The rock floor is warm now, warmer the closer he gets to the middle of the room. Heat radiates from the five-pointed star of inlaid silver. Still comfortable to his bare feet, dispelling the memory of cellar chill that usually prevails there. As the forces gather, so does the heat rise. Come time, it will be uncomfortable, then unbearable and finally impossible to approach. By then he will be at the wall, pressing against its still cool masonry near the door. As yet, he is moving to and fro with habitual ease following the Master's instructions.

Stopping at the first point of the star, the one to nor'-nor'-east. A faint white shimmer from the silver of the star illuminating his face from below. Awaiting the designated word in the monotonous litany of the Master. One of all those words he knows not the meaning but well the power of. The Master knows what they mean in the long dead tongue, a language of more power than what commoners speak today. Words with power to change, to subdue - and to wake.

There's the word now and he sets down the golden bowl of rowan ashes. Ashes for the dust that makes up all life, ashes for nourishing the mind. A golden sheen envelops the ashes. The star has received it, taken it into itself. Backing away towards the great bronze trough, fetching the next preparation.

Glancing at the door. Daylight seeps through around its edges. Wishing himself out there but he is bound by duty. All careful objections, wrapped into tentative questions, already dismissed. The Master has devoted almost his entire life to this attempt. Would have been better to devote himself to humans. Better for the Master's peace of mind, not spending all these years on something that cannot end well.

At the third point, to the southeast, the antipode of the first, he waits again. At the designated word he sets down the crystal chalice of clear spring water, from the enchanted well in the courtyard. Mixed with a pinch of pure sea salt, reminiscent of the primordial ocean, the mythical birthplace of all life. Water for dust to be enclosed by and to enclose, making room for life - and water for clarity and levelness of thought. Glittering blue light suddenly fills it with beauty. Taking a moment to admire it before backing away again.

Beauty. So much of it in the world, and yet the Master seems blind to it. In the leaves of spring and of autumn. In the lazy white summer pasture of clouds and in their silver gray, heavy winter cloak. In the faces of women and men, old and young, even in those considered ugly there is always something. None of this for the Master. Incomprehensible blindness in one who can see so far. A quick glance at the Master's face, his hawkeye flitting back and forth between past, present and future - seeing all in proper order. Already mist inside on the crystal of the chalice.

Picking up the eagle-skin pouch, decorated with the feathers and claws of the eagle. Some would call it empty. The Master himself filled it with the first breeze of the vernal equinox. Air for the breath of all life on and over land. Air to fan the flame and speed the wings of thought and speech. Setting the skin down at the designated word, by the second point, to northwest. The feathers seem to come aflame with green sparks.

The Master loves only that which soars. That which plods on earth he treads on without noticing. Forgetting that all flight takes off from and returns to earth, which gives it the strength to fly. Shackles, he calls it. Flying forever would appeal to him. Unattainable dream. But such is his character. Never leaving his lofty domain, sending only his Apprentice and the one servant tolerated in the village below. No wonder he is regarded with suspicion. Even so, he bears them no ill will. He bears them no will whatsoever.

Last preparation now, the lamp with purest rock oleum. Lighting the wick on the wax candle, making sure the flame doesn't smoke. Fire for the fire of life, for the sun, and fire for the warming fire of love and passion in the shrine of the heart. Once it rests on the fourth point, to the sou'-sou'-east, the yellow flame turns to a glowing, pulsating red, reflected in the polished bronze of the lamp.

That fire is what the Master covets. It's cold up aloft, no one sharing any warmth. He wants company. Ordinary people, women, not good enough, too petty. The Apprentice knows several women, wise and beautiful, within a day's march. Has mentioned them to the Master. A dismissive gesture is all, good enough for the earth-plodder. If he would dare to land, let them in, he would be surprised, the Apprentice is sure. But he refuses. He will make the dream come true. At whatever cost.

The fifth point of the star, due east, will carry no preparation but a sacrifice. The newborn lamb, placenta and all, rests on a velvet cushion. Bleating weakly as he lifts it, seeking him with its dark eyes. Pity welling up in him. The lamb harbours the mysterious force, that which imbues lifeless dust with life. Not for much longer, soon to be robbed, employed for the Master's purpose.

Walking gingerly across the ever hotter floor. As it is laid down on the fifth point, the lamb stiffens with cramp. All the four colours of the preparations surround it, caressing, crawling, like a living cocoon. Its mouth opens in a last, startled bleat, abruptly cut off. Tongue sticking out, faint gasps barely heard, but the body is still now, limp.

At least it's only a lamb. A newborn child would have been more powerful, the Master says. Out of question, of course. He bears them no ill will. Wishes only to be left in peace. In peace but not in loneliness, not for much longer now. The Apprentice shakes his head, catches himself, glances at the Master. He pays no notice. Never mind. All his doubts are known to the Master. But also that duty takes precedence over doubt.

Lastly, fetching the blood. Gripping the rowan handle of the long ladle with hands as steady as he can manage. The heart-blood of five birds. Swan, peacock, owl, larch and raven. Purity, beauty, wisdom, mirth and cleverness. All mixed with the Master's own, drawn from his living body at peril of death. The servant he conjured for the purpose, alone in this chamber, fulfilled its task. The Master was bedridden for five weeks but the work was done. Those precious drops in the mixture. Along with five ethereal oils and five minerals, to bring the blood to seethe and surge.

The raven worries him. He said so. Harbingers of doom, are they not? Old wives' tales to the Master. He often uses ravens as informants. Clever birds. Still the Apprentice wonders. Are they not knocking on the door of misfortune?

Emptying the ladle in the hollow at the centre of the star. Waiting for the last drop to fall, heart thudding, foot soles almost scalded now. Already the black fluid streams through the channels towards the points, drawn more by the forces than by gravity. Slowly hauling out the ladle, out from the star, must be away before it is completed. Backing away, must not rush, mouth dry. Placing the ladle in the trough, backing further up until the wall, now lukewarm, meets the back. Nothing remains now but to watch. Vigilant, ready if needs be.

The Master is now fully engrossed in the last stage of the spell. Hairs prickling all over the Apprentice's body. From anxiety or from the forces coursing through the air or both. This will never bear telling in the village, just the sort of thing to turn suspicion into hate. It will fret him. If it succeeds, that is. To see and know but never tell. It is sure to succeed, the Master is skilled, precise. Now the five black rivulets reach the little dams just before the points, at exactly the same moment, just as calculated. Spreading to the sides in the enclosing circle. Joining exactly in time, the circle is complete and the dams overflow.

The Apprentice draws his breath, shuffles a few steps closer to the door. For one hammering heartbeat, then two, nothing happens while the preparations and the cushioned lamb are soaked by the blood mixture. Then the air over the start shifts and all turns white. The preparations - fire, dust, air and water - are sucked into the middle. Their containers annihilated in sharp flashes of the four colours. The lamb...

Feverish shivers, vertigo and nausea rack him. The lamb sucked dry like a husk, eyes bursting. The placenta melting, running into the circle, glowing with streaks of converging powers. It reaches the centre, merges with the seething preparations and the blood into a maelstrom rising out of the star. As bright as the sun now, he shuts his eyes, covering them with his hands, grateful not to see.

The Master's voice thundering out the end of the chant. The two words the Apprentice knows the meaning of crash through his ears - Life and Death. To love the Master like life, even unto death. That is the mission of the new life to be given birth here and now. A rushing noise as of a thousand cataracts washes all senses away - and then a deafening silence.