There were demons in East Texas again.  Reverend Anthony West, priest of Kent, knew this.  If he had not developed a proficiency in demonology from over two decades of hands-on experience--his bones would have told him so.  The classic signs were all there: strange lights in the sky at night, unearthly howls from the woods, and the mutilated remains of farm animals--and the occasional small child.  So far it had only been those errant children who'd disobeyed the injunctions of their elders not to stray into the deep woods alone; those who had laughed at the admonitions of the older generation, laughed no more.
    Reverend West was stoic in the face of death; it was old friend and future bride.  Anyone could smell the corruption of decaying tissue, but the death he smelled was a psychic odor, tainted of things deep and black, and a consciousness which was at once maddeningly familiar, and yet, completely and eternally alien.
    Though he still wore the Golden S, he no longer wore the red cape of a priest; he was as near to apostasy as a priest could come without being officially sanctioned.  His sixth-sense, however, still commanded him a place of respect in Temple Village.
    With his pale gray winter-eyes, flowing mane of black and white hair cascading over his wide shoulders, and long salt and pepper beard, Reverend West presented and imposing figure when he walked the streets; farmers and merchants returned his unflinching gaze just long enough for a perfunctory nod--no doubt, more out of respect for the Golden S that hung from his neck than anything else--then quickly looked away.  He was not unaware that mothers pulled children just a little closer when he passed by.  Fear and superstition were their real gods.  They patiently awaited the Year of Light, when the Man from Heaven would return to set all things right; they believed it and clung to it; he, the priest, did not.
     But he had other concerns now: The three-toed track he'd just found confirmed his intuition.  The dry soil that had preserved the track gave no indication of how long it had been there.  One thing was sure, the demons were getting brazen.  They had been showing up in their corporeal forms more often of late; though usually not so near to the Old Alabama boarder, where Temple Village sat.
    West dropped to his knees in the dry brush, removed his penknife and probed the depth of the track in hopes of forming an idea as to the size of the creature.  Because of the deep kinship he felt with the forest, he winced at the crackle of the shrubs; no doubt, the drought was a peripheral phenomena related to the overall manifestation of demonic presence.  The lack of moisture was a mixed blessing; it helped preserve spoor, such as cracked twigs and tracks, which unerringly pointed out the paths creatures took through the woods; however, it was slow death for the forest and her children.
    There was a muffled rustle from the brush behind him. In an intuitive flash of danger, West dropped his penknife and snatched his spring rifle from the ground beside him as he whirled around to confront the source of the danger.  The ominous two-inch barbs of the double-barreled weapon stopped short the gangly figure that had just emerged from the underbrush behind West.
    "Holy Clark!  Don't shoot Reverend."
    "Daros.  Don't you know enough not to sneak up on a man in the woods like that?"  The question was rhetorical.  West lowered the gun.  His apprentice was certainly harmless.
    "Sorry.  I was sure you heard me walking up.  You must have found something really interesting."
West was worried that he hadn't heard his apprentice; perhaps he was getting a little too old, a little too slow, for such dangerous work.  "Yes, Daros.  Demon tracks.  I can't tell how fresh though.  How about your sweep of the valley?"
    "Oh, they're fresh alright.  I found something about two miles beyond the valley that you'll be interested in.  Here, let me help you up."
    West shunned his apprentice's outstretched hand, instead using the butt of the rifle to push himself off the forest floor.  Though intelligent and affable enough, Daros lacked subtly; no man wanted to be reminded of his age.  Still, Daros was God sent.  Until he'd drifted into town six-months ago West had considered petitioning the Elders to appoint an apprentice--since no local youth had been forthcoming for the position.  Still, as eager and capable as Daros was, it would take years to convey the totality of the craft to him.
    After briefly retiring to the shade of nearby sweet-gum trees to refresh themselves with water, the two set off.  Daros, following a trail he had marked, preceded West, using his machete to cut a swath through the tangled underbrush.
   Within the hour the two had passed into a pine forest where the undergrowth was less dense and Daros' trail easier to read.  The pines stopped abruptly at the edge of a small ravine.  The two figures silently descended into it and continued, heading south.  After a half mile they came to the remnants of an Old World bridge that terminated abruptly over the middle of the gully.  Rising thirty of forty feet, its cracked and broken supports bore a resemblance to  the ruined pylons of an ancient temple.
    Regaining the higher ground, they headed due west along an old road whose surface was liberally endowed with pines and mimosas that had found easy purchase in its fractured surface.  Within minutes they came upon the ruins of an Old World building, long since ravaged by time and those who had sought the useful metal bounty it had once contained.  Here, without a word, Daros left the edge of the road and cut across the flat land surrounding the skeletal architecture of the fuel station.
Behind the station the land was quiet, pastoral.  A sea of low, green weeds flowed unabated to the horizon, broken only by a few small islands of hardwoods that  had staked out a tenacious grip in the depleted soil.  Across the sea of weeds the heavy woods picked up again.  Daros walked about fifty yards behind the building to where a large granite outcropp-ing stood, and paused, waiting for Reverend West to catch up.
    As West approached, Daros silently indicated the far side of the largest boulder; here, West saw, small dismembered bones had been strewn about with the boulder as their general locus; as he walked around to the far side he saw a pair of leather boots sti-cking out.  These turned out to be connected to a pair of skeletal legs and a massive rib cage; the head was missing.
Startled as West's shadow fell across the skeleton, a large crow flew from the hollow rib cage.  Cawing in surprise and indignation, it dropped a dried and blackened morsel of flesh from its beak as it headed to the nearest copse in the field.
    The ground around the body was  almost devoid of vegetation; what little remained had a pronounced yellow cast from dissolved acids from the body that had percolated into the soil.      Surveying the remains, West automatically made the sign of the S.
    The skeleton was huge.  No bones appeared broken. No spring bolts were present.  The superior quality of the leather boots and the tattered swathes of cloth about the legs suggested a person of some substance.  The flesh that remained had deteriorated to the extent that little remained to interest any forest creature, except perhaps a crow--if it was a crow.
    A few feet way he spied a weather beaten, leather travel purse, now empty of whatever food or identification it once contained.
     As West slowly walked around the remains he noted that no large animal had been at the  bones; even small animals would eventually have taken away a choice part here or there.  Daros, leaning on his walking staff, studiously noted West's survey of the body.
    West kneeled at the top of the figure and looked up at his apprentice.  Daros had coal black hair reaching almost to his shoulders.  His face, with high cheek bones which gave an almost oriental cast to his appearance, was still smooth in youth.  Lean, firm, able-bodied and quick minded, West had never understood what had led him to East Texas and this lonely occupa-tion; no doubt, one of the many hot-blooded indiscretions of youth.  Daros spoke little of his former life and West didn't pry.  Daros came from a farm community in the Republic of Western States; maybe he just despised farming.  Having been raised on a farm himself, West couldn't blame him.  Besides, it didn't matter; Daros was willing and capable, that was all West required; it was a bonus that he had the instinct; how else could he have found the body?
    "Did you search for the head?"
    "I did a spiral sweep with a radius of about seventy-five yards, but didn't find anything else significant.  He was a very large man."
    "Yes.  I'd guess around three-hundred pounds.  Look at these boots.  Nicely made." West unslung his spring-rifle and pushed the right boot to the side.  "See how the sole is worn.  He favored his left leg--probably had a pronounced limp.  Take your staff and lift him on his side--gently now--I don't want the area disturbed yet."
     Daros complied.  The body separated from the ground with a soft sucking sound.  In the depression beneath it, small things squirmed, quickly scurried away, seeking shelter from the unwelcome light.  "Yes, hold it there for a second." Leaning over, West examined the back of the corpse briefly, then looked curiously at the dirt beneath it.  "Okay."
    Forgetting the injunction to go lightly, Daros let the body flop back to the ground.
    "No dog tracks.  He doesn't seem to be a trader.  What kind of poor fool would travel these woods alone?  And in dress boots?" The questions went unanswered.
    "Clocktown Village is only twenty miles or so from here.  Do you think he was from there?"  As he spoke, Daros squatted with his staff across his legs and began to examine the remnants of the skeleton's clothing.
    "No. It just doesn't add up.  He's a traveler, probably headed for Temple Village, but I couldn't say where he came from.?
    West arose and brushed his knees off.  "Well, Daros, what kind of a creature are we looking for?"
     "It is significant that the head is missing, also that it was torn off; no clean cut of the axe, no spring bolts, and--look." He pointed to a rust colored stain on the largest boulder; someone had set bloody game on it. The head?
    "Good.  What else?"
    "The lack of broken or missing bones, no signs of general violence, the expensive boots not stolen--I'd say we were dealing with an elemental.  Probably a lower order earth demon: The tracks, the isolation, the other bones.  The boulders make a perfect altar; I would say he is well manifest and still near."
    Like a proud father, West nodded his affirmation.
     "Come, Daros, we've plenty of work to do before sundown."
    While Daros assembled the eight resonating rods and attached the crystals, West drove a polished metal stake into the ground near the body, tied a rope to it, then, using a similar stake attached to the free end of the rope, carefully circled the body, inscribing a precise circumference.     That done, he used his compass to systematically work out the placement of the rods at the cardinal and cross-cardinal points of the circle.  After Daros installed the rods, West carefully checked their placement to ensure that the banishing formulas inscribed on each was in the proper order, and Daros installed torches at key points along the circle?s edge.  When both men had completed their duties, West made a final check to confirm that the geometry of the rods was in  proper alignment with the magnetic field; complacency had killed more priests than demons.
    Satisfied that their preparations were accurate, the two withdrew beyond the circle to make their temporary camp and further prepare for the night's gruesome work.
    While they waited for sundown at their impromptu camp, West took advantage of the ebbing light to scribble in his omnipresent notebook.
    "Do you mind if I ask a question?"
     "Of course, Daros."  Bleeding his pen back into a small ornate inkwell, West eyed his usually reticent apprentice curiously.
    "You're a Priest of Kent, you keep the village safe--and yet, the people fear you.  Why is that?"
His apprentice's lack of tack brought a fleeting smile to West's face. "You come from the Western Republic.  The primary religion there is also Kent--but you're familiar with other religions?"
Daros nodded in affirmation even though they both knew how many hours he had spent in the Reverend's library doing prescribed--and occasionally proscribed--reading.
      "Well," West absent mindedly fingered the Golden S around his neck, "my doctoral dissertation was on comparative religion and its relation to mythology.  I was fortunate to have attended school in Nova Atlanta, whose Church of El houses an extensive  library of ancient religious texts."  West picked up a twig and stirred the glowing coals as he con-tinued. "You know that Kent is a fairly new religion--in terms of other world religions.  It came after the Great Fall, when the Evil Lex used nature to try and destroy man."
    As if in concert with his words, a light breeze passed through the camp.  The dry air made West's hair flow out behind him.  "We are taught that the Heavenly Man who, clothed in human flesh, came down to earth, personified all that was good in man, man's potential for perfection.  Acting on the Father's behalf, His job was to intercede on mankind's behalf in the fight against evil; however, betrayed, he was overcome by those forces, tortured unto death, and yet lives--to return again in the Year of Light, fulfill the true faith, and establish the Crystal City of Peace."
    West paused. "Sounds like I'm stating our doxology, doesn't it?  Well, this is what we were raised to believe.  My uncle Earl got me a recommendation to the Olsen Theological Seminary; he always said that since I had no talent for farming and my only hobbies seemed to be daydreaming and reading, I'd make a great priest."
    West gave a slight chuckle at this self-depreciat-ing remark and then lifted his canteen, slowly letting the water cool his parched throat.  Across from him Daros sat like an icon of studious attention.  His intense interest in the Reverend's words never faltered.
     "As a freshman, I stumbled across a heretical book called The Origins of the Superman, by an obscure scholar, James Abel.  I was impressed by his logic and his grasp of history, so much so that by my senior year I had studied the complete canon of his works.  His books provided the roots of my heresy--and this gets back to why the villagers fear me.
    "Abel's primary theory was that the religion of Kent was not a historical reality, but an elaborate allegory used by the Patriarchs to inculcate morality and patriotism into children while entertaining them.  He also demonstrated, much to the embarrassment of the Church hierarchy, that the events of Clark's life bore remarkable parallels to those of other messianic figures from more ancient religions and mythologies. Are you following this, Daros?"
    "Yes. I'm certainly no scholar, Reverend, but it's my understanding that Clark was firmly grounded in history.  Wasn't the church founded by a disciple who had studied under Olsen?"  Daros absently picked up his machete and began honing the edge as he waited for West to reply.
     West smiled again.  ""All history, if it survives long enough, becomes myth."  So said James Abel.  After periods of great political and social upheaval the line that divides history and myth sometimes gets blurred, at least for those of us who are forever looking backwards. Yes, a man calling himself Olsen did roam the country teaching the principles of Kent three-hundred years ago, just after The Great Fall; but Abel presented ample reason to doubt that Olsen was the original disciple of that name--or if the original disciple was real--or if Kent was real.  Strange to say, the masses never want to adopt practical moral principles unless they believe some super-natural source has mandated them.  Olsen seems to have taken advantage of this curious and constant fact of human psychology.
    "The general theme of Kent's life  was a mythologi-cal tale that changed according to cultural perspec-tives, but the basic figure the garments masked never changed.  At least, that was Abel's theory, and I could only concur after examining the facts: Jesus, Mithras, Tammuz, Osiris--all are based on an allegory that reforms itself to suit indigenous elements as it resonates down the corridor of time.  Abel said  'If comparative mythology is the seducer of faith, history is its slayer.'  Even though the faith of my childhood was gone, I still enjoyed the lifestyle that accompanies wearing the Cape.  I tried to keep my heretical disposition to myself, but some lights can't be hidden under a bushel; and that is the answer to your question, Daros: they don't understand why I don't believe in the reality of their myths; what they don't understand, they fear.
    "Disbelief is contagious.  While they may be able to accept the hazards of living with demons roaming the countryside, they can never live with the demon of doubt; while I seem to keep one type of demon in check--they fear I may release the other.?
    Daros dwelled on this for a minute.  "But, the demons are real. How can the religion of Kent, which opposes them, be based on anything less than reality??
    West adjusted his backpack; the ritual implements inside, though indispensable, made it a pillow of singular discomfort.  With a patience generally not found in one so young, Daros waited for an answer as West pondered whether to continue the conversation; he had tried to slowly nurture Daros, gradually bring him to an understanding of the subtleties of their rare craft; this conversation threatened to elevate itself beyond Daros' current needs.
     "Supernatural is a word that clouds the issue.  Other dimensions exist. Whole worlds that vibrate at different frequen-cies than our little tidal pool here--and history proves that some entities have the knowledge and the ability to transfer themselves from one to the other almost at will.  The fact that they exist doesn't validate the religion of Kent; they were here before and will most likely be here after Kent is relegated to a footnote in a religious history text."
    Emboldened by their isolated circumstances, West vented his heretical thoughts with little regard for the possibility that they might find their way back to the Heresy Council.  Daros' arrival had been such a boon that he'd been naturally suspicious, and therefore uncharac-teristic-ally circumspect in his opinions about Church doctrine--at least until he had Daros' measure.  Besides, as long as he kept his thoughts to the outback of East Texas, and as long as he kept the area free of the hordes of Lex Lucifer, he would be given a longer tether than normal for an independently opinionated priest.  Besides, he couldn't retire with a clear conscience unless Daros knew the truth.
     "What we do relates to science more than religion; our rituals are for the appeasement of the Church Fathers, not the banishing- of demons. At this point in your education the mathematics won't make much sense to you.  Essential-ly, I was one of three who were selected to study under the Reverend D'Angelo, a brilliant mathematician as well as an outstanding religious scholar--"
    "He was the one who was killed last Fall?"  Daros stopped rummaging in his knapsack as he waited for West to respond.
    Unhindered, West's imagination slipped away from him:  Mary D'Angelo, humming happily as she walked into her bedroom with a basket full of freshly dried and folded clothes to be put away.  How many shirts had she hung in the closet, how many socks had she put in the drawer, before she noticed the two arms and two legs arranged neatly on the bed behind her?  Someone asleep?
    Simply missing a torso and head.  What new heights of insanity did her mind aspire to as she noticed, amid her own screams, how the covers of the bed were unruffled, unwrinkled; how neat, bloodless and methodical was this horror.  Did she ever look at the mahogany grandfather clock's pendulum case without seeing her husbands head, mouth round in silent, eternal scream, face pressed against the glass and eyes open?  Had those terrified eyes watched her walk by on the way to the bedroom?  Begged her not to go in?
    With a shake of his head West freed himself from the grim revery.  "How did you know about that?  Oh, yes, you grew up in the Western Republic; I guess gossip is universal.  Yes.  Well, his death was a blow.  He single-handedly developed the methods we use in exorcism.  His loss was incalculable; one simply can't estimate what an extra twenty years of research into the mathematics of inter-dimensional physics by him would have yielded.
     "Able was well versed in mythology and religion, and quickly saw the truth: that demons were at the basis of all ancient religions that incorporated blood sacrifice.  Blood, particularly man's, is the life force, or fuel, if you will, that allows them to manifest in our dimension: the younger, the stronger, the more vitality, the more power in the blood; hence, the intensity and duration of a manifestation is directly related to the power of the blood that drew it here."
West indicated the distant skeleton.  "In the old days they didn't have to resort to random sport like this; mankind served itself up on a platter--and provided the best blood."
    ?So the quality of blood is everything??
    "Exactly so, Daros.  Imagine how much better a lamp burns with fuel that has been more purely refined."
    ?Fuel??
    West placed his fingers together, steeple like.  "An absolute balance exists between two dimensions; if integrity is to be maintained for each--while movement occurs from the one to the other--then imagine that they are like two balloons with a common wall; if a hole opens between them, an equal amount of pressure--the life force in the blood--must travel from balloon to balloon to keep the one from deflating and the other from explod-ing.  That pressure is the Life Force. You follow?  A balance must always be maintained between the continuums.  Thus, the institution of sacrifice allowed the continuing long-term habita-tion of our reality by these entities.  If you keep studying as I direct you, I'm sure you'll be able to understand the truth of what I say."
    "I have no doubt, Reverend."
    "The Church of Kent teaches that the Super Man will return in the Year of Light and banish the hordes of Lex Luther into the Abyss.  I only wish I could summon my childhood faith.  Good and evil. If only things were so simple."  West glanced at the tentacles of purple-red light that worked their way from the western horizon toward the upper arc of the sky, thinning as they went.  A miasma of gloom and silence seemed to settle around the camp fire.
    "Come now Daros, you'd better study your catechisms, the light's not long for the sky."
    The sun had been down for half an hour when they heard a faint rustling of noise from within the circle.  From their vantage point behind a clump of shrubs beyond the periphery of the circle, they could feel it as a vibration from the ground beneath them.  This was all that broke the stillness of the night; the sounds of cricket, frog and whippoorwill were noticeably absent.
     From behind them, the moon, hanging barely above the rim of the horizon, sent out ghostly rays of light that shimmered off of smooth rock and bleached bone.  West's eyes narrowed as he strained to distinguish shadow from shadow within the circle.  Gradually, he could see that the massive rib cage of the skeleton was moving, as if its long departed occupant was tossing from a bad dream.  Then it lifted until the corpse was sitting up, its stump of a neck pointing to the sky, lifeless arms dangling by its sides.
    A shape faintly lighter than the dark surroundings began to take form above the skeleton's massive shoulders, as if it were growing a hideously mal-formed new head.  The faint blue nimbus around the creature told West that it had not completely solidi-fied, though it was well on it's way to permanence.
    Judging by it's shimmering profile it seemed more or less typical of its species, as far as they had shared characteristics: it was a manikin, seemingly created as a sadistic parody of the original, with a disproportionately large, bulbous head -and a spine that curved at a hideous angle; it knees were bent and its arms were carried out from the body like a Tyrannosaurs as it walked around in a shuffling gait.  West knew that the slow and tentative appearance of its movements were deceptive.
    "Ah, your moon awaits you." The voice, high-pitched and curiously melodious as it spoke the language of man, was incongruous with the dull green glow of its eyes.  It paused and sniffed the air as a wolf of feral dog howled in the distance, then lifted an object from the hole it had just came out of: the head, mummified, slack-jawed and mishapened.  Holding it by its hair the demon bore it as a lantern before him; the black depths of its eyeless sockets comprehended the night with negative light.
    "See, the hunters are out with the moon; Sedragah-mos must hunt soon too, yes."  West made a mental note of the demon's name. "He must find a pretty creature to--what is this?"
His eyes had strayed to the edge of the circle where moon light reflected off one of the crystals.  Showing neither panic nor fear, Sedragahmos sat the head on the stone outcropping and then approached the edge of the circle and calmly regarded the metallic crystal-topped pole with a canine-like tilt of his head. His gaze followed from there to the circle on the ground, filled with white chalk.  Slowly lifting his head, he scanned the country side, finally letting his gaze rest in the direction where West and Daros lay concealed behind low shrubs.
    Sedragahmos turned back to his silent confidant, lifted the head and spoke theatrically into its ear.  "Someone wants to meet Sedragahmos?"  The demon moved the head in front of him, face to face.   "Your friends, perhaps?"
    West had seen enough.  He tapped Daros on the shoulder and both men rose from behind the bushes.  "Come Daros.  Let's finish this."
     As they walked West slipped the leather throng that held the activator bell around his left palm and placed his index finger inside to silence the clapper until needed.  In his right hand he held the Golden S in front of him; deep moon shadows stretched behind them as they approached the circle.  With an air of calmness and superiority, Sedragahmos' luminous green eyes observed their approach.
    "Behold the evil," West began. "The Prince of demons manifests.  Behold inhabitant of hell, minion of Lex Luther, the Holy S, symbol of Truth, Justice and the American Way.  Look upon it and tremble. Behold the light of God,"  he continued as Daros began lighting the torches that bordered the circle, "which illumines even souls in prison, who surely recognize its power."
Illumined by the dancing light of the torches, Sedragah-mos' features became distinct; the skin was reptilian, its limbs gnarled and knotted with muscle; two small, twisted horns swept up from its forehead; the jaw jutted out at an acute angle and sported a wispy beard-like growth; the terrible inner radiance of its cat-like eyes now reflected the wavering yellow glow of the torches; the uppercut of its mouth, which gave it a permanent rictus, encased a set of impossibly large teeth; though not visible, West knew from the tracks that it had long deadly talons on hands and feet.  West took all of this in as he rotely repeated his section of the text.
    Seemingly oblivious to the incantations, Sedragahmos rolled his head in a slow serpentine motion as he studied the priest.  As West came to the end of his section of the text he nodded to Daros, who picked it up without pause.
    "As the minions of the Host of Hell, Lex Lucifer, murdered God Come to Earth in the form of Kent, so do the priests of Kent banish them to the Place of Outer Darkness, where the serpents between the stars reside."  As the apprentice exorcist finished his litany in a perfunctory monotone, Sedragahmos studied him with alien dispassion.
    "You?  You made the unending lines?" It hissed as a taloned finger pointed accusingly at Daros.
    "You wish to test Sedragahmos' power?"
    All of this time, casually, languid-ly, like a cat easing up to a feeding bird, Sedragahmos had been slowly advancing toward the southern edge of the circle where Daros stood; abruptly, he wheeled and took several long strides toward West, stopping a few feet short of the circum-ference of the circle.
    West recoiled slightly as the demon pulled up short, but didn't withdraw from his position.
     "Ahh," he purred, "so you have courage.  Do you have power?"  The jaws opened and the lips curled back, revealing massive upper and lower fangs. Unflinching, West stared into Sedragahmos' maw.  The demon didn't really seem menacing anymore; macabre, perhaps, but interesting, like any other exotic creature in a cage; maybe even beautiful in its own way.
    "Reverend West?  Reverend West!" Daros shouted.
    Jolted, West cursed to himself; he was the superior here; Daros shouldn't have had to warn him against being mesmerized. "In the name of Holy Krypton."  He flung his arms out in a ritual gesture and with a practiced motion of his wrist induced the bell to give one, long piercing note.
    Sedragahmos stopped short of the circle's edge, puzzled.  "What?"
    In the crystal nearest him the reflected image of the moon began to waver slightly, then to undulate in concert with the bell's vibrations.  With an exclamation of distress, followed by a drawn out hiss, Sedragahmos jumped back from the circle's periphery.  West sounded the bell again. The lights in the crystals again began their dance.  As they did, Sedragahmos retreated toward the center in an attempt to flee from the invisible wall of pain, but found no relief there.  With a snarl of defiance the demon rushed toward West again, kicking and throwing predatory detritus as he advanced.
Calmly, West sidestepped the flying bones and rocks and sounded the bell again.  In pain, furious, and confused, Sedragah-mos retreated to the center of the circle again and collapsed; wrapping his arms around himself he began trembling spasmodically. Every time his twitching seemed about to abate, West rang the bell again, setting off new paroxysms in the demon.
    With Sedragahmos safely torpid in the center of the circle, and his ritual duties now complete,  Daros joined West. "Reverend, I know I'm not supposed to jump ahead in my studies--but--"
    "You want to know  the specifics.  Well Daros, you've earned the right.  Perhaps I should retire sooner than I'd planned."  As he talked his eyes never left Sedragahmos, now supine in the circle.
    "Basically, the bell is tuned to a specific frequency that sets off a series of harmonic vibrations in the crystal--that much I'm sure you're aware off.  Those vibrations are calibrated to set up standing waves that  are detrimental to creatures from their dimension--much like the vibrations of sunlight could burn and kill you.  This took years of experiment, you understand."  Patiently, Daros nodded.
    "Each physical form has a morphic field around it that is responsible for retaining its bodily form; the crystals' vibration induce disharmony, or interference patterns, which are destructive to his field.  He's literally being torn apart at the molecular level.  Do you understand?"
     "Basically. The crystals destroy him before he has a chance to permanently solidify."
    "Yes.  Ritual mumbo jumbo aside, that?s the science of it.  It was the dedicated work of people like D'Angelo who turned theory into experiment, and experiment into fact.  Even when I'm gone you can rely on my books; they contain all the specifics of the technol-ogy." He regarded Daros sadly.
    "We're a vanishing breed, lad, perhaps us as much as Sedragah-mos."
    In the middle of the circle Sedragahmos had gotten to his knees and was clasping the mummified head to his chest; he was glowing now.  With a howl of defiance he hurled the grisly trophy at West and Daros; it bounced harmlessly into the shadows beyond the nimbus of light the torches provided.
    "H--help me, brother.  Sedragahmos is confused."  The demon began rocking back and forth, keeping cadence as it began an eerie song in its native tongue.
    "I don't think we'll have anymore trouble from, Daros.  I've never seen one give up this easy, in fact.  Come, let's finish this business."
    It took until nearly dawn to banish the creature.  As the bell resonated more and more frequently, Sedragahmos stood shrieking in the center of the circle; finally, the aura around him began to change colors; West explained to Daros that the changing colors and the sickening stench of sulphur that assaulted their nostrils  indicated a corresponding frequency change in the demon's molecular structure.  At the last, Sedragahmos begin to look patchy, as if space itself could be viewed through the ragged holes that dotted his body.  Finally, he burst into radiant energy, akin to flame except for the fact that the tongues of fire moved in slow motion and were multicolored.  The continuous, unearthly, high-pitched scream of Sedragahmos continued until the last of the colored flames boiled out of existence.
    Sedragahmos' howl hung eerily in the air for long moments after he had disappeared.
    "Well Daros, did you learn enough last night?"  Posed like an idealized shepherd in a bucolic painting, Daros stood leaning on his staff with both hands, his eyes gazing vacantly beyond the rising sun at some impossibly distant horizon.
    West turned around.  Aided by the faint glow of dawn,  he began carefully placing the boxes containing the disassembled crystals in his knapsack.
    "Yes, Reverend.  I think I have."
     There was something in Daros' voice, a certain flatness of tone. "Is something the--"  West was half-way through the motion of turning around when he saw Daros swinging his staff with both hands.  There was a flash of white pain against a sea of red.
    West awoke to pain.  The right side of his head throbbed.  Every throb radiated to the opposing hemisphere, as if his tortured flesh were trying to spread the intensity of the pain to a larger surface area and hopefully lessen its singular intensity at the point of impact.
    It didn't work.
    He feared he was going to be ill.  He slowed his breathing in a useless attempt to modify the frequency of the pain and its echo.  Other than his stentorian breathing, he bore his agony in silence.
Simple attempts at movement confirmed that he was staked out four-square on the ground.  He remembered Daros.  Somehow, Sedragahmos must have gotten to him.  At last he got the courage to open his eyes.  Squinting his eyes against the pain of the noon-day sun, he found a feeble voice.
    "Daros?"
    Daros walked into view and stood between West's legs, his hands clasped behind his back.
    "Yes, Reverend."
    "What's going on?" he croaked through gasps of pain.
    "You're going to die."
    West almost laughed.  Daros' forthrightness was so typical it was almost reassuring. "Yes.  I'm sure of that.  But why?"
    "Its very simple; the Year of Light has come."
    "The Year of--what do you mean?"
    "Don't disappoint me Reverend.  My lessor brothers are easy to kill.  I am not.  On the other hand,"  Daros brought his right hand slowly from behind his back.  It held his machete.  "You aren't either.  You were much more difficult than some of your colleagues.  It took months to find out the extent of your knowledge.  I've caught some men with pleasure, some with promises, and even some with philosophy, but as bait for you I used a worm: Sedragahmos."
    "Sedragahmos--your bait?  What about the demons you helped me dispatch?  Why are you doing this?  What are you, Daros?"
    "I am a prince of my people.  A hybrid to you.  A changeling." Daros studied the edge of his blade as he talked.  "You and I are standing at one of the endless loops in time where worlds overlap.  The honorable duty of restoring the Ancient Way of the harvest has fallen to me.  When I have control again such feral creatures as Sedragahmos won't bother you anymore.  Everything will run much more efficiently."
     Daros stepped closer and raised the machete to his shoulder; scintillant motes of  light played along its hungry edge.  "You are luckier than your comrades, Reverend.  You've lived to see the fulfillment of your own myth.  You've beheld the beginning of the Year of Light."
    With a shout of exultation Daros swung the machete; its well-honed edge sank halfway into West's left knee cap, laying open the starch white bone of the joint.
    West gave an agonized scream, independent of conscious effort, as his back arched violently against his restraints.  Through a foggy haze of pain he could see Daros passively regarding the sticky red edge of the blade.
    When Daros saw that the pain had abated enough for West's consciousness to come back into focus, he continued.  "I am the true God of enlightenment: Enlightenment is freedom from the fear of death; you no longer fear death--you look forward to it--therefore, I have enlightened you."
    West fought the pain, tried to rise above it. "No one will believe you, Daros. The religion of Kent has no sacrifices.  You won't be able to convince anyone that you bring the Year of Light."
    Daros favored him with an indulgent smile.  "Toeshi ahna, Mas Kara."  With these words a breeze began to swirl around the encampment; dust and forest debris spiraled around the two.  As West watched, amazed, the ends of Daros' hair slowly lifted from his shoulders and began a serpentine motion; the rest of his hair began to radiate into numerous spiral filaments; these flowed, first one way, then the other, in response to some unseen current.  In the cloudless sky thunder suddenly clapped, shaking the atmosphere around them.  West's head throbbed with its echoing reverberations.  Daros' skin had turned a dark blue.
    "A few miracles, some pithy sayings, ambiguous and general-ized prophecy--it'll work; it always has before.  Besides, with our control of the elements, good corn and wheat crops will abound for as long as it pleases our needs.  As long as we have our harvest, you've no need to worry about yours.  Without warning, Daros knelt and swung the machete into West's right foot, opposite the ankle, nearly cleaving it from the leg.
    Pain, steel-like and almost sensual in its insistence and completeness, shot from West's foot to his groin.  His body spasmed with a sharp, involuntary intake of breath; for an eternity of seconds he thought--hoped--his heart would stop.
    Still kneeling, Daros dipped his index finger in the fresh wound, penetrating until he touched the exposed bone.  West stiffened as a flash of incandescent pain went through him. Daros touched the finger to his forehead drew it down his chin, leaving a trail of wet, bright blood.
     Daros stood again. "You were a potential threat.  Now I'm satisfied that I've seen the depths of your knowledge, and all of you who might have posed a threat to us.  You spent so many hours enlightening me, I must apologize for not having more time to truly enlighten you; but I really must be about my business."
    The howling of the wind died down as Daros' color returned and his hair again settled to his shoulders.  As Daros brought the machete to his face and again casually studied its edge, West knew his time was short.
    "I hope you don't mind that I'm dispatching you in such a crude manner, but its really nostalgic for me.  I'm quite an artist at this and, besides, I haven't indulged myself for a while.  The cuts completely incapacitate you; no major organs are damaged, the blood loss is slow and, wonderfully, the nerves still communicate distress to your brain."  Daros paused, closed his eyes and took a deep, sensual breath.  "If only  you could see how your life force is radiating now.
    "You know, Reverend West, you're very interesting for a human.  It's unfortunate that agnostics have no place in my design."
    The constant and electric intensity of the pain brought absolute acuity of consciousness to West.  As his life's blood pumped slowly away, he was aware of the life around him as never before.  "One thing, Daros."  With great effort West raised his head from the ground. "You must answer me one thing."
    "Speak, teacher. What?"
    A spark of hope entered West's mind.  He could feel the weight of the gold S on his throat.  He wished he could reach out grasp it.  "You come from a world that preys on the innocent; as an apostle of evil--surely, in this vast universe, your antithesis must exist somewhere.  Does the Super Man really exist?  I must know!"
    The corners of Daros' mouth turned up in a wry smile as he slowly nodded his head in affirmation.  "He does now, Reverend West."
    Daros raised the machete above his head.
    West closed his eyes and waited.