feel like telling Greta that, go ahead."

Their fingers quested over the stonework, searching for anything out of place. Finally his nails scraped over a deep nick in the stone. Long and bevelled, old and worn, too regular to be a natural fissure. It reminded him of the scars the knights sharpening their swords had left as their mark on stone gates but, unless this was robbed stone, that was unlikely to be the cause here.

He followed the line along and up to the top and a small but unnatural indentation in the old bricks above the doorway. Exerting pressure made something click and give and he almost fell back as the brick he had been using for support fell away in his hand.

Reclaiming his balance and his grip, he took a closer look at the smooth stone he was now holding. It was hollowed out in the centre and, when he upended it, something small and dully gleaming fell out onto his palm - along with a thick pool of sludge he shook away with a grimace.

Richie leaned closer, shining his torch as a spotlight. "What is it?"

Their find stood out in the stark light, stripped of any mystery the darkness had given it. Gold, misshapen, and undecorated with any gems or silver inset. A sad little piece of metal covered in black muck. "I think it's a bracelet."

"He couldn't afford a safe like everyone else?"

Gently running the thin band through his fingers, he cleaned off the worst of the mud. It was an infant's, far too small for an adult or even an older child. The style was reminiscent of the sort given as Christening gifts, a flat loop with a slide to tighten or loosen. Without cleaning it further he couldn't be sure of the origin or date, or even make out if there was pattern engraved on it, but he was strangely confident at least one of the people on the street above would be able to provide more information.

"This has to be it, let's go."

"Awww, do we have to?" Somehow overcoming the disappointment, Richie beat him out the door.

It was only as they were making their way back down the tunnel he realised the signal of an Immortal which should have been broadcasting from above, wasn't.

He quickened his pace.

-o-

It had taken no little effort and defiance of physics to reverse their positions, as well as the unwanted information that he was surprisingly heavy for a man of his height and should consider dieting immediately in case he crushed every woman he met.

He had just grunted in response to that, deciding that Amanda probably deserved at least one shot at him.

Now she lay on her side below him, the awkwardness of the position uncomfortable for both of them but the furthest he was going to get away from the water. He kept his head tucked down but was still able to feel the ceiling above scraping against his scalp when he took more than a shallow breath.

When he felt his eyes beginning to close again, and felt her breathing slowing, he spoke.

"If they wanted us dead, why not just kill us?" His throat felt raw, barely managing more than a whisper, but he felt her move below him as she jerked back into wakefulness.

"Think, Joe. Salt. Running water. It's a test." Her voice was strained, but still held the snap of alertness and irritation it had earlier.

"Huh. What do we get if we pass?"

"A good Christian burial."

"Christ, what if we fail?"

"Then we get burned at the stake."

"So, lose-lose is what you're saying. Okay, what can we do?"

"The good news is the water's softening the ropes, I might be able to slip them."

Finally the sharp little movements she was making made sense, he had been worried it was the beginning of some kind of seizure which, now he thought about it, made no sense at all. It was also starting to get pleasantly warm. He had to stay awake. He really, really had to stay awake.

Something had been said. Ropes. Good news. There. "I'm not going to love the bad news, am I?"

"Well, I don't know if I can do it before I drown."

Another strong shudder under him and the sound of choking before a stream of protracted swearing in, if he had to guess, middle English. "I thought you … said you … could breathe … under water"

"No, I said you can't. I come back after I die."

"Amanda!" Even if she came back, the thought of her dying over and over trying to keep him alive for just a little longer was appalling. Once more a surge of energy ran through him, but it was borrowing from reserves the cold had depleted some time ago. "Methos can, why can't you?"

"Well, I'm not Methos." She stilled completely, then whispered after a second. "Joe?"

"What?"

"You have your foot in my eye."

He thought about this for a couple of seconds, knowing there was a flaw in her logic and patiently waiting for his numbed mind to find it.

"'Manda?"

"What?"

"I don't have … feet and they … took my … prosthetics."

"… then something down here just poked me."

"Work … faster"

As he felt the frigid touch of the water begin to creep at him once more, he knew fast wasn't going to be fast enough.

i From the first story in "The Decameron", by Giovanni Boccaccio.