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Montana Jones and the Tomb of Tortutikal

laughter_n_love

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"Sonofabitch!" she whispered to herself. "It's a friggin wax museum!"

The oil lamp was heavily muted to give off only the weakest light, so it was through fully dilated pupils that she cautiously
surveyed her surroundings. All about her were life-sized depictions of Pharaohs and Queens; a who's who of ancient Egypt. A
skilled artist had bestowed the figures with realistic poses and lifelike expressions, but it was not enough to overcome the
unnerving emptiness of their eyes; blank, glossy eyes, unblinking and unseeing, forever staring lifelessly ahead. A chill ran
down her spine as she moved silently about; for though she knew it was only a trick of the low light, it appeared that the
statuesque figures moved as she moved, and the eyes that could not see followed her as she passed. It was as if she had
stumbled upon a party of Egypt's most famous royalty, but their conversations had died and their camaraderie had ceased as
they suspiciously inspected this stranger who crept about in their midst.

"This can't be right," she thought to herself. "I must have made a mistake." She carefully withdrew the tattered map from
her pocket and squinted at it in the semi-darkness. There was no doubt about it. If the map could be believed, this is where
the trail ended. A wax museum in Cairo.

A grimace of frustration crossed her features. Not for the first time, she questioned the authenticity of this mysterious
map. It looked too old, too worn, like someone had intentionally tried to make it look ancient. Years of study and multiple
travels abroad had yielded enough examples for her to know that truly ancient artifacts didn't have to look old, they just
were. Fakes were easily spotted. This fragile map, however, with it's faded markings and well-creased folds, was not so
easily categorized. It was of unknown origin and an indeterminate age. Was she holding a priceless relic from a distant era,
or had she been lured in by a brilliant hoax?

Adding to the mystery were the odd circumstances surrounding how the map had come into her possession in the first place. It
had been delivered to her office at the University, sealed in an unmarked envelope with no return address. No letter had
accompanied it. No one had telephoned in regards to it. Whoever had sent it had known that no explanation would be
necessary.

Experts on ancient Egypt were a dime a dozen, and any number of historians could have translated the forgotten writings on the
map. But how many others could also match her insatiable love for excitement and adventure? How many would abruptly abandon
their duties mid-semester to follow the map themselves? And who among them would find the subject matter of this map so near
and dear to their own hearts? Only Dr. Montana Jones, professor of archaeology and part-time professional treasure seeker,
fit the bill.

Someone had researched her well.

"Go if you must," Dean Marcus had said. "I will cover your classes. But please be careful. I fear there is more to this
business than meets the eye."

"What do you mean?" Montana had asked. In her eagerness to get started, she'd thought little about potential dangers.

"Well come now, Montana. Don't you see that this is a trap?"

"Oh, Marcus! You sound like my mother! What are you talking about?"

The elderly Dean had smiled tenderly at the irony. Montana had been his student, his best student, and now she was among his
most decorated and respected educators. They shared a passion for history and knowledge that made them kindred souls, though
unlike his protg, he was quite content to conduct his research in the comfort and safety of a well-stocked library. He would
always look upon her as a father looks upon his daughter, elated at her discoveries, yet fearful of her unchecked enthusiasm.
She was brilliant, yet had so much to learn. "There are no markings on the envelope. The sender cannot be identified," he
said patiently.

"So?"

"So, that means one of two things. One, that you are meant to find this tomb for yourself. You are to make the most
significant archaeological discovery of the twentieth century, become the envy of your peers, and parlay your findings into
great personal fortune and glory."

Montana had grinned, liking the scenario. "Or?"

"Or two, and much more likely, is that you are to find this tomb so that others can take from you what you discover inside.
Can't you see that?"

Montana had paused slightly, then flashed her charming smile at him. "Marcus, you and your conspiracy theories! My passion
for finding the Tomb of Tortutikal is no secret among those in the intellectual community. I think someone just wants me to
fulfill my life's ambition!"

Marcus had shook his head and frowned. "And I think someone knows this is bait that you can't resist."

Tortutikal, the Forgotten Pharaoh. The whole reason Montana had turned to archaeology in the first place. Tortutikal's reign
as the King of Egypt had been a period of only months, which is why most history books neglected to even mention him, but
nevertheless, he was a riveting historical character to study. His passion for deviant sexual practices qualified him as
possibly the world's first recorded fetishist. He was said to have kept a harem of concubines that he sexually tortured for
his own twisted pleasure. The history books had offered little else about this enigmatic figure, but Montana found him too
fascinating to dismiss so quickly. Discovering all there was to know about Tortutikal had become her hobby, her passion, and
practically her whole life. For the past twelve years, since she had first learned of Tortutikal in her Junior year of high
school, Montana had sought to unravel the mysteries surrounding the Forgotten Pharaoh.

Where was he buried? His tomb remained undiscovered.

Was he a sadistic monster, or a misunderstood monarch? The answer was unknown.

How did he torture his concubines, and more importantly, why? With no backing evidence to support their theories, few books
even bothered to speculate.

One text which Montana often referred to in her research theorized that the modern day English word for "tickle" was derived
from Tortutikal's name, though she thought this to be a stretch. "Torture" was more likely, but she knew this to be derived
from the Latin word tortura, "to twist". "Tickle" just didn't fit the profile of a sadistic king.

Though the history books in general had done a terrible job in recording Tortutikal's legacy, Montana had not let this deter
her from discovering all there was to know about him. She had traveled to Egypt on a number of occasions to unlock his
mystery, and each time she had come away with some new clue about his life and times. She had discovered that the spotted
hyena had been the symbol of his reign, which was odd in that it was not an animal indigenous to Egypt. She had learned of
the decorative jeweled anklets worn by all his concubines, although none had ever been recovered. And most fascinating of
all, she had heard it rumored that his burial site, the Tomb of Tortutikal, contained not only his sarcophagus and those of
his concubines, but also the ancient tools of torture that he used on them. If this were true, then the discovery of his tomb
would answer many of the long-standing questions surrounding the Forgotten Pharaoh. Sadly, Montana had never been able to
unearth any clues as to it's whereabouts.

In a wax museum in downtown Cairo, illuminated only by the light of her dim oil lamp, Montana held a map that indicated the
exact location of the Tomb of Tortutikal. She was standing in it.

Montana checked her watch. Sunrise was many hours off, and she knew that no watch patrolled in this desolate part of the
city. No one had notice her pick the lock, and no one would see the faint glimmer of her lamp from the street. She had
plenty of time to solve this mystery without fear of discovery.

"What am I missing?" she asked herself. She studied the map yet again. There were but few markings on it, but the trail
clearly led to this spot. A literal red "X" marked her current location, with a single line of text written in ancient
Egyptian scrawled below it.

"Tortutikal's ultimate prize beckons!"

Those few historians who actually found Tortutikal worthy of study would have agreed that his ultimate prize could only mean
one thing; his tomb. Montana had ruled out all other possibilities; this map was clearly intended to reveal the location of
his burial site. Even the skeptic Marcus had agreed. Yet instead of discovering the greatest archaeological find of her
career, Montana found the inside of a nondescript museum, empty except for a display of wax figures with unblinking eyes. An
overwhelming sense of disappointment threatened to crush her spirit.

She clenched her teeth. "No, there must be something else. There must be some clue that I'm overlooking!" She was too close
to the answers to give up now.

Tutankhamun, Ramesses, Cleopatra. They were all there; all represented as history had remembered them. The workmanship in
their faces and bodies was excellent, and Montana was able to recognize many of them without reading the attached biography
cards. As Montana had suspected, there was no figure for Tortutikal, history's Forgotten Pharaoh. That would have been too
easy.

She came across one figure that she did not immediately recognize, a nearly nude woman, exquisitely beautiful, decorated in
gold jewelry from head to toe, with the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Her head was turned sharply to the left, her
arms were raised by her sides and awkwardly bent at the elbows, and her hands were flat, facing the ceiling. It was the
classic and erroneous "Egyptian Walk" pose, oddly out of place among the other figures all modeled in such lifelike positions.
Montana squinted and read the name placard. "Nefertiti."

"Who did you piss off to get stuck in this position?" Montana whispered to the wax Nefertiti.

She about to continue her inspection of the museum when suddenly a bell went off in Montana's head. Her mind raced through
more than a decade's worth of research on Tortutikal and ancient Egypt, trying to recall an obscure reference which was
suddenly critically important to remember. Something about Nefertiti. Something about Tortutikal and Nefertiti. She began
to remember...

Buried in one massive volume on the life of Nefertiti had been a snippet of text, a footnote actually, where Tortutikal's name
had been mentioned. Montana would have dismissed it completely at the time if she were not so fascinated by any and all
information of her favorite enigmatic figure. The text had said something to effect that before Nefertiti's own rise to
power, when she was very young, the Pharaoh had made multiple attempts to court and woo her, all to no avail. The footnote
revealed that that Pharaoh had been Tortutikal. The text had not considered the matter worthy of delving into further detail.

Montana knew that Nefertiti was considered at the time to be the most beautiful woman in Egypt. If the history books were
correct, there was no doubt that a man of Tortutikal's sexual appetites would have made advances towards her. Tortutikal, a
king among his people, with the power to enslave women for his own perverse sexual desires, who kept a harem of inexplicably
loyal playthings, would have undoubtedly wanted to add Egypt's most desirable maiden to his stable. He would have been
powerless to do otherwise. He would have wanted her, wanted her to submit to him, wanted to conquer her, to break her, and
claim her for his own. He would have subjected her to his dark sexual tortures, watched her naked form writhe helplessly
before him, a slave to his every whim...

Montana felt herself swooning and steadied herself.

None of that had happened. Nefertiti had successfully resisted his advances, and while Tortutikal had all but faded from
memory, she had gone on to become arguably the most powerful woman Egypt had ever known.

"Tortutikal's ultimate prize beckons!"

Montana's eyes grew wide and her mouth opened slightly. Suddenly she understood.

Nefertiti was Tortutikal's ultimate prize.

Montana's heart began to beat with excitement. This was what the map had intended her to find. The words had a double
meaning. The key to discovering history's interpretation of Tortutikal's ultimate prize, his tomb, lie in his own idea of the
ultimate prize, Nefertiti.

Montana eyed the figure more closely. There must be a clue hidden on or around the wax Nefertiti that would reveal the
location of the Tomb of Tortutikal. Some clue that would lead her to her prize. She circled the figure and inspected it
thoroughly. Her inspection revealed nothing.

Doubt began to creep into her brain. Perhaps she had been wrong about the clue on the map. Perhaps there was something else
hidden within the museum that would reveal the location of Tortutikal's tomb. "No," she said aloud. "I know this is where
the map was leading. I can feel it."

Other than the awkward position of the head and arms, there was nothing historically wrong with the wax Nefertiti that would
stand out to the trained eye. No piece of jewelry that was out of place. No misuse of color that would be blatantly obvious
to an expert such as herself. Then something caught her eye.

Along the corner the mouth of the wax Nefertiti was a crease. It was so slight, so carefully blended into the face, that it
was almost beyond detection. But it was definitely there. Montana followed the line of the crease with her finger and found
that it ran under the chin and around to the far corner of the mouth. She blinked in surprise. Was this wax figure in
reality a giant Nutcracker?

Montana was convinced that the mouth of Nefertiti was a compartment of some sort, a hidden compartment that the thousands of
tourists visiting the museum year after year would never detect. She was further convinced that this compartment held the key
to finding the tomb of Tortutikal. But how to open it?

The crease along the mouth was so fine that Montana could not wedge her nails into it to force the chin down. She thought
briefly about forcing it open with her pick, but decided against it. It might be booby-trapped, or the contents within might
be delicate, perishing if the mouth were opened improperly. She knew there must be a 'right' way to open the mouth that
didn't involve destroying the figure, but hadn't a clue as to what that 'right' way might be.

Something made her look under Nefertiti's arm. She couldn't say why, but that's where she felt her gaze being drawn. There,
nestled deep within the hollow of the underarm, almost imperceptible to the naked eye, was the tiniest of levers. An
identical lever was discovered under the opposite arm in the same location. "What on earth?" Montana thought.

The minuscule levers were too small for her to grasp. They were so small in fact that she found she could not manipulate them
with even the pads of her fingers. She found that in order to pull one of the levers towards her as she faced the front of
the wax Nefertiti, she needed to use the tip of her fingernail. She tried this on the left underarm lever, and nothing
happened. The same thing nothing when she tried the right.

"Hmmmm..." she thought. "I know I'm close."

She tried coaxing with her nails both of the tiny lever towards her at the same time, and something happened. A second tiny
lever popped up in each wax underarm, directly below the originals. Montana gushed with excitement. She moved to pull the
second levers towards her as she had done the first, but before she could, the first set of levers snapped back to their
starting positions, and the second set disappeared altogether.

The urge to stamp her foot in frustration arose within her. "It's okay," she whispered aloud, hoping to calm herself with the
sound of her own soothing voice. "You're making progress."

Using the nails of her index fingers, she again pulled the tiny levers towards her, and again, the second set of levers popped
up. This time keeping her index fingers on the first set of levers to hold them in place, she pulled the second set towards
her with the nails of her middle fingers. A third set of levers appeared.

"Ahhhhhhh," she thought triumphantly. "I've solved your riddle."

Holding both the first and second set of levers in place, Montana used the nails of her ring fingers to pull the third levers.
She expected a fourth set of levers to appear, but that's not what happened. Instead, to her great delight, the mouth of the
wax Nefertiti cracked opened by just a hair.

Montana was ecstatic. The key to opening the mouth and revealing the hidden chamber was through the manipulation of these
levers. But the mouth had moved only a fraction, and there were no more levers to pull. She suspected she knew how to
proceed.

She released all the levers, and as before, the bottom two sets of levers disappeared from sight, leaving only the top lever
visible under each arm. The process of coaxing them forward was repeated, and as before, as she pulled the third lever, the
mouth lowered a hair. The mystery was solved. She would simply need to repeat this pattern until the mouth opened wide
enough to reveal the contents hidden within.

Standing before the wax figure of Nefertiti with the raised arms, Montana found herself repeating the pattern, again and
again, watching joyously as the mouth ever-so-slowly worked its way downward. She fell into a rhythm of sorts, her fingers
moving in concert under the arms of the Nefertiti, her pace quickening. Her fingers flew faster and faster. Her nails
flicked the levers with rapid precision. The quicker she worked, the more the mouth of the figure widened. Flushed with
excitement, it never occurred to Montana that she was "tickling" Nefertiti into revealing her secret.

Finally the mouth would move no lower. Montana manipulated the levers in the underarms again and again, but apparently she
had revealed the maximum opening the mouth would allow. It wasn't much, just enough into which a small hand, a woman's hand,
would fit. She reached into Nefertiti's mouth, feeling far more uncomfortable about doing this to the wax figure than she had
about flicking her fingernails under the arms. Inside she felt something hard and smooth, another lever, which she pulled.
An audible "click" was heard, and the wax figure began to move.

Montana jumped back in surprise. The entire figure, including the platform upon which it "stood", lowered slowly into the
floor. She watched in awe as it slid past her, noticing for the first time that with her mouth open, Nefertiti face appeared
to be laughing. The noise of the moving statue was deafening in the silence of the empty museum, but eventually it
disappeared completely beneath the floor and stopped. Montana was again in silence, facing a gaping hole and a cloud of
unsettled dust where Nefertiti had once stood.

She fell to her knees and shined her lamp into the opening, but other than the laughing face of Nefertiti, she could make
nothing out. Without hesitation, she lowered herself into the hole. Nefertiti's upturned palms provided useful support as
she climbed down.

Shining her lamp about, a dark passage that sloped slightly downward revealed itself in the darkness. Montana inched her way
down it cautiously. The riddle of the wax museum was enough for her to accept that there would bound to be more surprises
ahead in store for her, and she wasn't about to stumble head first into any potential dangers. Marcus would have applauded
her reasoning.

As she proceeded further downward, the heat in the passage grew to the point where it became oppressive. Montana had already
broken into a sweat, and could tell that it was getting progressively hotter. Not knowing what perils lie ahead, she was
loathe to part with anything she was carrying, but quickly rationalized that she could always return this way if she needed
something. Satisfied with this plan, and not contemplating what Marcus would have thought of it, she shed her leather jacket
and pack, keeping only her lamp and her knife.

As the passage continued downward, the heat grew worse. Sweat poured off Montana's face in streams, and dark patches had
formed on the front and back of her shirt. She had tied her wilting hair into a makeshift ponytail, but a few stragglers
stuck uncomfortably to her face. She felt like she couldn't breathe properly.

Since the hidden tomb of a long-dead Pharaoh would be absent of human beings, Montana realized her need for modesty was
irrational. She stripped of her soaked shirt, but opted to leave her tank-top on "just in case". The desire to peel off her
cargo pants was overwhelming, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. This was as comfortable as she was going to allow
herself to be. It wouldn't do to make the discovery of a lifetime while wearing no pants!

Luckily, the heat of the passage grew no worse. Montana had no idea how far down she had gone, but it seemed like many
minutes had gone by since she had shed her excess clothing. She figured she must be many hundred feet below the surface.
Wherever this passage led, it was certainly safe from idle discovery by the outside world.

To her dismay, her lamp began to fade. "No no no no NO!" she cried. The idea of being caught here in the dark, deep
underground, with no knowledge of what lay ahead, nearly paralyzed her with fear. She contemplated turning back, unsure that
her lamp would even hold out the length of the passage, when she noticed a flicker of light from a turn in the passage up
ahead. There was no time to lose. Rushing as fast as she felt she could along the passage, she hurried towards the
flickering light. She managed to turn the corner just as her lamp died for good.

Montana found herself in a small chamber of sorts. The floor here was level and covered in lose sand, and illuminating the
space were two flaming torches that hung from one wall. Hanging from this same wall on stone pegs were dozens of bracelets of
all styles and materials. The wall opposite the hanging bracelets was covered in drawings, not hieroglyphics, but a mural of
some kind. At the far end of the chamber, which was only ten feet or so away, was a portal made of the same stone as the
walls. The portal was closed, and Montana assumed it blocked the only other passage leading from this chamber. In the corner
by her feet, the bones of a long dead explored lay decomposing. At the foot of the piles of bones were two of the bracelets.

Goosepimples rose along Montana's arms. Too many things were wrong with this scene. "There should not be flaming torches
down here!" her panicked mind thought. "And who, or what, killed this person?"

She pulled her knife and assumed a defensive position, but no danger revealed itself, and nothing could be heard from behind
the stone portal. "Don't get sloppy," she thought anyway. "There could be more hidden passages like the one you found."

She waited and listened, and nothing could be heard. Convinced she was truly alone, she examined the remains in the corner.
She guessed they were the bones of a female, based on their size and the scraps of clothing that remained. The skull and
shoulders appeared to be slumped against the wall, as if the woman had fallen in this position. "Or lay down to die this
way", Montana thought with a chill. The only thing not rotting were the bracelets on the ground by where the bones of the
woman's feet had detached.

Montana rose to her feet and examined the rest of the chamber. The wall of bracelets was more intriguing than the mural, so
she investigated that first. Each stone peg held a pair of two identical bracelets, and none of the bracelets on the
different pegs matched one another. She quickly found the lone peg that was missing it's bracelets, and Montana deduced that
these were the one chosen by her predecessor. Though many were beautiful, and some were downright sinister, she was hesitant
to touch any of them, lest they be covered in a lethal poison.

She looked at the mural next. It depicted a random scene of naked women doing everything from dancing to eating to sleeping.
Nothing could be made of it, until she picked up on a pattern. The women in the mural were not entirely naked; they all wore
anklets on both their legs.

Her mind flashed to her research, remembered the fabled jeweled anklets worn by the concubines of Tortutikal. "Bracelets!
Duh!" she chastised herself. "There you go again, having one of your 'blonde moments'," she said quietly to herself. She
contemplated the opposite wall again, now recognizing the items hanging from the stone pegs to be anklets, not bracelets.
"The mural is of Tortutikal's concubines, and one of these pairs are the anklets they would have worn. But which ones?"

Montana glanced over at the rotting corpse. "Not those ones," she thought to herself. The chill along her spine returned.
On a hunch, she examined the doorway through which she had entered. Sure enough, she noticed a track in the floor, and the
stone portal which was currently drawn.

"If I choose correctly, the far portal will open and reveal the Tomb of Tortutikal." She swallowed hard. "And if I choose
wrong, this door will close behind me, and I'll be trapped in here forever." She eyed the bones. "Like she was".

Her heart beat loudly in her chest as she returned to the wall of anklets. There were too many to choose from. She had never
seen a picture of what the concubine's anklets looked like, and now she doubted the historical accuracy of what she had read.
They had been described as "heavily jeweled" and "magnificent". The only pair of anklets that even approached that
description lay next to the dead person in the corner. They couldn't be the right ones.

"It's not too late to turn around," she thought to herself. "You don't need to risk you life over this." She envisioned
herself retreating up the passage, climbing up into the museum, and returning later with a team of experts. They would help
her solve this puzzle. And they would claim her discovery as their own.

"No," she said to the room. "I'm not giving up now."

So many anklets. Some of gold. Some of silver. Some of leather. Some of iron. Some were thick, and some were fine. The
mural revealed no detail that would help her decide. Her knowledge of Tortutikal was all she had to make her decision.

She weighed her argument out loud as she scanned the wall. "Tortutikal. The Pharaoh. The keeper of women. He would want to
show them off. He would want them to radiate beauty." Her gaze rested on a pair of shining gold anklets. They were
beautiful, hand-carved, and probably worth a fortune. Anklets fit for a queen. Montana reached for them.

"No, wait," she stopped herself, freezing her hand in place. This didn't fit the profile of the Tortutikal she knew. "He
wouldn't want to show off his women. That would be the last thing he'd want to do. He'd want to keep them hidden away, under
lock and key. For only his eyes to see." She spotted a pair of sturdy looking anklets that looked like bondage cuffs, black
and menacing, with eye holes built into the back. "And for only his amusement to torture." She nodded. A man like
Tortutikal would want his women wearing cuffs of slavery, not trinkets of royalty.

Taking a deep breath, she selected the bondage-type anklets. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting to hear the sounds of the
door closing behind her and making her a permanent part of this chamber, but nothing happened. The door she had entered by
stayed open, and the door she needed to get through remained closed.

"You are still alive, Dr. Jones," she thought to herself. "And that's a good thing."

The anklets were heavy in her hands, all business and no frills. They were definitely built for a purpose, not for
decoration. The clasp was in the back beside the eye hole, but the release for the clasp appeared to be on the inside. "How
on earth could these be opened once they were on?" she thought to herself. "You are about to find out, the hard way," she
whispered aloud. For trying them on was the only thing left to do. The remains of her predecessor suggested that she had
done the same, and the results had been fatal. But if Montana was to go forward, she had to have faith in her decision.

She plopped onto the sand and slipped off her boots. She could tell without even eyeballing it that the anklets would not go
over her ankles unless she removed her socks as well. Not that she minded. In the oppressive heat of this underground
passage, her feet were relieved to be out of their confining prisons. She sighed contentedly and wiggled her freed toes, her
red toenail polish glistening in the torch light. "That's better."

The moment of truth was upon her. After telling herself she was hesitating so that her feet could get used to being bare, and
then arguing with herself to stop being a chicken, she picked up the first anklet. The solid metal wrapped tightly around her
ankle, like it was designed for a woman with legs as shapely as she. With a small grunt of effort, she forced the open ends
together, and felt the anklet lock around her ankle. It felt incredibly snug, although it surprisingly did not pinch or
chafe. As she suspected, there was no way to reach the clasp release inside the cuff. "I'll never get this off," she moaned.

Still the doors remained unmoving. Apparently one anklet was not enough for the designer of this twisted puzzle. She would
have to don both to reveal her fate.

The wrapped the second anklet around her free ankle as she had done the first, but she was reluctant to lock it closed. Time
passed slowly as her breathing became more and more shallow. Thoughts of the life she had led, and of the future life she had
yet to lead, flashed through her brain. "Here goes nothing," she muttered, and shoved the open ends together. The anklet
locked into place.

The portal leading back to the wax museum began to move. Montana whimpered in protest, sure that she had chosen correctly,
before she realized the portal on the opposite end of the chamber was moving as well. She would be free to go forward, but
not go back. The portals quickly slid into place, and she knew nothing on earth short of TNT would move them again. The way
back was blocked, the way forward was open. She must plow on.

The opened portal revealed another dark passage, as black and hot as the one from which she had entered. Her extinguished
lamp being useless, Montana reached for one of the torches to light her way. She found walking in the new anklets awkward at
first, but got the hang of it with a little practice. The bulk of the anklets prevented her from putting her boots back on;
she would have to press forward on naked feet. Luckily, she was fond of going barefoot, and a sandy floor that was kind on
her soles extended from the chamber into the new passage.

Again moving cautiously, she ventured out into the new passage. A lighted torch was in one hand, and her knife was in the
other. She no longer had a boot to hide it in anyway. The torch threw off a greater quantity of light than her muted lamp
had, and she found the going easier. She soon saw another chamber opening up ahead. Though her movements were all but
silent, she knew the torch in her hand was certainly alerting anyone or anything up ahead of her impending arrival.

She entered the chamber to see a sight that made her stomach queasy. Like the last chamber, this one was small, with a second
passage on the opposite end leading away. Though there were no murals or pegs full of anklets, the chamber was not entirely
empty. Standing guard in front of the opposite passage was a large spotted hyena, chained by a collar to the wall. Montana
would have to get past this beast to continue her quest.

Though the hyena appeared to be waking from a slumber, it was immediately alert and wary of the strange torch light. It rose
to it's feet on it's long legs until it was almost to Montana's chest. It had a massive head, and it bared it's teeth to show
her it's incisors. Montana had never seen a spotted hyena in person before, but she found it to be almost bear-like. It
began to grunt in her direction, showing the first signs of aggressiveness.

A new kind of fear washed over Montana. She was no hunter, and although she wielded both fire and a blade, she had no
confidence that she held any advantage in this contest. This was a wild beast, an animal left here to guard the opposite
passage. She had no doubt that while she may falter, this creature would not hesitate to tear her throat out.

The hyena eyed her cautiously. It continued to grunt, and she noticed that it's tail had curled over it's back. "That must
be some kind of intimidation reflex," she thought. It began to pace, testing the length of the chain tethering it to the
wall. Montana was still out of striking distance, for now.

"Get back!" Montana yelled as she inched forward. "Back!" She threatened it with the torch.

The hyena jumped back in fear, but only momentarily. It began to giggle; a high, cackling laugh that Montana found unnerving
and horribly out of place. It sounded like the frenzied laugh of a mad person. They were locked in mortal combat; this was
nothing to laugh about.

Montana soon realized that the chain would not allow that hyena to completely vacate the far passage. Trying to shoo it away
would not work. She threatened it with the fire again, and again it jumped back, giggling. The sound made her limbs tremble
with fear. "Stop that!" she screamed at it. They hyena appeared to want to flee, wanting no part of the strange enemy that
brandished fire, but fleeing was not an option. Montana knew that a cornered animal is a dangerous thing.

In a flash, the hyena growled and leapt at her face. Montana screamed and put her hands up to defend herself, and the beast
succeeded in knocking her off balance. She fell backward, out of harm's way thankfully, but dropped her torch in the process.
It lay close to the hyena, who snapped it's teeth angrily at it without actually touching it. She would not be able to
retrieve it without risking being bitten.

Montana regrouped and rose to her feet. She was down to her knife, useful for prying open locked doors and cutting rope, but
not necessarily the best weapon against a wild beast. The hyena, satisfied that the torch would no longer be attacking,
returned it's attention to Montana. It was both growling and giggling.

"What am I going to do?" Montana was shaking. She was a scientist; a historian. She wasn't trained to deal with viscous
beasts. And unlike before, there was no option of going back. It was defeat this monster, or be defeated.

A memory from her childhood of visiting a zoo popped into her mind. She remembered a trainer working with wild dogs. The
trainer had wrapped his arm in protective cloth in case the dogs tried to bite him. They would bite only his arm, which did
not appear to hurt him.

She eyed the hyena, who appeared anxious for her to come back into striking distance. This was sort of like a wild dog. Sort
of.

Regretting her decision to shed so many clothes in the first passage, Montana turned to her only resource. She pulled off her
pants and wrapped them around her left arm. The pants were thick and her arm was slender, and by the time she was done, she
felt fairly confident that it would cushion a bite from the hyena. It would have to.

Montana psyched herself up for an attack. The knife in her right hand felt painfully small, and she wished she had some
formal combat training on which to fall back. Marcus certainly had never prepared her for a conflict such as this. Anger
began to rise within her. She was on the verge of making history, and a mangy hyena was blocking her way. A stupid animal
with the brains of a turnip. She wasn't about to fail in the greatest discovery of her life because of some brainless beast.
She was the superior species, not it. She was destined for fortune and glory, not it. She bared her teeth and growled back
at the hyena. "Come on you sonofabitch! Come on!"

The hyena sensed her newfound aggressiveness and pulled back a bit. She inched forward, closing the distance. The hyena's
giggling became louder and filled the chamber. This enraged Montana further. "I told you to knock that off!" She lunged at
the creature with her knife.

The blade scored, but not deeply, just barely penetrating the animal's shoulder. The hyena yelped and stuck out with it's
teeth. Montana had anticipated the strike and put her left arm up to block. The animal's teeth caught on the fabric and
locked in. Montana winced but realized there was no pain. The teeth had not reached her flesh. In a moment, however, she
realized the flaw in her plan; the hyena was not letting go. It's powerful jaws would soon crush her arm if she didn't do
something quick. Without thinking, she jumped back and pulled her arm free. Her arm flew out of the protective pants
covering and she fell back on her backside again.

The hyena chomped on the pants in it's mouth. It began to thrash it's head quickly from side to side, trying to kill whatever
it had captured. Montana watched in horror, knowing that it would have ripped her arm off if she hadn't moved when she did.

The pants flew out of the hyena's teeth and off to one side. It wasted no time in pouncing on them, seeking to tear them to
shreds. They would hardly resemble pants when the creature was done with them.

Montana seized her opportunity. Jumping to her feet and moving as quickly as the awkward anklets would allow, she dashed
towards the far passage. She hoped the hyena would remain distracted enough for her to move safely past. Her thigh brushed
up against the beast as she flew by, and as it turned and lashed out at her, she leapt off her feet, flinging herself forward
and into the far passage. The hyena's deadly bite was too late, and it's teeth closed on nothing. She landed out of harm's
way and collapsed on the sand. The passage had been safely reached. The hyena growled at her one last time before returning
it's attention to her discarded pants. Montana listened to the sounds of them being torn to pieces as she lay trembling,
trying to catch her breath and steady her nerves.

Recovered from her ordeal, she moved slowly forward. A new chamber flickering in torch light could be seen a short distance
ahead. Despite the bloody knife in her hand, she felt horribly vulnerable clad only in her tank top and underwear, which was
the risqu thong type that was popular among strippers and ladies of the evening, but would have been frowned upon by the
stuffed shirts in her professional circle. Even if she were to discover the tomb after all this, how would she ever return to
public?

The new chamber contained nothing except a basin of water. Montana feared the worst and was loathe to touch it, but a thirst
she had never known was upon her, and she could use a good wash. Deciding that she'd already come too far to turn cowardly
now, she took a long drink. The water was cool and refreshing. She gulped it greedily, and then used the remainder to clean
the sweat from her face and limbs. She noted that the air wasn't as hot as before, and in her state of undress, she was
actually quite comfortable. The drink and bath renewed her spirits, and it was with a new sense of purpose that she moved on.
A new torch lighted her way as she exited through the far passage. The silky sand felt wonderful squishing between her bare
toes.

The passage she was in appeared to be endless, much like the first she had entered under the wax museum. As she walked, she
wondered about the strange challenges that lay behind her. The map with the riddle and Tortutikal's name. The odd puzzle of
opening Nefertiti's mouth. The wall of anklets, and bondage-like pair that had turned out to be the correct ones. The use of
a spotted hyena as a guard dog. There was no doubt about it in her mind; after years of research and study, the Tomb of
Tortutikal was almost within her sights. Soon she would find his final resting place, and hopefully the secret of the power
he held over his loyal concubines would finally be revealed. Of all the mysteries, this one intrigued her most. Why would
these women willingly devote themselves to a man who sexually tortured them?

The torch she held began to weaken. "Oh no, not again," she thought. Whoever had constructed these passages had calculated
things precisely, knowing when she would arrive to have a live animal guarding the passage, knowing when she would need light
and water. But she had been daydreaming, and moving too slowly, and now her light threatened to go out before she had reached
the end of this passage. She was less than eager to move forward in total darkness.

Her resources were running thin, but her torch needed fuel. Using her knife, she cut the bottom of her tank top above the
line of her navel. She ripped the shirt around her torso, and saw to her dismay that the line of her tear rose steadily, so
that when she finally tore the swatch of material off, her shirt barely covered the undersides of her rounded breasts. "This
just keeps getting better," she muttered. "I'll be naked by the time I find his tomb."

She added this material to the top of her torch, and the light picked up again. She began to jog forward, not knowing how
much further she had to go to reach the next chamber. If this light died, she would have to go completely topless. After
that, nude.

Torch lights could be see ahead, and Montana sighed with relief. Her dignity would not be further compromised it seemed. At
least not yet.

Montana turned the corner to enter the torch lit chamber and stopped in her tracks. This chamber was larger than the others,
and well lit by many torches lining the walls. Along the walls on all sides, a dozen ornately carved sarcophaguses stood
upright. Each was covered in the depictions of a beautiful woman. Lining the outer edge of the chamber were a number of
devices that looked like complicated pieces of furniture. Their purpose and function was not immediately obvious to Montana.
In the direct center of the room, on a raised platform, was another sarcophagus, more ornate and beautiful than all the rest.
Its cover was decorated with the image of a Pharaoh.

Montana gasped in wonder. She had found the Tomb of Tortutikal.

She dropped her knife and failing torch and hurried in, mindless of any hidden dangers. She tried to drink it all in with her
eyes, like a kid in a candy store. It was just as she had imagined, but so much better. She ran her hands over the coffins,
marveling at their richness and craftmanship. The odd furniture pieces caught her attention, but it was the sarcophagus in
the center that drew her like a moth to a flame. It represented the culmination of all her research, the prize of all prizes.

She stared in awe at the stone coffin. Inside were the remain of Tortutikal, the Forgotten Pharaoh. "You'll be forgotten no
longer," she whispered.

She pushed, and to her surprise, the top slid smoothly to the side. As the contents within became visible, a breeze rose from
nowhere, fluttering her mangled shirt and tousling her hair, like a wind long trapped inside. Montana did not allow her
analytical mind to ponder this phenomenon; the ultimate prize had waited long enough for her to discover.

The top slid and fell off to the side, and the interior of the coffin could be well seen. The mummified remains of Tortutikal
lay before Montana's wondering eyes, as preserved as all mummies from that ancient time could expect to be. At last they met.

From the deep recesses of her mind, Montana seemed to hear a voice. "Freeeeeeeeeee..." it said.

It was the voice of a man, speaking a language in which Montana was not fluent, yet she clearly heard and understood the word.
It had not been issued as a statement, but as a command. Actually, more like a suggestion. The voice was soothing, friendly,
but at the same time insistent. There was no hint of danger in it's tone; it gave Montana no reason to be afraid.

Montana did not question her senses. She was quite alone, yet she knew the voice she had heard was real. She was an educated
woman, and did not believe in ghosts, the bogeyman, or the monster under her bed. But she did not question the origin of the
voice, or how it came to be in her head. Tortutikal was speaking to her from beyond the grave.

"Freeeeeeeeeee..." it repeated.

Montana needed no further explanation or prompting. She turned and walked to the nearest concubine sarcophagus, and without
pausing, slid it open. Like a woman in a trance, she moved efficiently and without hesitation. One by one she opened the
other coffins, not even registering the sight of the mummified remains within each, or the reasoning behind her actions. She
was on autopilot.

When the last sarcophagus was revealed, and the chamber was thick with scent of stale air, the voice in Montana's head spoke
again.

"Chooooooooose..." it insisted in the same reassuring tone.

Montana scanned the room with her eyes. For the first time, she really took note of the furniture pieces throughout the
chamber. Moving silently on her bare feet, she walked among the pieces, analyzing them. They were bondage apparatuses,
ancient tools used for torture by an ancient Egyptian king with a fetish for kink. Yet though Montana knew and understood
this, there was no conflict in her brain about what she must do. She must choose a device, and place herself in it.

Each piece was, she suspected, unique in it's construction. All accounted for the immobilization of the ankles, but not for
the wrists in all cases. She knew this because each piece of furniture was designed with purposeful slots where the eye holes
in the backs of the anklets would fit. The eye holes would slide into the slots, and bolts would lock them into place. The
anklets of the concubines were as much a part of this dungeon as any of these devices.

A table that held it's captive spread-eagled caught her eye, but she passed on it. Another piece appeared to be seated
stocks, but again she passed. She knew the right piece would call out to her, figuratively speaking. They were all so
tempting, but only one would be perfect.

Two vertical poles widely set before a pillowy pad was next. Montana stopped. Sets of those unique slots were fitted up the
inside of each pole at steady intervals. At the head of the pillowy pad was a set of cuffs attached by a chain. The woman
would rest on her back, her ankles would be locked into the poles at a some height, and optionally her wrists would be
shackled as well. Montana had found her piece.

She lay on the pad and adjusted herself to the poles. Her legs were long, probably longer than the average Egyptian woman of
thousands of years ago, so it was the top set of slots that she chose. With almost no difficulty, she slid the backs of her
anklets into the slot built into each pole. A 'click' let her know that her ankles were now locked in place. Her legs were
totally straight, spread wide in a 'v', and bent at an almost ninety degree angle from the floor, but Montana was far from
uncomfortable. In fact, she felt right where she belonged.

"Riiiiiiisssse..." the voice in Montana's head commanded.

Immediately, Montana began to hear more voices, the voices of females. Again the words were spoken in another tongue, but
they were clear to her ears. The voices started out almost inaudible, but steadily rose in volume.

"We are alive..." one said.

"I'm free..." another said.

"He calls us..." said a third.

Montana whipped her head about, trying to locate the source of the many voices. The did not seem to be coming from anywhere,
as if they only existed in her head, but she knew it was the voices of the concubines, returning from the dead. They were all
talking at once, mixing their words together. Montana could not focus on any one voice, so their combined speech came out
like gibberish to her, with her only being able to make out singular words here and there. They spoke lovingly of their
Master, and a general sense of excitement was in their voices.

"Rise!" commanded the voice of Tortutikal, drowning out all the others.

Montana sensed movement from all sides. Physically, nothing stirred within the tomb, but she sensed presences coming to life
all around her. Something began to emerge from the sarcophaguses; wispy clouds of muted colors that strengthened and grew and
took shape. They were visible, but not solid, and slowly they expanded until the forms of woman could be discerned. Montana
watched in fascination, with no fear, as each woman grew sharper in detail. They were beyond beautiful; dark haired, dark
eyed visions of heavenly loveliness. Though she could see straight through each one of them, Montana could see the whiteness
of their teeth, the curve of their smiles, the shapeliness of their hips, and the fullness of their breasts. Each woman was
naked, save for the anklets that matched her very own. As one, they turned to contemplate her lying in the torture device.

The smiles never wavered on their faces, but the voices in her head continued unabated, as if they could not say enough after
their lengthy silences. She heard them speaking about her, questioning her presence, asking their Master if they could play.
She sensed the eagerness in their voices, but felt secure in their lovely smiles. They would not harm her.

Soon all the voices were asking if they could play with her. They were almost like children, insistent and eager, begging
permission to play with a new child. Montana felt elated that they had so readily accepted her in their midst.

"Yesssssssss..." Tortutikal consented, and Montana suspected almost a bit of a chuckle in his tone.

The ethereal women approached her, twelve in all. Montana found herself eager as well, eager to be greeted by them. They
crowded around her, kneeling beside her so that each could observe her up close. They were not shy, neither by her near
nudity nor their own. She felt the ghostly touches of their fingers as they touched her skin. It was far from unpleasant,
like the touch of many feathers. They seemed intrigued by the blonde hair and fair skin, and they were fascinated with
touching her face and her arms and her legs. The jumbled voices were expressing admiration for her beauty. She blushed
deeply at their praise, and the spirit women bubbled with excitement as her skin turned a pinkish hue. The softness of her
skin seemed to delight them.

She giggled, thoroughly enjoying their feather-light caresses and preening. Their fingers felt wonderful on her skin, but
they tickled as well. She sensed the ghost-maiden's excitement growing, and more than once she heard uttered the word
"ticklish".

Five of the women rose from their knees and moved to stand behind the poles. Two took position by both of her ankles, and the
last dropped to her knees between Montana's legs. She suspected she knew what was coming, and she didn't care.

All around her, as if on cue, the woman began to tickle her. Ghostly fingers traced lines on her taut belly. More danced
along her collarbone. The women at her feet flickered ghostly fingertips along the soles of her upturned bare feet. More
fingertips were exploring the undersides of her curled toes. The woman between her legs had taken to teasing her inner thighs
with feather-like caresses. Her hips, waist, and ears were also being lightly tortured.

Montana erupted into a fit of giggles. She was highly ticklish, and her love for being tickled went back as far as she could
remember. Actually, she could remember; she developed her love for being tickled right around the same time that her
obsession for Tortutikal began. That the two might be related had never entered her mind.

As attractive as she was, Montana had never lacked suitors. Throughout high school and college, despite the fact that she had
been labeled a "brain" by her peers, she had had a steady stream of noteworthy boyfriends. None of those relationships had
ever gone anywhere, and she had devoted her post-graduate time almost entirely to her work, forgoing men altogether. She
reasoned in her own mind that she was still single because she hadn't found the man worthy of her yet. Subconsciously, she
knew the reason her relationships had failed was because no boy or man had ever shared her passion for tickling. She was
female, tough on the outside, but soft and sensitive and craving to be dominated on the inside. In her mind, it was the role
of the male to control and overpower her, to force her to yield to him. Tickling embodied all of this and more. A tickling
touch could convey both love and cruelty, playfulness and agony. She rationalized that her incredible ticklishness was proof
of her capacity to love and be loved. It was her ultimate weakness; it was the very root of her sexuality. If just one man
had tickled her in the way that these ghost women were tickling her now, he could have won her heart forever.

Montana tried to protect herself, to fend off the hands torturing her. She didn't really want to, but it was a reflex action.
The ghost-maidens were not substantial, but somehow Montana could push their hands away with her own. It almost added to her
ticklishness; she could fight back, but at twelve-to-one, stood no chance of success. The women laughed as much as they spoke
in jumbles now. They were enjoying tickling her, and saw that she was enjoying as well. They bubbled at her attempts to
thwart their ghost fingertips. Montana caught the eye of the woman torturing her neck, and on a whim, reached over and
tickled her ghost-maiden's side. One of the voices in her head squeaked in surprise, and the ghost-maiden she had goosed
jumped with ticklishness. The other ghost-maidens laughed at Montana's ploy. The tickling was a two way game it seemed.

The ghost women took her by the wrists and gently pulled her arms upward. Montana did not struggle against them. The
fighting back was tiring her, and she actually welcomed giving up control completely. She'd done the best she could, and now
it was time to submit. The women brought her wrists over her head and she felt the shackles she'd seen earlier being locked
about them. Her helplessness was complete.

The act of raising her arms over her head raised her disfigured tank top even further up over her breasts. Montana's nipples
popped out, and the women, noticing immediately, excitedly chatted about how hard they looked. Montana blushed again, and as
before, this delighted the ghost-maidens. The woman who Montana had managed to tickle playfully stuck out her ghost tongue
and tickled Montana's engorged nipples. Montana managed to slow her incessant giggling just long enough to yelp with glee.

Her legs strained to be free of the ankle prisons holding her feet so perfectly still for the feathery fingertips, but there
was no give in the anklets or in the bondage device. Montana understood now the true purpose of each of the furniture pieces
in this tomb; the tickling of the feet. Of all her tickle spots, the soles of her feet were the worst, and this device into
which she had willingly locked herself was designed to maximize her vulnerability. There was no wiggle room for her feet, no
mobility in her legs. The bottoms of her feet, soft and inviting and unbearably ticklish, were utterly defenseless, helpless
against the titillating tortures of the wicked ghost-maidens. The women tickling her feet and toes were highly skilled,
knowing just how quickly to dance their fingertips over her sensitive flesh, and exactly when to change their technique to
keep Montana fully sensitized and completely off-balance.

Montana felt the first tears of laughter welling up in her eyes, but there was no anguish in her heart. Her body had never
felt so alive, and though she was bound hand and foot, she could not remember ever feeling so free. The nerve endings all
over her body felt like they were charged with electricity, and it was an energizing feeling. The ghost-maidens, still
laughing and chatting in a nonstop jumbled mess, sensed that Montana was really losing herself in the tickling. Their
excitement grew, for they knew full well that now that she was in the throes of ticklish bliss, they could commence with the
good stuff.

Lips began to mingle with the torturous fingertips all along Montana's body. Everywhere at once she felt feather-light
kisses, every bit at ticklish as the fingertips, but also highly erotic as well. Montana's back arched involuntarily,
pressing her neck and breasts up into the titillating mouths of the ghost-maidens. The women kissed and tickled her eagerly.
She felt ghost lips caressing her cheeks, ghost teeth nibbling her toe pads, ghost mouths suckling her nipples, and a ghost
tongue teasing her sex. Her skimpy thong underwear had been moved to the side at some point. Now her sex was open and
exposed to the ghost-maiden between her legs, who teased her unmercifully.

Montana moaned loudly with pleasure. The mixture of sex and tickling was a long time fantasy finally coming true, although
she had never envisioned another woman, much less twelve of them. In her dreams, it was a powerful man who did these things
to her, a man not afraid to take control or exert his will. The man in her dreams had stripped her, bound her, tickled her,
and ravaged her. Her dreams had been so vivid, yet they paled in comparison to what she was experiencing now. She made
sounds she didn't know she was capable of making, a mixture of moans, pants, giggles, and groans of frustration. She was as
desperate for penetration as she was for a relief from the torturous tickling. The teasing was unbearable.

And then she saw him. He stood between the poles at her feet, a powerful man of chiseled muscle. Like the women, he was
ethereal, visible but not fully solid. His features were hard, but not unkind, and exuded a presence of authority about him.
He was naked, and his enormous member stood at attention before him. Montana knew at once that this was Tortutikal, the
Forgotten Pharaoh, the man of her dreams, and he was about to claim her. Her loins ached for him.

"My king!" she cried.

The woman between Montana's legs yielded way, and the mighty Pharaoh fell to his knees and mounted her. Though his body was
not substantial, there was nothing insubstantial about the phallus filling her womanhood. She cried out, in pain or in
ecstasy she could not say. She was aware that the women around her were continuing to fondle and worship her, but all she
could feel and enjoy was the man between her legs, sliding in and out of with a controlled rhythm. She wanted to reach out
and pull his shoulders to him, to smother herself with him, but the shackles at her wrists were unyielding. He gazed deeply
into her eyes, and she found his look so beautiful that she was forced to turn away. There were no voices in her head, just
the sounds of her own animalistic grunts of pleasure with each of his powerful thrusts. Were her ankles not bound, she would
have wrapped her long legs around his waist and buried his colossal member deep within her and never let go.

Sensory overload threaten to rob her of consciousness. The wicked ghosts-maidens sensed her desperation, yet did not let up
in their erotic torturing of her flesh. There was no quarter given here in the torture chamber of Tortutikal.

With no warning of its impending arrival, a mighty orgasm ripped through Montana. She shuddered as if overcome by a frigid
chill, and her eyes rolled back in her head. She was aware of nothing but the sensation of ultimate release, a peace of mind
she had never known. Outwardly, she was screaming at the top of her lungs with pure pleasure, but only silence existed in her
head.

Panting deeply, she snapped back to reality, aware that the mighty Tortutikal was still riding her rhythmically, aware that
the women around her were still enjoying her flesh. The tickling of their fingers and lips and tongues was worse than ever.
"Are they mad?" she thought in a ticklish panic. "Can they not see I have been satisfied?"

She was wrong. On the heels of the first came a second orgasm, and then a third. Her body convulsed spasmodically,
completely beyond her ability or desire to control. She orgasmed for what seemed like forever, never knowing when one ended
and the next began. The last thing she remembered before passing out was the Pharaoh Tortutikal arching his back and filling
her world with his seed.

* * * * *

She awoke to find herself freed from the bondage device, although she still wore her anklets. She lay on the sand, still clad
only in her torn tank top and her tiny underwear. To one side were gathered the twelve concubines of Tortutikal, with the
king himself in their center. They stroked and fondled him lovingly, each beaming with pleasure as he directed his smile
towards them. The voices were back in Montana's head, but now they were all talking to the king at once, telling him how much
they loved and adored him. The group noticed her awakening.

"Stayyyyyyyy..." the soothing voice of Tortutikal suggested.

Montana rose to her knees and looked about. The open sarcophaguses lining the walls reminded her that she was in a tomb, an
ancient crypt, and though the spirits here were free, their humanly bodies were still rotting in coffins. Her lifelong quest
to find this place was over, and she had already experienced a reward that she knew would be unmatched by any future fortune
and glory. She knew she could stay here forever, that the magic of this place would allow her be like one of these spirits,
and that she could experience again and again the tortures of Tortutikal. She understood now why his concubines were so
loyal, and she was jealous of them for getting to spend eternity with him, being dominated time and time again. No living man
would ever be able to satisfy her after this ordeal. She had every reason to stay.

"I can't. My place is with the living." she said.

The voices of the women became disappointed. They implored her to stay, to be one of them, to play here forever. The offer
was so tempting, Montana felt the urge to give in. She steadied her resolve and shook her head. "I'm sorry."

The faces of the ghost-maidens turned sad. Even the beautiful face of Tortutikal showed his unhappiness. He nodded in
understanding.

"Seeeecrettttt..." he said.

"Yes. Of course. I will never tell a soul about this place. I promise."

Tortutikal nodded, knowing she told the truth. He waved his hand, and the anklets bound to Montana's legs unclasped and fell
to the sand by some magic. She already missed wearing them, knowing their purpose, and what they represented. A tear slipped
from her eye.

"May I...may I keep them?" Montana asked tentatively.

Tortutikal shook his head, and Montana's shoulders slumped in disappointment. She would never be able to pull them out and
look at them again, remembering fondly the few moments where she too was one of the concubines of Tortutikal. But she
understood the risks involved. If the anklets were discovered, others might come looking for the tomb.

She rose to her feet. "Thank you. Thank you all," she said, welling up with tears.

The ghost-maidens rushed to her and embraced her. There were the sounds of sobbing voices in her head, and the faces of each
reflected the sadness they all felt. She felt a kinship with these women that she had never felt with any among the living,
and she knew it was something special to be thought as one of them.

Tortutikal rose and embraced Montana last. She hugged him tightly, knowing that it felt so right to be held in those arms,
and wanting to prolong the moment indefinitely. This would be the first, and the last, man that she would ever love.

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She smiled up at him, eyes full of tears. "Good bye. Good bye, my king," she said.
He smiled down at her, and her heart felt full of love.

A wave of darkness washed over her.

* * * * *

Montana awoke, lying nude in her own bed. She felt refreshed, but completely disoriented. Neither the time nor the date was
known to her.

A knock at the door roused from the sheets. She quickly donned her robe and hurried to the door. A very concerned Marcus
greeted her there.

"Are you all right, Montana? You didn't show up for your classes today."

"Classes?"

"Don't tell me you've slept the whole day away." Marcus' tone was both serious and playful. "I sent the students home...I
don't think they minded."

"Um...uhhhh..."

"I say my dear, are you quite all right?"

"I don't know, Marcus. I don't feel quite myself at the moment." She looked at her mentor. "How long was I gone?"

"Gone?"

"In Egypt. When did I get back?"

"What nonsense is this, Montana? You haven't been to Egypt in two years."

"But the map. I followed the map, remember?"

"Map? I don't remember any map." Marcus's look became concerned. "Oh dear. I do think you've had quite the dream today."

"Dream?"

"This is what happens when you stay up all hours looking for clues about your silly Pharaoh's tomb. You lose a whole day lost
in dreamland. I really do wish you'd give up on this quest of yours."

"Quest? You mean for the Tomb of Tortutikal?"

"Yes, of course. What else could I possibly mean?"

Montana thought silently for a moment. Her voice was uncertain when she spoke next. "I will Marcus. You are right."

The concern on Marcus' face remained. "Are you sure you are all right? Shall I make you a cup of tea?"

"No, Marcus. I'm okay. I'm just a bit...disoriented. I'll be fine. Don't worry."

"As you wish," he lied, knowing it would be impossible for him to ever stop worrying about her. He turned to go. "Please do
us the honor of teaching your classes tomorrow, will you?"

Montana smiled weakly. "I'll be there."

After Marcus had gone, Montana returned to her bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed, deep in thought. Had it all been a
dream? Marcus had sincerely expressed no knowledge of the map they had discussed, or of her planned trip to Egypt. It had
seemed so real, but she knew dreams could seem that way sometimes. If it had been a dream, it was by far the most vivid and
realistic she had ever experienced. It had seemed to answer all of her questions about Tortutikal, but had it simply been a
fantasy?

She shook her head and tossed her robe aside. There were no answers to be found, and though she'd apparently been asleep for
some time, she felt exhausted. Perhaps she could dream her wonderful dream a second time. As she crawled into bed, her toe
struck something hard hidden under her bed. Montana reached under and pulled it to where she could see it.

In her hand, she held a black bondage anklet of the concubines of Tortutikal.

The End
 
Loved this story man, by any chance was this Indy's daughter or his grandaughter. Tana was a girl after my own heart, because she desired to be tickled, and wasn't afraid to bare it all.
 
Very good. I love how your stories are all so different. Not just the same story over and over with different people and places. And it only took me about 15 minutes .. that's gotta be some kind of record. :)
 
had to post

i am simply dazzled at the imagination of laughter, his stories touch me deeply. being a romantic, i longed for a happy ending. to think this would be the first and only man she would ever love saddens me. yet she experienced something the likes of which she probably only dreamed of, so in a sense she was lucky. part of me wanted her to stay and part of me had hoped marcus was the king incarnate. a hopeless romantic i know

isabeau :bunny:
 
Yes!!

Loved it, loved it...I even forgot where I was while I was reading it!! :smilelove

The ending surprised me a bit. I totally agree, how terribly sad that she was apparently doomed to loneliness. :dropatear But you know, I really almost expected her to be pregnant (refer to story point including "arched back" and "filling with the seed" of the king). That thought appealed to the massive romantic in me as well...she can't be with him but she at least has a tangible part of him with her. :lovestory

But OMG, that's JMHO--no criticism! Many, many kudos to the author!!! :happyfloa

Mistress Aura :justlips:
 
Dude, I read this months and months ago, but I want you to know that it is one of the best works of literature I've ever read.
 
I can't even with this story...just a mouth gaping wow!
 
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