Sweat swung, thrown in slick arcs through the humidity to splatter across the beaten earth. The circle of dancers continued their frenetic gyrations, stamping with all their force round the centre of their ultimate focus. Each was a prized member of the cult, raised and trained through years of service and dedication. Each was expendable in the grand scheme - a temporal asset worthing nothing but the effort wrung from their flexible and agile forms.

She looked on with excitement, the frantic rhythm creating a near physical sense of crescendo. Decades had been spent, potentially wasted, to bring the confluence of power they were now bringing to bear. Spirits hitherto unbound were being summoned, and once brought, chained to the great purpose.

Never in the history of all shamanic effort had such a effulgence of power been attempted, the influence being wielded like a palpable tug on the souls of all present. Even the natural laws were bent around it, sweat beading off the swirling figures and flying through the air in arcs unbound by gravity. The earthen floor displayed the chaotic splashes, a strange order drawing the eye of the untrained sacrifices huddled against the full length of their chains. A motion of her hand, and another was brought forth, expertly weaved between the intent wheeling figures and thrust to the epicentre of spirits.

A brief scream began, cut short by the shredding and grinding each spirit, made manifest, engendered on the unfortunate. Blood blossomed in the air. It bloomed for brief seconds, arching up and over, before rapidly condensing back. The vortex sucked it in, squirling it down the the growing orb of darkness at the focus of the ritual.

It was this that had created the need for such a scene - only the work of nearly a dozen puissant practitioners of spirit-calling could have effected the convergence of of so many spirits. The condensed energy had literally ripped them from the ether. Each railed against the circle, seeking to break free from between the enforcing forms. Rage and despair filled the minds of beings which were previously oblvious to such concepts, their only outlet the destruction wrought on those who broke through the loop that bound them.

She gazed onwards, ensconsed securely on her throne. It reared above her, craved through the effort of only the most careful crafters among her captives. Her beady eyes peered through the thick thatch of her once-white hair, clear and quick to observe any minor flaws. This would be her crowning triumph of the century, restoring youth and vitality to her now withered and corrupted form.

She had personally overseen the upbringing and education of those before her. Twenty years before, when she still had the strength of limb, she had led the dance, marshalling the spirits to obey and, through example, teaching. Ten years ago, she had stood to direct, her movements graceful enough to call power to discipline clumsy efforts and encourage correct form. Five years prior, her voice, hoarse as a crow, had yet retained force to cajol obedience. Now, failing and crumbling, her unquestioned authority was all that held her coven together.

It was with such thoughts that she observed the pounding feet, the flowing arms and spectral suction. It was with her memories and hope of glory that she saw the figure. It was separate, unknown, unrestricted in motion and ordered in chaotic methodology. It was alien to her own creed. She glared, bringing the force of will to her eyes that she struggled to maintain. Years had robbed her of all but moral authority, secluded from all but her trusted followers.

The figure was as impervious as lava, deceptively quick, as with a swiftly slow sway it interspersed itself between two of her most accomplished acolytes. She watched with growing horror as it weaved it's own brand of movement with that she had refined since she first realised the decay of her mortal vessel. The heresy spread, like a ripple racing along a stretch of water, first the leader, then the next, and the next, until at last it hit the outsider. With a final flourish, the form sunk and knelt, a dead stop, catastrophic in all magic surrounding the movement of life. All the following forms copied, trained from birth to obey the pattern.

WIth the sound of shattering nails, the orb halted, no longer expanding. It seemed to quiver, whilst remaining entirely still. An abrupt flury of the figure, anithetical to the prior direction started them all again, a cadence of power trickling once again. However, this time it grated, no longer smoothly accumulating and condensing the encircling spirits, but riling and aggravating them.

She shook, a cripple laden with furs to stave off the ever-present chill she felt. Twenty years ago, she could have hounded the interloper within seconds to a gruesome mis-step. Ten years ago, a mere wave would have caused a stumble to an early death. Five years, a discordant whisper should have disrupted the entire proceedure, losing the entire troupe,but sparing her at least. Now, bed-ridden and helpless, she could only look on as the power was perverted, it's original restorative properties bound to utter and unrelenting torment.

A crescendo, a flutter of movement from the corrupted dancers, and it began. The orb, held still by the opposing directions, now erupted, a stream of energy and life streaming through the air to the foci of its conception - herself. She shuddered as her body regrew, life reurning to the crooked limbs and gnarled extremities. She wept as it overgrew, tumours sprouting from the ends of her fingers, merging where they met and putrefying as the burst against her enclosing furs.

Her mind, last and least important aspect of the ritual, remained clear. She was still herself as she saw the figure draw near. It was a young girl, hair matted and dark with dirt, face stained and scarred with the touch of an uncaring world. The girl drew nearer, her face slack with lack of focus. Her sharp eyes picked out the girl's. They were blank, rolled up to the top of her eyes. A medium. She'd been beaten by a medium.

She, who had once been the greatest of the shaman, had led the Natural Dance for decades, before her body failed, had been ruined by a mere slip of a girl who didn't even have the strength of will to retain her own mind while channeling the spirits. She tried to curse the girl, but only managed unintelligible spluttering as her throat closed with flesh. Her last coherent image, before her eyes burst was of the white film clearing from the gaze of the girl. And the utter horror the innocent eyes reflected.