"But we shall all rise again," said Morgaine, very low, "and again and again and again. We do not come once and go to Heaven or their Hell, but live again and again until we are even as the Gods."

He lowered his head. Now that her eyes were accustomed to the dimness of the moonlight, she could see him clearly, the delicate line of temple curving inward at the eye, the long, narrow sweep of the jaw, the soft darkness of his brows and his hair curling over it. Again his beauty made a pain in her heart. He said, "I had forgotten you were a priestess, and you believe ... ."

Their hands were clasped lightly; she felt his stir within her own and loosed it. "Sometimes I do not know what I believe. Perhaps I have been too long away from Avalon."

"Nor do I know what I believe," he said, "but I have seen so many men die, and women and little children in this long, long war, it seems that I have been fighting since I grew tall enough to hold a sword. And when I see them die, I think faith is an illusion, and the truth is that we all die as the beasts die, and are no more ever-like grass cut down, and last year's snow."

"But these things too return again," Morgaine whispered.

"Do they? Or is this the illusion?" His voice sounded bitter. "I think perhaps there is no meaning in any of it-all the talk of Gods and the Goddess are fables to comfort children. Ah, God, Morgaine, why are we talking like this? You should go to your rest, cousin, and so should I-'

"I will go if you wish it," she said, and even as she turned away, happiness surged through her because he reached for her hand.

"No, no-when I am alone I fall prey to these fancies and wretched doubts, and if they must come I would rather speak them aloud so I can hear what folly they are. Stay with me, Morgaine-"

"As long as you wish," she whispered, and felt tears in her eyes. She reached out and put her arms around his waist; his strong arms tightened about her, then loosened, remorsefully.

"You are so little-I had forgotten how little you are-I could break you with my two hands, cousin ... ." His hands strayed to her hair, which she had bundled loose under her veil. He stroked it; twined an end of it around his fingers. "Morgaine, Morgaine, sometimes it seems to me that you are one of the few things in my life which is all good-like one of those old fairy folk they tell of in legends, the elf-woman who comes from the unknown land to speak words of beauty and hope to a mortal, then departs again for the islands of the West and is never seen again-"

"But I will not depart," she whispered.

"No." At one side of the flagged yard there was a block where sometimes men sat waiting for their horses; he drew her toward it and said, "Sit here beside me-" then hesitated. "No, this is no place for a lady-" and started to laugh. "Nor was the stable that day-do you remember, Morgaine?"

"I thought you had forgotten, after that devil horse threw you-"

"You should not call him devil. He has saved Arthur's life in battle more than once, and Arthur would think him guardian angel instead," Lancelet said. "Ah, that was a day of wretchedness. I would have wronged you, cousin, to take you like that. I have often longed to beg your pardon and hear you grant me forgiveness and say you bore me no malice-"

"Malice?" She looked up at him and felt suddenly dizzied by the rush of intense emotion. "Malice? Only, perhaps, to those who interrupted us-

"Is it so?" His voice was soft. He took her face between his hands and bent, deliberately, laying his lips against hers. Morgaine let herself go soft against him, opening her mouth beneath his lips. He was clean-shaven, in the Roman fashion, and she felt the prickly softness of his face against her cheek, the warm sweetness of his tongue probing her mouth. He drew her closer, almost lifting her from her feet, making a soft murmuring sound. The kiss went on until she finally, reluctantly, had to move her mouth to breathe, and he laughed softly, a sound of wonder.

"So here we are again ... it seems we have been here before ... and this time I will cut off the head of any that interrupts us ... but we stand here kissing in the stable yard like serving-man and kitchen wench! What now, Morgaine? Where do we go?"

She did not know-there was not any place, it seemed, secure for them. She could not take him to her room where she slept with Elaine and four of Gwenhwyfar's maidens, and Lancelet himself had said he preferred to sleep among the soldiers. And something at the back of her mind told her that this was not the way; the King's sister and the King's friend should not go seeking a hayloft. The proper way, if truly they felt this about each other, was to wait until dawn and ask Arthur's permission to marry ... .

Yet in her heart, hidden away so that she need not look at it, she knew that this was not what Lancelet wanted; in a moment of passion he might desire her indeed, but no more. And for a moment of passion, would she entrap him into a lifelong pledge? The way of the tribal festivals was more honest, that man and woman should come together with the sun tides and moon tides in their blood, as the Goddess willed; and only if they wished, later, to share a home and rear children was marriage thought upon. She knew in her heart, too, that she had no real wish to marry Lancelet or any other-even though she felt, for his own sake, and Arthur's, and even for Gwenhwyfar's, it would be best to remove him from the court.

But that was a fleeting thought. She was dizzy with his closeness, the sound of his heart pounding against her cheek-he wanted her; there was not, now, in his heart, any thought of Gwenhwyfar or anyone but herself.

Let it be with us as the Goddess wills, man and woman-

"I know," she whispered, and caught at his hand. Around behind the stables and the forge there was a path leading to the orchard. The grass was thick and soft and sometimes the women sat there on a bright afternoon.

Lancelet spread his cloak in the grass. Around them was the indefinable scent of green apples and grass, and Morgaine thought, Almost, we might be in Avalon. With that trick he had of catching up her thoughts, he murmured, "We have found ourselves a corner of Avalon this night-" and drew her down beside him. He took off her veil, stroking her hair, but he seemed in no haste for more, holding her gently, now and again leaning down to kiss her on cheek or forehead.

"The grass is dry-no dew has fallen. Like enough there will be rain before morning," he murmured, caressing her shoulder and her small hands. She felt his hand, sword-callused and hard, so hard that it startled her to remember he was full four years younger than she was herself. She had heard the story-he had been born when Viviane thought herself well beyond childbearing. His long fingers could encircle her whole hand and conceal it there; he toyed with her fingers, playing with her rings, moving his hand to the breast of her gown, and unlacing it there. She felt dizzied, shaken, passion sweeping through her like the tide surging in and covering a beach, so that she went under and drowned in his kisses. He murmured something that she could not hear, but she did not ask what he had said, she was beyond listening to words.

He had to help her out of her gown. The dresses worn at court were more elaborate than the simple robes she had worn as a priestess, and she felt clumsy, awkward. Would he like her? Her breasts seemed so soft and limp, they had been so since Gwydion's birth; she remembered how they had been when he first touched her, tiny and hard.

But he seemed to notice nothing, fondling her breasts, taking the nipples between his fingers and then, gently, between his lips and his teeth. Then she lost thought altogether, nothing existing in the world for her except his hands touching her, the pulse of awareness in her own fingers running down the smoothness of his shoulders, his back, the fine dark softness of the hair there ... somehow she had thought the hair on a man's chest would be wiry and coarse, but it was not so with him, it was soft and silky as her own hair, curling so fine and close. In a daze she remembered that the first time for her had been with a youth no more than seventeen who scarce knew what he was about, so that she had had to guide him, to show him what to do ... and for her that had been the only time, so that she came almost virgin to Lancelet. ... In a rush of grief she wished that for her it was the first time, so that it might have been so blissful for her to remember; it should have been like this, this was how it should have been. ... She moved her body against his, clinging in entreaty, moaning, she could not bear, now, to wait any longer ... .