I drink deeply from my half-filled chalice, admiring the way the indelibly perfect, golden idol of Molech reflects the sunlight. I raise my goblet to Molech, my jewel-encrusted cup catching the brilliant rays of the sun, then I take another insatiable drink. I turn around to refill my cup when gentle fingertips run up and down my back.
“Adaron, how would you like to receive Molech’s blessing?” Sahar whispers seductively.
I smile, reveling in her touch, and close my eyes. I imagine all the delicious ways in which her body could satisfy the pressing fleshly urges her contact has aroused. “I would love to receive Molech’s blessing, but I cannot afford such a sanction,” I say, opening my eyes. I cup the temple prostitute’s breast and forcefully bring her in for a kiss.
She smacks me, but I laugh and grab her wrist.
“Come now, Sahar. I worship in here every day. I’m entirely devoted. Are you sure Molech wouldn’t want to bless a follower such as myself?”
“If you need money to afford his blessing, I know someone who would pay handsomely for the company of your daughter,” Sahar suggests.
I smack her quick and hard across the face, holding a finger to her—warning her—but I say nothing.
She slinks off to find another, no doubt richer, follower to seduce.
Incense wafts from silver plates beneath the idol and I try to forget Sahar and her remarks. I don’t need to pay to satisfy my desires. Many women, and even men, are happily drawn in by my sexual prowess.
I walk drunkenly back to the idol that is gloriously exposed to the sun by the open rooftop of the temple and fall to my knees in prayer. I slur my pleas and wishes for a few moments before my head bobs heavily from the wine. After an hour, I close my eyes to rest at the foot of Molech, basking in the afternoon sun.
“It’s too early to be this dark,” someone remarks a few minutes later.
“Quiet!” I bark. My eyes are still closed, but I do notice the almost imperceptible shift in light behind my eyelids. “It’s merely clouds passing in the sky.”
“What is that? A sandstorm?” someone else asks. The presence of a crowd gathering around me causes me to finally open my eyes.
“Gawk outside! Do not waste Molech’s temple for slack-jawed gaping!” I yell, but no one listens. I raise my head to the sky, which is shrouded in darkness. Plumes of smoke billow downward in waves, obscuring the sun.
“Sandstorms don’t move like that,” I say, shifting uneasily. People murmur excitedly all around me.
“It’s all right! I see light!”
“Yes! I see it too! It looks like the sun is coming toward us!”
“That’s not light, that’s fire! Run!”
“No! This is a sacred temple. We are safe here,” I assure them, but people take off to the streets. I kneel a few feet back from Molech and begin fervently praying. As the smoke surges closer, I cover my mouth and nose in disgust, but only for a moment. A ball of fire collides directly with my sacred idol. A stream of melted gold sprays in my direction, blinding me in one eye and cooling rapidly to my skin so that it’s encased in a painful, golden mask.
I moan in agony, turning to flee. “Oh Molech, Oh Molech. Why? Why?” I’m almost to the entrance of the temple when it collapses on top of me.
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Tags: apocalyptic fiction, J.P. Cianci, short stories, Sulfurings