From: Vesper@ix.netcom.com (Mario Di Giacomo)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.creative
Subject: NTB:  Dance of the Daemon #2
Date: 9 Apr 1995 01:12:04 GMT

DANCE OF THE DAEMON #2    "Nature of the Beast"


  There's nothing like a good bookstore.  There's a certain quality in 
the air, a taste of antiquity, and the accumulated knowledge has an 
almost physical weight.  Pandemonium was no exception.
  Max Fremont, hacker extraordinaire, liked books.  He liked them a lot. 
  So when an old college mate opened up a bookstore devoted to SF and 
Fantasy, he begged, cajoled, and bribed his way into a position as a 
sales clerk.  Unfortunately, with the rise of the large "chain" 
bookstores, business was slow.  So today, like the day before, he spent 
most of his time designing new levels for DOOM III.  Occasionally, 
someone would come and buy a Trek book, or the newest set of Magic 
cards, but that was not enough to fill Max's day.
  As he carefully tweaked the graphics, creating his newest "Hunt the 
Power Rangers" WAD, he felt an odd trickle down the back of his neck.  
He looked up, and stared at his red-haired customer. Whoever this guy 
was, he had one *hell* of a coat.  It was like a silk trenchcoat, and 
had all these funky designs in gold all over it. 
  "Excuse me," Damien murmured, "What can you tell me about the Book of 
Thoth."
  Damien glanced at the scruffy, almost painfully thin form before him. 
 The clerk needed a shave, and even with a crewcut, could probably find 
use for a hairbrush.  At least he was clean, he shrugged.
  "That sounds familiar," Max mumbled, scratching his head, and 
extracting a visible chunk of dandruff. "Do you know the name of the 
author?"
  Damien shook his head, "Sorry, I don't....Could you check under the 
title?"
  "Suure" Max drawled.  As he tapped away at his keyboard, he asked his 
first customer of the day, "Where'd you hear about it?  LOCUS?  Analog? 
 Maybe we could find a review or something."
  "It was recommended by an old, ah, um, partner of mine.  He said I 
should look it up?"  Damien shrugged, as if to say, "Hey, that's life."
  "Hey, that's life..." Max replied, utterly clueless as usual.  "Wait a 
minute...here's something...out of print though."
  Damien tapped his foot impatiently, sending echoes throughout the 
ether. "Well?"
  "It's not fiction" Max said, "At least, it's not SUPPOSED to be 
fiction.  It's a book about sex magick."
  "WHAT!" Damien shouted, snapping his mind back to reality.
  Max grinned. "Kinda famous too...it was written by Al Crowley."
  "That towel-headed skirt-wearing miserable little pieceofsh-...Who?"
  "Aleister Crowley?  Founder of Thelema?  The most evil man alive?  The 
Great Beast?  Don't you ever read Time-Life books?"  Max prodded.
  "Um...no." Damien replied abstractedly.  "But for some reason..."

LONDON, 1942.

  "Mornin' chief."  Tommy Adams called, as he tossed his bowler onto a 
handy coatrack.
  The Man in Black, head of the Grand Coven of Albion, director of the 
Occult Section, a man who's magical might made even his name a secret of 
the ages, hated being called chief.   He sighed deeply, and stared at 
the man codenamed The Golden Agent.  "Good to see you back.  Any trouble 
in the Balkans?"
  "Just another vampire.  It's odd how the Krauts don't mind using 
non-Aryan adepts if they can get something out of them..."  Adams mused, 
as he sprawled on a chair.
  "Is he a threat?" his superior continued.
  "Not in the least.  He saw the point of my arguement." Tommy replied, 
miming a hammering motion.
  The director harrumphed.  Tommy looked at him oddly, never having seen 
anyone actually DO that.  Sure, he'd read it in a lot of books, but 
amazingly enough, it actually SOUNDED like a "harrumph"
  His boss wondered why the Agent was staring at him so strangely.  
Putting the thought aside, he got down to business, "I have your next 
assignment ready.."
  "Oh come ON, chief.  I know I used to be a monk, but even THEY took 
sabbaticals occasionally.  What now, do you want me to sneak into 
Hitler's HQ and drink all his brandy?"
  "Don't be ridiculous," the MiB replied coldly, "All I want you to do 
is check out a black adept who recently turned up in London.  Chap by 
the name of Crowley."
  He passed Tommy a folder.  Inside were several mimeographed pages and 
a handful of photographs.  "As you can see, he's had a lot of experience 
in the Arts."
  "True," the Agent chimed in, "but it looks like he has a wee problem 
sticking to one path.  Even orders he founded have kicked him out."
  "There's only one path I'm worried about, and that's the left-handed 
one.  He might be recruited by Berlin."
  Tommy bounced to his feet, snapping a sharp, if overly ornate, salute. 
"As you wish, O Sable- suited one.  I'll beard the Beast in his lair, 
and make sure he isn't a threat."
  The Man in Black calmly returned the salute, and watched his operative 
leave.  He sat back, and noted the bowler on his rack.  As he opened his 
mouth to call out, it smoothly lifted off it's hook, and floated away on 
the trail of it's master.
  "Why?" he pleaded to his ceiling fan, "Why does he have to be so 
_good_ at this?"
  The fan spun slowly, making no response.

  The Golden Agent left the building, pausing to pat the ornate 
doorknocker.  The Occult division had found this Victorian-era 
rooming-house, and noting it's tremendous mystic resonances, turned it 
into their headquarters,  Adams recalled.  He often wondered why it's 
energies peaked at Yuletide, rather than at the more usual Samhain or 
Beltane.  It wasn't really an issue, but he always gave the house a 
little psychic nudge when he left, as a show of goodwill.
  As the fog roiled about him, he allowed his vestments to fade from 
their golden gleam, becoming more mundane, while maintaining their 
potential.  He slowly walked down the street, leafing through the file. 
 Finally, he chose his path.  
  Turning into a shadowy alley, he reignited his aura, dispelling the 
darkness.  Quietly, he petioned Netatron for power, and cast his spell. 
 The light grew, and faded, and he found himself before a door.
  It wasn't a very impressive door, being a simple one of painted wood. 
 But in magick, as in life, appearances could be decieving, so Adams let 
his vision cloud, as he perused the portal with senses beyond the norm. 
 It was mundane.  Although the file had indicated that the 
self-proclaimed Beast resided here,  the gate to his sanctum was not 
warded.
  This meant one of two things,  the Agent decided.  Either he had 
moved, or Crowley was so powerful an Adept that he did not fear occult 
attack.  There was only one way to find out.  Steeling himself for an 
attack, he knocked on the door.
  "One moment!" a rheumy voice announced.  A clatter sounded from behind 
the door, and within minutes, Tommy heard the sound of the bolt sliding 
back.  The door opened, revealing a smiling, bald-headed man.
  "Mr. Crowley?" he asked, "I'd like to ask you some questions, if I 
may."
  The chubby man behind the door smiled broader, "Of course, of course. 
 The true seeker of knowledge is always welcome at my abbey.  
Understand, however, that I cannot give you the inner secrets until you 
have advanced in my order."
  The Golden Agent followed his supposed master in the mystic arts.  The 
flat was filled with objets d'art from the far East, and as he passed 
within, the unmistakable scent of hashish tickled his nose.  "I don't 
wish to disturb your...meditations.  I was just wondering about your 
plans for the future."
  "I have almost completed my master work.  A Book of Isis, to match 
that of Thoth." Crowley proclaimed.  "No longer must man or woman be 
limited to works of the spirit.  It is by joining together in physical 
communion that the true power is generated."
  Adams paused at this.  In his own way, Crowley had just stated one of 
the oldest keys to magick.  Could a true Path be beginning..here?  He 
looked about him, noting the shabby wallpaper and general air of 
decadence.   But he must know more.
  Crowley watched his guest, eyes glittering.  "Come, let me show you.  
Together, we can reach new heights of enlightenment."  He reached out, 
squeezing his listener's upper arm.
  For all his sorcerous might,  Tommy Adams was an old fashioned sort of 
fellow.  As the truth of what Crowley was proposing became clear, he 
recoiled back in disgust.  "Not on your life..."
  Crowley's face fell.  "I thought you were a true initiate...but you 
too, are bound by common morality.  Go! And never darken my doorstep 
again!!" he thundered.
  "I am bound by no man.  I serve the Light, not some petty overweight 
hemp addict."  the Agent replied.  "You are nothing, and the Light does 
not fear you."
  As Crowley spluttered, Tommy drew his coat around him, letting his 
aura grow.  And then he passed, and darkness covered all.

CAMBRIDGE, 1995.

  "Are you OK, man?" Max asked worriedly.  "You zoned out there for a 
minute"
  Damien shook his head, clearing it.  "Just remembering something.  I 
don't think that's what my friend meant.  I'm pretty sure it's magick 
related, though.  Do you have any general texts."
  "Sorry man," Max replied, "all we got is fiction....but Nat might 
know."
  "Who?"
  "Oh, just this girl I know.  She and her sister run one of those 
Wiccan herb shops.  If anyone knows magick, she does."  he explained.
  Damien extracted a notepad from his coat.  "Where's the shop?"
  "Oh it's in Porter Square...but hold on, I'll give her a call, save 
you the trip..."
  Cross bowed slightly, "You don't have to go through the trouble, if 
you don't wish it."
  "Oh, it's no trouble at all.  For some reason, I feel like helping you 
out."
  Damien let his sunglasses slide down his nose.  "I have that kind of 
effect on people."
  Max shrugged, and picked up the phone.  Dialing, he held it to his 
ear.  "Hello, Natalie?
  "Oh, hi Tasha, this is Max Fremont.  Is Nat available?" he blushed 
slightly, "I have this guy here, wants to know about something called 
the Book of Thoth."
  He nodded.  "Yeah, he knows about that.  It wasn't what he was looking 
for."
  There was a longer pause,  and he nodded again, "Tasha says it's a 
book about immortality.  A guy named Elijah" a crackle came from the 
handset, "I mean Eliaphas, Levi thought it was the real meaning behind 
Tarot Cards."
  Damien thought about this.  If he was supposed to look for something, 
cartomancy was a fairly potent tool.  "Any idea WHICH deck is the Book? 
 I've seen dozens."
  Max passed the question on.  "Tasha says it's a matter of choice.  You 
should use the deck that 'feels' right."
  This would be harder than he thought.  Who knew which one was genuine. 
 His inner "voices" were silent.  Whoever wrote this "Book" did it 
before the Birth.  Netatron would be of little help.
  "I'm going to have to do some more digging." he replied, "Thanks for 
your help..."
  "Hold on...the guy says he doesn't know which one is right..yeah, he 
asked about the Book, not the cards...Really?"  he held the phone to his 
shoulder.  "There's an article in the Gardnerian Times.  Some guy claims 
he found evidence that the Book of Thoth was written in Atlantis."
  Knowledge came in a literal flash.  "Atlantis, eh?  Well then, I'm 
just going to have to go there and get a copy." he grinned.
  Max chuckled in response, until he noticed the look on his customer's 
face.  "You mean...you're *serious*!"
  Damien Cross nodded.

TO BE CONTINUED, in Dance of the Daemon #3  "Rising to the Challenge"