Rank: Duke · Legions: 26 · Element: Fire · Direction: South · Enn: Hoath redar ganabal Berith
Berith, called also Beale or Beal and Bofry or Bolfry by men of later times, is the twenty-eighth spirit of the Ars Goetia — a mighty, great, and terrible Duke who commands twenty-six legions of spirits. He appears in the form of a soldier clothed in red, riding upon a red horse, with a crown of gold upon his head. He gives true answers of things present, past, and to come; he can turn all metals into gold; he can give dignities and confirm them; and he speaks with a very clear and subtle voice. And then, in the very same breath, his own grimoire says a thing it says of almost no other spirit: he is a great liar, and not to be trusted. In Berith the seeker meets the strangest contradiction in the whole catalogue — the crowned alchemist who answers truly and who cannot be believed — and the tradition does not resolve it for us. He is approached, in the reverent tradition, with the ring the old texts require, with respect for his power, and above all with discernment; for whatever else he teaches, working with Berith is a schooling in judgement.
He descends to the modern practitioner through the long chain of grimoires under the name Berith, and the Goetia itself notes that men of later times gave him two others: Beale (or Beal) and Bofry (or Bolfry). He appears among the dukes of the infernal hierarchy in Johann Weyer's Pseudomonarchia Daemonum of 1577, and was carried over as the twenty-eighth spirit when that material was gathered into the Ars Goetia, the first book of the Lemegeton or Lesser Key of Solomon in the seventeenth century. Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers and Aleister Crowley fixed the modern English text in their edition of the Goetia in 1904, and Jacques Collin de Plancy kept his memory among the spirits of his Dictionnaire Infernal. A further and older identification attaches to him: the name Berith echoes Baal-Berith, a Canaanite deity named in the Hebrew scriptures whose title means lord of the covenant. It should be said honestly that this is a connection drawn by later readers from the resemblance of names rather than a claim the Goetia makes; but it is an old and widely repeated one, and it gives his name a long shadow — the covenant-lord demonised, and remembered here among the seventy-two.
The grimoires are precise about how Berith comes, and the image is all one colour and one metal. He appears as a soldier clothed in red, riding upon a red horse, and wearing a crown of gold. The red is the red of blood and fire and martial power, doubled — the man and his mount alike; and above it sits the gold, the crown, the sign of sovereignty and of the perfected metal he is said to make. It is the portrait of a crowned warrior, terrible and magnificent, and it fits the epithet the text gives him: he is called not merely a Duke but a mighty, great, and terrible one. To picture Berith rightly is to see this scarlet rider under a golden crown, and to feel why the old texts approached him with a ring on the hand.
Berith holds the rank of Duke, and the grimoires pile the adjectives upon him: mighty, great, and terrible. Few spirits are given so heavy a triple weight. He rules over twenty-six legions of spirits, and his is a formidable and dangerous dignity — not the gentle authority of a teaching president nor the gracious nobility of a peaceable duke, but a power the old texts plainly found alarming. To call upon him is to summon a great and terrible lord, and the tradition's own precautions around him say as much.
Among his named gifts is the plainest kind of knowledge: he gives true answers of things present, past, and to come. The whole span of time is open to him, and the grimoires say his answers are true. Taken alone, this would place him among the great prophetic spirits, beside Gusion and Botis and Purson, and it is for this that he has most often been sought. But it cannot be taken alone, for the same entry that promises true answers goes on to say the opposite.
Here is the thing that sets Berith apart from every other spirit in the Goetia, and it must be reported exactly as the source gives it: his own grimoire calls him a great liar, and not to be trusted. The text that says he gives true answers says also, a few lines later, that he cannot be believed. No other entry in the catalogue turns upon itself so sharply. It is not a caution invented by later moralists nor a warning added by the reverent tradition; it is in the seventeenth-century text itself, set down beside the promise of truth without any attempt to reconcile the two. The Vault reports both because both are what the source says. Readers have offered their explanations — that he answers truly only when properly compelled and lies otherwise; that his subtle voice makes falsehood sound like truth; that the warning is the scribe's own hard-won experience. The honest position is that the tradition hands us a contradiction and does not resolve it, and that anyone who works with Berith works inside that contradiction with their eyes open.
And this, in the reflective reading, is what makes Berith valuable rather than merely dangerous. A spirit who might answer truly and might lie, and whose voice the text calls clear and subtle — that word subtle sitting rather pointedly beside the word liar — is a spirit who cannot be received passively. Every answer must be weighed. Nothing may be taken on his word alone. What Berith teaches, whatever else he teaches, is discernment: the habit of testing what one is told, of checking a claim against what can be known, of noticing how much of one's belief rests on the pleasantness of the telling. In an age of confident and plausible voices this is not a small lesson. The practitioner who works with Berith and comes away sharper in judgement has received the truest of his gifts, whatever he said.
The Goetia adds a practical instruction that it gives for only a couple of spirits: one must make use of a ring in calling him forth, as with Beleth. In the old rites the ring was a protection, worn on the hand and held before the face, a guard against the spirit's influence. That the text requires it for Berith is itself a measure of how the old operators regarded him — among the very few for whom the ordinary apparatus was judged insufficient. The modern reverent practitioner, who does not work by compulsion, still tends to keep the ring in mind as what it signifies: that this is a spirit one does not approach unguarded, and that a boundary should be kept between oneself and a voice one has been warned not to trust.
The gift for which Berith is most famous is alchemical: he can turn all metals into gold. This is the great dream of the old alchemy, the transmutation of the base into the perfect, and Berith is its patron among the spirits. Honesty requires two things be said. First, this is what the tradition claims, and the Vault reports it as the tradition's claim rather than as a promise: no working turns lead into gold, and anyone who comes to this spirit expecting literal wealth has misread both the alchemy and the spirit that the same text calls a liar. Second, the alchemists themselves — the serious ones — read the work of transmutation as an inward one long before the modern age: the base metal is the unrefined self, the gold is what it may become, and the fire is the work of transformation. It is in this key that reflective practitioners approach Berith's alchemy: the turning of the base in oneself toward the precious, the long slow perfecting that his golden crown symbolises above his scarlet fire.
The last of his gifts carries a distinction worth noticing: he can give dignities, and can confirm them. The confirming is the unusual half. Other spirits grant honour, and Naberius restores it when it is lost; Berith is said to make a dignity secure — to establish a standing so that it holds. To be given a thing and to have it confirmed are different gifts, and the second is often the rarer need: many gain a place and few keep it. In this Berith is sought not only for the winning of a standing but for the securing of one already held.
Within demonolatry and the modern left-hand path, Berith is honoured as a mighty and terrible Duke of alchemy and of dignity — and approached with an open-eyed wariness that the tradition itself demands. The reverent practitioner does not regard him as a slave to be coerced by threats, as the older exorcists' rites would have it, but neither does the reverent framing dissolve the warning: the source says he is not to be trusted, and honest practice does not pretend otherwise. He is met with respect for his power, with the ring's boundary in mind, and with a discernment that weighs everything he says. Those who work with him describe a spirit worth the difficulty — but the difficulty is real and is part of what he is.
The journey from the medieval and renaissance grimoires to the modern altar has changed how Berith is approached without softening the warning at his heart. The old rites framed every Goetic spirit as a danger to be bound and compelled, and with Berith they added the ring and the caution about his lying. The modern reverent practitioner comes instead with the seal, the Enn, and an honest question — but keeps the caution, because it belongs to him: one does not take his word alone, one verifies, and one holds a boundary. His alchemy is now most often sought as the inward transmutation rather than the literal gold, and his dignities for the securing of a standing. The forms have softened; the discernment has not.
In contemporary demonolatry Berith is approached through his seal and his Enn — the chanted phrase Hoath redar ganabal Berith — by which practitioners open the way to him and hold his presence near. He is called upon for answers concerning things past, present, and to come; for the alchemical work of turning the base toward the precious; and for the giving and, especially, the confirming of dignities. Those who keep company with him describe a presence that is powerful, regal, and unsettling — a sense of a crowned scarlet rider, of a voice that is clear and smooth and very easy to believe. He rewards respect, boundaries, and above all discernment, and the tradition's own warning stands: weigh what he tells you, and do not take it on his word alone.
What endures across every telling is the contradiction of him. Berith is the crowned red rider: the alchemist who turns metal into gold, the giver and confirmer of dignities, the teller of true answers — and, by his own grimoire, a great liar not to be trusted. He is magnificent and unreliable in the same breath, and the tradition never reconciles it. He asks for the ring's boundary, for respect for his terrible power, and for a discernment that never sleeps, and to those who bring them he is, by the steady witness of the grimoires and of those who work with him still, a mighty, great, and terrible Duke: the golden crown above the scarlet fire, and the sharpest lesson in judgement the Goetia has to give.
The grimoires are precise about how Berith comes, and the image is all one colour and one metal: he appears as a soldier clothed in red, riding upon a red horse, wearing a crown of gold. The red is doubled — the man and his mount alike — the red of blood and fire and martial power; and above it sits the gold of the crown, the sign of sovereignty and of the perfected metal he is said to make. It is the portrait of a crowned warrior, terrible and magnificent, fitting the epithet the text gives him: not merely a Duke but a mighty, great, and terrible one. The Goetia adds that he speaks with a very clear and subtle voice — a detail that sits pointedly beside its warning that he is a great liar. Those who work with him today describe a presence that is powerful, regal, and unsettling: a crowned scarlet rider, and a voice very easy to believe.
Enn: Hoath redar ganabal Berith
Working with Berith is unlike working with any other spirit in the Goetia, and the reason must be said before anything else. His own grimoire promises that he gives true answers, and then tells us plainly that he is a great liar and not to be trusted. The tradition hands us that contradiction and does not resolve it. Honest practice therefore does not pretend the warning away: one works with Berith with the ring's boundary, with respect for a power the text calls terrible, and with a discernment that weighs every word. He is a mighty, great, and terrible Duke — a crowned alchemist who turns the base toward gold and who secures a standing — and he is also the sharpest schooling in judgement the catalogue offers. What follows is a guide to that difficult relationship.
Come to Berith as you would come to a powerful and unreliable lord whose gifts are real and whose word is not guaranteed — with respect, composure, and an open-eyed wariness. He is not a spirit to be summoned idly, nor one to be met with either fear or credulity. Approach him with respect for his terrible power and with a boundary firmly in mind, neither grovelling nor presuming, and be clear about what you seek. Above all, come having already decided that you will weigh what he tells you rather than simply receive it. The relationship with him is built on composure and discernment, and the seeker who keeps their judgement he tends to meet as a formidable and worthwhile counterpart.
Prepare a clean and quiet place where you will not be disturbed, and prepare yourself with a settled and critical mind. Many practitioners cleanse themselves and the space beforehand and set out his seal as the single focus of the working. The Goetia requires a ring in the calling of Berith, as with Beleth, and the reverent practitioner keeps that instruction in mind for what it signifies: a boundary between oneself and a voice one has been warned about. Wear or set out a ring if it suits your practice, and hold the boundary it stands for regardless. Settle your breathing, and bring with you a clear statement of what you seek — the question to be answered, the transmutation to be worked, or the dignity to be gained or secured — and a prior decision about how you will test what you are told.
Open the way to Berith by setting your attention upon his seal and reciting his Enn — Hoath redar ganabal Berith — slowly and steadily, letting the chanted words carry your intent and call his presence near. Repeat the Enn until you feel the air of the working change: a gathering of powerful, regal, unsettling presence, a sense of a crowned rider drawing near, perhaps of a voice that is clear and smooth. Do not rush this, and do not let the smoothness disarm you; his ease is part of what the text warns about. Let his presence gather, and keep your own footing before it.
Berith gives answers of things past, present, and to come, and this is the work in which his contradiction bites hardest. Name your question plainly and ask it honestly. Then — and this is the whole discipline — weigh what comes. Do not act on his word alone. Check what he tells you against what can be known, against other sources, against your own experience and reason. Notice whether you believe a thing because it is supported or because it was told pleasantly and clearly. Where a claim can be verified, verify it before you rely on it; where it cannot, hold it loosely. This is not disrespect toward him; it is the practice his own grimoire prescribes by warning us. The practitioner who takes Berith's every word as true has ignored the plainest instruction the text gives about him.
Berith turns all metals into gold, the grimoires say, and the reflective practitioner approaches this as the alchemists themselves came to read it: as the inward work. Name the base thing in yourself you would see transmuted — the unrefined habit, the coarse reaction, the part of your character that is lead where you would have gold — and ask his aid in the long turning of it toward the precious. Be clear-eyed about what this is and is not: no working turns metal into money, and to come to this spirit expecting literal wealth is to misread both the alchemy and a spirit the same text calls a liar. The transmutation he patronises is slow, real, and inward, and it asks the fire of actual effort. Then do the work of the changing yourself, for the gold is made and not given.
Berith gives dignities and confirms them, and the confirming is the rarer gift. To seek this, name the standing you would gain, or — more to his particular strength — the standing you already hold and would have made secure, and ask him to establish it so that it holds. Many gain a place and few keep it, and it is in the securing that he is most distinctive. Seek it honestly, do your own part to deserve and maintain the standing, and hold what is confirmed with the steadiness of one who means to keep it.
Practitioners describe the signs of Berith's presence and favour in powerful and unsettling terms fitting to a crowned and terrible rider. There may be a gathering of regal, formidable presence, an impression of scarlet and gold, a sense of a clear and smooth voice near at hand, and — characteristically — an ease of believing that itself deserves notice. In the days that follow some report an answer proving out under testing, a slow inward transmutation taking hold, or a standing unexpectedly settling and becoming secure. Keep a careful written record of everything he tells you, precisely because it must be tested: write it down, and check it against what comes.
Work with Berith with composure, boundaries, and unsleeping discernment. Hold the tradition's own warning: he is called a great liar and not to be trusted, and honest practice does not pretend otherwise — weigh everything, verify what can be verified, and never act on his word alone. Keep the boundary the ring signifies; do not approach him unguarded or credulous, and do not let a clear and pleasant voice do the work that evidence should do. Take his alchemy as the inward turning it is, and expect no literal gold. Do your own part in every dignity you ask him to secure. And take the difficulty itself as the gift: whatever he tells you, the practitioner who comes away sharper in judgement has received the truest thing he has to give. Come to him always composed, clear about what you seek, and ready to test what you are told — for he is a mighty, great, and terrible Duke whose gifts are real, whose word is not guaranteed, and whose deepest lesson is the weighing of both.