Under the watchful gaze of the crucifix, the holy water in the bowl beside the bed is no match for the profane liquid that coats the thighs of the devout Camba believers. Their prayers turn into moans, their hymns into chants of pleasure, as they succumb to the carnal temptation. The room fills with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the scent of sex, and the taste of forbidden fruit, as they dance on the precipice of sin and salvation.