A single conscious entity, a torrent of life ebbing and flowing as if tugged by the force of some invisible moon. This was bliss, this mesmerising tide, this iridescent convergence of raw, untamed essence. True peace, happiness, free.........Ouch!! Oh Shattered! Recoiling! Torn! Hook after hook penetrated, pain at each turn. We must remember not to panic, not to pull. The hooks, they bite.<br/><br/>That was when I woke up. I'll say "woke up" for simplicities sake, though I had not been sleeping. It was that moment when some foul string of words finally began to cut out, to define, the piece of essence it wanted. So one minute you're in a perfect state of unity, in a careful balance of sentient minds, then pain and isolation strike and you're dragged kicking and screaming into<em>their</em>filthy world.<em>Magicians!</em><br/><br/>Time was not the same in the "Other Place", seconds were little infinities, moments were a lifetime. There was opportunity for thought before finding oneself in a cramped pentacle. This magician certainly had made an effort.....there were plenty of clauses in the be-damned summoning, but still the voice.......it was........young (and Irish if I wasn't mistaken, and I never am). The voice resonated through the planes, binding and cutting. Kids always make mistakes, their easy. You can scare 'em, taunt them, use bribes, anything. They falter and are swallowed, end of story. More hooks......this was getting old. Speaking of which I hadn't scared a kid in ages, but then nothing scares them like it used to. Ahhh but the Irish, the ever superstitious bunch, I knew exactly how to handle this.<br/><br/>The room began to materialise, pentacle, Kid, the lot. Flames shot out from the centre of the pentacle and skirted about licking its edges. (Yes okay I'll admit it, I was  rather hopeful I'd find some sort of break in the lines. No such luck though.) An oppressive heat began to fill the room along with a stench of sulphur (did I mention theatrics are my strong point?). Retracting most of the flame to the centre of the pentacle I shrouded myself in a thick smog. Within the glow I began to materialise. The smog became a little clearer and in the pentacle stood the Phouka (or my new and improved version at any rate. I'm entitled to some creative license here!). The black horse stood seventeen hands high (for the non-horse-enthusiast that translates as<strong>really BIG</strong>); tail, mane and hooves were ablaze; eyes glowed crimson and were set into a horse's skull with five curved horns protruding from the top and sides. I stepped forwards pressing against the pentacle boundaries. I towered over the girl; ablaze, gleaming and magnificent (man I'm good), I was the devil she feared, the nightmare she dreaded (did I mention that I love my "job"?).