'Declare the breadth of the universe. The world's name is Adamah, the cosmic ancestor. The seal is 'Adonai'.'

It was a lot of religious nonsense, no question about it. Mystical, obscure nonsense. If Sylvana were paid for every time she opened a book to find passages like this, she would be rich. In all honesty, she would prefer the money.

That's why she was outside in the blistering heat tracing diagrams in the dirt, right? Of course.

There were many things wrong with this picture, not the least of which was the lack of good, solid ground to use for the magic circle. If she were serious about summoning, that wouldn't do at all. Everyone knew that calling upon immensely powerful, easily-annoyed spiritual beings was insane without the proper protections. Yet there she was, drawing her circle in the sand, because unluckily for her, there was no concrete in her backyard, and no such thing as hard-packed mud in the sandpit her parents had decided to raise her in.

Just watch a sandstorm kick up during the ritual. They would find her in pieces all over the yard - assuming it worked at all.

And what about her calculations? The book called for specific numbers, but logic told her that, whatever the book said, if she wanted to declare the breadth of the universe, modern astronomy probably had more to say about it than some old nutter who lived in a cave five thousand years ago.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered for the thousandth time, pausing to swipe her hand across her eyes. It was so bright; that was the point, to perform potentially weird ceremonies like this in the blinding daylight, when no one would notice another flash on the off chance that it actually worked. Conducting magic rituals at night was so cliche.

It was also the quickest way to get the Templars on her back. The mere mention of magic outside of the perscribed zones made them twitchy.

This isn't going to work, though. It doesn't matter. She closed the book and heaved it to the side. It landed in a puff of white dust just outside the circle.

Rumor had it the priests had practiced celestial magic for ages. No one was pointing guns at them, but then again, they were priests. If whirling lights and sonorous voices popped up around the chapels, people called them miracles. If a display like that sprang up in someone's backyard, it was called heresy.

I'm -such- an idiot. Oh, what she would do for a dare.


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That bit about Adamah is nonsense, of course, but this is a ficlet, not a polished story. (Well, it's all nonsense, but whatever.)