Now she dips her wand into the cup and uses the sacred water to seal her body from all things impure or mundane, thinking, “Be ye far from us, oh ye profane …”
She kisses the wand’s tip and lays it back on the altar.
She refuels the brazier and inhales the sweet-smelling smoke-a tribute to her Goddess. She takes the pentacle between her two hands and raises it above her head, calling forth the force of the Four Winds to act as sentinels to her rite.
She takes the dagger, the power of her birthright, and presses it to her breast to fill it with her own essence, and then she stands.
The dagger is now athame.
She raises it slowly; her whole being is poured from its magnetized tip in shafts of blue fire as it pierces the night for the acknowledgment she knows will come.
