THE BELTHAZOR CHRONICLES
Baptism of Fire
"Witches," Raynor lectured in a low voice, "are our sworn enemies. They've hunted us since the beginning of time." He shrugged and pointed at the circle of women that knelt within a larger ring of burning candles. They were chanting softly. "If it were up to them," he continued, "we would all smother each other with love and live in peace forever after." He snorted with disdain, but softly, so as not to alert the coven absorbed in their ceremony. "There's not fortune to be made, no power to be gained from peace. Mark my words, Belthazor, peace is as useful to us as prayer is to an atheist."
Belthazor's blue eyes were glued to the scene before him. The air shimmered slightly over the heat of the candles. There was something alluring about the quiet chanting, the flickering flames, and the cold stars above.
So, these were witches? They looked like regular women; some were thin and wiry, others stout and big-bosomed. Every one of the nine witches was dressed in the tight bodices and long, dark skirts of their time. Most were young, barely at an age to get married. Only two of the women wore gray streaks in their hair. And none of them would stand taller than his shoulder, even in his human form. Belthazor was not impressed.
While mentor and student watched in silence from the thick underbrush, the witches' circle broke. The women embraced each other before separating. "Blessed be." The soft-spoken benediction reached Belthazor's ears on the gentle breeze that blew in from the Bay. "Blessed be, my sisters. Be careful on this special night."
A special night it was; New Year's Eve of 1899. In five minutes the clocks would strike midnight and a new century would begin. One witch would not live to see the wonders that the new era would bring.
In twos and threes the women scurried away along the dark paths of the park. Soon one witch was left; the coven's mistress. Belthazor watched while she busied herself to clear away the candles, blowing out the flames before placing them in a wicker basket that stood a few feet to the side. The edges of her long skirt brushed over the grass while she bustled about. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, Belthazor thought. Her hair was long and colored a deep red that shone like copper in the starlight. Full breasts heaved beneath the close-fitting bodice and her skin was pale. To the teenaged hybrid, she was beautiful.
And she was the witch that Raynor had chosen to be his first true kill, his initiation to full demonhood.
Belthazor's heart thudded in his throat and his chest felt tight. Eager anticipation commingled with anxiety. What if he failed? What if he was unable to call upon the fireball when the moment was there? He pushed the doubts away and glanced sideways at Raynor, waiting for the signal. He had trained long years for this day. And Raynor had full confidence in him; he would not let his teacher down.
Raynor nodded once and drew further back into the shadows.
With a tiny mental prod Belthazor changed into his demonic form. Power surged through him and he took a grateful breath. The brush rustled as it settled around his new, bigger shape.
The witch spun on her heels, alerted by the sound. "Who's there?" she called. Her voice held a quiver while she squinted and tried to bore through the darkness into the dense undergrowth.
Belthazor hesitated for a second. He glanced over his shoulder but Raynor was nowhere to be seen. The demon knew, however, that his mentor would be watching his every move. If he failed-
He pushed the prickly branches of the evergreen aside and stepped out. When he walked into the moonlight, the witch's eyes widened and she gulped.
"Demon!" she gasped. Before Belthazor could react, she bounded towards her basket and pulled out a spray of lavender. She held the sprig before her while she intoned breathily:
"Evil is approaching;
Let Darkness be withstood;
Blanket me with your defense;
Protect me with the power of Good."
Pain slashed Belthazor's stomach and he grunted in surprise. He stopped to stare at the witch, black eyes cold.
"Evil is approaching;
Let Darkness be withstood..."
Again sharp pain shot through his body, like a thousand needles, and Belthazor doubled over. Anger flared in his blood and drowned out the pain. Damn witch!
He raised his hand and instantly a shining blue ball hovered over it. Her words hurt so much that he never thought to be relieved when the power answered his call. With a flick of his wrist, he flung the bolt at the witch.
The lavender wasn't protection enough against Belthazor's strength. The bolt hit her on the right hip and instantly she burst into flames. Fiery tongues licked at her skirts, her skin, and competed with her copper hair for brilliance. She screamed, once, then all was silent. The witch was gone. A few skimpy tendrils of smoke were all that remained.
Gulping deep breaths, Belthazor tried to gain control of the hatred that boiled his blood. He could still feel the pain of the witch's protection spell. Had the rest of her coven been present, he would not have hesitated in taking them on also. When he heard a noise, he wheeled around and conjured another ball.
Raynor walked from the shadows, slowly applauding his student. "Well done, Belthazor. You have studied well."
The bolt winked out. Anger faded; the hatred dulled to a rusty ache deep inside. A sense of accomplishment washed through Belthazor, pride at his mentor's praise. He grinned, revealing a row of small, pointed teeth.
"That was easy."
Disclaimer: this story is based on the Spelling Television/WB Television Network series Charmed. All characters belong to their original creators. The story was written for entertainment only and no copyright infringement was intended.
Baptism of Fire
"Witches," Raynor lectured in a low voice, "are our sworn enemies. They've hunted us since the beginning of time." He shrugged and pointed at the circle of women that knelt within a larger ring of burning candles. They were chanting softly. "If it were up to them," he continued, "we would all smother each other with love and live in peace forever after." He snorted with disdain, but softly, so as not to alert the coven absorbed in their ceremony. "There's not fortune to be made, no power to be gained from peace. Mark my words, Belthazor, peace is as useful to us as prayer is to an atheist."
Belthazor's blue eyes were glued to the scene before him. The air shimmered slightly over the heat of the candles. There was something alluring about the quiet chanting, the flickering flames, and the cold stars above.
So, these were witches? They looked like regular women; some were thin and wiry, others stout and big-bosomed. Every one of the nine witches was dressed in the tight bodices and long, dark skirts of their time. Most were young, barely at an age to get married. Only two of the women wore gray streaks in their hair. And none of them would stand taller than his shoulder, even in his human form. Belthazor was not impressed.
While mentor and student watched in silence from the thick underbrush, the witches' circle broke. The women embraced each other before separating. "Blessed be." The soft-spoken benediction reached Belthazor's ears on the gentle breeze that blew in from the Bay. "Blessed be, my sisters. Be careful on this special night."
A special night it was; New Year's Eve of 1899. In five minutes the clocks would strike midnight and a new century would begin. One witch would not live to see the wonders that the new era would bring.
In twos and threes the women scurried away along the dark paths of the park. Soon one witch was left; the coven's mistress. Belthazor watched while she busied herself to clear away the candles, blowing out the flames before placing them in a wicker basket that stood a few feet to the side. The edges of her long skirt brushed over the grass while she bustled about. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, Belthazor thought. Her hair was long and colored a deep red that shone like copper in the starlight. Full breasts heaved beneath the close-fitting bodice and her skin was pale. To the teenaged hybrid, she was beautiful.
And she was the witch that Raynor had chosen to be his first true kill, his initiation to full demonhood.
Belthazor's heart thudded in his throat and his chest felt tight. Eager anticipation commingled with anxiety. What if he failed? What if he was unable to call upon the fireball when the moment was there? He pushed the doubts away and glanced sideways at Raynor, waiting for the signal. He had trained long years for this day. And Raynor had full confidence in him; he would not let his teacher down.
Raynor nodded once and drew further back into the shadows.
With a tiny mental prod Belthazor changed into his demonic form. Power surged through him and he took a grateful breath. The brush rustled as it settled around his new, bigger shape.
The witch spun on her heels, alerted by the sound. "Who's there?" she called. Her voice held a quiver while she squinted and tried to bore through the darkness into the dense undergrowth.
Belthazor hesitated for a second. He glanced over his shoulder but Raynor was nowhere to be seen. The demon knew, however, that his mentor would be watching his every move. If he failed-
He pushed the prickly branches of the evergreen aside and stepped out. When he walked into the moonlight, the witch's eyes widened and she gulped.
"Demon!" she gasped. Before Belthazor could react, she bounded towards her basket and pulled out a spray of lavender. She held the sprig before her while she intoned breathily:
"Evil is approaching;
Let Darkness be withstood;
Blanket me with your defense;
Protect me with the power of Good."
Pain slashed Belthazor's stomach and he grunted in surprise. He stopped to stare at the witch, black eyes cold.
"Evil is approaching;
Let Darkness be withstood..."
Again sharp pain shot through his body, like a thousand needles, and Belthazor doubled over. Anger flared in his blood and drowned out the pain. Damn witch!
He raised his hand and instantly a shining blue ball hovered over it. Her words hurt so much that he never thought to be relieved when the power answered his call. With a flick of his wrist, he flung the bolt at the witch.
The lavender wasn't protection enough against Belthazor's strength. The bolt hit her on the right hip and instantly she burst into flames. Fiery tongues licked at her skirts, her skin, and competed with her copper hair for brilliance. She screamed, once, then all was silent. The witch was gone. A few skimpy tendrils of smoke were all that remained.
Gulping deep breaths, Belthazor tried to gain control of the hatred that boiled his blood. He could still feel the pain of the witch's protection spell. Had the rest of her coven been present, he would not have hesitated in taking them on also. When he heard a noise, he wheeled around and conjured another ball.
Raynor walked from the shadows, slowly applauding his student. "Well done, Belthazor. You have studied well."
The bolt winked out. Anger faded; the hatred dulled to a rusty ache deep inside. A sense of accomplishment washed through Belthazor, pride at his mentor's praise. He grinned, revealing a row of small, pointed teeth.
"That was easy."
Disclaimer: this story is based on the Spelling Television/WB Television Network series Charmed. All characters belong to their original creators. The story was written for entertainment only and no copyright infringement was intended.