TITLE: 'Out of Africa' 14/?
AUTHOR: Pythia
E-MAIL: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and the UPN Television Network. The story is written for the pleasure of the author and readers, and has no lucrative purpose whatsoever. Please do not reproduce this story anywhere without the author's consent.

POSTING NOTES: *.* is for emphasis. {.} denotes thought and [.] implies translation from another language.

Lilithu sat back on her heels, considering her captive with decided relish. "[Up,]" she commanded, backing the order with an imperious gesture. The corpse - or the magic that animated it - clearly understood pre-dynastic Egyptian, because it immediately did as it was bid, climbing to its feet with awkward, sluggish movements. Giles cursed inwardly, exercising every mental effort to take control and making absolutely no impact whatsoever. He was just an unwilling passenger in this - a prisoner, helpless to act, powerless to interfere.

Now that he had some idea of what had been done to him, the sheer repulsiveness of his situation had begun to register. The body he occupied had been dead for nearly a week. Fluid had gathered in its limbs and gas was beginning to bloat its body cavities. The decay he could taste was his own, the swollen, sticky surface of a dead tongue in a dead mouth. His senses churned at the realisation - and he wondered if, somewhere in the depths of Sunnydale General, his own body was responding to his overwhelming desire to throw up.

A piece of him rather hoped it might. There'd be a certain satisfaction in denying Lilithu whatever it was she had planned simply because he'd choked to death on his own vomit - messy though - and, all in all, not a nice way to die. She needed him alive; that much was clear.

He rather needed that too

"Good," the vampiress decided, rising to her own feet with sensuous ease. "*Very* good." She began to stalk around him, studying her work with critical consideration. "Good enough, I think, to do what must be done. But we must move quickly. This vessel will not serve my purpose for long." She paused to run her hand over the dead man's shoulder and down his arm, a contact that Giles would have jerked away from if he could. "The spell will hold, of course. As long as I wish it. Forever, if I so desired."

He'd watched her move out of the line of his vision, exasperatingly conscious of his inability to affect the body he inhabited. He couldn't turn the corpse's head, or even its flick lifeless eyes in her direction. The dead man stared straight ahead, the living man he imprisoned wrestling with rising frustration. He was totally helpless, yet intimately cognisant of his environment. He could feel, see, hear, even taste everything his host was subject to - the rumple of ill-fitting jeans, the pinch of too-tight boots, the feel of dried blood caked on bare skin, the echo of animal dung that lingered in the air - and the bubble of fluids fermenting in a decaying gut.

Lilithu reappeared in front of him, her smile both calculated and cruel. Her teasing, possessive caress slid up the corpse's bloodstained chest until she could use her taloned fingers to turn its face towards hers. "When you are truly mine," she smiled, speaking to the man rather than the flesh that held him. "I will teach you this trick. Teach you how to steal the hearts of our enemies. How to enslave them to your will and make them do whatever you desire. And when we are finished playing our games, we will bury them in the cold ground and leave them to rot. Awake. Aware. And cursing my name for eternity " She finished the thought with a laugh that made his blood run cold. The relish in her voice and the amusement in her eyes added further horror to her words. Giles found himself wondering if she'd already subjected some helpless soul to such a fate - and his mind recoiled from the concept with a terrified shudder.

{To be trapped - like this - *forever* }

Panic threatened to overwhelm him a second time, and he thrust it away with a determined effort. There was nothing he could do to influence his situation, but he could - and would - choose how he coped with it. Distress and mental dissolution would only intensify the experience; succumb to it, and he would sink, inevitably, into madness. Which was probably what she wanted. Why she was taking such delight in taunting him.

Knowing *that* - knowing that escape was impossible and that retreat would only further her aims - he chose the only option open to him; that of resolute defiance and dogged endurance. Rupert Giles could be a very stubborn man when he needed to be. He'd demonstrated as much resisting Angelus' tender attentions, and he'd learned from that experience, had learned something of his limits, his weaknesses - and his strengths. He might be trapped and helpless, but until hope - and faith - utterly deserted him, he had something to fight for. Something to fight *with*. And even after that, there was obstinate, determined pride to fall back on. He'd be damned - *literally* damned - if he gave this she-demon the satisfaction of his surrender.

Lilithu was smiling at him, almost as if she'd followed the convolutions of his thoughts. "What do you cling to in there?" she wondered, studying his eyes and finding amusement in what she saw. Defiance mostly - along with angry hostility and a hint or two of hate. "Hope? There's little of that left to you. Your sweet Slayer is alone and helpless. She knows nothing of your fate - only that I have taken you from her - and without your wisdom to guide her, she can do nothing but stumble in the dark. You are my slave - and when our work is done, *I* will rule your world. What hope can remain in that?"

Giles didn't answer her. He couldn't. But he smiled to himself, knowing full well that Buffy was neither helpless - or alone. His Slayer was strong willed, determinedly unconventional and unquestionably the brightest and best of her line. Wesley might lack experience - and backbone - but he was a trained Watcher, and perfectly capable of unravelling Lilithu's mysteries. *If* he had sufficient information to work with, of course. The two of them had the rest of the Scoobies to back them up, Xander and Willow, Oz - even Cordelia. They'd be busy being supportive and helpful and contributive, the way they always did.

Then there was Angel

The vampiress was dark, deadly and very dangerous, but she was also over confident and ignorant of the forces which were working against her. There lay the hope which sustained him, the knowledge that darkness could be defeated and the world saved, despite overwhelming odds. There might well be casualties - and he strongly suspected that he might be one of them, given his current condition - but he was prepared for that. More than prepared, he would willingly sacrifice himself if doing so gave his Slayer the edge she needed.

There was one more thing, one deep seated, confident faith, one without rhyme or reason, and yet anchored so firmly in his heart that nothing would shake it free. In life or death, in hope or in despair, no matter what, no matter *how* - he knew that Buffy would prevail.

"It is of no account," Lilithu decided dismissively. "Believe what you will, defy me as much as you wish; this flesh will do only what *I* command, and your fate is in my hands. We have work to do, and little time left in which to do it. Words must be spoken - and the tongue you wear must be able to speak them."

She placed her hands flat against the dead man's chest and pushed, gently. Trapped air -and other gases - surged up, stirring a quiet groan. "[Breathe,]" she commanded, and the corpse obeyed, dragging cold air back into flaccid lungs. A parody of breath, one that - once again - stirred a strong desire to vomit. The experience was nauseating. And utterly inescapable.

"[Speak as I speak,]" the vampire ordered. "[Powers of earth, powers of sky.]"

"[Pouergs ov earf, powgers of shigh,]" the dead man echoed, mangling the sounds into incomprehensible nonsense. Lilithu cursed, lifted her hand and slapped his face. The blow twisted an unresisting neck and sent a jolt of pain through her prisoner's senses. Giles hadn't just *felt* that. The blow had been hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He wondered if it had

"[Again,]" she commanded angrily, then thrust her hand over his mouth, silencing the corpse's attempt to speak. "[Speak slowly. Master every word.]" The look she shared with the captive Watcher held knowing irony. "One mistake, one wrong pronunciation - and I will be bound, not free. Yes," she said, "the litany is *that* close. The one before you - the one that I will curse for eternity - so nearly completed it. He was so much in pain. And so desperate. *Her* blood was on my hands and he hated me with a vengeance. I had hopes he would misspeak the words. Would give me what I truly desired. But I was wrong. Only his death defeated him; the staff rejected his flesh - the same way it would reject *this*, were you not bound within it. I cannot trust to chance. This - this is a surer way. Cloaking my desire with a spirit the staff will answer too. And you will gain no profit from that knowledge, *Watcher,*" she purred, reaching to stroke the now damaged cheek. "You will only watch - as I am finally set free."

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