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no hangings, which pleased him. His chamber had hardly changed. The bed was new— larger, and more convenient, as sometimes he enjoyed several women at once—but two chests had survived the centuries, as had the shield on the wall. The throne like chairs in front of the hearth were new but their fashion was not, and he approved of the severe beige-and-brown-striped fabric covering them. He liked the brown and black rug on the floor. It looked like an animal skin, but it was wool.
    He stared at her now, as if enchanted.
    This one could tempt the Pope and seduce the devil.
    For not only were her face and figure so perfect, she knew her allure. She knew the gown she wore revealed her every curve and hollow: it thrust her bosom out, it cupped and caressed the plump mound of her sex, and nothing was left to the imagination. She had chosen it to increase her beauty. And he felt certain she wore nothing beneath it, not a single undergarment, to make a man insane with his desire.
    His heart thundered and so did the pulse in his loins. He reminded himself that she was unconscious and ill—at least for now. But sooner, not later, she would wake up. He needed to have control and when she did awaken, he needed to be gone.
    He tore his gaze away from her full, bowed mouth and for the first time saw the portrait on the table beside the bed. It was a perfect rendering.
    He picked up the small framed portrait. He stood with his nephew. Malcolm, Malcolm's wife, Claire, and Aidan. He stared at himself with some curiosity. He looked very much the same—hand, distant, bronzed from the sun—but his hair was shorn like a penitent monk's. He wore the modern style of clothes—a black, shapeless surcote and black, equally shapeless stockings. He was not smiling.
    Royce looked closer. His eyes held no light—whatever he was thinking or feeling, it was impossible to tell. Although he appeared but a human of forty or so, his stance was that of a man ready for battle. Even in the dark, somber, modern fashion, he seemed dangerous.
    Apparently his life would not change.
    He remained a soldier of the gods.
    Then he looked at his nephew. Malcolm, and his wife and half brother. Everyone was smiling.
    They were all happy, five hundred and seventy-seven years into the future. He was happy for them.
    He put the portrait down, wishing he hadn't been in it. The future felt bleak and loomed as if endless. It was all the same. Nothing would ever change. Good and evil, battle and death. For every vanquished deamhan, another would rise in its stead.
    Then, slowly, he turned and gazed down at the woman.
    Everything had changed, hadn't it?
    He was accustomed to a hard, ready cock—but not to the wild beating of his heart. It was almost as if the floor he stood on was tilting, and wouldn't ever be quite level again.
    He looked back at the framed portrait. The man in that rendering, the man who was over fourteen hundred years old, did not appear to have a single weakness, character failing, or human flaw. The man in the portrait had been at war for so long, only the warrior remained, and that was why he looked into his eyes and saw nothing at all. In the future, lie would be able to bed the woman and walk away- he would also give his life to protect her.
    Oddly he felt savagely satisfied.
    She would be safe here.
    And in five hundred and seventy-seven years, he'd have the pleasure of taking her to bed, of pleasuring her time and again, of watching her come, feeling her come—and coming inside her, again and again.
    He’d learned patience long ago. He’d wait.
    Royce gave her one last look, and leapt back to the fifteenth century, where he belonged.
     
    ALLIE AWOKE, cocooned in down, aware of being in one of the most comfortable beds she'd ever slept in. She had been so deeply asleep, she felt groggy. So many different birds were chirping outside the window she became confused. She blinked against warm, strong sunlight, searching for the familiar sound of the