Prologue: The Lost Liturgy

Ancient Greece, 2nd century CE

The full moon hung like a silver medallion in the night sky, casting long shadows across the rocky hillside. Deep beneath the earth, in a chamber carved from living stone, twenty-three robed figures stood in a circle around a stone altar. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and the sweet, earthy aroma of crushed flowers.

Theon, the Elder of the Mysteries, raised his arms toward the domed ceiling where carefully placed crystals reflected the light from oil lamps, creating a canopy of stars above them.

“Brothers and sisters,” he intoned, his voice resonating in the underground temple, “we gather tonight as we have for centuries, to partake in the sacred communion that bridges the mortal and divine.”

The initiates swayed slightly, their faces expectant in the flickering light. Among them stood Lysandra, at eighteen the youngest acolyte ever admitted to the inner circle. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she watched the Elder lift a clay amphora from the altar.

She was breathtaking in her nakedness, her long, dark hair cascading down her back like a silken waterfall. Her ample breasts rose and fell with each breath, the nipples stiffening in the cool air of the chamber. The thatch of dark hair between her thighs glistened with a hint of arousal, her pussy already damp with anticipation. Her body was a perfect blend of youthful innocence and burgeoning sensuality, her hips curving seductively, her ass firm and inviting.

“From the grain of the earth and the fruit of the vine,” he continued, “enhanced by the sacred herbs known only to those who keep the old ways, we have prepared the kykeon, the divine elixir that will open the doors of perception.”

Lysandra’s gaze darted to the manuscript that lay open on the altar—the sacred text containing the precise formula for the elixir, the rituals that accompanied it, and the wisdom revealed to those who had journeyed beyond the veil of ordinary consciousness. The manuscript was their most precious possession, passed down through generations of keepers of the Mysteries.

The Elder poured the dark liquid into twenty-three small cups carved from olive wood. As the vessel came to Lysandra, she accepted it with trembling hands. The liquid inside was the color of amber honey, with flecks of something darker swirling within.

“Drink,” the Elder commanded, “and remember that what you experience is not madness but the truest reality—the world behind the world, the truth behind all religions.”

Lysandra raised the cup to her lips. The liquid was bitter at first, then surprisingly sweet as it flowed over her tongue. She drank it all, as she had been instructed, and returned the empty cup to the tray.

At first, nothing happened. The chamber remained as it was—stone walls, flickering lamps, the circle of initiates. Then, gradually, the light from the lamps seemed to intensify, each flame becoming a miniature sun. The walls of the chamber appeared to breathe, expanding and contracting like the chest of a sleeping giant.

Lysandra looked at her hands and saw patterns forming on her skin—intricate, geometric designs that seemed to contain all the knowledge of the universe. When she raised her eyes, she gasped. The other initiates were transforming before her. Their human forms remained, but now they were overlaid with something else—radiant energy bodies that extended beyond their physical forms, connecting with each other and with the very stones of the chamber.

The energy bodies pulsated with raw, sexual energy, their forms undulating with an otherworldly sensuality. Lysandra felt the energy bodies to the left and right of her reaching out to her, their touch electrifying. She felt their hands, or whatever they were, caressing her body, her breasts, her pussy, their touch sending shivers of ecstasy through her. She felt mouths—were they mouths?—kissing her face, her breasts, her armpits, then descending lower, licking her pussy, the sensation so intense it made her cry out in pleasure.