The three men stood together, the brazier between them. The taller one, a blonde of exceptional height, threw some mistletoe leaves onto the burning coals and said something in Icelandic. The second one, a little shorter than his clerical brethren, poured a crimson liquid, thick and viscous, onto the hot embers, causing dense acrid smoke to fill the small hut, and repeated the phrase. The third man, very short, but just as stout, with flaming red hair and beard, tossed a handful of black feathers onto the now flaming coals and repeated the phrase a third time.

This was the first attempt after one hundred years of research that these three men, Bishops of their religion and elders in their towns, had attempted to use the Galdrabok, the first Icelandic grimoire of magic. Their grandfathers, also Catholic Bishops, had started the book; in an attempt to gain through Satan what they could not gain through God. Now, after years of travel, readings, writings, and experimentations these three chosen men would reach out and touch the other side.

“I summon thee, Lucifer, in the name of the Holy Father.” The tall blonde man said a fourth time, still in his native tongue. “Accept the death of Balder in these leaves of this tiny plant.”

“I summon thee, Lucifer, in the name of the Holy Father.” The second man said. “Accept the first blood of a maiden for Freya.”

“I summon thee, Lucifer, in the name of the Holy Father.” The third man with red hair repeated. “Accept the feathers of the black ravens Huginn and Muninn for Odin, father of all the ancient Gods.”

Through the harsh gray smoke a shape was forming. The three men joined hands again and continued to repeat their incantation to Lucifer again and again.

“Nar tic grann muckt mar.” The voice from the smoke said, shaking the resolve of the three in the circle.

“I summon thee, Lucifer, in the name of the Holy Father.” The three continued in unison.

“Bring me a sacrifice.” The voice said again in it’s native tongue.

The smoke continued to coalesce, forming substance to the form in the middle. The Bishops, their faith in their research propelling them onward to claim what God would not give them shouted louder. Again the voice from the center called out. “Nar tic grann muckt mar.” And again there was no offering.

Suddenly a claw appeared from the smoke grasping the tall blonde cleric by the chest. Before the other two could react the still beating heart of the man was ripped from his body. Horrified the other two turned to escape but it was too late. Their fate was sealed with their companion. Without the droning of the litany the smoke began to dissipate, taking the form in the center with it.

‘I wish I had learned Icelandic.’ The demon thought as he returned to whence he had come. ‘But at least they brought lunch.’