TITLE: 'Out of Africa' 30/31
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.

"[Powers of earth, powers of sky.]" The language was long dead, the dialect obscure and the pronunciation complicated - but Giles spoke the words with confident ease, measuring the rhythm of them as they were shaped by lips and tongue. Living lips, and an unswollen tongue; the litany was alien to them, but the spirit that moved them was word perfect in every way. The long hours of tortuous practice had branded the ritual into his soul. "[Powers of light, powers of life, hear me.]"

The staff stirred at the command; the thrum of power grew stronger, and the ivory quivered under his hand, almost as if it were a living thing.

The demoness' backwards retreat slowed, then stopped altogether. It wasn't that she didn't want to go on backing away, but the commencement of the ritual had caught her in a net she could not escape. The power he was summoning was her own - stolen from her, and turned against her, but still *hers* in a way she could not escape.

There was irony in that - and bitter satisfaction. The ancient priests who'd crafted this ritual - who'd given their lives to destroy the darkness which had been consuming their world - had more than understood the paradoxical nature of their work. Death is the antithesis of life and darkness the antithesis of light; yet here he was, using the power of one to summon the other - with himself in the middle of it all.

"[She that is death, shall be undone. She that is hunger will feed no more.]"

"No," Lilithu denied with vehemence. "I will *not* be bound."

The protest was too late. Tendrils of power were already snaking out from the staff, wrapping around her like bands of steel. She was caught and held by the net his words were weaving, a net that trembled and shook as she fought to be free of it.

"[By the gift of the past, I invoke thee. By the gift of the present, I bind thee. And that which is to come will be thine undoing ]"

The net tightened. Lilithu was glaring at him with unmitigated hate. He could feel the magic surge and pulse with the impact of her anger.

"You will fail," she told him tightly. "Just like the one before you. The words will stumble in your mouth. The power will strip you of your senses. The fire will claim you. You may bind me - but you will die before the rite is ended. And I will walk this earth again. I swear it "

He met the glare with one of his own. She was trying to unnerve him, to make him falter - and she had about as much chance of doing that as she did of stepping out into the sunlight when the morning came. She was taunting him with the prospect of death, and right now that was the *least* of his worries. Besides - he'd felt this kind of power before. Had ridden it for kicks, surfing the edges of a demon's desires in order to experience the kind of intoxication that no words could possibly describe. Those moments in Egyhon's embrace had scarred him - but they'd also toughened his soul and tempered his will. He could *do* this.

He had to. The fate of the world depended on it.

"[The darkness will be chained. The beast will be silent. The serpent of the night will gather the hunger in its coils. That which was named will be nameless.]"

The she-demon's glare held a malignant rage that was almost tangible. She was struggling like a hooked fish, fighting every moment with fierce and determined fury. The power surged and bucked around them both, ripping through his senses, flailing into him like white hot strands of steel. His hand clenched around the ivory, gripping it tighter, despite the searing pain that lanced though his palm as he did so.

"[That which was fear will be feared no more.]"

His pronunciation was exact; the net snapped tight, sealing Lilithu within illusion of ebony. Her struggles became a point of concentrated rage that burned and festered behind her carved eyes. He shivered, despite his determination to remain focused. The she demon was bound by her own power, helpless to resist the final phase of the ritual; once again trapped and tormented inside a body that would no longer answer to her will.

The memory of it - of being restrained, of being fettered in decaying flesh - rose up in him like a wave, threatening to swamp him; each hour of his imprisonment had felt like a lifetime - and she had endured like that for *centuries* …

The shiver became a convulsion of pain; his momentary distraction had allowed the magic to flare and surge, whipping through his senses like razor edged ribbons. He bit back a curse and fought to regain control. This was the critical moment. It was here that Gregory Webber had failed, too weak to bring the ritual to its planned end - and it was here that the *first* wielder of the staff had failed, unprepared for the demands of the final section of the rite. Lilithu had taken great delight in describing that failure - in revelling in the man's failure, his inability to endure the energies he had summoned.

"[Fires of forever I summon thee.]"

Heat surged out of the staff, a heat as searing as the flame which had charred dead flesh. It flared up around him, turning him into a living pillar of fire. Instinct screamed at him to let go, to step away, to escape the unbearable agony of it - but he fought against the reflex, knowing that to let go of the staff was the very *last* thing he should do. The power was shaped by the staff, but it was being channelled though him, held and directed by his will. If he let go, if he succumbed to the demands of his body, he'd surrender himself to the fire, and it would consume him, not the demoness that watched him so intently. She had imprisoned his soul, forced him to endure maddening torment - and he knew he could endure *this*, despite the way every inch of him was screaming in anguished protest.

"[Fires of eternity, give me the purity of thy flame. Cleanse this place of defilement. Defy the dark. Devour the hunger.]"

Giles' voice was trembling. *He* was trembling. The power was ripping through him without mercy, threatening to tear him apart.

"[Let there be an end to death. Let there be a reckoning of the soul.]"

Somehow, somewhere, he found the strength he needed to lift the slender ivory shaft, lift and tip it, pointing it at the unmoving figure in front of him. There was nothing in his world but flame and ebony; Lilithu's eyes were a darkness into which he was falling - a darkness which only the fire could dispel.

"[The circle closes. The end becomes the beginning. The beginning becomes the end.]"

The heat and the pain were stripping his soul; a white hot river of energy was welling out of his heart and flooding every inch of him. There was no escape; fighting against it was impossible. So he let it take him. Immersed himself in it, feeling it rip self from self. Agony transmuted to ecstasy; soul and flame coalesced in a moment of exquisite insight.

And just like that, he *became* the fire.

"[That which is, will return to that which was! ]"

Light leapt from the tip of the staff, a shaft of white hot flame that speared the silent she-demons' heart. Her eyes flared with one last howl of anger and pain - and then her ebony form shattered into dust, exploding outwards with explosive force. He was flung backwards as the shockwave hit him, lifted completely off his feet and thrown halfway across the hall.

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