Crush hated summoning. It was like the tail bones that humans possessed, a usless thing, left over from days long past. Humans barely believed in demonic presences anymore (probably why it was so easy to catch them off-guard). Humans were less robust then they had been in years past, when hunting and killing and magic had been important. Now, hunting was simply a sport, real magic had been long forgotten, and killing was grounds to be incarcerated. Things had really changed over the years. To be specific, summoning a demon was a dark art. The summoner intended to capture the demon, and use it for their gain. The way a dog is kept as a pet, or better yet, a garden, used for harvesting. He would grunt at the thought of another human summoning him. He was a cocky one, and felt that the dark magic required for such a feat would kill a human if they tried it.

He didn't realize that summoning was much easier if the demon was close-by. In addition, he had no idea that in about 5 minutes, he would be summoned, for the fourth time in his lengthy life, to an amatuer wiccan of all things!

He was simply resting on the cot in his janitor's closet, having been out late last night. The demon hadn't had a successful night, but he wasn't about to go walking around the dorms in daylight. His plan was to nap until dusk, then sneak out and deliver some room service. As Elise Renfroe began to thumb through an old book of hers in the room above his, Crush fell asleep.

Wiccans? Those were the weak little Baptist girls who went on two week tantrums, brief stints slumming in the underworld before being born again. Oh, no. Elis skirted right by that - towards Kabbalah, towards Crowley and the Rosicrucian Order, Haitian Voodoo, the mystery of the Elder Gods, the Hermetic orders - Thoth and Woten and the great many-named and duplicitous gods of the ancient Arabs. She's picked the darkest hour of the night to slip out, knowing that it's the only time she has any chance of not getting caught. So she slips out, her body covered only by a silk black cloak - bare feet whispering on the tile of the hallway, the hood raised to cover her dark hair, her main blue eyes. Underneath the tight-pulled garment, her skin prickles with goosebumps, nipples at pert pink attention. Her heels arch against the cold floor beneath her.

She tests the library window she left unlocked late the day before. Perfect. Slides it open and slips through, proceeds to wind through the stacked and scattered shelves until she finds a study room in the back. She sidles in, inspecting the room nervously before slinging her knapsack down on the large conference-sized table. She turns to lock the door behind her - sweeps a stack of maps off the table and snags a roll of tape from her back, then flicks off the lights. She carefully covers the windows and mounts the table. Prostrate, bent like a woman in prayer, she proceeds to set an altar. Candles, alternating black and red, circle around her. ten. a small bowl set in front of her, set with a blunt implement - a rather large mortar and pestle. In a half crescent, she sprinkles cornmeal around the circle. The hood drops. She has been working by the pale green aura of her phone's flashlight, and now she clicks it off, plunged into total darkness.

Then the flicker of a match, the dance of milky skin in the firelight. and one by one she lights each candle, intoning a name with each one. "I beseech the dark shells of the Qlipoth - the Great and Mighty sparks of the most Unholy Revolt - for audience."

"Thamiel, still-born twin of pre-creation. The Never-Thing King."
"Ghagiel, the Swarm, the bearer of all plagues. The Lord of Flies."
"Satharial, the Anti-Light, from who's womb comes all life and all death."
"Gha'agsheblah, the Devourer, Great Born cat which mounted and desecrated Pure Mary."
and here she begins to forget, settles on just the names.
"Golachab: King Asmodeus, clad in hellfire."
"Thagirian, Papa Guede, the foul mouth of Death."
"A'arab Zaraq, father of carrion."
"Samael, known as Addramalech."
"Galamiel, Lilith, Queen of Lust."
"and Naamah, sister and foul demon."

She scrawls a long, black-painted fingernail through the corn mill, sketching out a vevre - a sigil for summoning.

"Bear to me a demon of the lower circles, an agent of destruction..."

She pricks her nail over the bowl. "Feast on my blood."
Hocking a loogie into it, "My saliva."
Withdrawing the pestle now. Her fingers wrap smoothly around it, holding it tight before plunging it between her legs. She takes a bite from her lower lip, gasping as she grinds onto it, her ass arching. She lets the pestle drip her juices into the bowl. "My sex."

"Feast on my body and my soul for now, and grant me this favor, knowing that soon, my rage alone will sustain the all of you.

It all went on as Crush, intent on getting some decent rest, was laying on his cot. His eyes were wide open though, his pupils studying the room. Something felt weird to him... He looked down at his arm, sharp pricks of cold and hot ran up and down.

The demon grumbled to himself, getting up and pacing the room, with some tension starting to build in his head. He couldn't be getting called back to hell, this was his place of eternal retire, be it a humble existence, he preferred it over hell. He felt that beforehand sickness he always felt when he was summoned, it was a feeling you couldn't forget.

"...win of pre-creation. The Never-Thing King."

He blinked, starting to hear a voice in his head. Puzzled, he listened.... As he listened, a grin spread across his face, revealing his sharp, deadly teeth. It was a woman, a young woman. He didn't understand how a woman her age could possibly be summoning him, but he wasn't going home. Crush laughed at the idea that a mortal was attempting to use him in order to accomplish her useless goals.

..............
"Feast on my body and my soul for now, and grant me this favor, knowing that soon, my rage alone will sustain the all of you."

Nothing... All was quiet, as it should have been. The bodily fluids in the bowl began to settle, uslessly. Then, a crack echoed through the vacant library. The bowl began to split itself apart, hairline fractures spreading in spiderweb patterns and pieces of the stone falling onto the table.

Smoke rose from the stone, and it began to disappear, the minerals practically evaporating as Elise's bodily fluids began to spread across the table. Against gravity, they spread into a perfect circle on the table, the amount of liquid had seemed to several fold. The circle of fluids began to glow a bright red, throwing a terrifying light throughout the room.

Crush felt the pre-summon sickness grow stronger and doubled over, his arms crossed over his stomach. He was going to give the bitch a reason not to mess with his kind, rage or not. Feeling the room fall away, he was thrust into darkness. He looked around, remembering the darkness. It was similar to his years of banishment. The banisher had done a shoddy job, he had been able to bring things to himself to stay preoccupied.

A bright red circle opened in the darkness below him. He looked down and hopped into it. His feeling of orientation disappeared as he felt himself jump up out of the glowing portal on the table. He landed on the table, and was surprised it didn't break under his weight. Stepping off of it, he sat down in a near chair. He felt sick and dizzy and angry all at once, his eyes scanned the darkness for his summoner.

The red light casts across her pale skin, the pitch black of her lipstick and eyeliner. Her cloak is pulled back up protectively around her, skin goose-pimpled, nipples leaving an imprint in the tight cloak. She stares at the monster in front of her with a mixture of shock and horror. Jesus Christ. They had to send her a monster built like Brad Pitt in Troy, didn't they? Licking at her lips as she looks over his body. Oh, my. He could put a real hurting on someone. She tries for haughty, through the trembling. "Give me your name, servant."