The first to meet his enemy swung a burning blade. The water giant moved surprisingly fast, with the speed of a rushing river. It lifted a lengthy arm like a trunk, rolling it in an undulating wave. When it struck the blade, the flames died. The water passed through the Ifrit’s arm, and where it touched, fires snuffed out, and molten liquid cooled to black rock behind erupting gouts of steam. The Ifrit Lord roared in anger or perhaps pain, staggering back. Another took his place only to have one of the whipping arms wash away a molten eye. A third was sent crashing to his knees when two sweeps of the water giant’s limbs slashed his legs—quenching their flame.
For a brief moment, Fatma dared to hope.
It died when the Ifrit King strode forward, the smoldering mace balanced over a shoulder. He chanted something that thundered, and his body burst into fresh flames—shifting from red, to orange, then a bright blue, before blazing a fierce white.
When the water giant struck out again, water met that white heat—and sizzled. Towering clouds of angry steam rose up, so that nothing could be made out. When it cleared, the Ifrit King stood unharmed. The water giant, though, looked … less. The Ifrit King this time swung his mace, striking the water giant hard enough that it stumbled, rippling from the impact. In moments the Nine Lords surrounded it, hammering down their fiery weapons in savage blows.
“I hope the army gets here soon,” Hadia whispered.
Fatma eyed the doomed water giant, wondering what would become of the many Jann who had summoned it. If their champion faltered, and broke, how far would that water flood?
“It won’t be enough,” she said, hating to speak the words. But it was truth. These Ifrit Lords wouldn’t be stopped by the djinn they once ruled. Or by machines djinn helped men build. She stared up to the gaping portal—still visible against the night. The moment that doorway had opened, this battle was lost.
“No, it won’t be enough,” someone agreed.
She spun at the guttural voice, searching the dark and landing on a figure squatting in the rubble. He stood as she made him out, detaching from the shadows in a rustle of familiar brown robes. She couldn’t have stopped the gasp escaping her lips if she’d tried.
“Ahmad!” Siti exclaimed.
The head priest of the Cult of Sobek, and the claimed living embodiment of the ancient Nile god on Earth, waved a clawed hand. Abigail scrambled back, as if from a nightmare.
“Have you been there all this time?” Siti asked.
“Not all this time. Well, most of the time. Okay, the whole time. Is that also creepy?”
“Yes, Ahmad,” Siti sighed. “It’s all creepy.”
“Malesh.” He threw back his hood. “Hard to remember to think like people.”
Fatma grimaced at the sight of his crocodilian snout. The man was a far way from being people. One clawed hand produced the silver scarab beetle lighter from his robes, the other a pack of Nefertaris. Plucking out a thin cigarette, he attempted to hold it in his toothy maw—giving up after three tries.
“Going to miss these,” he muttered.
“Ahmad,” Fatma said. “Why aren’t you gone?”
He looked at her with a distant gaze.
“Ahmad?”
He blinked, returning. “Agent. My mind is at times hazy now. I was going, yes. To Sobek’s kingdom that calls me. To swim the river. South, to the old temples. To be one with the entombed god. But I came back, to help. To stop them.” He looked to the battle, where the water giant had been forced to its knees. “I have something. Something I took.” He fished into the packet of Nefertaris again, drawing out not a cigarette but a small unassuming gold ring.
Fatma’s heart skipped. The Seal of Sulayman!
“Thief!” Abigail screamed. Her fear seemed diminished at sight of the ring. “You stole what’s mine! I will have it back!” She reached out, but snatched back her fingers at a crocodilian hiss. “Monster! Did you eat my hand?”
“You took her,” Ahmad growled. “You stole her from me. Be thankful I did not tear you to pieces.” He turned away. “Besides, I’m not a cannibal. Your hand stank of rot. So I tossed it.”
Abigail sputtered.
Fatma ignored their banter. “Ahmad, what do you intend with that?”
“These Ifrit Lords must be bound once more. Here is the power to do it.”
Naturally. Who but a Master of Djinn could save them now?
“I didn’t find you by chance,” he said. “I was led here.”
“Led by who?” Fatma asked. “Your god?”
Ahmad shrugged. “My god, universal providence, perhaps the ring itself.”
“It comes back to me!” Abigail said eagerly. “It knows I’m its mistress!”
They all decided to ignore her.
“Will you wield it?” Hadia stammered. She seemed more put off by the crocodilian man than all else she’d seen.
“The ring is for mortal hands. And I am one with the entombed god.”
“Mortal hands,” Siti repeated. “Then not meant for a half-djinn.”
“Djinn cannot wield the ring against djinn,” Ahmad replied.
“I’ll wield it,” Abigail pronounced. “I’ve bound them before!”
This time Ahmed twisted about to snap his jaws, which sent her quiet.
“That leaves the two of us,” Hadia concluded, not sounding happy about it.
“So it seems,” Ahmad agreed. He offered up the ring to Hadia, who promptly backed away.
“Take it,” Fatma said.
Hadia eyed her warily but reached out nervous fingers to accept the ring, all the while whispering low, perhaps in prayer. Taking a deep breath, she slid it on and waited. A moment of quiet passed before she shook her head, exhaling in obvious relief.
“I don’t think it wants me,” she said.
Fatma tensed as every eye fixed on her. No pressure. She held out her hand, and Hadia dropped the ring into her palm. It didn’t feel heavy. Or powerful. It just felt like a ring. Choosing a finger on her right hand, she slipped it on and waited. Nothing. Abigail laughed.
“The ring chooses its wielder,” she sneered. “It will not just—”
She stopped mid-sentence, staring. Everyone was staring. Because the ring was glowing.
“I don’t understand—” Fatma
