Sangnachos zong slept under the moon, cradled in the heart of the Himalayas. Beneath the pass upon which it lay, an immense slope rose from the forested abyss: pine and oak, juniper and rhododendron dense as any jungle, succeeded by groves of hardy birch . . . then, above the tree-line, one emerged into the altitude at which the lamasery itself stood, and this was the zone of flowers. For rain fell plentifully in that part of the Himalayas, and the southern slopes of the mountains were carpeted with fantastic flowers. Primulas and potentillas, anemones and eidelweiss, saxifrage and gentians covered the alpine meadows, blooming amidst the melting snows of spring - there were no flowers like the flowers of Tibet!

Above these brilliant alpine meadows lay a country of eternal snow, the serene peaks of the mountains of God. There, so stories told, yellow bears walked across the snowfields, leaving prints like men, and the thunder of the mountain storms was the roaring of the great white lions of Heaven. All the Himalayas had been a lake, until a helpful Bodhisattva crooked one finger and lifted the mountains up. Here was the heart of lamastic Buddhism, the great religion which had ruled half Asia; here were the last sanctuaries of the Bon-po; here were the temples of a hundred Incarnations, among whom the Dalai Lama was greatest of the great. What was China? A mere twelve hundred years ago, the hordes of Tibet had conquered western China, seized Turkestan and Mongolia, sacked China's capital of Chang-an; their outposts had reached from the Jade Gate to Khotan. The Tibetans had never forgotten. The Chinese had never forgotten either.

The Chinese soldiers walked curiously through Sangnachos zong. For most of them, it was the only intact lamasery they would ever see. They had been raised in an isolated culture, they were ignorant of the ways of other lands; the strong faith of Tibet was a mystery to them. They marveled at the brightly painted prayer hall, with its wooden pillars covered with lions and flowers, and its walls decorated with the eight happy signs of Tibetan Buddhism. The pile of rusty swords around the abbot's throne made them grimace in bewilderment. Some took souvenirs. Then they found the tantric paintings with their graphic sexual symbolism, and studied them with lips pursed and eyes slitted in disgust. And it wasn't long before the first solder spat on the walls. It wasn't long before they found the stores of whitewash meant for the lamasery's exterior, and began to apply it to the interior.

Naro-Bonchung prowled through the lamasery. Buddhism meant nothing to him. He was not old for an immortal, but his teachers had been Bon shamans and they had taught him all the ancient tales. He knew that once, his religion had been the one religion of all Europe and Asia, for as far away as England and Normandy men had raised the stone circles, the megaliths and monoliths of the shamans. Such monuments still decorated lonely places in the mountains, and menhirs lined the old pilgrim's road to Mount Kailas. He himself had taken the name of a mighty Bon sorceror, but then he had lived many lives, using many names: Kesar Khan, Ja Lama. Here in Sangnachos zong were dozens of immortals, a feast laid out before him. He would take their heads, chop off the tops of their skulls, rivet skull upon skull to make magic drums - in the old way. In the old way, he would drink souls.

The girl once named Peach knew the satisfaction of a dream. Long ago, loving her Master, owing him everything, she had made one hideous mistake . . . and lost him even as she gained immortality. Since then her tale had been one of endless plotting to survive, for she was only a defenseless girl - in China, where a girl was nothing. She had fought every step of the way, against mortals as well as immortals. She had learned to disguise her extreme youth, to appear decades older at will. And now she had found her Master Methos, and would live happily ever after.

Chang was busy. Watcher protocol was clearly laid out, polished by a thousand close calls. His small group had held countless drills on just what to do. Every computer record had been backed up and wiped, all disks cleansed and dummy disks - lovingly faked by his bored junior Watchers, every line of falsified research the product of snickers and guffaws - put out to be scrutinized. They had reams of actual data from Russian and American psychic studies. They had papers and permits enough to kill any investigator through sheer boredom.

The chronicles had not been moved. They were irreplaceable originals, too many to be hidden, and could not be surrendered to outsiders. Fuses had already been set. If the chronicles were threatened, the building would be fired - blown up, to save them from falling into the wrong hands. As a last resort. And as a last resort, Chang and his fellow Watchers were sworn to die rather than be questioned.

It would all seem like an accident, of course. But Chang was a realist, and didn't believe in dying for the cause. So he had made other plans.

And just because there were two rogue immortals and a squad of peasant soldiers loose in the lamasery was no reason to give up hope.

Presently, Chang was standing before a window in the Watcher quarters, looking through a pair of binoculars. Next to him squatted two Chinese soldiers, both crouching with their heads below the level of the windowsill. They were the Watchers assigned to Immortal Maiden and Naro-Bonchung. While he gazed over the moonlit grounds of the lamasery, they talked quietly to him - bringing him up to date on the movements of their immortals. When they were finished he said only: "Sang Yum. Pierson. Mallison. We still don't know where they are?"

"No, sir."

He had Immortal Maiden in his scope. There she was, in the courtyard just outside the walk up to the anchorites' cells, jotting notes on a clipboard. She had several soldiers with her; they held powerful flashlights, which they were beaming here and there - examining the doors of the cells? None of the cells had yet been opened, but it was only a matter of time, Chang supposed. For why else would immortals attack Sangnachos zong, except for the quickenings of other immortals?

. . . And where was Sang Yum?

"Go back to your duties," he told the other Watchers; all the while that he spoke, he was thinking hard. "I'll watch Immortal Maiden. Kin Cho', get assigned to guard duty in the building where the other Watchers are. You know what to do. If we're discovered, we'll fire the chronicles and escape. Huang King, go back to Naro-Bonchung. He's going to start taking heads soon. It's your duty to record exactly how many and whose he takes . . . If either of you sees Mallison or Pierson, send them straight to me. Go!"

Pierson and Mallison were probably with Sang Yum right now. Any Watcher worth his oath knew what to do at a time like this: attach himself to the nearest immortal, and stick like glue. Immortals would be fighting soon, heads rolling, and names would be struck from the lists of the living. Whatever happened, the Watchers would be there to stand witness.

Chang frowned into his binoculars. Behind him, his staff bustled around the room, double-checking every detail of their disguises. They muttered to one another as they did. He could feel their fear through his skin, like a shiver on the back of his neck. The chronicles were their weak spot. Too many to be moved, too valuable to be discarded, too incriminating to be left behind . . .

Below, Immortal Maiden paced. Her soldiers stood at a respectful distance, her clipboard was laid down atop a wall of mani-stones. The bright moon shone down upon them all. Beside the clipboard rested a long bundle wrapped up in a coat, at which she darted swift glances from time to time.

Above, Chang observed with curiosity. Often before, he had taken turns shadowing her - as they all had - for she was among the most dangerous immortals in Tibet, and all the local Watchers worked together to keep her in sight round the clock. He knew her well. She had always intrigued him, for her air of authority would sometimes fade like a mirage and leave her looking young and forlorn, like a lost child scrubbing away a disguise.

Now she stood stock still, looking at her bundle. Then, swiftly, she moved to stoop over and pull away one side of the coat. She remained that way, bent down to look at whatever was inside, for several long moments during which Chang stepped first to the left then to the right, trying to find an angle at which he could see past her; but he couldn't. Immortal Maiden blocked his view.

What was in there?

But when at last she straightened, she was carrying the bundle - holding it cradled in her arms like a beloved child. Her soldiers came hurrying, snapping off their flashlights and falling in behind her as she walked away from the mountain. Evidently the anchorites' cells would wait-- Then he stiffened. She was coming toward the building which housed the Watchers.

He lowered the binoculars. "Everyone!" he said, and behind him the mutter of voices quieted. "Get ready. Immortal Maiden is coming."

One of the other Watchers said, quaveringly, "We could still box the chronicles and lay the boards of the computer table over--"

Chang turned his head. His binoculars were now hidden in his coat and his hands folded at the small of his back. But his eyes softened as he looked at the woman who had spoken, at her worried face and the huge cat she clutched in her arms. "Juliette, there's no time now. Just be calm. Calm, but with a little worry. Remember that we are researchers, and all our prized data is in jeopardy--"

"That's true enough!" she exclaimed, and everyone laughed breathlessly.

"Just be yourselves, then."

They all looked at the bookshelves and away. And again, Chang wished that he hadn't lost Pierson and Mallison.

They heard the Chinese soldiers coming down the corridor. At once, two of them snatched up sheafs of paper and stood looking busy; two more sat down plump before their computer monitors. The woman with the cat cradled her pet, as if afraid it would be stir-fried by the invaders. Chang took up his station by the door. The door opened.

Immortal Maiden stepped into the room.

Chang's heart raced. He could never look upon a living immortal without emotion. They appeared so ordinary, and no instrument known to science could detect any difference - and many experiments had been tried! - and yet still they existed: magical creatures, unable to age. Who healed of every wound. Who broke every natural law. Though he had helped observe Immortal Maiden for many years, he could not approach her without feeling the hair rising on the back of his neck.

And here she was - the fox maiden! - her innate magic hidden behind that bureaucratic veneer. She was old; yet her face and form, he knew, were those of a teenage girl; and she hid her youth and beauty as if they were curses. She carried the clipboard which was never far from her reach, and also her mysterious wrapped bundle. And her face was full of arrogance and disdain.

She looked around. Her soldiers were at her back. "Ah!" said Immortal Maiden. "You."

Chang summoned a look of impatience. "Certainly. I see you remember meeting me before. What is your business here, if I may ask?"

"Investigating reports of human rights abuses." She made an impatient gesture, walking right past him and into the room: looking, looking, looking at everything. "So this is your scientific station. Are all your colleagues present?"

"You know they are not. Where is Dr Pierson, our linguist from Paris University? Where is my Tibetan field researcher?"

"I have no interest in these persons. Such a lot of computers! And so very up-to-date. What are those books?"

"Findings of the Rhine Institute, 1950 to 1962 inclusive," said Chang blandly. The chronicles at which she pointed in accusation were now jacketed in dummy bindings, row after row. "And those? The collected works of Alexandra David-Neel. Alma-Ata University, total abstracts on parapsychic experimentation. We have the only complete run of The Skeptical Enquirer east of--"

"Garbage." She looked with apparent affront at the cat. The cat hissed and spat and was hastily hidden by its owner. "I shall examine all the visas, passports and paperwork for these foreigners. I must make decisions, this is very difficult, I must see if I can permit these non-Chinese to remain in Tibet--"

"That is not your decision. Our permits are in order."

"But conditions change."

"The matter is out of both our hands," said Chang with a complete lack of expression. He folded his arms.

For several long moments, Immortal Maiden looked him in the eye. Then she coughed. "I will take your advice into consideration," she said, shrugging - and he knew that he had won.

"Of course. No doubt you will make the best decision in the end. May I give you a tour of our facilities?"

"Perhaps later. There is so much to do." She turned away, walked to the door and then, apparently thinking of something, turned suddenly and spoke. "Mei you fa tze! Remember that your colleagues are foreigners: cow's demons and snake spirits, as we used to say. And if poisonous weeds are not removed, scented flowers cannot grow."

"Hua ping!" said Chang, letting the words hiss out. Then the door slammed behind her, and she was gone.

His Watchers were shaking in their boots. Chang let himself relax, walking back to the window and looking out. There she was, just stepping through the door below. She had apparently dismissed her soldiers; they were not with her. She looked around, carefully. Then she laid her clipboard on the stone block by the door, and unwrapped the other object she held. Juliette, at Chang's shoulder, whispered, "What's she doing? And what did you say to her?"

Chang held up one hand. He pulled out his binoculars again.

"It's a sword she's carrying," he said in surprise, and the other Watchers all came hurrying nearer. "Someone take this down - she's got another immortal's weapon, surely, an European straightsword, perhaps forty inches in length from point to pommel. It's - mm, double-edged, I can't judge the quality of the steel from here, engraved hilt and simple cross-bar of yellow metal, either brass or gold-plate. A diamond-shaped blade without channels. It looks fairly heavy. Not a sword I recognize. I'll look at our weaponry records later and find out if it's a known blade . . ."

He trailed off. "What's happening?" said Juliette after a few moments.

Chang lowered his binoculars. His face was flushed. "If it's a known sword, I'll find it in the records," he repeated. ". . . What did I call her? I called her a flower vase. It was not a compliment."

Below, Immortal Maiden had stood gazing at the sword she held in her arms. Again she had glanced around, as if searching for witnesses. Then, dropping to her knees, she had pressed her face against the blade, rocking and murmuring over the inanimate steel - kissing the sword passionately, again and again.

Elsewhere, Sang Yum sat in front of a campfire, drinking butter tea.

Several of her lamas sat nearby, meditating. The mountain loomed over them; they were perhaps three miles away from Sangnachos zong, lower down the pass. Here the two dopka nomads who had come to the lamasery had pitched their black felt tent which looked rather like an enormous spider, tied down with long ropes which were not pegged, but lashed to boulders and logs - for often these nomads in their wandering pitched tents above the permafrost, or on stony ground too hard to drive tent-pegs into. Four of the local ponies grazed nearby, like shaggy round bundles on legs, and there was a mastiff almost as big as the ponies - a huge creature with a red-and-yellow collar.

When they had first found the encampment, it had been because of the dog's frantic barking; and the woman of the tent, frightened of strangers, had threatened to set the beast on them. Undoubtedly the two dopkas were brothers, and she was married to both of them - such was the custom in the back country - and aside from a few yaks lowing off in the distance, these poor possessions would be all her earthly treasure. She was short, swarthy, clad in a huge sheepskin coat with brass buttons. There were coins hanging from her tall hat, and the front of the hat-band was decorated with - surely - a silver saucer from an English tea service, sewn carefully into place and polished until it shone.

Sang Yum had looked carefully at her clothing and her hat, and addressed her in the accents of Kham province. And the woman had tied up her dog and hastened to offer tsampa, cheese and tea.

Now they all sat together like friends, eating barley bread with yak cheese crumbled over top. A baby boy in trousers and apron crawled underfoot, while the piercing odor of stale yak cheese hung around them like a miasma. Sang Yum had blessed the tent and the baby, uttered magic words over every pony, and finished with a Sanscrit mantra or two: "Subham astu sarvajagatum!" and "Sarva mangalam!" pronounced resoundingly while the tent-wife sighed with pleasure. It was as if the Dalai Lama himself had come to honor her threshold.

Nothing had changed, not in a hundred years.

Sipping tea, Sang Yum looked at the scene around her, complete to her retinue of devout monks, and saw nothing she could not have seen a hundred years ago. It was as if she had barely been away an hour. Even now, the Khampa woman was touching her sleeve and imploring, "Jetsumna! Venerable lady. We all know of your long journey to the underworld, your miraculous return. Even now, there are celebrations with fireworks in Tsawa town, and hundred of pilgrims are preparing to come up the mountain. Venerable lady, before they arrive, make a blessing over my poor yaks?" While the boy scientist from Shigatze wrinkled up his nose, as if trying not to laugh.

Nothing had changed - except in the person of this boy. He had been to America, he admitted as much (with that parody of a Shigatze accent, how could he deny it?) and seen the outside world . . . and the tales he told were unbelievable. Her dear old friend de Bergerac could not have invented better. Men on the moon! Missions to Mars! Instantaneous communication between one side of the world and the other?

And yet with her own eyes, she had seen the mysterious machinery in the lamasery. Her lamas had confirmed his wild tales. Besides, Sang Yum was old and had known a thousand - no, ten thousand boys like this. And this much she knew, out of date as she was: a young man who looked at one with those great dark eyes had other things on his mind besides lying.

He sat at her feet now, and she stroked his hair. "Something worries you. What is it?"

"My friend Adam," the boy admitted. "Professor Pierson! Back at the lamasery - he's got to be in danger--"

"All will be well with him. Lord Buddha will preserve us. And I think," said Sang Yum, "your friend is the kind of man who can take care of himself?"

Yes, she thought - Allan. Ningma-ningma, most ancient of ancients. She did not know his real name or identity, but she knew he must be the oldest immortal she had ever seen: that much was obvious. Even Darius had not possessed an aura that powerful. She guessed he would be more than a match for Naro-Bonchung - if it ever came to a fight. But it would not come to a fight. For this, too, was the way of the very old immortals; they grew weary of the Game, and turned away to the path of enlightenment.

"Tell me more about telecommunications--" she began, and then broke off.

Three men appeared in the circle of firelight. Two were the dopkas, all bundled in their furs. The third was Naro-Bonchung.

Sang Yum sat frozen. The Bon immortal, framed by his unkempt Khampa henchmen, strode boldly forward to the fire. He wore his sword openly, and the magic dagger of a sorceror hung at his belt - along with a flute fashioned from a human thighbone.

Grinning, he crouched down before her; the boy from Shigatze scuttled backward, the lamas clutched their rosaries. He took her chin between finger and thumb, and tilted her face toward the light.

He leered. "Still beautiful, my buried treasure. Delectable - for a corpse interred a hundred years! Time has dealt kindly with you, dear wife."

"I'm not your wife," she said, never moving. "And you're not the man to lie alone mourning for a vanished bride. Surely in a century, you've found another woman to share your bed?"

"No, I never was a man to lie alone," Naro-Bonchung admitted. "And perhaps there have been a few others. No matter. You and I--"

Sang Yum leaned back, her cold gaze fixed on his hand. "I am a lama now, and celibate. Go back to whoever is your wife."

"My Shanghai soldier girl? She's a cold stick next to you. Too young to know about pleasing a man! No, I think you'll come with me, woman." He grasped her arms, pulling her to her feet. Behind them, the dopka woman cried out, and the lamas protested. "Come quietly, Sang Yum, and you'll come whole. Otherwise I must be content with just your head."

"I think not." She stood quietly in his hold, her face upturned. Then he became aware of the dead silence at his back. He glanced in that direction.

The lamas had risen and stood shoulder to shoulder. Every one of them was armed with a makeshift club. The nomad woman had untied her bristling mastiff and was advancing, with the beast's rope gripped in her fists and the dog itself muscling forward, dragging her along and drooling as it came. The boy from the lamasery had just taken two swords from under his coat and was passing them to the woman's husbands, who were looking at Naro-Bonchung in an unfriendly fashion.

"You're outnumbered, Lobon," said Sang Yum. "Don't threaten me again."

He shook his head, winked at her. "Wife, the game's not over yet. I think you remember your loved ones up at the lamasery? Your students, your friends? I think you won't like it when the soldiers break into their cells, and take them off holy ground and give them to me. I think you'll come along now, and make no more trouble."

"I think I won't," Sang Yum answered.

"But your fellow immortals?" He grinned widely, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. "And the lamasery itself . . . such a shame to see my Chinese soldiers defacing those ancient frescos. Soon, nothing will be left but bare walls, broken bones. You could stop it. You must think of these things, woman!"

"I am. I don't trust you, Lobon." She lifted her hand. All the hostile mortals around them took one step forward, hefting their weapons. And the dog gave voice to a long bloodthirsty groan.

Naro-Bonchung shrugged and began to swagger away, abandoning the field. The last thing they heard from him was a sneer: "Don't let your bed get cold, wife - I'll be back!"

"He always is," murmured Sang Yum, half to herself. She sat down and reached for her tea-bowl. The rest of her little band of cutthroats gathered round, worried and excited.

"Venerable lady, we must go back to Sangnachos zong," said a lama, frightened into speaking his mind.

"Yes, we do," she agreed. "May Lord Buddha help us! For once we get there, I have no idea what to do."

". . . he'll kill them," Methos was saying, at that very moment. "Peach, he'll kill them all. They're gentle people who have turned away from the sword. What are you doing here, wandering around Tibet, helping that demented lady-killer take innocent heads?"

Her soldiers had brought him to this refuge: a tsa-tsa, a rude stone hut outside the lamasery grounds. Perhaps two miles from Sangnachos zong, in the opposite direction from Sang Yum and her dopkas; still the same moon shone down on them all. In ordinary times, such huts as these served as depository for the bones of the dead; anything left after the sky burial ended was brought here. Even now, a few smashed jars in the corners of the hut bore witness to the ancient custom. Methos stood in the doorway of this humble building. Nearby, two Chinese soldiers sat eating cold boiled rice by the light of the moon.

Peach hovered in front of Methos. "I brought you some mutton," she was saying. "And fresh milk, I remember how much you love to drink milk." Her voice was quavering and uncertain - a girl's tremulous voice. She clasped her hands together, bowed her head. "Not even a word of welcome for me, Master, after all these years?"

"This is grotesque, Peach!"

"But I've saved your life," she said reproachfully. "Naro-Bonchung is insatiable. Every immortal he meets, he kills."

"Then how do you get along with him so well, child?"

A tiny smile sparkled on her face. "I've waited so long to hear you call me child again . . . You see, you taught me to survive at any cost. And when I said he was insatiable, I did not lie."

"You're his wife."

"No longer, that is all over now." She made a cutting-off gesture, a sweep of the hand. "It's you I've always loved."

He would not look at her.

"Master Methos," she whispered. "I've waited so long, I've wanted so much . . ."

He would not speak to her.

"Tell me if you dislike anything. I have brought a stove for you, a lamp, thermal blankets and a mattress-- If the soldiers displease you, say so and I will have them replaced."

But he wouldn't look at her!

"Is this because I killed that mortal woman?" she whispered. "That one mistake, so very very long ago?"

"She was my wife, child! My beloved Ayesha."

"But that was decades ago, she'd be in her grave anyway by now--"

"Yes. As she is. Dead at your hands, Peach."

"I had no choice. I thought - you see, I thought she was an immortal, I was an ignorant child and she frightened me--" Peach stopped, gulped, started again. "I know you don't approve of killing. I know I did wrong, but it's not murder, you know, to kill another immortal. If I hadn't got them first, they would have killed me--"

"Yes. I heard about all the heads you took."

". . . and it isn't how you taught me, Master, but - but - but it's the Game. I had no choice. It wasn't murder! It was self-defense."

He turned toward her at last; and Peach looked into his bone-white face and was silenced.

His gaze looked through and beyond her. It was as if she did not exist. The mortal woman long dead was more real to him that she, Peach, had ever been; that wretched mortal woman knew him as Peach had never known him; that mortal woman - damned be her name! - had stolen his heart, and left nothing for her. How could this be? And even now, he was turning away again, unsatisfied.

"It was a mistake!" she wailed. "A mistake!"

She saw him take a sudden angry step away from her. But his voice was steady and calm, icy cold. "She's still dead, child. They all are."

"I love you!"

"Peach, you don't even know what love is."

Peach couldn't bear it anymore. Tears of frustration dimmed her vision. She darted forward and pressed herself briefly against his back, throwing her arms around him; then she hurried off, her head hanging.

Behind her, the Chinese soldiers looked around curiously, and then they shrugged and returned to their rice. Methos lifted his eyes to the moon; all the things she had said, full of self-pity and justification and wounded vanity, ran in a blur through his mind. He shut his eyes, and banished the thought of her . . . and remembered happier times.

He remembered Ayesha.

In eighteen-ninety-eight:

A lute was strummed, a gong struck. A Chinese violin twanged with a rhythmic throb. And Ayesha said, suspiciously: "What are they going to do?"

They sat among a great crowd of people, in the courtyard of the Nyandi Gompa temple, with Mount Kailas towering over them all. Laymen and lamas, folk of the thousand ethnic groups in which India rejoiced, Tibetans and Nepalese and Bhutans - they were all packed together cheek by jowl, and all of them were chattering cheerfully. They were chewing betel nuts and spitting the juice out, and a Parsee from Sringar was walking among them, selling chapatis from a tray hung round his neck. Against the back of the courtyard sat three complete rows of Buddhist nuns, black and round of face as Africans; they were swathed in bulky woolen skirts and striped blouses. They were waiting, like everyone else, for night to fall.

"You mustn't miss this." Sang Yum held Ayesha's hand tightly, tugging her back onto her camp stool. "And I promise you, it won't be much longer. Once it becomes dark, the performance can begin."

"Oh, very well. But must they play those instruments?"

"Shhh . . ."

The accompaniment was three solemn Chinese in long blue cotton robes, sitting to one side of the stage; the stage was no stage, being only a blank white sheet stretched on a bamboo frame. Behind the sheet was nothing, Ayesha was convinced, but the wall of a temple building . . . so where was the show? She examined the sheet, shrugged her shoulders, and yawned with delicate boredom. The trio of musicians began to tune their instruments, her husband beside her sat (she was aware) watching her rather than the entertainment. She sat a little straighter, drew her shoulders back so her breasts jutted out; and imagined, without looking, how he would smile.

Tonight, perhaps they might try illustration number twenty-three.

"I brought you here," Sang Yum was saying, "to atone, in part, for my great shame."

Her lovely face was averted, a faint flush burned upon her flower-petal cheek. Ayesha said, "For what great shame?"

"For my shame at my husband's insults to you. Since he saw you, he has been consumed with a fiery lust--"

"Yes, he has!" said Ayesha. "A lust all-encompassing."

"And very flattering too," Methos murmured, for his wife's ear alone.

Was that a tiny twinkle in the Manchu woman's eyes? "All this is true," she agreed, pretending to wipe away a tear. "As for myself, only I know how I have suffered."

"And think of my beloved husband," Ayesha sighed. "Unable to eat, unable to sleep. Unable to make his perikarama around the mountain, for fear of leaving me alone. He will die with his sins black on his conscience. All because of Naro-Bonchung!"

"I know he has sent you lavish gifts - a necklace he once gave to me - fine fruits and wines, and butter-yellow Baltic amber . . ."

"And fifteen ounces of the best Parisian perfume!" said Ayesha. She hastened to add, "Of course, I smashed the bottle."

"Just so. I have left him, of course. There is a lamasery in eastern Tibet to which I shall presently retire, where I may meditate upon the illusion of earthly love - and yet we were joyous together for many years. Before I left, though, I wished to express all these things to you."

"So you invited us to a puppet show?"

"Ayesha, it's not quite a puppet show," Methos remarked. "Sit quiet, and see for yourself. They're about to start."

Behind the sheet, a single lamp had been lit.

The sky above was almost black, burning with gigantic white stars. Around the courtyard, all fires and torches were being extinguished. The audience went on talking, while the musicians struck up a soft tune. And the show began.

The glow from the one remaining lamp played across the sheet, lighting it from within. It was dim and romantic, a golden illumination. A gentle flapping sounded from nowhere, and now a wavering shadow appeared upon the screen of the sheet . . . the shadow image of a flying bird.

Its wings rose and fell as it crossed the zone of light. There was the faint whistle of a birdcall as it vanished, and a child somewhere in the courtyard called out in delight. A flock of birds, small with distance, was now crossing the screen, and for a brief moment the sound of birdsong was everywhere. A ruffled mass of clouds was seen, more perfect than reality. The light grew stronger, nearer. The rhythm of the music quickened.

The outlines of the Himalayas rose upon the screen.

It was as if they were being flown over the mountains. Massifs and ranges and proud, lonely peaks rose and fell like the waves of the sea; then a majestic range hove into view. And there was a single pyramidal mountain lofty above all others. It was recognizably Mount Kailas.

Its silhouette rushed forward, filled the screen and hung fixed. Around its summit, a circle of dim figures began to parade: Buddhas in the aspect of enlightenment, each with one hand poised in the gesture of meditation, holding a monastic bowl; each with the other hand poised in the gesture of attestation, holding a scepter crowned at either end. The audience oohed and aahed in wonder, the nuns in the back were praying. A tiny file of pilgrims was now to be seen, ascending the mountaintop. One could hear a faint chanting, as of many voices. Holy music played.

Writhing dragons and Tibetan sacred lions filled the backdrop and vanished. And the shadow theatre began to depict a legend: the tale of the great Buddhist poet Milarepa, and his battle against the Bon-po sorcerer Naro-Bonchung.

Here the Buddhist saint sat meditating, while the beasts of the field and the flocks of the air gathered to guard him. A marvelously realistic fox bounded across the screen, bearing a bunch of grapes to lay in the poet's begging-bowl. Disciples appeared and vanished, studying the mystic arts at the feet of the hermit sage. There was a wonderful moment during which the shadow images of young lamas rose up, surrounded by immense, drifting, intricate snowflakes; then around each concentrating student a halo of flames flickered, banishing the winter cold - melting the very snowflakes as they fell!

Now, the screen filled with the image of Naro-Bonchung, foremost among the teachers of the Black Faith. He wore the robes of a sorcerer, hung about with drums made from human skulls, with mystic knives and shaman's mirrors. Come to fight Milarepa for the holy swastika mountain, he danced in menace brandishing a curling ram-horn, while the disciples fled in fear. This was the challenge that he made: whoever first ascended to the summit of Mount Kailas would be acknowledged master of the mountain.

The champion of Buddhism, accepting the challenge, sat plunged deep in meditation - never stirring a step. The champion of the Black Faith mounted his magic drum and flew straight up in the air. He ascended with supernatural power. Laughter roared out from behind the sheet, demons pranced and danced. There were the Angry Ones, feasting upon the flesh of men, whose delicacy was fresh brains served hot in human skulls; there were the Frightful Ones, crowned with bones, led by King Death himself. Higher and higher rose Naro-Bonchung. Milarepa remained immobile, with shut eyes, while the laments of his students filled the air and the sorcerer raised his hands in triumph.

The audience was weeping, crying out in fear. The music reached a crescendo. Ayesha, breathless with wonder and suspense, clutched Methos' hand in both of hers and leaned forward eagerly.

And in a blaze of light, on the summit of the mountain appeared a shining throne. Upon it, meditating still, sat the holy sage. Blinded by the vision, Naro-Bonchung fell tumbling down - straight to the bottom, plunging into Lake Manosarovar in a gout of hissing steam. The mountain was won for Buddha. And the vertical gash down the south face of Kailas was ploughed by the sorcerer's magic drum - dropped in his alarm at seeing the lama overtake him.

The last notes of music died, the audience burst into applause. Ayesha sat back on her camp stool with a thump. She turned to Methos: her eyes were alight, her lips parted with astonished pleasure. But her husband was speaking with an Indian messenger, who had just handed him a letter.

He broke the seal and scanned the note, and then tossed it away. At Sang Yum's inquiring glance, he said, "Your husband still invites me to step outside with him."

"And still, you will not take up the sword," she murmured. She was clearly curious. "You refuse even to defend your wife's honor?"

"That's not exactly what I refuse," Methos said. "And as for Ayesha - she is her own best defense."

Ayesha was no longer interested in the conversation. She couldn't wait any longer; she cast her husband one apologetic glance, and then whisked across the courtyard. The three Chinese musicians were moving through the thinning crowd, bowing as they harvested praise and rupees. And there was the sheet, at close quarters woefully commonplace: stained at one corner, dingy and greyish. She stepped around it, and looked.

She saw an oil-lamp, a stool, and a Chinese man with a long wispy beard. One man, all alone; he was tiny and wizened and he blinked humbly up at her, sketching a bow. Around his stool was a litter of flat cut-outs, made of varnished ass-hide . . . cartoon figures, transparently thin, but perforated and clipped and cut, and cunningly mounted on poles of bamboo. Some were painted, and the figures of Milarepa and Naro-Bonchung were hinged at every major joint and worked by wires strung to their heads and hands. With these and these alone, the puppeteer had worked his magic.

Ayesha, silent for once, drew near and touched the silhouette of a floating dragon. It was a mere five inches long; but flown in front of the lamp, it had filled the screen - so convincing, it might almost have breathed real fire. The puppeteer took it gently out of her hands, and slid it into a large flat envelope. Every image had its own envelope, and there was a battered wooden carrying case with dozens of wide, flat drawers, in which they lived between performances.

Her husband, looking around the sheet, found her sitting cross-legged at the feet of the puppeteer. The old man was laughing, sailing a flapping crane along with a snarling tiger leaping in its wake. And Ayesha rocked and clapped her hands and exclaimed breathlessly at every beat of the bird's wings, every pounce of the tiger.

Methos knelt behind her, and kissed the top of her head. He breathed into her ear: "You must buy some of your very own."

The next afternoon, restless, she saddled her Arabian mare and rode out unaccompanied.

A grey furze covered the floor of the valley, so colorless that it was invisible; it was as if she rode across a wasteland, and yet she passed flock after flock of placidly grazing goats. They were long-haired goats with wicked slotted eyes, of the pashamina breed which flourished only at high altitudes. Pasham wool from these goats went south to Kashmir and from the weavers in Kashmir came the precious cashmere shawls which were exported even to England; so Methos said. Gold-sand ran in the rivers and there were gold mines further upland, he said. Musk and yak-tails and other dull things were brought down in bales from the high plateaus. Methos knew everything.

The air was thin, filled with a golden haze. Ayesha found herself riding past dolmens and stone circles, much like those she had seen in Normandy and England. There were vast slabs of flat slate lying tumbled in heaps, quite carelessly, and yet when she looked closely at them, each one was incised from top to bottom with Sanscrit characters. They were all mani-stones.

Pilgrim tents dotted the shores of the lakes. Gazing up, she could count temple after temple.

"They are Buddhist temples," said a deep, amused voice. She started and looked around, wildly, for the source. "But Shiva also has his shrines there, and there are altars for Naro-Bonchung too . . . Buddhism is an eclectic faith, and Kailas has been holy ground for over two thousand years."

"Naro-Bonchung." Ayesha reined in Wadduda, casting cold eye upon the tall immortal. There he stood leaning against a standing stone, with one boot planted atop a slate inscribed with prayers. She raised her whip and pointed it fearlessly at him. "What a shame I did not bring my carbine."

He stepped forward, kicking the mani-stone carelessly as he did. "They call Milarepa the Saint Francis of Buddhism, did you know? When Darius came here, people believed him to be the reincarnation of the great sage. So it amused me to take on the name of Naro-Bonchung."

"I've heard of Darius. What did you learn from him?"

"To love," said Naro-Bonchung, and he took hold of her stirrup and stood fingering her boot, stroking it lewdly along the leather uppers. "Did you like my gifts?"

"What, the cheap perfume? I remember now, I broke the bottle--"

"Did you?" He brought his fingers to his face and sniffed ostentatiously, and then he licked his thumb and drew it across her instep. "Never mind. You smell sweeter than any perfume. Why don't you like me?"

"Let go of my boot." Wadduda fretted and stamped, restlessly, and Ayesha stroked her along the silken skin of her neck. She said, "You have disturbed our pilgrimage, and prevented my husband from walking round the mountain, something he came all the way from Ceylon to do. Why should I like you? Besides, I do not couple with he-goats."

"What!" said Naro-Bonchung, genuinely startled. "I've seen his profile, woman."

She burst out laughing. "Well said! But he is my husband and I would die if parted from him."

"Would you?" He petted her ankle. "In Samarkand," he told her stirrup, "I own a house that could be yours. It is the most beautiful city in the world. Every house in it has a garden, even within the walls, and every valley for miles around is an orchard, every hilltop a paradise. In the mountains, men gentle golden eagles and ride out hawking with them. I would buy you tame cheetahs, greyhounds and fine racing camels. And diamonds, and emeralds. In my hareem, you would live like a queen."

"I already do. And you already have a wife."

"Forget her. I did, the moment you shot me."

"Let go of me," hissed Ayesha, and she brandished her whip.

But his lascivious fingers were stroking along her leg; when she made to strike him away, he snatched her wrist and his fingers hurt her, bruising her. His fingers yanked at her hair, hauled her over - doubled like a sack of grain. His fingers fondled her mouth, and then his fingers closed on her chin, and he kissed her long and hard. While the iron grip of his fingers prevented her from biting.

When he released her, she was panting with anger and disgust. All this while - it was the final insult! - he had not even bothered to take the whip away from her.

"You know you're no match for me, woman. You want me, I can see it in your eyes. Tonight I come to your tent. Send your shivering cur of a husband away, and I'll creep in and keep you warm."

She slashed him across the fingers with her whip, and spurred Wadduda away.

And later yet, Methos knelt on the ground before Ayesha's tent, playing with her shadow-puppets.

She had been unable to resist buying a whole set, complete with a five-clawed imperial dragon, ten inches long and fully articulated. There was an Emperor and a concubine, and a Mongol villain in full armor. Methos had a little knife, with which he was thoughtfully paring away at the seductive figure of the concubine. One of the Indian servants from Sang Yum's party was seated opposite him, drinking tea and chatting; it was the man with the Watcher tattoo.

From the direction of Lake Manasarovar came a tumult of excited voices, laughter and exclamations. Ayesha's mahout and servants had led the elephant out into the lake, and were washing the beast's sins away.

". . . a most delightful employer," the Indian Watcher was saying, "but still I foresee an end to my hire. Pity. The memsahib is generous, often praising my skills with the camera."

"You take photographs?" Methos asked.

"Certainly. I was trained in a photographic shop in Birmingham. No man is more adept with a bottle of silver nitrate than I! Now, the Ranee Ayesha would make a most admirable subject for a photographic essay, and I have offered my services to her; I am sure she will be generous. Is she a generous woman?"

"Most certainly so," Methos murmured, "very generous."

The Watcher bowed. "She must be, to retain the services of a priest and magician of your stature. Why, the servants buzz with gossip about your holiness, good sir, and the enmity of the Bon wizard, my memsahib's husband. All men know his evil powers! Why, after your employer shot him eight times through the heart, they say, he did nothing but sleep an hour or two and then wake roaring for his breakfast."

"Mm."

"And his pursuit of the dear lady . . . a scandal, an affront to this holy place."

Both of them raised their eyes toward Mount Kailas. Off to their right, fresh shouts of mirth arose; a parade of men armed with brooms and brushes emerged from the lake. From their midst, the cow elephant ran forward - splashing great waves of ice-cold water over her attendants. Her ears flapped madly and her tail was high. Once she dried in the sun, they would paint her anew.

"What will you do?" asked the Watcher, his voice a shade too casual. "The Ranee Ayesha's servants call you a very holy yogi, able to do magic and work miracles. But Naro-Bonchung is a great killer of men. With a sword in his hand, he is like a force of nature. As terrible as the sandstorms which destroy caravans and devour entire cities!"

Methos laid down the puppet, and shrugged.

"But you won't fight him," guessed the Watcher. "Won't you?"

Immortal and Watcher looked at one another, each one knowing what the other was. Methos said, "I will not."

"Why won't you?"

"It isn't right."

"Why isn't it?"

Methos sighed. "Because there is a time to fight, and a time to lay down the sword. I'm not saying that the sword itself is an evil thing, because it is not: without strong swords in the hands of good men, there would be no peace in the world. But there are good reasons for killing, and bad reasons for killing too."

"But he'll kill you, if you don't fight."

And Methos said, "Perhaps." He pushed back his hair from his eyes. His face was completely calm. "Listen to me now. Self-defense is not a good reason to kill."

"But he'll kill you!"

"So I must kill him, lest he kill me? No. You should not kill in self-defense."

"But then - but then - in what cause, then, should you take up the sword?"

Methos smiled. There was an Arabian mare galloping toward them, charging breakneck across the grey wasteland; he knew the horse, and he knew who rode in that reckless style. He said, "Only in defense of those you love," and, standing, walked off along the shore to meet Ayesha.

That very night, Naro-Bonchung came prowling around their encampment.

Soft as a thief, his cloak furled around him, he walked between the silent darkened tents of the pilgrims. Midnight had passed them by hours before, and their campfires were guttering embers around which a few sleepy men still nodded. They never noticed him. He moved as quietly as an assassin, and indeed he had studied under the Old Man of the Mountain and knew many stealthy arts. Like many immortals, he knew many arts. All had to do with killing. He had killed more than a hundred other immortals, and knew himself unconquerable.

One day, he would win the Game. Then, everything in the world would be his, and he would have all treasure, all women, all the kingdoms of the earth. In the meantime, he feared no man. Was he not one of the princes of the universe?

Here was the tent he sought. Its outer flap was tied back, its inner flap drawn silken-sheer across the entranceway. A lamp still burned within. Naro-Bonchung drew his sword and drew a deep, happy, gloating breath. Whether the woman's husband lay abed with her that night or not, he would have his satisfaction. And if this insult didn't stir the other immortal to fight, then he wasn't worth the effort of beheading.

What was that? A shadow moved across the inner flap.

The shadow of Ayesha.

Tall, queenly. He knew her by her impatient stride, by the way she swayed against the lamplight. And there was no man's shadow showing against the flap. No warning of another immortal came. Naro-Bonchung laughed suddenly, soundlessly, with surprise and triumph. Had she tired of the puppy, and decided to try a real man instead? He strode to the tent, ripped the flap open, and took one swift step inside.

There was no one there. Only, a flat Ayesha-puppet lay discarded on the Bokhara carpets, and the back of the tent had been propped up in a makeshift rear door. Naro-Bonchung saw this in a glance. Every crafty instinct in his heart screamed a alarm. He wasted no time. He whirled, sprang headlong, made it back out of the tent - jabbing straight forward with his huge sword as he came leaping across the threshold--

He hit a cord stretched across at knee-level. He went head over heels, tumbling like an acrobat. And he landed balanced on one knee, his arms outflung, the sword still in the grip of his fist - grinning like a tiger.

"Come!" said an imperious voice. "Fight me."

Naro-Bonchung howled. A dozen torches had blazed up somehow, he saw all the woman's servants thronging close. The lights dazzled him. And now the warning of another immortal's presence drilled into his mind, and he saw the tall thin figure of his rival walk forward, bearing a flag. All the shouting mortals had drawn back in two lines, waving their torches and cheering - leaving an open corridor, as if for the running of a race. What was happening? "Namaste!" said Methos, and let his flag dip.

At the end of the corridor of men, Ayesha sat her mount - dressed in the Bedouin robes of her forefathers, who had been bandits and conquerors and kings. She carried her husband's sword. Her chin was lifted and her expression was ridiculously confident, as if she was not a fragile mortal woman confronting an immortal. And why not? She had evened the odds.

She was riding the elephant.

Naro-Bonchung stumbled to his feet, his blade lowering. His gaze darted right, left. The elephant squealed and lumbered into motion. Its first steps were slow, ponderous, and heavy enough to shake the earth. And then it began to run. Its mighty feet pounded. Its huge ears lifted like sails, and strings of blue beads flew in the wind. Its trunk lifted, trumpeting. Naro-Bonchung turned and fled. Of course, the elephant was much faster.

Trumpeting, it overran him. He vanished under the beast's forefeet; then Ayesha shouted, and the elephant was kneeling, excited yet obedient. Ayesha called out another command, set her foot upon the beast's knee, and sprang lightly down to earth. She tapped the elephant's nose affectionately, speaking in Hindustani, uttering words of praise and commendation. The elephant fondled her lovingly with its trunk, and strode away toward its mahout.

What was left behind was a lifeless heap on the ground.

"Back!" shouted Ayesha to the ring of avid servants. She waved her sword, set her heel on the bowed back of the defeated immortal. Already, she knew, he would be healing. She shoved with her foot, rolling him into a more convenient position. And looked for her husband, beaming with pride when she saw him approach. Methos' eyes were full of laughter and joy. He handed her the flag, and she planted it next to her trophy - there on that holy ground.

"And now--" she said.

She looked down at Naro-Bonchung, and in a flash her face hardened. "How unlucky for you that I am no immortal." She gripped the long hilt of the sword in both her fists, swung it up above her head, poised it for the downward stroke--

"No!" said Methos hastily. "Ayesha?"

Ayesha gazed at him. Then the sword was swinging down, down toward the ground . . . for she had dropped it, and now she stepped daintily across Naro-Bonchung's humiliated carcass, and took her husband's hand.

"Wherever you go, I will go," she said, "wherever you dwell, there I dwell. Your country is my country, your people are my people, your gods my God. Your ways are mine."

And in the present day:

The two Chinese soldiers had laid down their bowls and were watching their prisoner. Immortal Maiden was long gone, but still the man stood without moving. They looked at him suspiciously - and yet he was doing nothing to which they could object. He merely seemed to be lost in thought.

Finally one of them rose and walked up to the prisoner, who stood stock-still as if turned to stone. "Go back in!" the soldier ordered.

He reached for the man's shoulder.

The man turned, sidestepping smoothly, and then the soldier's wrist was caught, his hand bent painfully back and upwards, his elbow trapped in the crook of the prisoner's forearm and elbow. The prisoner wrenched his arm painfully down. Something slammed against his shins. He was falling forward, tumbling toward the ground. A blow hit the back of his neck. The world went blank.

Methos pivoted and took two steps, meeting the second soldier as he rushed forward. Nine times out of ten, a confused man would do the wrong thing: this Chinese soldier proved the point, jabbing with his rifle as if it was a bayonet. A simple attack, simply countered. Methos let himself swing sideways as if evading a knife-blow, trapping the man's hand under his; he bent, yanking the opponent's arm forward, pinning it with his own left arm on top of the man's forearm, his right hand closing on the man's hand from beneath.

Now the soldier's hand was trapped between both of Methos'. He turned, the soldier's arm was twisted upward, the gun went flying. The soldier lost his footing as Methos continued to twist his arm up and around; then, skidding, the man measured his length along the ground. Then Methos hit him, once, very carefully.

There. He searched both men, dragged them closer to the little stove, and tucked the thermal blanket around them. His long coat went over top of this, and in its place he shrugged into one of the quilted Chinese jackets. He slung both submachine-guns over his shoulder.

The beautiful Himalayas shone down on him, blinding white under the moon. The Himalayas, more perfect than paradise, where men died as happily as if they were already in Heaven. There was nothing on earth lovelier than light upon the peaks of these mountains. Awestruck Europeans had praised it, pilgrims crossed half Asia to glimpse it; it brought to mind poetry, prophecy, religious music without end.

Ayesha and Peach, Peach and Ayesha. Never had two women been so different from one another! And he could dream of Ayesha for hours on end. Thinking of her now, he broke into a soft chant as he began the long walk toward Sangnachos zong:

"Allah be merciful to her

Bring moisture

From His clouds of generosity . . .

Do not let His stallions

Lunge and dart at her

Through mist and dust . . ."

TO BE CONCLUDED . . .

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