"Whaa hoo!" Iolaus war whoop heralded his arrival on the other side; he emerged in mid leap, tumbling into a somersault that scattered the front ranks of the advancing Malumbra and landed him – on his feet – right in the middle of the next wave. "Whooao-whoa," he reacted, sweeping out in a series of defensive kicks and blows that cleared him sufficient space to retreat and regroup. "Who sent out invitations to the party?"

"I think we did." Hercules said breathlessly, driving back the boldest with measured swings of his torch, which cut a swathe of light through frozen darkness. "Time runs faster here, remember? The ones we sent back must have called for reinforcements."

"There are so many," Buffy realised with a hint of disbelief. "How can we – " She paused to slash the sword at an advancing shadow – which hissed as the blow connected and backed away again. "Oh. Okay. I got it."

Xander arrived, last through the door, first to notice the temperature. "Oh god," he gasped, hugging himself in reaction to the cold, and then "oh god!" as he realised what he was looking at. His hand started to shake, making the torch in his hand waver and dance – which also drove back the Malumbra which was looming over him. The world was nothing but shadows and darkness; the sky above them was lowering and clouded with gloom, the space ahead of them surging with ancient hate and malignant memories.

"Iolaus, we need more light!" Hercules leapt to Xander’s defense, swinging his torch round to strike the creeping shadows, which howled and backed away.

"On it," his partner answered, slamming out with a scissor kick to dissuade a few more of them from overwhelming Buffy. She reciprocated with a furious slash that created a brief retreat – and, in the momentary space that created, the Archon unfurled his wings.

Wings of glory, wings of flame; they flared open to spear the advancing shadows with searing light. Xander’s mouth fell open. Buffy’s heart leapt with joy - and the darkness recoiled with a shriek.

The witch light Willow and Tara had summoned had been soft and silvery; the light of stars, or a blazing moon. The flame the angel unleashed in Malador was far brighter, far more golden in tone; it was the light of a thousand fires, the brilliance of white hot metal, the glory, the flare of phoenix fire. Even on a sunlit day in California he would have outshone the sun. Here, in a shadow filled realm that had never seen the sun, he blazed with a fierceness that drove back the surging foulness of the Malumbra, drove back the cold, drove back the malice and the horror, drove back the night to paint the very air with light.

And earned himself a mocking round of applause.

"Well, well, well," Salamiel considered, uncurling himself from the cracked dark throne that dominated the other end of his ruined throne room. "I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to risk coming here – but it would seem I was wrong. What do we have?" he asked, descending the broken steps and staring at his visitors with interest. "A deava, a demi-god – and the chosen one. Visitors worthy of my attention," he concluded, sharing the thought with the writhing mass of Malumbra who hissed and howled around him as they shrank from the searing light.

"Hey," Xander reacted indignantly, then instantly shut up as ice blue eyes glanced in his direction. Buffy tightened her grip on her sword. The Incandescent seemed unconcerned about the angel fire which danced across his realm. He had a light of his own, a cold, bitter thing, that rimmed him with illumination and yet illuminated nothing at all. The spikes on his back, and the blades at his wrists, glimmered and sparkled in the dark, points of diamond light gleaming with the coldness of death.

"You are welcome to arrive," he said, his voice smoothly seductive but his eyes flaring with a sudden flash of red, "but you will never leave. Be certain of it."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Hercules answered smoothly, taking a step forward to place himself between the demon and the mortals he’d led to this place. Buffy gave him an irritated look and took her own step, placing herself firmly back at his side. He glanced down at her – and smiled.

She smiled back. He wasn’t being macho, just cautious, and really, she appreciated it. But she had as much business here as he did. Maybe more.

"Neither would I," she said, steeling herself to meet the enemy’s gaze. Salamiel had a strange, unearthly beauty that belied the corruption he contained. He was the scariest thing she’d ever seen – and she’d seen a lot of scary things over the years. "Where’s Giles? What have you done with him?"

"Rupert?" The demon waved his shadows back behind him with a casual sweep of his hand. The smile that settled on his lips was an indulgent one. "He’s – ah – a little tied up at the moment. But I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you." The smile became a calculating one. "Once he’s finished coming round to my way of thinking. Not long now. Not long at all …"

Buffy’s instinctive lunge forward was halted by Iolaus, who caught at her shoulder and held her back from doing something incredibly stupid. She desperately wanted to wipe that smile off the demon’s face – but a straightforward, howling assault was not the way, however good doing it might make her feel.

"Where is he?" she demanded instead, glowering at the Incandescent with a Slayer’s righteous fury. "What have you done to him?"

He looked a little hurt. "Only what I needed to. I’ve given him my heart, Miss Summers. Everything I am. Such a little gift. I’m sure he’ll use it well." He lifted his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers; somewhere behind them the portal shivered and closed and the faint warm wave of air from the outside word vanished, leaving them immersed in ice. Xander gave a little gulp. Demi-god and daeva exchanged a wary look. "Now," Salamiel continued smoothly, "you are my guests. Mine to host as I desire. So …." He stepped round – keeping, Buffy noted with suddenly narrowed eyes – just that little step away from the arc of the angel’s light. "How shall we begin? Shall I throw the demi-god to my pets? Watch them strip his strength and strip away his divinity until he fades into their ranks and becomes as they are? And the deava? The determined Aeon and his misguided need to protect the innocent? Shall I rip away his pretty wings and hammer the gold into fittings for my throne?"

"Been there, done that," Iolaus muttered, releasing Buffy’s shoulder to draw his sword out from behind his own. "He talks too much."

"Let him," Hercules muttered back. "The Oracle was right. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is."

"Strong enough," Buffy pointed out, joining the whispered conversation.

"He shut the door," Xander added anxiously. "How do we get out?"

"You don’t." Salamiel had caught the final stage whisper; he fixed the young man’s trembling figure with a look that pierced him to his soul. "That door will only open as I – or my heir - command it. Maybe he’ll let you out," he laughed, savouring a joke Buffy didn’t understand. "Xander Harris, foot soldier, loyal friend and lovesick fool. Does the demoness own your soul, little one? Will she give it up to me? Or shall I take it, as I take everything I own? You’re nothing but a footnote, Alexander. Hold your prating tongue and do not speak again – or I will rip it out and feed it to you. As for you, Ms Summers … you have potential. I’m going to save you. Offer you up to my chosen one. His first sacrifice – and his first slave.

"Look at you," he growled, his demeanour shifting from urbane host to furious demon, all in the blink of an eye. "So proud, so foolish and so in trouble here. I am the first, the foremost, the incandescent! Prince of the Girgori. Master of Malador. Devourer of demons and angels, the devastator of hell and the cleanser of heaven. And you come, to defy and to defile me! Little heroes, little fools. I am your sun, your moon, your death and your darkness. Hear my words and tremble with despair."

"He definitely talks too much," Iolaus said with decided feeling. "He’d give Dahok a run for his money."

"He probably did," Hercules suggested, spawning another of those looks between them. Their exchange made Buffy feel a whole lot better. She’d heard a lot of those kind of speeches, and most of the time they were just rhetoric and pretension. Salamiel, however, was the real thing – and she could see why he gave other demons nightmares.

"I’m trembling," Xander said shakily from behind her. "Do I get marks for performance?"

"No," Hercules told him warmly. "But I might …" He stepped forward and let the torch drop from his hand so that he could slide his fingers into his jacket pocket. "Excuse me?" he said. Salamiel shot him a look of pure malice. "You mentioned the sun. I – uh – notice you’re a little short of one around here. Doesn’t that get a little – depressing? No dawn. No light of day?"

"I hate the sun," the Incandescent growled, glaring at him. "It will be the first thing my chosen heir will snuff."

"Oh. Pity," the demi-god decided, glancing back towards his partner and winking at Buffy. "Because we brought our own." His hand emerged from his pocket, cradling something that spilled soft light from between his fingers. In one smooth and athletic motion he half turned, dropped his arm back – and threw, a long high lob that tossed a glittering sphere high into the air. The object arced up and up, impelled by divine strength, delivered with perfect aim and carried high into the rolling clouds which covered the fortress. Everyone – demon, mortals and divinities – watched it fly, their eyes lifted to see it vanish into the looming darkness above them.

There was an anxious, heart stopping moment, in which Salamiel sneered and dropped his gaze to stare contemptuously at the expectant demi-god.

And then day dawned over Malador.

"I thought I was dreaming," Giles sighed. "One more delusion in the midst of many. But it was real enough. Daylight. Sunlight. I’d been in the dark so long, I was dazzled by it. And it hurt." He paused to give Angel a sympathetic look. "It was if it sank into my skin."

"Like acid," the vampire offered softly. "But – wait a minute. It was still daylight when you arrived here. Either you’ve found a remarkable sunblock, or it – ah - doesn’t bother you now." There was challenge in his statement, along with a little envy; Giles had the grace to look vaguely abashed.

"Well, ah – it was the darkness corrupting my soul that it attacked. Not me. Although there wasn’t much to tell between us at the time. Another hour – maybe less …" His voice tailed off, his eyes reflecting memories that none of them dared question. Cordelia reached down to gently squeeze his shoulder, offering a silent sympathy that recalled him from his reverie with a start. "W-where was I?" he questioned.

"The sun came out," Lorne prompted helpfully. "Which is pretty clever for a dimension that doesn’t actually have one."

"A Helios stone," Wesley murmured in quiet awe. "Had to be. Right?"

"Right," Giles affirmed. "A very powerful one, too. Powerful enough to illuminate the entire fortress – and probably a fair bit of the land around it as well."

"What’s a Helios stone?" Cordelia questioned.

"Well, it’s – " both Englishmen chorused, then broke off, each deferring to the other, amused and embarrassed at their synchronicity. "You tell her," Giles suggested, catching the smile that Angel shared with Cordelia. "You’re the expert."

"Hardly an expert," Wesley protested, although his eyes sparkled at the implied compliment. He knew perfectly well that, when it came to matters of the occult, Rupert Giles was by far a more knowledgeable and competent scholar than he’d ever be – but there were areas in which he had the edge, and it was nice to have that acknowledged. Especially when the man did it in front of his friends. "I did get to see one once. A fragment of one. Just a – glimmer, really. Amazing things. They – ah – generate sunlight. Mimic the cycle of the day. Absorb energy in their ‘night’ phase and then emit it again to create – well, day I suppose. The Egyptians used them to light the temples of Ra – of course, they weren’t called Helios stones at that point. They were ‘the gift of Aten’, or ‘the lamp of the holy barque’ – there are innumerable references. It’s even been suggested that the lighthouse at Pharos had one – that it was used as a beacon for ships at sea. They were very rare and very valuable. Gifts of the gods, not something made by mortal hand. It was the Greeks that gave them their name – after their god of the sun. There was one kept at Delphi and another at Eleusis. They used it in the mysteries there. But they were lost – believed destroyed, a long time ago. The one I saw – the piece I saw – had been discovered in the ruins of Carthage, back in the nineteenth century, and been smuggled to Britain to be part of a private collection. It’s probably still there. The man who owns it sits on the Council. I – ah - helped catalogue some of his pieces a few years back," he explained. Giles was nodding thoughtfully. "Historians tend to dismiss the references as mere fancy. Explain them away as ritual objects with no real power. But – believe me, when you see one – even one as small and insignificant as the piece I saw – well, you know they were really something rather special. Hardly something a vampire would steal," he added, grinning at the thought.

Cordelia snorted. "Like – duh," she said. "Great way to get a winter tan though. Sunlight on tap. Kinda like an ancient Greek UV lamp. Could do with one of those around here …"

"No, we couldn’t," Angel interjected firmly. "One sun in California is quite sufficient, thank you. Besides, Wesley’s just said they’ve all been destroyed. Just fragments left. This must have been a pretty big fragment though. I don’t suppose Hercules told you where he got it, did he, Giles?"

Giles smiled. "Not exactly," he chuckled. "But he is the son of Zeus. For all I know, he summoned up Helios and asked him for one personally. Angel – when a demi-god and his guardian Archon risk their souls to save you, you don’t exactly ask questions. Not about things like that. All I know is, they brought light to Malador. And I’m grateful. More grateful than you can possibly imagine."

The Malumbra fled; they howled away like a river of darkness, dashing themselves against the stones in their haste to seek sanctuary from the sun. Salamiel was left utterly alone, his arms thrown up over his head and his voice keening with pain. He sank to his knees and shrieked with anger and agony, his body arching under the impact of the light and the corrosion on his blades smoking, curling with tongues of fire.

"Take the upper levels," Hercules ordered, throwing the request at his partner, who nodded and leapt into the air, his wings raising a flurry of wind as he raced upwards on his quest. "Xander, you start searching the lower rooms – but stay in the sun," he suggested as the young man nodded and glanced round to find the nearest door. "And hurry. The Malumbra will start to regroup as soon as they get their courage back."

"Okay," Xander nodded anxiously. "No shadows, no darkened rooms. I can do that." He raced off, hurtling down the last of the steps and jinking through the nearest arch. Away from the demon, who writhed and cursed as he fought to regain focus and control.

"We have to get the Eye away from him," Hercules said grimly. "And keep him here if we can. He knows where your friend is. If he gets to him first …" He didn’t need to say anymore. Buffy nodded, her hands tightening on the hilt of her sword.

"How far’s he going to go without a head?" she asked, advancing with determination. She was really, really going to like doing this …

"Nooooo!" the demon wailed, uncurling from his crouch and throwing his arm up, just in time to deflect the descending blade. The impact rang across the bleak stones, echoing and re-echoing like the sound of a mournful bell. Buffy gasped, stepping back and feeling the blow reverberate through her bones. She’d barely retained her grip on the sword. Even weakened like this, wracked with pain, the Prince of the Grigori was incredibly strong. "No," Salamiel growled, backing away with a twisted, agonised lope. His eyes were scarlet pits of hate and anger. His skin – once smooth and clear like alabaster – was blistering, painting itself with scarlet wheals, through which his light emerged, a cold and bitter fire. His features contorted, twisting into a truer reflection of the horror they contained. "You will not have him! He’s mine. My hope, my freedom. My heir …"

So saying, he turned and fled, leaping for the spiralling staircase in the corner of the room, clambering up and onto the steps like a twisted, broken spider. Within seconds he was loping away, hissing and howling as his steps took him into and out of the streaming sunlight, darting into the vague protection offered by the shadows of broken walls. Slayer and Demi-god exchanged one, horrified look – and raced after him.

High, high above the tumbled walls of the fortress, lifted on wings of flame and gold, the Archon hovered in the cold air, hammered by the impact of malice and hate, shivering with the weight of darkness which soaked this place and permeated every moment of its existence. No joy had ever come to Malador. Only pain and anger and malevolence. It – like the Malumbra, like its master – was reeling under the impact of the sun, the stones, the earth, even the air echoing the waves of torment which twisted and tore at its Prince.

"Hold it together, Iolaus, hold it together," the angel muttered, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the assault on his senses. He was trying to focus his feelings, trying to find and isolate the sparks of humanity that lay hidden in among the clamour of bitterness and empty pain. He could feel Hercules somewhere below him, a solid presence of warmth and certainty – and he could sense the Slayer, a soul armoured by the light she carried inside herself, even if she hadn’t yet understood its power. Close by – but the gap widening as the hunt pursued their common foe - was the young man, Buffy’s friend, a bundle of panicked bravery, with more courage than he knew, jumping at shadows, filled with doubt and terror - and yet driven by a even more fearful determination. By the desire not to fail. To never to let his friends down.

"Man after my own heart," Iolaus grinned, recognising a fellow spirit when he saw one. "Wonder if he likes anchovies on his pizza …"

A beat and lift of his wings sent him soaring higher, letting him turn his attention away from the strong flames of life below him and focus on the emptiness ahead. The fortress was a brooding, sullen weight of stone, echoing with an empty despair. Salamiel’s stain lay over everything, tainting it with his presence. For a long, anxious moment he could sense nothing else at all. And then –

There.

He shot forward like an arrow, pulled by that sudden impression of desperate fire. Just a glimpse, a bare hint of a soul, struggling and drowning in a sea of malignancy – but enough to locate his quarry in among the crumbling maze of towers. Cold winds buffetted at him as he skirted the angled ruins, ducking under arching bridges and over tumbled stairways. The echoes of incredible power were painted across the stones; evidence of the battle which had chained the Incandescent in this abandoned realm – and the struggle he had fought to be free of it again.

All to no avail.

He’d wasted his strength adding to his chains. The walls of Malador had been built by turning his own power against him – and by fighting them, he’d merely expended force reinforcing them. A subtle, painful trap for a creature once capable of tearing the very stars from their courses – and a fitting tomb for a destroyer of worlds.

"How are the mighty fallen," Iolaus murmured with bitter irony. He knew all about the pride of gods, the ambitions of fallen angels, and the seductive powers of darkness. He knew what they came to, too. Empty promises, endless hungers and the everlasting corruption of the world. He didn’t know the details of the Grigori’s story and he wasn’t sure he wanted to: whatever it was that had driven a once bright and glorious soul over the edge of the precipice, it wasn’t the usual tale of stubborn pride or self righteous ambitions. Salamiel was consumed with hate, and wracked with madness. He didn’t want to rule, just overrule. Here, in this dark kingdom that was his prison and his tomb, that destructive desire had been safely contained.

Until a foolish vampire with ambitions of his own had opened the sealed door and let the genie free …

"Who’d be a hero?" the son of Skorous sighed, winging back to land, featherlight and fully alert on the stone flagged floor of the ruined tower. He had no idea what he might be facing here. He’d fought gods and monsters and demons in his time; as a mortal man he’d died in his best friend’s arms, victim of a dark and dreadful fiend who’d enslaved his soul and used his body to deceive and defile everything he loved. He’d earned his wings in the defeat of that power and had then defied the dictates of the Light, risking everything – his heart and his soul - to prevent the threat of apocalypse. He’d had those same wings ripped from his shoulders and his spirit spilled across the dark earth of Illyria in the defense of his friends and the rest of the world – and had then been gifted with renewed life, with the fire of the phoenix, by a maverick god who hadn’t believed in obeying the rules either.

Dying hurt. In more ways than one. He was rather hoping that he wouldn’t have to do it again. Not for a little while, at least.

"Okay," he breathed, slowly sheathing his sword and taking a cautious look around. Sunlight dappled the edge of the room, dancing off what looked like white marble steps and the abstract mosaic that patterned the sunken floor. There were the remnants of a fire smoldering in a wide shallow bowl at the very center of the room, although what little heat it might have given out had long since been absorbed into the general arctic chill. The fountain on one side of the room was dry. The table on the other was littered with debris – with rotting food, and a broken, distorted corpse.

"Gods." Iolaus crossed the distance in a leap, carried on outstretched wings. The face of a dead child stared up at him from the stained wood, her face oddly peaceful in its shroud of bruises. Her pitifully thin body showed signs of abuse, her ribs displayed like sculptured architecture while the welts of old wounds lay livid and raw across her skin. Anger flared in his heart as he reached to gently rearrange her twisted, broken body. This wasn’t the soul he sought. This lost child was beyond anyone’s help – but the pain she had endured in life was written across her with a deep and abiding pen.

"Rest in peace little one," he whispered, bending to press a delicate kiss on her pale forehead. For one, brief moment, he felt ghostly lips return the blessing, the gentle brush of a spirit warming itself in his light. A ethereal, barely perceptible hand tugged at his, turning him round – and then he heard the gasp, the soft, agonised breath of a still living soul.

Long Sea Crossing - Chapter One, Part Eight. 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