The bearded man staggered backward and his washed out gray eyes starred at his old Nemesis.

It had been several miserable years since their last encounter which had ended with the old

man walking away the victor. He had left his opponent screaming with pain and writhing on

the damp jungle floor; forced to drink the bitter nectar of defeat, alone, as blood dripped from

the wound so close to his rotten heart.

Now, for a fleeting moment, the old man thought himself silly to be surprised his enemy had

survived that dreadful encounter. But, then he remembered, the devil always protects his own.

The old man spoke,

"We meet again."

"Wee, indeed," came the muffled response.

Looking closer the old man could see the scars on the villains throat and it appeared someone

had slashed the throat and rendered his vocal cords very deranged.

"I must admit, I'm shocked you survived our last encounter. When I left I thought you were

finished."

"But, as you can see, I'm very much alive and I have come to escort you to hell."

Pulling his sword from his scabbard the old man began circling his opponent. The two men's

shadows were cast on the stone walls by a lone flickering candle, the only witness to their

duel.

The sound of their swords clashing, metal against metal resounded in the dark night. It was if

the two were dancers, as they circled each other and prepared to end the other's life.

Would fate again protect them both and allow them to live? Or would the fickle hand of death

choose to claim her victim and end this battle, once and for all between two arch enemies.

Morning's light would answer that question.