He should have known it would come in the form of a split personality. A sexy as hell female personality, at that. Her whisky-rich voice... he'd never heard anything quite so erotic.

Down, down he sank as the sand covering his calves with its gooey wetness. The scent of stagnant water and decaying—he wrinkled his nose. He did not want to guess what was decaying.

Insane or not, he hadn't survived two days and nights of torture to die by stinky sand. No matter what he had to do, he'd save his life—or rather, lives—from this mess.

God, this sucked.

Unwilling to lose a single supply, he tossed his GPS and machete to dry ground. Careful not to jostle too much or too quickly, he removed his backpack and tossed it beside the blade, wishing to God he'd brought a propel wire. But why would he have needed one for such a quick, easy job?

"Jude Quinlin, you lying sack of shit." He scowled for, what... the third time in as many hours? The expression well represented his views of Atlantis. Meanwhile, he continued to sink, slowly, slowly, the wet sand working its way past his knees, up his thighs. The thick liquid grains were cold, and his body temperature fell a couple degrees. His blood pressure was the only thing on the rise.

Amid the popping and gurgling of wet suction, he searched his surroundings again, this time looking for a lifeline. No branches, no vines were nearby. Only a large white rock, but it was too far away to reach with his hands.

Take off your shirt, the sensual, I-want-you-naked-and-in-my-bed voice said.

He snorted derisively. He was sinking toward death, and his new female personality wanted him to strip. Why wasn't he surprised?