My voice cracked alarmingly, but the idea got through. Because a malevolent green eye stared at me through a fall of sweaty blond hair. "Why didn't I think of that?"

The stick rubbing recommenced.

I watched it for a few minutes before clearing my throat and trying again. "Is there a reason you're doing that the hard way?"

"Yes! I forgot the matches!"

"And you need them because?"

"Because I don't have magic right now, as you know perfectly well!"

"But you have that." I nodded at the man purse he'd been dragging around, along with me, an overstuffed backpack, and an attitude from, well, you know.

"That is for emergencies!"

"And this isn't one?"

"No." He threw the sticks down, panting. "A little cold won't kill you-"

"Neither would some heat."

"-but other things might!"

He paused to stick his head in the massive backpack and root around. And I decided to see how propping myself up on one elbow went. It wasn't comfortable-Rosier had dumped me on the hard bit near the trees while keeping the nice soft grassy stuff for himself. But I didn't pass out again, so okay.

"Such as?" I asked as he emerged with a canteen.

"Such as that damned madwoman from Amsterdam," he grumbled, after taking a long swig.

And oh, shit. I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to ask Rhea how Cherries had found us. I'd forgotten, what with Jonas and the acolytes and the forty-seven other things I'd had to do.

"Oh, don't look so guilty," Rosier told me sardonically. "While you were lying around the suite, I took care of it."

I was about to respond to that the way it deserved, but then he passed the canteen over. And I drained half of it before I came up for air, then pulled it back protectively when he tried to snatch it again. Oh God, that was good.

"Took care of it how?" I gasped, after another drink.

"By knowing who to ask!" Rosier snatched it back, frowning at the weight. "Did you have to drink the whole thing?"

"I didn't, and took care of it how?"

This time I got an answer, maybe because it allowed him to show off.

"I discovered that witches-of whom the Pythia is one, despite current appearances-are drawn to magic," he told me, starting to saw away with the sticks again. "Any magic. And the more power that is expended, the brighter the signal."

"And the Pythian power-"

"Is about as bright as it gets. That's what tripped us up in London, and again in Amsterdam: we stayed too close to the entry point. We put a big spotlight on ourselves, and then stood right by it. No wonder they found us!"

"So this time, you hauled me away."

He nodded. "Far away. It seems that the Pythias are especially sensitive to the use of their own magic, as you might expect, although anything might be enough to put them on the scent-"

"Them?"

"-and the last thing we need is a posse of pissed-off Pythias-how's that for alliteration-"

"Posse? What posse?"

"-on our trail. But thanks to me, they now have to find us the old-fashioned way, don't they? And they may find that a bit more of a trick," he finished, looking amazingly smug.

Smug and clueless.

"Who is 'they'?" I asked carefully. "You mean the Pythia of this era?"

"Among others."

"What others?"

He looked up in order to roll his eyes at me. "The Pythias whose times we just violated the hell out of-what do you think?"

"What?"

He nodded. "All the Pythias. From all the times you just dragged me through-"

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes. Did you really think you could expend that kind of power and no one would notice?"

I looked at him in horror. "But . . . but they couldn't . . . But we didn't . . . We only stopped here-"

"But it's like a freeway, isn't it?" Rosier asked, sawing away and looking insanely unconcerned. "You get on, you get off, but it's not as if you disappear in between. Not as if that part doesn't count. You can't tell the officer who pulls you over, Yes, sir, I know I was speeding, but it doesn't matter since I'm just passing through-"

He broke off, possibly because I had just reached out and grabbed him. And dragged him through his nicely arranged pile of twigs and moss, scattering it everywhere. And causing a couple stray sparks to flare and then abruptly go out, making him curse, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered, because we were about to be so very, very dead- "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.

"What is wrong with me? You! You are what is wrong with me! You and a dozen Pythias-"

"Be quiet!"

"Like hell I'll be quiet! I can't fight-"

"No, you can't! And right now, neither can I. And there could be brigands in these woods-"

"Brigands? Who cares about brigands? Did you hear me? I can't fight a dozen Pyth-"

A hand came down over my mouth. "Shut. Up."

"You shut up!" I tore away from him. "You didn't mention-you didn't say anything about-"

"Why should I have to?" he demanded. "You're the Pythia-"

I pointed a shaking finger at him. "And you know damned well-"

"That you know nothing? That you're the most ridiculous choice to hold that office in memory? To have the power of a goddess wielded by an incompetent child . . ." He broke off at my expression. "Oh, what?" he demanded, throwing out his arms. "Have I dented the divine pride? Hurt the heavenly ego? Offended the omnipotent-"

"Shut up!"

"And if I don't? What are you going to do, little goddess? Kill me?"

If I'd had any strength, I don't know. I honestly don't know what would have happened. Fortunately for both of us, if there was something below empty, I was sitting on it.

Which, of course, meant we were going to be dead even faster than normal as soon as the posse caught up with us.

"I don't have to," I told him unsteadily. "There's a couple dozen women on the way to do that already."

Rosier looked at me for a moment, and then sat back on his heels. And craned his neck backward to look at the vast, glittering band of the Milky Way, high above, unobscured by our nonexistent fire. The darkness hid the differences in the face, the slightly more aquiline nose, the slightly less rugged jaw, the completely different expression that separated two men who usually looked less like father and son and more like identical twins.

At least, they had once. But now . . . I'd never make that mistake now. Only I wouldn't have to worry about it, would I? Those other Pythias would never listen, not in time, not with me dragging Rosier so far back, with the possibility for us to screw up time multiplying exponentially every year. And it wasn't like I hadn't thought of that, too, wasn't like I didn't know how dangerous this was. But did it matter? Did it matter if I screwed up the world when Ares was about to come back and set it all ablaze and I couldn't stop him and Pritkin- I made a sound in my throat, and Rosier looked down to stare at me. But I was too upset to care. If they caught up with us tonight, it was over. I just didn't have anything left.

"They won't find us," he told me, after a moment.

"How can you possibly know that?"

He made a broad gesture that took in the whole expanse around us. "Wales."

"That doesn't answer anything."

"On the contrary, it answers everything. Rome's legions vanquished empires, their governors made kings shudder in fear, and their sprawl swallowed a good portion of the known world. Yet they took thirty years to conquer Wales, and even then, they never held it easily. The legions found it too damned hard to fight in these mountains, and far too easy to die, with bolt-holes behind every rock and tree, and wild men constantly dropping out of-"

"The Pythias aren't Roman legions," I told him unsteadily.

"No, but they still can't fight what they can't find. And they can't find us. I laid enough false trails, did enough circling around, and hacked my way over enough mountaintops to see to that."

"But . . . dozens . . ." The very idea was overwhelming. Dozens of Pythias. How could anyone stand against that?

"Potentially dozens," he amended.

I looked at him. "What?"

"Well, that other one, what was her name? The one before you?"

"Agnes?"

"Yes. She didn't show up in Amsterdam, did she?"

"I-no. But-"

"She must have felt us pass through, so to speak, but she let the Pythia of the day handle it. We only faced two Pythias in Amsterdam due to London following us out of her own era. Now, there may be more Londons out there, but it seems to me that more will likely stay where they are and let the local girl take care of it. Whoever that may be." He glanced around.

"But . . . but you just said-"

"Yes, well, I was playing with you, girl."

"Playing-" I stared at him.

"And giving you the worst-case scenario," he said, a little defensively. "Technically, they could all end up here. However, I think it more likely that they will only show up if the current Pythia fails to find us. Which, with the amount of territory she has to cover, and if we refrain from putting a spotlight on us by using magic, should buy us a few-look!"

I jumped, my head whipping around, my heart in my throat. But the moon was barely a sliver above the trees, and I couldn't see anything. And the starlight only managed to make every little hill and rut in the ground into a lurking enemy.

"What?"

"A flame!" Rosier went to his knees, hands cupped protectively around something in a pile of moss. I almost passed out.

Playing, I thought dizzily, watching him hunch protectively over a flicker in the dark. His cheeks swelled up, and he started feeding it tiny puffs of oxygen. After a moment, a glimmer of light danced in his eyes, making him look even more diabolical than usual.

I was going to kill him, I decided unsteadily.

Just not right now.

I lay back down.

After a bit, I heard him move off, probably in search of more wood for the hungry little flame. I didn't bother opening my eyes to check. Everything hurt. Every. Thing. It felt like I'd managed to sprain my entire body and possibly my brain, too.

And on top of that, I was starving.

"Did you bring any food?" I asked when I heard him return.

"What? Oh yes."

Something hit me in the chest. I opened my eyes to find myself looking at one of those little packs of crackers and cheese. Not the good kind. The kind you get at gas stations when you're hungover at two a.m. and aren't that picky. The kind where the cheese is half-liquefied neon yellow goo.

I ate them anyway.

"Isn't there an inn or something?" I asked.

"What?"

"An. Inn. You know, a medieval Ramada?"

He snorted. "Are you in for a disappointment."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that if you're looking for the majestic, flag-topped fortresses of Camelot, you're going to be looking awhile." He chuckled to himself.