It was a gift...

...an old gift relegated to the forgotten memories of a barely-remembered childhood.

Napoleon Solo felt the bitter chill begin to flee his bones like ice melting into pools of evaporating water during an early springtime thaw as the whitest light flowed from his being. How he had forgotten, he did not know. How he had come to remember, he did not know either. Perhaps the attack by that towering dark intruder had opened one of a hundred or more  locked rooms within his mind. But whatever the reason, even as he had felt his soul tumbling deeper and deeper into a chasm of endless night and unearthly cold, a memory had flared...brighter than the naked brilliance of a noonday sun...

...a memory of a smiling, wrinkled white-haired old woman, dressed in black and an ever-present hand-knitted shawl, who had lived in a tiny village in southern Italy; an ancient figure whom the local people had both feared and revered -a wise woman...a "Strega"...a witch. HHis great grandmother. She had been an enigma in his life; a simple old woman who had raised a large and loving family, had made the world's best canoli and gnocchi, and yet, sometimes held counsel with those who came seeking her help, holding the Bible in one hand and her book of practices in the other, regarding each as sacred...and while his parents had strived to bring up their spirited only son as a good Catholic, his "Nana" had secretly taught him of the hidden practices and of the sacred way...of white magicks and the crafts that allowed one to repel "the Evil Eye".

He had remembered...

...and the light had begun to pour from the core of his being to flow along the invisible link that bound himself and his Illya as one--

**DESISTE!!!**

The word, Latin like those spoken by the priests of Napoleon's childhood, slammed into the Knight's mind with an explosion of pain; a single word: "stop". **DESISTE!** the mental voice thundered again. **DETINE MANUM, MAGA!** It was not a plea, but a command, full of fury and malevolence: "Stop! Stay thy hand, Witch!"

The next words, however, were in English and it was they that struck the Napoleon to the core: "Stay thy hand, Napoleon Solo -or does it not matter that you slay your bondmate mate with your clumsy *peasant's* magic?"

Horror shattered Napoleon's concentration and the all-encompassing light shattered into a million shard-like fragments as he realized that the pain he had felt had not been his own.

It had been Illya's

The ancient ornate mirror -a thing had used countless times to scry and seek  portents- served its more mundane purpose just as well. Sanguine -red eyes observed as bony, ice-cold fingers traced the rictus-like smile, muscles bunching behind the ragged, light-burned skin of the Great One's baleful countenance. So used was he to dealing only with the most powerful arts arcane that he had failed to consider that his enemies might attempt to use the pathetic folk magicks once woven by self-styled magi of old. A mistake...but not a serious one. He smiled again. Even now, the flayed flesh of his damaged visage was healing and would be intact within the hour.

So...the first Knight of the U.N.C.L.E. had the blood of spellcasters in his veins *and* the will and learning to wield simple white magicks...but not the wisdom. No...not the wisdom. Had he *that*, he would have known that the spell he had sent to protect his lover and destroy the firstborn of the Lilm would do as much harm to its conduit as to its intended victim -*more* in
this case as *he* had the strength and power of millennia while his sister's child had but that of a pathetic few centuries...and, of course, the Knight had not known of the renewal of his mate's Lilim blood.

A mirthless laugh escaped the Great One's mouth -it was perfect...so perfect that he couldn't have planned better himself.

A half-melted crucifix crunched underneath the Great One's booted foot right where it had landed after it had flown from its agonized owner's hand. He walked to the dungeon-like cell he had crafted himself for this specific occasion and opened the outer door to peer past the barred inner entrance. Surrounded by dark, dank magic-crafted walls, a solitary figure lay curled
up on the rough cold floor, shuddering with pain.

Perhaps Serena had had some cause to be proud of her half-breed offspring -the boy had survived the clumsy attack and was himself healing almost as quickly as Lilith's firstborn...but the price would be high. Oh yes... The Great One's vulpine smile widened. The price would be high indeed. Such extensive healing would burn every drop of blood that the boy had consumed in recent times and whatever his body had stored...once complete, his sister's child would *have* to feed. The First Born of Lilith  could sense that the hunger had begun to burn within the boy even now. Soon, it would allow no respite; not even the deep sleep of the underfed.

Soon, Illya would feed without hesitation on any victim given to him...even his human lover...

...and *then* the Covenant would be broken as human blamed vampire and vampire blamed human...

...and the streets would run red...

...and the Mother would be freed.

The Great One sighed with satisfaction as he left the area of the dark cell and its lone prisoner -*now* it was time to summon the Knight. So intent was he on his purpose that he did not hear the feebly whispered plea from behind the walls of the locked cell: "Polya...please...stay away ...don't come."