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minutes each way.”
    â€œThey try that, I kill them all.”
    â€œThey’re pretty tough hypocrites. They claim to support Jesus, but they’re really out for themselves. They’ve got modern weapons, and they won’t hesitate to use them. Don’t tackle them unless you have to.” She shrugged. “Now do you have anything else for me before I return to my coven and report on my conquest?”
    â€œOne more hard one,” he said, taking hold of her. “By your leave.”
    But she paused. “I smell danger. It’s beyond my magic, so I don’t know its nature, but there is something.”
    â€œThat lout I drove off. He’s returning with friends.”
    She gazed at him. “How can you know that?”
    â€œI know the nature of louts.”
    There was a commotion nearby. A voice lifted in protest. “Hey, you jerks! What’s the matter with you?”
    â€œShut your face, creep.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Leyla said. “I recognize that voice. They’re looking for us. We’d better get dressed and get out of here.”
    â€œAnd miss a good fight? We should have time for that one last clinch.”
    She laughed, as she so often did. “And I like danger. But hurry.” She clasped him to her. They rolled, with her coming out on top. She rocked on him, her breasts heaving. Lusty? She was well beyond that. She had spoken of making a conquest. She certainly had. Cartaphilus didn’t know what love was, but if he was capable of it, she was the one who would evoke it.
    They were still connected when their tent was lifted and thrown to the side. “Found them!” the man called. “Bat on her back, right?”
    â€œGet out of here,” Cartaphilus told her. “I’ll handle them.”
    â€œI’d better,” she agreed, drawing off him. “But first I’ll distract them so you can get your spear.”
    â€œThat will help,” he agreed. Actually weapons were more decorative than essential; he was by no means helpless nude. Then he said what he seldom did: “Thanks.” She really was his kind of woman. It wasn’t that politeness came naturally to him, but that he wanted her to be favorably impressed with him. He didn’t want to lose her, physically or emotionally.
    Now there were four burly young men, standing around the two of them in the remnant of the tent. One had a sore nose. They had no weapons; they were depending on their fists and muscles. They were fools.
    â€œGet clear,” he murmured. “I’ll handle them.”
    â€œI’ll distract them first,” she said. She jumped to her feet, flashing the men with her bouncing breasts. “Get lost before you get hurt,” she warned them. Maybe that was her notion of fair play: to give them at least a chance to save their lives.
    Two of them stared, mesmerized. Cartaphilus knew exactly how that was. That was all he needed. “Wow!” That was an understatement. They grabbed for her, and missed, of course.
    Meanwhile Cartaphilus reached out and caught hold of his spear. “Are you ready, turds?” he inquired. He could play fair too, when he tried.
    The two who weren’t watching the woman dived for him. He whipped the spear around to stab one through the belly. He shoved him to the side and caught hold of the descending head of the other. He opened his mouth, baring his teeth, and bit off the man’s nose. He shoved him to the side so as not to get too badly spattered with the blood.
    Then he got to his feet, spitting out the nose. Leyla was gone, along with the clothing. That was best. She would probably not enjoy seeing the rest of it, as it might get ugly. Cartaphilus cared what she thought. They would get back together at another time; she had promised.
    The remaining two men closed on him. They were not cowards. Too bad for them. They were about to learn that numbers did not necessarily