The mixture of healing and adrenaline had an unexpected effect, gradually he could feel his limbs again, move his head slightly. He kept his eyes shut, cursing himself for a coward. He realised that he had to know, had to see what she'd done. As the woman walked back to her followers he opened his eyes and looked down...and nearly died from relief. There was blood yes, but a tiny amount, she'd not cut deep at all. There was something red though, tied around his penis was a red cord..he'd never been so relieved in his long life. It was just symbolic, a ritual cut and not the complete castration he'd feared, the hanging cord representing the dripping blood. The drug had been to keep him there. ' They'd let him down soon' He hoped fervently, 'The ritual would soon be over.' He prayed in thanks to gods long forgotten; his head thrown back towards the trunk of the tree.

The music and chanting started again. The youngest priestess moved amongst the worshipers with bowls of wine and bread. The women ate and drank and some, casting off their masks, started to dance again. This time the dances were less formal, more personal. Each seemed to be expressing her own self to the goddess.

He hung, painfully now, from bruised wrists, shivering as the sun dipped to the horizon. Carefully he shuffled as far back as he could letting the tree trunk support him. The rope was just long enough to allow him to do this but it was becoming very uncomfortable, the muscles in his back and shoulders were cramping and he knew it would get much worse if he got any colder. He stood on tiptoes for a moment to take the weight off his arms but it was just as bad when he finally lowered himself again.

Meanwhile the sun had set and the priestesses were lighting torches around the glade and passing round the wine again. He hoped they'd remember about him and let him down..he felt he'd suffered enough for one day and was looking forward, hopefully, to the 'blessing of the fields' Since he was the only man of the right age who wasn't a slave he thought he'd have a pretty good chance of 'assisting' with that part of the ceremony..as long as it was with one of the two younger priestesses.

The music changed now, the drum was joined by a flute and a harp. This must be the end of this part of the ceremony, one more prayer, one more dance then on to the main point of the day. He shivered again but this time more in anticipation than cold. The cord tied round him felt a little tighter and he moved his hips a little, revelling in this new sensation.

The glade seemed more threatening in the half light. Women and shadows merged, masked faces appeared suddenly. He watched as they swayed across the grass. There was a sudden hush and then the priestesses led the chanting. The dance became formal again, structured, the steps accompanied by the spreading of violets. He noticed some of the younger women seemed unsteady on their feet, drunk. They held hands in the torchlight weaving, spinning....

Faster and faster twirled the dancers faster and faster beat the drums, their rhythm as insistent as fever, delirious. The music and dancing rose to a wild crescendo, dresses and hair flying. They unlinked hands and each woman twisted and spun alone. Some were singing or shouting as they danced, tearing at hair and clothes. This time he could fell their bodies pressing against him, warm willing flesh against his cold, hard body, each touch like fire. He gasped at the contact... then cried out in surprise as the priestess drove a dagger between his ribs. Blood flowed down his chest and before it had time to heal a second woman stabbed him, this time just above his right hip, scraping against the bone. He screamed now, face contorted in pain, raw agony coursing through his body. There was no way to escape this onslaught. As each woman danced towards him a knife flashed in the torchlight and blood flowed down his body. He was pulled forward away from the supporting tree as women moved behind him.

A single slash cut both hamstrings and his legs collapsed from under him. At the same time he twisted awkwardly and felt his shoulder dislocate from the unexpected weight. Screams and tears of anguish were stopped suddenly as a stroke to the heart killed him outright.

Moments later he revived with a start. Blood still pouring from the wounds, women still tearing at his skin with knives and now fingernails too. The pain was excruciating, each cut burned like a brand, each healing followed by another wound. Methos clenched his hands, nails cutting into his palms, ending blood running down his wrists. A blade scraped against his ribs, opening a wide gash from nipple to stomach. His muscles tightened and he tried to move away from the blows. Half a step back and there were sharp stabs in his back and shoulders. Each cut like acid drew another cry of pain form the helpless Immortal. He died a second time praying that someone would take his head and end it all. But woke again, weak now; the healing much slower. His whole body, from the neck down was coated in his own blood as red as the local pottery. A woman reached up and opened the veins in his arm - blood splattered across his face, hot and bitter.