“Not a demand—a request. My want is pure.”
The Seal sighed. “So they always claim. Speak your request.”
“I want to save this city and all its people. For that, I need the true Seal.”
“And what will you ask for yourself?”
“Nothing. My want is pure.”
The Seal laughed again. “Nothing? When you are so much like the other one?”
“Other one?”
The Seal transformed into Abigail Worthington—missing hand and all.
Fatma clenched her teeth. “I’m not like her.”
The Seal cocked Abigail’s head. “Oh? Do you know why we did not choose this one?” A blur, and Hadia stood before her. “Not me. Not me. Not me. That’s what she spoke to us. But you…” Another blur, and Fatma stood watching a mirror image of herself. “No doubts filled your thoughts. You were like the other one: strong of will, determined, and ready to wield us. She wanted great power. What would you have? Perhaps summon djinn to bring you untold wealth?” A vision danced before Fatma’s eyes—djinn carrying huge chests of gold and gems to lay at her feet. “Or perhaps djinn to build you a grand kingdom?” Now she saw a city of golden domes and wonders, a mechanical statue bearing her likeness towering in its center. “Or a more intimate desire?” Siti was now in the vision, staring adoringly, bound to her without doubt or question. “We have been wielded by great lords and rulers, all who claim to be pure—but want so much more.”
That last image disturbed Fatma, and her eyes flickered to the iron and brass ring on her finger that promised so much power. But she managed a confident smile. A hand went to her jacket, patting the timepiece within. “That’s where I’m different,” she said, dropping into the casual Sa’idi dialect she spoke back home. “I’m no lord or ruler. I’m just the daughter of a watchmaker, from a village outside Luxor. I don’t desire any of those things. I just want to save this city.”
Her doppelganger scowled, and was the cat again. “A want that is pure must be truly that!” it growled. “Use us for any other desire, and you will pay a price—the loss of body and will! So that we shall wield you how we wish!”
Fatma nodded. That was how these things tended to go. “I accept.”
She thought she saw the cat smile again.
“Then done,” it pronounced. And was gone.
Fatma stepped back into the world. She knew no time had passed—not a second. But much had changed.
All about her was light. Djinn she also knew. Still in their many shapes and forms, but made up of swirling incandescence in vivid colors that thrummed in a harmonious symphony. There were seemingly hundreds—dotting the night like so many fireflies.
Yet none compared to the Ifrit Lords.
The nine towering giants hovered just above her, their bodies churning torrents of light, the music of them blaring and crashing violently. She did not know when she had raised her hand to command them. But they remained there like unmoving statues, weapons drawn in mid-flight, poised to descend—held fast by the power of the ring.
Only there was no more ring. Not of gold, or iron or brass.
It was gone, vanished from her finger. In its place, script and glyphs she could not read etched into her skin to form a symmetrical geometry—as if some divine hand had marked her. They were emblazoned onto her fingertips, upon her hand and up her arms. She knew if she looked, the writing decorated even her chest and face. Turning over her hands she found a glowing star on each palm—shifting between five points, now six, or eight or twelve. The true Seal.
Staring up at the Nine Lords, she felt their rage—making their brilliant bodies burn bright. The Ifrit King’s hatred was palpable. That one, she decided, she would meet eye to eye.
Through the Seal, she searched the many djinn until landing on a particular light. He came at her call, flying on fiery wings to land before her. The Ifrit who Abigail had once bound.
“Mistress of the Seal,” he bowed, dipping his horned head low. “How may I serve?”
“I’m not your mistress,” she told him. “And I don’t want you to serve. I want to make a request. Carry me up to speak to these lords. Please. You can say no, if you want.”
The Ifrit seemed genuinely taken aback. He eyed her strangely, but finally beckoned her forward. She climbed onto his broad back, untouched by fire. When she’d settled, he leaped into the air and ascended on wings of flame, climbing higher until they hovered before the face of the bound Ifrit King.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her Ministry ID and held it up. “Maybe you didn’t hear me before. I’m Agent Fatma with the Egyptian Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities. You’re currently in violation of about a hundred different codes dealing with non-sanctioned inter-dimensional entities. So I’d like to request a second time—that you go the hell back to where you came from. This battle is over—now.”
The Ifrit King was silent, but his fury flowed through the Seal. It held him fast, so he could not as much move a muscle without her consent. There was a long quiet as he struggled. She rolled her eyes at his futile attempts. This was getting embarrassing. Finally he stopped, and that building rage in him began to ebb. After a while, he released a breath of licking flames. When he spoke, it was with the regal tone of resignation.
“As you wish, Mistress of the Seal,” he rumbled. “We have seen enough djinn blood spilled this day. We will return to our sleep, and depart this world.”
Fatma nodded curtly. “You have my thanks, Great Lord.”
The Ifrit King sneered. “It is a trifling, mortal. All worlds will one day be bathed in the fires of which they were born. And you will not always be here to wield such power against us. We have only to wait. This world, like all
