Meanwhile, the Watcher shadowing Naro-Bonchung was on the prowl. Avoiding all the other Chinese soldiers loitering around the lamasery grounds, he skulked after his immortal. From cover to cover, he flitted like a fox-ghost.

". . . there you are!"

There was his voice. The Watcher glanced over the terrain, and moved to the shelter of a nearby mani-wall.

". . . why didn't you take her head, then?"

It was Immortal Maiden, of course. And now Naro-Bonchung's grumbling voice replied: "Don't push me, girl! I'd do it when I'm ready."

". . . still yearning after that old witch . . ."

"Hah! As for you, there's a light in your eye I haven't seen before. I hear you've got some English professor hidden away down the mountain. Tell me about him. How handsome is he?"

"What, are you jealous?"

The Watcher shifted position, getting a little closer. He had been watching Naro-Bonchung for eleven years now, and knew the Bon immortal better than any other immortal alive did . . . or ever would; his advantage lay in the generations of busy Watchers behind him. They had studied Naro-Bonchung for centuries. Watcher after Watcher had observed and taken notes and drawn conclusions about their subject, until they knew him more intimately than any wife of his ever had. Watcher psychologists had worked on his chronicles and recommended exactly how to distract him - should one of his field observers be caught in the act. There had been Naro-Bonchung seminars, which all the Tibetan Watchers attended. There had been role-playing scenarios and rehearsals.

The big immortal was bellowing with laughter now, jeering at Immortal Maiden; the Watcher risked a peek around the end of his mani-wall. ". . . you damn Chinese! More than a billion of you, and so dumb that until you adopted European clothing, you didn't know enough to tailor flies into your trousers - why, you had to hike your pant-legs up to your waists just to take a--"

And there came her voice back, closer, sharp with anger. "You're a fine one to talk! What are your Incarnations, but cowards who flee into exile when the wind shifts? When the Panchen Lama quarrels with the Dalai Lama, the Panchen Lama flees to China; when China puts its foot down, the Dalai Lama flees to India. It's an international joke. I hear that the previous Dalai Lama went into exile in India when the Chinese showed their teeth, and then when the English threatened him out of India, he turned in the other direction and ran all the way to Mongolia . . ."

"Not my Incarnations, little soldier girl. I am a good Bon-pa from Ulan Bator."

"A Mongol! Savages who leave their dead for the dogs. Tell me, is it true that when a Mongol mother's son dies, she throws the corpse into the public road for every caravaneer to see?"

"Of course it's true! How else can she be sure that everyone will pray for her child's soul?"

An uneasy silence fell. The Watcher shifted closer again.

". . . but you shouldn't treat me in such a shabby way," said Immortal Maiden's voice, sulkily.

He heard her footsteps, moving away from him. And again, her voice: "But remember all those immured anchorites waiting for you, husband."

Another silence. Intrigued, the Watcher cupped a hand to his ear. He heard more footsteps, and then the unmistakable sound of a kiss.

And as he leaned forward to sneak another peek, immense hands closed upon him from behind - hands huge enough to engulf his entire head. Ogre-fingers wrapped around the poor shocked Watcher's face, and then he was hoisted into the air, dragged up and up by the merciless grip upon his skull. His mouth gaped and gasped, his legs kicked uselessly. Like a child, he was held dangling. Twelve inches or more above the ground.

Now Naro-Bonchung, six foot seven inches tall and twice his weight, swung him back and forth like a jointed wooden doll. The Watcher's mouth worked, trying to form the excuses he had been primed with, the distracting words he had practiced - but he was unable to do more than moan in pain. Behind him, the Bon immortal growled out a laugh.

Somewhere, another member of the Shangri-la team was surely observing in horror - forbidden by oath to attempt a rescue. The Watcher held by Naro-Bonchung could see nothing save Immortal Maiden. There she came, stepping closer, her clipboard held cradled to her chest. Her face tilted upward, swimming in a black blur. Her narrow-eyed gaze flicked over him, and away.

"You're getting soft," she said acidly, and for a moment the Watcher, dazed and in increasing pain, thought she was speaking to him. But she went on, looking past him as if he didn't exist: "I can see your face reddening from here. Are you getting old, Lobon?"

"Young enough still to deal with eavesdroppers," grunted the voice in the Watcher's ear.

"What was he doing back there, anyway? No, no, never mind, I suppose it doesn't matter. We have to make plans."

"Mm?"

"For the future. After this is over, I . . . I think you and I must say farewell."

Naro-Bonchung lowered the Watcher slightly. "Peach! Are you leaving me?"

"Perhaps I am leaving you with a gift." Was that a trace of emotion that crossed her face? Yes, it was. It was a smile, prim upon her lips. "Sixty-nine trapped immortals, my dear. I counted."

"Hah! Worthy of a king . . . Here, girl. Look at this. My favorite party trick. Ever seen anyone crush a beer can between his palms?"

The grip of the gigantic hands tightened and tightened. Mercifully, the Watcher lost consciousness before the end came.

The last thing he heard was the sound of Immortal Maiden's yawn.

In the project Shangri-la headquarters, Mallison was watching Sang Yum.

She sat on her chair, musing; the lamas were seated in lotus around her, telling their Buddhist rosaries of one hundred and eight beads. Across the big room, a knot of busy Watchers surrounded Adam, who was being debriefed. Mallison glanced that way from time to time - but just now, he had been detailed to observe his immortal, and observe her he did. With pleasure.

Christ, she was beautiful. Younger than springtime. Softer and more approachable than any mortal woman her age - and yet she was no woman. She was a living legend. Glamorous. Magical. Immortal.

"I would like," she was murmuring in English, "to travel to China again. To take horse, and ride east, across the frontier to Kansu province. To traverse the valley of the Salween, hot as a wasteland, dry as a desert. With the Himalayas rising overhead, topped by glaciers. Where, if you turn off the dusty track and climb a few hours into the alps, you are suddenly surrounded by forests, flowers, songbirds. And the little ice-cold brooks skipping downwards! Ah, it's wonderful."

"It sounds just great," Mallison said wistfully.

"Once we crossed into China, there would be villages on the river's edge, tucked away in groves of poplar and willow. Imagine terraced paddies of rice, like nodding grasses . . . millet fields, duck-ponds, fish-farms. Pony-carts trundling along mud roads. Bullocks at the plough. And the peasants in their floppy hats, singing the same old songs that they have always sung."

She turned and looked deeply and directly into Mallison's eyes. Mallison swallowed.

"In an inn by the riverside, we'd sip green tea. The innkeeper would serve rice wine and shredded fish. There would be scrolls of poetry hung on the walls of the common room, and pots full of dried lotus blossoms. And we would talk of life, and history."

She touched his hand.

"I would like to take you with me to Manchuria, where I was born. There, we would ride through an endless forest; the only other living souls we'd see would be wandering ginseng pickers and sable hunters. There is a sacred mountain which is the birthplace of an emperor: the White Mountain, carpeted with irises and wild lilies to its peak, and in its summit is a lake of purest blue. We'd climb that mountain together, and look down into that lake."

"Well, it's probably not quite like that anymore," Mallison said, awkwardly. He patted her hand. "It's changed, you know."

"I know. I know it's gone. My China is all gone."

"Uh . . . maybe it'll be like that again. Someday."

"It will not," she said, and a touch of ancient knowledge touched her youthful countenance. "China's twilight came long ago. Invaded by every outside power, trampled by the Mongols and the barbarians; our light began to dim before ever Europe's shone across the world. And yet in our time we invented so much, gave so much to the world!" She laughed a little, and turned her hand to hold his. Then she released his hand, and stood up - still gazing down into his face.

"You are a scientist of the modern age. And I, Lo-Tsen, who knew Mozart and Beethoven, Darius and Milarepa, can demonstrate for you all the theosophic arts. All the things you have come to Tibet to study, and more. Ask, and I will teach you the Blissful Warmth of the yogis, the secret gtum-mo which is also called thumo reskiang and with which an adept can meditate naked atop the white glacier mountains of the gods. I can achieve tantric ecstacy, and bend swords in spirals; I can cast out demons; with the art of lung-gom-pa, yogic flying, I can run miles without flagging. Do you want to learn these things?"

He sat quite still, looking speechlessly at her. Her lovely face was as still as golden jade. And now she reminded him of something glimpsed behind museum barriers - like a statue dredged up out of a tomb, old beyond the measure of man.

"Why are you telling me this?" he managed to ask, eventually. "I mean - why me, and not anyone else?"

She lifted his hand, folding it between hers. "Because now that I have wakened from my century of sleep, I find that I do not want to return to it. And when I leave this lamasery, I don't want to leave alone."

Mallison felt himself go scarlet, right to his hairline. Presently he managed to stammer, "Y-yeah." He added, after a few moments, "Like the lamas are ever going to let you leave."

"We shall see," said Sang Yum.

Across the room, the group of Watchers was breaking up. Adam Pierson stood with his head down, staring at the floor as if perplexed or ashamed, while Chang stepped away and threw up his hands in some vehement gesture. He said something forcefully, so much so that Mallison caught the words. ". . . everything must be in moderation, Adam - even moderation itself must be taken moderately! Take the chronicle. Read it. Reconsider. If you give up your quest, you will never achieve anything like that. No matter how long you live, you'll never do anything with your life."

Adam spoke, in his soft hesitant voice - as if he was protesting. But Chang crossed his arms and turned away. Then Adam shook his head, and came wandering across the room toward Mallison and Sang Yum. With a book open in his hands.

Sang Yum glanced toward this book. She said wonderingly, "'Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds'?"

"Not quite, but almost," Adam mumbled. He sat down, leafing through pages. To Mallison, he added, "Chang found it. It's the right volume, but the photograph is gone."

"Oh," said Mallison.

"I'm going to be disciplined for not taking my work in moderation. That is, Chang found some paper I threw away, and now he thinks I've decided to resign. And I told him that people were more important than history, but of course he doesn't agree with me."

"He's worried sick about the - the research. You know he is."

Sang Yum watched them, mystified.

Mallison sighed. "Anyway. So that's the book?" He leaned over and read, picking out the words upside-down: I have talked with M. A most inscrutable individual, very remarkable! Therefore I concentrated my attention upon his memsahib. Questioning her with great subtlety, I succeeded in learning . . .

Adam lowered the book and made a hideous face.

. . . that though she knows his name (Mallison read, leaning further over) she does not know his nature. She is not a woman of intellect. I have ascertained that the attachment between them is fleeting, and doubtless he will leave her employ when they reach Hardwar. She even means to allow me to photograph the two of them! Afterward, I intend to follow M until a relief reaches us from Delhi. This is the chance of a lifetime.

"The jewel is in the lotus," said Sang Yum, suddenly. "Do not despair. By meditation, one escapes samsara, the sorrow of the material world, into the infinite beauties of the Buddha Realm: sukhavati, the Land of Bliss, wherein jewel waters reflect the jewel trees, and upon lotus thrones sit infinite Buddhas, attended by their infinite Bodhisattvas, all preaching the Law. And in the halo of every Buddha, the devout may glimpse a further infinity of radiant Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, each enthroned within another radiant Buddha Realm!"

Mallison added, "Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life."

"Whoopee!"

"Aw, quit your whining." He took the chronicle away from Adam and turned several pages.

But," Sang Yum went on, "enemies surround us. It's more likely that when we quit this holy ground, it will be to go to our deaths."

. . . alas! (Mallison read) M and A and all their party have decamped - vanished in the night - without a trace or a sign. I have failed. They must have suspected me. And though I have questioned and searched, I doubt that the oldest one will be seen again by a Watcher within my lifetime . . .

Mallison shut the chronicle. He glanced at Adam, and shrugged a little.

"Too bad about the photo . . . But while you're here, you're safe?" he ventured, addressing Sang Yum. "Here on holy ground."

"Safe? Yes. Once I had a teacher named Darius: he was a saint, and for him, holy ground was home. But there was only one Darius. The rest of us can leave the Game from time to time . . . but it is our destiny to return, and fight again. For us, holy ground is only a respite."

"A hermit's cell?" said Adam.

"A hermit's cell. And now it is time for us to step back into the world."

She was watching the gang of fiercely debating scientists on the other side of the room. There they were, all talking in fierce undertones while a - was that a Chinese soldier, who had just slipped through the door? - yes, while a Chinese soldier stood distraught in their midst. And whatever news this soldier had brought them, it was unwelcome. Even now, one of them exclaimed audibly, "--just like the Paris fiasco--" and another said, "We'll all be killed!" And then they all looked quickly at Sang Yum, and quickly away again.

A sharp exclamation interrupted her train of thought. Adam was patting down his pockets, and looking very distressed. "It's not here--"

"What?"

He shut his mouth with a snap. "Nothing. Never mind." But he went on searching for whatever it was - while Mallison looked on, rolling his eyes.

"Pull yourself together, can't you? I think bad things are happening. Chang won't do anything, he won't interfere. What are we going to do?"

"We have two swords," Sang Yum said serenely. "What a pity that we don't have some modern guns to go along with them. And perhaps a plan?"

Methos sighed, and stopped riffling through his pockets. "I am," he said, "the Buddha's monkey, and no matter how far I flee, I always end up landing smack in the hand of God. Well. As it happens, I got hold of a couple of guns earlier tonight. They're hidden behind a prayer drum downstairs. Now, listen up . . ."

"Good meat," remarked Naro-Bonchung, through a mouthful of mutton. "Pass the butter, woman."

Immortal Maiden wrinkled her nose fastidiously as she plopped a dollop of strong-smelling butter into his tea. "Yak butter. How you can eat it and not die of the stench, I will never know."

"Lactose intolerance," the Bon immortal said, grinning. "It's a terrible cross to bear, isn't it? Anyway, there's not much else left - not now your soldiers have picked the larder clean. I had to fight to get hold of this shank of meat."

They were in the lamasery kitchens: the Mongol immortal lounging against a table, the Chinese immortal standing stiff as a poker. Naro-Bonchung was tearing into a leg of mutton with relish, employing both hands and his teeth to devour every shred, and then crunching the bone for the cold tallow of its marrow. His companion sipped weak tea, without butter, and ticked off items on her clipboard. She consulted her wristwatch. "In an hour and fifty minutes, the sun will rise. Then we can start our excavations."

One of her Chinese soldiers looked in at the door. "Tai-tai? There are more villagers from Tsawa at the lamasery gate. Several dozen, tai-tai. They say they've come to hear the Incarnation preach."

"Send them away," she ordered.

"They won't go, tai-tai. None of them will go. They're very noisy. They outnumber us. And they have weapons . . . They say they won't go unless a lama tells them to."

"Well, get a lama!"

"We can't. All the lamas are hiding."

Immortal Maiden clucked with indecision. She glanced at Naro-Bonchung for guidance, and the big immortal grinned. "Hah, wife. Here's a chance for you to shine. They want to see the Manchu woman? Then get yourself into some yellow robes, and order them to go home."

"Of course! That's exactly what will work." She smiled grimly, and laid down her clipboard. "Keep out of trouble, Lobon. I'll be back by and by."

Left alone, Naro-Bonchung dropped the sucked splinters of bone underfoot, and began to stroll about the big kitchen, poking into corners and eating whatever he found. It was the simple truth that there was very little left save the butter and milk and cheese which the lactose-intolerant Chinese soldiers would not, of course, deign to eat . . . The slabs of butter meant for the parade images lay sweating yellow tears onto the floor, next to their abandoned armatures. It was while he was swiping up a finger full of butter that a flutter of warning ran along his nerves.

Naro-Bonchung straightened, his finger in his mouth. He turned his head. His nose twitched. He clapped a hand on the hilt of his sword.

And then he began to prowl in search of that elusive warning, licking his lips in anticipation.

Was it Sang Yum, come stealing home - unable to resist his charms? He went softly through the milking chamber where the flock of sheep dozed fidgeting, still tethered head to head along the long pegged-down rope. No. It wasn't Sang Yum. He knew her presence well. And yet there was a flavor to this aura that he fancied he recognized . . . From long, long ago. Something that made him itch with anticipation.

He poked his nose out of the dairy entrance, and followed it across the courtyard. Here and there, there and here . . . "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he crooned, crouching at a corner of one of the lamasery buildings; then he sprang out, sword gripped in his huge fists. "Fe fi fo fum!" he cried.

But no one was there.

Naro-Bonchung lowered his blade. "Eh?" he muttered. The thrill of another immortal's proximity was gone. He stood quite still, sniffing at the air. And then he heard a muffled sound behind him.

It was the sound of footsteps. There was a muted noise, suspiciously like a whisper. And was that the growl of a dog?

He crouched down low and peered around the corner. He saw a trail of shadowy figures vanishing into the dairy. When he tiptoed after them, he heard a fragment of a sentence, in English: "--when I give the word--" By then Naro-Bonchung was flattened against the wall of the kitchen building, his sword held crosswise against his chest. The open doorway was two feet from his ear. He heard the sheep, now awake, milling around and baaing in consternation. Obviously something was up. Were the lamas making a run for it - with some immortal stranger or ascetic to lead them? This was holy ground. And they might have weapons, too. What he needed were reinforcements; where were those damn Chinese when you wanted them?

Then he drew a Maxim machine-pistol out of one of the pockets in his heavy sheepskin coat, and opened fire at the sky.

The sheep bleated and stamped. There was a commotion from the direction of the kitchen: the loud excited barking of a dog, along with a woman's yelp of alarm. Shouting rose from the prayer hall, where the Chinese soldiers were bivouacked. And again, there was the warning of the strange immortal's proximity.

As soon as the soldiers came, they could haul whoever-it-was off holy ground, and then . . .

Naro-Bonchung sheathed his sword and ran his tongue around his upper lip, anticipating a feast of quickening. Even as he did so, a dozen of Peach's tame soldiers came at a run, guns to the fore. Their faces were grim, their eyes were narrowed and wary. He swung an arm to bring them in to him, and stepped boldly straight into the doorway.

An ewe blundered smack against his knees, and stood staring up at Naro-Bonchung with dull-witted suspicion. Behind her, the antechamber was packed full of sheep - all free, for their rope had been cut clean through, but too stupid to make a run for it. Naro-Bonchung hesitated, perplexed, and all his soldiers hesitated behind him. Was this some ploy to block the way? A dog growled, a cat yowled. Then a voice said clearly: "Let 'em go!"

The Maine coon cat, bristling like a tiger with fury and fright, streaked out of the kitchen, across the antechamber. Behind it, baying, charged the Tibetan mastiff. They both hit the flock of sheep at approximately the same time: one clawing its way over top, one slamming straight in.

The sheep stampeded.

Naro-Bonchung, reeling and windmilling his arms for balance, heard his soldiers topple like ninepins behind him. Guns went off, curses turned the air blue, but the panicked sheep stopped for nothing. A spitting fury hit the confused immortal, sank its claws into his coat and swarmed up him, heading for the nearest high ground in sight; then he had a cat atop his head, and a black dog leaping in pursuit. Ewes were galloping in every direction. The soldiers were running for cover. Naro-Bonchung, roaring, dropped his machine-pistol and got one fist round a cat's tail and the other knotted in the dog's collar. There was a shriek from the Maine coon as he flung it skyward. The mastiff looked into his eyes and fled with its tail between its legs. As for the Chinese soldiers, they were long gone.

An immortal with a drawn sword stood in the antechamber, watching him.

"En garde!" said Methos, and lunged.

Not very far away, a party of lamas, dopkas and Watchers hustled through the darkened corridors of the lamasery. They knew just where they were going. The Chinese soldiers were elsewhere, and most of the other lamas were gone; those they did happen to meet hastened to join them. After all, didn't Sang Yum herself lead them?

A nervous Chang spoke to Mallison as they scurried along. "Where is she taking us, anyway?"

Mallison shrugged vaguely. "Anywhere away from the chronicles is good, isn't it?"

In the first passage of engagement, Naro-Bonchung tested the strength and speed of his opponent. His own sword was immense, weighing almost seven pounds; he prided himself upon it. He had never met an immortal with a bigger one! Its blade widened toward the point and was weighed so that it handled more like a club than a sword, and he wielded it like a bludgeon - using the edge, hammering down blow after blow, swinging effortlessly. His great height gave him an advantage of almost an arm's-length in reach; the altitude handicapped any foreign immortal; and no man was his equal in strength. Who needed the effete finger-play of modern fencing? Who needed the conversation of the point? Naro-Bonchung didn't!

But the little pipsqueak certainly could move. He spun round Naro-Bonchung as if the bigger immortal was standing still - ducking, dodging, never stopping. What blows he could not dodge, he parried.

Each time, Naro-Bonchung's sword rang like music.

Each time, the dopka blade clanged like a broken bell.

After the fifteenth blow, Naro-Bonchung disengaged and sprang back, grinning. He landed in a sideways defensive crouch, his sword held crosswise before him. "You're quick, squirt. But where did you get that sorry excuse for a weapon?" He roared out a laugh. "Sears catalogue, toy section?"

"Where'd you get that one - a lumberjack supply store?" The stranger stood on guard, breathing fast. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Heh heh heh. A kindly blacksmith lent it to me. In my spare time, I use it to forge ornamental ironwork. You look a little tired. Fresh from sea level, maybe?"

At the second passage, the stranger moved a little more slowly, breathed a little harder. Clang clang clang went the swords. Stamp stamp stamp went Naro-Bonchung's boots as he fought - advancing, retreating, swinging around to face his opponent. At every opportunity, he struck hard, aiming for the same spot on the dopka blade - on the forte, a handspan from the guard. He was cocking his head sideways now, listening to the ominous creak of flawed iron whenever a blow landed.

They disengaged, circled one another warily. They had now been fighting for an uncommonly long time, at full speed throughout - long enough to slow the hand, long enough to tire the arm. More than long enough to exhaust a mortal fencer: perhaps six minutes, all told.

"Muscles hurt, little man? Your sword's going to break soon, you know. Or is that why you're afraid to attack?"

"This is holy ground, that's why I'm not attacking. Holy ground, remember? The place where immortals don't fight each other?"

"Oh, I don't plan to take your head here," said Naro-Bonchung cheerfully. "But just as soon as I win, you and I are going for a little walk."

"This is holy ground! Back off, Naro-Bonchung."

"Aha, I thought we knew one another!" Naro-Bonchung said, and attacked.

He swung his sword straight up and in a wheel, the motion a blur of speed - and with all his strength and weight, brought it down at his enemy's wrists. This was the technique called Splitting the Opponent in Two With a Single Stroke. His opponent parried. Naro-Bonchung's sword hit the dopka sword square in the forte, a handspan from the guard. The dopka sword shattered.

It broke clean in two, and the length of the blade flew across the room and buried itself in the plastered wall. Reversing his own blade, Naro-Bonchung took a step forward and jabbed with the pommel of its hilt, aiming for the other immortal's jaw. The other immortal, narrowing his eyes, avoided the blow with a lunge step which brought him in too close for sword-play. He was now standing sideways to Naro-Bonchung. He swung his foot parallel to the floor and snapped it back in a hook, delivering the kick with his heel against the back of Naro-Bonchung's ankle. Caught off balance, Naro-Bonchung growled and made a quick step forward to the left, and the little bastard ducked under his arm and was off - dashing for the kitchen, like a sprinter coming off the blocks.

"Coward!" Naro-Bonchung lunged after him.

The coward leaped through the kitchen doorway. Naro-Bonchung charged in his wake. There was some obstacle blocking the way, which the smaller immortal sprang straight over and Naro-Bonchung barreled straight into.

It was a slab of greasy butter. Naro-Bonchung's feet went out from under him, Naro-Bonchung's sword went spinning toward the ceiling, Naro-Bonchung hit the floor with a crash. He slid forward on his rump, yelling furiously, and Methos caught the falling sword, said, "Namaste!" and darted out of the kitchen.

Behind him, Naro-Bonchung sat glaring - slicked with butter from head to foot - and his jaw dropped. "Allan Quartermain?" he said.

So when dawn came, Immortal Maiden (in purloined yellow robes) and a disarmed and sulky Naro-Bonchung stood overlooking the back terrace of the lamasery. Above them rose the mountain, cliff upon cliff; and there beyond the long snake of their sheltering wall lay the anchorites' cells, where the trapped immortals meditated. No sound or movement came from the far side of the wall. "Are you sure they're in there?" she asked.

"Them, and at least one gun. I tried to rush the wall, and nearly got the top of my head blown off. Damn their eyes! They're trapped in a dead end - what the hell do they think they're going to do now?"

"Stalemate," said Immortal Maiden, grinding the word between her teeth.

They looked at the wall. It was a mani-wall, like the many other mani-walls which were to be found in every quarter of Tibet: long, somewhat serpentine, built of solid stone piled about six high and eight or nine feet thick. The flat slates of its top layer were laid like the shingles of a rooftop, and they were filled from edge to edge with mystic formulas, carved in long lines of elegantly cursive script. As a defensive fortification, it would certainly turn back bullets; to blast through it, you would need a tank.

As for the cliffs above, they rose sheer. Six hundred feet, straight up.

"Stall our operations, that's what they're going to do," Immortal Maiden muttered. "How can we dig out the other immortals now? I should have foreseen this . . . And they have two machine-pistols. Or perhaps more."

"And at least two immortals with them."

They brooded, gazing at the stone wall. Then they spoke, both saying simultaneously: "This is your fault!"

They glared at one another. Finally Naro-Bonchung shrugged, complaining, "The bastards stole my sword, too. Lend me yours, will you?"

"I certainly will not! Find your own weapon."

"Ha! Give it to me!" Laughing, he grabbed at her with his enormous hands; Immortal Maiden twisted and squirmed, but he tickled her under the ribs, groped at her robes, and finally came up in triumph with a long golden-hilted European sword.

"Give that back to me!" she shouted.

Leering, he held the blade up out of her reach. "What, is it some keepsake? This isn't yours - where did you get it from, girl?"

"Never mind! Oh, never mind." She brushed at her face, patted her hair back into its bun. Her mouth was sour. "I have an idea, Lobon. Let me go out and talk to them."

"Suit yourself," said Naro-Bonchung, fondling his new sword.

She put a long army coat on over her borrowed robes, and tied a white scarf on a stick. Holding this high, she picked her way down across the uneven, stony ground. "I propose a truce!" she called, when she was close enough.

A shot whinged past her head, and she flinched and stepped closer. "I am a woman, and unarmed - but behind me are a hundred Red Army soldiers!" This was a lie - she had no more than thirty men with her - but there was no reason they would know that. "I'll talk to Adam Pierson. Send Adam Pierson out to parley!"

Long moments passed, during which Immortal Maiden lowered her flag of truce and then mopped at her damp face with the scarf. From the lamasery behind her, no sound came. From behind the wall, no sound came that she could hear. Then Methos her master appeared at the entrance in the wall.

He came to her, there in the clear cold morning light, with the sun standing over the shoulder of the mountain, and stark shadows lying along the ground like doorways to the underworld. His face, which she had once thought homely, was half-dark, half-light; his hair looked as black as ink. His expression was not welcoming. But he was her master - her teacher - the one soul upon Earth she loved - and she thought to herself: He can never be less than beautiful to me. I will do anything to have him.

"Peach-child."

"Master Methos." She thought: I love you, I love you, I love you-- What she said was, "Oh, master. I never dreamed you would be the one to betray me."

"I haven't betrayed you, child. Why are you here? This is wrong, and you know it." He cast a glance over his shoulder, back toward where his companions and the immortal lamas were trapped. "You can stop this. Take your soldiers, and leave."

But Peach shook her head. "If I try, Naro-Bonchung will only kill me instead. But it's a good idea. Come with me now - I can save you from him - and afterwards, we can go home to Shanghai, and--"

"Peach." He held up a hand. "Peach, I want you to think very clearly about this. Is there any way that Naro-Bonchung can be drawn off, that the immortals trapped here can be saved?"

"What?" she said, perplexed. And she thought: who cares about them, anyway? Then she said shrewdly, "Very well. Promise to come away with me, and I'll do it."

"How will you do it?"

"I'll do it!"

"Tell me how, Peach. Do you have a plan?"

"I said, I'll do it!" Tears started into her eyes. "Don't you trust me, master?"

He shrugged a little. "If I promise--"

"Then you do promise?" she said eagerly.

"If I promise, then you have to take all your soldiers away. Withdraw them down the mountain to Tsawa and wait there for--"

"I can't do that! There's a mob at the lamasery gates, demanding see the Incarnation. Sang Yum, whatever they call her. If I try to take my soldiers through them, we'll all be attacked. I could get killed! And you know what they do to dead bodies around here."

"Peach--"

"They chop them up and feed them to the vultures!"

"That's the voice of fear I hear." He shook his head. "You've changed, child. Think: you used to be brave and hopeful and filled with greed for life. Hungry as fire. Tumbling through life like a kitten - making mistakes, yes, but always ready to try again. Young as a new-born child . . . and now look at you. What horizons have you lost, that you're standing here quibbling over what should be clear to you, squinting at the ground? Peach, you're an old woman."

She looked at the expression on his face, and thought: what is he saying to me? How can he say that to me?

Then the answer came to her.

"Sang Yum," she whispered. "Lobon described her once. It's her, isn't it? You're in love with her now, you've betrayed me with her, you want to stay here so you can be with her--"

"Peach, stop that! I'm not in love with Sang Yum, and all I want--"

"She's your lover," said Immortal Maiden, and her voice was a wail of sorrow. "She's going to die for this! I'll take her head myself, and fling it to the birds of the air." Her hand was at the opening of her coat, fumbling after her sword. "And you! And you--"

"We're on holy ground. Peach? Peach, no!" Methos took a swift step backwards.

"I love you, Master," she whispered fiercely. She turned, tossing the flag of truce onto the ground, and began to stalk away. Over her shoulder, she hurled a few last words: "How can you treat me this way!?"

"Are you well?" asked Chang, concerned.

"Christ, that was frightening." Adam Pierson mopped his brow. "But I think I've delayed her, sir. We should be safe for a few hours at least."

"This was a fool's venture anyway . . . why did I let that woman persuade us to this? Anything might happen to the chronicles while we're trapped like rats down here. Oh, I can guess, of course - we came here to keep Immortal Maiden and Naro-Bonchung from digging up the anchorites. She must have guessed their plans." Chang brooded. "But what does she want to do next?"

"Mallison says she wants us all to leave. There's a crowd of Tibetans outside, and once we reach them, we'll probably be safe." Pierson looked guilty. "But we need some things, to make a distraction. She says. A shaving mirror, if anyone has one - or a compact, perhaps? Any old mirror will do."

"I have one here." Chang delved in his coat. "What else?"

"Sticks. Boards. She says? And some silk underwear, if anyone is wearing any," said Methos solemnly. "As colorful as possible."

The day passed slowly, while the squatters outside the lamasery gates built fires and makeshift shelters, and settled patiently to wait: a few dozen, and then a few dozen more, and then a few dozen more . . . At noon, Immortal Maiden's soldiers made an abortive attempt to storm the wall, but someone fired a gun over their heads and they broke and retreated to safety. Later, Naro-Bonchung had a bright idea, and went off to climb the mountain; he intended to come upon the defenders from above. However, all he succeeded in doing was to fall down a crevasse and die with a shattered skull, and by the time he managed to drag himself home, the daylight was failing.

The impasse continued.

"What are they doing back there?" he grumbled, in the lamasery's prayer hall. It was a much-changed place now: its walls were chastely whitewashed, and all the hangings and Buddhist banners had been ripped down. The soldiers had shifted the long benches upon which the lamas had sat to pray, and peeled the paint off the statues in search of gold foil; their kit and duffles were stacked to one side. Naro-Bonchung was lounging upon the abbot's throne, amidst the litter of swords.

Immortal Maiden sat on a bench nearby. Her shoulders drooped and her whole attitude was listless and dispirited. "We're pinned down here. I stripped the whole garrison at Tsawa before we came up the mountain, to bring in reinforcements will take days - and meanwhile those fools out there multiply like vermin. How many people live in Tsawa, anyway?"

"Heh! However many there are, they're all up here now. And their mothers and fathers with them. Listen to them chanting outside that door! Your lackeys are doing a poor job of crowd control, but if you want them taken care of, I'll go out there and . . ."

There was a single Chinese soldier loitering in the hall. Though neither immortal was to know it, this was the Watcher Huang King - sticking to his post with heroic determination, frightened half to death. As Naro-Bonchung drew his finger across his throat and uttered a suggestive death-rattle, the poor man went pale as a ghost and covered his mouth with an unsteady hand. But neither Immortal Maiden nor Naro-Bonchung noticed.

Naro-Bonchung was looking narrowly at his co-conspirator. "Are you giving up, woman?"

"Perhaps we should. There's little chance of gaining anything here anymore. Lobon, perhaps you should go to Tsawa, and then--"

"I'm not going anywhere. Are you going anywhere?"

"No!" She added, sullenly, "Though I don't know why we came. There isn't as much as a single cash coin to be grubbed out of this place."

"You've had your soldiers watching the wall, haven't you? What do they report?"

"Nothing. They see hats bobbing up from time to time, that's all. Dozens of hats, they say, but that's obviously just their imagination, there aren't that many people back there."

"That tricky little coward . . . I almost had him, too, the way he was panting and puffing. If only we hadn't been on holy ground--"

Almost to herself, she muttered, "It's very strange. He always used to tell me, never hole up in a church unless you have an escape plan--"

Naro-Bonchung dropped his bowl of tea. "A-tsi tindre!"

She broke off. "What's wrong, Lobon?"

"The cells," said the Bon immortal. "The cells, girl. How many immortals did you say were sleeping in there?"

"Sixty-nine. I-- Sixty-nine of them!" Her face had turned deadly pale. "And they've been up there all day, unobserved." Then she was dashing toward the lamasery doors, shouting orders in Chinese. "Lobon, come! We must withdraw immediately!"

"Don't panic, woman! It's probably a ruse--"

But she was already gone. The Chinese Watcher Huang King cast a distraught glance at the Bon immortal, and dashed after her.

Naro-Bonchung drew his new sword, and ran in the opposite direction.

In an instant he was at the back doors of the lamasery. He charged toward the gap in the mani-wall. No gunfire turned him back. No one seemed to be in sight - but the captive immortals were there, the din and melody of their presence drilled into his brain, confusing him, dizzying him, driving him wild-- And yet the stones over their cells had not been moved. They slept still, unmolested . . . though a dozen or more crude puppets dressed in bits and pieces of discarded clothing littered the ground. With these props, Quartermain and Sang Yum had just managed to drive all the Chinese right off the lamasery grounds; Naro-Bonchung understood the trick at a glance, and ground his teeth. Very clever - but they needn't think they were going to get away with it. He strode forward boldly, looking for someone to butcher.

Then he saw his opponent.

A single butter-lamp burned, set upon the ground. Allan Quartermain sat cross-legged behind it, one arm cradling an immense sword set upright before him, and he held up a mirror which flashed and sparkled and blazed. The mirror was aimed straight at Naro-Bonchung. And now Quartermain stirred, lifting a bone-white face underlit by the dancing flame of the butter-lamp. There were colored ribbons bound across his brow. The muscles around his mouth stood out stark in a dreadful entranced grin like the grimace of a naked skull. His eyes had rolled back in his head so that the whites showed forth.

He spoke in a voice like rolling thunder. "Skye bo yongs kyi dgra lha."

Naro-Bonchung stopped short. He flung up one hand, saying, "Cayan surug-un qurim!"

Quartermain trembled all over. Tics twitched across his arm and shoulder, making the shaman's mirror he held flare wildly. Tremors ran over the skin of his face, his lips peeled away from his teeth. He said, "Dgra lha chen po Pe har."

"Jun-u ayur un qurim!" Naro-Bonchung made a sign, fumbled out his own mirror and held it out. Sword in hand, he took a step forward.

(At the far end of the mani-wall, the lamas and Watchers were clambering out and vanishing into the night. Sang Yum shooed them along. As soon as the last one was over the wall, they hurried off en masse.)

Steel flared in the lamplight as Quartermain surged to his feet, swinging the sword effortlessly upward; he froze there, eyes still rolled up blindly, and his breath came like a bellows. Colored ribbons and shreds of cloth, knotted to his coat in a hundred places, fluttered and jerked and spun. The stolen sword was poised over his head. "Mi thub dgra lha spun gsum. Dgra lha sde lnga. Dgra lha bdun. Dgra lha mched dgu. Dgra lha bcu gsum!"

Naro-Bonchung took a step backward. "Cinggis qayan-u miliyad-un qurim," he said, but there was doubt in his voice. He recognized what he saw: this was the ecstatic trance of a master shaman, able to call up hysterical strength. If he wished, the other immortal might well twist the sword in his hand into spirals. If he wished, he could fight with the fury of a dozen berserkers.

(Just outside the lamasary, Immortal Maiden in her lama's robes strode toward a shouting crowd of Tibetans. Her soldiers slunk behind her, whey-faced and outnumbered. If the rabble charged, they were all dead men. But Peach raised her arms and cried out: "Here I am, the Incarnation! See me, Sang Yum! Good people of Tsawa, I tell you now: leave this holy place in peace, and go back to wherever you--")

And now, within, Quartermain was shuddering so the ribbons rippled like leaves in a windstorm. He jabbed the immense Bon sword skyward, stalked forward, whispering: "Rdo rje lcags kyu ma: I see her, the three-headed guardian of the eastern gate. Her faces are red, white and black. In her right hands she holds the hook, the sword, the thunderbolt. In her left hands she brandishes the pestle, the hatchet, the tarjani mudra--"

"My Sulde tngri, protect me!" cried Naro-Bonchung, gesturing wildly with the mirror.

But the music of sixty-nine immortals clouded his mind, and his enemy was advancing, intoning, "I see Zhags pa ma, guardian of the southern gate. Her three faces are yellow, white, and red. Her three left hands hold the pestle, the hatchet, and the tarjani mudra. Her three right hands hold the snare and the sword and the thunderbolt."

"My dgra-lha, protect me! My pho lha, protect me!"

"I see your pho lha peering under your arm, flying into my mirror - your pho lha is gone, Naro-Bonchung. I see your dgra-lha staring over your right shoulder, flying into my mirror - your dgra-lha is gone, Lobon! I see--" The sword in Quartermain's hand slammed down, into the on guard position. "I see the green Dril bu ma of the northern gate. Her faces are green, white and red. Her right hands hold bell, thunderbolt, sword. Her left hands hold--"

Naro-Bonchung flinched backward.

"Ah, everyone is gone. Come, let's match your spirits against my spirits," said Quartermain. Then he bolted straight forward and was past Naro-Bonchung in the blink of an eye. Running like a deer.

Naro-Bonchung roared and chased after him.

(Outside the lamasery, the group led by the real Sang Yum ran smack into a disorderly and frightening scene. A gang of frightened Chinese soldiers, guns waving every which way, huddled together making menacing noises while a mob advanced upon them; and there was Peach, giving orders to the crowd. No one was listening. No one noticed the true Incarnation among them, though she shouted and her lamas ran forward to calm the riot. Chang had just realized that he was short one Watcher, and was looking around for Adam Pierson. Sang Yum stood among the Shangri-la personnel, and gritted her teeth; Mallison took off his long coat, and put it around her shoulders. "It'll be all right," he said.)

It seemed to Naro-Bonchung that this had been going on for a century: the little pipsqueak fled, and he pursued. But now, the deserted and defaced prayer hall, he had caught up at last. Methos turned at bay, glancing at the open doors. There, beyond the portal, holy ground ended; bonfires glared and angry voices rose. Like a vision from a dream, both immortals could see the crowd of pilgrims from Tsawa backlit by leaping flames - though the mortals waiting outside the doorway could not see what happened in the darkened hall.

But Sang Yum and Peach were out there, as were the bewildered lamas - all part of the audience. As were the Watchers.

Naro-Bonchung came at Methos, swinging his sword viciously downward. Methos whirled to meet him, slamming his own blade up - countering with the move named Wheeling Right, Turning Left. He swung his body rightwards; Naro-Bonchung's slash missed by a bare inch; then Methos was cutting at Naro-Bonchung's left fist. Naro-Bonchung parried. Steel clashed against steel. Sparks flew.

"May Erlik Khan devour you!"

"Been there, done that," said Methos.

"You're scared, little man!" Naro-Bonchung grinned and licked his lips. "I see you looking at the doorway - three guesses what happens when I get you outside! That's why you've finally decided to stand and fight. That's what makes your blood run cold!"

Moon-and-Darkness met Monkey Flying and was countered with Wild Sword.

Sure Victory met Divine Sword and was parried with Cross Wind.

Swallow Turning. Flower Wheel. Quartermain fought like ten devils possessed by ten demons. But little by little, Naro-Bonchung was maneuvering him toward that open door.

Rising Cloud. Entrapment. Swift as thought, move followed move. Delicate Parrying. Cross-shaped Sword. And now the doorway was at Methos' back.

Finale.

"I know you, Lobon," Methos said softly. "You can't hide from me. Hear my words! You were born on the shores of Lake Baikal when Temugin was Khan. You were taught by the evil immortal Kurgan and the good immortal Darius. You have had many lives, many identities. Listen to me name them all! You have been called Joloi. Katkandshula. Kesar. Keloghan. Koroghlu. Ja Lama. Ak Kobot--"

"How can you know these things?!"

Light flashed from the sword Methos held, as if from a mirror. "How can I not?"

Beyond the doorway, a few nearby Tibetans were just noticing the fight, exclaiming and pointing. A few more peered in their direction. Mallison was among them; the rest of the Watchers were somewhat further away. Methos glanced over his shoulder, and saw this. As he turned back, Naro-Bonchung caught a flicker of expression on his face: an extraordinary mix of irony and resignation.

And then Naro-Bonchung goggled. For without warning, his opponent shrugged, dropped his guard, and tossed his weapon away - throwing it through the doorway, to land clattering somewhere outside. He lifted his arms, the flickering firelight played a strange dance upon his features, and suddenly he was not a little man but very tall, bony and thin - and in an uncanny way his beaky profile and the fluttering rags of his coat transformed him into a creature of legend. A dancing bird. A laughing magician. And the sleeves of the long coat flapped like wings as he whirled, eerie as if in a dream, and as Naro-Bonchung lunged forward the whole beribboned coat came flying into his face. The voice of the magician thundered: "Srog gcod! Snying gcod! Lus gcod!" and finally, terribly: "Dbang thang gcod!"

While Naro-Bonchung clawed the coat away, Methos walked unhurriedly out through the doorway.

Everyone outside saw them then: the unarmed man walking off holy ground - as if he had not a care in the world - and behind him, bellowing like a bull yak, the enraged giant charging with sword extended. Shouting as he came, "May ada-demons curse you! May jedker-demons curse you! May todqar-demons curse you--"

What happened next, happened very quickly. To Chang, shoving through the screaming crowd, it seemed that Adam Pierson had been tripped by a stone. To Mallison, who was much closer, it appeared that his friend tumbled head over heels. But only Sang Yum and Peach, who were experienced fighters, glimpsed the swift sequence of moves which followed: the falling man rolled like an acrobat, jackknifed, and then suddenly his long legs were shooting upward - trapping the larger man's sword as both of Methos' ankles shut on the flat sides of the blade, twisted it, torqued it - and then Naro-Bonchung stumbled, was jerked forward by his grip on the sword. As he fell, Methos continued to roll, but underneath him, now, was the blade he had thrown away earlier. The blade which Methos now trapped between his body and arm. Knocking it upward, bracing it against the hard ground. As Naro-Bonchung fell, still shouting curses.

Right on his own sword.

Naro-Bonchung slid slowly downward, as a moth slides, helplessly, onto a pin. His eyes widened. His hands fluttered; the sword he held fell. Blood welled from his mouth. Mallison, gasping, saw the golden-hilted blade vanish into "Adam Pierson's" clothes; Mallison heard his fellow Watcher speak in idiomatic Tibetan. "Lobon, it's over."

While Naro-Bonchung toppled to his knees, coughing, staring wildly.

"Wha . . ."

"It's over. Let it go, Lobon!"

The crowd had fallen silent. Naro-Bonchung sagged. Methos met Mallison's gaze, shrugged, began to turn away.

Behind Naro-Bonchung, Immortal Maiden stepped forward, drew a sword, and sliced the big immortal's head off.

And lightning splattered across the sky.

The chanting Buddhist congregation raised their hands toward the light. They saw - for they all knew the old tale of Milarepa's battle for the holy mountain - how their Incarnation in her lama's robes had struck down the giant. Now she stood over his corpse, triumphant. Ghastly shadows and glowing mists crawled from the headless body, the air became deathly cold, and then crackling fingers of electricity played across the buildings of Sangnachos zong; for an instant, the whole lamasery was lit by a supernatural glow, against which rose the tormented images of the demon's victims. They were shaped out of fire and smoke. Their mouths gaped open upon endless screams. They grew and grew, bending forward, and then they tattered in the wind and blew away. Thunder boomed once, faint and far. The eternal battle against the Black Faith was won again.

As the smoke cleared, three figures stood as if at the points of a triangle, framing the slumped body from whose back a long blade projected, slanting and bloody. They were the Chinese girl Peach, and Methos, and the mortal Mallison. The mortal began to speak, stopped, stood there shaking his head. Perhaps two yards away, Peach straightened, sheathed her kaiken, and drew a submachine pistol. For an instant, she and Methos looked into one another's eyes. The muzzle of her gun was aimed loosely toward the crowd, in which stood Sang Yum.

Peach's face was lit with love and longing. It made the years drop away from her, and she was left beautiful - a sixteen-year-old innocent, eternally young. She said, "Now, she dies," and opened fire.

Krak-krak-krak-krak krak-krak krak-krak krak--

Caught by the stream of bullets, Mallison jerked backward and hit the ground, his arms outflung.

Krak-krak-krak-krak krak-krak krak-krak krak--

Sang Yum went down, as did the screaming people around her.

Krak-krak-krak-krak krak-krak krak-krak krak--

Methos took two long, smooth steps toward Peach. As he did so, stepping across the body of Naro-Bonchung, he smiled at her, full in her eyes. He touched her cheek, and Peach sighed and turned her face upward into the caress, her eyelids falling shut. She said in delight, "Master!" and Methos ran her through.

Krak-krak-krak-krak--

In the absence of the submachine pistol's deafening chatter, the silence was broken only by sobs and a moan or two. Huddled figures bled on the ground, others tried to help or comfort them. Many were shot, but not mortally (thank Buddha!) and no one was quite sure what had happened; they were only convinced it was over. Here, the Chinese soldiers with common accord made off down the mountainside. There, individual figures stood lit by the bonfires: a woman clutching a huge cat, another woman holding a dog's collar, the Watcher Huang King blinking in confusion. Lost in the carnage, Sang Yum stirred and crawled to her knees, but no one noticed her, covered as she was with blood and grime. And the Watcher Chang was hurrying forward, making his way through the crowd as quickly as he could.

From every direction, the ashen lamas approached, shuddering with shock and grief. Their eyes were only for the small figure lying on the ground . . . the Chinese maiden, with her yellow robes strewn wide, and with her undone hair a flood of shining black.

She was indisputably dead. It was the interim abbot who reached down and smoothed her eyelids shut. A trace of puzzlement crossed his face. But he had spent the whole day hiding (with most of his fellows) in an outbuilding of the lamasery; and he had never seen Immortal Maiden, or known of her.

He said slowly, "The Incarnation is dead," and all around, the people of Tsawa and the lamas of Sangnachos zong took up the refrain: "The Incarnation is dead! Sang Yum is dead!" While the dazed abbot looked at Methos, remembering only that this man had conversed long and intimately with the Incarnation, and murmured in Tibetan, "But she seems . . . she seems much changed, much older. Strange. Her only wish was that, when she died, she should be given the sky burial like any good Tibetan. Should we do that for her?"

Methos knelt over Mallison, in the dust. Chang was almost within earshot, now. Methos said in Tibetan, "She belongs in the company of vultures. Give her to them."

Then he bowed his head, and let his tears mingle with Mallison's blood.

Postlude:

At Sangnachos zong, sixty-nine sleepers dreamed under the mountaintop . . . as if trapped by a legend; as if captured and imprisoned in a fairy tale. They would not wake, the lamas said, until seven times seven years had passed; they would not wake until the day of doom. Hadn't they all just seen the proof of it? For Tibetans all over Po province whispered this strange story: that one of the sleepers, wakened untimely, had come forth from her cave to save Tibet - but stepping into the light of day, she had aged a hundred years in the space of an single breath. And died. And died, as they would all die - unless the lamas, who had allowed this tragedy, redoubled their vigilance and kept the sleepers safe from the outside world.

Merciful Buddha grant that it be so!

Elsewhere, the city of Lhasa - provincial and a little dreary - slept covered in smog and dust. But above it, Potala palace ascended its high hill, rising in endless flights of stairs climbing the steep slope, with crenelated walls running upward, and with building after building, rampart after rampart, rooftop after rooftop, tall vertical rows of windows beyond number - and finally at its very summit, the private chambers from which the Dalai Lama, an eager boy walled away from the world, had peered through a telescope upon his subjects. A lifetime ago.

The Chinese girl and the Tibetan boy walked hand-in-hand along Lhasa's street of scarves. She wore tight jeans, a t-shirt and backpack, like a rich western student on holiday. He was bandaged about the brow and one shoulder, and moved with a distinct limp - but he was smiling, and so was she; whenever they glanced at one another, they smiled. And why not? She was beautiful, they were both young, and they were so much in love that strangers turned to look as they strolled past. Little children burst out giggling, and stout Tibetan grandmothers beamed and nudged one another at the sight. And they found Methos in a local teahouse, drinking chang: barley beer.

He glanced up, and said, "Ah, it's you."

Mallison eased himself into a chair. "Hear you've retired."

Methos raised his bowl. "Here's to Chang!" he pledged, and drank deep. "Here's to a lack of moderation in all things."

"Well, he was perturbed," Mallison agreed. Sang Yum had gone to the counter, to buy something to drink. "He really thought he had persuaded you to stay on."

"Yeah, yeah . . . What's he up to now, anyway?"

"He's back at Sangnachos zong, getting the chronicles moved. He says they've had one too many narrow shaves in that place."

There was an awkward silence.

"Thought you were going to turn me in?" Methos asked, at last.

Mallison turned bright red and chewed his underlip. "I wouldn't do that! It wouldn't be fair." He stole a glance at Methos, and blushed brighter. "I won't ever tell anyone. Didn't even put a new mark on my life list. And--" He was now rooting around in his pockets. "And I have something of yours here, anyway. Know I've got it on me. Yes! Here it is."

He pulled out a dog-eared rectangle of paper, and put it in Methos' hand.

It was the Kailas photograph.

Methos lowered his beer and swore in Sanskrit. "It was you! You picked my pocket!?"

"Yeah. Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"Well. I guessed you were-- That is, I guessed you had the photo. I mean, I may not speak whatever language you two were talking. Back at the lamasery, before everything blew up." Mallison sat there shrugging helplessly. He looked deeply embarrassed. "But I can put two and two together as well as the next guy. And I couldn't help hearing when you mentioned the name Darius."

"Well, will wonders never cease." Slowly, staring at Mallison, Methos touched the photograph, smoothing it under his fingertips. "Mallison, I'm speechless. What will you and Sang Yum do now?"

"We're going to India! Well, first thing off we're going to Lake Manasarovar. Afterward she says she wants to make a pilgrimage to India and see the new Dalai Lama. And as her Watcher, it's my duty to follow wherever she goes." Mallison looked fondly across at his immortal. "I must have lived right, huh?"

"Got that in one." Methos raised his beer in the direction of Sang Yum.

"And what about you, where are you going now?"

"To Seacouver," said Methos, and he began to laugh. "Because a wise old woman told me to! To Seacouver, to look up a friend."

Sang Yum was coming back, with a can of warm Coca-cola in either hand. Mallison leaned forward and spoke softly and rapidly. "Look, I'm going to take her away now, cause - well, we're not on holy ground anymore and I don't think you two should be together. Just in case, you know? I don't want either of you to be hurt. But . . . will I ever see you again?"

"Who knows?" said Methos. He covered the photograph with the palm of his hand. "If you want to find me, look up Duncan MacLeod."

Sang Yum was there, smiling. Mallison began to clamber to his feet. "Actually, I feel sort of tired," he said to her. "And I've said hello to Adam, so that's all right. Can we go back to the hostel now?"

"Of course," she said fondly, and stowed the Cokes away in her backpack. She kissed Methos on the cheek. "Later, chos rje? And may divine Tara enlighten you."

Methos waited until they were gone, and he was alone. Then he lifted his hand, and looked down at Ayesha's photograph. Its corners were wrinkled, its surface was cracked. It was watermarked, faded almost uniformly brown - for after all it was almost a hundred years old - yet still through the wear of years, the stiff images were visible.

There she was.

She stood, of course, at center stage: a tall woman in Bedouin dress, surrounded by robed and turbaned Indians. Her head was slightly turned, gun cradled in one elbow, long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders - and the fading of time had been unable to erase the lines of her profile: strong and proud, with the out-thrust chin and round, childish brow he had loved. With the large eyes of a very young girl. With the determination of a mature woman who is afraid of nothing. She was gazing to one side, as if pointing a finger into the throng of anonymous men around her . . . and like a snapshot of the mind, Methos remembered that very moment, when Ayesha had met his eyes and smiled in the purest love. But the actual photograph was so deteriorated that whoever she was looking at had vanished.

He drew a deep breath.

"Wherever you have gone, I will someday go," he whispered, "wherever you dwell, I will dwell. Your Heaven shall be my Heaven, or your hell my hell. Your people are my people, your gods my God. And I shall take your memory, Ayesha, to the Gathering and beyond."

Boring political note: regarding the behavior of the Chinese in Tibet, I've read two or three opinions. Tibet and China (and Japan!) chose to isolate themselves until modern times. The Chinese in the provinces knew nothing of the outer world, but remembered invasions by the Mongols and the Tibetans. As for Tibet, when China annexed it in the fifties, it was probably the most sequestered nation upon Earth . . . and, being totally isolated, it had no allies and way of getting no help. And Tibet's government was theocratic: the lamas persecuted by the Chinese were the bureaucracy of the former government, the lamaseries sacked by the Chinese (and only seven lamaseries in all of Tibet, apparently, escaped intact) were the agencies of Lhasa. Travelers writing in the early part of this century say that the peasants in the outlying provinces of Tibet disliked being ruled by Lhasa, and thought that under the Chinese, they would lead a better life. They probably are not leading a better life nowadays. But they probably aren't leading a worse life, either; their life has always been pretty wretched.

On the other hand, witnesses from Tibet tell accounts of Chinese atrocities: torture, crucifixion, mass executions, sterilizations, red-hot nails hammered into the foreheads of revered lamas, and much much more. All in this modern age, in the twentieth century. This, too, may all be true. Those in Tibet at the time know the truth; those of us elsewhere in the world will probably never be sure.

The ancient road to Mount Kailas and Manasarovar was closed by the Chinese in the fifties. It was reopened in 1991. Indian pilgrims still travel it; a news article in mid-August notes that a party of pilgrims died recently due to a landslide along the way.

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