Willow raised a hand and tried to point, but she was shaking too badly. "Oh, goddess, I can't . . ."

Glory started crawling towards them. Tara scrambled to her feet and helped Willow up. "Inside the chapel, she can't get us there. Come on, honey, come on."

"Dreg, stop them!" Glory commanded.

With a matchless effort, Dreg struggled to stand, determined to serve his god to the last breath and pulse. He managed one step before something broke inside and he fell. "Glorificus . . ." he breathed, turning his head for one last sight of her.

"Dreg?" she whispered. "But--you can't die. Not until I tell you to."

Spike helped Tara haul Willow into the safety of the chapel, then turned with a grin. "And that's the last item on tonight's to-do list. Now we just hurt you."

Glory barely blocked his fists, but he could still only inflict minimal damage. "Change, damn you," he snarled. "Change so I can kill you."

Xander watched, appalled and afraid, wondering how on earth they could finish this. Everybody was dead except for Glory, the Scoobies, and the nuns, and Glory kept right on surviving, like the grandfather of rats, who lurks in the corners of the basement and watches you in the middle of the night. Not that Xander ever admitted to seeing glowing eyes in the dark there in the Basement of Doom. Maybe Glory was the God of Rats, because she just wouldn't die.

In the chapel, Tara helped Willow collapse into one of the pews. Joyce hobbled up, gasping relief, but Tara only spared her a smile before turning to Sister Agnes. "Sister, what miraculous powers is St. Eugene's cup supposed to possess?"

Sister Agnes could only blink for a few seconds. "You're Tara."

Tara took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm Tara, we weren't formally introduced, thank you for all your help. St. Eugene's cup, what does it do? I touched it before, and I saw Glory in it, on her way here."

Sister Agnes shook herself back into "deal with it" mode. "The actual cup that St. Eugene created shows a person the way of his or her death. You didn't see Glory--killing anyone, you just saw her coming?"

"Yes. Is this cup supposed to be able to see things far away?"

"I--all that's ever been said is that you can see revelations, and sometimes people who are most on your mind. One of the early records speaks of the cup being used to reassure people who were worried about the families they'd left behind when they traveled here to the frontier, but I've never seen any sign of this being so."

"Maybe you never had a witch touching it before." She maneuvered around Joyce and went to the statue of St. Eugene.

Willow straightened as best she could. "Tara, what are you doing?"

Tara didn't answer but put her hands around the cup, resting them on the carved hands of the demon saint. Immediately the water in the cup began to glow. "Please, work," she whispered. "Aradia, protectress, Hecate, seer, show me what I seek. Isis, who transcends, everywhere and nowhere, within and without, show me." The water swirled, showed fragments, Spike beating on Glory, Glory slowly getting her strength back.

Sister Agnes took an uncertain step forward. "I don't think she should be doing that here."

Tara looked up and stared into the statue's stone eyes. "St. Eugene, who served humans and demons alike, who brought solace and protection regardless of species, let me through. Let me see."

Golden light burst forth from the cup, and Tara's hair blew away from her face. "Thank you," she breathed.

In the cup she saw Buffy and Dawn, curled together asleep. Giles sat a few feet away, his sword across his lap. His lips moved, as if he were singing to himself.

"Buffy," Tara called softly. "Buffy, wake up. We need you."

Xander yelled outside, sounding scared. Tara heard Joyce gasp a word Tara didn't think anybody's mother would ever use in public. She focused harder on the vision in the cup, even as her head began throbbing and her vision blurred.

"Buffy, we're losing. Please, wake up. We need you."

She gasped and sagged into Sister Agnes' arms. "Easy, nina, easy."

"Sister, I'm sorry, I know they're not your gods, but I meant no evil, I swear. . . "

The nun helped her to sit next to Willow. "If it were evil you were trying to work, I doubt the saint would have let it work."

Willow brushed Tara's hair back from her sweaty forehead. "Baby, what were you doing? I touched that cup, but it never did anything for me."

"I--I was calling for help. I hope it got through.

In the land of perpetual Wednesday, under a pink and grey sky, Buffy's eyes popped open. "Oh, my god, I just had the most horrible dream."

Yeah, things should go quick from here.

Hmmmm.

I never do more than one drabble, but for some reason, this week's theme seems to have provoked two.

Be Sure You Mark The Board "Private"

He almost never loses at this game.

Literati is far more fun than realworld Scrabble. Here, he can pick and choose his gaming partners; there's no puppy-eyed pouts simply because he doesn't choose to play with TV-educated American teenagers who think words like "hellacool" are legitimate.

It helps, of course, that he's a librarian. It also helps that none of his onscreen co-players could possibly see his online ID - "OxBlood56" - and link it up to Rupert Giles, librarian, watcher, university sorcerer.

Until, one day, someone crashes a game and types "Hello, Ripper."

And the user ID is RayneMagix.

First time ever, I actually did all three of the three Sunday100 allows.

"Not All Sidewalks Are Safe" (rated G, spoiler free)

The chalked set of squares on the pavement hadn't been there that morning. Anya was certain of it.

"What on earth is that? Why is it on the ground in front of my shop?"

"It's just a hopscotch board." Dawn sounded regretful. "I haven't played hopscotch since I was, like, nine, when those mean twins down the street chased me away. Those girls made me cry."

She hopped, first on one leg then on two. "I wish I had them here; I'd kick their asses, mean little brats."

As she hit the final square, the pavement opened.

"DONE!" screamed Halfrek.

Wow, Deb, was so not expecting that.

Okay, here's a little something...it won't be an epic like my last one. Homicide/Buffyverse Kay/ Whistler

To say that Kay Howard started that night pissed off was the understatement of the year. She'd been here twenty minutes already and had that loser friend of John's even called yet? No. And she'd gone to some trouble tonight, shaving all the way up her thigh and everything. And she never did that. Only for special occasions. And if she ever met the guy(and it had to be a guy) that designed these shoes, he would learn something about the business end of a service revolver. Sighing, she opened her purse, found her cell phone and called Munch.
" Don't help me, ok? Cause I could end up alone in a bar without you helping. And don't ask me to explain Women to you anymore. I'm not so good at Special Ed."

"Who is this?" he asked, sense of humor bigger than his brain, as usual.
"Ha fucking Ha. Always the comedian."
"I aim to please."

"Well, you missed".

His voice softened. "Aw, Kay, I could come down there, if you want."

" Great, then I can be your pity date."

"Don't underestimate pity. Some of my best wives were pity dates once. He's a good guy, Kay. He'll show. It's you, after all."

"If he doesn't, I can hunt you down like a dog then, hmm."

"I love it when you think win-win."
"Idiot." She hung up.

Oh my.

KAY!!!!!

When she's done shooting the shoe designer, I'm hooking up and buying her a drink, damnit.

Yeah. Me too, for all the gals that some dumb guy didn't find "fuckable" enough.

Hell, I love my high heels, colour me Jimmy Choo's bitch, but I never went on a date in my life, I loathe whole concept of "fuckable enough" (bunch of stupid bullshit, man, we have all got the necessaries, you know?).

I know precisely where she's coming from and I would love to shoot Manolo Blahnik, just for feeding my inner narcissist with so much pain. High heels, much as I adore them, are of the evil.

Yeah, well I wouldn't know. But it's a fairly universal women's complaint, otherwise. And I thought more for Kay, since she doesn't dress up all the time. And I think Mr. Blahnik should be very careful crossing the street if she is after him.