"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." Words for the dead. Before the dust had settled, a malevolent phoenix had risen from the ashes to spread its blood-soaked wings over the mountain side. What began with ash, ended with ash.

The San Joaquin Valley was a fat slab of bacon frying on the griddle on the Fourth of July. Temperatures soared to 104 degrees on the floor of the agricultural corridor laid along central California. The bosom of foothills swelling to meet the shadows of the Sierra Nevada mountains only simmered at a relatively cool 90 degrees. Holiday visitors wondered what detour had led them to hell's kitchen. Long-time residents, accustomed to the Fourth being as hot as the fireworks popping in driveways well into the night, were just as accustomed to the news of some idiot sparking a wildfire in the parched canyons with little more than a firecracker and a six-pack of beer to fuel their stupidity.

Neal Maston checked his watch and wondered where his two sons were hiding out. Coming up on 4:00 p.m. Another hour and he'd close the art shop up for the night. The boys were supposed to help clean up.

Neal and his wife, Sarah, were artists and sculptors who had fled the haze and rat-race of Los Angeles to create and raise their two sons in the safety of the reclusive foothill town of Damon's Canyon. Today kicked off the town's annual Fourth of July Arts Festival, which gave the residents a chance to display and sell their wares The abundant art and sculpture studios were open for business during the Fourth and into the weekend. Shops offered oils and watercolors depicting the foothills, mountains and coursing rivers of the Sierra Nevadas. Local sculptors worked in bronze, cast iron and resin, along with the always-favorite polished wood designs. A twenty-foot high California grizzly carved from native Redwood stood guard outside the woodcarving shop of Jacob Carpenter, a popular spot for visitors and locals alike.

Neal turned his attention back to the shop's entrance as the bell hung over the front door jangled, signaling what he hoped was another customer.

"Yes, sir, can I help you?" Neal gauged the man's rugged looks and the two-day stubble shading his jaw. Another hiker looking to use the bathroom.

"Mr. Maston? I'm Duncan Sloan, we had an appointment."

Neal recognized the quiet baritone from the telephone call he'd received two days earlier from the writer for The Off-Ramp magazine. "Mr. Sloan, welcome!" Neal walked around the sales counter to shake the visitor's hand.

"Looks like the town is pretty busy today," Duncan Sloan commented. He carried a military issue knapsack slung over his shoulder from which he produced a bottled water. "Is it always this hot?"

"Only this time every year. And any other time during the summer," Neal responded lightly. The two men stood at the large plate glass window and observed the foot traffic.

Duncan Sloan had been a writer for The Off-Ramp for the last ten years. A magazine detailing the sights and attractions along highways both big and small around the United States, The Off-Ramp offered the kind of freedom and travel that fed his nomadic spirit. Known in journalistic circles as a loner, he preferred his mobility and solitude to being accountable to any one person.

"Besides," he told friends, "What woman in her right mind would want the long nights of driving from one dot on the map to the next or the gastric challenges of roadside diners?" Not to mention the roach-inhabited cheap motels (the only ones for which The Off-Ramp was willing to foot the bill). Or the coffee cup-and-soda can littered interior of his battered but dependable pickup truck. He had installed a camper shell for the many occasions when a motel was nowhere to be found. Inside, Duncan kept a sleeping bag, a tent and camping gear. "I was a good Boy Scout growing up back in Nebraska," he insisted. He also stockpiled an assorted supply of packaged health foods to negate the effects of the greasy spoons along the way. Duncan had a rifle and a pistol stowed away back there as well-he never knew what kinds of trouble he might run into on his journey.

As Duncan and Neil discussed the amount of tourism brought in every year by the Festival, the shop owner kept a watchful eye on prospective buyers wandering into the shop for one last gander at a good deal before they headed back down to the flatlands.

Neal watched with amusement as several local girls on summer vacation made the rounds of his shop pretending to peruse the artwork while actually sneaking giggling peeks at his visitor. At an even six feet, with a thick chestnut mat of curls that swept just past his shirt collar and cobalt blue eyes heavily fringed with dark lashes, Duncan's charm was accentuated by a sheepish lopsided smile that made him look as if he had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Despite his often questionable choice of dining facilities, at 42, he was in peak athletic condition, thanks to the combination of his cache of health foods and the hiking trails he explored in his travels.

"Can you give me a little background on Damon's Canyon? I know the town started as some sort of artists' colony." Duncan pulled a small notebook out of his knapsack, which also served as his camera bag. He reached into his shirt pocket for a pen.

"The town was set up over about a five year span starting in 1887. Some of the big city artists were looking for a place to relax and create without distraction. An artist by the name of Damon Benyu was the first one to settle here. The word spread about the isolation and the pristine beauty of the mountains and rivers, and it didn't take long for studios and cabins to start popping up all over the place. When the townsfolk finally incorporated the place around 1907, they naturally took on the name that locals commonly used in tribute to Mr. Benyu-Damon's Canyon. It seemed like heaven to those trying to find some peace and quiet. Seemed like heaven to me and my wife when we moved up here sixteen years ago. Nothing's changed that."

The bell jangled again as a lone straggler entered the shop. "Excuse me, Mr. Sloan. I have to take care of this lady." The owner hurried to the visitor's side.

Duncan turned to look at the woman who commanded Neal's immediate attention. She appeared to be in her late thirties, dressed in crisp blue jeans and white oxford shirt unbuttoned enough to hint at some considerable cleavage. A brown suede vest and dusty hiking boots completed her ensemble. She stood a half a foot shorter than Duncan and had long legs and narrow hips. Her skin was the tawny shade of someone who spent time working out in the fresh air. Her hair, the color of a newly minted copper penny, poured down over her broad shoulders and jutting breasts to her waist. As she leaned over a display to talk with Neal, her vest parted briefly and Duncan caught sight of a large handgun in a shoulder holster. He was going to have a hard time refraining from staring at both sets of weapons. Now this was getting interesting.

Neal Maston departed through the rear doorway. The woman gazed openly back at Duncan through her silver mirrored sunglasses, a slight uplift of a smile at one corner of her mouth. A silver cross hung around her neck, and a delicate silver bracelet encircled one strong wrist. She removed her glasses and hung them in the vee of her shirt between her breasts. Duncan could feel himself being sucked into the maelstrom of her bold eyes. A shade of golden brown he had seen in the wild cats that haunted the mountain trails, the rims were a thin band of sea green melting into the golden irises. The upward tilt of her eyes and her wide cheekbones testified to Mongolian warriors somewhere along her bloodlines.

"Mr. Sloan. I've read your work over the years. Excellent writing, extraordinary photography. You certainly capture the flavor of many of the places you have visited." Her voice was low, strong, her accent flavored European.

"Thank you, Miss....?"

"Lorraine. Diana Lorraine. It's fulfilling to meet another soul with as much wanderlust as I."

She took his hand between both of hers in greeting. The supple fingers of her right hand swept across his palm, tickling the nerves into a lingering post-electric shock tingle. The prickling feeling spread throughout his body and he realized that he suddenly had the workings of a full-scale erection

"You get around a lot, then?" Duncan blurted out.

Diana Lorraine smiled, revealing even white teeth with long incisors and an almost imperceptible overbite. "Not in the common sense of the term, no."

Duncan blushed. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant."

"No offense. I travel a great deal in my business."

"Which is...?"

"Recovery and delivery."

"Recovery and delivery?"

"Legacies, precious treasures. I track down and deliver those things that belong elsewhere, things which have fallen into the wrong hands at times and which must be returned to their proper owner."

"Sounds like you're in the repossession business," Duncan joked.

Diana's smile tightened. "You could say that."

Neal returned from the rear of the building, carrying a painting framed in black matte metal which he placed on an empty easel. Diana stood back to admire the work. Neal hovered nearby while Duncan looked on curiously.

The painting depicted a naked young woman with flowing strawberry blonde tresses streaming out behind her as she crouched astride a powerful black stallion racing across a dark woodland. A menacing evergreen forest pressed in on all sides, and a harvest moon loomed overhead. Yet, the alabaster-skinned woman astride the horse projected not a fear of the dark and foreboding terrain, but an embracing of its mysteries and a unity with the horse and the nature surrounding her. The picture did nothing to quell Duncan's arousal.

"Beautiful," Diana Lorraine made her pronouncement. Duncan could see Neal visibly relax and glow with pride. "Gabriella will love it. Wrap it up, Mr. Maston."

Diana reached into a pocket of her jeans and pulled out five one-hundred dollar bills and handed them to the owner. Duncan was starting to understand the need for the firepower the woman carried.

"Miss Lorraine, that is way too much. The agreed upon price was four hundred dollars," Neal protested.

"Mr. Maston, you must not undersell yourself. I was raised that one pays a great price for that which is valuable. This captures the essence of my Gabriella, and therefore is of great value. You would insult me by taking less than what it is worth? Isn't my daughter worth this much?"

Neal shook his head. "No, ma'am, I would not insult you. Thank you for your generosity, as always." The artist wrapped up his work with great care and love, as if it were his own child.

"Leaving so soon?" Duncan asked as the woman headed for the front door, precious package in hand.

"You have something else in mind, Mr. Sloan?"

Neil Maston peered over the top rims of his glasses. "Miss Lorraine, Mr. Sloan is interested in the town history, some of the sights around here, for his magazine article. You've lived here all your life, perhaps you can help him out."

Diana opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, tilting her head slightly as if listening. "Sirens," she said softly, moving to the entranceway to the shop.

Duncan followed, listening intently. Yes, there they were, the distant wailing of sirens, getting closer by the second. The trio stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Diana lifted her head and sampled the air; Duncan was reminded of a wolf he had seen on one of his mountain hikes, scenting the air, determining the direction of its prey. She looked north and her eyes narrowed, a frown creasing the spot between her arched eyebrows.

"The canyon is burning." She pointed up towards the mountains.

Duncan could see a faint wisp of smoke rising above the trees.

"What canyon?" the writer asked.

"Damon's Canyon," Neal answered.

"I thought that was the whole town."

"It is. But there is a specific place called Damon's Canyon where Damon Benyu had lived..."

"...and was buried," Diana finished grimly. "But now it burns."

They watched as a convoy of fire trucks raced up the hill towards the canyon, sirens screaming and lights flashing. Pedestrians scrambled to get out of the way of the blurs of red and yellow and pale green racing to contain the dreaded conflagration.

A dusty cherry-red Ford truck shot into a parking space outside the shop and two young men hopped out and sauntered up to the front door. The absent Maston brothers.

That stupidity that the residents dreaded every Fourth of July? This year, John and David Maston would be the embodiment of stupidity. Thirty minutes earlier, they had been screwing around up in one of the local canyons when they were supposed to have been at their parents' studio.

"Whoa, listen to that one pop!" David had yelled as his brother lit another M-60. They were on a dirt road which dead-ended in a deep ravine three miles above the center of the town. As the miniature version of a stick of dynamite exploded, John swigged down the rest of his can of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly.

"Yu-uhp!" he responded.

John was on summer vacation after his sophomore year at Fresno State University where he majored in Physical Education and minored in drinking, partying and exploring the nether regions of various coeds. His mother always wondered if the hospital had gotten their orders mixed up. Surely, this hulking, inarticulate hellraiser could not possibly have been the product of the coupling between her and Neal. If she had known just how much hell John would raise this summer, she would have fled back to the city with her family in tow.

It was John's vacation duty to keep his younger brother occupied while their parents ran their art studio, one of many such studios scattered throughout the hills and side roads of Damon's Canyon. John had picked up a batch of legal fireworks from one of the stands inhabiting the highway that snaked past the town towards the national park. He had also purchased a supply of illegal incendiary devices the vendor kept stashed beneath the cheap piece of plywood that served as a counter. The fireworks would have to serve as a welcome diversion from the boredom that enveloped John and David every summer. The adoring David would follow his older brother to hell and back, and was eager to complete his Senior year at the local high school so he could follow John to Fresno State as well. They made it as far as Hell.

Pulling the tab on another can of golden brew, John tossed his cheap plastic lighter to his younger brother. "Here, you light a few. Then we have to get back into town. Mom and Dad will be wondering where we are."

David was a slightly smaller version of his older brother, but had inherited the intelligence and artistic abilities of his parents, much to their relief. An honor student and member of the brass section of the high school jazz band, David planned to major in music at college. Unfortunately, intelligence and common sense aren't necessarily cohabitant, and while David possessed a bounty of the former attribute, he had not inherited a lick of the latter.

Before John could stop him, David reached into the box of pyrotechnics, pulled out three whistling bottle rockets, and lit them all at one time, tossing them onto the dirt road. "Yee-haw, look at 'em go!" David yelled.

"You idiot, what are you doing?" John castigated David as the fireworks zipped off into the brush at the side of the road. John dashed clumsily after two of the bottle rockets, stomping out the burning remains with his size thirteen cowboy boots and scuffing dirt over the smoky shreds.

"Where did the other one go? You should know better, David. You know what happens if one of those catches fire up here!"

David shrugged. "I don't know where it went. It must have gone out."

John glared at his brother, then scanned the roadside for any hint of smoke. Satisfied that the last bottle rocket had caused no harm, he grabbed the box of fireworks out of David's and tossed it into the bed of his truck. "Let's get out of here before you burn the town down, stupid."

John backed the truck around and floored the accelerator, fishtailing a spray of gravel as the two brothers headed back to town.

The inferno began with a tiny spark from the third bottle rocket flicking onto a dried lupine leaf, where it smoldered and glowed, eating at the leaf like a fiery caterpillar. It traveled from one leaf to another, then leaped quickly from leaf to grass, from chaparral to Manzanita bush, growing, sucking up oxygen, then bursting into flame. By the time the Maston brothers whipped into the parking space outside the Mastons' studio, the flames had fanned out to two acres and were creeping up the canyon, devouring oaks and buckeye trees as they fed.

"Where have you two been?" Neal Maston eyeballed his sons as they noisily clumped past into the Mastons' studio.

"Sorry, Dad. Lots of traffic along the highway-we couldn't get through," John lied. "Miz Lorraine, looking fine as always," he leered at Diana.

"Go out back and help your mother close up for the night. And watch your mouth, son." Neal was unconvinced by the excuse but satisfied the boys had at least shown up this time.

Neal, Duncan and Diana watched the skies over the burning canyon metamorphose to a dull sulfurous haze.

"So you want to get inside my head, Mr. Sloan?" Diana asked, abruptly pulling her sunglasses out of her cleavage and sliding them back on.

"We can start there." Duncan followed a reverse tracking of her glasses from her face to her chest and turned on his bad little boy smile.

Diana lowered her chin and gazed at him over the top of her glasses. "Why don't you follow me up to my cabin and see how much you can get out of me?"

"You don't mind? I hate to intrude..." Duncan protested -- mildly.

"I have had far worse than you invade my space, Mr. Sloan. I may even tell you about some of the stories you overlooked on some of your travels. If you think you can keep up," she added, casting a dubious glance at his truck.

"Oh, I don't think I'll have a problem staying on your tail."

Duncan walked with her to her evergreen Toyota parked two spaces away. The vehicle was set up for off-road use, with four-wheel drive, heavy duty suspension, and a winch on the front.

"Nice truck. Automatic or standard?"

"Standard. I like a good stick." She eased the wrapped painting into the jump seats of the extended cab.

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Duncan answered as she slid into the driver's seat and keyed the ignition.

"Nothing like controlling all that shuddering power with just my hand wrapped around a single hard knob." She shifted into reverse and released the brake. "You ready to go?"

"I've been ready to go since I first laid eyes on you. Lead on." Duncan strode back to his vehicle, his own stick threatening to shift into overdrive.

Diana backed out, warily watching for any stray firefighting equipment behind her. She cruised slowly up the main street, checking in the mirror to see if Duncan was following. They moved beyond the downtown area, houses and studios growing sparse. Diana increased her speed with Duncan keeping pace a few car lengths behind. The road grew narrower and more winding as they drove into the higher elevations.

As they neared the road leading to the burning canyon, Duncan could see fire crews working feverishly to keep the flames from jumping the highway. A local police officer in his early sixties who was built like a linebacker directed traffic through the smoky miasma choking the air around them. The officer held up his hand to stop Diana, and as Duncan idled his engine behind her truck, he could see that the two were in serious conversation. Duncan could just make out the man's identification tag on his uniform shirt. This was the Damon's Canyon chief of police. The big man gestured animatedly towards the canyon, shaking his head several times in response to Diana's questions.

A thundering, throbbing sound came from above, and Duncan stuck his head out the open window. An enormous, prop-driven, red and white air tanker roared overhead and dumped its red load of fire retardant into the canyon, then bore sharply left and headed back to its airbase for a refill.

Diana waved a brief goodbye to the chief and drove on. The smoky redolence faded away as their trip led upwards, the air cooling as evening approached. Chaparral and oaks merged into Ponderosa pines, tall sugar pines, and fir trees, their network of interwoven branches adding to the advancing darkness. Fisherman and boaters were heading back down to the valley from the small lake set back among the thick trees.

Duncan's mysterious trail guide drove with fast confidence, taking the curves tightly as they maneuvered through hairpin turns and switchbacks.

At the 5000 foot elevation, they arrived at a tiny strip mall which appeared to serve as the mountain community center. There was a laundry facility, post office, and general store, all set up within a rough-hewn log building that reminded Duncan of the Lincoln logs with which he played as a child.

The only large edifice was a separate restaurant, also of log construction. Various brands of beer were advertised in bright red and blue neon signs hung in the plate glass windows, and two dozen parking spaces were delineated in fresh white paint on the blacktop. A sign hung over the entrance proclaimed to travelers that they had reached The Log Jam restaurant.

Duncan followed Diana into the parking lot, retrieving his camera bag as he exited his truck.

"It's supper time. Hungry?" Diana asked.

The juicy aroma of steaks cooking on a charcoal grill and baking bread filled Duncan's olfactory sense. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Starving," Duncan answered, snapping a half dozen angles of the restaurant. I'd especially like to dive in and get a taste of those breasts you're packing. He could feel his face suffuse with heat at the thought.

"Come on, then. You can tell your readers about this place." Diana took him by the elbow and steered him to the entrance.

Duncan opened the door and urged her ahead of him with a gentle touch of his hand to her lower back, a touch that brushed downwards to the curve of her ass as she passed him.

"Umm, I'm sorry about that," he apologized, pulling his hand back as if spider-bitten.

"I'm not." Diana cut her tawny eyes up to look at him, then slid her glance along his entire body, pausing briefly at crotch level. Duncan felt the little mushroom-headed monster with a mind of its own scrambling to stand to attention in his jeans.

The supper crowd was just starting to drift in. Only four of the tables were occupied in The Log Jam's interior. Weathered wagon-wheel style chandeliers hung from the low beamed ceiling. The interior was separated into two rooms, each with a native rock fireplace and a dozen booths separated into private dining areas by pine plank walls. Duncan could hear country western music playing in the bar which occupied a long room in the back of the building.

"Take a table anywhere, Hon!" trumpeted the hostess/owner/cook as she hurried back to the kitchen for another tray of orders. She was a comfortably rounded woman in her late fifties of medium height with curly dyed blond hair kept in place with a hair net.

Diana indicated a booth in a private corner of the second room next to the fireplace. She removed the burgundy globe from around the candle that served as a centerpiece and lit it with a slim silver lighter she produced from a vest pocket. Replacing the globe, she commented, "I recommend the steak. Finest meat around these parts."

The bustling blond found them ten minutes later after she had delivered all of her previous orders. "Well, howya doing, Miss Diana? Haven't seen you in here for quite awhile."

"I've been out of town for several weeks on a delivery, Sherri. I thought I would bring a visitor by to get a taste of your specialty. He's a writer for a magazine. You feed him right and he just might write you up in his article," Diana answered, lapsing into the local mountain twang.

"Well, that's awful nice of you, Hon. Just like your momma, always thinking of other folks." The owner beamed and held her order pad in her hand. "Then you're ready to order?"

"If Mr. Sloan doesn't mind me ordering for him," Diana began, looking at her supper companion for approval. "Why don't you bring us your best steaks tonight. Rare for me, Sherri, medium well for Mr. Sloan, as I remember from his articles." Duncan was impressed by her memory. "Your mashed potatoes. Heavy on the butter. And forget the rolls, bring a plate of your cornbread."

Sherri scuttled along to the kitchen, still beaming with excitement.

"Save room for dessert," Diana advised, taking a sip of water.

"Any recommendations?"

"I have a sweet tooth. Something sinfully rich and creamy and filling," Diana tugged at the neckline of her shirt as if it were too constraining. The motion only served to reveal more of her ample cleavage. Duncan was glad for the cover that the table provided, considering the excited dance that his little monster friend was doing down there.

Sherri returned with a carafe of red wine and a large basket of breaded fried zucchini strips. "Compliments of the house," she said, smiling.

"Thank you, Sherri, that's very kind of you," Diana said, laying a hand gently over the owner's rough and reddened fingers.

Sherri patted Diana's long fingers with her other hand. "You're welcome, Hon. Will there be anything else?"

"No, Sherri. Where's all your help tonight?"

"Oh, a couple of 'em headed down the hill to work on the fire. Two of my girls called in sick, but I suspect they had a little too much independence today, if you know what I mean," she chuckled. "I've got my daughter and grandkids visiting this week, so I put them to work. I'd better get back to supervising so they don't burn the place down!" Off she went again.

"You're a native, then. Do your parents still live here?" Duncan asked, digging into the pile of zucchini.

"No. They are both gone." Her tone of voice implied "deceased." "And I'm not exactly a native. I was born in the Old Country."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Forty years. Since I was four."

"Were your parents artists?"

"My mother painted. Pappa had been a soldier." Diana sipped her wine and gazed out at the red glow that gleamed through the treetops. Sunset or fire glow, Duncan wasn't sure.

"What did he do here?"

"He did what I do, I followed in his footsteps."

"Recovery and delivery," Duncan said. "Do you deal with artwork and antiques, that kind of stuff?"

"Among other things. I handle lots of old, even ancient, things. I find myself dealing with the dead quite often."

"That's a gruesome way to phrase it. Your work takes you across the country?"

"I travel all over to perform my duties. Usually I must track down my assignments and their heirs to bring them what is coming to them-or take away that which doesn't belong to them. "

"You sound like a bounty hunter. 'Bring 'em back, dead or alive,'" Duncan joked.

Diana smiled coldly. "I don't deal much with the living."

"I'm surprised you're so familiar with my work," Duncan said, switching gears. "We're not a major magazine."

"I have traveled many of the same roads as you have; in fact, your articles have been very helpful over the years in preparing me for my journeys. You have a keen eye for detail, for capturing the significant quirks of the places you visit. You are very insightful."

"Thank you. I wonder at times how many people actually pay attention to my work. It's nice to know that what I do is as important to someone else as it is to me," Duncan said with a slight flush of pride.

Diana edged along the padded seat of the booth until she sat right next to Duncan and placed her hand on top of his. The candle's glow reflected in the golden glints in her irises. "Duncan, you and I share a similar anonymity, a similar solitude, a similar dedication. We travel the back ways of this country. They are often desolate, dark ways, bereft of companionship and comfort. What we do, however, impacts the lives of others in ways they may not even know. We bring safety and security to others through our particular gifts. Don't ever think that what you do isn't important to others." Her fingertips traced feather-light patterns along the tender skin between his knuckles. He could feel his little dancing man shift from a waltz to a rambunctious polka and he surreptitiously adjusted himself under the guise of placing his napkin in his lap.

Duncan jumped as Sherri's daughter arrived bearing their meal.

"Miss Diana! It's so good to see you again! Mother was so grateful for your arranging for the bands to come and perform at the benefit for Dad after he broke his back last year. The restaurant would never have made it without your help, with all the medical bills..." Sherri's daughter, a naturally blonde version of her mother, grew misty-eyed as she laid out their plates of food before them.

"Holly, don't worry about it. It just helps having the right contacts, that's all. The mountains wouldn't be the same without The Log Jam. Nobody cooks like your mother."

Holly leaned forward and asked Diana quietly, "Is it true? Is the canyon burning down below? That's what some of the other guests are saying," she said, looking over her shoulder at the small groups of locals starting to congregate.

"Yes, it's burning. I expect a thousand acres will be scorched by the time they get it under control." Diana glanced up from her meal. "Holly, don't worry. Everything will be fine. You're going back to San Diego soon, aren't you?"

Holly nodded.

"It'll be safe there. Trust me." Diana smiled reassuringly.

"We always have, Miss Diana. Well, back to work. Enjoy your meal."

Duncan watched her retreating back. "She must be really afraid of fire." he ventured.

"It's not just the fire itself, it's the canyon's burning that stirs fear. Fire not only destroys what's in its path, it often creates poisons with its flames."

"You mean toxins?"

"To start with. Just a whole plague of vile crud gets released sometimes."

His hunger overwhelming his curiosity, Duncan attacked his food, which was all that Diana promised it would be.

Dessert was a Black Forest Cake exploding with cherries and overflowing with whipped cream. Diana licked all the cream from her fork. Duncan found it to be a delightfully childlike gesture.

"You have cream on your lips," Duncan said. He reached across the table and gently removed it with his fingertip, then offered the small dab to Diana. Her eyes boring into his, she wrapped her tongue around his fingertip and licked it clean.

"You're a messy eater," Duncan teased.

"Just depends on what's passing my lips," she answered in a sultry voice. "Feels like you've got something sweet and creamy yourself," she added, sliding her hand into his lap.

"I do, as a matter of fact," Duncan answered, his baritone made husky by his desire. "You sure you're not too full?"

"There's always room for more." She massaged the bulge in his jeans, stroking and squeezing through the fabric. She unzipped him and smiled as her fingers met warm skin. "Ahhh--a man who's secure enough to wear nothing else beneath his pants."

"You're crazy! Somebody's going to see us," Duncan muttered thickly, leaning his arms on the table.

"I like risk. It heightens the excitement, don't you think?" Diana whispered in his ear. She tightened her grip on his thick cock and stroked harder.

Duncan sucked his breath in between clenched teeth. The booth seemed to close in on them and the flames in the globe on the table grew brighter. His heart pounded in his chest as Diana pulled and prodded his shaft.

"My, you're getting wet down there," Diana said softly, increasing the speed of her manipulations.

Duncan laid his forehead into one hand, covering his eyes as if blocking out a bright light. He could feel the throbbing in his cock as the fluids built up and performed their own bottleneck within the swollen flesh. Suddenly, the log jam broke and the pent-up froth burst forth as he came. He bit his lip with a supreme effort to avoid crying out.

"Everything okay here?" Sherri appeared at the table, their bill in hand.

"Oh, yes, Sherri. Wonderful, as always. Especially the cake. Joseph must be up and around again." Sherri's husband was a master at creating desserts.

"Yes, he is and he's doing great. Now I just have to keep him off any more rooftops." Sherri shook her head in mock disgust. "Is Mr. Sloan feeling all right?" she asked, concerned at the writer's flushed face and glassy eyes.

"He's fine. Just had a little something stuck in the pipes, but I broke it loose for him," Diana said, patting Duncan on the back with a comforting smile. He coughed and reached for his wine glass. "See, he's feeling better already."

Sherri moved to another table. Duncan quickly zipped up his pants and felt for wet spots in his crotch.

"You're dry," Diana reassured him quietly. She produced his napkin with a flourish, folded it neatly into quarters, and slipped it into her back pocket. "Better take the evidence with us," she added under her breath as Sherri returned to their booth.

Duncan reached for the bill, but Diana laid her hand over it and handed Sherri enough cash to cover the meal with a significant tip. "You are my guest," she admonished Duncan as he began to protest.

"Have a good evening, folks," Sherri said as she pocketed the cash without counting it. "Diana, you'll be around the mountain for awhile, won't you?"

Diana turned around on her way out the door and caught the blonde's eyes with a steady, calm gaze. "I'll be here, Sherri. I won't be going anywhere."

Down below in the canyon, the firefighters and the conservation corps were slowly gaining the upper hand on the flames. The heated beast had finally eaten its way to the surrounding fire roads that had been cleared months earlier and had run out of sustenance. The air tankers had dumped loads of fire retardant into the canyon, smothering the flames in its path.

Deep within the actual crotch of the canyon, the fire had destroyed all ground cover and shrubs. A particularly thorny type of hawthorn which had stood guard for nearly a century around the perimeter of a small rock building was now a pile of ash. The devilish currents and updrafts created by the fire itself swooped low and scattered the ash, driving it far from its sentry position. Even as the flames roared and blasted over the stone exterior, licking fiery tongues into whatever chinks in the crumbling masonry they could find, black eyes rimmed with scarlet opened within the maw of the crypt.