On the bottom laboratory in Loralie’s tower, past a rather friendly [Shaman] named Nictus who was dancing to imbue a mask with the ability to poison anyone or anything that looked upon it, past Pyl’s laboratory where two [Witches] and a [Necromancer] were attempting create a mirror to speak with the spirits of the dead, and past a shy [Blood Diviner] named Corianne who spent her morning peering into a pool of sheep’s blood to try to see the coming horde of hydra, was a [Cultist].

The man in question looked nothing more than an average farmer, if more flab than muscle. Grey eyes and brown hair dominated an otherwise plain face. He wore only plain clothes and an apron one might see on any barkeep. What separated him from any other person in my eyes was the peasant girl he had tied to the center of a summoning circle, and the horrid chanting that was his spellcraft.

“Excuse me Larn, I wanted to introduce you to Wizard Fargus,” Fintak the Illusionist called into the room.

Fintak had once again donned the illusion of a muscle-bound warrior, not that it made a difference to me.

The [Cultist], Larn apparently, impudently held up one finger as he continued to chant even louder. The words he chanted, were nonsensical to my ears, and I was certain they weren't part of any real language.

The girl sitting in the center of a runic circle began screaming and struggling fearfully as dark mana began to slowly flow around the spellwork and into the lines on the floor. It lit the outside of circle around her and then flowed slowly filling in runes and glyphs closer and closer to the young lady.

As his chanting grew to a screaming crescendo, the lines began to glow a disgusting, dark red color and heat began to rise off the circle in waves. The girl’s eyes rolled into her head as she fainted, and along the ceiling a portal to some hell opened.

A scaly, red infant with horns and wings flew from the portal straight towards the girl, only to find itself trapped behind a barrier of magic as the portal behind it closed.

“Finally!” Larn cried in triumph, his voice hoarse. He turned to look at the two of us as the flying baby beat itself against the barrier like a fly against glass.

“Hmm,” I said as I walked past him and into the room. The runic circle was poorly made, the heat it gave off a clear sign of incorrect geometry. The glow not filling it evenly from the start, a sign the lines weren't drawn evenly. It was a wonder that it worked at all, as it appeared almost intentionally drawn to fail.

The girl, bait for a demon, was unnecessary as most demons saw other worlds as an escape. The demon, only a first-tier summon, was too weak to be of any use to anyone. Its strength was likely less than that of the monsterized wolves I'd bred. Even the chant, designed to regulate the flow of mana into the circle was spoken with the tonelessness of a deaf bard. All in all, I wasn’t impressed.

I lifted my finger to point at the demonic baby thing and cast. A small bolt of lightning jumped from me to it, leaving it shaking and dead on the floor.

“Mister Larn, I presume?” I called out without turning. I didn’t even bother looking at the man.

Instead, I was attempting to ascertain which hell this demon came from. Larn appeared Senan, so I had discounted the Mirktallean god. Tervan didn’t have a hell, as their god took the unworthy to serve as a wing or scale. Elora didn’t have a hell. Those who passed on and met her requirements lived in her light and love, but those who didn’t were cast out into darkness. Bi’s hell was only for cowards, where they would be forever trampled beneath a stampede of bulls. That left one god, but his hell was one of starvation. Perhaps it was one of the gods of antiquity?

“Who—what—that took me a week to prepare!” the man’s shriek rudely interrupted my thoughts.

“You spent a week to prepare this?” I scoffed. Yet, when I turned back to look if the man was serious, he had already drawn a dinner knife and charged me. I hardly had the time to raise my eyebrows in surprise before my defensive wards counterattacked with a thick bolt of lightning that left his body sizzling on the floor, much the same was the demon. I wasn't certain which smelled worse.

“Well.” I paused and smacked my lips. Times like these often required the best choice of words so the people around you didn’t get the wrong impression, “That’s unfortunate.”

I gave Fintak a few moments to pull himself together as I looked about for the tome Larn must have relied upon. I wasn’t certain if his mistakes were because of personal failings or failings of instruction, and I certainly didn’t want any literature around my tower that might misteach such basic casting requirements.

I found it inside the drawer of a small table tucked behind the door. A tome bound with dried human fingers, all woven together with hair.

The pages were written with smeared human blood, and mostly described the requirements to obtain the [Cultist] class.

Ridiculous requirements, such as eating the eye of a living baby goat on the winter solstice or sleeping with another man’s wife while the cuckolder watched and chanted a particular song, were just a few of the possible requirements.

It seemed a collection of folktales more than any type of instruction manual and culminated in bargaining with a demon summoned through a gate.

That culmination was the ritual the man had just performed, which could explain his outrage even if it didn’t explain how he expected to bargain with a flying red baby. The drawer contained a few other miscellaneous items, from a gutting knife to a roll of fishing string, but nothing of magical value.

With a sigh, I used my fire manipulation to burn away the tome in my hand. I was disappointed, to say the least. The binding of fingers and hair was more impressive work than the contents within. The [cultist] wide range of failures here was a good example of one of my fears for this tower.

I had hopes of a collection of experts in their fields, and instead, it felt like I was gathering misfits who barely grasped the basics of their crafts.

Fintak had pulled himself together in the time I had spent searching the room. The color had returned to his face, and only the dampness of his sweat-soaked hair gave away that he had been surprised, to begin with. “Mister Fintak, you may inquire with the guards to help with the disposal of Mister Larn. I don’t suppose he traveled with any kin?”

The illusionist shook his head quickly, “No, Master Nemon, not that I—”

“You saved me! I thought I were dun fer!” the girl squealed in joy and happiness from where she had awoken on the floor. I glanced her way to ensure she wouldn’t run to give me a hug and suffer the same fate as her captor.

The girl, maybe fourteen years old, with dirty, flaky skin and a few missing teeth, wasn’t the epitome of feminine beauty. It was relieving to see her bindings still held, so I had little to fear from her dying in a similarly unfortunate manner.

Yet, her appearance wasn’t what caught my attention so much as it was the words she had spoken. So, I answered her quickly, before I had to deal with another instance of being mistaken for a hero. I pointed directly at the illusionist, “Young lady, you have Mister Fintak there to thank your rescue.”

A quick casting of a spell freed her, and before I could say more, she sprinted from the floor to give Fintak a hug. I used that particular moment to depart. I had other obligations I needed to see to rather than be bogged down with gratitude or other such nonsense. As I made my way up the stairs to leave the tower, I paused once—just for a moment—outside the doorway to Pyl’s laboratory. Loralie was in the room with him and the other witch working on their mirror.

As much as I wanted to look into her luminescent eyes, I didn’t want to interrupt their work. Nor was I truly of the right state of mind for a game of words. I was afraid my annoyance at the ritualist would taint the interaction. Instead, I forced myself to continue and try to make use of the rest of the day.