HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

carven surface resembled a bristling and complicated exposed
nest of buzzing excited creatures . . . a million blow-flies going
oorl oorl oorl world world world accompanied by a sucking
gloating noise. Every other second a sheen of blood appeared
on the altar—as if from a sacrifice—and shimmered, diffused
and faded, while overall came a foul miasma of ordure, burning,
and things long-dead.
I had forgotten my companion absolutely. Then I saw him
standing by the polished table with its silver goblets. He was
still, but his eyes were travelling the room and lingered on the
altar with its awful occupants, and I saw his broad frame shudder
and heard him swear.
The she-demon turned at the sound. Her attention became
intensely directed on him. I thought: praise be, a diversion, he
will . . . they will . . . and somehow I can make my escape from
this abominable place.
For as much as she repelled me I was confident he would
respond to her. In this matter I could guarantee we were at
opposite poles. And he was welcome! If, for instance he was
indeed responsible for the terrible happenings which had
plagued me since his advent (although by now I was not so sure
of this) then, I thought, let him take whatever comes . . . she
had left me and was stalking back across the chamber towards
him . . . during those few seconds I glanced desperately about
in search of a way out and found none.
And then, in that little strap of time she assumed a shape
the antithesis of what had lately approached me with such
intent.
My companion was faced with something male, a stark
naked hominid, an Atlas. Glistening hair flowed and rooted
from its back; its buttocks were cones of dark marble and it was
in an extreme state of priapic arousal. It smelled my awe, for it
turned its massive head and looked me full in the eyes in a kind
of horrible conspiracy before it moved on my companion.
Amorously.
It was not welcome. I saw the attacker furiously attacked,
heard cursing that rang the roof, and saw the manifestation
shrink under a windmill of blows and kicks, to become opaque.
It shimmered like a burning desert and formed itself into air.
Perhaps the most chilling thing of all was the sense it left
behind—a watching, invisible presence.
I came tentatively out from my refuge. My companion was
sucking his bleeding fist and muttering. He was flushed, then
pale the next minute.
“Who were they?” he demanded.
I shrugged weakly. “I thought perhaps you could tell me.”
Vertigo swam in my head.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.”
This was another voice entirely, and another personage,
groomed and dapper, leaning against the table. His appearance
was extraordinary. He looked somehow unfinished—as if
whatever created him had been unable to decide what features
to give him—what colour eyes—one grey, the other blue. Or
hair—one side was fair, the other black—and the chin was malformed,
only half made up, square merging into oval, with one
tanned cheek, the other pallid. His hands were languidly
clasped across a harlequin waistcoat, and the large onyx ring he
g
wore was changing regularly from black to red and back to
black again.
“Gentlemen!” (as if wishing to calm us down). “Please.
Join me in a drink.”
Neither of us spoke. He poured three goblets from the
decanter and, elegant as a butler, placed them before us. We
stood like wax.
“This scene is where you toast one another. Sante! Salud!
Cheers!”
Considering our recent ordeals, his insouciance was mordant.
I glanced at my companion. I found my voice.
“What is it? Hemlock?”
“It is only wine.”
The drink’s surface rippled as if agitated by something
within. My companion said:
“It looks like blood.”
It is wine, I told you. Come, your health.” And I saw the
goblet lifted and drained by that strange malformed mouth. My
friend (as I had begun to think of him) picked up his vessel, and
I thought, I will not show cowardice. Not this time. If he
drinks, so shall I. Together we drank, deep and in silence.
Together we gasped and choked, clutching at our separate
throats. I had swallowed the cold of a thousand year old iceberg,
laced with a glacier. I had drunk from galaxies on the
northern fringe of space. Chills broke out all over me, my blood
turned to stone. Icicles formed on my teeth.
Beside me my friend hissed and writhed. A vestige of
smoke left his lips which were quickly becoming blistered. I
reached across and passed my fingers across his mouth.
Instantly the burns faded, leaving no mark, and warmth rushed
back into my body.
“Excellent!” Our host was in high spirits. He clapped his
hands like a child who has got away with mischief.
“Gentlemen you are perfect! We all hoped, and we are not
cast down.”
The buzzing and chittering from the inhabitants of the
altar intensified, while the thing atop it gurgled and moaned.
Our host glanced back at it fondly.
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