Sacrifice, a Mummy Returns story by Sue Castle. Rated NC17, no copyright
infringement or disrespect to Sekhmet intended.
Burial Chamber of the Scorpion King
Lost Oasis of Ahm Shere,
1933
He watched as Nefertiri ran forward, risking
her life to save her love. His fingers cramped and his body strained as he held
himself, crying out to his love, asking the same risk of her that their enemy
would take. Anck-Su-Namun stared back at him, dark
eyes wide with fear. Her courage failed her, or perhaps the strength of her
love, pale in comparison to his. Nefertiri and
O'Connell rested against a temple column as the floor opened before them. They
held one another, and in their eyes he saw the love he thought he'd found an
eternity before in Anck-Su-Namun's face. Betrayed, as he had betrayed his King, his Gods. His hope
died, and he felt tears start in his eyes. Releasing his hold on the crumbling
wall of the fissure, Imhotep spread his arms wide and
allowed the souls of the damned to drag him down to the depths of the
Underworld.
The earth had no place for him now, as surely hell as any he had
suffered for thousands of years. With no hope, no love, no memory of a soul to
complete his, he gave himself into the arms of the Damned.
His mortal body, his powers taken from him by Anubis,
was torn to pieces in moments. The agony of his reborn
soul continued forever. One thought remained, strong enough to transcend the
hunger of the damned through the torment of ages.
She had abandoned him. He had given everything for her, and she had
abandoned him.
Love grew brittle and bleak, gnarled into hate, transmuted by the agony
impaling him into a single cry wrenched from the seat of his soul.
Vengeance.
She who meted out punishment to the Damned heard his cry, and answered.
Encampment, south of
early September,
1934
Ardeth Bey sat atop his horse, staring down at the last of the
fires around which gathered the remnants of the Twelve Tribes. There were so
many fewer than before they had stood to stop the Dog Headed Warriors, but they
had done what had to be done. Anubis' advance scout
had nearly killed them all, but they had raised their swords against the might
of the massed armies of the God of the Dead and vowed to fight to the last man.
Thanks to his friend, the Medjai of the West,
it hadn't come to that. If O'Connell hadn't sent the Scorpion King back to the
Underworld, the Twelve Tribes would be dead. To the last man.
As it was, their ranks were decimated but their spirits intact. Their
souls would continue to guard as they had for generations. He closed his eyes
and prayed to Allah that there would be no more uprisings of the Dead. He
wasn't sure he could withstand three such attacks in his lifetime.
His faith was unstoppable, his purpose as strong as it had ever been.
But he was exhausted, and his men were desperately in need of time to
recuperate. Opening his eyes again, he glanced up at the stars shining above
his head, then down at the sand shifting beneath his horse's hooves, and sent a
prayer from the heart that the trials of his Guard were over. For a little while, at least.
He forgot to pray for himself.
Land of the Dead
Time immaterial
His cry spun around Her thoughts like the web
of a spider, singing to Her with its pain. Sekhmet
the Destroyer, Queen of the Dead, turned her flame-colored eyes toward the
heart of Her domain. Abandonment, hopelessness, and
the fiercest anger burnt through the souls around him, scorching them, laying
waste to them, leaving him alone in the center of Hell.
His soul cried not for itself, but for revenge on those who had used
him, who had turned him from his righteous path in life and stolen his Godhood
after death. She raised one hand, the ankh glittering gold against the blood
red light bathing Her, and his soul was drawn to Her
side.
"Speak."
Imhotep stared into the
leonine features of the Goddess of Vengeance and knelt, crossing his arms over
his chest. He meant to assure Her that he was Her
servant. Past treason bound his tongue to the truth, refusing any pledge that
he might break. Her eyes flamed and Her muzzle drew
back in a snarl. He trembled. The ritual words spilled from his lips.
" O Lady, Mightier
than the Gods, Adoration rises unto Thee! All beings hail Thee! O Lady,
Mightier than the Gods! Preserved beyond Death that Secret
Name, O Being Called Sekhmet. At the Throne of
Silence even, shall no more be spoken than Encircling One! I lose myself in
Thee!"
The snarl softened, but the flames didn't abate. His head fell lower,
and he bargained for something more precious to him than his own soul. He
prayed for the chance to extract payment for the sufferings of his life, given
to and wasted by a false love.
"I offer you a sacrifice, Great Lady. Anck-Su-Namun
abandoned me, her love turning to dust in my hour of need. As chief minister of
Djoser I was devout to the Pharaoh and the Gods until
my love for her turned me into a traitor. Even after death my heart believed
her, and led me to my downfall a second time. My enemies surrounded and
overcame me. All I believed true was a lie. I seek vengeance, Great Lady. I
offer sacrifice."
Her head lowered toward him, eyes piercing him, seeing the purity of his
hatred and the strength of his need.
"Show me."
Images painted themselves in the crimson air between them, Anck-Su-Namun first. The snarl appeared.
"She is mine already."
Nefertiri, then. Sekhmet peered at her, then waved
the ankh.
"Promised to Heaven."
The image dissipated like incense into night air. O'Connell was next,
but he was alien to Her and She ignored him. The Medjai was last, and the Goddess growled softly, hungrily,
at the sight of Ardeth Bey.
A smile stretched Her muzzle, and the ankh pointed
directly at Imhotep's chest.
"You have leave to bring that one to Me on My festival day. If
he is a pleasing sacrifice to Me, you shall be allowed
to live again and seek your vengeance on those who consigned you to My kingdom."
The words rang through Imhotep, and he fell to
the ground, clutching his temples as his mind shrank under the weight of Her pronouncement. When the red haze cleared from behind his
eyes, he opened them to see not Hell, but sand. He smiled. Vengeance would be
his. The Medjai would be his first victim.
He would ensure that Sekhmet received her
sacrifice in good condition. But he would enjoy himself, first. He had time.
It was his right.
Encampment, southeast of Merimda
Early October, 1934
The wind sighing around the walls of his tent and the whicker of the
horses were a lullaby Ardeth Bey
had relied upon since childhood to send him to untroubled sleep. Tonight, as
they had for the last several nights, they failed him.
Dreams were portents from God, and Allah was trying to give him warning,
but Bey was unable to puzzle out the clues. When the
dream began, he was lost in an oasis, alone, naked, a knife in his hand. His
beloved hawk, one of many casualties in the last battle with the minions of Anubis, flew above his head once again, keening a warning
he couldn't understand.
The sand shifted under his feet, and he was surrounded by asps, with no
fire to fight them and no means of escape. In the blink of an eye they
transformed into scarabs, and swarmed him. The feel of their claws on his skin,
in his hair, on his tongue, would rouse him from sleep with a scream barely
stifled behind his clenched teeth.
He had taken to sleeping apart from his men, in hopes the silence would
settle his mind and help him to decipher his night visions. His troops, used to
strange behavior from their mystical leader, neither questioned nor followed
him. On the sixth night of dreams, he finally discovered what the signs
presaged.
By then, it was too late.
Bey woke with a battle
cry on his lips and his sword in his hand. The tent had disappeared, leaving
him in the desert under the stars. His horse and his camp were nowhere to be
seen. Clad only in his loose pants, hair streaming in his eyes, he reacted to
the threat before he could clearly see it.
He heard laughter, deeper and colder than a human's could be, familiar
in a way he'd hoped never to hear again. Setting aside those futile hopes,
sending a prayer to Allah on the same thought, Ardeth
Bey steadied his sword and prepared to die.
Imhotep didn't oblige.
Attack came from all sides, and Bey swung,
ducked, kicked and rolled out of harm's way each time, but his blade met only
air as he attempted to fight back. The ancient bone of the hilt grew wet and
hot in his grip as the ghost warriors continued to come, and he barely evaded
each new wave of attackers. Threaded through the sound of his heart beating in
his ears was the mocking laughter of the Monster. Below the catch of breath in
his throat were thousands of scuttling feet, the scarabs waiting to swarm and
devour him.
He fought until exhaustion caused him to sway on his feet, until dawn
was breaking on the horizon and his arm was hanging dead against his side.
Still he tried, his heart and mind continuing to fight
long past the limits of human endurance, his soul unwilling and unable to cease
in the battle for which it had been trained since birth.
As the sun drew high overhead, the ghosts faded away. He stumbled to a
halt, leaning drunkenly on the hilt of his sword, buried tip-first in the sand.
His chest heaved, air rasping through his lungs as he tried to breathe, and his
limbs shook. Still, when Imhotep stepped in front of
him, his arms raised and his sword shot to meet the threat, the point wavering
an inch from Imhotep's throat.
"Enough, Medjai," the Monster told
him gently.
"Not until you are back in Hell where you belong," Bey responded automatically. The threat was weakened by the
gasps he had to take to spit it out. Imhotep laughed
again. Red rage spilled across Bey's mind and he
lunged forward, intent on slicing the Monster's head from his shoulders.
Imhotep caught him,
turning and holding Bey as easily as if he was a
child. He twisted the sword from Bey's hand and threw
it far into the dunes. Bey stared after it
helplessly, eyes burning with sweat, and saw the faint bloody afterimage of Imhotep's hand burned into the bone.
His men would know what had happened to him, should they find his
weapon. They would know, and they would avenge him. He prayed it wouldn't be
too late for the world. He knew it would be too late for him.
Determined to meet his death with dignity, Bey
straightened as far as he could in Imhotep's grip and
forced his trembling body to stillness. Breathing deeply, calming himself, he
was surprised at the fresh scent of the Monster. No hint of death or decay.
Craning his neck, he peered suspiciously over his shoulder at Imhotep.
He appeared as he had in life, clean-shaven and freshly washed, kohl
ringing his eyes, power in his bearing. Only his eyes were dead. The drive Bey had seen in them was extinguished, replaced by an ice
that made Bey's skin tighten.
"What do you wish of me?" he asked in the old tongue. Imhotep leaned close, placing his mouth next to Bey's ear.
"A great honor is to be bestowed upon you," Imhotep replied in the same language. "You are to be
my sacrifice, my offering to the Gods. My pathway out of
Hell."
Instinctively, Bey began to struggle. He'd
seen the pit of souls, knew where Imhotep would take
him, if not the manner of the sacrifice for which he was intended. He caught Imhotep by surprise and managed to free one hand, striking
with vicious intent at the Monster's eyes, while kicking with both legs as
strongly as he could and twisting to break the hold of the arm imprisoning his
waist. With a startled grunt, Imhotep ducked out of
the way of the fingers aiming for his face, losing his grip and allowing Bey to break free.
Bey turned on his heel
and brought his other foot up, kicking Imhotep in the
gut and kneeing him in the face as he bent forward from the force of the kick. Bey's arms flew out, clenched fists catching Imhotep along the back of the neck with enough force to
shatter the spine of a normal man.
Imhotep exploded in a rush
of air and fury. Caught in the torrent of motion, Bey
found himself turned in all directions, unable to tell
up from down, left from right. Blinded by sand, hands scrabbling at air, feet
unable to find purchase in a world gone mad, the blow that sent him unconscious
was almost a blessing.
Almost.
When his senses returned to him, he was in the oasis he'd first seen in
his warning dreams. His body was suspended from a wooden rack by rope around
his throat, waist and knees. His arms were bound across his body and behind his
back. His hands were dead. His shoulders felt as though burning torches had
been thrust into the joints, and the flame still ate at him.
The only warning he had of the descending flail was the whistle as it
cut the wind, an instant before it cut into his back. He screamed before he
could bite his tongue and bury the sound.
The flail rose and fell, rose and fell, from his neck to his heels, then
his shins to his throat. Blood ran from his mouth, matting his beard, where he
bit himself trying to stop the sounds of pain from issuing from his chest. He
failed. Imhotep made no sound, simply meted out the
punishment as if the flogging was a duty, not a pleasure.
Bey knew better.
Night had fallen by the time the beating finally ended. The air was cold
on his skin, leaching the heat from the blood that seeped from the marks on his
body. Imhotep moved close behind him, threading his
fingers through Bey's hair and pulling his head back
until he was forced to stand upright. The pressure in his shoulders nearly made
him lose consciousness again.
"Did you know," Imhotep asked
slowly, "that I was the first physician?" His other hand moved, and the
cool air turned to ice as balm flowed from Imhotep's
palms across Bey's abused skin.
He swallowed several times before he was able to ask the question
burning his tongue. "Why do you heal me?"
"You didn't think I would leave you like this, did you?" Imhotep chuckled, and the hair at the nape of Bey's neck rose. "The Encircling One's sacrifice must
be perfect. So I will have my revenge, but you will survive intact."
The balm dried as quickly as the stray drops from a summer shower, and
fire bit deeply as a knife slid through the muscle along his spine, nearly to
the bone. Unprepared for the abrupt change from succor to torture, Bey screamed again, his voice harsh in his throat.
"Eventually." Imhotep sounded almost whimsical, settling in
behind Bey, thoroughly enjoying himself.
The pattern was set for the next three days. Time moved differently
under the nearly-hallucinogenic effects of dehydration, exsanguination
and exhaustion. Imhotep carved hieroglyphs through Bey's skin and muscle, along his arms bleeding down his
torso, along his legs until his feet were covered in a pool of crimson sand.
Words of vengeance and hatred flowed from the blade of the knife into and
through the skin of his belly, his back, his buttocks, until he was nearly bled
dry.
Then the balm would return, magical properties knitting the wounds,
leaving his skin as pure to the fingertips as if he remained untouched. Imhotep's hands were warm, then, strong and healing, and Bey found himself leaning into them with as much fervor as
he fought to escape the pain.
By the end of the third day, he could no longer tell the difference
between agony and respite. Shaken to the depths of his soul, he closed his eyes
and opened his heart, pouring out a prayer to the only
man he knew could help him. He hoped his friend would listen.
Allah, he cried silently, be merciful. Send my brother to save me.
The fourth day, Imhotep unstrapped
his arms. Arranged his body prone on the sand. Took out a single scarab. Placed it on the
small of his back.
And laughed.
Mid-October, 1934
The second night Rick O'Connell woke up from a sound sleep in a cold
sweat, he started to wonder.
Dreams were unusual, in his experience. He didn't get them. At all. Once in awhile his wife Evy
got some. They ended up being memories from a past life as an Egyptian
princess. Nearly got them all killed, but in the end
they'd saved the world again, stomped a bunch of bugs, rescued their son,
defeated death and sent a mummy back to hell where it belonged.
Not to mention the thirty foot high bug-man with the bad attitude who'd nearly ripped him to shreds.
It was a measure of how strange his life had become in the nine years
since he'd met Evy that none of this surprised him.
The nightmare, though -- that made him wonder.
Because, besides the fact that he was dreaming when he just didn't do
that, it was the same. Absolutely identical. All the
way down the line. Both nights.
Somebody, somewhere, was trying to tell him something.
He had a feeling that something was to keep his mouth shut and break out
his armory. The somewhere felt real familiar, sandy and hot and pretty
unpleasant. As for the somebody ... he raked a hand
through his hair and felt the tattoo on his wrist itch.
Ardeth was in trouble. Big trouble.
Not quite 'save the world' trouble, but still big. Rick had been there.
Knew the kind of trouble Ardeth was in, because he'd
been in it himself. Prison, especially prison in
Hands, grabbing him, beating him. Too many to
fight back, regardless of the fact that he was damned good at kicking ass.
Dragging him down, ripping his clothes, kicking his legs apart, beating and
fucking and beating him some more. The reason he knew it was Ardeth and not his own memory rearing up to bite him was
because of the knife.
They'd used a piece of rope on him in prison; that could account for the
flogger. But nobody'd ever used a knife.
And while there'd been bugs, there hadn't ever been a beetle that
fucking big crawling on him. His back itched just
thinking about it.
Evy rolled over in bed
and mumbled at him, half-asleep. He soothed her absently. This didn't have
anything to do with her. There were a lot of things she knew about him. Some
she loved, some she didn't. There were more things she didn't know about, and
if he could help it, she never would.
This was one of those things.
He closed his eyes and the nightmare flared to life behind his eyelids. An oasis, one he recognized, straight out from
The tattoo itched again, deeper this time.
"God, I hate this shit," Rick groused, then carefully climbed
out of bed. By the time Evy came down the stairs,
Alex bouncing in her wake, he had his pack and weapons stashed in the car and
his cover story in place.
Of course she didn't buy it.
"What do you mean, you have a favor to a friend that you have to
take care of and you'll see me in a couple weeks?" Her eyes skewered him
worse than the knife he'd been dreaming about. He took a deep breath. He knew
better than to lie to her, even by omission. Before he could think of another
way to put it, Alex piped up.
"Might as well tell her and get it over with, Dad. You know she's
going to get it out of you one way or the other."
Rick let the breath out and grimaced. The kid really was too damned
smart for his own good. Deciding to take his advice, Rick said softly, "Ardeth's in trouble, and I have to
go help him." Raising his hand to stop her when she immediately opened her
mouth to tell him she was going along, he added, "Alone." A mulish
look crossed her face and her mouth stayed open. He shrugged. "Ardeth needs it to be that way." The look softened,
but her lips didn't close. Playing his trump card, one he seldom used, he
asked, "Please."
Her eyes widened, and her mouth trembled, then
shut. She nodded once, stepped forward and kissed him gently. "Come back
to me. In one piece."
"I will," he promised, and kissed her again for luck. For
once, Alex didn't make any smart aleck comments. Rick ruffled his hair, smiled
down at him, and said, "See you in a couple weeks." Turning toward
the door, he tossed over his shoulder, "And Evy,
I mean it. Please don't follow me. Ardeth's depending
on me."
Looking back at her, he could see her reluctant agreement. She didn't
like it, but she'd do it. She owed Ardeth that much.
Rick took a long look at Alex before closing the door behind him.
They both did.
outside
late October,
1934
Imhotep stared down at the
unconscious body of his victim. The Medjai High
Commander was strong, and fought fear well, but most frustratingly, he was
stubborn. For one so young, he had an old soul, and Imhotep
was running short of time. Sekhmet's festival night
was nearly upon them, and he had not yet broken the man.
As the days had gone by, the need to break Bey
had begun to consume him. All Imhotep's frustrations,
his disappointment and rage, had found focus on this one mortal. To fail in
this, what should be a simple task, was maddening.
Curling his fingers into a cup, he caused water to appear, and cast it
over Bey's body. It barely twitched. Sighing
impatiently, he brought forth life-sustaining potions and knelt to spread them
across the broken skin, absently tracing the rivulets of blood that seeped
still from the myriad of wounds carved carefully into Bey's
skin.
The skin warmed under his touch, blood rushing below the surface, muscle
and bone knitting as his healing hands passed over them. Bey
moaned, a low sound with as much pleasure in it as
pain. Imhotep paused in his ministrations.
The Medjai were trained to withstand pain, to
the point of death. It was one of the foundations of their creed. Their faith
and their strength were intertwined, inseparable. An unpleasant smile crawled
across Imhotep's face.
Battles were not won by playing to an opponent's strength. They were won
by exploiting his weakness. His inexperience. Taking
him by surprise and overwhelming him before he could muster a defense.
Concentrating, Imhotep called power to his
hands and repaired the damage he had so carefully inflicted over the past few
days. Lifting and rolling Bey's body supine, he
leaned over his captive and dripped water over his lips. From
his own mouth.
Bey was kissing him
back before he completely awakened. His arms rose to clutch Imhotep's
neck, and a low groan rumbled from his chest. When his eyes opened and he
realized what he was doing, and with whom, he tried to let go.
Imhotep didn't let him.
What he couldn't destroy with pain, he would destroy with pleasure. Bey's eyes widened and his hands pushed out, trying to prise Imhotep away from him. Imhotep made himself immovable,
then flowed around Bey, a prison of muscle and bone.
Whispers of pleasure wove between them as his hands caressed Bey's flesh, fingertips re-writing the words the knife had
carved before, reminding Bey with every touch of the
depth of his debasement.
Shifting them against the sand, Imhotep
settled between Bey's thighs, an arm reaching around Bey's back, a hand cupping his head, holding him immobile. For the first time since the screaming began, Bey
attempted to speak.
"No," he whispered. His voice caught in his throat, broken by
days of screaming. Imhotep smiled down at him, then covered his mouth with his own, forcing his tongue
inside, enjoying the struggles he easily overcame. When he allowed Bey to breathe again, the man's cheeks were flushed and his
eyes were wild.
"Yes," Imhotep answered. He rocked
against Bey's torso, catching the heat between them
and redoubling it. Sweat broke out on the Medjai's face.
Imhotep leaned forward and licked it. It tasted
sweet, of fear and denial. Denial of what Imhotep was
doing to him, and of the reaction being forced from him.
Imhotep's hands drifted,
tracing invisible scars along Bey's body and leaving
behind fingertip-shaped bruises. Bey began to tremble
under the weight of the pleasure washing over him, aroused despite himself by Imhotep's skill. The impotent rage behind the arousal
amused Imhotep.
What could not be won by force could be taken by cunning. It was a lesson
in strategy he'd learned well in life, and would enjoy for eternity, once he
had broken Ardeth Bey and
offered him to the Mistress of the Dead. His goal once again firmly in mind, no
longer stymied by the stubborn resistance of the Medjai,
Imhotep began to enjoy himself.
His fingers curled around Bey's erection,
teasing and stroking until Bey climaxed against him
with a scream that was comprised of at least as much rage as pleasure. The
sound filled Imhotep, spurring him on. Forcing Bey's thighs further apart, he worked his way into Bey's body, drinking in the strangled protests and holding Bey's fists above his head, pinned to the sand. Once
seated, he set a punishing rhythm, his own grunts in counterpoint to Bey's strangled shouts. It had been a very long time since Imhotep had enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. Thinking
now of those times, and the love who had betrayed him, put a drive into the
motion of his hips that punished as much as it pleasured.
It was a long time before Imhotep allowed
himself relief. Bey's struggles had stilled to an
occasional tug of his trapped wrists, an ineffectual strike with his heels. His
voice was gone, screamed out. His eyes were glazed with tears, of pain and
unwilling pleasure, as Imhotep forced him to hardness
and completion again, and again. When Imhotep arched
against him one last time and finally spilled, Bey
could do no more than growl, a pitiful sound pushed through his teeth.
Imhotep rested atop Bey, tracing the useless protective markings along his
cheeks and forehead with a fingertip, smiling softly into the pain-glazed eyes
of his vanquished enemy. The shadows of the setting sun painted his
sweat-streaked skin in the colors of fire and blood. Sekhmet's colors. It was
time.
"Now," he told Bey quietly,
"you are ready for your destiny."
"Not quite, you son of a bitch!" A knife embedded itself between Imhotep's
shoulder blades at the same moment he heard his hated enemy's voice. Rage
surrounded him like a whirlwind as he pulled away from Bey's
body, ripped the knife from his back and turned to face his new prey.
His scream of challenge echoed across the desert for miles.
As the days of travel from
That made them worse.
The merchant at the train depot wasn't going to sell him a camel for a
decent price at first. Rick pulled out his pistol, cocked it and shoved it
halfway up the man's nose in one fast move. The camel looked on, chewing
reflectively. Thirty seconds later, the camel was under Rick and Rick was on
his way.
The trip to the oasis seemed to take forever, but he didn't notice the
slow-passing scenery. Visions were dancing in front of his eyes, mirages of
pain and humiliation that made his blood boil. He held the camel's reins in his
right hand, trusting the pull on the tattoo to lead him in the right direction.
Weirder things had happened, and would no doubt keep happening. He wished he
had a horse, but the only transport available had been the camel. As if reading
his disgruntled thoughts, the camel snorted, spat, and broke into a modified
trot.
He finally caught sight of them through a red haze that gathered in his
eyes. All he could see of Ardeth were his heels,
digging into the sand. Imhotep lay across the top of
him. Rick kicked the camel in the ribs to cover the last hundred yards or so at
a run, then skidded to a halt a short distance from
the pair. His knife was in his hand as he slid down from the saddle. Dimly
through the killing rage taking him over he heard Imhotep
hiss that Ardeth was ready for his destiny.
Not nearly as fucking ready as Imhotep
was about to be. Yelling a challenge, Rick let fly with his knife. "Not quite, you son of a bitch!" The knife flew
true, catching Imhotep in the middle of the back and
knocking him right back on top Ardeth.
"Sorry," Rick muttered, reaching for his Thompson. Ardeth didn't say anything, or if he did, Rick didn't hear
it. He was busy. All hell was breaking loose around him.
Imhotep whirled away from Ardeth, turning into the same big ugly mouth creature made
of sand that he'd tried the first time Rick faced him. Rick ducked, bringing
his submachine gun up and firing off a burst, careful to avoid shooting up the
man he'd come to rescue. The sand-face ate the bullets and spat them back, just
as he expected. Diving and rolling out of the way of the incoming sand-phantom,
Rick pulled another knife from his boot and slashed at the ropes holding Ardeth to stakes driven into the sand. The storm roared
over them and he dropped protectively over Ardeth's
nude body.
"You look like shit, buddy." A muffled snort that might have
been laughter in another lifetime met his greeting. Rick grinned. "Same to
you," he shot back affectionately, then tucked Ardeth's head against his shoulder, put his own head down,
and shot straight up into the heart of the storm.
To his shock, the mouth actually stopped mid-roar with a sound like a
giant cough. Then the world flipped upside down.
Sand disappeared, replaced by marble, granite columns and pitted
sandstone. Fire surrounded them, in pots and on torches, lighting a darkness
that seemed to reflect the flame right back at them. Rick opened one eye and
peered up through his hair.
Directly into the face of a woman with skin the color of pure coal, eyes
of fire and the face of a curious, slightly hungry lion. Oh, and she had red
hair. He blinked. Shook his head. Looked
again. Yeah. Red hair and fangs.
If he'd been the fainting kind, that would have been the time for it. As
it was, he gulped, looked around wildly to see where Imhotep
went, and tried not to think about what a lion lady might like for dinner.
As he'd thought earlier, this was his life. Getting
weirder by the minute.
Over his shoulder, he caught sight of Imhotep,
stalking up to them while at the same time cowering in front of the lion lady.
It was an impressive performance. Not many guys could cringe and swagger at the
same time. Rick scowled at him. Imhotep ignored him,
stretching his arms out to the lion lady and bowing his head.
"Great Sekhmet,
Goddess of vengeance, Punisher of the Damned, Mightier than the Gods! I bring before You the sacrifice You decreed
on this, Your sacred night." His arms dipped, and Rick looked around to
see what the hell Imhotep was waving at.
He gulped again. It was either him or Ardeth,
and Rick had a nasty feeling it wasn't him.
"Think again, buster," he growled fiercely at Imhotep, holding Ardeth
protectively against him. Not an easy thing to do with a guy as big as Ardeth, but Rick was determined.
Imhotep gave him a filthy
look but didn't say a word. Rick flinched when a muzzle appeared next to his
cheek and froze when it opened. So, lion ladies could talk. What a surprise.
"Dare you claim what is rightfully Mine?"
The words echoed inside his head and made it hurt. He clenched his
teeth, shaking his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears. Before he could
figure out what the hell she expected him to say, Ardeth
finally spoke up. Not that Rick had a clue what Ardeth
was talking about, either. But that wasn't all that unusual. He could live with
it.
"Het Heret,
Mother Goddess, Eye of Ra." Ardeth sounded like
he'd been eating broken glass for a few days. Rick winced in sympathy. "I
beseech thee on behalf of my brother. Mercy," his voice cracked and gave
out on the word. His hands wrapped around Rick's, and the tattoo on his wrist
glowed. At the same time, the symbols tattooed across his cheeks and forehead
also began to glow.
Rick was busy staring at the little blue lights zapping across his
friend's face and didn't realize at first that words were falling out of his
own mouth. Once he caught on, he had no idea where they came from, and no way
on earth of stopping them, so he let it ride to see where it would take them.
"Het-Hert, oldest of the Gods, Mother of
all, Embodiment of Love, I beg you. I lay claim to that which was stolen from
me. Your sacrifice, East to my West, Medjai both, the mirror of my soul."
His mouth stopped moving and he blinked. Okay. Meant diddly
to him, but she looked like she was listening so it must have struck a chord
somewhere. Her furry face drew back from his, and those strange fiery eyes
stared at, and through, him. He felt himself shiver and sweat at the same time.
Imhotep started to say
something, and she pointed a bright gold ankh at him. He gave a strangled noise
and toppled to his knees. Neat, Rick thought, could've used one of those in the
desert. Almost as good as Osiris'
spear. The ankh rotated in the air above her hand, and she pointed it at
Ardeth. Rick noticed it was the opposite side from
the one she'd pointed at Imhotep that had knocked him
down. He was wondering about the polarity of the power coming from it when she
started to talk again and his ears started to ring.
"Damn, that hurts," he muttered under his breath. Tuning in as
much as he could with his teeth rattling so hard they felt like they were going
to fall out, he heard something about blessings, and devotion, and offerings.
When she finally shut up, Ardeth was holding his
hand, and Rick's tattoo was glowing just like all of Ardeth's.
Going with his gut instinct, he unwound their fingers and aligned their arms so
that their tattoos were lined up. Then he leaned forward so that the symbols
could touch.
Heat sizzled from the point of contact, up his arm, into his chest, from
there in a star-burst out through the ends of his fingers and toes and up
through the top of his head. From the way Ardeth was
twitching next to him, it was a mutual explosion.
When the fireworks stopped going off, he was draped over Ardeth a lot like Imhotep had
been earlier, only without the whole sex thing going on. Then his hands started
moving of their own accord, and the sex thing was going on. And on. All over the place.
There were bruises, hand marks, all over Ardeth,
and Rick was driven to replace each and every one of them with his own
fingerprints. Lip prints. Hand prints. Any kind of print he could leave. He
started at the top, weaving his fingers in Ardeth's
hair and gently kissing along the line of tattoos on his forehead, tracing down
over his cheeks, then settling over his mouth for a kiss that just about took
the top of his head off again.
Who'd've thought?
Giving up on thinking and going with instinct, Rick started in on some
serious bruise-kissing. Ardeth wasn't exactly lying
back and taking it, either. His hands were burrowing beneath Rick's clothes,
warming themselves on Rick's back, stroking along his arms and sides and trying
to hold on. Rick didn't make it easy.
He was having too much fun playing connect-the-dots with the marks on Ardeth's skin. Beneath the play was a serious mission, as
Rick sought to wipe away every last trace of Imhotep
he could find. He completely forgot the lion lady, looking on avidly, and Imhotep himself, wriggling uselessly over to the side, also
watching them and unable to do a damned thing to stop them. By the time he was
nuzzling Ardeth's crotch, the whole damned world, or
underworld, or wherever they'd landed, could go to hell in a hand-basket.
Rick was busy.
Ardeth was getting his
voice back, little bit at a time. The choked, rusty whisper urging him on in a
mixture of Arabic, English, and an ancient language he didn't recognize did
something funny to Rick's insides. Then Rick was sucking him, and Ardeth was moaning, and not long after that, Ardeth was howling and Rick was swallowing, and all was
right with the world.
Well, almost right.
Strong hands, shaky now, grabbed Rick by the hair and hauled him the
length of Ardeth's body. He thought about
complaining, but Ardeth's tongue was in his mouth and
it was too much trouble to worry about baldness when there were so many more
interesting things to think about. Like Ardeth's
hand, and what it was doing at Rick's groin, and how the world was suddenly
made up of just the two of them. Then it was nothing but a big bright yellow
ball of fire as the top of Rick's head blew off.
Again.
When he came back to himself the third time, there was a lion's face an
inch from his nose. He managed not to scream, pass out or pee himself. It was a
close call. Rick pasted his most charming smile on his face and raised an
inquiring eyebrow. The lion lady purred.
He guessed it was better than getting chomped. Those fangs looked
wicked, close up. She started talking again and he grimaced as her words
reverberated in his brain.
"Your offering pleases Me. You are free."
She drew back and stared over at Imhotep, who
was still squirming around on the sandstone floor making garbled protesting
noises. Rick grinned, since her back was turned and she couldn't bite him for
it. Helpless and pissed off was a good look for Imhotep.
Her hand raised, flipped the ankh over and pointed it at Imhotep. As the world started to swirl around him again
Rick vaguely heard Imhotep vowing vengeance. Plotting to destroy the world in general and Rick and his friends
in particular. Same sermon, different Sunday.
When the sky was back on top where it belonged and the sand was back
beneath them, he took a deep breath. The sun was shining, the camel was
bellowing, the oasis was still intact. Rick looked over at Ardeth,
sprawled at his side.
"This isn't over, is it." He didn't
make it a question. Ardeth squinted at him, and Rick
squashed an inappropriate urge to kiss the man senseless, reminding himself
that they were no longer in mortal danger and he was a married man.
"I fear not," Ardeth answered him
solemnly.
Rick couldn't resist. "You probably should!" he said, then tossing restraint out the window, he reached over and
kissed Ardeth soundly. When he came up for air, he
looked down at the dazed, pole-axed Medjai warrior
and told him, "Any time you need me, call. Any
time."
He'd go back to reality when he got on the train to
For the first time in his life, Ardeth Bey went down without a fight.
The same could not be said of Imhotep.
Imprisoned at the center of the earth, his howls of rage shook the granite
columns of Hell. Flame-red eyes watched him from a lion's face, intrigued by
the spectacle of Imhotep's soul in agony. The cycle
continued. For eternity.
END
Note : Sekhmet was one of the oldest Egyptian deities. She was
goddess of many things, including vengeance, retribution, wisdom and death. She
was Bast's sister and was sometimes combined with Het Heret (Hathor)
in mythology, with Het Heret
being portrayed as Sekhmet's gentler side. It seemed
fitting that she should be the pivot for this story, in part because of her
aspects and in part due to the duality of feminine nature shown in the movie
through the characters of Nefertiri and Anck-Su-Namun.