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There are nights and days on the African plain that the tribal elders are privy to magic. The sun is just breaking into the night of a magic moon, the local tribes have remained close to their homes at the sign that it was coming.

But the plain is never quiet. Life goes on. The lioness is on the prowl, hunting a scent she knows and loves well.  The deep musk of the beaver.

Nostrils flaring, the sleek tan head raises to catch the wind. At a lope, she moves toward the scent, toward the river, where the herds and the other animals make their morning appearances.

She reaches the thickest part of the foliage at the river's side, and pushes silently through, nose and eyes seeking her prey.

There. On the bank. Gleaming blue eyes shift and catch sight of the quarry. A light brown beaver is cleaning herself at the river's edge. Tiny paws gather up water and splash it over her nose and then wet her furred chest, until she is sleekly wet and then she washes, rubbing over herself with determined paws, washing away the scent of the morning fishing expedition...

The lioness pads silently toward the spot, still hidden within the foliage until she is nearly on top of the passive beaver. The wind blows to her hiding her scent from the sleek brown animal.

In a moment filled with the magic of ancients, the beaver turns, green eyes as startlingly different from the deep golden brown pelt, as the blue eyes are against the tan of the lioness.

Dawn touches them both, and an instance transforms them both... brown fur fades to golden, and green eyes now rest in a sleek tan face... human. Claws resolve themselves to small hands with buffed nails.

Tan hide slides to smooth skin, blue eyes piercing through the sunlight. Paws lengthen and strengthen to sinewy hands.

Naked they are inches apart lying on the sun-drenched riverbank. A hand reaches out, another. Soon they are entwined on that bank, legs muscular and sleek wrapping around one another, skin against skin where there once was fur or the sleekness of hide.

Two hearts, pounding in expectation of the hunt, hunger, and death, now pound in tandem, beating out a rhythm of two souls. Once again rejoicing in the power of reunion.

The blonde's green eyes absorb the sight of her dark-haired companion's sun- draped body. Tentatively she reaches out and traces a hand over the pulse pounding in the long throat. Fingers marvel at the feel of skin and glide lovingly down across the ridge of collarbone and on to the curve of smooth breasts. "Xena," she murmurs, afraid a stronger sound would shatter the unreality of it all. She looks up into tender blue eyes, set in a tan face, half-hidden with the fall of ebony hair.

The answer is swift. Muscular hands slide over the naked blonde's shoulder, caressing her back and pulling her close, so their bodies are as close as their souls. "Gabrielle," Xena replies, lowering her lips to the wet shivering ones of her one love... her soulmate.

Their loving is tender and fierce in its restraint, conveying eons of longing and hearts bursting with relief at the end of a long wait. Teeth nip at skin, hands slide over curves, racing pulses to a fevered pace. The river's rush passes them by, as the day becomes a moment frozen in time.

Fingers and mouths find those places they knew intimately once, reminding them of lives long past. Their moans and cries of passion reaching fulfillment scares away birds, and other life, making them alone at peace with the world.

The river basin falls silent, save for the sounds of two heartbeats under cheeks nestled so close they breathe the same air. The day wanes and sleep comes, the late afternoon shadows casting darkness of the trees over the women's intertwined bodies, gleaming with perspiration in the golden sunlight.

Dawn peeks once more over the rim of the earth, a tribal hunter with bow and fishing spear seeking food for his family, pads close, having seen the large sleeping form of a lioness from far off. His presence does not disturb the slumbering creature, and when he circles, he becomes rooted in surprise.

Taking a deep breath, he leaves the scene, breathing a prayer to his goddess of the hunt. He will take nothing from the river this day. For the lioness sleeps in peace with a golden beaver.