"Are you going to be long?" Xander asked, poking his head back through the door of the shop with a hint of impatience. "It’s cold out here."

"I’m just coming," Anya responded, glancing over her shoulder with an irritated look. "Now," she went on, turning back to lecture her business partner with a resumption of her bright tones, "the Taylor’s order needs to be ready for three tomorrow, and the man from the herb and gum supply should be here for four. I told him we wanted a discount because of that mix up with the last batch of Guar and Acacia, and he said he’d look into it, so don’t let him charge you full price, whatever you do ..."

"Anya," Giles interrupted patiently, "Anya. I am perfectly capable of dealing with the wholesalers. It’s your day off tomorrow and you should just forget about the shop and have a little fun. Xander’s been waiting to take you on this trip for weeks, so – "

"Okay, okay." She threw her hands up in mock surrender. "I’ll have fun. Not that I should with Malumbra roaming around. Nobody should. The way I hear it, they’re real killjoys. Rip you apart just for breathing. Let alone smiling, or laughing, or making love …"

"Yes," Giles noted dryly. "Well – I really didn’t need to know that … We still can’t be sure it was a Malumbra Buffy saw. There’s been no sign of it since. Look - " he decided, taking her by the arm and leading her towards the door, "you watch your film with Xander, you do – whatever you do, tonight and tomorrow you can drop by the shop on your way home and tell me and everyone about your trip. All right?"

She thought about it, adopting a little pout and a look that really belonged on a small child. "’Kay," she agreed, giving him a coy smile and a cute little shrug of her shoulders. "But you walk home under the streetlights, all right? Stay away from shadows. Just in case."

He had to smile at her earnestness. "I will," he promised. "Now run along. I’ll lock up. And I’ll get your discount tomorrow." He shooed her out the door, shared a sympathetic nod with Xander and took a moment to watch the two of them hurry away into the night. It was late. Buffy had taken Dawn home over an hour before, intending to run one more patrol before she turned in. Spike had gone with her, determined she shouldn’t be patrolling on her own with something nasty lurking around town, and – just as she’d done for the past few nights, she’d raised no objections to the idea. Willow and Tara had spent the evening down at the bus station, watching out for runaways coming into town, but since there’d been no obvious candidates for a demon kidnapping, they’d called in and had also turned their steps home for the night. With Xander dragging his fiancée off to catch the all night showing of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, Giles had been left with domestic duty; shutting shop and heading for the lure of a hot shower, a steaming cup of cocoa and a warm bed.

After a worrying week, a long day in the shop, and yet another longer evening struggling with the translations of the Malumbra text, he was rather looking forward to all three.

"Ashura hanahava ekulian," he muttered, walking back to check that the rear access was locked, the door into the basement was closed, everything with power was shut away and everything electrical had been switched off. He was having trouble with that particular phrase. He couldn’t decide if the Assyrian glyphs hadn’t been copied down right, or if his understanding of the Enochian was seriously flawed. "The illuminated – the luminous – ah!" Light – somewhat ironically - dawned just as he hit the switch that plunged the shop into darkness. "The incandescent. Of course. The first, the foremost, the incandescent …" He strode back to the table where he’d left the books, flicking on the table lamp so that he could quickly add a scribble to the bottom of his notes. He stepped back to look at the result, reading the translated text with an anxious frown. If this was right – and he had every reason to believe that it was – then it was possible that the Slayer and her associates were about to face something a lot worse than a rumour or a demon’s fairy tale.

"I’ve got to speak to Buffy," he decided, taking off his glasses, preparatory to giving them a last minute polish before he headed out into the night.

Just then the doorbell jangled, and a cold wind whispered in from the street.

"We’re closed – " he began to say, turning to confront his unexpected visitor. The words died in his throat, and the glasses slipped unnoticed from his fingers, to land in among the clutter of paper and texts.

There were three figures in the shop, and their disposition suggested that only one of them had used the doorway to get in. He was a tall vampire, draped in a Texan longcoat and wearing full vamp face beneath his battered hat. The suit beneath the coat was vaguely old fashioned; the shirt sported frills, although this was an observation that Giles would only recall much later, when he had time to review the events of the night. Because the other two figures - hulking, looming menaces in the dim confines of the shop – were made out of nothing but darkness and shadows.

Three pairs of gleaming, evil red eyes were staring straight at him. The temperature had dropped several degrees, and there was a sudden sense of ancient malignancy swirling around the room. Giles’ mouth went dry and his heart hammered into overtime. "Uh – " he reacted, desperately aware that he’d just locked the back door and the only other way out was past a dead man who was going to be a lot stronger than he was. "Can I – uh – help you?"

There were no weapons immediately to hand - although there was a chance he’d reach the sword hanging on the side of the bookcase if he moved fast enough. Just a chance …

The vampire said nothing – but he beckoned, a chillingly slow gesture, as if he were a puppet and someone else was pulling the strings.

"O-kay," Giles acknowledged judiciously, carefully sliding round the edge of the table and trying to keep as far away from the silent shadows as he could. One vampire he could probably deal with. Especially as he’d move past the hanging sword en-route. But the Malumbra were an unknown quantity. Buffy hadn’t been exaggerating in her description of them. If anything, she’d underplayed the sheer horror that they radiated; he could feel the malice of their eyes like a physical force, and their charnel scent crawled across the room and down into his lungs like icy fingers of rotting flesh. Panic was adding its own particular seasoning to the situation. He knew – he couldn’t say how but he knew - that letting one of them touch him would expose him to an attack against which he’d have absolutely no defense. A week ago, one of them had possessed a boy who hadn’t so much as spoken since.

And might never speak again …

The vampire beckoned again, imperiously. The shadows moved a little closer, and Giles sprang into desperate action. He reached for the sword hilt as he passed it, tugging it free from its scabbard and throwing it into a furious forward swing as he dived towards the figure blocking the doorway. Ice and winter clawed at his back as the Malumbra reached out to prevent his escape – and the vampire put up a clawed hand and caught the downsweeping blade, long before it came anywhere near his neck.

Giles was jerked to a halt, stumbling over his own feet and dropping to his knees as the weapon was dragged from his hand. He’d realised the truth of his situation right at the last minute, too late to stop the blow but long enough to know how useless it was going to prove. The creature in the doorway might have been a vampire once – but the eyes that lit its inhuman features were as dark red and malignant as the ones that glared from shadowy depths. The dead man was possessed – possessed by a strength and a hate and terror that far outweighed his own particular menace.

"Oh god," the Englishman muttered – a quiet, despairing prayer rather than a curse. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, waiting for the moment of contact, the touch of a shadowed hand, reaching for his soul …

It didn’t come. Instead far more tangible fingers reached down and sank themselves into his shoulder, forcing him back to his feet. The scent of the Malumbra eddied around him, thick and cold and choking. He wanted to throw up, and he forced the reaction down with determination. He might be about to die but – if he had to? He’d prefer to do it with a little dignity.

The vampire’s touch was like a grip of ice. His talons had torn through fabric to pierce the flesh beneath and send a stab of pain right through his victim.

"What – what do you want?" Giles asked, biting back a gasp and trying hard not to struggle. Struggle and the thing would probably tear his shoulder right off. Dead features tilted towards the street. A command, not an invitation. "You – you want me to go with you." The creature nodded slowly and, just as slowly, released his grip. It felt like being stabbed a second time. "All right. All right," he repeated hastily as the malice behind him pushed forward like a wave of putrid slush. He clamped frozen fingers over the ooze of blood that had begun to escape from his wounded shoulder and stumbled out into the street, shivering with a mixture of cold and fear. His coat was back in the shop, along with his glasses – together with the mobile phone that Willow had left behind in case he needed to call in that night.

The vampire strode out into the street beside him. Shadows followed, oozing across the pavement like thick dark smoke. They were easier to see under the street lamps. Tall twisted figures, with humped shoulders and long taloned arms that nearly brushed the ground.

They stood for a moment, as if conversing silently in voices he had no way to hear and, while they were doing so, he reached down with his left hand and softly pulled the door of the shop closed behind him. Not to discourage opportune burglars, but to leave a subtle message of need smeared over the door handle. A desperate message, targetted at someone he couldn’t trust and who wasn’t likely to spot it for hours yet – but it was all he had. With luck, Spike would smell the blood, and be able to track him because of it.

A piece of him was busy suggesting that that was the last thing he wanted. Buffy might be able to ward off one of these things, but three were going to be far more than she could handle. He didn’t know where he was being taken, or what they wanted of him – but there was a very good chance it was would be to serve as bait to attract the Slayer. The best he could hope was that she caught up with him, before they carried out whatever they had in mind.

Or else that she didn’t come at all …

"Stay with it, Rupert," he muttered, carefully replacing pressure over his bleeding wound and trying to settle the pounding in his chest. Pain and adrenaline are never a good mix; he had to calm his heart and focus his breath. He might not be able to defend himself physically, but there might be spells he could use, if he were really pushed.

Well – a couple of cantrips, perhaps. His meagre skills in magic tended towards studied ritual rather than on the fly conjuring – and while he could construct minor miracles given time, the right texts and a few mystical ingredients, he didn’t have anything like Willow’s personal and immediate power.

The silent conversation was over almost as soon as it began. The possessed vampire jerked his head towards the end of the street and Giles – taking one final breath to steady his fraying nerves – began to walk in that direction, the shadows of hell on his heels and a dead man stalking at his side.

"My god," Wesley breathed, pushing open the door and holding it so that his companion could walk into the warm light of the hotel. "Are those things really as bad as you say?"

"Worse," Giles answered, turning to smile warmly at Cordelia as she flew across the lobby towards them both.

"You’re back, you found him – you’re both in one piece. Was there trouble? I saw some kind of trouble, but – "

"Strictly trouble for the bad guys," Wesley assured her, walking across to drop his jacket onto the reception desk. "Is Angel back yet?"

"Been back half an hour," the man himself announced with a smile, emerging from a back room with a loaded tray in his hands. "False alarm. We get them occasionally," he added with an apologetic glance in his guest’s direction. Giles nodded comprehendingly.

"Us too," he said, dropping his own coat beside Wesley’s jacket and looking around a little hopefully. Cordelia laughed.

"She’s not here. Fred and Gunn dragged her out to help choose the tacos. Do you eat tacos, Giles? I don’t remember."

Wesley shot him a questioning look – one that made Giles chuckle with quiet amusement. "I can - manage tacos," he assured Cordelia, who looked from one Englishman to the other with puzzlement.

"Is this some British joke I won’t get?" she asked. "Because if it is, I don’t want to know, okay?"

"I don’t think that was a joke, Cordy." Angel had carefully put his tray down on a nearby table and handed Wesley a cup of tea. That left two cups - and two glasses sitting there, both filled with a dark red fluid that glistened a little under the lights. "Did you want sugar in your coffee, Lorne?"

"Oh no," the Host responded, poking his head out of the office for a moment. "I am, like, so trying to cut down. Hi," he went on, seeing Giles standing there, considering him a little curiously. "I’m Lorne. And you are – no, don’t tell me," he requested, lifting his hand to halt the answer. "You’re – "

"Lorne, no," Wesley interjected – too late to prevent the seer from focusing his attention and his talent on their visitor. It shouldn’t really have been a problem; after all, Giles hadn’t actually said anything to him, let alone hummed a tune or sung a line. All the same, the Host gave a strangled gasp, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping open with shock. His lips worked for a moment or two, saying nothing, trying to encompass everything - and then he pulled himself out of the reaction with a determined shudder.

"Whoa," he said, staggering back into the doorframe for much needed support. "That was intense." He blinked, shook his head to clear it – and considered a vaguely puzzled Giles with decided respect. "So you’re the one the oracles are all whispering about. I’m glad you’re on our side. He is on our side, right?" he asked, throwing a hopeful look in Angel’s direction.

The vampire was looking at him with bemusement. "I certainly hope so," he said. "Giles – this is Lorne. Lorne – Rupert Giles. Buffy’s Watcher. Ex-watcher. Moral support. Comrade in arms," he tried, earning himself a decidedly wry smile from the man concerned.

"Friend will do, Angel. Close friend," he added softly, making Cordelia smile.

"Right," Lorne registered, still looking a little shaken. "Slayer’s friend. Ripper. Prince of hell. Heir to the Incandescent. Okay. And I room with a vampire with a soul, and – man," he concluded, eyeing Giles up and down with distraught sympathy, "no offence, but – I really don’t want to read you again in a hurry."

"Lorne’s a seer, " Wesley explained, taking a cautious sip at his tea. "A good one – provided you sing at him."

"Prince of what?" Cordelia asked, clearly trying to decide if she’d really heard what she’d heard or not.

"Malador, actually," Giles informed her, his eyes meeting Lorne’s and a look passing between them that made the seer shiver and look away. "It’s this little pocket hell dimension and it’s just a – technicality. Really."

Angel dipped his hand to the tray, lifted one of the blood filled glasses and held it out to his guest, a slight hint of challenge in his eyes. "Xander called," he said. "When I got back. The gang wanted to be sure you’d arrived okay. He said to be sure I gave you one of these. Something about needing the iron? I thought he was playing a joke on you …"

"No joke," Giles sighed, accepting the glass and staring into it thoughtfully. "Texan longhorn?"

"Uhuh."

"Hmm – I prefer an Aberdeen Angus, myself. But this is good." And he took a sip and a swallow, giving Cordelia cause to go eeww, and then look apologetically at Angel – who frowned at her affectionately and picked up the other glass on the tray.

"I thought two was your limit," Wesley teased, dropping himself down on the sofa. Giles raised an eyebrow at him.

"The gin, not the haemoglobin," he observed archly. "You get - used to this. Don’t you, Angel?"

The vampire eyed him warily. "I did," he said, taking a sip of his own. "But then I’m a vampire. You’re not. At least – you’re not dead. I’d sense that. You know – there is something different about you. Can’t quite put my finger on it."

"Long story," Giles sighed, dropping down next to Wesley and stretching out his legs as he made himself comfortable. "And before you start looking so worried, Cordelia, I can assure you the demon part of me is - mostly physical. That’s probably not very reassuring, actually," he added, realising what he’d just said. "But it was meant to be."

"Human heart, soul sustained by heavenly fire?" Wesley quoted back at him thoughtfully. Lorne made a quiet Oh of comprehension.

"That would explain it," he said, going over to collect his coffee and join the gathered crowd. "But that’s got to be one good story – and then some. I always thought the Incandescent was a myth."

"Oh," Giles considered thoughtfully, "he was no myth. He was very real. And very, very scary …" 

The crypt was old and half in ruins, ivy tangling in the tumbled walls and several of the stone coffins tipped on their sides. Graffiti adorned the inner brickwork; bravado tags of street gangs mingling with cryptic symbols across mildewed stone.

"Some sort of power focus," the ever present scholar in Rupert Giles observed, tilting his head to read the script parading round the central image. "Babylonian, I think …"

A shadowed figure loomed up right beside him and he took a hasty step away – then another half one forward as the second member of his escort moved to block the path behind him. The cold from the Malumbra was beginning to eat into his bones. He was shivering as much from that as he was from their unceasing bombardment of fear. The wound in his shoulder was the only sense of warmth he had – and that because it was a white hot point of fire, stabbing into him each time he moved his right arm. Fortunately, it seemed to have stopped bleeding, although he could feel the crustiness of drying blood cementing his shirt to his skin. It needed treatment, and he knew that he wasn’t likely to get it. Certainly not sequestered in a semi-ruined crypt at the back of Sunnydale Northern cemetery.

"Are we there yet?" he asked, anchoring his terror in the bravado of irony and wit. No doubt Xander – had he been present – would have put it down to British courage and the stiff upper lip, or something like that. Giles was rather glad the young man wasn’t around to make the inevitable comment. He was under no illusions of bravery; he was totally and utterly terrified - and the only reason he hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to collapse in a quivering, whimpering heap was because he suspected that doing so would only make his situation worse. Besides – he’d been watching the scenery, clinging to the vaguest hope that Buffy and Spike might materialise out of the dark somewhere along the way. They had been patrolling at this end of town earlier that night …

The vampire had walked forward to stand in front of the wall, lifting his hand to trace some of the lines which had been painted there. Lines of blood, going by the colour. They were dark against the blatant bright tags that they overlaid. Dark red – slowly becoming bright red as the creature completed his studied gestures.

A pattern emerged from the surface of the wall. A complex knot, seemingly made from a single strand. It shimmered through the shadows, but didn’t disperse them; the fire that outlined it only gave the barest light. The space behind it was dark. Dark as ink. As fluid as ink.

The wall wasn’t just a wall.

It was a doorway.

"Good lord," Giles breathed, seeing the surface ripple and bubble as yet another of the Malumbra oozed its way out of it. "Another hell mouth?"

Icy fingers pushed at him, tendrils of semi-substansive shadow brushing his skin through the fabric of his shirt. He took an involuntary step forward, then baulked. That was where they came from. There was no way that he was going through there.

"Ah no," he protested. "No, please - no. I won’t. I will not. I - I adamantly refuse to - " He’d half turned, desperately trying to escape the freezing contacts, which felt as if they went all the way though to his soul; in doing so, he’d turned his back on the possessed vampire, who reached out, grabbed him by his wounded shoulder – and simply threw him into the wall.

If he’d had time to take a breath, he would have screamed. The transition felt a little like being turned inside out and then outside in again, all in the blink of an eye. One moment he was standing in a California graveyard, surrounded by shadows, half sick with the stink of brimstone – yes, he knew the difference now, thank you, Spike – and the next he was stumbling forward down a flight of steps under a dark, storm patterned sky.

An ochre red, maroon and indigo sky, through which heat lightning flashed while distant thunder rolled and muttered around it.

It was an abrupt and decidedly painful introduction to the world which awaited him. His momentum carried him down the shallow stone steps, and sent him crashing to his hands and knees at the bottom. His surroundings and his senses spun - set jangling by a mixture of shock and pain - and he folded in on himself, huddling down as he fought a surge of nausea and the almost overwhelming desire to simply curl up into a little ball and stay there, whimpering

Almost; he conquered it with difficulty, leaving himself shaking and sweating despite the bitter caress of the air. It was even colder here than it had been back in Sunnydale. His breath was condensing into a little cloud of mist and the stone beneath him was slick with ice.

"So," he heard a soft voice consider in tones of velvet and cream, "you’re finally here. At last. Welcome. Welcome to my world, Rupert. I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time."

Giles blinked, turning his head and fighting for focus as his eyes adjusted to a sudden impact of light. On his left, the world was shadows and dim shapes. On his right, there was illumination – of a sort. He was looking at a pair of feet – perfect, sculptured feet, with ten slender toes and elegant arches. The sort of feet you’d find on a statue by Michelangelo – except that these were real feet, and they glowed.

Actually, their owner glowed. With a soft, subtle white light that painted every curve of his body, yet lit nothing beyond it. The Englishman slowly turned his head, following the contours of that light, trying to comprehend what he might be about to face.

Perfect feet – topped by almost perfect legs, marred only by a faint scar that ran down the side of his calves. Above that a casually knotted white kilt, slung low on a slender waist and equally slender hips. Then the torso, still perfect in form and proportion – and finally the face.

The face of an angel, eternally young, endlessly old. Long auburn hair tumbled down around it, framing it with unselfconscious beauty. The eyes that locked with his own – and the soft curve of the smile that sat beneath them - were simply stunning.

And cold. Ice cold, bitter blue violet, the colours of merciless pity, of desolation and loss.

It was as if their owner looked right through him, into his soul – and into every nook and cranny of it, his guilts, his fears, and his regrets studied with as much attention as all his hopes and dreams. In that second, and for all the hours and days that followed it, he was stripped naked and defenceless, the clothes on his back no more than gestures, the skin beneath them rendered transparent and his heart openly on show.

"My god," he breathed, one last, defiant prayer to a power that could no longer hear him, let alone reach him. The figure – the first, the foremost, the incandescent – answered it with a gentle smile.

"Yes," he said, with a beneficence that sent shivers down the man’s spine. "Here, that’s exactly what I am."

There are moments in every man’s life that serve to define them, in ways that echo and re-echo through every action, every deed. A lesser soul might have shattered right there and then, simply torn apart by terror and despair. But Rupert Giles was made of sterner stuff – which happened to be one of the reasons he’d been chosen in the first place, although he didn’t know that then. He closed his eyes for a moment, recognising the hoplessness of his situation – and yet, deep down, somehow managing to anchor himself in the faith and hope that had sustained him throughout the years. Not the sort of faith that can be put into words, but one nurtured by a long and bitter experience of the reality of evil and the truth that revealed.

There is something good in the world – and it’s worth fighting for …

He knew now that his part in the fight was as good as lost. But it wasn’t over, and he wasn’t about to give in. Not even when it was.

"You see?" his abductor questioned, talking to the shadows that surged around them, throwing out a challenge that they recoiled from. "That’s what I’ve missed – in you." His final word was a hiss of hate. It was answered with an equal surge of malice that made Giles hunch down and shudder. He was surrounded by Malumbra, rank after rank of them, swirling and shifting with restless menace.

"Yes," the sweet silvered voice went on, hate somehow replaced by amusement. "Love you too." He chuckled, crouching down to gently catch the man beside him by the shoulders and lift him to his feet. Giles prudently didn’t resist the contact – although he did wince with pain as slender fingers brushed the damage that lay beneath them.

"You’re hurt." The realisation sounded concerned – as was the touch that followed, fingertips sweeping the surface of the wound. Angelic features creased into momentary sorrow – and the creature retrieved his hand, bringing bloodied fingers to his lips, tasting the taint that they carried. "So sweet, the blood of mortal man," he whispered, so softly it was as if the wind had spoken, carrying his words out like a sigh. "So fragile their flesh, so tender their skin. And yet, and yet, so valiant a heart …"

If the look in his eyes had been desolate, this was utterly chilling. Giles felt his skin crawl and his heart flutter, dancing a pattern of terror inside his chest. He had a sudden – and highly understandable – yearning for the kind of demon that howled and went for you with hooks, teeth or claws. Something you could fight. Something that let you know exactly where you stood with it. Food, usually. Or a warm wet body to lay a brood of baby monsters in.

Because the last time he’d seen this kind of emptiness in a demon’s eyes, it had sat behind Angelus’ smile as he’d considered how he might torture his captive next. It was the kind of emptiness nothing would ever fill, nothing would ever satisfy.

It was hunger.

No.

It was famine.

And right now, it owned him …

"What did I say?" The ruler of the world demanded, turning towards his subjects with a sudden flash of scarlet in those ice blue eyes. A soft schnick of sound heralded a sudden blossoming of his previously unblemished body. A double row of spikes surged up from his spine and slender blades unfolded from his forearms and calves, tuning him into a bristling, armoured warrior. "What did I ask? Bring him to me - whole. Just a little request. Just a little requirement. And you hurt him." There was anger building in his voice – and anger reflected in the night sky, which boiled with sudden turmoil. A sudden, bitter wind sprang up, ruffling Giles’ hair and sending auburn lock dancing. The fingers which had stayed resting on his good shoulder now clenched like a vice, a bruising grip which brought a gasp to his lips and tears to his eyes. "I told you," his captor continued, glowering angrily at the shadows. "Not – to – hurt him!"

The last was a shout. Lightning flashed, striking down to discharge across the stone. One of the Malumbra was standing in the way – and as it struck, it let out a shriek of agony that keened around tumbled stones and echoed out into the night.

It was an inhuman sound; a cry of pain and rage and fear that had no place in a living throat. No place in a mortal’s ears either. Giles threw up his hands to block the sound of it, feeling it rip through him, feeling the agony of a creature centuries old, and long since dead.

"Enough." The voice was cold, heavy with displeasure. The sound of the scream was abruptly silenced. "I will say this one more time, and you will hear me. The man is mine. Mine to shape, mine to make as I will. And you will not harm him. You will heed his will and you will serve his wishes, and you will never touch him again. Am I heard? Am I?"

Silence answered – but it was a silence of assent, brooding, resentful, but accepting of the command. Giles might have been comforted by the thought that the Malumbra had just been told he was off limits – if it wasn’t for wondering exactly what their master had in mind for him …

"Good." The sweet voiced angel was back, seeming unaware of his mercurial change in mood. He turned back to his captive with a smile. The iron grip relaxed, and the dark, pitted blades folded themselves away as if they’d never existed. "Now – where were we? Oh yes. I was about to introduce myself. I am Salamiel, Prince of the Grigori. A fellow Watcher, you might say." And he laughed, softly, as if this was the best joke in the whole world. Perhaps in this world it was. "It has been a long time since I had – intellectual company. But I am being amiss in my manners. You are hurt, and – you’re shivering. You must be cold. The climate of Malador is not well suited to mortal flesh. We must do something about that."

His smile was not encouraging. It suggested that the something might not to be Giles’ liking, however polite he was being about it.

"I - uh - wouldn’t want to put you to any bother," he said, a little amazed that his voice still worked – and that he actually managed to use it. Salamiel’s smile widened.

"No bother, Rupert," he said, his eyes dancing with a sudden hint of pleasure. "Everything is prepared. Time passes here – faster, than in the world you have left. Five hours to one of yours. I have had plenty of time to get ready for your visit."

Five hours …

There’d been a chance – a last gasp, if she comes now we might just get out of this together sort of chance, in which Buffy might have realised he was missing and charged in to save the world, just as she always did. He could have counted down the hours until morning, clinging to the hope of that – but that hope, which had been lingering like a little warm flame, somewhere in the depths of his heart, was instantly snuffed out by that information. Morning in Sunnydale was days away.

He was utterly on his own …

"Why am I here?" he asked, steeling himself to turn and face the only thing that mattered now. The fallen angel that ruled this world – and cradled his fate in his hands. "What would some one like you, want from me?"

Salamiel stepped closer, leaning forward a little so that he could tilt his head and speak directly into his captive’s ear. "Everything," he whispered conspiratorially.

And began to laugh.

Between Two Worlds- Part One. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by anyone - Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys or Buffy the Vampire slayer trademarks or copyrights.
© 2003. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill