Pulling the gloves tight over my hands and checking the seals one last time, I take a deep breath. Years of study, months of preparation, and weeks of practice - tonight, it's time to put it all into play once again, in the hopes of getting something other than the usual.

Taking a quick glance around, I steady myself at the impromptu lectern, the red lines laser-etched into a metal plate a good deal less susceptible to being scuffed out by a stray hoof. Not to mention the little lanterns twinkling at the frequency of candlelight, safely ensconced in their little housings around the circle.

This time, I promise myself, it's going to work, as I let the chant roll off my tongue, the words flickering into the air to be swallowed by the unnatural stillness.

Line after line, I recite from memory, feeling the breeze pick up on my skin, the little weather-vane propped in the corner already spinning madly.

Three... two... one...

With a loud pop, the air in the center of the circle disappears, and I close my eyes, the scent of sulfur stinging my nostrils as bright light flares against my eyelids. All it takes is a moment, and the room returns to stillness, only a faint rustling of skin and cloth coming from before me.

Crossing my fingers, I let my eyes slowly drift open, only to find...

"Aw, great."

There sits what I can only describe as the most luridly blunt succubus I've ever seen - over-exaggerated curves, curling horns, sleek black hair, and skin redder than sin. Hardly the being of dark wisdom and forbidden knowledge I was looking for. Damn it. Now I'll have to spend another decade trying for the Outer Rituals, and...

I can't help myself, still, tracing the lines of her calves up from her hooves, onto her thighs, and -

"Like it?" she purrs. "I knew you wanted a research assistant, after all. Not just the usual."

Her voice is like smoke and honey, a sound that positively promises wickedness, but I can barely concentrate when she's got that pile of books in her lap:

Applied Hegemonic Hermeneutics.

Post-Meaning Metatextualities.

Beyond Genre: Modalities of Reinterpretive Discourse.

I'd feared summoning bleak and nameless terrors from the Black Reaches. I'd worried about drawing in a mindless horror from the Crimson Planes. But, I realize, with a sinking heart, I've summoned something so much worse: A post-modernist.

"You know what?" I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Let's just go with the usual, after all."

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