Under normal circumstances, Sarah liked libraries. The mystic hush, the musty scent of age and knowledge -- more prosaically known as dust and paper -- were comfortingly sensual as a maternal embrace. Ever since her first childhood copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, library books had beckoned the romantic in her to dance with fairies, vanquish villains and hunt diligently for That Special Frog. The compulsively organized pack rat burrowed deep within her soul squeaked devotion to the library’s holy trinity: Order, Control, Accretion. Verencia College’s library had the added charm of Gothic arches, stained-glass accents, and every bit of noveau-Medievalism that an elderly alumnus with the dubious distinctions of money to burn and a Camelot fetish could buy. Sarah dragged Monty here to study most of the time; she claimed it helped her think, but what it really did was help her dream. Yes, under normal circumstances, Sarah quite liked libraries.

She just didn’t like them this dark.

Black-as-Dr.-Ashby’s-heart dark.

Something-is-definitely-wrong-here dark.

Nice young girl, terrible black oubliette . . .

She licked her dry lips nervously, and cringed at the renewed metallic tang of blood upon her tongue. Fumbling in her pocket for Monty’s Chapstick, she came up empty. For some reason, this propelled her unease to a whole new level, like snatching a security blanket from the grubby clutches of a terrified toddler.

Had she been locked in here alone after closing, forgotten in the oppressive darkness? Weren’t they supposed to flash the lights, as a 15-minute warning, before they did that? The library always closed early on Fridays, though; in a fit of anticipation, some eager would-be weekend reveler might have succumbed to the temptation of premature evacuation.

The solid, silent void pressed against her eyes and ears, eager to smother her senses. She shook her head to dispel an unsettling presentiment of danger. She was surely far too old to be afraid of the dark. Things that go bump in the night, though, obeyed no maturity-imposed statute of limitations, as proven by her response to a sudden sound. She froze like a scared rabbit, an instinctive, if pathetic, gambit by the central nervous system that perfect stillness can equate invisibility.

For a moment, she heard only the frantic rhythm of blood pounding against her eardrums, apparently convinced that it, at least, had a viable escape plan. Then, there it was again: a muffled rumble, low but distinct. Thunder! So that was it. Power failure courtesy of an autumn tempest. And here she was, making a tempest in a teacup again. Brilliant, Sarah. Just peachy. Lucky it’s dark enough that no one can see you blushing like the damn fool you are.

Sighing, she began to grope her way through the rows of shelves, searching for one of the open study areas where the light from the windows was sure to be brighter. Funny how the floor plan seemed so disorienting in the dark. The shelves twisted and turned relentlessly, with no end in sight. Almost like a . . . maze. Deja vue all over again.

Half-formed whispers, furtive stirrings, a veritable cacophony of pseudo-sounds teased and taunted just beyond the edges of her consciousness, playing peek-a-boo with her sanity. They say you hear voices first of all . . . The air itself seemed to thrum with the tension of a violin string tightened to the verge of snapping.

Something brushed against her leg, and she yelped, aiming a killer kick at the culprit -- only to execute an impromptu dance of pain and embarrassment upon discovering that she’d just successfully subdued a footstool. Clenching her fists and teeth in disgust at her paranoia, she forged on grimly. Was it just her imagination, or did the shelves seem to be getting . . . narrower? Closing in? Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,/To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,/And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? . . . O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,/Envisioned with all these hideous fears? Oh, lovely, claustrophobia was all she needed to add to her burgeoning collection of neuroses. First a letter from home, now footstools and bookshelves. What’s going to set you off next, Sarah? An ominous wad of carpet lint?

No goblins. No fireys. No lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Just darkness and you and your obviously deteriorating state of mental health.

Oh, my.

Chill, Sarah. You must chill. Chilly down, even. Don’t lose your head now . . .

“Ouch!” She glowered in frustration, having walked straight into another dead-end wall and ricocheted off a shelf. Where’s a directional worm when you need one, anyway? Muttering a few choice curses under her breath and rubbing her sore shoulder, she retraced her steps and turned left.

Never go that way . . .

She’d been right; the light was a bit brighter when, gasping with relief, she finally emerged into an open study area, courtesy of the twin illuminations of moon and lightning streaming through the sprawling windows. Of course, the faint glow coming from the nearest bookshelf helped as well.

Wait a minute.

What the . . . ?

Warily, her heart in her throat, Sarah inched her way towards the shelf. When she came within a foot or two, the source of the light became evident.

The books were burning.

Tiny tongues of flame licked from within, the pages curling and charring, glue oozing and bubbling in thin rivulets down their spines, drifting columns of smoke rising like conjured spirits. For a second, she could only stare, transfixed, as Shaw, Sophocles and Shakespeare reduced to ashes.

“FIRE!” Scrambling out of her jacket, she began to beat furiously at the flames, which were no whit discouraged by her actions. It seemed rather to perversely fan their hunger, like a bit of exercise and a breath of fresh air can whet an appetite. “FIRE! Somebody, help! Where the hell is everybody!?” The faint crackling of the flames was her only reply. Nobody came. She swung her jacket harder, with little effect, until one sleeve snagged the book on the end of the shelf, dragging it to the floor with a slam that made her stifle a shriek.

Then she saw the title, and couldn’t scream at all.

Black scrollwork and gilded letters on crimson leather. “The Labyrinth.”

A book which was theoretically 280 miles away at the moment, safely stored at home, away from prying eyes. It was glowing with an ember-red heat, pulsing in time to the impossible pace of her own heart. Sarah began to back away slowly, shakily; the cover was bulging and distending as though some powerful entity was clawing at the surface from beneath, struggling to burst through.

Then, in an erupting pillar of crimson fire, it succeeded.

Flung backwards by the sheer force of the explosion, she reflected, with that curious detachment born of certain death, that backing away quickly would have been a much better plan.

Sprawled flat on her back, immersed in choking smoke, and more than a little dazed, Sarah was not having one of her better days. Although, to be perfectly fair, those same three symptoms were often cited by her ne’er-do-well roommate as the hallmarks of a really good party. Groaning slightly, she gingerly shifted her weight sideways and scrambled to her hands and knees. A quick internal census confirmed that all major body parts were indeed still attached and functioning.

Her relief was cut short by a laugh.

Rich and golden as honey, but with no hint of sweetness about it. Crystal-cold.

Its hollow, layered echoes rippled outwards like a seismic shock, displacing all the oxygen from Sarah’s straining lungs. They faded into the inexorable approach of bootheels on the polished floor, like a clock about to strike the 13th hour.

Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . .

No. Not him. It couldn’t be . . .Propelled by the icy rush of adrenaline in her blood, she mentally slapped herself out of stunned bunny mode and moved to rise, to run, only to discover her palms stuck fast to the floor. She jerked and yanked and twisted frantically until her body was slick with sweat, to no avail. Finally, she sagged, panting, her shoulders wrenched almost from their sockets, the skin of her palms stinging and tearing.

Damn. Damndamndamndamndamn . . . her mind screamed over and over, a mindless mantra jammed in an infinite loop. Once, at the tender age of five, she’d managed to superglue her hands to the front door. She’d almost wet herself in terror before her father had managed to free her with the help of industrial solvents and the fire department. Emotionally speaking, she felt five years old again, and incontinent as hell.

Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . .Tick.

As the footsteps drew to a halt, the curtain of smoke parted to reveal a pair of very black, high-heeled boots merging seamlessly into a set of equally black tight-clad legs. A black riding crop tapped speculatively against one slender, well-muscled thigh. The crop was wielded by a slim hand concealed entirely by a black leather glove.

Sarah began to discern a color scheme.

The smoke cleared a bit further. Black yielded abruptly to the crimson velvet of a softly billowing jacket edged at collar and cuffs with black and gold brocade, sashed at the waist with that same brocade, and topped with the inevitable pendant. Red and gold and black, the colors of the book. The colors of fire and power and darkness. You just didn’t get more elemental than that.

Say what you like about the Goblin King; he had a definite sense of style.

She averted her gaze before it reached his face. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t look into those eyes. She dropped her head, and kept a fearful watch on the hand with the riding crop.

The booted legs turned and began to circle her like a vulture, stopping abruptly upon reaching her left side. She stared fixedly at the floor, waiting for a blow which never came. Instead, she heard the soft rustling of his clothing and a slight stirring of the air beside her as he moved. Her skin and spine tingled with the electric charge of a presence drawing ever closer, almost touching. A wisp of hair that was not her own brushed her cheek. The tip of a riding crop traced the bare length of her arm.

“Sarah.” A sibilant whisper, an aural caress. She shivered, his breath hot upon her ear. That infuriating laugh again. “So nice to see you paying proper respect to my authority.” He was clearly referring to her subservient position, on her hands and knees before him.

Blessed anger gave her the courage to turn her head and look him in the eyes. He was sitting back upon his heels beside her, arms draped across his knees with languid grace, the riding crop grasped between his hands. His pallid face was as she remembered it, with its perfect angular economy of expression: glittering skin stretched tight over high cheekbones like knives; eyebrows arched in vicious slashes over a narrow nose; a sensual line to the thin-lipped mouth, curved in a smirk over cruelly pointed teeth; hair luminously white as moonlight, flowing to his shoulders in a wildly spiky cut, a mute reminder of his barn owl alter ego. And his eyes . . . slightly slanted, one blue, one hazel, both unabashedly accented with makeup, both piercing and brilliant and diamond-hard. He was elegance of line personified; it seemed impossible that he could ever make an awkward movement, ever fail to please the eye.

Nonetheless, Sarah was less than pleased to see him. “Let me up NOW, godDAMN you! You have no right to do this to me!” She spat the words with all the bravado she could muster. She was put irresistibly in mind of those Saturday morning cartoons where the mouse bawls out the cat. Just before the cat decides to eat it.

His smirk only broadened into a carnivorous smile, all fangs and glitter and glossy lips. All the better to eat you with, my dear. . . . “I missed you too.” Sarah flinched as he extended his hand, but he only grazed gloved fingertips across her cheek, tracing the curve of bone with a touch devoid of heat and texture, feather-light. “How much you’ve changed, Sarah. And how little. You’re just aching to say ‘it’s not fair’, aren’t you? Go on, let it out. You’ll feel so much better. Although I should warn you that all’s fair in love and war. Ah, I can see the question forming in your eyes: Which is this, then? Maybe a little of both, Sarah. Maybe a little of both.”

“I’m not interested in your stupid riddles, Jareth! Whatever spell you’re using, stop it! You can’t be here, you’re not allowed! I never said the words! I never called you!” Her voice was rising, teetering precariously on the edge of hysteria, and more than ready to leap headlong into the void.

“Sh-sh-shhhh.” Gloved fingertips pressed against her lips. “There are many means of summoning me. Do you really think me that weak, to be constrained by the crude limitations of the spoken word? I know your thoughts, Sarah, better than you do. Saying them aloud would be superfluous by now. Suffice it to say that your pain called, and I came.” His eyes gleamed with arrogant mischief. “And deep down, you’re glad I did.”

Sarah stared daggers. “Don’t flatter yourself.” This was ridiculous; enough was enough. Time to cut short this little stroll down memory lane. Time to haul out the big guns; dump the water on the witch and hope to hell she melts. “You -- have -- no -- power -- over -- me.” She enunciated each word with exquisite clarity and deliberation, a silver bullet aimed towards his wolfish grin.

The smile faded into a calculating stare. He grasped her chin firmly between thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up and to the side, bringing her face level with his. “I beg to differ.”

Then he kissed her.

The jolt of sensation was almost painful -- a blend of blood-warm and leather-cool. His tongue, gentle but insistent, parting her mouth, probing softly, tugging her lower lip between his teeth. She felt herself dissolve into the aching intensity of flesh on flesh. Fever and chills. Surrender, Dorothy, and your little dog, too.

He drew back, looking like a cat who’d contrived to swallow both the cream and the canary in the same mouthful. “I take it you agree with me.” Rising to his feet in one fluid motion, he extended his hand to her. “Here. Let me help you.”

Finding she could move again, she pointedly ignored the proffered hand and stumbled upright, shaking with a combination of fear, fury, and, to be brutally honest, desire. “Don’t you ever touch me again.” She turned her back on him and stomped away, only to walk directly into him when he appeared in her path. Teleportation was, in fact, his very favorite parlor trick; it kept people off balance quite nicely.

He grasped her wrist in a grip of steel, lips twisted mockingly, head cocked to one side in that condescending way he had of making sure you knew he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking down on you. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Sarah, Sarah, you’re so transparent. You know you enjoyed that as much as I did, maybe more. You always were a wretched actress, worse than your mother. Always forgetting your lines, if I recall.” Touché. That was Jareth; he knew just how to ferret out your deepest fears and desires and wave them in front of your nose like a matador flourishes a red flag. Find the chink in your armor, and stab.

“I remembered well enough to beat you, you bastard,” she snarled, but the barb had hit home; her eyes were filling with tears. “Get out of my way. Let me go. Please, just let me go.” She was crying in earnest now, beyond caring if he saw it or not.

His expression softened. “Sarah, look at me. Look at me.” He forced her to meet his gaze. “Why should what I have to say about your acting abilities bother you? Why should Ashby’s opinion matter? It’s because it’s not our voices you hear, Sarah. It’s your own. It’s your own self-doubt made manifest, that nagging voice that’s awakened you in the night for years. I know, Sarah; you can’t lie to me. I’ve seen you in your darkest hours. You could ignore us, but you can’t ignore your heart. You’ve been afraid for a long time, Sarah, and it’s only going to get worse. Much worse.”

“No,” she whispered, almost choking with sobs, trying to shrink away from him into the wall. As the strength in her knees gave out, she slid hopelessly downwards, collapsing into herself like a black hole fashioned of flesh and blood. He followed her down, relentless, his merciless mental onslaught a juggernaut poised to crush her fragile will in what he honestly believed would be a mercy killing. It would be so much better for both of them. They would both be so much happier when she belonged only to him . . . Cruel to be kind, yes. The stained-glass window cast eerie patterns of red and blue upon his face, transforming him into a crazed psychedelic harlequin.

“Listen to me, Sarah. What do you have left in this world? Who do you have left? Your father? He has Toby and Karen, Sarah. You haven’t fit in for a long time. Oh, it’s all become very civilized, but nothing more. Your mother? When has she ever cared for anything but herself? Tell me that. She left you years ago, walked out of your life, and acting isn’t going to bring her back to you, isn’t going to make her care about you.” He plucked a book from the shelf behind her, forcing her to look at the title: Grimm’s Fairy Tales. “Recognize this, Sarah? Of course you do. How many hundreds of times have you read these, identifying with every motherless heroine saddled with a wicked stepmother? The problem is, you know deep down that your stepmother isn’t wicked, and your own mother didn’t even have the decency to die tragically, leaving you with some sentimental fairy-tale memory. You just don’t matter, Sarah, to anyone. Tell me, what do you have to hold on to? What do you have to believe in anymore?”

She was huddled as small as possible now, her pupils tiny pinpoints of despair, whimpering softly, like a wounded animal cut down by his barrage of pointed, poisoned questions. His voice was gentle, tender, soothing as a lullaby as he moved in for the kill. “Sarah, your dreams have turned to ashes in your mouth. Can’t you taste their bitterness on your tongue? That’s what called me to you. I felt your pain, I heard the death-cries of your dreams.” His eyes were positively radiant as they locked onto hers, unblinking. With a flick of the wrist, a crystal rested on his palm, rich with the refracted colors of red velvet and gold, and black at the center, where it touched his gloved hand. “I can give them back to you, Sarah. Take all your dreams and make them new again. Take away every doubt you’ve ever feared, and make everything clear as this crystal. It’s so simple, Sarah. All you have to do is accept it. Accept me.” His lips were almost touching hers now, his exquisitely modulated tone hypnotic beyond imagining. “Give up, Sarah. Give in. Give yourself to me, and I’ll give you . . . everything.”

He reached down and lifted one of her trembling, limp hands, placing it on the crystal, willing her to feel the tranquil coolness of its hard surface, gaze at the seductive depths that disappeared into a blank infinity, a perfect lucidity. He bent close, lips brushing her ear. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I know it hurts. Truth has a way of doing that in your world. But I don’t want to see you hurting, Sarah. I’ve always wanted you, wanted your beauty, your passion. Wanted to make you happy. Wanted to make you mine. Let me help you. Let me love you. Let me take away the pain. Let me take you to that place where nothing ever hurts again.” Stroking her hair, he began to sing.

“Hush now don't cry
Wipe away the teardrop from your eye
You're lying safe in bed
It was all a bad dream
Spinning in your head
Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you leaving the game of life
So here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day
Your dream is over...or has it just begun?

There's a place I like to hide
A doorway that I run to in the night
Relax child, you were there
But only didn't realize it and you were scared
It's a place where you will learn
To face your fears, retrace the tears
And ride the whims of your mind
Commanding in another world
Suddenly, you hear and see
This magic new dimension

I will be watching over you
I am going to help you see it through
I will protect you in the night
I am smiling next to you...in silent lucidity

If you open your mind for me
You won't rely on open eyes to see
The walls you built within
Come tumbling down, and a new world will begin
Living twice at once you learn
You're safe from pain in the dream domain
A soul set free to fly
A round trip journey in your head
Master of illusion, can you realize
Your dream's alive, you can be the guide but

I will be watching over you
I am going to help you see it through
I will protect you in the night
I am smiling next to you...in silent lucidity.”

He was holding her now, cradling and rocking her like a child, her cheek pressed to his chest, weeping into the softness of the folds of red velvet. She was clinging to him, to his promises, slipping into the abyss of his voice.

Then she felt it. The unmistakable sensation of his consciousness seeping into hers, an invasive touch inside the secret corners of her mind, almost like a probing hand trying to worm its way up her skirt. “If you open your mind for me . . .” The bastard.

She jerked violently from his embrace, knocking the crystal ball from his hand and scuttling backwards away from him on her elbows and heels as it shattered. “Stay out of my mind!” For a control freak like Sarah Williams, the notion of mind control was far worse than anything merely physical she could imagine. It represented the utter immolation of self, more consuming then fire. Of course the pain will stop, when you don’t have anything left to feel pain with anymore. Nothing whatsoever to call your own. That was the gist of his little speech, wasn’t it? Sometimes the choice of words says more than words themselves. Want; make; give; take. Insidious little monosyllables. Translation: I want to make you give, so I can take . . . everything.

Anger flared within his eyes, then died as quickly, replaced with an equally terrifying amusement. “Half your mind is mine already, Sarah; the part which called to me. The dark part, the part you fear. What you like to call the subconscious. Although I’ve always preferred the term ‘underground,’ myself. So much more evocative, don’t you think?”

He advanced on her; trapped against the wall, his arms hemming her in on either side with palms pressed to the floor, she could only shrink as far back into herself as possible while he loomed over her prone body, his lips inches from her own, his hair cascading down around her face. Like an avenging angel in eyeshadow, she thought with the crumbling remains of her sanity, resisting the suicidal urge to giggle at the incongruity of the concept. “All that remains, Sarah, is for you to yield the other half to me. The conscious mind. The part which causes you all this pain and conflict. Why do you resist me? Why won’t you accept my gift? What can you possibly hope to win this time? What do you have left that’s worth anything to you?” He lifted his right hand to trace the line of her brow.

“Myself,” she hissed, and rolled hard to the right, jumping to her feet and running for all she was worth, crystal shards crunching beneath her soles. Take that.

He watched her disappear into the rows of bookshelves, a shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. So she wanted a fight, did she? Good. He savored a challenge. The delayed gratification made the inevitable outcome all the sweeter.

The fire had dwindled down to ashes and embers. He contemplated it, rubbing his chin, then waved his hand, producing another crystal. He hefted it in his palm once or twice, then hurled it with ferocity at the bookshelves, where it disappeared in a blinding flash of light.

Let’s just see how she deals with THIS little slice, shall we?

The bookshelves became an inferno.

At least the darkness was no longer a problem. Plenty of light now, for all the good it did her. Unfortunately there was also plenty of heat. Near-fatal quantities of it, in fact.

Sarah ran through corridor after corridor, eyes stinging from the smoke, flames leaping and nipping at her heels. Ash exploded in swirling puffs; chunks of flaming debris fell in her path like a sort of Hell’s Obstacle Course. Burned to death. That had to be the worst possible way to die. She couldn’t believe he’d do this to her; she knew he was damn sick, but this . . .! She forced her ragged breathing to slow, looking wildly about her for some clue where to turn. You’ve been in this library a hundred times, Sarah. You know the way. Just think. Relax and think.

Left. Clear as a voice in her head, the answer came. She sprinted left, a delicious gust of fresh air in her nostrils confirming her instinct. Yes, there it was: an open door! She dived forward-- and ended up clutching the door frame, digging in her fingernails till they bled, scrabbling wildly with her feet to regain her footing back inside the threshold. Below her -- FAR below her -- stretched the Labyrinth, far as the eye could see, aflame with the roseate hues of sunrise. The space between the door and the ground was occupied by a disconcerting expanse of nothingness. Inch by painful inch, she heaved her weight back inside, collapsing in a puddle of exhaustion on all fours. She looked up to see his booted legs in front of her.

Hands on hips, Jareth looked down upon her tauntingly, eyes sparkling at the capital joke of finding her grovelling at his feet for the second time in one night. “Sarah, dear, we’ve simply got to stop meeting like this.” His face grew serious as he walked around her prone form to the doorway, and stepped out into thin air. In a nose-thumbing defiance of all of Monty’s known laws of physics, it held him. Leaning forward slightly, he extended his hand. “Come, Sarah. You’ve fought well, but there’s no reason to fight me anymore. It’s over. It’s time to stop running.”

Swallowing hard, she looked up with a whipped expression. She rose heavily to her feet, eyes downcast.

And bolted. Down the corridor, to the right, and out of sight in an instant.

Jareth crossed his arms in bemusement. “Perhaps she’s a better actress than I gave her credit for.”

She sat bolt upright in bed, choking on a second scream. The wail of the fire alarm faded to the sound of her alarm clock, the flame-glow dulled to the ordinary light of mid-morning.

A dream. Just a dream. A stupid, harmless nightmare. She almost wept with relief.

Swinging her trembling legs off the edge of the bed, the dreamcatcher caught her eye. Sender of Sweet Dreams, eh? She snorted derisively. “No offense, but I don’t think you work worth a damn.” What did she expect? It was, after all, a gift from her mother. When did anything her mother touched work out like it should?

She got up and headed for the bathroom. Turning the doorknob, she gasped with pain, and drew her hand back as if it had been scorched. Oh, God. . . .

It HAD been scorched. Faint but distinct, the redness on both palms throbbed and burned. She stared at them in dawning horror as his song echoed faintly in her memory.

“Your dream is over...or has it just begun?”

Feather image edited from Graphics by Tammy; Moon image edited from Yahright Graphics Archive; Background from Joerg Doehring's Backgrounds.