The blinds are down, and the curtains drawn over the windows, so that neighbors and casual passers-by will not get an eyeful. We are in the living room because this is the room that has the most open floor space. It's also where he keeps his altar and his ritual supplies. They store easily enough when not in use; he keeps most of them in the carved ornamental chest that doubles as a coffee table and an altar. Tonight, he has some of the supplies laid out on top of it. A chalice filled with water; a dish with salt in it; a long, slender dagger made of what appears to be bronze; two lit candles; a long wooden rod of some kind.

Some of the supplies have already been used to cast the circle around us. Tonight, the circle is designated as a space for lessons.

Shadows flicker and dance on the walls from the candlelight. There is no other light, although there are enough candles that either one of us could read a book without straining our eyes. Just.

"You are, I believe, familiar with these concepts already," he says, "but reviewing them will be helpful. We will work together better in a cast circle if our perspectives, and thus our energies, are in absolute synchrony. Attend."

I am naked and sitting straight-backed on my knees in the classic student posture that I had been using for years to practice Zen meditation. There isn't much difference between meditating and actively listening to Magister in that regard (that being the formal title we have settled on; it was also decided that the best description of my role, incorporating all aspects as an apprentice, student, temple servant, and sexual submissive, would not be discipula but the more general term ancilla). Except, of course, I never sat zazen while nude.

He is also nude tonight. This has not always been the case - the act of wearing clothes when one's student or servant is naked carries its own semiotic power, and so far, when he's taken me into his bedroom for instruction, he's made it a practice to keep me naked and himself at least somewhat clothed - but tonight we are going to do magickal work, and there is raw honesty in nudity. This, too, is a departure from his usual habit; he usually does his magickal work while wearing ritual clothing. Tonight, however, he is bringing me into the circle formally for the first time. Tonight, this one time, therefore, we are both in the world as we originally entered it.

"The first element I intend to work with is Air, which is associated with the east and the light of dawn; with ideas, beginnings, and the mind. Before we act, we think. In the beginning, there is Logos." He takes the bronze dagger from the altar. "My tradition uses a dagger to represent Air. Most of the Western mystery traditions use a blade of some kind. High ceremonial magick uses a very specific kind of wand for Air, and a sword for Fire, perhaps because trees, which provide wood for wands and staves, get blown around in the wind, and blades, meanwhile, are forged in fire; but I think the symbolism in my own tradition makes just as much sense. Wood can be set on fire, and the metal of a blade can conduct heat or cold depending on the temperature of the air, and it cuts through the air on the way to its destination. Furthermore, the metal blade is hard and keen, as is the focused will. Blades are therefore Air. That is how I learned magick, and that is how I am used to doing things."

He thrusts the tip of the dagger against the soft, hollow spot of flesh just under my chin. Reflexively, I start to look down.

"I wouldn't," he says mildly. "It's extremely sharp. Look up instead."

I look up.

"It would be better to run onto this blade than to cast or use the circle in fear," he intones. I recognize the phrase from one of my independent readings in the occult. This isn't the exact phrase; he's using a variation. I can't remember which tradition makes use of it. Possibly my memory lapse is due to the sharp tip of a dagger biting into my flesh. "How do you serve? You may speak."

Think. "In perfect love and perfect trust," I reply, my voice mostly managing to avoid rising into the squeak range.

"Good focus. That was what I was looking for." He pauses. "Also, the trust, of course. Rise."

I don't really have a choice in the matter; the blade is pushing up hard against me, lifting me. If I don't rise with it, I'm going to get a worse cut than the minor, tickling nick I gave myself while trying to look down when I should have been looking up. I rise, and follow him slowly across the room, led by knifepoint.

Candlelit shadows jump crazily in our wake.

He's led me to the couch. "Stand," he says, "and bend over, supporting yourself on the back of the couch. Arms out. Good."

I knew this was coming.

"The next element is Fire, which I have reason to believe is your primary element, which means your training will be rather more difficult than it might be were you primarily of Air, Water, or Earth. It's not an easy or gentle element to work with. It represents the southern direction, desire, passion, action, heat, raw energy, and courage; if Air is the will, Fire is the imperative. You will recall that I talked about it being represented by wands, although a branch of Western ceremonial magick uses a sword instead. Either way, the meaning conveyed by the symbolic instrument is the same. I have a staff that I use in my solitary rituals, one I constructed and painted myself, which is standing in the corner of the room, but it isn't appropriate for what we will do here." From the corner of my eye, I see him taking the rod from the altar. I turn my head to get a better look at it. It's a long pale slender stick, has a red handle, and appears to be about three feet in length. "I've never used this particular wand before, for ritual use or for anything else. Nor will I after our tutoring sessions end. It will be yours, and you will most certainly have earned it. I remind you that you do not have leave to cry out, nor do you have leave to move from your position until I say otherwise. This tool is a little harder, and a little harder to bear, than others we've worked with so far. I thought it best to warn you. Brace yourself."

I feel the slight breeze before I hear the whooshing sound of the cane, and then fire lands across my thighs. I gasp. It's all I can do to keep from yelling, and while I don't move out of position, I flinch hard.

"Courage," he says, and then the blows rain down.

I can't scream. I can't jerk away or dance in place. But I can cry; he hasn't said anything about that, and eventually, despite my efforts to stifle them, sobs come up my throat, and I am choking on them, and tears are pouring out of me in torrents.

It stops. In the sudden quiet, I notice that I am shaking and covered with sweat; I wonder how long I have been this way. I feel him coming up behind me, and then his arms are around me and he has his hands on my sweating breasts and body; he kisses me on the neck, and as I start to melt into him, his kisses turn to nips and then the deep, possessive bites I love, making me gasp. His hand reaches down between my legs. It's harder not to moan than it was to avoid screaming.

At least he seems to be in a similar state. I can feel his erection poking me in the back.

"Courage," he whispers, and pulls away just as I am on the verge of orgasm.

I hear him picking up the cane again.

"Have courage," he says, a little more loudly, and it is all I can do to obey.

I am collapsed on the couch, unable to move. I haven't been secured. There is no need. I am too exhausted, and in too much hurt, to even think of getting up.

My nerves are on fire.

Perhaps that was the point all along. We were, after all, working with Fire.

He crouches next to me, stroking my hair; a cool washcloth sits on my forehead. I can't read the look in his eyes, but he seems to be struggling to say something. I wish I knew what.

"Water," he says at last. "Water is the element associated with the west, the setting sun, and thus with death and dying. It is also the element most closely linked to submission and surrender. It stands for emotion, intuition, dreams, visions, and certain forms of healing; it is represented by a chalice or a grail in all the traditions that I know of, including mine." As he bends over to kiss me, I can see from his shaking arms that he, too, is exhausted. "Water is a common symbol for the divine feminine. Open your legs for me. And remember that you are still in the middle of a learning session, and I have not yet given you leave to use your voice."

The couch upholstery scrapes my skin raw as I comply; I wince.

His hand finds the cleft between my legs; he parts my lips with his fingers and covers me with his mouth, and as he laps me gently with his tongue I am lost, trying to remember to not use my voice. Over. And over. I can't stop. I can't scream. My pleasure screams for me, my body convulsing in a rictus of sensation until I sink into the couch, faint and gasping from petit mors.

And then he surfaces and plunges himself into me.

"Earth," he says, in the shortest instructional lecture he has ever made, and that is all he says about Earth. But he is obviously near the end of his energy. And that is all he needs to say about Earth, anyway. We both know what Earth is for; we also know what grounding is, and we know what the common ways are to ground power. This is one of the more classic grounding methods.

I tap him lightly on the hand.

"Yes?"

I whisper, barely audibly, "May I..."

"Yes."

And I wrap my legs around his hips and strain with him, moaning with pleasure, and my moans soon become cries, and parched, he covers my mouth with his to drink them in.

We dozed off on the couch for a bit but eventually woke up enough to blow out the candles and relocate ourselves to the bedroom and the futon (one of us limping more than the other) where we lay in a tangle, legs and arms and hair and breath all entwined, kissing each other slowly, languorously.

"One more thing," he says at last. "This is a purely temporary arrangement, as it is a finite apprenticeship; I will therefore not be giving you a collar or any permanent marks of ownership. I only consider those appropriate when there is a lasting commitment. However, I would like you to always wear something of mine while you are under me, some kind of token or favor to remind you of me. That is, if you feel comfortable doing so. I don't want to impose." He strokes my cheek. "Is there anything you might particularly like? You are, after all, the one who is going to be wearing it."

For some reason, this makes me glow as if it were something romantic.

"No, of course I don't mind." I think for a moment. He probably can't afford jewelry on his meager salary. Jewelry has rather serious overtones anyway, even when the jewelry in question is not a ring. Not many options here. "How about a scarf?" I reply at last. "They're discreet enough."

He nods, gets a thoughtful look, then gets up, stumbles to the bureau, and digs around. The scarf he brings out is a large square made of fine black silk. "I'll find something else to put my tarot deck in," he says. "This seems very you; when you asked for a scarf, my tarot cloth came to mind. Black. Of course. I can't think of anything more symbolically appropriate. Give me your right wrist, please."

I hold out my wrist, and he winds the scarf around it, tying it neatly at the ends.

And lies next to me again, and is soon asleep, cradling my wrist and its scarf in his arms. He could almost be a young boy sleeping with a cherished teddy bear.

I look at him and wonder. Eventually, sleep takes me, too.