A second Ifrit stalked forward, blade raised for the killing blow. Fatma bounded down the steps, ready to throw herself at the creature. But it suddenly stayed its hand. Abigail was ordering it back to its work. She was ordering them all back. Fatma reached Siti as the three Ifrit turned away at their mistress’s bidding.
“It burns!” Siti’s face contorted in pain. “Everywhere burns!”
Fatma looked to the wound. It should have been cauterized. Yet it seemed both burned and bleeding. She reached to stanch the flow, only to pull back singed fingers. The blood was hot to the touch—boiling, poisoned by the Ifrit weapon.
“Why aren’t you healing?”
Siti’s only answer was another scream as wisps of smoke rose from her body.
Fatma’s mind raced. That exhilaration still flowed through her, and she could feel it at the tips of her fingers—fast healing even the singeing they’d taken. She was holding some of Siti’s magic. Enough perhaps, to keep her from healing. If she could just give it back …
She bent down, pressing their lips together. The rushing torrent that had filled her to bursting drained away—half the Nile returning. When she pulled back, she fought to stay upright. It felt like she’d been running miles! Her fingers traced gingerly at Siti’s wound. Not fully healed. But the skin had closed, and she was no longer hot to the touch.
“What did you do?” Siti grunted, sitting up.
“Returned your battery charge,” Fatma managed with a smile. Her brief euphoria evaporated as she looked up to find three figures standing over them like guards. The ash-ghul.
“He’s always coming back,” Siti grumbled.
Fatma gripped her sword. She was exhausted and would probably pitch forward on her wobbly legs. But if this thing wanted a fight, she’d give her best.
A sudden creaking turned her attention back to the platform. It was coming from the mechanical djinn. No, not the automaton, but the machine of overlapping gears nestled into its open chest. They were turning, the teeth of the wheels meshing together. They moved slow at first but soon sped up: all spinning and fitting together, to work in a perfect harmony.
The sight left her cold. The Clock of Worlds had been rebuilt. And it was working.
“She’s done it!” Siti whispered. Her crimson eyes stared. Not at the spinning gears. Or at Abigail, who was shouting in triumph. But at a hole of darkness high above the head of the mechanical djinn—like someone had cut into the fabric of reality.
When they’d last seen the machine intact, it had opened such a door to a dark watery place—from which came a horror of limbs and tentacles. This hole was also dark, so that it stood out even in the night sky. But it didn’t look like water. Instead, it reminded Fatma of a heat haze—and she imagined that on the other side lay a realm of scorching and unrelenting fire. A stillness gripped the air. Even Abigail grew quiet—at what emerged from that darkness and into the world.
“God the Merciful,” Fatma whispered.
They were Ifrit. That much was plain. Only unlike any she’d ever seen.
Ifrit more resembled living infernos than creatures of flesh. But these were beyond that. Their bodies were liquid flame that roiled—a bright blood orange like the spewing fissures of a volcano. The heat of them shimmered the air, so hot she could feel its sting. And they were far bigger than any djinn she had ever seen. Their great size made it impossible for them to even stand on the rooftop of the palace. Instead they hovered above—if mountains of churning molten rock could be said to hover. Nine in all.
“Who has called us to this place?” one thundered. “Who has awakened us from our great sleep?” He was the largest among them—with curving horns that shone white like heated iron. A gold circlet crowned his head, a blazing diadem in its center like a small star. Fatma reasoned that if these were Ifrit Lords, this one must be their king. His breath was fire, and flames danced in the air before him. She understood his djinn language plainly—as if he spoke every tongue at once.
Abigail, undaunted, called out, her voice enhanced by magic. “Ifrit Lords! I’m the one who summoned you!” She held up her hand, displaying the ring. “You may call me the Master of Djinn! You may call me your mistress! Come before me now and kneel!”
The Ifrit King gazed down and Fatma could read the incredulity that crossed that immortal face. He pulled a great mace of iron and flame into existence and lowered to just above the rooftop—sending the djinn beneath scattering. Abigail descended from the platform, sparing them a gloating smile. Megalomaniacs always needed an audience. The woman stopped before the hovering Ifrit and lifted her hand again.
“Kneel!” she demanded.
The Ifrit King snarled. “A mortal has summoned us? A mortal seeks to command us?”
“I hold power over you!” She tightened her fist, and the ring burned. “I command you, and you will command my armies. You will be lords again! And I will be your mistress! Now—kneel!”
Fatma held her breath, certain this terrible being would cast the woman into fiery oblivion. Perhaps incinerate them all in his fury. Instead, the djinn’s head began to lower. The anger on his face turned to shock. It looked as if his body were being pulled against his will, constrained by invisible chains.
“Kneel!” Abigail cried. “Kneel to me!”
The Ifrit King’s roar shattered the night, and he thrashed furiously. Abigail stumbled, the leash momentarily slipped from her grasp. Her face knotted in determination, and Fatma could see perspiration beading down her temples as she fought for control.
“My gods,” Siti said. “She’s going to get us all killed!”
Just then something went taut in Abigail’s grip. “Kneel!” she screamed, her face red with rage. To their shock, the Ifrit King did
