The sun cast a golden glow on the horizon, limning the fairgrounds with a coppery sheen. I stood watching the children led around the ring on the backs of docile ponies, their sugar-sticky fingers curling around beribboned manes. Everyone who watched the children forgot themselves for a few moments, their faces softening to include nostalgic smiles.

I had driven up from a neighboring city for the day, intriegued in spite of myself at the idea of an old-fashioned, medieval fair. Most of the people wandering from booth to booth sported full medieval garb, colorful ribbons, daggers thrust into belt loops or bodices.

"Was it like this when you were really there?" I asked of my companion, standing beside me, idly munching cotton candy.

Methos stopped chewing, considering the garish melee around us. A piece of pink spun sugar decorating his nose. I plucked it off and popped it into my mouth, the sweet stuff practically dissolving my teeth on the spot. "Nah," he said finally, "Nobody would have had a full set of teeth, and there would have been a slave seller somewhere. And," he stopped to strike a dashing pose, chest out, hands on hips, "there would have been knights running around bent on catching the French pox from the hookers."

I shot him a pointed look. "I suppose you were doing nothing of the kind. Probably bankrupting the book-seller or something, hmm?"

"Nope." He shook his head seriously. "I was rolling around in the bushes with the hookers. Do you want some of this?" He thrust the remains of his cotton candy at me.

I recoiled. "How can you eat that stuff?"

He looked vaguely wounded. "It tastes good!"

"I mean, after the four ales, two meat pies and three pieces of suckling pig!"

He smiled, the angularity of his cheekbones framing the white teeth. "Those were good, too."

I rolled my eyes, about to make a snappy retort, when a middle-aged man in what appeared to be a lord's tunic bellowed, "Come one, come all, young and old, join in the Maypole Dance!"

Methos smiled indulgently at my reaction, my green eyes widening, a slightly goofy grin washing over my face. "Ooh! Please, let's do that, Adam!" I begged, calling him by his more widely-accepted name, "Please, it'll be fun!" My hand curled around his upper arm; I made to drag him toward the whitewashed Maypole, spearing into the sapphire sky.

He hung back and dug in his heels. "Wait."

"What's wrong?" I stopped, lowering my chin, obviously pouting. "Don't you want to do it with me?"

"Of course I do. Suck that lip back in before I step on it. It's just that..."

"What?"

If it were anyone but the great Methos, destroyer of nations and builder of dreams, I would've sworn a rosy flush stained his cheeks. "I don't know how," he admitted sheepishly.

Ah. So that was it. "I'll teach you!" I insisted, dragging him across the plain. "I used to read all about these old dances and customs when I was a girl." I laughed at the memory. "I wanted to be a medieval lady when I grew up."

His laughter clattered behind me, full and deep. "Is that before or after you decided you were going to be a squirrel?"

I shot him a sour face. "I'm not telling you anything else!"

Now we were in front of the ring, and allowed to take our places. The brightly colored ribbons were wide and slick in our hands as a yound scribe in pale yellow hose and a green tunic began telling our flushed, slightly sweaty group about the history of the maypole. I fiddled with the end of my ribbon and elbowed Methos. "How come you never learned how to do this?"

He rubbed his ribs and explained, "Because the maypole is a game for children and maidens."

"Spoil sport!" I whispered. "You were just afraid you'd trip over your own feet!" It was his turn to make a face and stick his tongue out. Seeing we were about to begin, I told him, "Now, all you do is hold onto your ribbon and run around the pole. When the ribbon is all the way to the bottom, you run the other direction to unwind it...You make patterns by weaving in and around the other people. See?"

"Sure. But what happens when I fall on my face and everyone trips over me?"

I laughed, about to soothe his fears, but we were off. Methos wasn't kidding. He and I kept pace with the rest of our fellow ribboners for the first part, running first one way, then the other. It was when we tried joining in the pattern that we made a mistake. Every other dancer swung wide to allow the person next to them pass under their ribbon, creating a sort of braided effect on the pole.

Methos tried to "braid" the wrong way. "Wait!" I called, Choking on my snickering. I grabbed the back of his gray sweatshirt, pulling him back. "Go this way!" I shouted over the merry music, shoving him in the opposite direction.

The second time he passed by, one arm caught around my waist, pulling me close long enough to hiss, "I blame you for this!"

"The alternative is unthinkable!" I heckled cheerily. He flashed me a startled look and skipped away.

After that, I must admit I made more mistakes than he did. Catching his frazzled looks in a twist of ribbons made me laugh so hard I dropped my ribbons. Most dancers smiled indulgently at us, their spirits lifted by the rhythm of flute and harp and the aura of magic cast on the day.

Finally, I put Methos out of his misery, passing my ribbon to a little girl in a pink dress and a conical princess' hat. I gathered up my tired knight and promised him an ale for his good effort. He smiled. "Now that's a reward."

We stayed for the joust and the weapons demonstration. I could tell Methos was concentrating on the swordplay...he shook his head and tsked at each sloppy move made by the swordsmen.

When the sky turned purple and soft, and stars winked in the darkness, I stood by one of the bonfires. A breeze scented with lavender stirred my hair, made red by the flames, and I took a deep breath. Tossing the core of my candied apple into the flames, I brushed off my gypsy skirt and made to stand. A makeshift band of harp, lute, flute, and drum had just begun its melody when I felt a hand at my elbow. "Will you dance, Lady?" It was Methos, his eyes reflecting the firelight, teeth flashing in a smile like tiny lights.

I laughed, fell willingly into his arms. (Who wouldn't?) We spun and swayed in tandem, bodies pressed together, melting into an effortless rhythm older than Methos himself. It was so heavenly, the sensations of the man in my arms and the night air in my lungs, that I let myself relax there, my head falling to his chest.

As the music drifted to its throbbing crescendo, I lifted my head. Methos watched me, a smile playing on his face.

His lips lowered to mine, clung, pressed tighter, and I felt dizzy. As if I had been dancing 'round the maypole for much too long.