Alexandria, Egypt 1926

To someone like Ardeth Bey, who had lived the whole of his life in the desert, the coastal city of Alexandria was difficult to assimilate. All of that water had a smell he'd never encountered before. The Nile, mother of the world, smelled fresh, life-giving. The oasis water holes of the lands where he was born had a mild, murky odor that lingered under the heavier scents of human sweat and camel dung. Alexandria, though, stank of salt and mildew and rotting fish. It was a beautiful city outwardly, a shining jewel compared to Cairo's narrow darkness, but he wished himself quickly away. He missed the familiar vistas of the desert: sand and rock, with the occasional slash of green denoting irrigated land. The sight of the sea made him feel like he might fall off the edge of the earth. 

The job he had was a simple one, and he hoped it would be completed swiftly. Since the creature, Imhotep, had been killed some three years ago, the Med-Jai had resumed their duty of keeping him buried beneath the sand at Hamunaptra. They had realized, though, that their methods needed modernizing. They needed to keep up with the rest of the world. Since Ardeth had so easily been able to work with the westerners, like O'Connell and the Carnahans, he'd been asked to organize this new effort. He traveled now, to any place in Egypt that archaeologists, antiquities dealers and smugglers might find a reference to the one who must remain undisturbed.

He had come to Alexandria from Cairo by rail, his first train ride. He was there to look into a temple desecration and tomb robbing that had unleashed some sort of curse. The Med-Jai worried about any such happenings, and this one had killed three men already.  He wasn't having much luck. People there were suspicious of him, not inclined to talk. He could not blame them. He stood out here in ways he never would in Upper Egypt. Alexandria was more foreign than Egyptian, as if he had crossed the frightening sea and gone on to Greece or beyond. To these people he was a backwards desert wanderer with strange markings on his face, and they hid whispers about him behind their hands. He tried to stay out of sight as much as he could, but it made his work difficult. 

The vandalism had occurred at a certain temple of Set, a god who was once the patron of Lower Egypt. Over the long years of the Pharaohs' dynasties, Set had taken on a completely different reputation, one that made Ardeth spit through his fingers before entering his domain. He was a violent murderer god, enemy of Horus, and anything stolen from his temple could only bring bad things. This time was no exception. He had overheard people talking of strange sounds coming from he temple, as if something had been awakened there, and was angry about it. 

Since he couldn't unearth any details about the men who had died form the supposed curse, or about what sorts of objects had been stolen, Ardeth decided he would start at the temple itself. It was situated along the outskirts of the old city, away from the other temples by a generous length. Its condition was surprisingly good, as though it alone had escaped the ravages of hot sun and sea air. Inside it was cool and dark, but he could make out the paintings on the walls well enough due to their whitewashed background. They had a form and function that Ardeth was unfamiliar with, more modern than the tombs and temples in Upper Egypt, the writing more like hieratic than glyphs. Or maybe Greek? He considered himself an educated man, but all of his learning had been focused on one subject since he'd reached the years of manhood, and Set's temple in Alexandria was not it.

The building was practically spotless, and Ardeth couldn't find any sign of desecration. No hunks of wall were missing, no overturned altars or urns betrayed the presence of robbers. It was neat and clean, and utterly unnerving. The absolute silence was what really got to him. No sounds of small animals in the dark corners. No creaking, shifting noises. Nothing but his own breathing, loud in his ears. So much for the wailing of an angry god or awakened demon. He searched the temple thoroughly, floor to ceiling and wall to wall, but found nothing. 

Only one thing struck him as even remotely unusual about the temple. Along the rear wall, almost completely overshadowed by the great altar devoted to Set, was a second altar. Made of some sort of black stone not native to his land, the altar was vaguely Greek in style. It was a solid slab of rock with a flat top, and with columns chiseled out on each side to resemble the great columns he had once seen at a temple of Isis. The most eye-catching thing about it, though, was the carved front panel. It was etched with scenes from an immense battle, with thousands of soldiers on each side. In the center of the battlefield, towering over all others, was a giant god, wielding a great and terrible sword. Rivers of blood flowed at his feet. The image raised the hair on Ardeth's neck. 

He had heard of this, of altars to gods from other lands concealed within the temples of the great ones. There was a fine example of that very thing in one of the massive temples in the south, a tribute to the smith god of the Greeks in the halls of Amon. This glorified some sort of war god, obviously, and how fitting that was for the temple of Set. The problem was that he had no reason to believe that anything untoward had happened here, and he was beginning to think he was wasting his time. There was nothing of the creature here, nothing he needed to report to the leaders of the tribes. 

As he turned to leave, a bit of something shiny on the floor next to the black altar caught his eye. It was a piece of jewelry, he realized as he bent to pick it up. Silver jewelry, an earring from the looks of it. The piece was old, as old as any of the treasure at Hamunaptra, but like much of the rest of this temple it was not Egyptian in origin or shape. Stylized, heavy, it formed a sword, created to dangle from the ear. He looked at it for a long while before shaking himself and tucking the piece carefully into his belt. It was something at least. Some sign that there might have been something valuable here once. He would take it with him, perhaps have someone in the souk look at it to determine its provenance. 

When he looked up from it, something was there that had not before, something that made him jump a good foot backwards and draw his sword. His spine connected with the hard stone behind him, leaving him dented and gasping for breath. Sitting atop the great altar of Set was a man, if men could look like that. If men could make the hair on his arms stand up, and his mouth go dry. The last time he remembered feeling like this was when he had first encountered the creature. The man perched above him was not of this world.

There was a disorienting sense of familiarity about the man. Dark hair framed a well-shaped face with a neat beard and dark eyes. His lips were lush and beautifully formed. He wore silver-studded black leather, buttery soft and clinging. He swung one leg idly, so that his foot knocked against the head of Horus that was painted on the altar support. He wasn't quite grinning, but his expression was at once amused and expectant, and it set Ardeth's teeth on edge.

"There was a time," he said, "when having you appear like that would have seemed odd. Who are you?"

The man hopped down from his perch and adjusted the sword that hung alongside his leg. "Who do you think I am, Ardeth Bey?"

"An afreet? A servant of the underworld, perhaps? What do you want with me?"

Tilting his head to one side, the man considered him for a moment. "I think you're smarter than that, Bey. As for what I want with you, well, most people would call that stealing." He nodded towards Ardeth's belt, where the silver earring was safely hidden away.  "Since that's mine, I would say you owe me something in return."

"You mean to tell me that this is yours? Your temple, and I am desecrating it? You do not look let Set, my friend."

"You're right. He was a redhead." The man advanced upon him until they stood close together. So close that Ardeth could feel the heat that emanated from him, hotter than the midday sun. "Let me ask you something," the man said. "Do you believe in the one God? Allah? Or do you believe in the old gods of your people?"

Inky, dark eyes seemed to soak up the light, and Ardeth stared into them, hypnotized. "I believe that god takes many forms. And nature provides many things we cannot explain."

"Good answer. I don't know what category you'd put me under, but me, I'll go with god. ."  The smile the man turned on him was predatory, full of sharp white teeth. "Now then. You took something of mine. So I get to take something of yours." 

The sound of his own sword clattering to the floor made him flinch. Ardeth had forgotten he was holding it. He strained back, away from this mesmerizing being, and closed his eyes. Hard hands locked around his upper arms, and Ardeth knew that death was imminent. He hoped the end would be swift. There was a dizzying flash of movementlightsound, but no pain. He was grateful for that much, at least. 

Blinking, Ardeth cautiously opened his eyes, hoping his soul had weighed in favorably and that he was in paradise. Apparently he wasn't. Instead of trees laden with dates and almonds, or rivers of milk and honey, he saw austere black marble. He was in some sort of palatial room, all silver-toned black and smooth surfaces. So intent was he on studying it that it took him several minutes to realize that the man who had brought him here was still with him. Smiling at him, showing those teeth again. 

"I thought you might like to make your sacrifice in private," he said.  

"Sacrifice." Proud of the evenness of his voice, Ardeth managed to make it both a question and a sound of disbelief.

"Yeah. Let's see if I can put this in terms you'll understand. You, warrior. Me, war god. So, right there we have reason enough for me to expect an offering from you. But you also tried to steal something from me. From my altar. So you owe me."

"A war god?" Ardeth snorted, and the sound reminded him of Rick O'Connell. "Which one? Sekhmet? You look no more like her than you do Set."

"She was a catty bitch." The so-called god chuckled at his own joke. Then he jerked Ardeth forward, until he rested against a broad, leather-covered chest. "You don't believe me, do you? Let me prove it to you." Then those perfectly shaped lips descended upon Ardeth's, hard and urgent. They pried him open and poured thousands of years of blood and battle into his very soul. And he knew. About Ares.

Knew it all. He knew about the priest of Set who had been Ares' lover, and had built an altar to him in the temple of his master. About the tomb robbers who had destroyed his old lover's resting place and died for their trouble. He saw in his mind the sacrifices warriors had once made in Ares' honor: the bulls and the swords and feasts that had graced his temples. And he saw how it had become unbearable for Ares, all these long years, to be forgotten. How he waited for a warrior to bless with his presence, and with his patronage. Lastly, he saw himself, and how Ares wanted him, what sort of sacrifice this god asked of him. 

The kiss ended, and he sank to his knees, shaking. Ares reached out and cupped a hand under Ardeth's chin and lifted his face. "Now do you believe me?"

He could only nod, because his lips couldn't remember how to shape words, could only remember the feel of this god. He bowed low, in the way of his people, touching his head to the floor. Ares laughed, the sound sharp and loud, then lifted Ardeth to his feet with one easy yank.

"That's not the kind of worship I want," he said. "And you know it."

Yes, he did know it. Ardeth knew what Ares wanted, and his body realized long before his mind that he wanted it too. When they kissed again, Ardeth felt the hard evidence of his own desire, and asked himself how he had missed that.  Solid and heavy, their bodies came together, and the heat of it burned him like a sacred flame. They battled each other with hands and mouths, clashing and retreating until Ardeth was limp and sore and utterly drained. 

When he looked at Ares, after it was over, Ares seemed bigger. Stronger. Renewed. Ardeth was exhausted. Ares brushed a sweaty strand of hair away from Ardeth's eyes, and grinned at him. "Oh, yeah. I'm feeling much better, now."

It took far too much energy to sneer, so Ardeth settled for making a rude noise. Ares chuckled, and patted him in an inappropriate place. Then his expression changed, and he was completely serious. "Your sacrifice pleased me, you know. Very much." It was a statement, not a question, and Ardeth simply nodded. "Good," Ares continued. "Then remember this. There will come a day when you need me. When you're facing a battle of such impossible odds that you know the only thing left for you is to die. When that time comes, call on me, not your one god, and I'll be there to help you. Like you helped me today. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I understand."

Ares kissed him again, hard, and just as their lips parted, Ardeth felt the disorienting wheel of colors and lights that he had felt before arriving at the black temple. When he opened his eyes this time, he knew what he would see. He was right. The temple of Set was just as he'd left it. He was fully dressed again, not a mark or wrinkle to show a hint of what had happened. Without thinking, he reached into his belt to see if the earring was still there. It wasn't, but something else was. A pendant made of a fine metal, neither gold nor silver, in the shape of a sword. He put it around his neck, where it rested against his skin, a warm reminder of the single oddest experience of his life. And after what he had endured during the time of Imhotep, that was saying a lot.
 

Outside of Ahm-Sher, Nubia 1932 

Bridles jingled and leather creaked as the tribes of the Med-Jai waited for the army of Anubis to reach them, and engage the battle for the civilized world. Ardeth Bey reined his horse in at the front of the ranks, and tried to present an aura of calm readiness to his men. Inside, he was terrified. There were too many of them, too many, and they were so hard to kill. This battle would be the death of them all.

He could hear his men, making their usual prayers to their gods, whether to Allah, Sekhmet, or Ra. He added his own, silently, that god would be merciful, and support him in this time of need. As he watched his enemy rise up from the very sand before him, though, he remembered a rich honey voice, telling him to call upon him when the day seemed lost. It seemed so unreal now, so long ago, but the amulet he wore around his neck was still untarnished and warm to the touch, and he decided that it couldn't hurt. Help me, Ares, he thought. Make my arm strong and my aim true. And as he drew his sword, and sounded a battle cry that was taken up by thousands of voices, he felt that Ares was there to help him, just as his god had promised.