It took me a while to convince him to help me.  "Cassandra, he's my friend," he protested.  "Don't you understand?"
     Oh, I understood.  Very well.  I had seen what friends and "brothers" would do for each other.  But I had also seen what they would do for me, especially after I had the power of the Voice.  I wasn't a sorry little slave anymore.  I wasn't a frightened girl from a desert tribe, ignorant of her life-gift and her power.  I had traveled the world and sailed the seas. I had learned ancient knowledge and unearthed forgotten lore.  I had held power in my hands at day, and in my arms at night.  I had been a priestess, a queen, a goddess, a whore.
     I am an Immortal, and now I have Death.  He is mine.

     As I said, it took me a while.  Centuries.  But what's time to an Immortal?  After I left Kronos and Methos, I traveled, and I learned.  I didn't see Methos again for over a thousand years.  He was alone then, the brotherhood scattered, those bonds of love and hate undone, but not broken.
     "Cassandra!" he exclaimed, and I pretended to be happy to see him, to have missed him all those years.  He believed me, of course.  Men always think women love them; they're very vain that way.  And maybe I did love him once, a little, or maybe I loved him a lot, but I wasn't his sorry little slave anymore.
     He was going to be mine.

     Methos had always been my best candidate.  Silas was too slow, Kronos too suspicious, and Caspian ... well, there are limits, even for me.  Methos, now ...  Methos had owned me, body and soul.  I had given myself to him completely, loved him, worshipped him.  He remembered.  It wasn't that hard to convince him he could own me again.
      We talked first, Methos and I, of the old days, of the good times, and then of the bad.
     "About what happened," he said, fumbling for the words, "about that night ..."
     That night he had handed me over to his brother, that night he had broken his word.
     "Kronos would have ...  He ..."
     I understood, none better.  "Did he hurt you?" I asked, all sympathy and softness.  "After I left?"
     Methos glanced away, the quintessential male, unwilling to admit to weakness, but I knew.  I had seen the two of them together; I had seen what happened in their tent.  Methos had tamed me, but he had learned how to tame from another.  They do say experience is the best teacher.  They are right.
      I went to his bed, of course.  I was his to command; I lived to please him.  I did whatever he wanted, whatever he asked.  It's heady stuff, to be treated like a god.  You get so you like it.  You get so you want it; you get addicted to it.  After a while, I was much more important to him than he ever was to me.
     You see, I had believed his lies once, so I knew he was not to be trusted.  I had learned that lesson well.  But he didn't think I could lie, not to him, not when I cried out in his arms and gasped with my need of him, not when I begged him to stay, not when he was such an exquisite lover. That male vanity again.
     It gets them every time.

     After a few centuries of that, though, Methos got bored.  He had quite the appetite for adoration and obedience, but even gods like a little diversion now and again.  I knew what Methos liked; I knew the dark side of his soul.  It was his turn to be tamed, and I knew how to do it.  Methos had taught me well.
     "Obey me," I said, one quiet sultry night.  "Please me, the way I have pleased you."  I didn't even need to use the Voice after the first few suggestions; he was that eager, especially when I gave him a few strokes with a whip, the same kind he and Kronos had used on me, and on each other.
     And so the years drifted into centuries.  Methos and I drifted too, apart for a time, coming together again when the currents brought us close, shifting our roles of master and slave back and forth, sometimes even being equals.  We drifted, and I waited, waited for the tide.
     Finally, I knew he was ready.  We talked again of the old days, of Kronos and Silas and Caspian, and then we talked of the future.  "You could win the Prize," I said one afternoon.  "You could be the one."  He knew I was no threat to him, at least with a sword.  There are other weapons, of course, but men forget that.  They get used to the idea of their sword, their own personal little weapon, and they don't look beyond that.  Anatomy is destiny, I suppose.  They're just built that way.
     "You could be the one," I repeated, "except ..."
     "Except what?" he repeated.
     "The others," I said, knowing not to use the word brothers.  "They are nearly as old, and as strong, and they know who you are."  I knelt at his feet and looked up at him.  "You would be safer if they were dead."
     He shoved me away, and I let him.  It was his year to be master. "They are my brothers!" he exclaimed.  "They are my friends."
     I had expected that, and I dealt with it slowly, delicately, using the Voice and my hands and my body.  You get more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, and pleasure is much more convincing than pain.  Methos himself had taught me that.
     "I can't bear to lose you," I repeated to him over and over, in his bed, in his arms.  "I need you.  I want you to be safe."
     He believed me.  Ah, vanity.  Vanity of vanities.  We'll make a bonfire of his vanities.
     As I said, it took a while, but the final triumph came a few years later when he whispered back to me, "They all have to die."
     I smiled against his shoulder.  Death was mine.

     But how to use him?  I had only one warrior lined up, and there were three of them.   I needed another to fight for me.  I had found many likely lads over the centuries, tamed them all, used the Voice to imprint them.  My little ducklings followed along, all in a line.  Hop! Into the water and off they swam.  Ramirez, Constantine, Darius, Grayson ...
     I waited for them to be blooded, and one after another they fell or proved otherwise unsuitable, until at last I settled on a dark-haired Immortal named Duncan MacLeod.  Finally, we were ready.
     I told Methos to make his acquaintance, to befriend the lad and make him his own.  Methos knew just how to do that.  Oh, I know I've belittled the man, but the truth is, he is an exquisite lover, and he does have a devious mind.  He was my teacher, after all
     Then, in June, I paid MacLeod a visit.  I strengthened my controls on him, and also got him to eliminate Roland, one of my ducklings who had turned into rather an ugly swan.  MacLeod did wonderfully, and I got two birds with one stone.  The Witch of Donan Woods was such a lovely persona, wrapped up in visions and prophecies and dreams.  MacLeod -- bless his romantic Celtic heart -- fell for it completely.  Methos and I giggled about that for hours.

     Our plan to eliminate the Horsemen was, I admit, a shaky one.  We would bring all the Horsemen together again, and Methos would pretend -- reluctantly -- to be their friend.  Kronos was too suspicious to believe otherwise.  I, in the meantime, would pull at the strings of my duckling MacLeod, and he would follow me, thinking I wanted to kill them all.  Divide and conquer.
      An ill-thought out plan, with plenty of room for things to go wrong, and go wrong they did.  Kronos was as devious as Methos, and almost as devious as me.  But that was the thrill of it; that was the lure.  I have my own dark side, and I've come to know it well.  I like being the master, and I like being the slave.  I love both the hunt and the chase; I love being both hunter and prey.
     The chance to match wits with Kronos and MacLeod, to throw Methos a curve or two and then watch my long-time lover at his most desperate best, and then have him do the same to me ... (Though I will make him pay for dumping me in the river.  That was really uncalled for.)
     The chance to lose, the chance to die -- well, it makes surviving that much sweeter when you win.
     And if I had lost?  I didn't want to lose my head, I assure you, but being bored to death is a horrible way to die, and I am over three thousand years old; Methos is over five.  We need something new every once in a while to stir our blood.  Chasing the Horsemen was a splendid game.
     I got to act the gamut of emotions, from blind rage to weeping woman to cowering fool.  I was terrified and exhilarated and enraged.  I bedded MacLeod, got raped by Kronos again, and was beaten and killed.  Methos and I put on an excellent show in the cage for Kronos (you didn't really think, did you, that the man had never heard of listening devices?), and then Silas almost took my head.  I made mistakes and improvised and somehow managed to survive.  Methos tells me he had just as much fun.
     Goddess, it was great!

     The end, I must admit, was sheer inspiration.  It was my year to be master, and Methos was on his knees after the quickening.  I couldn't resist the temptation to play one of our favorite little games, and this time we had an audience.
     MacLeod came through like the champion he was.  "Cassandra!" he yelled. "I want him to live!"
     Ah, sweet, my little duckling.  I waited there, axe in my hand, to let the tension grow.  Start small and build, as Methos likes to say.  Then I dropped the axe and walked away.
     Methos was delicious that day, weeping on his knees, but I knew what game he was playing.  Methos does very well in the slave mode; Kronos certainly knew how to tame.

     We're in Bora Bora now, Methos and I.  He joined me here after he ditched MacLeod.  He's sunning himself on the beach, watching the women. Soon, we'll go to bed, and Methos can have a turn at being the master.  He deserves it, after all I've put him through lately, and I'm rather excited by the idea myself.  Kronos re-awakened some old desires in me.
     You know, I've grown quite fond of Methos, and he really is excellent in bed, suits me perfectly.  Of course, he was the first man to touch me, and he imprinted me then.  Maybe he thinks I'm his little duckling.  Maybe he thinks I'm the one following him around.
     Maybe he's right.
     I watch him now, lying on the sand, and I wonder.  Just who is the master, and who is the slave?  Who needs the other more?
     I do need him; it's true.  I have a few more tasks, a few more enemies for him to eliminate.  I have plans for MacLeod, too.  And then there's always the Prize.  There can be only one.
     Now there's a splendid game!  It'll add quite the spice to our bed-play.  We'll just have to see who strikes first.
     Methos turns to me and smiles, and I smile back in eager anticipation.  He rises, all lazy grace and sweet hidden strength, and leaves his place on the sand to come to me.
     The tide is moving in.
 

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Write to the author mailto:darkpanther@erols.com

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Author's Note: This is a radical departure from the Cassandra in my other stories, but I sure had fun with her.  She may show up again.  Thanks to Bridget and Vi and to the writers on HWRC for suggestions and ideas.

Disclaimer:  Not my universe, not my characters, no money being made, etc.