A fine, driving rain had made the stones slippery, and the hazard of crossing them was great. Thin shards like fingers plucked at him from then beds of loose mortar as he made his way over the castle walls. Ragoczy was forced to cling desperately as his feet and hands struggled to maintain their hold on the slick wall. Once a narrow ledge crumbled under his left foot and he had to clasp the wet stones in a fervent embrace while he searched for secure footing on another perilous outcrop.

After what seemed hours, but in fact was little more than thirty minutes, Ragoczy lifted himself onto the stone frame of the high window of Demetrice's cell. He paused there, in part to listen to the sounds within and in part to steady himself. The castle was quiet, the quiet of a frightened animal in hiding. The air around it seemed to quiver with unnamable dismay. His fine brows twitched together. What could have happened here, that fright permeated the very stones? Still frowning, he dropped silently to the floor of the cell, landing in a crouch, prepared to fight.

When he was not attacked, he straightened up and made his way, with more caution than seemed necessary, to the darkest corner of the cell, where Demetrice's straw pallet covered the floor. "Demetrice?" he said softly, and the walls murmured her name after him, eerily.

The cell was empty. He touched the fetters hanging open over the pallet, the cold iron telling him nothing, except that she had been gone from the cell for some time. His fear for her increased as he patted the chilly, sodden straw. He felt for his cloak which she had hidden there, and discovered it was gone.

He went to the heavy door, worry making him awkward. Very carefully he tugged at the brace, and to his surprise the door swung inward on recently oiled hinges. Very carefully, every sense acute, he stepped out into the narrow, torchlit hall, his eyes moving restlessly over the time-darkened stones. To the left and the right the hall was the same. There was no indication of which way she might have gone, or of where she could have been taken. He lingered, undecided, at the door of her cell.

A metallic scrape and clang echoed along the hall, the reverberation making it impossible to tell where the sound had originated. At the sound a shriek of despair came from the adjoining cell, and other wordless voices joined the heart-rending lament.

Ragoczy ducked back into the cell, and dropped himself into the far corner, under the window. He pulled his old black guarnacca around him, so that he became part of the deepest shadows. Now he was grateful that he had risked wearing black, for in any of the gaudy colors he wore as disguise he would have been as bright as a tilting target. He pressed himself to the uneven stone floor and waited.

There were steps in the hall, heavy sounds from two, and light, faltering steps from the third. At last they paused and in a moment the cell door creaked open. Wavering torchlight licked the walls with brightness as two of the jailers pushed Demetrice nearer her pallet.

"Hold your arms up," one of them ordered.

"I can't." Her voice was quite calm, but more tired than Ragoczy had ever heard it. There were scuffing steps and a soft gasp, and the unmistakable chink of metal closing on metal and the crinkle of chain. Then the heavy steps retreated and the door was pulled to. Then there was the solid impact of a bolt driven home and a lock turning.

Only when these sounds had died away and there were no more footfalls in the hall did Demetrice allow herself to sob.

Ragoczy got to his feet slowly, unmindful of the dank walls and the cold now. He looked through the gloom of the cell, and with all his heart in his voice he said, "Demetrice. Demetrice mia."

She stifled her tears and her eyes widened as she peered into the dark. "San Germano?"

"Yes." He came nearer, stopped less than an arm's length from her. As his eyes searched her face, he whispered, "Are you well? Were you hurt?"

She nodded affirmation but said, "No." Her voice was unsteady but she stubbornly refused to weep. "But I was frightened. So frightened." In supplication she extended her manacled arms to him. "Please. San Germano. Please." Her voice broke.

Tenderly he took her in his arms. Softly he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the curve of her cheeks and at last her mouth, her lips parting under his. They stood so for some time, until her breath quickened and color came back into her face. Ragoczy stepped back and was secretly pleased that Demetrice leaned toward him as he did. "Gioia mia, wait, wait." He reached for the iron that bound her wrists. "First this."

But she pulled away. "No. Last time they saw the locks were broken and they said it was devil's work, like the broken bars on the window, though I told them that I had thrown a loose stone at a bird perched there, and the bars..." She bit her lower lip as tears filled her eyes. "No. No."

Ragoczy wiped her face. "About the chains. What did they tell you?"

"These are new. See? They were blessed by the monks, so that I could not escape again. They said if I did, they would know for sure. They said they would cast the devils from me." She stopped abruptly and horror filled her eyes.

"Ah, Demetrice." There was so much sorrow, so much regret in the way he spoke her name. "If you are frightened, then in the morning before I leave you, I will secure you once again so that they will never know. Give me your hands."

It was an effort for her to lift them. "I can't. No."

A terrible thought lanced through him. "Torture? Have they tortured you?"

She shook her head numbly. "Not yet. Today they tied me by the hands and lifted them high in the air with a rope over a beam. I had to stand on tiptoe or my shoulders would ache. After a while I ached no matter what I did. They gave me no water, and the torturers searched my body for devil's marks. At least," she added contemptuously as she fought revulsion, "that's what they said they did. But I think they did it for their pleasure."

Ragoczy had seen other men who derived their satisfaction from humiliation and pain, as he once, long ago, had derived it from terror. He said nothing, letting Demetrice speak so that she could rid herself of the shame she had endured so that it would not fester in her, poisoning her life.

"They asked me questions. The same questions over and over. It made no sense. And then they made me watch while they examined another woman, an older woman. She had refused to answer their questions at all, and so they were doing hideous things to her, with heated irons. Her skin. The smell." Suddenly she gagged and leaned against the wall. "When she fainted, they told me that if I would not admit my heresy, they would brand me. And worse." Her legs grew weak and she dropped onto the straw of her pallet, shivering uncontrollably.

He sank down beside her. "Gioia mia." Carefully, kindly he drew her into his embrace. "You have much courage, Demetrice, and I honor you for it. And I promise you with my blood that I will not let them kill you. Not now or ever." This time his kiss was more urgent, evoking a response from her.

A gust of wind filled her cell and the cold drove her more tightly against him. "Don't leave me, San Germano," she whispered into his shoulder.

"I won't." He smoothed her hair back from her face and asked "Shall I lie beside you to keep you warm, be your companion for tonight? Or do you want... more?"

"Can you just lie beside me?" she wondered aloud.

"Of course. I would prefer to love you, but that, amica mia, is up to you. Either way, I will not leave you unless you tell me to go." His voice was low, persuasive, musical. With an effort he refrained from touching her.

She stared down at the manacles binding her wrists and the chains attached to the bracket sunk deep into the wall. Her arms ached abominably and her head felt like ice. "I hate this," she said with loathing in her voice. She hesitated, then thrust both hands toward Ragoczy. "Unfasten them. But only if you can lock them before you go."

"Certainly," he said, and took great pains as he pulled the fetters apart. "You see? I need only put this pin back, so, and they will lock as well as ever." As he spoke he kissed her arms where the metal had chafed her. "Now, cara Demetrice," he said with more ease than he felt, "what do you want me to do?"

He had removed his short mantle and reached to put it over her shoulders, but she drew back as it touched her. "It's wet!"

"Yes. It is raining tonight," he said, a sad amusement lurking in his eyes. "Does it displease you?"

"Oh, no. No. But if your clothes are wet, you might become ill, or take chill..." She stopped, looking confused.

"That," he said ironically, "is impossible, amica mia."

"Is it? But if you stay that way, in damp clothing..." Then she gave a soft cry and flung herself into his arms. "I don't care if you're soaking. I don't care if water poured from the ceiling. Hold me. Dio infinito, hold me." All her strength was in her arms then, and she ignored the pain of it and pressed close to Ragoczy, feeling the thick woolen guarnacca and his chest and thighs beneath. His moist clothes did not bother her at all.

He returned her kisses ardently, lingeringly. His hands sought out the opening of her penitent's robe, and then, before he roused her more, he breathed deeply and held back from her. "Demetrice, gioia mia, listen to me. Listen."

She tugged at his clothes, now needing more from him. "San Germano, I don't mind the damp, truly I don't. The mantle will dry soon enough." Then she saw his face and knew it was not the wet clothes that concerned him. At once she was serious. "What is it?" she asked, not touching him, apprehension in every line of her body.

"You know what I am, Demetrice. And you are still disgusted by it, occasionally." He saw her objection and hurried on. "I know you weren't disgusted before. It isn't myself that disturbs you, it's the idea of what I am."

"But I was wrong. You're not like that at all." She had flushed, knowing how accurate he was. She was not comfortable with his vampirism, even though he had given her transcendent pleasure.

"I am like that, Demetrice. It's my nature. And if I love you too often, if you welcome me too much, you will be... tainted by me. If I taste of you tonight, so soon again, there is some very little danger. Not much, for usually it takes several... encounters before the transference is possible. But when there is such intensity, so much love..."

"Are you saying that I might become a vampire?" There was no accusation in her question. The horrors she had known in the last two days had banished her more trivial disgust of what he was.

"If we continue this way. Five times, perhaps six at the most, and the thing is certain." He held her face in his hands, yearning in his eyes. "There are no words for how I want you. Even the most profound are paltry beside the feeling that wells in me now as I see you, touch you, feel the sweet weight of your body against mine. Demetrice, if you could endure to share blood with me, I would rejoice to have you among my kind. But you shy away at that thought. Even now, when you've already spent one night in my arms, you think distastefully of what was done. Oh, you don't forget the pleasure, but the method bothers you." He dropped his hands to his sides. "If you cannot endure my love, then deny me. For your sake, deny me."

"Deny you?" She was incredulous. "With the threat of the rack waiting for me? With the stake to look forward to?" Her laughter became a sob. "I loved one man with all my being and I lost him. And I thought that no one would ever reach me so completely again. You, you are what I thought never to find. My memories of Lauro are as sweet and as bitter as they ever were. But you have given me another love, as rich as wine. Not only with your body, though that is much more than I guessed it might be, but with your care. I know how much you risk for me."

"Do you?" His hands covered hers.

"San Germano, if my life is to end soon, then let me die consumed with love. I can think of nothing better to know in this world than your love. I want nothing more."

"And if you live, what then?" He tilted her face upward.

"Then I still want you." As she said it, she knew it was the truth. She moved back from him, pulling away, but only far enough to open her penitent's robe.

The cell was cold, and gooseflesh rose on her pale skin. Ragoczy saw this, and reached for his mantle, and then changed his mind, casting the sodden garment aside. With skillful, loving hands he warmed her and his lips made a litany of her flesh. There were many hours ahead on this blustery March night and he took the time this afforded him to discover all the wonder of her, and to praise her until what passed between them was an anthem that in its beauty banished fear.

When at last she dozed, replete, in the circle of his arms, she murmured, "Remember the manacles."

He kissed the curve of her breast again. "I'll remember," he promised, and gathered her close against him.

Text of a letter to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano from Gian-Carlo Casimir di Alerico Circando.

To his reverend teacher and beloved friend, Gian-Carlo in Venezia sends hasty greetings to Fiorenza.

I have your orders and I will carry them out as you have instructed me. I leave this evening for Mestre, will go from there to Padova, then I will travel south to Bologna, where I will wait for you. I will send a messenger to Fiorenza if you have not arrived in Bologna by the tenth day of April. Should I discover that you have been taken by Savonarola's Domenicani, I will make every attempt to free you, and to that end, I carry a letter from Il Doge Barbarigo. Should that prove to be useless, I have also the letter from your Roman associate, Olivia. If I discover that you have died or been killed, I have your burial instructions and only if your spine is broken or your body wholly crushed or burned am I to see it laid in holy ground. Otherwise, I am to bear your remains back to Venezia in the chest you have already provided.

If you have other instructions, or there is a change in what I must do, I will be at la Locanda dei Sassi Verdi. The innkeeper is named Isidoro da Rivifalcone, and he is paid to be discreet. Any message you send will be delivered promptly, and your confidence respected.

Until I see you again, I will faithfully carry out your instructions and pray for your safe return.

Gian-Carlo

In Venezia, the 4th day of March, 1498