“As it is written in the words of the ancients, as my brothers and sisters have done before me, in the name of Lazarus I summon a demon creature! Let it hear me and come from the Darkness, passing through river of blood twixt day and night. Let it step into the circle. By the might of Solomon’s wisdom, and Maygor’s magic, and the strength of the coven, I summon you, Demon! Hear me now!”

As my voice rises I drop my hands, causing the silver rope to slide down my arm. Catching the end in my hand I let it unravel, snapping it back fast so that it cracks like a whip. A whip that twists and turns, driven by the magic energy in which it is steeped.

“Hear me, Demon!” I call once more, cracking the rope again, and again, and again. The witches continued their chanting, louder and stronger. I pace around the wax circle, calling to the demon, lashing the floor with the silver rope, my eyes fixed on the center of the wax loop. At last the colors within it, the painted images, begin to shiver and shift, and then to blur. They appear to melt, leaking into one another until there is nothing but a gray-brown miasma. And through it something—something dark, and oily, and terrible—begins to emerge. One three-fingered hand, sharp with talons, shoots up from the abyss. Then another. The chanting in the room falters. There is a powerful stench of burning, and of some acrid substance that stings throats and causes eyes to smart. The creature continues to claw its way up from the depths, writhing and struggling as it does so. At the sight of its hairless, bulbous head most of the chanting ceases and several witches cry out in horror. I am transfixed by the slimy shape that is making its painful way from the Darkness. It’s happening! Dear Spirits, I called a demon and one has come!

After what seems like an age of agony, the thing is revealed, crouched low in the inner circle, its yellow eyes narrow as it casts about, bewildered and furious. It is the size of a large hound, but without a single hair on its body, which is instead covered in a glutinous substance that drips about it, singeing the floor where it lands. It opens its slack mouth and lets out a hideous wailing noise. All chanting has stopped now. Witches back away in fear, and it is only that fear that keeps them rooted to the spot rather than fleeing from the chamber. I know it is up to me to control the beast. I must keep it in the circle at all costs. I stride around the perimeter, cracking the silver rope, calling to the demon.

“I am Morningstar, heiress to the title of Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven and you will obey me and only me.”