He was slightly built, his face aquiline and darkly handsome, set off by the crimson cap with an eagle feather in its band and the wide crimson cloak that fell gracefully around him. When he dismounted, the natural grace with which he moved, a dancer's grace, took her breath away. Had she ever wished to be fair and rounded, when dark and slender could show this beauty? His eyes were dark too, glinting with a touch of mischief- mischief which alone gave Morgaine awareness of who this must be, although, otherwise, not a single feature remained of the scrawny boy with the bony legs and enormous feet.

"Galahad," she said, pitching her voice low to keep it from trembling -a priestess-trick. "I would not have recognized you."

He bowed smoothly, the cape swirling as he moved-had she ever despised that as an acrobat's trick? Here it seemed to grow from his body.

"Lady," he said.

He has not recognized me either. Keep it so.

Why at this moment did she remember Viviane's words? Your virginity is sacred to the Goddess. See you keep it so till the Mother makes her will known. Startled, Morgaine recognized that for the first time in her life, she had looked on a man with desire. Knowing that such things were not for her, but that she was to use her life as the Goddess should decree, she had looked on men with scorn as the natural prey of the Goddess in the form of her priestesses, to be taken or denied as seemed right at the moment. Viviane had commanded that this year she need not take part in the Beltane fire rituals, from which some of her fellow priestesses emerged with child by the will of the Goddess, children who were either born, or cast forth by the knowledge of herb lore and drugs she had been taught-an unpleasant process, which if not followed inevitably brought on the even more unpleasant and dangerous process of birth, and tiresome children who were reared or sent to fosterage as the Lady decreed. Morgaine had been glad enough to escape this time, knowing that Viviane had other plans for her.

She gestured him to step on board. Never lay hands upon an outsider- the words of the old priestess who had schooled her; a priestess of Avalon must be even as a visitor from the otherworld. She wondered why she had to stop her hand from reaching out to touch his wrist. She knew, with a sureness that made the blood beat hard in her temples, that under the smooth skin would lie hard muscle, pulsing with life, and she hungered to meet his eyes again. She turned away, trying to master herself.

His voice was deep and musical as he said, "Why, now you move your hands, I know you-everything else about you has changed. Priestess, were you not once my kinswoman, called Morgaine?" The dark eyes glinted. "Nothing else is the same as when I used to call you Morgaine of the Fairies ... ."

"I was, and I am. But years have passed," she said, turning away, gesturing to the silent servants of the barge to pole it away from the shore.

"But the magic of Avalon never changes," he murmured, and she knew he was not speaking to her. "The mist and the reeds and the cry of water birds ... and then the barge, like magic, gliding from the silent shore ... I know there is nothing for me here, and yet, somehow, I always return ... ."

The barge moved silently across the Lake. Even now, after years of knowing that it was no magic, but intensive training in silencing the oars, Morgaine was still impressed by the mystical silence through which they moved. She turned to call the mists, and was conscious of the young man behind her. He stood, easily balanced beside his horse, one arm flung across the saddle blanket, shifting his weight easily without motion, so that he did not visibly sway or lose balance as the boat moved and turned. Morgaine did this herself from long training, but he managed it, it seemed, by his own natural grace.

It seemed that she could feel his dark eyes like a palpable warmth on her back as she stepped to the prow and raised her arms, the long sleeves trailing. She drew a deep breath, charging herself for the magical act, knowing she must concentrate all her strength, intensely angry at herself for her own awareness of the man's eyes on her.

Let him see, then! Let him fear me and know me as the Goddess-self! She knew some rebel part of herself, long stifled, was crying out, No, I want him to see the woman, not the Goddess, not even the priestess, but another deep breath and even the memory of that wish was exhaled.

Up went her arms into the arch of the sky; down, with the mists following the sweep of her trailing sleeves. Mist and silence hung dark around them. Morgaine stood motionless, feeling the young man's body warmth very close to her. If she moved even a little, she would touch his hand, and knew how his hand would feel, scalding against her own. She moved away with a little swirling of her robes, and collected distance about herself as with a veil. And all the time she was astonished at herself, saying within her mind somewhere, this is only my cousin, it is Viviane's son who used to sit in my lap when he was little and lonely! Deliberately she summoned the picture of that awkward boy covered with bramble scratches, but when they sailed out of the mist the dark eyes were smiling at her, and she felt dizzy.

Of course I am faint, I have not yet broken my fast, she told herself, and watched the hunger in Galahad's eyes as he looked on Avalon. She saw him cross himself. Viviane would be angry if she had seen that.

"It is indeed the land of the fairy folk," he said, low, "and you are Morgaine of the Fairies, as always ... but you are a woman, now, and beautiful, kinswoman."

She thought, impatient, I am not beautiful, what he sees is the glamour of Avalon. And something rebellious in her said, I want him to think me beautiful-myself, not the glamour! She set her mouth tightly and knew that she looked stern, forbidding, all priestess again.

"This way," she said curtly and, as the barge's bottom scraped silently on the sandy edge, signalled for the bargemen to attend to his horse.

"By your leave, lady," he said, "I will attend to it myself. It is not an ordinary saddle."

"As you like," Morgaine said, and stood and watched while he unsaddled his horse himself. But she was too intensely curious about everything concerning him to stand silent.

"Why, it is indeed a strange saddle ... what are the long leather strappings?"

"The Scythians wear them-they are called stirrups. My foster-father took me on pilgrimage, and I saw them in their country. Even the Roman legions had no such cavalry, for the Scythians with these can control and stop their horses in mid charge, and that way they can fight from horseback," he said, "and even in the light armor the horsemen wear, an equestrian knight is invincible against anyone on foot." He smiled, the dark, intense face lighting up. "The Saxons call me Alfgar-the elf-arrow which comes out of darkness and strikes unseen. At Ban's court they have taken up the name and call me Lancelet, which is as near as they can come to it. Some day I will have a legion of horses equipped this way, and then let the Saxons beware!"

"Your mother told me you were already a warrior," Morgaine said, forgetting to pitch her voice low, and he smiled again at her.

"And now I know your voice, Morgaine of the Fairies ... how dare you come upon me as a priestess, kinswoman? Well, I suppose it is the Lady's will. But I like you better like this than solemn as a Goddess," he said, with the familiar mischief, as if they had parted but the day before.

Clasping at shreds of her dignity, Morgaine said, "Yes, the Lady awaits us, and we must not keep her waiting."

"Oh yes," he mocked, "always we must scurry to do her will. ... I suppose you are one of those who hurry to fetch and carry, and hang trembling on her every word."