There are many barefoot human tracks, some men's, some women's. Otherwise, the dún appears to be deserted. Two stone-walled arenas are the centrepieces of the courtyard outside what I assume to be Scathach's dormant fortress. A lone firepit burns weakly, in the final stage before extinction. The soft, drizzling rain pulls from it a coiling trail of smoke.

My arrival upon this isle I remember only as a faraway dream, for I have been at the timeless threshold of the Otherworld. How long I have been exploring the Shadowy One's domain, I cannot say. Wakefulness only just hits me, and not a moment too soon. Seven spears, each launched with cunning aim, all close in fast upon me. I leap to the side, catching only one of the spears with my thigh. I lie on my side, crying out like a fallen stag. Gripping the haft of the spear in a firm grasp, I rip it from my flesh, and deep, red sap seeps from the wound. My attacker emerges, sauntering, from a curtain of mist: Scathach! Wild, wise, treacherous, and beautiful. Her chestnut locks are saturated with rainfall and perspiration, and the plaits lie flat against her wet forehead, neck and shoulders.

I am humiliated to have been taken off guard, but the folly is all my own. I was unwise to have so underestimated the Warrior Queen, and the honour of my race has suffered by my poor example. In spite of the pain, I take the spear in my two hands and kick through the oaken haft with my wounded leg. A fountain of blood spurts with this action, and I grit my teeth with defiance, growling with a passion for vengeance. I stand up, pulling my mantle from my shoulders and casting it to the wind. The misty rain is refreshing on my bare chest and arms, glazing a lustrous sheen over the knotwork markings that adorn my body. I pull off my breeks and tear a strip from the legging to wrap tightly around my thigh. As is the custom of my people, formal battle is done so without clothing. Let my hide be my armour, my chest my shield. If I need anything more, I am no true warrior. Raising my sword - the Claidheamh Mor - high over my head, I scream the slogain of the Targaid Dubh, challenging Scathach to match my own skill.

The Shadowy One appears to be impressed with my exhibition of courage, but she knows the truth, as do I. "Fool. It is not for you to challenge me, but it is I who challenge you." She pulls her own tunic up over her head and tosses it away, her ravishing form approaching me as a daughter of Cruithne. With her sword in hand, she points the blade to a table of assorted weapons. "Choose your arms, warrior," she grins wickedly, twirling her sword adroitly, "and join me for some sport."

"Keep your strange blades, Dark Lass. How am I to know that they have ever stood up against their enemy in battle? And should they have, even a thousand times, none of them have spilled blood by my hand. I carry the Claidheamh Mor, a blade fashioned for and wielded by me only, a sword that has never failed."

Again, I am lost to the half-waking state, the threshold of the Otherworld, where time skews and memory is fractured and fluid, like sunlight beneath the waves. How long have we sparred, I cannot say. A year and a day, perhaps. Scathach and I have been exchanging sword strokes with mounting ferocity, roaring with the passionate frenzy of a lion and his mate. The earth below us and the surrounding trees shudder and tremble at our wrath. Sparks burst between angry blades, singeing our wet skin and adding heat to the kindling we are feeding this Beltane bonfire between us. I can feel her heartbeat each moment the blades connect, and our sparring becomes increasingly intimate. Though I know I am outmatched, I do not let up for a moment or allow my heart to betray me. Instead, I laugh and offer her an attack she does not anticipate: flattery. "Teach me all you know, O Mighty Scathach."

She answers me with a headbutt to my nose. "Take what you like, haughty Drust!" Throbbing and dizzy, I muster up the sun's brilliance from the pit of my stomach and release it with a supernatural Champion's Cry, shattering Scathach's blade and knocking her off her feet. The Sorceress of Battle hurls herself back upright with the lithe dexterity of a cat. In the same instant, she is upon me, clawing with seasoned, meditated accuracy. In an effort to protect my eyes and face, I release the Claidheamh Mor, letting it fall to the ground. I finally manage to cluth Scathach's wrists, pinning her arms behind her head. Then I swiftly throw us both to the ground, preventing her legs from being any use to her. Her skin is warm and wet against my own; we roll across the soft green turf, our mouths locked in the next phase of our match. She leaves the taste of smoked hawthorn and berry juice upon my tongue. Her hands grope at my back and arms, as I pull her as close to me as I am able. Which of us will win at love-making? Gasping between lustful kisses, I ask her again, "Teach me all you know, O Mighty Scathach."

Once again, I tread the threshold of the Otherworld.