The glow of sunset is fading in the distance, leaving the world bathed in twilight as the dancers step into view of the crowd. A steady reggae beat begins to pulse in the background, marking the pace of their rhythmic steps, bodies swaying back and forth in the darkness.

And then, in a moment of dazzling brilliance, flame leaps onto the ends of their batons, casting an eerie glow on their twisting silhouettes as the fire licks at the air.

One woman prances center and tips her head back, stretching her jaw open wide before fearlessly lowering the burning torch into her mouth, extinguishing the dancing light source by sealing her lips, depriving it of oxygen. The wand is withdrawn, and the next follows suit, dipping into her eager maw.

Casey Arbor, 35, teaches visual arts at the Asheville School, a private boarding school in the mountains of North Carolina. However, just because the mother of two has a more mundane full-time job doesn’t mean she misses a chance to chase the adrenaline that comes from playing with fire on occasion; Arbor has been performing fire dances with the eclectic dance troop “UniFire” as a side hobby since 2003.

The art style combines the natural movements of tribal dance with the added wow factor of integrating fire into the routines; typically, the dancers utilize batons and torches tipped with flames as an extension of their limbs in the dance, making the movements effortless and the addition seamless.

The dancers make sure to wear comfortable clothing that hugs their bodies, allowing a full range of movement and flexibility while avoiding any flowing fire hazards. In the same vein, they also make sure to confine their hair using bandanas or beanies to avoid the risk of setting themselves aflame. Arbor favors her rainbow-striped arm warmers as a source of close-fitting warmth for her bare arms and a form of minor protection.

No matter how risky playing with fire seems, safety comes first in the world of fire dancing. Any batons not in use are stored away from the open flames, their kerosene-soaked tips carefully wrapped in plastic to prevent sparks from lighting them up accidentally - and to ensure the fuel doesn’t evaporate. There is also typically some form of barrier erected around the performance area to prevent the audience from getting too close to the dancers, who are trained professionals.

“I had to learn how to communicate with the city and the fire department in order to get appropriate permits,” Arbor said, “and really communicating, you know, making sure we’re legit, and communicating with the venue to make sure they have the appropriate insurance.”

In addition to applying for permits and working with city officials to ensure the practice is safe and legal, dancers always check with the local fire department; under certain weather conditions, such as high wind and recent drought, fire dancing is not permitted because the risk of wildfire is too great. During events where fire dancing is a major performance, a fire marshal is sometimes present to check that all safety standards are being met.

Arbor’s routine begins with her taking a lit torch and smacking spots around the border of her performance space, which were doused with kerosene prior to the opening of the show; a resounding chorus of “ooh” and “ahh” ripples through the audience as fire surges to life on the ground, then slowly ebbs away as its fuel is depleted. As they’re fascinated by the small display, Arbor moves to grab her batons, unwrapping the ends from their plastic protection. She dangles them over her pilot light and the fire licks up the fuel, leaping energetically onto the kerosene torches.

She twirls the twin scepters around her hands with the expertise of a marching band leader frontlining a parade, the burning tips passing inches from her face and chest with each spin, creating a mesmerizing spiral. Her torso undulates and she follows a simple backward and forward step pattern, not unlike the basic movements to a salsa dance. Her head bobs along with the beat, keeping time like dance metronome.

Arbor holds out the wands for the audience to see before setting them on the ground at an angle to one another; then, it’s on to the big guns. She dances back to her stock of torches, pulling off the covers on the ends of a more robust staff - this one approaching four feet long - before she returns to her previous spot. She tilts it down to dip into the fire flickering on the tips of her original batons, flame engulfing one end as she steps back.

Boldly, she taps the lit end to her bare palm; blue and gold fire licks across her skin before she flips the torch and passes the heat to the other side. She casually licks her burning hand to extinguish the remaining fire; the audience erupts into a loud cheer of stunned amazement when she shoots them a coy smile.

This new rod allows her to show off her more complex moves. She tosses it into the air where it rotates in a fiery wheel; repeating this with each hand almost makes it like juggling. The baton swings between her legs and passes from hand to hand as she turns herself in circles. She drops into a crouch so low the backs of her thighs touch her calves, where she rocks on the balls of her feet while blindly spinning the staff over her back.

Typically, UniFire performs as a group for the many alternative arts festivals and celebrations that are held in the Asheville area, but after 14 years of taking the heat, Arbor is confident enough to perform solo acts. However, she stills gets a thrill out of large dances with her troop despite it being more difficult for multiple reasons.

“The big shows that we do, there is tons and tons and tons of amazing choreography...so preparing that is fun, writing that is fun,” she said. “But there’s gotta be a really special connection with the people that you’re performing with, because it’s so loud...so having those subtle ways of communicating with people on stage [is important].” The batons change hands, there are transitions between movesets and dancers frequently light one another’s torches - all must be seamless with minimal vocal instructions. “It’s a performance - you can’t be like ‘Ok, now drop the staff!’”

Her faorite part of the daring display? “Interacting with the audience, are you kidding? I love it so much,” Arbor said. “These performances we do...for various festivals, the LEAF festival and you know, the downtown festivals that we do...going up close to the audience and seeing the kids, because they’re so into the fire - and then when they make eye contact with me and I smile so big...you know, I think it makes them feel real special. Love that.”

Fire dancing is a specialized art form that brings the sacred, magical rituals of old into the modern era. It takes years to learn the full extent of the choreography, which is centered around cyclical things: the spinning batons, the turning dancers, the rotation of the earth, the past revolving into the present. The flickering of fire swooping and swirling among the swaying bodies in the darkness is a truly awe-inspiring performance to watch as a reminder that all things circle around; flow with it, and you might find peace within the flame.