him more deeply that it was a heap of rubbish dreamt up by foolish and ignorant men. There was nothing in that tome, he'd decided, that would help him achieve his ends.
He had barely turned the page to the section on the succubi, feeling bleary-eyed and bored by the inanity of the text, when sleep had overtaken him. Having spent far too many nights cursed with insomnia, he'd been grateful to give in, his last waking thought being that the book was good for something if it could send him into the blissful darkness of slumber. Demons be damned, he was going to get some much-needed rest.
And then
she
had come.
He raked his fingers through his hair, the ebony locks falling back against his cheeks as he painstakingly deciphered the Latin script on the page. The calligraphy had been done by an untalented hand, the strokes so thick they made some letters no more than black blots upon the page.
It had been two years since he'd found the stash of magical books, and he had spent those two years up in this tower, reading and experimenting, seeking out the magic that would help him achieve his goals. Many would say he was risking eternal damnation by such wicked dabbling; he would counter that he was damned already—to a life that was not a life. He would rather risk everlasting Hell than live the rest of his life powerless and forgotten in this godforsaken swamp of a lake.
He was aware of how similar to that insane monk of legend he must appear, but he trusted that he would be able to better handle whatever magic he found. He wouldn't parade corpses through the village. Well, not unless he had a very good reason for doing so.
More than having a sane head still attached to his shoulders, though, he was hoping that there was something within him that would give him an advantage over that long-decapitated monk: his ancestress Raveca had been a seer. If he were lucky, a talent for the uncanny might run in his blood.
But all he'd found so far in the books were spells and charms that did nothing of use; at worst, he'd nearly killed himself and his few remaining men with spells gone awry. It appealed to his dark sense of humor that it was this demon book, this conglomeration of asinine foolishness, that had against all expectation just yielded his most stunning success.
He read:
Of the lowest order of the demons of the darkness are the succubi. A female with the wings of a bat and a nether channel as cold as ice, this hellish creature drains the seed of sleeping men, leaving them without strength or wit upon waking.
If a succubus chooses the same man for many nights, he will become pale and weak, lose his appetite, lose his powers of thought, and sink into a melancholy relieved only temporarily by another visit by the succubus. If not freed from her, the man will soon die of exhaustion and loss of vital fluids.
Different opinions exist on why the succubus should drain a man. Some say that they are her sustenance, as bread is to man. Others say a man's
seed, once taken by a succubus, will be passed by her to her male counterpart, the incubus. The incubi then deposit such emissions into sleeping mortal women, impregnating them and causing great mischief when the child is born bearing no resemblance to the woman's rightful husband. Such children are tainted, doomed to a life of sin and depravity.
Herein follow instructions to lure and capture a succubus.
A diagram followed, of geometric designs to be drawn upon the floor in chalk. Strange, foreign symbols graced the angles and crossings of the lines, few of which he recognized. They could be from the underworld itself, for all Nicolae knew.
He stared at the design, the possibilities it offered making his heart pound. If merely having the book open to this page and falling asleep upon the drawn charm had been enough to draw a succubus to him, what might happen were he to draw the design upon the floor, as the book instructed, and follow that act with the rest of the
He had barely turned the page to the section on the succubi, feeling bleary-eyed and bored by the inanity of the text, when sleep had overtaken him. Having spent far too many nights cursed with insomnia, he'd been grateful to give in, his last waking thought being that the book was good for something if it could send him into the blissful darkness of slumber. Demons be damned, he was going to get some much-needed rest.
And then
she
had come.
He raked his fingers through his hair, the ebony locks falling back against his cheeks as he painstakingly deciphered the Latin script on the page. The calligraphy had been done by an untalented hand, the strokes so thick they made some letters no more than black blots upon the page.
It had been two years since he'd found the stash of magical books, and he had spent those two years up in this tower, reading and experimenting, seeking out the magic that would help him achieve his goals. Many would say he was risking eternal damnation by such wicked dabbling; he would counter that he was damned already—to a life that was not a life. He would rather risk everlasting Hell than live the rest of his life powerless and forgotten in this godforsaken swamp of a lake.
He was aware of how similar to that insane monk of legend he must appear, but he trusted that he would be able to better handle whatever magic he found. He wouldn't parade corpses through the village. Well, not unless he had a very good reason for doing so.
More than having a sane head still attached to his shoulders, though, he was hoping that there was something within him that would give him an advantage over that long-decapitated monk: his ancestress Raveca had been a seer. If he were lucky, a talent for the uncanny might run in his blood.
But all he'd found so far in the books were spells and charms that did nothing of use; at worst, he'd nearly killed himself and his few remaining men with spells gone awry. It appealed to his dark sense of humor that it was this demon book, this conglomeration of asinine foolishness, that had against all expectation just yielded his most stunning success.
He read:
Of the lowest order of the demons of the darkness are the succubi. A female with the wings of a bat and a nether channel as cold as ice, this hellish creature drains the seed of sleeping men, leaving them without strength or wit upon waking.
If a succubus chooses the same man for many nights, he will become pale and weak, lose his appetite, lose his powers of thought, and sink into a melancholy relieved only temporarily by another visit by the succubus. If not freed from her, the man will soon die of exhaustion and loss of vital fluids.
Different opinions exist on why the succubus should drain a man. Some say that they are her sustenance, as bread is to man. Others say a man's
seed, once taken by a succubus, will be passed by her to her male counterpart, the incubus. The incubi then deposit such emissions into sleeping mortal women, impregnating them and causing great mischief when the child is born bearing no resemblance to the woman's rightful husband. Such children are tainted, doomed to a life of sin and depravity.
Herein follow instructions to lure and capture a succubus.
A diagram followed, of geometric designs to be drawn upon the floor in chalk. Strange, foreign symbols graced the angles and crossings of the lines, few of which he recognized. They could be from the underworld itself, for all Nicolae knew.
He stared at the design, the possibilities it offered making his heart pound. If merely having the book open to this page and falling asleep upon the drawn charm had been enough to draw a succubus to him, what might happen were he to draw the design upon the floor, as the book instructed, and follow that act with the rest of the
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