Blood of the Sorceress by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

her.
    “Have you noticed any other powers attached to those tools of yours?”
    “The chalice and the blade?”
    “And the amulet, of course.” The priest nodded at the piece Demetrius wore around his neck.
    So he knew about that, as well. “They have other powers?”
    “That’s what I was asking you. Do they?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.” It was a blatant lie. “Are they supposed to?”
    “Not that I’m aware of,” the priest lied back.
    And it was a lie. The old man knew. Demetrius was sure of it. That priest knew the blade could blast energy like a laser, could set things on fire and even blow them up. And he must know what the amulet did, as well. He was dying to ask.
    All in good time, though. I have to be careful. Men would kill to possess tools like these.
    “You said you knew about me, about where I come from,” Demetrius said, choosing his words with care.
    The priest nodded slowly. “Everything that has brought you to where you now find yourself springs from another lifetime, Demetrius. A lifetime in the distant past. You have been human before, you know.”
    “Have I?” He had to hold himself still in his seat, will himself not to lean forward and gaze at the old priest in rapt interest. He tried to keep a cool demeanor, to relax and not look too eager.
    “You lived in ancient Babylon, in the sixteenth century, BC.”
    A flash came and went in his mind. Swirling veils, bronze-skinned bellies, feminine arms twisting like snakes. Dancers in the desert. Just like his dreams. The blonde woman, she’d been there—though she hadn’t been a blonde then. And two others with her. The three witches?
    “What did I...do there?” he asked, aiming for a skeptical, nearly bored, tone.
    “You were the First Soldier of King Balthazorus,” the priest said. He lowered his head as he said the name, the way Demetrius had observed other people did when mentioning someone they’d known who had died.
    “I was a Babylonian soldier. Fascinating.” He tried to sound amused, as if the notion were silly. But deep down he felt a stirring of...something. Memory?
    “You were seduced and then betrayed by three women. Witches, all of them. Slaves in the King’s harem.”
    So they had been there with him, those three. Those same three, they had to be. Was that why they had to help him now? Because they had betrayed him in some long ago existence he didn’t even remember? Or want to remember.
    “What did these...witches...want with me?” he asked at length.
    “What any witch wants. Power. They wanted power over you. For though they lived in luxury, they were, after all, slaves. Owned by the King, forced to serve him for his pleasures. They wanted what any enslaved person wants. Freedom.”
    “Freedom,” Demetrius repeated. He knew about wanting freedom. He’d wanted it even before he’d known what it was.
    “They used their charms to seduce you to the point where you would do anything for them. Even murder the King you were sworn to serve. Which you did, my friend. Which you did.”
    “I murdered the King?”
    There was another flash in his mind. An ornate room that belonged in a palace, golden relics and rich fabrics everywhere. Exotic oil lamps out of one of the tales about Ali Baba sent thick black ribbons of smoke into the air. A bearded man stood before him, shaking his head sadly while Demetrius struggled against the soldiers who held his arms.
    “You cannot have them killed! Blame me for this. Take my life, not theirs. Not Lilia’s!”
    But the King wouldn’t even look him in the eye. “You betrayed me. You, my most trusted soldier. My...my friend...” When the King finally raised his eyes they glinted with fury. “They die.”
    “No!”
    Demetrius ripped free of his captors and yanked the blade from one soldier’s belt. He lunged forward, brandishing the dagger before him, and he heard the slight hiss of the razor-sharp edge slicing the air—and then the King’s throat.
    It happened so