When is a fantasy not a fantasy? When it tells the story of the true secret desire of every man - whether he's made a deal with Satan or not. Excerpt Killing the black cock had been unpleasant enough, but draining the blood out of him was really a gruesome business. I caught the blood in an empty milk container. When I couldn't squeeze another drop out I pulled the three longest tail feathers, just as the Grimoire said. I didn't really believe the spell would work, but I was following the book to the letter. I threw the body of the bird aside and swiftly sharpened the tail feathers, fearful that the blood in the milk container would coagulate. It did harden rapidly, but there was enough liquid for me to draw the pentagram on my living room floor. That did it, I thought. I glanced into the open Grimoire again. The faded writing was hard to read ... oh, yes. I threw the container and the remainder of the blood onto the smouldering charcoal in my fireplace. The wax caught fire and a flame shot up. I swallowed hard and stared at the empty pentagram. Now . . . The telephone rang.