PRAGUE, Czech Republic -- The demented-looking young man in blackface, crowned with horns, dived past me in the twilight to grab the unsuspecting toddler by my feet. Growling, he hoisted his snow-suited captive above the crowded sidewalk. Instinctively I glanced for the boy's mother -- and there she was, sporting a slightly crooked tinsel wig and a cigarette.

	CzechTourism Bureau At the feast of St. Nicholas in Prague, costumed celebrants often travel in threes: St. Nicholas, a bearded, white-robed bishop; an angel; and a black-faced devil. Click photo for larger image. Related coverage If You Go: Prague, Czech Republic

She, too, was in imminent danger. She was laughing so hard she was about to spill her plastic cup of steaming mulled wine all over the street.

In Prague, I was learning, the sacred pre-Christmas season of Advent is observed with widely varying degrees of piety by celebrants from the merely merry to the totally sozzled. And most of the devout wear horns.

I was in Prague last year for the Dec. 6 celebration of the feast of St. Nicholas, which begins the previous evening with a cold-weather Mardi Gras. The party attracts costumed revelers to the city's Christmas markets, those month-long Europop carnivals of Mylar balloons, kids' choirs, mistletoe, cell phones made of gingerbread, and oceans of the cheap hot wine called svarene vino.

Trios of celebrants begin their carousing at twilight, which falls at 4 p.m. in the Bohemian winter. The Czech Nicholas is always depicted as a bearded, white-robed bishop, whatever the gender of his impersonator. He travels with a good cop/bad cop duo: an angel, who distributes sweets to good children, and a black-faced devil in horns, who threatens to take naughty ones. (Nicholas celebrates his own feast day, but he doesn't do Christmas; the Christ Child hauls his own gifts when he arrives on the 24th.)

Christmas is all about joyful anticipation, but my twin sister and I were a bit doubtful when planning our six-day December trip. Floods had receded just weeks before; the subways were still closed. But providence intervened, in the form of a NATO summit a few days before our visit. Crews had obviously worked post-Socialist overtime to scour streets, re-plaster stucco walls, and string riverside holiday lights. The striking beauty of the old city, with its illustrated buildings and dark cobblestone paths, had been restored from ruined to romantic.

Though we found more chilly fog than snow round about, even in Wenceslas Square, the open-air holiday markets provided warmth for the celebration. The potato pancakes tasted authentically gritty, the sausages predictably slick; the squares were filled with the pleasant bustle of full-family shopping. Children solemnly rode rickety amusements and donkeys, waving dutifully to their enthusiastic parents. At the stalls, kapra referred not to the director of everyone's favorite holiday movie, but to kapr, the live carp sold from barrels come Christmas Eve.

It was fully dark when we spotted our first St. Nick. A white-bearded bishop, capped with a cardboard miter, was making a pastoral visit to an electronics store on bustling Zelezna Street, flanked by his tinsel-haired angel and smudge-faced devil.

Similarly costumed threesomes were already surging towards Staromestske Namesti. The Old Town Square, site of the 15th-century Astronomical Clock, is the baroque heart of the city, and the beat echoing off its creamy pastel facades was exceptionally loud tonight.

We brushed past angels with glittering 4-foot wingspans. We dodged devils whose costumes were mainly trash bags and coal dust, though a furry black wig and chains were equally popular satanic choices. All were pushing toward a spotlit open stage where kids in red mufflers shimmied to the "Grease" soundtrack. Very small, bright-eyed Mikulases in cotton-ball beards jumped along in the audience in time. A titanic statue of the contemptuous religious reformer, Jan Hus, seemed to avert its eyes.

We landed on the shoals of the crowd by the steps of a nearby pub, where a jovial costumed bishop was handing out hot wine and pouring clear shots. The liquid looked like ice water. It smelled lethal.

"What is it?" I asked the heavily mascara'ed angel. She hoisted a green bottle labeled Becherovka. "The local HAD-ache," she explained, pointing. The silent devil and bishop simultaneously raised their glasses. We toasted. The aromatic, herbal liqueur burned all the way down.

Easier to swallow, and in fact essential to outdoor winter touring in Prague, was the svarene vino simmering on every corner. We sniffed and speculated about its tart, fruity aftertaste. Cinnamon? Lemons? Stalls dispensed it from an anonymous pot; the secret ingredients were nowhere in sight.

(Later, I learned its essence from a neighborhood barmaid. As I tested my recipe theories, she reached behind the bar for an empty carton labelled Kotanyi Mix. "Is this," she explained. The mysterious medieval mulling spices that provided the tang were, in fact, much closer to powdered Tang.)

A cherry bomb exploded. Over by the Astronomical Clock, three jugglers threw flaming clubs not quite far enough above the crowd. As the torches descended, they illuminated a white bandage on one juggler's face -- the result of too little practice, or too much Becherovka. The crowd, mostly sporting their own pairs of battery-lit horns by now, cheered harder with each near-miss.

The evening was lurching gaily toward the hard-core party zone, and we decided to retreat across the famous Charles Bridge to our quiet hotel in the Mala Strana district.

Crossing the 600-year-old pedestrian bridge over the Vltava River immediately changed the mood of the evening. Its famous age-blackened statues loomed out of the mist in their wet stone draperies, their hands frozen in prayer and torment. Here was the old high-church Prague, firmly ruled by religious orders and quick to chastise infidels (Jews and Turks, in particular). And here, just below the bridge, we found more devils.

Steps by the Kampa, an island briefly submerged by the recent floods, led us to a glowing shop window of fantastically carved marionettes. We'd seen small versions in souvenir shops, reminders of the city's traditional puppet theater. But these were almost as large as life, custom-made for theatrical performance. Wrinkled crones with winking eyes, barnyard animals, and children drooped from shelves; sitting formally in a corner was a 3-foot Dr. Faust.

The young artist-owner beckoned to me and pulled a string: the doctor's high forehead lifted, and a swarm of thin gray demons flew out on their own filaments. Applause. The shop lights dimmed as nine o'clock tolled.

At our hotel, the quiet Bishop's House, we planned a spiritual itinerary for St. Nicholas Day: we'd start with a visit to the Infant of Prague, then head to vespers at the grand church of sv. Mikulas, whose green dome rivals Prague Castle for dominance of the riverbank.

The shrine of doll-sized Infant, housed in the Carmelite church of Panna Maria Vitezna, was an odd combination of kitsch and Catholicism. Downstairs, messages of devotion in dozens of languages surrounded the small wax statue. Upstairs, the soundtrack of "Jesus Christ Superstar" played in an exhibit of jewel-studded gowns and crowns from the Infant's revolving wardrobe. T-shirts and refrigerator magnets were on sale; postcards were free.

The nearby cathedral of St. Nicholas is beautifully preserved, ornate, and soaring. Relatively young by Prague standards, it was already nearly a century old when Mozart's memorial Mass was held here, in 1791. Its magnificent nave depicts the saint rescuing sailors, prostitutes and prisoners. But sitting in its icy wooden pews before vespers, gazing overhead at the frescoes and stern statues, I felt a realization creeping up from my feet: This was also the coldest church I'd ever attended.

As the hooded deacons and choir filed into the nave, we frantically stuffed newspapers beneath our coats. We pressed our gloved hands fiercely together, praying for a blast of hot air. At the last strains of song we leapt into the aisle, hoping for feeling to return to our legs.

Feeling returned, but warmth would have to wait. The night had turned sharply colder. We turtled into our collars and started down Mostecka, where light spilled out into the crooked street in little golden pools. Garnet and crystal glittered in shop windows, and we ducked in to choose some Christmas ornaments. The ones that seemed most fitting, on the night of St. Nicholas, were the happy wooden devils.