This, the latest in a succession of places to live; a library. An ex-library, to be more precise; an ex-primary school's children's library, to be exact. After I'd dusted it out and stacked the disassembled shelves in one corner, it looked quite presentable.
I was lucky to get this place; after the school had closed, the main rooms were being rented out to clubs, the tiny gymnasium to sports groups; the library was the only room that wasn't laid out for meetings. The caretaker had been glad to hand the place over to me for fifty dollars a fortnight. Officially, he wasn't supposed to do this; the place wasn't zoned as residential, but he wasn't about to complain, being a hundred bucks a month richer, and no-one noticed that I was getting free power from the school's main supply, and (until someone started asking questions), three free phone lines. In the dead of night, I'd shifted a refrigerator in.
There was an octagonal pit that had been a kind of class-reading area, which I'd filled with mattresses, pillows, cushions, blankets and continental quilts. It served as a bed. The place no longer smelled of dust and disuse.
I'd arranged candles on nearly every horizontal surface, and late at night, I'd light them all and turn off the overhead neons. It gave the place a medieval atmosphere, like some old monastery. I walked over to the center of the room where I'd ripped up some of the dingy old carpet, revealing a patch of concrete about six meters across. Faint blue chalk marks drawn on the rough gray surface marked out the arcane symbol I'd found in the book, a rotten old almanac - one of many that Jerry had looted from the Vatican library shortly before he'd burned it to the ground. I knew why he'd given it to me; he knew that I was the only one game to try the summoning detailed within.
For all that the work had been written in German-flavored Latin, I couldn't tell which particular faith had inspired this nameless book. I was reasonably certain it wasn't Hebraic or Carthaginian or Aramaic or Egyptian; it wasn't Celtic or Arabic or Druid, although some of the illustrations contained a few elements of the Horned God. I was thankful for the translations and annotations; I could recognize perhaps one word in ten of the original.
I put on the thick metal-studded collar which had been anointed with musk oils; a thick D-ring at the back attached to a loop of leather with a two-foot length of metal chain. I started the CD player: Hybrid, by Brooks, Lanois and Eno, a sensual, rhythmic piece with a vaguely eastern air; then I arranged the incense at the quarters, sprinkled the powder in the burner and stood back as the gray smoke mushroomed out across the ceiling. It smelled rank, like animal fur after a rainstorm, simultaneously repellent and oddly seductive. I stood at the center of the cleared space, hefted the one-pound bag of pure heroin and hacked a hole in the bottom with the ritual knife. The white powder began falling to the floor in a three-hundred-dollar-a-gram dust storm. I grounded, centered, cleared my mind then filled my consciousness with the note, a bass F-sharp and began tracing out the symbol in heroin.
Once it was complete, I went over the pattern again and again until the bag was empty, then tossed it aside. I took off my loose robe (the cold metal chain brushing against my nipples), went to the center of the roughly elliptical form, raised the ritual knife and (I always felt embarrassed about this - what I imagined as the "performance-art" aspect of ceremonial magic) recalled the words. This was something of an experiment, really; the scribe who'd made the notes in the original book had mentioned that the effect was the same no matter what they chanted, as long as they said it with feeling. In keeping with the spirit of the original text, I went for a German invocation, using the words I'd first heard Blixa Bargeld declaiming at the Old Greek Theater:
Meint Ihr Nicht: wir koennten untershcrieben Auf das und eins biz zwei prozent gehoeren Und tausende uns hoerig sind;
I couldn't be sure if I had all the words correct, but, as the book said, it was the feeling rather than the text, and I'd found an odd fascination with the power in that invocation. Belatedly, I thought about the sense of the words, and realized that they might be appropriate after all.
Very quickly, I felt it: the air was charged as if lightning was about to strike. I continued with the invocation, the words ringing out proudly in the silence. The air thickened as if someone had turned on an array of fog machines; I finished the speech, the guttural German syllables seeming to spark off my back teeth:
... nur noch kleine kriese ziehen. Wir Koennten, aber -
There was a pause, a silence disturbed only by a faint crackling sound coming from the incense burner; then a hand fell on my shoulder, a hand the size of a dinner plate. I turned in that direction, steeling myself for the sight of what I'd summoned...
It wasn't Cernunnos, but it may as well have been. He was well over two meters tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, carbon-black hair gathered in a ponytail over one shoulder a contrast to his pale grayish skin. It was bound by a silver ring which was the only item of clothing he wore; his features stern, regal, the attitude of a king, or a God. Awed, I fell to my knees before him, which conveniently brought my face level with his crotch. The book had made mention of a demand for sexual favors, but using typically obscure Latin circumlocutions, so that it wasn't clear exactly what price this summoning would exact. He was obviously used to being paid homage, however; he smiled down at me tolerantly and brushed my face with his fingers as if acknowledging my worship. I became aware of the smell of his genitals, an intensified version of the scent from the brazier; it reminded me of deep forest air, of wet ground after a storm. It made my heart race.
He spoke, then; soft bass words that sounded, to my untrained ear, like Welsh. A question; all I could do was peer up at him apologetically. He glanced around the room, taking in the CD player, the dead neon lights, the modern bookshelves and furniture, then smiled down at me again. I felt a surge of warmth every time his attention was turned to me, like having a spotlight turned on you, like the smile of someone you love.
To my surprise, he kneeled (still towering over me) and, his hands going under my arms he lifted me up, drew me closer to him, the warmth of his body radiating through me, dark eyes glittering in the candle-light, his lips meeting mine, his arms wrapped around me, their irresistible strength evident, enfolding me in his heat, my hands barely able to reach around and trace the subtle curves of his muscular back, down to his hips, over his corded thighs and around to where his penis was dangling almost to the floor. Boldly, I grasped it where it met his body in a thatch of unusually soft hair, squeezed gently; I felt his lips on mine smile, and I felt that incredible warmth again, almost like a reward. I squeezed again and felt the shaft swell, rising to press against my thigh. I squeezed harder, sliding my hand up and down the length (my God, I thought - Wilson was right about phallic Gods! He would have to be at least fifteen inches long, erect) while he kissed me, slowly forcing me over until I fell back, this incredible being kneeling over me, looking down with what seemed like genuine affection; intensified by whatever magical influence he had, it was like rising on a surge of warm air. My head fell back; my chest rose as I inhaled his scent. I wanted to keep breathing in until I burst. His head dropped to my breasts as his hands expertly sought out my darkest place. I felt a surge of electricity as his tongue lavished my nipples, his finger delving in and out of me, my climax on the teetering brink of oblivion as the electricity shocked my nerves and my vaginal muscles clenched around his index while his thumb nudged my clit slowly. I felt him smile on my breasts as I reached orgasm. It was the most powerful one I had ever experienced. My whole body arced to his, his index being joined by his middle as I spasmed jerkily around them, my fluids coating his hands and dripping to the floor.
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