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The decision was made.

The monastery was very old. Part of it was built into the rock of the village itself as if it were a natural growth. It was there that the monastery housed tomes and scrolls and holy books, and in this extensive archive was another section. A dangerous section.

There were brothers with a high power and a larger reach than I possessed. Where my roles involved spreading the word and attending to parishes, these men were dedicated to finding and confiscating the kind of dark tomes that might call the Devil to our world. Witchcraft, sacrilegious summons, descriptions of demons and their desires—the tomes there were under extensive lock and key, contained by holy wards, and meant to be protected by our brotherhood.

I walked the halls with a torch in hand. The shadows flickered wildly, undulating and pulsing against the stone walls. All the warmth had been leeched from the stone, and each step made me shiver. I told myself it was just the cold because, at this point, I could still pretend that I wouldn’t follow through. But each step was another promise to the Devil: I am coming. I hear your call, and I will follow you.

If God was calling for me, then I did not hear it. Thirty-five dreary years—thirty-five wasteful years! It shouldn’t have mattered anymore. It didn’t matter anymore. I ignored the anxiety sent by God to deter me and gave up all hope of redemption.

Let the Devil have me.

The archive was behind an arched double doorway made of beautiful dark oak. A fat silver padlock barred an easy entrance, but there was another door sequestered in a corridor to the left. This one had once had a lock, but time had weakened it. An extensive stack of papers pushed from inside the archive. I had to put the torch in the sconce and press, press, press my body weight against it until it gave way. There was a dull sound of collapse. The door opened and stopped abruptly when it hit the fallen stack lumped at the bottom, but it was far enough that I could squeeze in.

Torch in hand once more, I stepped into the archive.

It was a dry room filled with dust. Shelves upon shelves of books spanned the long room, and two reading rooms were set up at the end I had walked into. The doors were hidden from my position by the bookshelves, but I knew I would be in one of those rooms before long.

Anticipatory heat spread to my groin.

My God, I thought, is that all it takes?

I walked immediately to the right, squeezing my way through a corridor framed by two overstuffed shelves. My torch remained high above my head, blazing away from any stray papers. At the end of this stretch lay an old, repurposed writing desk, locked in the same manner as the front door. I found a sconce for the torch and got to work.

It felt odd to summon this old skill of mine. I had not lockpicked for a decade. The last time I had done so was because an old cupboard in a parish chapel had been locked a decade earlier, and the key was lost. I had lockpicked it to discover a set of silver candelabra; the village had rejoiced.

Now, I lockpicked not for God but for myself.

The thrill was a pleasure of its own. When the lock shuddered and gave way, opening to me with a full-bodied click, I saw stars. My heart was racing, and my mouth was in an impossible smile—I was doing something for myself. Perhaps, perhaps, I was caught and sent here for this very moment. Perhaps it had been the Devil all along. Let the boy believe he can be good. Let us prove over years and years of his life that he can’t be. Let us show the man the truth of this matter; let us show him why Lucifer fell from Heaven.

I sat back on my haunches. Dull torchlight showed me the insides of this old case, like the bowels of something long dead. Many scrolls were stacked on top of one another.

I took a deep breath.

I knew who had called to me. Who else could it have been? If I had been projecting my lust and my desire—decades worth of it bubbling inside me—then who else but the Prince of Lechery would reach for me?

Asmodeus.

I reached inside the case and let not God but Lust drive my hand.

Despite my intention, I was still surprised when the first scroll I pulled free had ASMODEUS in distinct black lettering. Quivering, heart racing, heat near blinding, I stood before I opened it and headed with the torch to the adjacent sitting room. Inside, I turned and bolted the door and put the torch in the sconce. Then, I stood alone in the near-empty stone room and breathed slowly and steadily.

There was nothing there but a desk, chalk for the slates if we wished to take notes and loose papers. The other room had the tools necessary for illuminating manuscripts, but I’d need the chalk for what I intended.

I opened the scroll.

Dust and the scent of caramel spore in the air.

The writing was neat and steady, and the scroll was decorated dutifully. It had been written with a reverent hand, a gentle hand. Someone like me, whose lust was so vital and vibrant it pulsed in their veins.

I felt a kinship to the author, and then a mote of jealousy took root. I wanted this more than them. I wanted this more than anyone has ever wanted anything. Damn it all to Hell.

The scroll read in Latin:

Ut eum evoces, vere desiderio impleri necesse est. Delinea symbolum. Hausce sanguinem. Eadem manu quae sanguinem haustit, te tangere ut velis tangi.

In order to summon him, you must be filled with true desire for him. Draw the symbol. Draw blood. With the same hand that drew blood, touch yourself as you wish to be touched.

I shook as I took the chalk and bent as if in supplication to sketch out the pentagram on the floor. While squatting inside it, I took a letter opener and used it to cut open the palm of my right hand.

Stinging pain sent a thrill through my body in rapid pulses. The blood was warm, and I winced when I flexed my hand, feeling as the skin stretched and pulled and widened the wound.

Then came the question: how did I want to be touched?

I moved the layers of my priestly garb aside, still too ashamed to strip fully—ashamed to commit to this act and ashamed if I was wrong. If I couldn’t summon this creature, I didn’t want to be nude when the realisation hit me, cock and body covered in smears of my own blood.

I lay the scroll out in front of me, where Asmodeus was depicted in graphite that had faded long ago. I saw horns, the lick of a tail. I saw a broad, well-defined chest ghosting over the old paper.

In order to summon him, you must be filled with true desire for him.

I closed my eyes and summoned the thought of him. I imagined hands twice the size of mine running along my thighs. I imagined them loping around my neck, squeezing, pulling me forward. I imagined the beast doing what it wanted to my body, and I was too weak to resist. That was what I wanted. That was how I wanted to be treated. I would not be swayed from my path now; God had been a detour, and pleasure was the only thing I wished to worship.

Desire and warmth flooded to the base of my cock, which twitched before I’d even touched it. The first stroke urged it to harden. The blood leaking from my wound coated the shaft and sucked sensually against it with every tug; I was flushed and fighting shame in favour of this. I desired my satisfaction, but it took everything in me to focus, to allow myself this.

Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this the kind of filth you have craved your whole life?

I imagined the voice was not mine but Asmodeus’. I answered loudly, clearly, and out loud.

“Yes.”

I spread my legs. The cold night air did nothing to quell the heat in my groin, and as I stroked and the wet noises of blood slicking against my cock echoed against the stone, something happened that shifted me and this act away from crude pleasure. My body and my mind crystallised to that singular focus; a building rhythm in my groin, hand cupped with pestilent desire, the blood and the body: I achieved a kind of mysticism. The forefront of my mind collapsed under the weight of my excitement. I was gone from myself, and the animal in me took over to thrust, to grind, to steal every bit of friction it could from my blood-slick palm.

The air rose around me as if the sides of a coffin were boxing me in. Asmodeus in my mind’s eye. Asmodeus filling me up. The rapture of its insistent touch and the force of its pressure bearing down on me was something that I couldn’t ignore. Something kissed me, though I could see nothing. This presence began to learn my body and acquainted itself with my lips and my teeth. A warm tongue filled up my mouth and flicked over my incisors. I moaned throatily. Something sharp tore at my lip—I screamed out as the wet metallic taste pooled under my tongue. I buckled. My body twitched, confused as the conflicting sensations sparked in my brain. The pain, the pleasure—claws teased my skin, which split open under the invisible press of a large hand.

I came.

Within seconds, my eyes rolled back, and my body convulsed in the throes of the little death—a blinding, endless bit of liminality. My bloodied hand trembled, and I listed forward, sprawling in the mess I had made. Half suspended on my spread hands, I stared, panting at the mix of blood, cum, and sweat that now decorated the pentagram’s interior.

It was done. It was inevitable, now.

I braced myself for a demon.