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drink from once their grisly First Supper was over； the symbolic antithesis of the holy grail； filled with an intoxicating Haitian punch that dulled their brains and fired their bodies with an overwhelming desire for the obscenities which this night promised。 Perhaps he should not have brought the West Indian girl along but it would have been wrong to deny her the chance to participate in the ultimate rites。 After tonight there would be no turning back for any of them。 Even he was nervous； a high priest whose powers were far greater than any of the black houngans or bocors； flinched at the prospect of summoning the Master himself。 For only the Great One was able to sanction the transfer of power from the remains of William Gardiner to Royston Spode。 Surely he would be pleased that there was one so able who was willing to carry on his work 。。。 or was there another somewhere better suited 。 。 。 such as Quentin Sabat who lived in Mark Sabat？ But if Sabat was sacrificed； that black soul destroyed 。。 。 Quentin must not be set free to bee a rival to Spode； perhaps to overthrow him。 The sooner Sabat was dead the easier the vicar would feel。 He began to hurry； some of those behind him breaking into a shambling run。
The moment he descended below ground Spode experienced that feeling of foreboding again。 His senses tuned to the evil； detected an undercurrent of hostility 。 。 。 towards himself Once he glanced back； met Alison's expressionless gaze； felt unfortable。 But she was a mere servant girl； she could not harm him。 Perhaps it would have been better for her to have remained behind。
A sense of urgency； panic； almost gripped him； but there was no reason why it should。 The candles still burned； Sabat was lying in a shaft of wan light； bloodsoaked and unrecognisable。 Spode did not look for the body of Andy Drew which should have been propped up in the shadows only a foot or so away because the youth was of no consequence； he had serve a purpose； paid in full for his treacherous act just as Miranda had。 All they needed now was Sabat's blood gushing from a severed jugular。
The others were clustered in a semi…circle behind him； disrobing themselves with an eagerness which he must temper。 First the sacrifice； afterwards they could do anything they liked。 Many of them were already naked； lusting and groping for one another； as though they had forgotten the true purpose of this night。
'Stop' Spode yelled； his deafening tones powered by the acoustics of the crypt。 'First we must sacrifice Sabat and beseech the A ncient One to grant our request this night！'
The coven froze； stared at him with blank faces。
'On your bellies； hide your eyes fools； for you are not worthy to look upon the Master。 He will strike dead any whose eyes rest on his sacred form！'
Now there was fear on their faces； their crazed brains seeming to understand； throwing themselves prostrate。 Only Alison remained standing； staring straight ahead of her。
'You； too；' Spode hissed； 'do you dare to disobey me？'
She nodded； sank slowly to her knees but did not lower her head。 It was as though she was held transfixed by the black altar； the sacrificial victim and the skeleton。 Once her eyes moved； peered into the shadows which seemed to encroach as the candles flickered and dimmed。 Perhaps she had noticed the absence of the mutilated corpse but if so she did not speak。
Spode turned angrily away from her。 If she saw and was struck down by the Master then that was her own fault。 He could not waste any more time on her。 The hand； which reached down the jewelled sacrificial knife shook； that feeling of impending disaster was growing stronger by the second。
Sabat had his gun trained on Spode； a direct bead that would have ploughed a slug between those narrow eyes and churned a path of splintered bloody bone out through the balding crown。 A professional stance； left hand gripping the wrist of his gun arm。 He would not have missed； an error was out of the question。 Yet he hesitated； not because of any twinge of conscience； that he was blasting a sitting target from ambush； he'd done that on innumerable occasions in the past and never lost a wink of sleep over it。 Two reasons； first he was curious； intrigued to witness the sacrifice of his 'own body'； anticipating his secret delight when Spode discovered the deception。 Second； Alison was standing directly behind her master and there was a risk that the slug might take a deflection on its death…course and mow her down too。 He didn't feel anything for her except 。。。 her body was sensuous； inviting； and he would settle his score with her in a frenzied lust afterwards。 Dead； she was no use to him。 So he held his fire。
Royston Spode had the knife； the blood of its last victim barely dry on the blade。 He was chanting again； words that Sabat recognised as Creole； changing to Latin。 Not the Black Mass； something else that had e from a dark land in the days when it was very young； passed down by word of mouth to the few select sorcerers of the ultimate evil。
Those on the floor were whimpering； their fear escalating； penetrating their intoxication with a terrible realisation of what might happen。 Alison； too； was visibly shaking； her features were pale。 An icy wind howled and seemed to e in down the entrance tunnel。 Spode was screeching； attempting to make himself heard； bringing the weapon down in a vicious arc that beheaded the corpse at a single blow。 And at that very moment every candle flame fluttered； extinguished in a smoke haze and plunged the crypt into blackness。
Sabat cursed； realised his mistake； almost fired blindly on his original alignment of the 。38 but he had never been one to shoot rashly。 Accuracy was uncertain； the stabbing flame gave away one's position to the enemy。 He waited； his mouth dry； finger lightly on the trigger。
Everybody was screaming or was it a host of invisible evil spirits borne on the wind？ A melee； perhaps the members of the coven had panicked and were fleeing blindly trying to find the exit。 Cursing； bodies falling。
Even as Sabat deliberated upon a course of action he heard the pounding of hooves； the snorting of some huge demented beast； its putrid smell。 Oh Jesus God； he'd left it too late； allowed Spode to summon the Evil One when one well…placed。 38 slug would have stopped him！
Sabat found himself cowering back in the narrow cleft； his instinct to start firing wildly into the snarling cauldron of blackness but logically he knew it would be useless； a futile waste of ammunition that might bring the wrath of the attacking powers upon him； their vengeance terrible for this puny mortal insult。
Something smashed and rolled across the floor； probably one of those candlesticks。 Hooves struck； flesh and bone was being pulped； wild bestial noises and human cries of terror。 He felt the rush of air； the nearness of things beyond even his own knowledge and at any moment he expected to be dragged from his hiding place。 Quentin's voice pounded against his brain but no mockery this time； sheer terror in the warning； 'Flee while the