Dressed in her black and white robes, and followed by a large cadre of priests and priestesses, Alexia made quite a sight as she crossed the UCLA campus. "I can taste them," Rack said as he walked beside her, a smile on his lips. "I can taste their power."

"We'll have the benefit of surprise for the first one or two," Alexia pointed out as they made their way to their destination. "But as you say, they're not without power. They'll put up a fight."

"Anything the high priestess of the great god Osiris can't handle?"

Alexia shrugged. "We'll find out, won't we? And that better be reverence in your voice when you mention my god."

Cordy sat in Amy's dorm room, discussing plans with Amy and the Wicca group leader, a dark-skinned girl named Vaughne.

"So you think we should—" Vaughne began to say, then broke off and looked at Amy. Amy nodded, and Cordy could see the fear in the two girls' eyes as they jumped up and ran out of the room.

Amy could only sense the danger the girls were in, and the psychic invasion that at least one had already suffered. But she had no idea what the source of the attack was, so she ran through the hall and down the stairs as fast as her legs would take her. Then, as she made her way out of the stairwell and into the dorm's lounge on the first floor, she tensed. No. It couldn't be.

Behind her, Vaughne and Cordelia caught up and kept on running to help the Wicca group, not understanding what Amy saw.

"There you are, darling," he said to her, a brutal smile upon his deformed face. "Miss me?" He looked down at the girl he held in his hands, sucking the last vestige of life out of her.

"No!" shouted Vaughne as she rushed over to the girl even as Rack let go of her and let her lifeless body fall to the ground. "Emily!" But Amy knew the truth, that it was too late for her. She could only make sure that Rack didn't manage to hurt any of the rest of the Wicca group.

"I don't need you," Amy said, stepping forward to face him. "Not anymore."

"You keep on telling yourself that, dear," Rack said, mimicking her gesture by also taking a step forward, toward her. "But I know you still thirst for what I can provide. You want it, you need it, you call out for it. Your friend made me go away, like the wicked child she was. But now I'm back. I can take care of you, Amy."

"I don't need your type of care," Amy insisted, but knew that while she sounded more confident than she felt, Rack would see through the façade. After all, she remembered how easy it had been to let him give her that little extra boost, all she would have to do is let him have that little tour of her mind, her soul, her self. And there was a part of her still that wanted it so, so badly. "You were dead for two years. People change." But they didn't, did they? Not really.

"Oh, found Goddess, did you?" Rack sneered. "Don't tell me you believe in all that touchy-feely stuff now. Mother Goddesses and earth magic and centering and the precious equilibrium."

"No," Amy agreed, mentally summoning her most potent magicks to her call. "Like any good child of Hecate, I believe in power." She raised her hand in front of her and let a fireball form in her palm. "Something you never had of your own."

She let the fireball go, but felt it hit against an invisible barrier—a shield fashioned of dark magicks, much darker than anything she had ever cast herself. Death magicks. For the first time, Amy noticed the other non-Wiccas in the room, teenaged boys and girls all dressed in black and white robes. "Osiris," she whispered.

"The God is angered," said one girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen, as she stepped forward. From her more elaborate robes, Amy figured she was probably High Priestess of Osiris or something. Amy didn't care if she was Grand Wazoo. "You plan to defy His will, to protect the Rosenberg girl. This has made Him very unhappy."

"What a shame," Amy said, frowning. "Maybe we should throw Him a party, try to cheer Him up."

The girl frowned. "You do not mock Osiris."

"No? It certainly sounded to me like I just did. Let me make this clear: it's not my problem if your God has a stick up His divine ass. I'm not afraid of Him." She was, of course, as any sane person would be, and she half-wondered if He would strike her dead on the spot for disrespecting Him. But no, it wasn't that easy. There were rules that even gods had to obey.

And she couldn't step down, not in a situation like this. Certainly not in front of the rest of the Wicca group. She didn't know who was more powerful, herself or this priestess. She didn't know if the rest of the Wicca group could take on the remainder of the Order of Osiris. She didn't know how the presence of Cordelia—where had she found that sword?—or Rack would change the outcome. She wasn't sure she could afford to find out, but she certainly couldn't afford to give in to the Order of Osiris, let Rack submit them to psychic rape, draining them dry like he did Emily.

"Leave now," said Amy.

The girl only laughed. "You really expect us to be intimidated by thirteen—no, wait, twelve—Wiccans and a great and terrible Higher Power threatening us with a broad sword? You have no idea the type of power we wield." She uttered a word and the dark magicks lashed out at Amy, who promptly put up her best defenses. But the Osiran's magic was too dark, too deep. Vaughne and another Wiccan, Andrea, had to lend their own power to buttress Amy's defense, help to divert the invisible tendrils of black magic.

In her peripheral vision, Amy could see Cordelia attack one of the priests with her sword; he parried with a ceremonial dagger he must have had in his robes. Around her, the other Wiccans and the followers of Osiris were locked into a battle of wills and magicks, each side using what invocations they could to attack the other. She could sense Rack grab hold of another girl and begin to taste.

"Det dypeste selv, det mørkeste selv, jeg kaller deg slåss," Amy invoked, tapping into that nexus deep within herself which pulsated with the flows of light and dark magic. "Jeg conjure deg slåss tilbake mine fiender, tilkalle vreden av lys og mørke." Straining to use every ounce of power within her, she bombarded the high priestess with magic both dark and light, using everything she had within her to fight off the debilitating death magic. She let herself be lost in the magic, her very identity subsumed by the primordial will to power.

There was no longer Amy Madison. There was only magic. There was only power.

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
—Ezra Pound, "Sestina: Altaforte"

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
—T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland

And then there was Amy Madison again. She looked around her: three girls lay on the ground, drained, Rack was smiling, and two more of the Wiccans were badly wounded and needed immediate aid. But much of the Order of Osiris was similarly wounded, and a least a couple were dead. Most importantly, the high priestess was on her knees, significantly weakened. Rack stepped towards her. "Here," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. Amy watched as energy flew from his hand into her body, but the girl pushed the hand away, interrupting the flow. "We have what we came for," she said.

Rack nodded, then helped her to her feet. "This will be war," the high priestess warned as she left with what remained of the Order of Osiris trailing behind her.

Amy Madison nodded, then turned back to what was left of the Wicca group, planning to help the casualties. "So mote it be," she said under her breath before she collapsed.