Hot Ice

not hooded and were very white, with a slash of scarlet over their lips. Like vampires who had already feasted.
    One, following the careful instructions she had been given, shed her robe and stood naked in the light of a dozen black candles, then draped herself over a raised slab of polished wood.
    She would be their altar of living flesh, the virgin on which they would worship. The fact that she was a prostitute and far from pure disturbed some of them. Others simply relished her lush curves and generously spread thighs.
    The high priest, having donned his mask of the Goat of Mendes, began to chant in bastardized Latin. When he had finished his recitation, he raised his arms high toward the inverted pentagram above the altar. A bell was rung to purify the air.
    From her hiding place in the brush, a young girl watched, her eyes wide with curiosity. There was a burning smell coming from the pit where flames crackled, sending sparks shooting high. Odd shapes had been carved in the trunks of the circling trees.
    The young girl began wondering where her father was. She had hidden in his car, giggling to herself at the trick she was playing on him. When she had followed him through the woods, she hadn’t been afraid of the dark. She’d never been afraid. She had hidden, waiting for the right time to jump out and into his arms.
    But he had put on a long, dark coat, like the others, and now she wasn’t sure which one was Daddy. Though the naked woman both embarrassed and fascinated her, what the grownups were doing no longer seemed like a game.
    She felt her heart beating in her throat when the man in the mask began to chant again.
    “We call on Ammon, the god of life and reproduction. On Pan, the god of lust.”
    After the calling of each name, the others repeated it. The list was long.
    The group was swaying now, a deep hum rising up among them while the high priest drank from a silver chalice. Finished, he set the cup down between the breasts of the altar.
    He took up a sword and pointing it south, east, north, and west, called up the four princes of hell.
Satan, lord of fire
Lucifer, bringer of light
Belial, who has no master
Leviathan, serpent of the deep
    In the brush, the young girl shuddered and was afraid.
    “ Ave , Satan.”
    “I call upon you, Master, Prince of Darkness, King of the Night, throw wide the Gates of Hell and hear us.” The high priest shouted the words, not like a prayer, but a demand. As his voice rang out, he held up a parchment. The lights from the greedy flames washed through it like blood. “We ask that our crops be bountiful, our cattle fruitful. Destroy our enemies, bring sickness and pain to those who would harm us. We, your faithful, demand fortune and pleasure.” He placed a hand on the breast of the altar. “We take what we wish, in your name, Lord of the Flies. In your name, we speak: Death to the weak. Wealth to the strong. The rods of our sex grow hard, our blood hot. Let our women burn for us. Let them receive us lustfully.” He stroked down the altar’s torso and between the thighs as the prostitute, well-schooled, moaned and began to move under his hand.
    His voice rose as he continued his requests. He thrust the sword’s point through the parchment and held it over the flame of a black candle until all that remained of it was the stink of smoke. The chant of the circle of twelve swelled behind him.
    At some signal, two of the cloaked figures pulled a young goat into the circle. As its eyes rolled in fright, they chanted over it, nearly screaming now. The athamas was drawn, the ceremonial knife whose freshly whetted blade glimmered under the rising moon.
    When the girl saw the blade slice across the white goat’s throat, she tried to scream, but no sound passed her lips. She wanted to run, but her legs seemed rooted to the ground. She covered her face with her hands, weeping and wanting to call for her father.
    When at last she looked again, the ground ran with blood. It dripped over the sides of a shallow silver bowl. The voices of the men were a roaring buzz in her ears as she watched them throw the headless carcass of the goat into the fire pit.
    Now the stink of roasting flesh hung sickeningly in the air.
    With a ululant cry, the man in the goat mask tore off his cloak. Beneath he was naked, his white, white skin glimmering with sweat, though the night was cool. Glinting on his chest was a silver amulet inscribed with old and secret symbols.
    He straddled the