I like hunting.

 

There’s something about it, the thrill of the chase, the sense of power.  I used to hunt animals, a long time ago, but I found that to be far too easy.  After all, even the most dangerous game animal is far less durable than an Immortal.  There was no risk.  Any animal that might have the ability to take my head off my shoulders—I have heard that polar bears may be capable of it—was outside the realm of possibility at the time and now, sadly, protection laws ensure that no hunting will be done.  For a while, I fought bulls in the corrida, but that was even less of a thrill.  There was no danger, for one does not actually close with the bull until it is half dead from exhaustion and pain.  No, I found much better prey.

 

I took my first head three years after I died.  He was a solitary man, Juan Ortega was, and it was laughably easy to lure him out into the mountains surrounding his tiny hometown in the Sierra Albarracín.  I played with him the way a cat plays with a mouse; he fell for every one of my tricks.  Every time I gave him hope for mercy, he begged and pleaded like a woman.  I had suspected, but not truly known, what a weak man my teacher was.

 

I keep count of the heads I take.  After all, what kind of a Game would it be if we did not keep score?  I have taken 486 heads in my 325 years of Immortality, and this is one hunt that never loses its thrill.  My prey is as well-armed as I am, as intelligent, and most importantly as durable.  To kill an Immortal, and to not just kill him but to play with him first is a test of nerve and skill worthy of any man.  I seek out the strong and the weak, for the weak strengthen one to take the strong.  It is twice a test to destroy one of the Old Ones.  I have taken the heads of ten, seven men and three women who were older than Christ.  My dream is to one day try my sword against the Ancient.  I would be famous as Darius of Rome is famous—to destroy the oldest living Immortal, to take so many centuries of power into myself—I would stand as the greatest hunter the world has ever seen.

 

Alas; Methos is a difficult quarry to hunt.  I work now to prepare myself, taking the heads of all who come near me, so my strength would, combined with my cunning, be enough to take the Ancient.

 

Tonight, I hunt easy meat.  A slender, bookish, young-looking man—and, to judge by his weak Quickening, a truly young one—has come recently to Nerja, my current residence.  I watched him from a safe location outside sensing distance as he moved into one of the small villas overlooking the small, rocky beach.  The Mediterranian here is beautiful—rich blue like the sky.  My quarry is English, I blelieve—he speaks castellano well, but his accent is unmistakeable; I listened to him talk with some neighbors.  Nerja is a common place for Englishmen to come, especially during the summer, to escape their own cold, dreary isle.  Here, his accent is not out-of-place.

 

But no one will be hearing it.  I will be challenging him late tonight—or rather, early next morning.  This city does not sleep until 2 am.

 

It is 1:45 now.  The young one sits at one end of the beach—a foolish place.  The beach here is a short strip, perhaps a quarter mile long, bordered by high rocks.  I stand almost directly above him, out of his sensing range.  He himself is at the edge of mine, and mine is far for my age.  I am strong, he is weak.  I will win.  All I have to do is wait for the right time, then bound down the almost vertical rock face—I will be upon him almost immediately after he senses me. 

 

He is tall, much taller than I am—few men of Castilian blood are tall.  It will give me at least a small measure of sport to fight one with such greater reach.  I doubt he will put up much of a fight—he has the look of a lifelong scholar, not a warrior. 

 

I check my weapons.  First, the Tizona.  It was Ortega’s, and I slew him with it.  Next, the daggers strapped to my sides.  The shortsword riding on my left hip behind the Tizona.  The gun in an underarm holster.  I am prepared.

 

Below me, the young man glances at the Mediterranian and sighs.  You will die in a beautiful land, oh quarry.

 

The time is come.  I leap downward, his Presence filling my mind.  I am standing before him before its echoes die down.

 

He is startled, but hides it well.  “I assume you are not selling something?” he asks politely.

 

He is witty.  This will be a pleasurable fight.  “I sell Death.”

 

“Do you?” He laughs.  The bold posturing of a bold youth.  I can see it in his eyes.

 

“Felipe Rodriguéz Jiménez.”  I introduce myself.  “I Challenge you.”  The rules of a gentleman must not be forgotten.

 

“Well, Felipe,” he says.  “Be sure you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew.”

 

His small Quickening, still humming in the back of my mind, suddenly doubles in strength, then doubles again, and again… It’s huge!  I thought I was laying a trap for a dog, and I caught a lion.  He must be an Old One, able to damp his Presence.  I feel a moment of panic—I am not prepared!  But I can still win.  I am well armed, and strong.

 

“I do not care to be Challenged,” the not-so-young man says.  “You’ve just made a great mistake.”  He attacks.

 

I slam up a hasty defense, cursing inwardly as the force of his attack drives me backwards, closer to the pounding surf.  I have to close with him—if he keeps me this far out I’ll have no chance of hitting him.  I circle, searching for an opening.

 

A half dozen short exchanges later, I am marked with blood in three places, while he has no scratch on him.  Every one of my ploys fails: sand cast in his eyes was dodged, a pretense at injury had not drawn him closer, rapid disengages were caught before they were properly started.

 

“Tell me,” I ask, panting, “who are you?”

 

He smiles enigmatically. “I am Methos.”

 

Before I know what has happened, my sword is ripped out of my hand, and his point hovers at my throat. 

 

“Don’t move.  I know you have more weapons hidden, but I can kill you before you reach them.”  His-METHOS’—voice is iron, his eyes cold and calculating.  There he stands, the ultimate prey.  The ultimate predator.

 

I spread my hands, looking submissive.  Maybe I can make a dash for my sword.  Methos steps to one side a little, preparing to strike my head off.  His motion reveals my sword lying a short distance away.  I lunge.

 

Lunge and am immediately knocked off course.  Methos had kicked me hard in the ribs, pressing me down into the sand, my hands far away from my weapons.  I lie in the sand and pant, gasping for air, unable to move.

 

“You sell death, do you?”  The Ancient asks, looming over me.  His voice is a snarl.  “You petty fool, I am Death!”  And his sword bites into my neck.