The Langsuyar drifted across the black basalt of Kilauea. She was a Malaysian vampire, seeking the blood of the living. She brought a magical chill that frosted the volcanic glass. Neonatal Suckle.
Pele, the Goddess of the Volcano, sat on her throne of fire. She felt the temperature drop. She saw the pale woman invading her home.
"You brought a sweater?" Pele asked, her voice like rumbling earth. "You'll need it."
The Heat Wave
The Langsuyar hissed, trying to weave a spell of confusion. Beguiling Shroud.
Pele stood up. She didn't need spells. She had geology.
Island-Birthing Eruption.
She stomped her foot. The ground cracked open directly beneath the ghost. A fountain of gold and red magma shot three hundred feet into the air.
Pele's Hair Barrage.
Along with the lava came thousands of strands of volcanic glass, sharp as needles. They shredded the Langsuyar’s robes. The heat was instantaneous and absolute. The vampire spirit, composed of cold, stagnant energy, couldn't exist in the heart of an eruption. She shrieked once as her form evaporated into steam, cleansed from the island by the fury of the earth itself.
Pele sat back down. "Next," she grumbled.