Fire
I don't own Merlin
The first spark hit the wood, then another.
Quickly a small flame was alive. Its small light beautiful in the dark.
More and more flames joined the first, and soon you could call it a fire.
The flames were greedy and devoured the wood. They climbed higher and higher, growing bigger and wilder on their desperate hunt for more.
Soon they were touching flesh, liking against the skin.
The skin was melting and the flesh changing colour, but no one said a word.
Merlin couldn't wait for the pork to be finished; you got hungry when you were on patrol.