Grimstone, tears frozen to his face, looked down at his new son and gently brushed aside some of the thick black hair he had been born with--hair so like his mother's. In the infant's eyes--eyes that seemed to see more than they should so early--eyes that seemed to see more deeply than even a mature man can normally see--in those large clear grey eyes Grimstone could see the best of Neti and perhaps a little of himself. Hopefully the best of him, precious little that would be, he thought at the time.

Resting his hand on the baby's chest, a look of puzzlement crossed the man's face. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed as though the baby's heartbeat came not so much from the expected place, left of centre, but rather right of centre. He was just happy that the boy's heart was beating at all! But it also made him sad. What good is life if it is to be lost so soon?

"You have fascinating eyes, little one," he said to the child in his arms, "as cold as ice, grey as winter clouds, but with a burning spark of blue flame behind the coldness. If only that fire in you were enough to keep us warm!"

How long Grimstone sat there, by the side of his wife's body, his child in his arms, wrapped in a blanket and his long buckskin coat, he had no way of knowing. However, the fire before him in the cave had reduced itself to glowing embers, producing an eerie red light, and the heat had begun to dissipate so much that he began to feel as if the blood were freezing in his veins.

Above the howl of the wind Grimstone became dimly aware of a similar sound--the sound of many wolves howling in the night. The wahrwolf, he thought, thinking back with sorrow upon good old Odolf Rambert.

"The old Indian was right," he said to the child. "I should have listened to Joseph Long House. He knew. He said that I would die in these mountains. But it is not fair that you should die with me, little one. If only the blizzard would let up. At least then we might have some kind of a chance."

Again the howl of the wind was answered by a pack of wolves, and this time Grimstone thought that he heard another sound, a sound like the flapping of great wings just outside of the cave entrance. He thought fleetingly of the angel of death.

Then he heard the footsteps.

Someone--or something--was walking into the cave. At first his heart leaped with joy, thinking that someone had found him and that he and the infant would be rescued, but then a forboding entered his heart and held his tongue before he could call out for assistance. There was something unusual about the sound of those footfalls, but because camp had been made in a deep niche he could not see the entrance of the cave nor could he see whoever--or whatever--it was that slowly came closer and closer. Grimstone's right hand, his baby cradled in his left arm, strayed carefully to the hilt of the ancient Egyptian dagger.

Closer the footfalls came--closer came whatever it was that was making the sound. The nearer it came, the more convinced Grimstone was that no man approached him in the dimly lit cave. And if not a man, what?

Grimstone's half frozen hand clutched the hilt of the dagger, then he slid the weapon back until he held it against his hip and somewhat out of sight, ready to strike if necessary.

For a moment the strange footfalls stopped, but the silence that ensued was soon filled by a sound that the Englishman easily recognized--the panting and padding of wolves. But what led them?

Every muscle in the man's body that could respond to the situation, unbound by cold and a long period of immobility, tensed, ready for the attack he felt certain had to come. Then the odd footsteps began again, this time accompanied by what Grimstone knew had to be a pack of wolves.

Around the corner it came, its piercing eyes seeming to almost glow in the dim reddish light of the dying fire. Its talons dug into the frozen earth of the cave floor as the creature moved closer towards him, its eyes fixed on his. Then it stopped and stood there, its head jerking down and jerking to an angle, regarding the child in the man's arms before again snapping to an upright position to fix its gaze once more upon Grimstone.

The archaeologist could hardly believe his eyes. At first he thought that he had to be hallucinating. Yet even in that dim reddish light the reality of the situation was unmistakable. Before him stood the largest hawk he had ever seen in his life, yet a creature that walked more like a man than a fowl, and he could not shake the impression that intelligence lurked behind those round, dark, fierce eyes.

Impossibility upon impossibility, a pack of wolves padded up behind the hawk, but with no intention of harming the bird. It looked, in fact, as if the bird had actually led them and that they regarded the feathered creature as their superior in some way. After the wolves came to a quiet halt behind the hawk, their eyes catching and reflecting the dim firelight, the bird of prey took a few more steps forward, towards the man and child, then again jerked its head down and to the side to examine the infant before looking once more to the man.

Without warning, the great creature spread out its wings, extending them well beyond six feet, threw its head back and let out a cry that tore through the stillness of the night, echoing throughout the cave and the ice encrusted mountains. At that moment a great light seemed to fill the cavern, a brilliant, blinding light, and the man tried to convince himself that the source had to be a flare up of his own dying fire. Reason demanded such an answer, but his heart told him something entirely different.

When the great hawk folded its tremendous wings back against its sides, the sudden burst of light died down until the grotto was again eerily lit red by the expiring illumination of the man's campfire.

The hawk's head snapped around to regard the pack of wolves behind it that seemed to stand quietly in awe and with respect as a large grey-black she-wolf separated herself from the rest. With head and tail down, but with eyes always on the man, she moved forward, past the warrior of the air.

The she-wolf halted, glancing down at the child, then back up at the man who was slowly freezing to death. Then the predator, panting, glanced down at the man's tense right hand, still clutching the haft of the ancient dagger, ready to strike out in defense if the need arose. Looking back into the man's face, the she-wolf's canine visage assumed a fascinatingly human expression of sorrowful disappointment. Grimstone felt that the animal had actually expected the man to trust her and felt hurt that he expected to be attacked and killed.

The hawk let out another cry, but more subtle than before. The first time it seemed as if the bird of prey had been identifying itself, announcing itself, almost as would a potentate expecting and demanding respect. This time, however, the fowl seemed to be interested only in regaining the human's attention.

Grimstone looked again into the eyes of the hawk, its face less capable of mimicking--or showing--emotion than the wolf's, and yet the man felt an unmistakable compassion behind those staring eyes--a compassion he once thought only humans could feel and express, although they seldom do.

He felt an almost religious respect for the lord of the air, and he sensed that neither the hawk nor the wolves meant him or his newborn child any harm, although his feelings flew in the face of reason.

Very gently the she-wolf, after glancing back at the hawk as if for reassurance, approached the man, her cold muzzle nudging his arm away from the baby that he held.

"You...you want my son?"

Grimstone's voice was but a whisper. His tone one of incredulity. If not as prey, what use could these beasts have for a human infant? Why on earth would they want a human baby--his baby, his only begotten son?

"Why?" he gasped, as if expecting the animals to talk.

Again the she-wolf gently nudged his arm with its cold, wet nose.

The baby freed one tiny hand and touched the black nose of the wolf, smiled and gurgled. The animal did not snap at the little pink hand--did not make a single move of aggression, fear or annoyance. Instead the she-wolf licked the baby's hand--licked it gently, sweetly, not at all as if it were tasting food before devouring it.

"I...I don't understand."

Grimstone looked up into the eyes of the hawk. The warrior bird jerked its head to gaze upon the still, freezing body of the baby's mother, blinked and then looked back into the man's eyes. He understood. Yes, he was dying. There was no denying it. Even the birth of his son had failed to give him the will to live, and with things as they were he doubted that he could keep himself alive anyway, let alone protect his newborn son from death.

"You want me to give you my son?" he asked the she-wolf with absolute amazement.

The animal lifted one brow, dropped it and lifted the other while she tilted her head as if to say: Why yes...what else can you do?

"But I...I just can't..."

And the she-wolf did an even more remarkable thing. She took another step forward and rested her head gently upon the man's shoulder, not only giving the man the impression of being embraced with love and compassion, but Grimstone also felt with absolute conviction that the beast was telling him: Here...here is my breast. To kill me you would but have to lift your arm and thrust your weapon into my heart. I will not resist for I trust you. I ask that you trust me.

Tears again appeared in Grimstone's blue eyes and rolled down his face. The she-wolf lifted her head from his shoulder, nuzzled the side of his face, and gently licked away a salty tear.

The rugged man was moved beyond the expression of mere words. Except for the love Neti had freely given him in great abundance, he had never experienced such intense humanity before.

Slowly, Grimstone pulled his arm away from the baby so that he lay on his lap bundled in the blanket and his long buckskin coat. The she-wolf gave him a gentle look and then lowered her head to pick up the child by fastening her sharp fangs in the material, careful not to come anywhere near the infant's tender pink flesh.

"Wait," Grimstone said. The wolf responded as if she understood. Very carefully the Englishman lifted the ancient Egyptian dagger in one hand and its oil cloth wrapping in the other. He studied the remarkably sharp iron-alloy edge of the weapon and read again the heiroglyphs engraved upon the curious blade--pictographs that he himself had decyphered.

"'Into whose hands this dagger rests, also rests the power of the Son behind the Sun, Horus the Avenger.'"

Carefully he wrapped the blade in the oil cloth.

"This is all that I have to give my son. His only birthright. Perhaps it will be a sign by which he will come to know his father one day. Maybe it will be a sign of his power in the world...a symbol by which the gods may recognize him as one of their beloved children."

Grimstone slipped the dagger, wrapped in its cloth, into the folds of the buckskin coat.

"This is crazy," the professor said, gazing into the face of his newborn son, "but somehow it seems like the only right thing to do. I love you, my son."

Then the she-wolf turned and with the child melted away into the cold, dark night, silently followed by the pack.

For but a moment more the great hawk stood there before the man, then it too turned and left the cavern, spreading its tremendous wings once again and rising high into the dark night, undaunted by the raging blizzard--rising high above the clouds, into the star-filled heavens that the ancient ones of Khem personified as the great Goddess Nuit.

A sense of perfect peace descended upon Professor Jonathan Ethan Grimstone as he sat there by the side of his beloved Neti's cold body. The embers of his fire died out completely while the red ember of the man's heart also became cold and lifeless.

Two days later old Joseph Long House, with his two sons, went into the mountains feeling guilty about leaving the Englishman and his wife go with Odolf Rambert, not recognized by him to be a very capable guide. They found the body of Grimstone and Neti in the cave.

If not for the snow and debris pushed down the mountain by the avalanche, the old Seneca Indian and his sons might have reached the Grimstones two, maybe three days earlier. As it was, having to find another route around the debris, they arrived too late to help the people.

"He's dead, father."

Joseph Long House just grunted, bending over the still, frozen form of the Egyptian woman. He could see as they walked into the cavern that both of them were dead. They body of Odolf Rambert would not be found for many years, covered at the time by ice and snow.

"This woman gave birth before dying," Long House said.

The old Indian's other son moved the few blankets and things aside.

"There is no child here."

Joseph Long House looked at the ground, hardly disturbed by the three men when they entered the cave. He pointed to the tracks in the earth as he spoke.

"Wolves. And a hawk...a very large one."

"Eaten by wolves," the eldest son gasped.

Joseph Long House shook his head.

"Not eaten. The wolves took the baby. The man did not struggle."

"He let the wolves take his baby?" the youngest son said with great disbelief.

Long House grunted assent.

"He must have been a monster," the eldest son said, glancing at the man's face, frozen in death.

"Look at his face," the old Indian commanded.

The eldest son did as he had been told, as was his habit.

"Tears. Tears frozen on his face."

"He did what he had to do," the experienced father remarked. "It was the will of the Great Spirit."

Joseph Long House, with a little difficulty, rose to his feet, his sons following suit.

"Then he was a wise man, a holy man?" the youngest son asked.

Joseph Long House looked down at Grimstone's frozen features.

"Maybe he was a good man, but he was not a wise man. Not this time."

As the old Indian and his sons left the cave, Joseph Long House stopped a moment and glanced back, shaking his head.

"Crazy white man."

And so, another legend began, men knowing not how much of it might be true and how much of it might be the fancy of storytellers.