Hotter Than Hell

by Kim Harrison

  “Ginger White, you may be the death of me,” he said.

  She snatched her dress out of his hands. “I think maybe you better help me on with this.”

  “Pity. I like this view so much better.” He stepped close and ran his hands over her in the pretext of helping her maneuver the wet dress. She was cool to the touch, but she went warm where he touched.

  “You feel like satin,” he told her.

  “Back off, soldier,” she said. He did.

  When she was finally dressed, she seemed to remember what was at stake here. She had more questions for him than he could answer. “Is your name really Bern? When are you from? Do you know what happened to the rest of my team? How did you find me? Where’s the nexus? When can we go home?”

  Bern held up his hands to halt her rush of words. “I’ll answer yours if you’ll answer mine.” He spotted a stone bench against the wall and led her over to it.

  They sat together in the warm air of the bath, and he tried to sum up what he knew. “My team was sent out six months after yours. Our mission was specifically to search for your team—not a single member made it back. When we came in through the Tintagel nexus, it crashed behind us. We couldn’t get back.”

  “So now your team is missing as well?”

  He nodded. “At least my team all came through together. It didn’t look like your team made it here intact. The theory is that some kind of hiccup in the time/dimensional energy field scattered your team in transit—”

  “I noticed. So we all came through at different nexus points?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “I’m no physicist, but I managed to figure that out on my own.” She gave his hands a sympathetic squeeze. “So your team’s as lost here as we are.”

  “Yeah. But we still had our mission. Along with hunting for you people we’ve been searching for a working exit point. No luck yet with that. It hasn’t been easy, since the energy hiccup shorted out most of your team’s ID transponders. So far you’re only the second team member we’ve found alive.”

  “Who else have you found?”

  “Sergeant Kaye.”

  “Thank goodness! I’ve been so worried about him.” Then she blanched. “You’ve found others—dead?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. We found Dr. Bohrs’s grave outside a village near Aqua Sulus. Gwayne had been enslaved on a Saxon farmstead on the coast. We got him out of the place alive, but he caught an arrow in the throat when we ran into a raiding party the next day.”

  “Damned Saxon invaders,” she muttered.

  “You’ve been hanging with the indigenous folks too long. Remember, the Saxons are supposed to take over the island after the Romans left.”

  “Yes, but not like this. The incursion seems to be happening far quicker than the archeology I’ve seen would indicate. The Roman influences that overlaid the Celtic base culture should have time to fade. If the Saxons aren’t halted soon, the world we come from won’t get a chance to develop. I’ve been starting to believe that maybe I’d transported into one of those alternate worlds the theorists worry about.”

  “I didn’t think you were your team historian.”

  “They brought me along for my visions. History’s just a hobby. I’m an Anglophile.”

  “Me, I go where I’m sent and do what I’m told to do. Speaking of that, how did you end up as the local priestess?”

  She glanced down sheepishly, before looking him in the eye again. “I know direct involvement with the locals is against the rules, but I was stuck here and I wanted to survive. I’m lucky that the holy spring’s point of origin is in the woods behind the shrine and that’s the nexus where I came through. The Romans channeled the spring into the sanctuary pool when they built the villa. So it was easier for the inhabitants to believe that I was the only survivor of a band of pilgrims attacked by bandits when I wandered bloody and burned out of the woods than it would have been if I’d appeared out of a blaze of light in the fountain.”

  “So, you decided to save yourself instead of searching for the rest of your team?”

  She pulled her hands from his. “How would I look for the others? I don’t have any computer equipment. I’m too high level on the psi chart for any implant but the wrist chip.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “I’ve tried scrying to hunt for them, but I’ve never seen them, much less their locations.”

  “Makes sense. Seers don’t see things connected with themselves.”

  “At least not often. I thought about striking out on my own to hunt for them after the locals nursed me back to health, but it was the dead of winter. This isn’t the best of times for a woman to play tourist, between the bandits and barbarians massing outside Lord Ched’s rather flimsy walls. Since this was the only safe place I knew about, I set about proving my usefulness so I could stay. The sanctuary hadn’t had a resident seer for a long time. I used my scrying abilities and got the job. Having a real fortune teller at the holy spring increases the prestige and fame of the place. Which means a larger gathering of pilgrims bringing rich offerings for the goddess, and greater wealth for Lord Ched, at this year’s fertility festival. Unfortunately, he’s decided that the fertility part of the festivities needs a bit of rearranging, and that’s where you come in.”

  Bern thought about what he knew of the local customs, politics, and religious practices, and concluded, “The chieftain wants a warrior to challenge the Year King at tonight’s ceremony.”

  She nodded.

  He grimaced. “Ah, crap, he wants me to kill some kid for the right to screw his daughter.”

  “Exactly. And become the local war leader. He wants you to stop the Saxons.” Ginger cleared her throat. “This is my fault, really—I told him I saw you in the water when he asked who would be the next Year King.”

  Bern shot to his feet. “Oh, for crying out loud, woman!”

  She jumped up to face him. “Hey, I just report what the water shows me. How was I supposed to know you were a time traveler sent to rescue me?”

  “You couldn’t lie sometimes?”

  “It’s not like I knew who you were when I saw you. It’s not my fault the water says you’re fated to be king! And sleep with Morga,” she added.

  He heard the jealousy in her voice, and he liked it. He noticed that they’d moved close together while they argued, and that arguing with her was arousing him all over again. The attraction between them was strong and hot, and driving him crazy. Being crazy was no way to run an op. Knowing that didn’t stop him from putting his hands on her hips.

  “There you are!” Lord Ched’s voice boomed out behind them before he could pull Ginger into his arms.

  They turned to face the chieftain, and the trio of men that followed him into the bathhouse. Ched had a smile plastered on his face, but there was anger in his eyes. His hand was on the pommel of a dagger on his belt. Bern had been prepared to tell the man he had no interest in his game of kings and priestesses, but decided this might not be the right time to assert his opinion.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked instead. He put his arm protectively around Ginger’s shoulders. He was aware of the way she leaned into him all down the length of his body.

  “You’re a clever one,” Ched said, nodding approvingly.

  “I know trouble when I see it. And it’s in your eyes right now.”

  His impulse was to gather his squad and see what was going on for himself, but he waited for an explanation. Even if the Saxons were attacking the gates it wasn’t his problem unless the team he’d been sent to save was in immediate danger. He was not in charge of the indigenous situation here, and wasn’t going to interfere with the locals despite the chieftain’s plans or Ginger’s visions.

  Ched cleared his throat, and Bern realized he was embarrassed. “It’s something to do with your daughter, isn’t it?”

  “Morga’s run off,” Ched said. “And the Year King ran with her.” He sighed.

  “But she’s the Mother’s priestess!” G
inger gasped. “And he’s—”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with the locals,” Bern whispered to her in English. “A pair of runaways is not your problem.”

  “But—the ceremony is tonight.” She, too, spoke English.

  Ched might not have understood what Ginger said, but he recognized the desperation in her tone. “You see the problem, don’t you, Lady of the Spring? Oh, we could go after those foolish children. But if we drag them back I’ll have to execute my own daughter to appease the crowd gathered for the festival. And you’ll have to kill that stripling she’s bonded with.”

  “But what about the ceremony?” a one-eyed man asked. “Tradition—”

  “We’ve changed tradition before,” Ched cut him off. He looked at one of the other men, a wizened, white-bearded fellow in rough brown robes. “Haven’t we, Bishop Myrdyn?”

  The old man was carrying a gnarled staff, and reminded Bern of Gandalf.

  “You’re not thinking of giving up your heathen fertility festival, are you?” the old man asked.

  “Of course not!” Ched answered. “The people would riot for sure if we changed custom that far.”

  “There you go again—you promise to change your pagan ways, but you always find a way out of your promises.”

  “Didn’t I say I’d let you baptize as many folk as you wanted tomorrow morning? And in our own sacred pool?”

  “That you did,” the Christian cleric conceded. He tugged thoughtfully on his earlobe. “Once the people are sated and sore from the sex, and their heads are splitting from too much drink, I’ll preach a sermon that will lure them to save their souls from the great sins they’re going to commit this night. It will be a fine harvest of souls. They’ll be crying for forgiveness. You’ll make a fine Year King,” he added, looking Bern over. “I’ll give my blessing to that.”

  “But we need a priestess for the king to mate with,” the one-eyed man insisted. “The crops will wither without the spring mating.”

  “Well, if I’m going to turn the pool into a baptismal fount, it won’t need a priestess anymore, will it?” the bishop said, eyeing Ginger critically. He pointed at her. “Use this priestess instead of the one that’s run off.”

  “That’ll work,” Lord Ched said, clapping Myrdyn on the shoulder. “One priestess is as good as another in the eyes of the goddess.”

  “But—I’m not a virgin,” Ginger blurted. “The priestess of the Mother must be a virgin when she lies with her first Year King.”

  “Don’t encourage them,” Bern complained. Then he realized where she was going with this and spoke loudly. “We can’t offend the goddess. I’m no virgin, either.”

  Ched waved his hand dismissively. “You were both virgins once, after all. It’s virility and fertility that matter most. You’ll both do. I’m glad that’s settled.” He began to turn away.

  “But I don’t want to be king,” Bern said.

  “What man doesn’t want to be king?” Ched asked, turning back. “Especially when the choice is between becoming Year King or going to the goddess with the priestess and all of your men sacrificed inside the burning belly of the wicker man?” His smile had more than a touch of threat in it.

  “Sex or death,” Myrdyn said. “Either way, the crowd will be entertained.”

  They weren’t making hollow promises. Bern had seen the piles of kindling and a crudely woven straw statue in a field on his way into the stockade. He knew that criminals were often burned alive inside such structures during the spring festival. Lord Ched could probably get the mob angry enough at missing out on the orgy to attack his team. The ensuing massacre wouldn’t look good on Bern’s record. And there was the chance that some of his people could get hurt. He wasn’t ready to risk any of them, especially Ginger.

  All he had to do was be the Year King.

  It wasn’t like he minded having sex with Ginger White.

  “King it is then,” Bern said.

  “Good,” Lord Ched said, and he and his people marched away.

  When they were gone, Ginger asked, “Now what are we going to do?”

  Bern was still grinning as he took her in his arms. “Why, rehearse for the fertility ceremony, of course.”

  “You’ll have to wear a pair of stag horns, you know.”

  He grimaced. “And what will you be wearing?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  The grimace turned into a grin. “I can live with that.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “My name’s Andrew.” He picked her up and carried her toward the narrow bed. “Colonel Andrew Bern. Just Bern to almost everybody.” He kissed her before adding. “Under the circumstances, I thought we ought to be formally introduced.”

  She twined her arms around his neck. “Nice name. Kiss me again.”

  “All over,” he promised.

  Night had fallen, sacred fires were lit, and hundreds of pilgrims were waiting within their glow just outside the front of the estate. The ceremony was ready to begin.

  “I wasn’t this nervous at my wedding,” Bern confided. “Or my divorce hearing.”

  Ginger rounded on him. “You’re married? I do not have sex with married men.”

  “Then you’re in luck, because I’m not married.”

  “Oh. Right. Divorced. Sorry.” She rested her forehead against his bare chest. “I am so nervous that I don’t know what I’m saying or doing. I’ve never done anything like this my whole life.”

  “Just enjoy the moment. Don’t think about anything but me. I promise, I won’t be thinking about anything but you. You look beautiful,” he told her. “Like the bride of the summer god ought to look.”

  They had braided spring flowers into her thick red curls, and she was wearing Morga’s most diaphanous white silk dress. He was wearing a doe-skin loincloth. He had to claim the Summer King’s sword, then be acclaimed by the people. After that they’d get naked and down to business.

  They made their way through the watching crowd to where Lord Ched stood between two widely spaced bonfires. Ginger was deeply aware of the expectant mood of the hundreds of watching people. She told herself that Bern was the only thing that was real here, that everything else was a dream. She concentrated on the feel of him where his skin touched hers. Being near him truly did make her body ripe with need.

  When they reached the chieftain, Ched held up a richly decorated sword and shouted, “Behold your priestess and her new Summer King!” While the crowd cheered, Ched plunged the tip of the sword into the soft, spring earth.

  “Now what?” Bern whispered to Ginger.

  “You say something about accepting the kingship for the love of the Mother and the fertility of the land, and pull the sword from the ground.”

  “Okay, then.” He began to step forward, hand out to take the hilt of the sacred blade.

  “Wait!” a man shouted from the crowd before Bern could touch the sword.

  “Now what?” Bern said, turning toward the man who came rushing forward.

  “I challenge!” the man shouted, coming up to glare at Bern.

  “Oh, crap,” Ginger muttered. “I forgot about Lanc.”

  “Who the hell is Lanc?” Bern demanded.

  She pointed at the broad-shoulder, dark-haired man. “He’s this druid from Brittany that’s been trying to get me to run off with him.”

  Bern rounded on her. “What? You weren’t going to mention that there’s this other guy who wants to skewer me tonight?”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “Yes!”

  She grinned. “Oh, that’s so cute. Don’t worry. You’re more than a match for him.”

  “I challenge!” Lanc shouted again. “Fight me for your kingship!”

  Bern gestured at the challenger. “Hold on, I’ll be right with you. What is this guy to you?” he demanded of Ginger.

  “Nothing. He’s one of a group of druids going around trying to recruit psychics to come back to Brittany. They’re trying to keep the old religion aliv
e back home.”

  “So, he doesn’t want to have sex with you?”

  “Not as far as I—”

  “Yes, I do!” Lanc cut her off.

  “Oh, stop it,” Ginger told him.

  “Fight me for her!” Lanc insisted. The crowd was beginning to shout for the battle to begin as well.

  “Okay,” Bern said. Without even stopping to take a breath, he turned around and hit the man in the jaw.

  Lanc went down, but was up again almost instantly.

  Bern took a step back and smiled, glad that the opposition had some fight in him. It was strange, almost as strange as being in another place and time than the one he’d been born to, but he was glad to have some competition. He wanted Ginger, wanted to properly claim the woman as his. Fighting for her hand felt, in some atavistic way, right. Deep in his gut, deep in his heart, he knew Ginger was a woman worth fighting for.

  The druid was a big, fit guy with some hand-to-hand skills. They circled, then sparred against each other, flesh and muscle straining, moving through firelight and shadow while the crowd cheered and shouted. Sweat stung Bern’s eyes, and he tasted blood when Lanc got past his guard once to strike him in the face. Excitement built deep in Bern’s gut and the clarity that only came with combat focused his whole attention on the struggle.

  For a while he almost forgot the purpose of the challenge while he concentrated on the fight. Then he caught sight of Ginger. She was flushed and her eyes were bright with excitement that sent a zing of lust straight to Bern’s groin. But her arms were tensely crossed, and she also looked annoyed.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she called sarcastically when she had his attention.

  The momentary distraction almost cost him, but he caught Lanc’s sudden kick out of the corner of his eye and quickly countered. He ended up with a hard foot grazing his thigh as he turned. He returned the favor with a hard kick to Lanc’s solar plexus that brought the man down.

  Enough of this toying with his prey.