The moment that Helena Gustavson saw the Amulet of Orillius, she realized she was dreaming.

Until that point she had thought she was walking through a lightly forested, snow capped valley. The early morning skies were covered with threatening clouds, but sunlight managed to break through the dark barrier at regular intervals. Helena knew at some level that she was in no danger of getting wet. That was the extent of her knowledge, however. Where she was and why she happened to be there were unknowns that she found somewhat disturbing. Direction-wise, her booted feet seemed to be moving of their own accord toward a slight bend where the hill to her left blocked her view of what lay ahead.

Rounding that bend, Helena came upon the site of an official looking dig. Two tents were staked out next to the first of a series of scattered large trenches that had been dug into the floor of the valley. Helena could see two figures standing alongside what looked to be the most recent trench – somewhat behind and to the right of the tents. Compelled, she walked toward them. As she neared, the figures become women. Neither paused in their discussion to note her approach. One was strikingly attractive with long brown hair tied back in a braid, dark brown eyes and prominent cheekbones. She was tall and thin and dressed in a red tank top, grey shorts and brown work boots. Her companion held Helena’s attention for only a moment – long enough to see that she was a pretty, younger woman with blonde, bobbed hair, and a fuller figure. She was dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans and dark work boots.

Helena felt herself drawn to the brunette in a way that went beyond any attraction she had previously felt. And when the woman spoke, a thrill of desire coursed through Helena that both thrilled and surprised her.

"I had Rachel and Sandy working at the western end of Pit C while you finished clearing B. But I called them over here the moment I struck the wall." She gestured down, and Helena was able to momentarily take her eyes off the woman’s dark red lips to note the excavation that was occurring at the base of the trench above which she now stood. She briefly noted that two more women were working in the pit, pulling an assortment of old and broken items out through a person-sized hole in the wall.

"We were far from done on C," commented the blonde. "Why move us two days ahead of schedule?"

The striking woman beckoned the other over to a small fold-out table upon which rested a score of excavated items. Helena moved to follow, always keeping her quarry squarely in sight.

The woman picked up a small bundle of cloth from the table and began unwrapping it. "Because, Chelsie, the very first thing I found when I broke through the wall, was this!"

And it was then that the woman held out the Amulet of Orillius.

So that’s what this is about, Helena thought to herself. The Amulet. I want it so badly, now I’m even dreaming about it.

She watched as the striking woman held it up for her friend to see.

"It’s stunning." The awe was evident from the blonde’s tone.

"I know, and it got me to wondering what else we might find in Pit E …"

A beam of early morning sunlight suddenly struck the Amulet and reflected into Helena’s eyes. She gasped as the image of the Amulet was all but burnt on to her retinas. A sense of urgency unlike any she had ever before felt abruptly assailed her. She cried out with the sheer force of it and fell to her knees. The women remained oblivious to her, engaged in their own conversation about the prize they had inadvertently stumbled across.

The sense of urgency was now compounded by something akin to raw need. Only several times more powerful. And infinitely more exciting.

Because it was a need for the Amulet.

The Amulet that would grant her full title over the Order of Orillius – the Order that she now led, but only in something of a caretaker role that could easily be stripped from her if she was less than careful.

The Amulet before her would end all that. She would be recognized as the rightful ruler, with sole access to the funds passed down through the generations since the Order’s conception in 1658. No-one would dare challenge her. She and her loyal Inner Circle would be the most powerful Order since the original group had formed almost three and half centuries before.

But it was the other, lesser known, benefits of the Amulet that truly caused Helena’s breath to quicken as she squinted against the reflected sunlight flashing across her eyes.

For in that moment she knew with absolute certainty that she was not dreaming, and that the Amulet of Orillius had been found by these four women.

Which meant that she was witnessing the event through a vision.

The light abruptly disappeared as the striking woman re-wrapped the Amulet and put it back down on the table. Helena memorized her face as she sat on the ground. Then she turned around and took as much in of her surroundings as she could. She ignored the women’s continued prattling. It was obvious they were going to be digging for some time. All she had to do was find them.

With lightning quickness, the valley floor and all it contained – the Amulet, the women and the dig – were all jerked away into blackness.

Helena opened her eyes. She was back in her back in her huge bedroom, comfortable in her antique four-poster mahogany bed.

The same could not be said, however, of the tall, gorgeous woman bound stringently to the bottom-right post of the bed. She was naked aside from the shoulder-length, black opera gloves that encased her arms, and a pair of knee-high, patent leather boots. White rope bound her booted ankles, knees, and thighs together, whilst also crushing her legs against the unyielding surface of the pole. Her wrists and elbows were welded together behind the bed support by more of the cinched rope that contrasted nicely (in Helena’s view) with the black satin of her gloves. She was also bound at stomach and chest level, tightly enough that Helena knew she would be sporting rope marks for hours after she was freed. One strand of the rope emerged from between her buttocks and was joined to her wrist bindings – evidence of the incredibly tight crotch rope that divided her labia and pressed painfully against her clitoris. The woman’s blonde hair that fell freely to the base of her spine covered most of her face, but Helena did not have to look hard to see the light blue sports bandage that was wrapped around her head at mouth level half a dozen times. Beneath that, Helena recalled, the woman’s lips were pressed together by a star formation of medical tape that held two pairs of white satin panties prisoner within her mouth.

Helena allowed herself a brief smile of satisfaction. The woman had been bound that way for the entire night and had failed to loosen even a knot of the carefully applied bondage.

Throwing back the covers, she climbed from the bed. The bound woman uttered a barely audible cry of surprise and wearily turned her head to locate Helena.

Exhausted though the woman may have been, Helena did not fail to detect the sparkle of hope in her eyes. She smiled as she walked up along side her. "Not now, Mia. I have important work to do." She reached out to grab Mia’s gagged mouth between thumb and forefinger. "You, however, have … " She glanced down at her watch. "… four more hours to endure."

"Mmmfffggh." It was a protest. But a weak one. After all, Mia had voluntarily submitted to Helena’s embrace the night before.

And she knew it always came with a price.

Helena planted a playful kiss on Mia’s gag, right where her lips would have been, paused to tweak the nipples of her generously proportioned breasts, and spun away.

There was much to be done.

**********

Rachel Murdoch slept uneasily for the second night running. As she tossed and turned thoughts of the amulet they had found filled her mind. But the amulet was only the excuse. The thing that ailed her would have surfaced sooner or later.

When she had finally woke up, she fished for her watch from where it sat on the small collapsible camping seat by the side of her bed. Next to it sat her bedtime reading, Arian’s Alexander the Great, the Loeb classic volume that had the original Greek on the left-hand pages and a translation on the right. Next to that sat a small torch, a cell phone that geography had rendered quite unusable, and the white bra that she had removed before going to bed. She blanched when she saw that. Modesty normally compelled her to tuck her underwear out of sight of her tent-sharing companion. Last night she had been too tired to do so. She looked at her watch. It was half past two in the morning.

The campsite pairing had been simple. They had two tents, each big enough to hold two people and a fair amount of equipment. Cassie, as leader of the dig, had the bigger. It easily contained two camp beds, a couple of crates, which were now being used as tables as well as storage, and the generator needed to heat water and to re-charge lap tops. That tent Cassie shared with Sandy Chan, who like Rachel was working as a research assistant, but without Rachel’s seniority. At twenty-three, Rachel was, in fact, a year younger than Sandy. But Rachel had considerable academic experience, was only six months or so from submitting her PhD, and was well known for her excavation skills.

Rachel shared the second tent with Chelsie Ballard, who was acting as Cassie’s deputy. Like Rachel, Chelsie was an anthropologist, and, at twenty-six, a rising star of the profession. She had just published her PhD dissertation to much acclaim. In it she had argued not only that Scandinavians had penetrated deeper into Russia than had previously been understood, but also that they had colonised the area more thoroughly than thought. If the dig produced the archaeological evidence to support her thesis there would be no holding her back.

Rachel lay back down, pulling the sleeping bag up to her throat as she did so. The night air was cold and she had worn only panties to bed. Once again, she replayed in her mind the dilemma that was keeping her from sleeping.

The letter had arrived just before she left for the dig. She had been offered a post-doc at the University of Cambridge. A lectureship in anthropology was very likely to follow, either in England, where her grandparents still lived, or in the States. Yet Cassie wanted her to go on her next dig. It was larger, more prestigious, and in the probable absence of Chelsie, Cassie had offered her the rôle of deputy director. She would, of course, have to have completed her PhD; but that was true of the post-doc as well. Rachel had to choose between academic study and fieldwork, and she had no idea which to do.

She was still cold. During the day, when it wasn’t raining, shorts and T-shirts were feasible. But at night it got cold. Holding the sleeping bag against her bare breasts with her usual modesty, Rachel sat upright and reached for her T-shirt. It was then that she noticed that the other bed was empty.

**********

Although it was already early evening on the east coast of American, Bianca Daniels was still at work. Bianca was a workaholic. So she sat at her desk pondering a pile of papers that still needed responses and a pile of messages from her personal assistant. Bianca was thirty-nine; but the finest diet and most effective exercise regime money could buy staved of any signs of middle aged spread on a body she clothed in impeccably-tailored business suits and ultra-high heels. She had dark blonde hair, which her coiffeuse had lightened slightly, and blue eyes. She was currently barking instructions into the telephone. She was not alone in the room. Standing across the room from her was a stunning redhead.

"Leave a message for the Governor letting him know that I can make our appointment tomorrow," she instructed her P. A. "Cancel the opera trip on Wednesday and see if you can re-schedule for the following day. Then clear my diary for next week. I’m going on a business trip. … Oh and have Mr Barlowe paged. I want him here as soon a possible. When you’ve done that, contact our German suppliers and request a meeting as soon as possible." There was a pause, while Bianca listened to her P.A., before speaking again. "No," she barked. "Wake them if you have to. Then you can go home."

Bianca put the telephone down a little more forcefully than decorum permitted and then raised it again, tapping in a new number. Seconds later she was connected to her corporate communications head. That call took two minutes. "I’ll need an import license from Russia," she barked, as if talking to an idiot rather than a Harvard MBA. "… Machine tools. Three weeks tomorrow. Make sure that customs here expedite matters. … Oh and while you’re on, have we had any response from Columbia yet? … They’ve accepted. … Excellent."

Bianca put the telephone down more gently this time and looked her redheaded companion in the eyes.

"There, I told you that the Columbian deal would work out," she said smiling. "I can only thank you for the part you played. Without you the deal would never have been successful. Should net me three million dollars profit. One only needs to know how to sugar the pill, don’t you think?"

The redhead said nothing. She just stood ramrod stiff, her eyes fixed on Bianca.

"Now don’t be like that, Saffron," the older woman said. "After all, your role in the soap was going nowhere. I was probably going to have the director kill you off soon anyway."

For the first time that day, Saffron showed surprise.

"Oh, sweetie, didn’t you know?" Bianca said. "I’ve many business interests. I own a thirty per cent share in the company. Quite enough to influence the producer of a silly little daytime TV programme like All My Relations. … No, why don’t you put the past behind you and look to the future. You have excellent assets." Bianca lowered her gaze from the woman’s eyes to her chest. "You just have to get used to showing them in public."

Bianca stood up and walked towards the young actress. "I must say," she said, "that that arm binder does show your boobs off tremendously well."

Saffron Ridgemore squirmed. She was utterly naked and had been for the three weeks since her kidnapping. Her mouth was filled completely with a large leather bung, which felt as if it was filled with lead shot. It bulged her cheeks, pushed down on her tongue and pressed at the back of her throat. It was fixed to a broad, padded leather strap that padlocked so tightly at her nape that it compressed her lips against her teeth. Her arms were behind her, thrust into a leather sheath, which laced up so tightly that it crushed her elbows together. To make worse, there were external straps at wrists and below and even above her elbow joints. Getting her arms to meet above the elbow joint put particular strain on her shoulders, but the effect on her breasts was spectacular and as hard as she tried she could not stop them thrusting out in a way she found particularly embarrassing. Straps from the top of the sheath, ran over her shoulders and above, below and between her breasts to stop the sheath slipping down. They were skin-dentingly tight. Very much worse, however, were the lower straps. The first of these was affixed to the sheath at mid-forearm. It looped around her narrow waist, which it cinched unbearably tight. The second went from the fingertip of the sheath, between her legs, where it cut into her vulva as cruelly as possible, and up to her navel, where it was padlocked to the waist cinch. Courtesy of the crotch strap, any movement of the arms was impossibly painful.

A rope from a ceiling pulley was hitched to her hair and tightened so that she was on tiptoe, her weight almost entirely taken by her scalp. Her legs were pulled wide and fastened to rings in the floor. Her loins were entirely denuded of pubic hair.

Bianca moved forward and cupped Saffron’s large breasts. She played with them for a minute, pleased with the groans that she elicited from her gagged victim. Then, she lowered her right hand to her pubic mound.

"Hum," she sighed. "It’s a little rough. Time you had another shave. Imac depilation cream never lasts quite as long as one hopes."

**********

Rachel stepped into her light-coloured chinos and stooped to pull on her socks and boots. She already wore a butter coloured T-shirt. She hadn’t bothered with her bra.

As she emerged from the tent flap, she could see Chelsie Ballard over by the array of trenches. She was barefoot and wearing a red shirt. It was too long for Rachel to tell whether she was wearing shorts underneath. At five foot, seven, Chelsie was two inches taller than Rachel. She had short, blonde hair cut in a stylish bob.

"Hi," Rachael called as she drew closer. ‘"Couldn’t you sleep either?"

Chelsie appeared not to hear. She was pacing around the trench where they had found the amulet, as if distracted. After a bit, she stopped, acknowledged Rachel’s presence with a wan smile, and tugged modestly at the hem of her T-skirt. Rachel could tell from a flash of white before she did so that Chelsie was not wearing shorts.

Chelsie looked down to the spot where the Amulet had been buried. "I’m sorry," she said.

Rachel was just about to ask her what she meant, when Cassie emerged from the other trench. She looked tousled. But she was fully dressed, wearing blue denims, a plaid shirt, socks and boots, and her long, dark hair had been tied back. She was tall, five foot ten to be precise, and very slim. Without inside knowledge, it would have been impossible to tell that she was thirty-six, a full ten years older than Chelsie, the second oldest member of the team. She carried a cell phone in her right hand.

"What’s this, a night-time party?" she said, grinning. "Or are you just starting work early?"

"Couldn’t sleep," Rachel said spontaneously.

"Me, neither," Chelsie added. To Rachel’s ears the way she said it sounded a little less convincing. She wondered why exactly Chelsie had not been in bed.

"Well, I’m going back up to the ridge and try to use my cell phone again. With any luck the University will have got hold of Rowena by now and I’ll be able to make contact with her. You guys still happy with me bringing her in on this? I really would like to have a metallurgist look at it before we move away. I want a comparison with some of that local ore. Then we can be sure it was imported."

Rachel noted that Chelsie looked unenthusiastic about it, even though it would prove her thesis. But she said nothing.

"Either of you two fancy the walk?" Cassie asked pleasantly.

Chelsie motioned towards her bare legs and feet. "I’m not really dressed for it," she commented. "And besides, I think I ought to get some sleep."

"How about you?" Cassie asked Rachel. "We can talk over your little dilemma. Of course, I’m biased I want you in the field. Not in some stuffed-shirted faculty."

Rachel smiled. "It’ll be my pleasure."

**********

Michael Barlowe was forty-two. But he was still as fit as he had been when he got his first promotion in the army rangers. Now ex-army rangers, and Bianca Daniels’ long time business associate, he was putting his military training to other uses.

As he knocked and entered Bianca’s office, he became aware of two things. The first was that even though it was now nearly eight thirty, Bianca was still at work. She sat hunched over a sheath of papers that other CEOs might delegate to one or more of his or her minions. The second was that there was a naked, redheaded woman, strung up by her hair and perched on the tiptoes of her widely spread legs. She was heavily gagged, of course. Any thing else would have disturbed Bianca’s work.

"You wanted me?" Barlowe asked, as he sat in the armchair across from Bianca’s desk.

Bianca smiled inwardly. She wanted him indeed. Barlowe was very good in bed. Shame he really liked his women tied up and gagged.

"I’ve a job for you. But first, could you please see to Ms Ridgemore?"

Barlowe smiled. "It’d be a pleasure," he said coldly.

Bianca watched as Barlowe went across to the suspended redhead and began to unhook her. As he did so, he fondled her breasts liberally.

"It’s lucky that our Columbian connection liked Ms Ridgemore’s part in All My Relations so much. Adding her in as an incentive worked rather well. It sure beats the trip to the White House to meet you know who and the cocaine parties that our competitors were offering."

Bianca watched as Barlowe led Saffron Ridgemore to the concealed service lift, tucked away in the corner of the plush office. He had left the arm binder on, with its upward-cutting crotch strap, and the actress grimaced with each step. As soon as the lift door closed behind them, Bianca went back to work. Barlowe returned about thirty minutes later. Bianca stood as he entered and immediately sat on the leather office sofa beside him. He put his hand on her thigh. Bianca smiled, and then moved it away.

"Down to work," she ordered.

"Of course."

"Remember my University connection?"

"How can I forget it? You keep reminding me."

Bianca’s expression turned to a momentary grimace before the smile returned.

"Well in addition to sitting on it’s Board, I’ve donated quite generously to the Archaeology Department. That investment is about to pay off."

Barlowe relaxed. "I’m all ears."

"Three years ago a German archaeologist wrote an account of a mystical cult. It was published in German. But there was some coverage in English. The author was named Katya Tesseglier."

"You have a picture of her?" Barlowe interrupted.

"Oh, I’ve more than just a picture. I have some very thorough research." She passed Barlowe a manila envelope. It contained a picture of a striking woman with shoulder-length, platinum blonde hair. The folder was otherwise empty. Barlowe looked puzzled.

"Turn it over. Everything you’ll want to know is written on the rear."

Barlowe reversed the picture. Someone had jotted on the back in neat black handwriting. Dr Katya Tesseglier it read. German. Anthropologist. BA, PhD Heidelberg. Blonde. Aged 27. 5' 10". 36-24-35. 36B bust.

"Very thorough," Barlowe grinned. "How do you find out the bra size and other personal details?"

"Oh, I have my methods," Bianca said with a broad grin on her face. "Now, as I was saying, three years ago Dr Tesseglier published a book on what she named the Order of Orillius. It got little academic notice here. But it did receive a brief notoriety. Tesseglier contested that the origins of the cult were Scandinavian. The press loved the idea that all its members had to be female and natural blondes. One or two tabloids even carried pictures of blonde women in mini length, cut-away robes standing on altars and that sort of thing. Other than that they couldn’t care less. It was a one-day wonder."

"So?" Barlowe asked.

"So," Bianca continued tartly. "Last month, the University financed an archaeological dig of one of the regions where the cult may have began. It was led by Cassandra Nielson."

"You got a picture of her too?"

"Sure."

Bianca handed over a second folder. This one contained a photo of a photogenic woman with dark-brown hair and dark-brown eyes. Barlowe looked at the picture for only an instant, wolf-whistled and then turned it over. On the rear, it read Dr Cassandra Nielson, Archaeologist, BA Yale, PhD MIT. Brunette. Aged 36. 5’10". 36-24-34. 36B bust.

"So. It could be a coincidence."

"Perhaps. But there’s more."

"Go on."

"Nielson asked the University to transfer one of its anthropologists to the dig as her deputy. She’s one of the leading experts on the period identified by Tesseglier as the origin of the cult. And her work has been on Scandinavian influences in Russia."

"Still looks like a coincidence."

"You don’t want a picture this time?"

"Who said so?"

"It’s not easy getting hold of details like these," Bianca mocked, handing him yet another manila folder. Barlowe noticed that there were only two folders left.

Barlowe pulled out the third photograph and looked at the picture. It showed a young woman with short, blonde hair cut in a stylish bob. The former soldier turned to the rear. Dr Chelsie Ballard, it read. Anthropologist. BA, PhD Princeton. Blonde. Age 26. 5’7". 36-25-36. 36C bust.

Bianca paused. Her eyes went to the place where the naked redhead had been tied, then back to Barlowe.

"Of course, it might be a co-incidence except for the involvement of a tabloid journalist called Katrina Misetilen."

"She was the one who …"

"Yes, Michael. She wrote an exposé of my business interests … even hinted that I was some kind of modern-day white slaver."

This time she handed over the manila folder without being asked. The picture showed a striking woman. Her blonde hair styled in a bob like Chelsie Ballard. On the rear was written Katrina Misetilen. Tabloid journalist. Blonde. Age 32. Naturally blonde. 6' 0". 36-25-36. 36D Bust.

Bianca was once again serious. "Misetilen’s paper carried no coverage of Tesseglier’s book at all. It was quite quiet on the subject."

"And you call that evidence?"

"No, but it’s interesting. Because, when the book was published, Tesseglier came to a conference in the States and Misetilen was one of the people she met. She flew out again a week after the dig team left and met Misetilen again. What’s more, a week before they left, Misetilen met with Chelsie Bollard."

"Now, that is interesting."

"Indeed, but there’s more. My contact at the University tells me that yesterday the team of archaeologists made an amazing discovery. So much so that Nielson has asked to have a metallurgist sent out. The University was agreeing to the flight expense when they contacted me. Do you read German?"

"A bit."

Bianca handed over a well-thumbed paperback. Several post-it notes projected book from the top denoting bookmarks. The businesswoman opened it at one place and handed it over. While Barlowe read, she spoke.

"The cult is supposed to have been composed of five women: an inner circle comprising a Grand Priestess and two High Priestesses, and an outer circle of two Servant Priestesses. The Servants are charged with doing everything and anything that the Grand Priestess and High Priestess command. The cult specifies strict age limits on office. The Grand Priestess must be no older than forty, and the High Priestesses and Servant Priestesses no older than thirty. The cult has been charged with recovering the lost Amulet of Orillius. If that ever happens the existing cult members can hold their offices for life. There are also certain treasures which can only be taken hold of once the Amulet has been found."

"And you think that the Amulet has been found?"

"Perhaps."

"And you want it?"

"Of course, I do. But that’s not my main interest. If we get our hands on the Amulet so much the better. But my goal is somewhat different. You’ll see from the first book mark, that the cult is supposed to live among us. What if Misetilen is a cult member? She’d be over thirty, so she must be the High Priestess. She’s blonde. So is Chelsie Ballard. I’m betting that she’s in the cult as well."

"Tesseglier?"

"No. Otherwise she would not have published. But Misetilen and Ballard are a good start. Blonde, professional women, and, what’s more, as a tabloid journalist, Misetilen must have enemies."

"Including you?"

Bianca gave a wry smile. ‘’Yes."

"So you’ll keep her."

"Perhaps. But that’s not my current intention. We’d get a few hundred thousand dollars for both. But think how much the entire cult would be worth. Five natural blondes. Not to mention the novelty factor of a cult. I’d say five million tops. Plus, of course, any archaeologists who get swept up in the action could be sold too."

"So you want me to snatch Misetilen? Make her talk?"

"I did. But guess what? She left for Russia twelve hours after the mystery find was reported to the University."

"Shit!"

"But we still have a lead. My contact at the University tells me that the metallurgist, Rowena Stacey, is flying out tomorrow and I know where she’ll be staying. I want you to go and snatch her. I’ve already made arrangements for a safe house out there. You can take her there and make her talk. But don’t damage her. If she looks as good naked as she does clothed, I intend to add her to the inventory."

She passed over the last of the folders. Barlowe opened it eagerly. The picture showed a stunning woman with black hair cut in a bob. She looked like a brunette version of Chelsie Ballard.

"Not blonde. That’s a change."

He turned the photograph over eagerly. Dr Rowena Stacey, it read. Metallurgist. Brunette. Aged 29.

"Nothing else?"

Bianca smiled. "I’m sure that you’re quite capable of finding out the other statistics yourself."