“But Time won't let us go together and I want to be together. When this storm ends, we'll steal a camel,” said Annie. “We'll be our own little wagon train to Morocco. Then we'll build a boat and row across the Atlantic to New York. Although there won't be much around in Manhattan, forty-five hundred years ago.” She giggled.

“Stop playing games,” said Strat, although this was why he adored her. She could always laugh. Perhaps it was her century; a time when girls seemed to have so much more than the girls in his time. “Anyway, there are no camels in ancient Egypt. If you want to steal a camel, you have to come to 1899 with me.”

He expected to hear one of her peculiar words, from the vocabulary of her amazing decade: Okay or Deal.

But Annie's hair swirled across his face in a black cloud, her eyes opened wide, and screaming, she filtered away from him. It was as quick as the death of Pankh. She was in his arms and then his arms were empty.

Strat tried to follow her, stumbling through the sand, falling over rocks, tumbling off the cliff they had so desperately climbed. He felt himself surrounded by all the troops of Pharaoh, reaching and grasping, and then in the sand, he was alone again, retching and gasping. He eluded them, neither dying nor living, just staggering on, calling her name.

Annie.

And eventually, he was defeated. Sand filled his shirt and hair, his shoes and the hem of his trousers. His determination not to be beaten had been beaten.

Many things were stronger than one man's heart.

VII

The Sands of Time

RENIFER

She walked along the edge of the straight-sided canal, wakened a sleeping sailor and ordered him to take her to Memphis. The sandstorm tore his sails and he had to row. Memphis was closed up tight, every shutter and door sealed against the storm. She walked alone through her city.

Sand piled up against the mud-brick walls that enclosed every garden and home. Sand ripped the leaves from the sycamores and tore down the nests of birds. When she reached her own door, she knocked for a long time before the doorkeeper let her in.

Her father, Pen-Meru, was standing in the garden, mournfully surveying the damage from the sandstorm.

Up on the roof, no sand had fallen. On its pedestal still stood the gold statue of Sekhmet. “Greetings, Father, from the ka of Hetepheres,” said Renifer.

He whirled.

He saw her, goddess and ka, cloaked in gold. He who had buried her fell to his knees.

She found it quite pleasing to stand above him. “The queen sent me home. The queen requires you, Father, to treat me as her daughter, instead of your own.”