He was still laughing several minutes later, leading the way through the twist of passages and walkways that made up the maze of his fortress home. At least, Giles assumed it had been a fortress – once. There had been battles fought amongst the stones, tearing down walls, spilling debris in all directions, shattering doors and turning the architecture into stark ruin. It was hard to tell what might be internal and external walls; they crossed rooms without ceilings, skirted a few without floors, climbed distorted stairways and made their way over arching, crumbling bridges beneath which chasms yawned. Towers rose overhead, the tops of them lost in the gloom of the ever clouded sky. Vast courtyards echoed as they passed – and narrow passages twisted and turned them until he had long since lost all sense of direction, level, or even time. Torches flared at his company’s approach, their light dying away again once he had passed. It seemed to be night; but then it might always be night in Malador.

He had time to study his guide, walking warily behind him, following his footsteps, just as he’d been advised. A wrong step here could turn out to be the last step ever taken kind and, while that was – just the teensyist bit – tempting, he also had the oddest feeling that he was being tested in some way. Along with the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that – if escape was that easy – he wouldn’t be being offered it so blatently.

So he watched where he stepped and he watched the creature that danced ahead of him with mercurial steps; watched the light that lit only the figure within it, and followed it deeper into hell.

The Prince of the Grigori was built on slender lines, an almost elfin figure – although he was taller than his current shadow, and his rangy limbs concealed a strength like steel. The tumble of his beech red hair fell in soft waves almost to the middle of his back, and his skin had a sheen to it, as if he’d been painted with a shimmer of metallic dust. He moved with an ethereal grace, his bare feet making no sound against the cold stone. Malador felt weighted with silences and what little noise there was seemed muffled and contained – although the voice of its master rang through it without concern. When he spoke, the whole world listened, hanging on his every word.

"Do you like my kingdom, Rupert?" Salamiel asked at one point, pausing beside some broken crenallations to sweep his arm out across the darkness that lay beyond. Giles had no idea how to answer such a question, but he tried anyway.

"It’s – uh – a little overwhelming," he said, deciding there was no point in trying diplomacy on a creature that could see right through his soul. Honesty was probably his best – his only – option. The answer seemed to please the Grigori, who smiled at him.

"I know every inch of it. I have walked in every part of it a thousand, thousand times. This is my home, my prison, and my grave. I was buried alive because I was the only one who saw the truth behind the light. Because I knew the only way to make things right." He stalked off, and Giles stumbled after him, numb to the way he bruised his shins on cold stone. Numb to almost everything, in fact. He could barely feel his fingers or his feet anymore.

"A thousand years I watched and waited. A thousand more. Ten thousand. Conserving my strength, planning what I had to do once the time came. And you know?" He turned to favour his guest with another of those indulgent smiles that made its recipient’s skin crawl. "In the end – it came. Just as I knew it would. So patient, all those years and then – ah," he chuckled, reaching to throw open a door Giles hadn’t even seen ahead of them. "so impatient these past weeks. Having to watch, having to weigh and measure. Having to choose."

The room beyond the door was warm. So warm, in fact, that entering it felt a little like immersing yourself in fire. It was bigger than he’d expected; a vast circular space with a sunken floor and a huge hearth in the middle of it, filled with glowing coals. There was even a fountain off to one side, filling the air with the music of running water, and a low curved table, laden with plates of food on the other. It was only partly roofed – the air above the fountain was open to the sky, and the wall on that side partly crumbled away – but it was in a lot better repair than most of the places he’d seen so far.

And it was warm.

Giles had been beginning to think he’d never feel warm again.

"Home sweet home," Salamiel grinned, draping an arm around his shoulders and giving him the tour, almost as if he were trying to sell the real estate. "Every comfort, Rupert, and a few more for good measure. Food – " He waved expansively at the table. "Everything imported, of course. Running water to hand – " A second wave towards the fountain. "Bedding – " A pile of cushions and blankets stacked close to the fire. The demon’s smile deepened with almost predatory intent. "Books -"

There were clay jars stacked along the walls. Clay jars carrying wax seals. The sort that were once used to store scrolls. Giles heart skipped a beat for reasons utterly unconnected with the dire peril he was in. It was an absolute treasure store.

"Scripts from Atlantis, papers from before the deluge, books of magic written in the Grigori’s own hand …" the demon whispered, laughing at the expression on his companion’s face. "Yours to read, to study, to absorb. I was a teacher once, Rupert. I will be a teacher again. I will teach you all I know …"

"This is just - amazing," Giles reacted, forgetting – albeit briefly – where he was and who he was with. The scrolls sang to him like siren voices, promising knowledge, whispering of vanished secrets, of wisdom lost beyond all recall. "There are people on the council who would give their right arms to see all this."

"That can be arranged," Salamiel assured him with confidence. It was like being dowsed with cold water; Giles’s bemused senses crashed down to earth and all the way back into the pit. The demon had meant that - literally.

"Of – of course," he acknowledged warily. "This is all – very impressive."

"Thought you’d like it. But the books can wait. You’re chilled to the bone and that shoulder needs attention. Come down here by the fire and let me see what damage my pets have done."

He went where he was led, drawn, in any case, by the lure of the gleaming coals and the heat which radiated off them. He knew his host could not be trusted, and he had no idea what the creature intended to do to him, but he was cold and he was tired, and he hurt – and this warm room seemed to be a respite he couldn’t afford to ignore.

"Here." Salamiel drew him close to the hearth and then danced away, coming back with a chalice filled with – of all things – hot chicken broth. He pushed it into chilled fingers with a firm hand. "Drink some of this. You need the warmth."

It was an utterly absurd moment. There he was, standing by a roaring fire, in the heart of a hell dimension, while a fallen angel offered him chicken soup …

"Thank you, " he said, raised to be polite, if nothing else. For all he knew, the broth was pure poison – but he sipped at it anyway, feeling it - and the heat from the coals – restore a little of the sensation in his numbed limbs.

"You’re welcome," the Grigori said. He stepped back – and a soft and unmistakable schnikt whispered through the air. Giles froze, his heart leaping to his mouth as he recognised the sound that had heralded the demon’s transformation. Was this the moment when he showed his true colours …?

Fabric ripped at his back, followed by a caress of warm air and a tug that dragged sudden tatters of shirt from his shoulders. A moment later, the edge of a blade cut down through belt leather and on through the twill beneath. Salamiel was using his weapons to attack with admirable exactitude, uncovering the man beneath his trappings of civilisation. "Get rid of your shoes," he ordered, the hint of command in his voice suggesting this was not something to be argued with. "I want to see you the way you were made."

He’d felt naked under his captor’s gaze, right from the start; it didn’t seem as strange as it might have done, making it a literal truth. Even so, he felt uncomfortably vulnerable once it was done.

"We strip away the lies," Salamiel murmured, closing his daggers back into his skin and walking round his prize the way the master of the hunt might inspect a pedigree hound – or a treasured steed. "And all we are left with is truth. You’re a seeker of truth, aren’t you, Rupert. A watcher, like myself. Watching – and learning, and coming to understand. But a man of action, too. Willing to do whatever is needed." He moved in closer, one hand sliding up a bloodstained arm until it came to rest – every so lightly – over broken skin. With the other, he traced the outline of the tattoo that marked a piece of personal history that its owner would much rather forget. "You know what I smell on you?" he asked, his ice blue eyes fixing the man with disconcerting intensity. " I smell – blood. Old blood, some of it. The legacy of pride and foolish mistakes. But closer than that? The blood of an innocent. Death and murder, administered for the sake of the world …"

It was true. He could hardly deny it. Between the stupidity of his dalliance with Eyghon and the demon that currently held him in thrall there lay a litany of guilt and regret. Friends, lost to the fight. Damage he’d been responsible for, and for which he’d paid, time and time again. And one damming act he had deliberately chosen to commit; the murder of Glory’s human vessel, to prevent her from ever returning to the world.

"It had to be done," he admitted, wrestling with the emotions that recalling that moment brought to the fore. A little guilt, a little regret – and a great deal of grief. Getting Buffy back had not erased the pain of her loss. Merely focused it. Made him more aware than ever of the regard he had for her and the space her leaving had left in his soul.

"Of course it did," Salamiel agreed with what sounded worryingly like sympathy. "You’re a man who knows the world, Rupert. You and I – we understand that sometimes – sometimes an evil is necessary, in order to do what must be done."

Giles stared at him, remembering the fragmented words of the text he’d been trying to translate. In his madness he chose the dark, the better that way to serve the light… "You – " he breathed, terrified by his sudden understanding of what that meant. "You became – you chose – this? In order to save the world?"

"To cleanse it." The words were whispered. The eyes that were fixed on his own burned with a sudden, scarlet fire. "Everything - everywhere. Touched by corruption. Nothing left - nothing still pure and untainted by the savour of the dark. The light refused to act. So I abandoned it. I embraced the corruption, taking it into myself and using it. Using it to make me a power that could act. Until I was betrayed and my strength stolen and my soul chained here. To rot."

His fingers had tightened their grip as he spoke, applying pressure, replacing gentleness with pain.

"I cannot escape this place," he said. "But I don’t have too. Not now I have been given the key to my jail." He lifted his hand, studying the ring the encircled his middle finger with a look of covetous pleasure. The dark red stone that it carried glimmered with a soft light of its own. "With this I have been able to reach beyond my prison. Able to chose a vessel that will carry my legacy back to the world. Who will – in my name and under my dominion - tear down heaven and cleanse the pits of hell. You understand," he continued, a quiet voice of madness, wrapped in reasonable tones. "You and I – we have so much in common. We serve the same aims in the end. But my way is better. I will reshape you to my image, and you will champion my cause until everything is over - until we finally can rest."

"Oh, dear god," Giles murmured, his voice tight with horror and his whole being rigid with shock. He’d feared the worst – but never this.

"I’m so sorry," Salamiel told him softly, "for what I have to do to you. I like you, Rupert. There was a time once, when we could have been the best of friends. But those times are long gone. And the need is too great. I will make you my heir, and you will serve my purposes. And you must fight me while I do it. Because if you don’t – you will destroy yourself."

"And - if I do?" The question was faint. Giles felt as if he were spiralling down into a pit, sucked under without hope of rescue or release.

"Then I will destroy you. But you will be reborn. I promise. You will hate me and you will love me, as all my people do. And I will love you, most of all …"

"He was mad, of course," Wesley observed somewhat thoughtfully. Lorne snorted.

"Make that one hundred percent total loon," he corrected. "Did he seriously believe he could become something so evil in order to serve the greater good?"

"Yes," Giles answered bleakly. "He did. That was probably the worst part of it. He hated himself, but he believed – he really believed he was doing the right thing."

"God," Cordelia breathed. "You must have been like – totally whigged. Right?"

"Right." The smile was affectionate, but the memories that lurked in the man’s eyes were haunted ones.

"Sounds to me as if he should have been working for Wolfram and Hart," Angel remarked dryly. "They’d have loved him."

"Not for long," Giles assured him. "As Wesley said, he was completely mad. He’d shift from this gentle, chilling psychopath into a raging sadistic, violence and then back again, almost in a moment. He was utterly unpredictable. But there was this – need in him, and that just made everything worse. You know," he said with a quiet sigh. "There are times that I think he was right. Back – whenever, before his fall? He and I would have been great friends."

"Stockholm syndrome," Cordelia assessed, from her perch on the back of the sofa, delivering the diagnosis with matter of fact confidence. It earned her a look of surprise from Angel, a startled one from Wesley, a puzzled one from Lorne – and another wry smile from Giles, who reached back to catch her hand.

"Sometimes, Ms Chase," he said, adopting his best librarian tone, "you both surprise and impress me. But no," he patted her hand and let it go again. "There was never any danger of that, I can assure you."

Cordelia coloured a little. "I didn’t mean – "

"I know you didn’t," he said warmly. "And you could have been right. There was a persuasiveness about him; he could have charmed thousands with single phrase, a quiet word. That was part of his power. But - what he did to me …" His voice cracked and he had to pause to take a deep breath; memory echoed in his eyes – and Lorne winced, turning away to assay a theatrical shudder and suppress a heartfelt profanity. Angel caught sight of both; his eyes widened and he glanced at his guest with decided concern.

"You don’t have to tell us this," he offered warily. "Giles – I’ve spent time in a hell dimension. I know what it did to me. So – "

The demon with a human heart looked up, meeting the eyes of the vampire burdened with a soul. "You need to know," he said softly. "You need to understand – this …" And he pulled back his left shirt sleeve, exposing the blades that lay hidden within his arm. They gleamed under the electric light, opening – not with the sudden and deadly flick that he’d used so effectively in the bar – but slowly, a measured revelation, the way a peacock might unfold its tail.

"My god," Angel reacted, staring at the weapons with wide eyes. Lorne’s expression was no less startled. Cordelia’s mouth dropped open.

"Oh – way cool," she proclaimed. "Go Giles! That’s - uh – what?" she asked, realising the looks she was getting from her friends. "What? He’s not going to all Freddy on us. Are you?" she queried, with sudden concern. Giles shook his head, amused by her reaction.

"Hardly," he said. "Xander calls it – ah – going Wolverine on him I believe. Something like that." He turned his arm so that the blades flashed and glimmered, reflecting the room and the people in it – all except for the vampire, who smiled as he noted the omission. "Pretty, aren't they? His were ugly things. Pitted. Corroded. But just as dangerous." He closed the weapons away with a speedy schnikt that made Lorne jump. "Its like – having ten fingers on each hand. Took a little getting used to."

" I bet," Angel said with feeling. "Does it hurt?"

"Not now, no." Giles readjusted his sleeve, tugging down the cuff with fastidious attention. Displacement activity; it was clear that his mind was a long way from his fashion sense. "The first few times – it hurt like hell. And growing them in the first place … that was hell," he concluded soberly.

"Sit," Salamiel suggested, the pressure of his hands making it more like a command. Giles did as he was told, letting himself be lead to the curved bench that fronted one side of the hearth. Someone had thrown a thick fur over it, onto which he sank with a sense of relief. Shock, the cold and loss of blood were taking their toll. He wasn’t sure that he could have stayed standing for much longer. The prince moved to stand behind him, his fingers caressing the crusted wound and his tongue tutting his displeasure at what he found.

"They knew better," he complained, a little sorrowfully. "Does this hurt?"

This was a sudden pressure that sent stabs of agony lancing all the way down to the wounded man’s fingertips. He gasped, twisting away from the touch with a resurgence of alarm. "Yes," he protested, blinking away the stars dancing in his eyes.

"Good," Salamiel said – and did it again.

Giles bit back a scream. The demon had sunk his fingers deep into the injury, matching the damage the Malumbra’s talons had made. He pulled back, so that the man’s arch of agony pressed him up against his abdomen, and he slid his other hand across chilled skin, clamping fingers of ice around an exposed throat. "Time to dance," he whispered, dipping his head – and locking his lips firmly on his victim’s own.

Panic flared inside Rupert Giles with desperate, terrified fire. He’d been trembling on the brink of it for hours, clinging to his self control and knowing it was being worn down by continual fear and growing exhaustion. He’d been steeling himself for all sorts of things – ready to endure torture, prepared to be ripped limb from limb, even half expecting to be devoured alive. But none of his anxious imaginings had prepared him for this – for this almost seductive assault, a forceful application of sadistic tenderness. A prelude to violation of both body and soul.

He fought. Or tried to. He squirmed and struggled to escape the bruising grip which held him firm. Salamiel made no directed effort to hurt him. He didn’t have to. Giles did it to himself, trying to wrench free from fingers of steel and slicing his skin on metal blades directed in a parody of a lover’s touch. The demon pulled him closer with insistent strength, his tongue a choking pressure forced between rigid lips and his blood tipped fingers spiralling down exposed flesh, touching, stroking, and defiling everything they caressed.

Slowly, and with inescapable intention, the Incandescent embraced his chosen heir, playing with him, amused at his efforts to resist. There was no warmth in the contact, and no passion behind the desire; Salamiel was as cold as his kingdom, and he imposed his will with deliberated control. The frost of his breath filled his victim’s lungs. The bitterness of his body chilled already frozen skin. And when he made his final move – his victim exhausted beyond resistance, weakened by pain and horror and made utterly aware of his helplessness –it was a leisurely, considered possession that filled every moment of the man with ice …

"Giles? Giles?" Cordelia’s voice was concerned. "You okay? I don’t think you heard a word Angel said."

"Mm?" The man blinked owlishly, recalling himself with an obvious effort. "What? Oh – I’m sorry, Angel, I – um –"

"It’s okay," Angel laughed, smiling at him with knowing affection. "You’ve got a lot on your mind. I was asking if you want another - ?" He lifted his empty glass, the deep ruby stain in it glinting in the light.

"Ah – no. No, thank you. But - I’d love a cup of tea. I’m – uh – feeling a little cold."

"We’re in California, and he’s cold," Cordelia grinned, getting to his feet. "I’ll get it. You want another one, Wesley?"

Wesley nodded, offering up his cup, which she took before sashaying out to the kitchen. He leant forward, considering his fellow Englishman with fascination. "So – how was it done?" he asked curiously. "Magical manipulation? Pyschosurgery?"

Giles fixed him with a calculating look. "Wesley," he enquired quietly, "how does a Kurruskian demon create other Kurruskian demons?"

"Kurruskians?" Wesley frowned for a moment. "Well, they – um, kill their victims, devour their hearts and then – force an alchemical transmogrification through an infusion of bodily flui – oh." He collided with the implications of that with sudden – and horrified – perception. "That methodology," he concluded awkwardly. He’d gone decidedly white. "I see. Well – erm – I don’t think we need to be talking about that with Cordelia around, now do we?"

Giles pointedly shook his head, and Angel made a metal note to look the reference up, first chance he got, Lorne actually went a little greener than usual.

"Let’s all just - skip that bit, shall we?" the seer suggested hastily. "I mean – it obviously worked, although not completely. Well," he added, at the look Angel threw at him, "it can’t have worked completely. Or we’d be having this conversation with the four of us in chains while his highness here tortured us for the pleasure of it."

"That’s true," Giles noted pragmatically. "With Buffy’s help, probably. He had his eye on her as well." His lips twisted wryly at the thought. "My first – ah – target. Once I was ready to face the world."

"Gods," Angel breathed, looking at him with decided horror. "She’d have trusted you …"

"Exactly. Fortunately for me – a-and her, and the rest of the world, help was on the way. But that was later. Time passes much faster in Malador than it does here. Buffy didn’t even realise I was missing until late the next afternoon. And by then, I’d been a prisoner for nearly five days …"

Long Sea Crossing - Chapter One. Part Four. 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