The Minotauress

shun or some shit?'

Another dejected sigh. 'I'm a speculative novelist, not a sorcerer. I don't know. It does support the folklore: prayers, intercessions, hymns of praise to the Devil. It's been recorded that vocal incantations often accompany such rites, but... there are no such prerequisites mentioned in any of Crafter's notes or sources.'

'Guess we just sit tight, and wait,' but, lo, Balls pronounced the word tight as 'tat' The heat in the room grew, which only worsened the death-stench from the first corpse. The three of them sat around sweating, fidgeting, tapping their feet. None of them said anything on occasions when the Minotauress bellowed or snorted upstairs. Every so often a crash could be heard when it knocked something over. Its footfalls paced back and forth along the hall by the basement door.

It's waiting for us to make a move, the Writer presumed.

An hour later, Balls checked the crucible. 'Looks like ash ta me!'

'Now carefully pour the ashes on that sheet of slate,' the Writer advised. 'You'll have to let them cool before you can proceed with the rest.'

Balls shot the cuffs of his sorcerer's surplice, and did as he was told. He gently fanned the ashes with one of the books, then said, 'Dicky, put'cher hand in them ashes ta see if they'se cool.'

'Kiss my ass, Balls!'

Balls chuckled. 'Ya know? I kind'a dig this warlock shit. Might even take it up as a hobby.'

'In another time,' the Writer informed, 'you would be burned alive or disemboweled for saying such a thing. Black magic was considered the worst crime a person could commit. Worse than murder, worse than rape and child molestation.'

'Yeah? Well I done all's that without no problem. Why not this, too?'

'Aw, Balls,' Dicky pointed out. 'You should stick ta runnin' ‘shine. If ya wanna be a full-time warlock, ya gots to wear that magic jacket a lot. Folks'll think ya turned inta Liberace.'

'Oh... Yeah... '

Eventually, the ashes had cooled to the touch. 'All's right, Writer. Now all I gotta do is spread these here ashes over the door?'

'Over the keystone in the archway.'

'With my blammed hand?'

'Sure. Why not?'

Balls grabbed a fistful of the ash, then spread it across the jeweled keystone above Cora's very dead head.

'What now?'

The Writer shrugged. 'Open the door.'

'Here goes... ' Balls took hold of the door's iron latch. He thumbed down the release, paused, took a deep breath...

Dicky shivered, but the Writer only looked on in the certainty that nothing but bricks would be found behind the door.

Balls' thumb slowly lowered, raising the latch, and—

—the rickety door swung open on its own.

Down went the Writer's jaw. The brick wall behind the door no longer existed, but in its place stood a black gulf. Greenish-gray fog slowly eddied into the room along with still more humid heat. Sounds could be heard as if at a great distance: wind, the mad clatter of metal, and layered screams. The Writer, Balls, and Dicky sat or stood frozen in shock.

And another noise—much closer—could be heard coming from the arcane passageway.

Footsteps? the Writer wondered.

A series of wet, slapping thuds. Balls stood closest to the open Bridle. His eyes widened as they detected the approach of something, and he slowly stepped back, aghast.

'You guys ain't gonna believe what's walkin' out'a there... '

A queerly shaped shadow crossed the floor as the arranged mass of muscular flesh stepped into the room. It possessed bare arms and legs that could be described as humanish rather than human: stout, corded but with more girth, more muscle than a human being could have. Hands large as dinner plates, hairy knuckled, and splayed bare feet that were large and thick, which the Writer could only think of as like that of an ogre. The arms were connected directly atop the legs, and it was from this fleshy apex that the creature's 'body' sprouted. Not a trunk, thorax, or anything that could be called a mid-section. The thing's body, instead, was a yard- long, eight-inch-thick human penile erection.

'That's the demon?' Dicky stammered, unbelieving.

Balls seemed more angry now than shocked. 'A demon's supposed to have horns and a pointed tail'n shit— that ain't no demon. It's a giant dick!'

Indeed, an enormous erection with arms and legs but also... a face.

Long slit-like eyes blinked at them: red irises and white pupils, and below them protruded a great pug noise the size of a pine cone. No mouth could be detected, but now it must be said where this face was located: at the top of a dangling scrotum as big as a grocery bag, which encapsulated two melon-sized testicles. The great crinkled sack of scrotal flesh was rife with long wiry black hairs.

Balls sat down, irate. 'That's the damn stupidest-lookin' thing I ever seen!'

'It ain't nothin' but a big dick,' Dicky offered.

'Dang straight, and we'se shore as shit gonna need somethin' more than a big dick to kill that thing upstairs.'

So this, the Writer thought, is a Spermatogoyle. 'You may be right, but we've got no choice but to try.'

By now, the Bridle had raised again; only bricks filled the egress. Meanwhile, the Spermatogoyle glanced around as if curious, or even surprised by the three men staring back at it.

The Writer ventured, 'Perhaps we're as ridiculous-looking to it as it is to us.'

'Shee-it,' Balls sputtered.

The stout legs hunkered up and down as the creature plodded about the room. It seemed to glance at the