TITLE: 'Out of Africa' 27/31
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.

There were three things that struck him as soon as he stepped inside the museum. The first was a shiver of discomforting deja-vu; the second was the realisation that it was raining. *Seriously* raining; the sprinkler system had clearly been active for some time, filling the air inside the exhibition hall with a fine persistent mist, slicking every surface with a sheen of moisture and creating glimmering pools across the debris strewn floor.

And the third?

The third was the sheer grace and poetry of his Slayer in motion, the power and the proficiency she displayed as she fought her ancient foe. He'd thought - enduring her blows, suffering her tear-stained attack - that he'd finally felt the true depth of her strength; now, watching her in action, seeing her tear into the vampire with furious force, he realised that - even then - she'd been holding herself back.

He was witnessing the Slayer in all her glory: focused, determined, filled with righteous fire. It was wonderful, and it was terrifying; it took his breath away.

It also lifted his heart to his mouth; the vampiress was giving back everything she got, and she wasn't pulling punches either. He winced as Buffy went flying, then suppressed a grin as she flipped back to her feet, grabbed a handy statue and started wielding it like a club. A somewhat unusual use for an image of Kuan yin, but he suspected that even the goddess of mercy would approve of violence when it came to dealing with a creature like Lilithu.

The she-demon backed away from the furious attack, evading most of the blows with an impressive display of speed and agility. The two were remarkably well matched. The vampiress had a feral, feline grace, a turn of speed worthy of a cheetah and the strength of a lioness defending her cubs. Buffy, on the other hand, was more acrobat than animal; she tumbled and twisted through the fight like an Olympic gymnast, superbly confident in every move, every twirl and somersault. Her punches contained no mercy, and each kick was delivered with power and passion. Something had made her very, *very* angry - and yet she was using it, controlling it, reining in her rage to give her the edge she needed.

Giles tore his eyes away from the sight with difficulty, remembering why he was there and what needed to be done. Much as he loved to watch Buffy at work, he had a task of his own to pursue. One Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had obviously decided *not* to risk, since, rather than using the staff to serve its intended purposes, he was standing defensively in front of Cordelia and an older man, wielding it as a defence against two of Lilthu's unholy children. Giles, who knew the dangers inherent in the ritual and the perils of even a single mis-pronunciation in its litany, heaved a small sigh of relief. Partly because that meant there was a very good chance the ritual *could* be completed - but mostly because both his fellow Watcher and the frightened girl behind him were alive and apparently unharmed. In fact, he noted with surprise, Wesley was making quite a brave show for someone who'd previously demonstrated about as much backbone as a jellyfish.

He measured the distance across the hall with a thoughtful eye, deciding - very quickly - that there was absolutely no way he could cross it without drawing attention to himself. Although Lilithu's concentration was firmly focussed on her furious opponent, he'd still have to get past the last remaining members of her brood - and they were watching the staff like a hawk. Creeping up on something like that was *not* an option; Giles knew only too well how fast the creatures could move - and how savage an attack would be. Had he been fighting fit and sensibly armed … but with a damaged left wrist, his body still recovering from serious trauma blood loss and his mind struggling to reassert what was normally automatic motor control, he'd be a fool to even think of risking it.

He'd have to risk something, though. And soon. Buffy was tiring. Her anger was sustaining her, but not even that would keep her going forever. Eventually she'd lose her edge; start making mistakes. And that would be fatal.

For all of them.

{Bugger this,} he decided angrily. If he couldn't get to the staff, he'd just have to find a way to get it to *him*.

A sideways step was all it took; a step and a determined stare; Giles glared across the mist filled hall, over the head of his Slayer and the desperate conflict she pursued, seeking the eyes and the attention of his fellow Watcher, *willing* the man to glance in his direction. Fate, fortune - and possibly a subconscious trace of magic - worked the necessary miracle; Buffy struck a particularly spectacular blow, Lilithu retreated with a curse, her children turned to see if she needed help - and Wesley looked up, looked *past* Buffy, and saw him.

The moment was almost comical; Wesley did a perfect double take, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping open. Behind him, Cordelia reacted to his startled reaction, glanced at him, then across the room to see what he was staring at. *Her* mouth dropped open - and then she fainted. Clean away, dropping into the arms of the decidedly bemused stranger standing beside her. Giles wondered - briefly - who he was, but had more pressing issues to worry about. A quick glance assured him that the girl had been safely caught, and he was able to return his attention to Wesley, who was still staring at him as if he'd seen a ghost.

He didn't have time for subtlety or explanations; he gestured urgently, hoping that the man would understand his intentions. He knew he was asking a lot - giving up the staff would also give up the only defence the little group possessed - but he really had no choice. With luck, Angel would arrive in time to help Buffy protect them, and if not … well, sometimes saving the world meant taking risks. Making sacrifices.

Hopefully, once he'd started the ritual, the only life on the line would be his own …

Wesley's frown was not encouraging, so he started to repeat the gesture - just as Lilithu and Buffy danced between them, briefly blocking their line of sight. The vampiress was in retreat, seeking a moment's respite from the Slayer's punishing blows; Buffy was in hot pursuit, charging forward to strike with a leaping double kick that lifted her up and through a complete somersault. The move was spectacular, and it caught the attention of both Watchers - one because he'd probably never seen it before and the other because he'd been witness to the long hours it had taken to master it. Giles had always complained that it was far too showy a move to use in serious combat, but Buffy's instincts - as usual - were right on the nail. Neither kick actually *hit*, but they forced Lilithu into a backwards lunge and turn that was totally off-balance; she took three more steps and then slipped, her feet finding no purchase on the water and muck slicked surface beneath them.

Barely a second later Buffy had landed, snatched up a suitable weapon, and charged in to take advantage as the vampiress struggled to her feet; she struck with all her force, giving vent to a primal scream as the splintered wood sank home.

It was text book Slaying; a truly perfect move, a faultless thrust straight through the she-demon's heart. For one, brief moment, Giles couldn't breath, couldn't even *move*, caught by the perfection of her delivery and the stark dramatics of its setting; the fitful half light that illuminated the hall, the faint mist that outlined the scene - and the fierce, determined pose of his Slayer, her hair tossed back to scatter silvered droplets as she stepped away from the blow.

Sheer poetry.

It was an affirmation of life, a denial of the dark; an expression of something so profound no words would ever do it justice.

And it wasn't enough.

Most vampires would have been dust the moment the wood hit home; some - like the Master - might have had sufficient strength of will to cling to their bones in a last gasp attempt to remain in the world. Only the oldest and most powerful of vampires - or one protected by powerful magics - could hope to survive such a fatal blow. Lilithu, it appeared, was both.

She glanced down. Tugged the broken wood from her chest, and gave that contemptuous speech, looking at the Slayer as if she were something that had crawled out from under a rock. Buffy's face was a picture of bewildered dismay and horror; she'd given everything she had, and it *still* hadn't won the day.

"While my shadow lies bound to the staff only the ritual can destroy me," the she-demon announced confidently. "And now there is no one - *no one* - with the knowledge to speak the words."

It was time, Giles decided firmly, to put an end to this, one way or the other. He stepped out of the shadows and into the flickering light. "I wouldn't be so sure of that," he said.

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