"Darkness surrounds me; I kneel down here as my world unknits.

Pain reminds me I'm still alive, so I hold on to it

As I hold on to my drawn blade as my life slides along the edge:

between cracked stones it finds the earth to whom I made my pledge.

" I am a naked blade, no sheath to hold me safe:

I have been drawn and now I must act.

Where is the wielder's hand? Where is the enemy?

Who now remembers the pact? "

Annwn, "Chapel Perilous"

It was a dark and stormy night... no, really!

Well, it WAS. It has to happen sometimes. And despite the hours that had passed since sunset, despite the torrential, driving rain, it was miserably hot.

On a deserted trail, a travel-weary man was angrily and creatively cursing out his horse, which had had the bad taste to lose its footing on the muddy track. The crunch of a breaking leg was all too plain. Now, the beast lay squealing on the sodden ground. Still spewing invectives, the irritable wanderer yanked a dagger from his belt and slit the horse's throat, ending its suffering and, not incidentally, the HIDEOUS noises it was making.... As if downpours and earsplitting thunder weren't enough to put up with!

Another streak of lightning lit up the sky, highlighting a cluster of buildings, not all that far away. Perhaps the night wouldn't end too badly, after all. Surely, one of those buildings would be an inn. Surely, an inn would have beer... well, wine was more probably in this part of the world.... And a dry bed (clean would be nice, but less likely). Somewhat cheered, he salvaged what he could from his saddlebags and headed towards the signs of civilization.

In about half an hour he reached what seemed to be the outskirts of a small city. However, there were no sounds of human habitation, no lights in any of the buildings. On closer inspection, almost all were falling down. None seemed to have an intact roof. And there were corpses in the street. Not many, and they all seemed to have been there for some small number of years.

So much for beer (OR wine) and a dry bed.

A diligent search turned up a single, large building that was more-or-less intact. Sufficiently so that the traveler had to break down the door, which was thick, if somewhat rotted, wood. It proved nearly impossible, until one of the rusted-out hinges gave way and the door collapsed into a heap of splinters, sending the tired man sprawling as he aimed a mighty blow at what suddenly wasn't there.

The stale, musty air made him cough. Catching his breath, he took in his surroundings. It was dark, but frequent flashes of lightning gave him glimpses of the room around him. The hard stone floor, he'd already met. A glance showed it to be black marble, somewhat dusty from years of neglect. The black marble motif continued up the walls, and the high, domed ceiling was adorned with a strikingly simple tiled mosaic depicting a ring of swords. The cavernous room was empty, save for a squat obsidian altar that looked more like an odd-sized table. An oversize, impossibly ornate sword, apparently designed by someone who had never seen one used, rested on the altar.

Realizing the nature of his new-found shelter, the man began to laugh. "You've landed on your feet again, Methos!" His quiet words seemed much louder in the dark, empty room, but oddly enough, there was no echo. "Obviously a temple of.... What do they call him now? Ares... well, not only is it dry, and cooler than outside, it's holy ground!" He smiled as he stripped off his sodden clothes and rummaged in his pack for an oil lamp. The small metal lamp was dented but not broken, the clay vial of oil was miraculously unbroken, and his flint and steel had somehow stayed dry. Before long, the mellow glow of the lamp provided a steady illumination, and an only slightly damp blanket a softer seat.

"No sign of rats.... That's a little odd, but hardly a bad thing!" Methos ran his fingers through his soggy, shaggy hair, wincing at the snarls. Giving up in disgust, he lay back on the coarse blanket, the golden glow of the lamp lending a warm tone to his pale skin. Beginning to dry, and almost comfortable, he allowed himself to relax a bit, fading into a light doze.

"Well, isn't this a pretty picture!"

Methos scrambled awkwardly to his feet, looking wildly about to see who had spoken. There was an overwhelming sensation of presence.... Not the warning buzz that heralded the approach of another immortal, but a dense feeling of raw power. The light in the room had changed as well, the lamp's amber glow was subsumed by a cold radiance, bright as moonlight, coming from no apparent source. With no further warning, a strong hand clutched the back of his hair and yanked roughly, hard enough to pull Methos off-balance, sending him sprawling on his back on the marble floor. It hurt even worse without clothes!

"You've gotten soft."

"Do I *know* you?" Methos looked up at his attacker. Male…but he'd figured that out from the voice. Black leather fixation, but on him it worked. Rather striking, in a menacing sort of way…. Methos pushed *that* thought aside… he was already sprawled naked on the floor, he felt vulnerable enough without any further complications.

"Don't you?" The stranger half-crouched, half-knelt besides Methos' face. His black leather pants were so tight they made a small creaking noise of complaint when he bent his knees. He smelled of musk, sweat, and fresh blood. The smell of a battlefield. Intoxicating. Methos clenched his teeth, trying to fight back his automatic arousal. The dark man laid a finger on Methos' forehead, running it down the side of his face, crooking it under his chin, forcing his head back. "You and your… brothers… served me well enough, in your day."

"Served? We served no-one!" After his initial flare of resentment, Methos realized that the Horseman had disbanded… well, he wasn't sure just how long ago, but at least three mortal lifetimes had passed. So, this was neither a mortal nor an Immortal. Methos tried not to show any expression as he realized the likely identity of his compelling assailant.

Who, maddeningly enough, only chuckled at Methos' outburst. "You terrorized the *world*. You were something to raise an army against."

"I can see how that would serve the purpose of a god of war."

"So nice to be recognized… especially since this is *my* temple in which you've decided to lie around naked and dripping wet." Ares winced mentally. He'd meant to sound sarcastic, but somehow it hadn't come out that way. He was rather enjoying the view, but he would rather have not admitted it just yet. Better drop the subject for now. "So, how is it that you're traveling solo these days?"

Ah-HA. That little bit of topic-wavering certainly did not go unnoticed. This night was starting to look up. "As you said, we were something to rally an army against. Four mounted warriors against a village of fifty farmers is one thing, but four mounted warriors against one hundred trained soldiers… I prefer to be on the side of the massacre that walks away afterwards, thank you very much." Methos sighed. "Add to that the trend for putting a vanquished foe's head on a pike to warn off any other enemies."

Ares snorted, not quite laughing. "Your kind are all like that, aren't they…brave, until any element of real *risk* enters the picture."

"Yes… it's a trait we share with gods." Methos struggled to keep his voice level, and was, he thought, able to mask most of the anger and (he hoped) all of the fear. Gods made him nervous… especially handsome ones. Particularly when they came equipped with such… magnetic… dark eyes…. he glanced away, trying not to let himself get worked up. When you're sprawled naked on your back on a stone floor, alone with a darkly attractive god whose motives are… uncertain, it's essential to maintain some detachment.

Ares, too, was struggling with his composure. It just wouldn't *do* to seem too interested in a lesser being, after all… even a vision of wiry perfection like this one. "What about leading an army, then? Letting a tactical mind like yours go to waste is just… criminal!"

Methos was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it. A horde of fighting men, ready to kill or die at my command… but that's not what I want. What good is secondhand carnage? No, if I'm going to kill someone, I want to do it myself. Why let someone else have all the fun?" He licked his lips. Amazing, how dry his mouth had gotten, in this muggy weather. Outside, thunder rumbled. " The real joy in battle is in facing your foe directly! It's the most intimate thing I know, seeing the fear in their eyes, smelling the stink of it on them. The desperation and struggle in the movements of a man who's fighting for his life, and losing, and knows it. Feeling the air of his last breath…" His words trailed off when he realized how excited this train of thought had made him; he was sporting a truly impressive erection.

Already somewhat flustered, Methos was even more stunned when Ares leaned over him, his face hovering mere inches above Methos' own. Methos hoped the spreading heat in his face was the god's breath, and not a spreading blush.

Ares' sensual lips curved in a mocking grin. "The most intimate thing you know?" He lifted one hand and stroked his thumb slowly down Methos' ribs. "Truly?" Methos began to squirm, half-heartedly struggling…

…And suddenly found himself standing. He blinked, briefly disoriented. Ares stood a few scant feet away, regarding him with a predatory gaze. He began slowly circling Methos, his steps light and deliberate.

Methos adopted a defensive stance reflexively, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet and flexing his knees slightly. He eyed Ares warily, trying to predict his next move. He was almost ready for it when the god chuckled and sprang at him.

*Almost*. His attempt at dodging Ares' lunge came a hairsbreadth too late, and the dark god's shoulder hit him in the chest, and before he knew it, he was thrown to the floor yet again.

His reflexes served him well enough, however, to scramble to his feet before Ares could pin him to the floor. He scuttled to one side, breathing in quick, shallow gasps.

Ares watched the wiry Immortal struggle to breathe normally. MMmmmmm… he forced himself to hold back while Methos caught his breath. This was just too nice to rush!

Methos forced himself to breathe deeply. The sweat trickling down his spine did nothing to cool him in the hot, humid air. He watched Ares circling him, and when the god lunged, he was more prepared this time.

The pale, wiry Immortal and the dark, muscular god grappled, feet struggling for purchase on the slick marble floor. Ares reached to grasp Methos' knee, his hand sliding down his sweaty inner thigh. Methos froze as the hair on the god's forearm brushed his bare scrotum.

That moment of hesitation gave Ares all the advantage he needed. A quick yank on Methos' knee, and the Immortal was on hard marble once more. He trapped Methos' bare legs between his leather-clad ones, and his mouth in a rough kiss. The god's tongue flickered over Methos' teeth like a flame, and his mouth tasted of blood and seawater. The leather of his vest felt rough against Methos' bare chest. The startled Immortal relaxed into the kiss, feeling unable to move.

When Ares raised his head, he was chuckling. "Not struggling anymore, hmm?" Methos' reply was to wriggle a hand free and use it to force the god's head back down, and return the kiss with fevered energy.

The embrace was as much of a struggle as the brief wrestling match had been. Ares kissed his way down the side of Methos' neck, biting as he went. Methos moaned, thrusting his hips upwards, grinding his cock against Ares' leather-covered crotch.

Ares' full lips curved into a smile as he willed his now irritating clothing elsewhere. Methos gasped at the sudden change. The god's thick, meaty erection pressed against him, hot and pulsing. He whimpered as the god bit his nipple, not *quite* hard enough to draw blood, but a crash of thunder swallowed the sound.

Ares ran his hands along the Immortal's lean form, reveling in the feel of the hard, wiry muscles under the smooth skin. He paused, here and there, tweaking, scratching, pinching. Methos' little gasps and moans were as sweet as any music, passionate as any battle cry. Enough to destroy the restraint of even the most patient of lovers.

Ares was not known for his patience. With a guttural growl, he half-lifted, half-dragged Methos to the crude table of an altar, sweeping the ridiculous mockery of a sword to the floor, and bent him facedown over it. In a single rough motion, he buried his eager prick in Methos' unprepared ass. Methos cried out, a thin, breathy wail. Ares chuckled. "Shhhh…." He breathed, running a finger up the length of Methos' spine, resting his hand against his long, slender neck. He began to move his hips in slow, shallow strokes, increasing in tempo so gradually that Methos did not realize it until he was being slammed repeatedly against the rough stone.

"Ahhhh!"

Ares grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back. "What did I tell you?" His voice was deceptively gentle, as he slid his hands to encircle Methos' throat, and began to squeeze. "Did you think I would tell you twice?"

The blood began to pound in Methos' head. His ears rang. He tried to whimper, but no sound could get past Ares' grip. As his vision blurred, so did his senses, until he could barely differentiate the frantic thrumming of his pulse from Ares' vigorous thrusts from the scrape of the stone altar pressing against his anxious cock. Reason and identity dissolved in a blast of combined pain and pleasure. Each burst of sensation was greater than the one before. He shuddered convulsively, spasming in climax even as his consciousness faded into blackness.

Methos woke slowly. His first conscious impression was that he was lying on a pillow of some sort. His second was the smell of food, which reminded him how very hungry he was. He opened his eyes and saw Ares leaning on a pile of cushions a few feet away, gnawing on a slice of meat.

"Is that a god thing, or do you just have a special knack for leaving your lovers breathless?" His voice sounded harsh in his ears, although his throat didn't feel sore.

Ares grinned wolfishly and held out a clay mug. "Thirsty?"

Methos grabbed the cup from him and drank greedily, all the more so when the contents proved to be a good, strong Egyptian beer, cool as river-water. Ares shoved a platter of meat at him. It turned out to be roast pork, flavorful and tender. A glance at his surroundings showed that they were still in the abandoned temple. Wherever the cushions, meat, and beer had come from, he didn't care. There were definite advantages to bedding gods!

"So," Methos said around a half-chewed mouthful, "What is this place, anyway?"

Ares rolled his eyes. "This city used to be a major trade center… it's right between an overland trade route and a major harbor. It was a happy, prosperous place for a generation or so, and the Duke commissioned a temple to be built to Hermes, in thanks. When the temple was about halfway built, an epidemic hit the city… some sort of fever. It didn't hit adults very hard, but children and old people were dying like flies. The Duke, who was none too young himself, caught it, and he was terrified. He pledged that if the epidemic would end, he would have the temple dedicated to Aesculapius instead, and he made his son swear that if he died that he'd see to it. His son vowed, on his life, that if the plague ended, he would see to it that the temple's dedication would be changed.

"Well, the old Duke was indeed the last to die of the fever. His son… his name was Panthony by the way… had vowed that he'd change the temple's dedication."

"Why do I think I know the way this turns out?"

Ares reached out and backhanded him... not very hard, but enough to make Methos flinch, "Don't interrupt, I'm the one telling the story. So, Panthony's the new Duke now. Panthony, as it turns out, had it bad for this guy Dacian, who was the Commander of the city guards, but Dacian just wasn't interested, because Duke or not, Panthony was a sickly little wimp with bad teeth and a whiny voice. Panthony was desperate to impress him any way he could."

Ares cast a warning glance at Methos, who had opened his mouth. Methos closed his mouth and smirked. "So, as you have obviously guessed, Panthony had the temple dedicated to Ares. He designed all of the interior accoutrements, including this *ridiculous* sword." He held up the ludicrously ornate, ruby-encrusted weapon.

Methos had to agree, it was indeed ridiculous looking. It even had rubies set into the *blade*!

Ares saw Methos regard the blade and then continued, "And, as you've also obviously guessed, the city was hit by a plague that made the earlier fever seem like the sniffles. It could kill a healthy man in a day… and so it did. Within two weeks, everyone in the city was dead, and Panthony and Dacian were among the first to go."

"So, what's the moral of the story?"

"Oh, no moral. The plague came in with a trade caravan… it would have struck the city anyhow." He laughed, a deep, rich laugh. "Although any city that could produce a sword like *this* deserves everything it gets." He ran his hand down the length of the weapon, and jewels and ornamentation dropped off in the wake of his fingertips, leaving a fine, simple blade, decorated by a single large ruby in the pommel, and a small pile of rubies on the floor. Ares scooped up the gems, and passed them and the sword over to Methos. "For your travels."

Methos smiled in gratitude. "Well, flowery thanks aren't my specialty, but…. Um… Thanks!"

Ares nodded. "Well, why don't you get a little sleep. I'd suggest you not stay here too long… I don't think there's any plague risk here, and of course *you* wouldn't get sick, but you could conceivably spread it."

"Abandoned cities are also duller than dirt."

Ares chuckled. "Very true."

Methos realized he was very tired, so much so that he could barely keep his eyes open. He lay back in the pile of cushions. As he drifted into slumber, he felt a hand stroke his hair.