“Or maybe he just rediscovered his humanity,” Niten said quietly. “Maybe someone reminded him that he is human first, immortal second.”“You said as if you are speaking from personal experience,” Perenelle said.”“I am,” he said softly. “There was a time when I was . . . wild.”“What happened?”He smiled. “I met a redheaded Irish warrior.”“And fell in love?” she teased.“I didn’t say that.”“You didn’t have to.”

“Two against thirty two,” Niten said. “Good odds.”“I’ve never fought the Spartoi before,” Prometheus admitted. “I only know of them by their reputation—and it’s fearsome.”“We have an equal reputation,” Niten said.“Well, you do,” the Elder said. “I was never that much of a fighter. And after the fall of the island, I rarely took up weapons again.”“Fighting is a skill you never forget,” Niten said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “I fought my first duel when I was thirteen. I’ve been fighting ever since.”“But you are more than just a swordsman,” Prometheus said. “You are an artist, a sculptor and a writer.”“No man is ever just one thing,” Niten answered. His shoulder dropped and his short sword appeared in his left hand, water droplets sparkling from the blade. “But first and foremost, I was always a warrior.” He jabbed his sword into the fog and stirred it like liquid.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” he said, looking down on Aten. Ard-Greimne was short and incredibly sensitive about his height. He always wore shoes with lifts in them. When Aten didn’t respond, he tried again. “I said, how the mighty—”“It wasn’t funny or even clever the first time you said it,” Aten said. “Nor is it original.”

“Niccolo Machiavelli folded his arms across his chest and looked at the alchemyst. “I always knew we would meet again,” he said in French. “Though I never imagined it would be in these circumstances,” he added with a smile. “I was certain I’d get you in Paris last Saturday.” He bowed, an old-fashioned courtly gesture as Perenelle joined her husband. “Mistress Perenelle, it seems we are forever destined to meet on islands.”“The last time we met you had poisoned my husband and attempted to kill me,” Perenelle reminded him, speaking in Italian.Over three thousand years previously, the Sorceress and the Italian had fought at the foot of Mount Etna in Sicily. Although Perenelle had defeated Machiavelli, the energies they unleashed caused the ancient volcano to erupt. Lava flowed for five weeks after the battle and destroyed ten villages.“Forgive me. I was younger then, and foolish. And you emerged the victor of the encounter. I carry the scars to this day.”“Let us try and not blow up this island,” she said with a smile. Then she stretched out her hand. “I saw you try to save me earlier. There is no longer any enmity between us.”Machiavelli took her fingers in his and bent over them. “Thank you. That pleases me.”

“It's been open about a year now.And it is one of my favorite places in the city.""You never told me," he said, sounding surprised."So even after all these years,we can still surprise one another," she teased.He leaned over and kissed her quickly on the cheek. "Even after all these years," he said. "So enlighten me-how often do you come to this place?""Five,maybe six times a week.""Oh?""Every morning when I'd leave the shop,I'd usually walk down to the Embarcadero,amble along the promenade and end up walking the length of this pier.Where did you think I was for that hour?""I thought you'd popped across the road for coffee.""Yea,Nicholas," Perenelle said in French. "I drink tea. You know I hate coffee.""You hate coffee?" Nicholas said. "Since when?""Only for the last eighty years or so."Nicholas blinked,pale eyes reflecting the blue of the sea. "I knew that.I think.""You're teasing me.""Maybe," he admitted.”

“I am not talking about immortality now," Perenelle said, her Breton accent thickening. "We have lived for centuries, Nicholas, centuries. I am not afraid to die because I know that when we go, we will go together. It is living without you that would be unbearable.”

“The small group hugged one another quickly. Although nothing was said, they knew this could be the last time they ever saw one another again.Saint-Germain kissed Joan before they parted. “I love you,” he said softly.She nodded, slate-grey eyes shimmering behind tears.“When all this is over, I suggest we go on a second honeymoon,” he said. “I’d like that.” Joan smiled. “Hawaii is always nice at this time of year. And you do know I love it there.”Saint-Germain shook his head. “We’re not going anywhere that has a volcano.”“I love you,” she whispered, and turned away before they could see each other cry.”