whatever had managed to defy the drought.
Plagues mysteriously erupted across the land, ravaging the populaceturning cities to towns and towns to desolate villages. There were reports of ghastly phantoms rising from graveyards, giants suddenly appearing to threaten distant crossroads, Jinns crouching in ambush to devour unsuspecting travelers.
Manacia and his wizards had worked at a dervish's pace to halt these outbreaks. Huge spell machines were constructed and hauled out to the troubled regions. Whole forests of cinnamon trees had been felled to make the incense that was burned in those machines. Day and night the furnaces churned out immense clouds of fragrant healing smoke. The expense sometimes made the king nostalgic for simpler times when his realm was smaller and less expensive to maintain.
Despite Manacia's efforts, trouble continued to dog Ghazban. His subjects were becoming increasing restless and unruly. It was whispered that the gods were punishing all demonkind for allowing such a greedy pontiff to rule them. Word leaked out about his experiments with the curse of the Forbidden Desert, fueling further religious fears and discontent.
In the past Manacia had dealt with such things by immediately invading a neighboring kingdom. It not only released domestic pressure but gave him a brother monarch to blame and then bring to task for his sins. This was no longer possible in the brave new world that was Ghazban, where the subjects had only Manacia as a target for their suspicions.
In the beginning Manacia's dream of ruling all Esmir as King of Kings was only thata private dream. Now it had become a necessity. He needed to challenge his subjects, to fix their minds on a great peril; an historic enemygodless humansto bear the blame for their ills.
To achieve this he had to solve the riddle of the curse that kept demonkind and humankind apart. Once he thought he had the answer and sent the bandit chieftain, Sarn, across the Forbidden Desert to spy out an invasion route. But Sarn had never returned. The king falsely blamed the curse and spent every free moment searching for the solution to its riddle. He had ripped apart his original spell and then reformed it many times.
None of his efforts worked. It was as if he had gone back to the original days of failure when hundreds of slaves and felons were forced out into the Forbidden Desert to die horribly before the eyes of the soldiers who had prodded them there. Distracted as he was by domestic toil, it took Manacia a long time to return to the spell he'd used to shield Sarn and his outlaws. He added a few improvements and tried again.
The very first effort met with success. The villain used for the experiment not only survived, but was able to walk to the most distant hill, the soldiers playing out rope and tying on additional lines until he was nearly out of sight and had to be dragged back so he wouldn't escape.
After his experience with Sarn, Manacia was wary of this success. He called for his Grand Wazier, Lord Fari, and asked his advice.
'We require a volunteer, Majesty, Fari said. Someone loyal, above reproach.'
'Exactly my thinking, Manacia said.
The old demon built on this success. Perhaps Prince Luka, he said. It would be a mighty accomplishment he could add to his deeds, thus assuring the admiration of your subjects when he assumes the throne some day.'
The Grand Wazier hated the Crown Prince and this seemed an excellent time to be rid of himif the king's spell failed, that is.
Menacia, who kept a firm talon on the pulse of his court, knew what Fari was up to.
'What an excellent thought, he said brightly. Then he frowned, Unfortunately, that can't be. At this particular time I need him by my side.'
He clicked his claws against the arm of his throne, pretending to ponder further. Then he smiled. I've got it! he said. And I have you to thank for the idea, Fari. For it made me focus on who my most loyal subjects were. And the answer was there in an instant. For other than my own son, who could be more loyal than you, my dear fiend?'
The Grand Wazier was aghast. Me, Your Highness? You want me to cross Forbidden Desert? His voice quavered. As much as I'd love to have the honor to serve in you this, I fear I am too old, Majesty.'
'In this case, Menacia said, advanced age makes you even an even better choice. To begin with you have many years of wizardly experience to draw upon. And if by some distant chance the experiment meets with failure, why you can't be that far away from your natural death.
'It would be tragic, of course. But not as tragic as if a younger wizard were cheated out of a long life.'
Fari realized it was hopeless to argue with the king. It was obvious the choice had been made before Menacia summoned him. The advice seeking had only been for appearance's sake.
The Grand Wazier acceded to the king's command with as much grace as he could muster. Preparations were made, detailed instructions were given, and in less than a month Fari and a small expedition set out across the Forbidden Desert. Their orders were much simpler than Sarn's. Once they reached the humanlands they were to turn back immediately and report their success to the king.
Demon scholars estimated the crossing and return journey should take no more than eight weeks. When the time drew near for Fari's return King Manacia became so anxious he ordered his whole court transported from Zanzair to the edge of the Forbidden Desert.
There he sat, day after talon-biting day, waiting for his Grand Wazier. Eight weeks became nine. Nine became ten. The king was so restive he rose before dawn and paced before his traveling throne until late at night.
He'd all but given up hope when Lord Fari finally appeared.
It was at dusk and the sun was just disappearing beneath the horizon. The western-most rim of the desert was a thick red smear that drew the king's eyes like an insect drawn to flame.
His whole being flew out to the rim. He whispered prayers and curses to gods and devils alike. Then his heart bumped hard against his chest. Shadowy figures formed at the horizon. They seemed to be moving, growing larger as they approached. Fearing to spoil his luck the king said nothing, waiting for his lookouts to shout the news.
The cry came and still the king said nothing. He remained motionless, giving no sign of the chaos raging inside.
Then night fell and far out in the desert a score of torches flared into life, bobbing in the darkness like fireflies.
There was no doubt now that it was Fari.
The riddle of the curse of the Forbidden Desert had been solved.
Prince Luka shouted his congratulations, pounding his father on the backwishing his hand held a knife. Officers and courtiers crowded around the king to praise his wisdom and perseverance.
Manacia was not moved. His excitement had died quicklyhe'd waited too long for joy to find a resting place.
When the weary, bedraggled expedition bearing Lord Fari arrived the king was already huddled with his generals in the command tent.
Prince Luka had the great pleasure of seeing the aged demon's shock of disappointment at his poor reception. The journey had taken a heavy toll on Lord Fari.
Slumped in the saddle, every bone aching, he peered first at Luka and then the lights of the tent city.
'Where's the king? he asked, voice quavering from age and weariness. He despised himself for letting the weakness show in front of Luka, but he couldn't help it.
'My father asked me to relay his apologies, the prince answered. He said you'd understand that he couldn't actually be present to congratulate you.
'He's busy right now, you see, planning the invasion of the humanlands.'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For a long time Safar floated on a balmy sea. Below were mysterious depths where nightmares were sea dragons pursuing his dreams.
He dreamed of Kyrania and its fruited fields. He dreamed of clouds melting in the Sun God's forge, dripping colors on the land. He dreamed of clay that leaped into fantastic shapes the moment he touched it. He dreamed of
