By the light of the flickering torches he hurried along the corridors of the City of the Dead. Every few minutes he would stop to listen, fearful of pursuit. Once, he thought he heard footsteps, and with his heart in his mouth he waited for the Pharaoh's guards to appear and clap their strong hands on him. But the sound—if a real sound it was—faded, and he faintly comforted himself with the thought that maybe he had only heard the flames lapping hungrily at the air and not the pad of sandaled feet on the flagstones. And so he pressed on.

At the bottom of the last flight of steps the torches ended, and he had creep down with only the feel of rough stone on his hand to guide him, until he came to the heavy stone door that sealed her—her, the woman he loved—from the living world. Feverishly, he ran his fingers over the surface, chiseled with those curses and imprecations meant not to protect the occupant from robbers and desecrators, but to protect the living from her, until he found the little alcove with its lock. It was a trick that every tomb-maker in Egypt used, so that a single man could release the heavy door and enter the tomb. He had spoken with such a tomb-maker once, as the man awaited execution for the terrible crime of robbing a Pharaoh's grave, and learned how nearly every Pharaoh, since the time of the Pyramids, and before, had been systematically looted by those hired to erect walls around their goods. He smiled grimly now, pleased that he had kept this knowledge to himself, and pleased that the current Pharaoh one day would be a victim too.

With a slight rumble the heavy door fell into the ground. He had only an hour, perhaps, to effect his purpose before the elaborate, hidden levers pushed the door back into position, never again to work. Yes, that was another good he intended: his beloved would not see her grave defiled, even if he failed in his intentions.

Inside, he lit a small oil lamp and pushed back the lid of her sarcophagus. Inside, her golden casket gleamed. Even though she was accursed, the Pharaoh, her brother, had not dared spare her the dignity of a royal funeral. Perhaps the fool thought he could placate her in that way.

He unrolled the papyrus scroll and spread out the pots of ointments and incense. Quickly but carefully he mixed them and lit them, then blew out the flames and scooped out the oily residues and painted his face with them. The sacred instructions for the "Kiss of Osiris" were unclear in only one place, but of course he had not dared inquire with a priest as to its precise meaning. Nevertheless, in the burning touch of the sacred residue to his lips he was sure he felt confirmation that he had done it right.

At last he was prepared, and with great longing—but also great loathing—he pressed his fingers under the lid of the coffin and lifted it. By the lamplight he could dimly make out the bandages that sealed her up; with a small knife he cut them away, to reveal ...

She looked asleep, but perhaps it was only a trick of the light. Her smooth cheeks were perhaps a little sunken, and her nose pressed a bit to one side. But her lips were full, and her eyelids seemed to be but lightly closed. Strands of dark hair, thick and rough to the touch, like the mane of a wild mare, framed her face.

"Ebio!" he murmured softly, and with his knuckles he gently rubbed her face. "Soon! Soon!" He lifted the papyrus scroll and softly chanted the incantation.

As he finished he heard them coming, and did not mistake the sound this time: heavy footfalls, and the clank of armor. But he smiled, for it was too late, and before they were inside the door he had pressed his lips to hers.


"Found indeed embracing the foul woman!" The Pharaoh, Merenptah, clutched the arm of his chair with a claw-like hand; his face was haggard. "To think it was you, Seti! My own brother!"

"You never understood her!" Seti spat back. "Only I had sympathy for her!"

"So she bent you, to satisfy her cruel and unnatural lusts!" the Pharaoh cried.

"Will you kill me too, then?" Seti said, and threw his head back. "As you killed our sister, and our father? Yes, we knew you killed him! Will you kill all the members of the royal family, so that you can rule the two kingdoms unhindered for a few more years?"

Merenptah's eyes blazed. "Strike off his head! Before me now, strike it off, I say!"

"It is too late for that!" gloated Seti. "When we are dead, then your reign ends. We have shared the Kiss of Osiris, Ebio and I!"

The Pharaoh stared, and then staggered back into his chair. With a movement that was more a spasm than a gesture, he called over the High Priest. "Could it be true?" he whispered. "Could he have performed such an ... abominable act?"

The priest bowed very low, and spoke very carefully. "It is ... possible, my king. But not likely."

"And if he has?!"

"Then the power of the dead ... will be theirs." The Pharaoh passed his hand over his eyes. "He in her body, and she in his ... together to reign over the lands of the gods. Only Ra himself could stand before them."

"What then are we to do?"

"Beg our forgiveness, and perhaps we will grant you a quick and merciful death," gloated Seti.

Merenptah said nothing. But the priest ...

"If His Majesty permits, may I examine the prisoner closely?" The Pharaoh waved his hand weakly.

Carefully, as though approaching a bound yet powerful crocodile of the Nile, the priest approached Seti. He gazed closely at his eyes, so wide were they that white ran all about them. He brought his face closely to the prince's, and those who stood near thought they heard him sniff carefully. Then he brought his fingers up, and, as though daring himself not to flinch, he touched the prisoner's lips.

"Pharaoh!" he cried as he stared at the residue that stained his fingertips. "We are saved! This blasphemer failed to prepare the ointment correctly!"

"No!" cried Seti. He struggled against the bonds.

But the Pharaoh, his mouth open and hungry, had already risen, and at a single gesture from the royal master, a great copper sword cleaved Seti's head from his shoulders.