There were patches of snow at the side of the road and Ragoczy's breath came in steamy puffs as he urged the white mare up the hill. The sky overhead was slate-colored and fading quickly as the afternoon waned.

"This is the last one, Gelata. If there's nothing here, we'll go back to Fiorenza." He gave the mare a reassuring pat and then once again turned his attention to the old, narrow road.

He had been riding into the hills for the last four days, ever since he had had a short note from Sandro telling him that all accused heretics were being kept in one of the old castles in the hills. He had not learned which one, but he gathered it could not be more than about three hours' ride from Fiorenza, for monks were able to go there and return on the same day.

Today he had ridden eastward, and had found a number of villas, a few outpost forts, one of which was almost certainly now being used as a base by one of the gangs of brigands that had become the plague of travelers.

As he rounded the next bend, he caught a glimpse of stone fortifications, of the sort built in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. He pulled Gelata to a halt as he looked ahead, searching for signs of life. Then, cautiously, he dismounted and led Gelata away from the road. He was glad now that she was white, for in the forest, against the patches of snow, she was harder to see. When he was sure she would be safe, he tied her reins to a tree and began to make his way toward the battlements he'd seen.

As he moved through the trees he reminded himself that this might be just another dead end. He had been hopeful the first few times he'd investigated old castles, but his hope had proven groundless and now he had resigned himself to a long search. His first inclination had been to follow the Domenicani Brothers from San Marco, but he had heard they often used devious routes to avoid being followed, and for that reason he knew they would be easily alerted if they saw him. So he had chosen this way, a tiresome search, and only on days when the Domenicani Brothers did not leave Fiorenza.

The stone walls rose up near him now, great solid blocks of stone with short, squat arches marking the windows and door. Smoke belched from three of the chimneys and Ragoczy was mildly encouraged. At least the castle was occupied. He wondered if it could be another brigand stronghold, and rejected the idea at once. A castle was too obvious. And there had been no sentries, no guards to give the alarm at his approach.

A sound stopped him, the sound of chanting. He stood still, hardly breathing. The chanting grew louder, and Ragoczy moved nearer the shadow of the wall. From this vantage point he had a glimpse of the inner courtyard beyond the open sally port a few steps beyond him. As he watched, a procession of more than a dozen Domenicani crossed the courtyard and entered what Ragoczy assumed to be the castle chapel on the far side of the courtyard.

When the monks were all out of the courtyard, Ragoczy moved quickly, beginning a swift search of the outside of the castle. For part of the way he had to cling to the walls of the castle, a rocky drop behind him. He was more than halfway over the cliff front of the castle when he heard a sound. Again he froze, glad that his greenish-brown cloak blended so well with the rocks.

The noise was repeated, a sound barely human. Somewhere not far from Ragoczy's precarious hold on the stone of the castle, a man was coughing.

Ragoczy looked up. About two arm-lengths above he saw a narrow, barred window. A little farther along the wall there was another, and another beyond that. Patiently he began to climb higher, his small feet finding purchase on the stones where a weaker man would not have the strength or the ability to move. His progress was slow, but before the sunlight had wholly been swallowed by the clouds and dusk, he had come even with the first window. He took hold of the bars that covered the window, and pulled himself across the window, looking into the narrow, dark cell beyond.

The man in the cell coughed again and the fetters which secured him to the wall chinked softly. As far away as he was from the prisoner, Ragoczy knew the man was ill and was likely to die. He considered breaking into the cell and carrying the man to safety. But he knew from the sound of his coughing that there was little chance the man would live, even if he were put into a warm bed immediately and given every available medicine. Ragoczy's face darkened, and reluctantly he moved on.

The next cell held two men, brothers, by the look of them. They stared at each other in sullen silence, fear and hatred almost palpable in the clammy stone room.

After that there was a woman, an old woman in tattered rags. She knelt on the uneven stones that were her floor and prayed, her ancient rosary moving swiftly through her fingers.

Ragoczy had come to the farthest point of the castle, at the steepest part of the cliff. A little farther beyond, level ground waited. There were two more windows, but the forces of wind and rain had smoothed the stone so that moving over it, no matter how carefully, was far more dangerous than the rest of the wall had been. He waited while he steadied himself, gathering force for the climb. Then he started to inch his way toward the next window.

The cell was rather smaller than the others had been, narrower, with higher walls and less light. Instead of a cot there was only a straw pallet, and on it a figure in a torn chemise huddled, the shreds of a silk gonella pulled around her shoulders in a vain attempt to stay warm. Though the light was almost gone, Ragoczy saw that the silk was, or had been, green brocade, the same material as the gown he had given Demetrice when she had come to be his housekeeper. The figure moved and two rosy-blond braids fell across the soiled silk.

"Demetrice," he breathed. Carefully he climbed higher, until he could hook one arm over the stone frame of the window. Then he began the exhausting job of pulling the bars away from the window. He worked silently, afraid to call to her for fear he might also get the attention of the monks at the castle. There might well be guards on the ramparts above him, and only so long as he made little noise would it be possible for him to get into Demetrice's cell. As he tugged the second bar away, he remembered ironically how many tales of vampires he had heard in which the vampires were shape-changers. At that moment he devoutly wished it were true.

The last bar came away. He gathered up the other two and flung the three together as far as he could out over the cliff, hoping that they would fall far enough from the castle to be unheard. He hung on, listening, and when he was satisfied that no one had noticed the soft, distant clang, no louder than the bells put on cattle, he pulled himself up into the window.

Until that moment, he had not thought about how to approach Demetrice. He realized she was lost in a fitful half-sleep, and could not be easily awakened. Catlike, he dropped silently to the floor of her cell, and stealthily he went to her straw pallet.

In one swift movement he had fallen to his knees, one hand over her face to stop her possible scream, the other reaching for the iron fetters.

Demetrice thrashed violently in his grasp, then sank her teeth into his hand.

He had broken the first fetter and was reaching for the other when he could not endure the pain of her teeth. He turned her to him, forcing her head against his chest while he broke the second fetter.

She was twisting against him, struggling to get a hand free to hit him, to scratch him, to drive him away. She wondered which of her jailers had broken into her cell at last, for though the monks assured her there would be no abuse from her guards, she had seen the calculating expression in their harsh faces, and while the monks were at prayers, there was no one to protect her.

Ragoczy seized her wrists, but instead of pinioning her hands behind her, he held them between his own, against his chest. "Demetrice," he said, his voice warm and low. "No, Demetrice. No, cara. Hush, Demetrice, hush."

The force of her lunge almost sent her sprawling, but by then she was fully awake and had realized that this was no jailer, no renegade monk. A thousand memories stirred in her, memories of dark, compelling eyes, of endless discovery and learning, of black and silver and rubies and the sign of the eclipse with wings erect. She caught herself and looked up at the man who had risen to stand beside her, one small hand outstretched to pull her to her feet.

"Come, Demetrice," he said, and this time she knew him.

"San Germano?" There was as much disbelief as welcome in her voice and she hesitated to touch him, suddenly fearing that she had gone mad and he was the dream of her madness.

"Softly," he said, just above a whisper.

"San Germano?" she repeated, fearfully putting her hand in his. She felt the fingers tighten and she almost sobbed with relief. He was real. Awkwardly she got to her feet, cold and exhaustion making her body leaden. She started to speak, but a wave of dizziness swept over her and her first step toward him faltered.

Then he reached out, drawing her into his arms, his smooth-shaven jaw against her cheek, his quiet words in her ear. "Amante mia."

"It is you," she murmured. "You came."

"Yes." He drew back, but only to be able to kiss her mouth. His lips lingered on hers, not demanding, but wonderfully insistent.

She ascended into his kiss like a diver at last reaching air, like a crocus breaking through snow to the first warmth of spring. She had buried desire with Laurenzo, thinking it dead, and contented to have it so. But now it rose again, and she welcomed it with gladness, as she welcomed the tentative, beginning explorations of Ragoczy's small hands.

In the dim, fading square of light from the window, his shadow lay over hers, one presence merging with another. And then he took her high on her arms and held her back from him. "Demetrice, how much you tempt me."

Although there was some amusement in his voice, she read in his touch, in his voice, in his glowing eyes how much she had shaken him. She trembled as she looked at him, and the words stopped in her throat.

"You're cold," he said softly, and pulled his fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and in one swift motion wrapped her in it.

Gratefully she hugged the cloak around her, eager for the warmth his body had given it. She sighed deeply, almost lazily as the stiffness which so many days in the narrow, dank cell had given her began to loosen and fade.

A wry smile pulled at Ragoczy's mouth. "I should have done that first." He did not trust himself to touch her again so soon, and he stood back from her, watching as she sank onto the straw, still straight, though on her knees. "I've missed you, Demetrice."

She nodded slowly, but she was thinking of something else. Her eyes stung at his words.

"When there was no letter, I was worried, but I didn't learn of this until the Feast of the Circumcision. If I had known, I would have come sooner." He leaned against the wall, letting his calm, low voice dampen the longing that had flared between them. "It will be difficult, but I will see that you are freed, amica."

In the three years he had been gone, she had forgotten his compelling force, or perhaps, she told herself, she had not seen it because before now she had looked at Ragoczy with the ghost of Laurenzo between them. Now she felt him as a lodestone feels the way north. With an abrupt motion of her hand she silenced him. It was an effort of will not to turn to him and be drowned in his eyes, but she held herself rigid and asked a question that had been born in her years before. "Is it very terrible, what you do?"

Ragoczy closed his eyes in fleeting anguish but his answer was steady. "No, not terrible. Unless you make it so."

"But..." She stopped, her mouth suddenly dry. "Does it make me like you?"

He wondered if she knew what she had said, and his face softened. "Not at first. Eventually, if we come together too often, you will become what I am. Or if you take from me what I take from you."

She was so intent on the turbulence of her mind that she did not hear him when he moved. But she felt him behind her, not touching her, as if a great wind was blowing.

"Well, Demetrice?" He was still, very still, waiting. All the world hung suspended in the silence between them, as if time had learned to move slowly. The small dark cell of rough stone was as vast as space, spreading out around them like the sky. No words passed between them in that immense intimacy, when, hardly seeming to move at all, Ragoczy began to undo her braids, freeing her palely blushed hair from its confining ribbons.

She held her breath as he spread her hair across her back like a veil, draping the strands over her shoulders. Then his hands came to rest against her neck, lying tranquilly on the high, gentle rise of her breasts. A tremor ran through her and his hands withdrew swiftly, cleanly, without taunting, lingering or playfully toying.

"No." She spoke quickly, her breath coming faster as a new urgency was awakened in her.

He hesitated. Slowly he knelt behind her, and not knowing she had done it, she leaned back so that her head rested on his shoulder. Though she would not look at him she took solace in his nearness, in the comfort his body gave her. The rhythm of his breathing sustained her and the curve of his chest against her back supported her without restraint. Gradually his closeness became familiar, his touch as friendly as hot wine on a cold day. Demetrice closed her eyes and turned toward him, into his arms.

His fur-lined cloak still enveloped her, and from it she took a certain measure of privacy, a sanctuary in which her loneliness was preserved, as if his devastating gentleness could be held at bay, if necessary, with fur. Yet the cloak opened. She felt his hands on her body, cherishing her, learning and teaching all the ways of her exquisite elation. The cloak, the ruined gonella, her chemise, were nothing against the warmth of his lips. He cradled her close to him as they lay back on her straw pallet. The caressing words he murmured she barely heard for the thunder that was in her soul. Blinded by a rapture that satisfied a longing she had not known she had, Demetrice surrendered herself to the celebration of her passion.

When the thing she had dreaded for so long occurred, she met his need not with disgust but with rejoicing, in triumph. Her arms tightened around him as her bliss resounded to the limits of her senses. His ardent tenderness evoked a fulfillment more complete than anything she had known before, and phoenixlike, the whole strength of her love rose from the ashes of her grief so that she was reborn.

Late in the night she slept, but wakened to find him watching her, his dark eyes alight. He drew her tight against him, sensing her need. Under his hands her flesh blossomed, yearning toward him with the unending longing that roses feel for the sun.

His joy was as great as her own. He reached to explore the splendor of her, to know every nuance of her pleasure, the very texture of her desire, the entire complexity of her love.

Some little while before dawn he left her, waiting as long as he dared before climbing to her high, narrow window, and making his way down the precarious walls of the castle. A cold, filmy mist wound between the trees and curled against the battlements of the castle, hiding his progress from any sleepy guards.

Demetrice dozed on the straw pallet, warmed by Ragoczy's cloak and the memory of his nearness.

Text of a letter from Ruggiero to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:

To my master:

This comes to you by the good offices of a Bolognese merchant who is traveling to Fiorenza, and should be in your hands before the middle of February.

I followed your instructions and left Venezia four days after you did, bringing, as you requested, a small train of baggage on five mules. The journey was fairly fast, all things considered. But it was our misfortune to be set upon by brigands the day we left Bologna. It was a fairly large force, perhaps as many as thirty, though I didn't see more than eighteen. Though we fought against them, by numbers alone they prevailed. I am sad to tell you that Teodoro was killed by them, and that two of the laden mules were taken by the brigands. I've sustained a few injuries and for that reason I am at a monastery near Monghidoro. The care here is excellent, and it should not be more than a week before I am capable of resuming the journey.

The good Fra Sereno is writing this letter for me, as I am not able to do so yet.

It is with the help of these good monks and the Grace of God that I am able to communicate with you at all, for after the brigands attacked us, they left those of us in your employ behind. Tito, though suffering from a serious blow on his leg, yet walked to this monastery and brought back help. If he had not done so, we would have been at the mercy of the brigands and the winter.

Be sure I will be with you again shortly.

Fra Sereno, for the servant Ruggiero

il monastero della Carita del Nostro Signor

Brothers of San Ambrogio

Near Monghidoro, February 1, 1498