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The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder
rolled back and forth across the dark, rain-lashed hills.
The night was as black as the inside of a cat. It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which
gods moved men as though they were pawns on the chessboard of fate. In the middle of this
elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel’s
eye. It illuminated three hunched figures. As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked:
‘When shall we three meet again?’