by Cam Andrews
The light is fading when I find her. Only one faint star shines in the darkening sky this Sabbat night.
She stands at her bedroom window and makes a wish: Star light, star bright. Her true desire chants the spell. She has summoned me, the Lightbearer, though she does not know it. Not yet.
She lights a candle on the bedside table. I crouch in the shadows, watching her. From the drawer she takes the tools of her magic and arranges them within reach. Her robe drops to the floor; she is naked before me. She sinks back onto the pillows with a sigh.
Her touch is practiced and sure, but she does not hurry. Her husband will be gone all night, working; she has her body to herself, just as she likes it. Her warmth grows, and with it, my power.
Her fingers trail like feathers across her flesh and I trace the same patterns in flame, each nerve sparking. Her body is a network of pulsing light, electric. I take shape in her mind, a shimmering mirage, an angelic lover etched in fire.
Her palms stroke her belly, her thighs, teasing. I take her hand, slide it between her legs. Her heat radiates, the sheen of her skin reflects the candlelight.
She grasps the smooth glass phallus, illuminated as from within. I take hold of it, my winged form hovering above her, waiting. She is tinder ready to be set alight. Even her wetness will not quench my flame.
I am not gentle when I thrust the phallus into her. She knows my rhythm; she has always known it. In her dreams she has prayed to me, night after night. In her darkness, there is light – my light.
The fire in her belly grows. It spreads along her limbs until the edges of her body send sparks into the night. Her flesh is a crucible into which I will pour pure luminescence. Head thrown back, her face flushed and sweating, she cries out. It is an incantation, a song older than time, older than flesh itself. Fiat lux.
I reach into her chest and crush her passionate heart. It melts into liquid gold in my hand. It pours out between my fingers, between her legs. A final shuddering sigh and she is quiet. The candle gutters. The flame has drowned in its own wax.
When he arrives home the next day, she is gone. Only the tangled bed sheets remain as a witness to my coming.
She sets out, bearing the torch of her passion. She stands at the crossroads and calls out to those with ears to hear. They come forth from the shadows, one by one, and then in twos and threes. Her fiery kiss awakens them, my votaries. All acts of love and pleasure are their rituals.
Their offerings rise like sparks in the darkness, until they take their place in the heavens. For every man, every woman is a star. It is in your nature, as in mine, to shine.
Cam Andrews lives in a small town in the wilds of western Massachusetts with his beloved and two black cats.
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