Originally appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, Issue 28. Copyright Mary Mannon Reeves 1995. No part may be used in any way without the written permission of the author.
A Game of Djinn
By
Mary Mannon Reeves
How long have I been here, my arms uplifted, surrounded by a whirlwind of frozen light and power? A century, at least, judging by the depth of guano just beyond our captive sphere.
It's usually the last wish that screws them up. You know the routine: they wish for money, power, and then something utterly useless, like love, which then strips them of their money and power. Personally, my favorite is the couple that ended up with a sausage. Practical. Nobody ever thinks practically anymore.
But Anjoree blew it on the second wish. She and Ramaal, her lover, rolled around on a carpet of silk and gold, wearing what they couldn't stuff into their pockets. After getting foolish and sticky and thoroughly ruining the carpet, she caressed my lamp as tough I'd been the silent partner in their sweaty menage, and made the mistake.
"I wish it could always be like thisa."
I don't usually get caught in the backwash of a spell, whih is what protects the Djinn from the "wishing for more wishes" loop, but this was an alpha-omega sort of thing. In order for it to always "be like this", I had to be there; and in order for everything to stay like it was, it had to stay just like it was!
So there we were, a hundred years later, frozen in gesture, permanent statuary in Solomon's cave.
We had visitors, of course. Secret lairs are a popular stop on the pilgrimage route. The bats tell me that Ali Baba has convinced his Hashashim to give up the thieving bit (and smoking the profits) and to go for a subtler bit of extortion. They're now charging admission and have plans for a floor show.
Our own visitors are less entertainment-minded. We get the questors. No doubt, the glamour that holds Anjoree motionless has added something to her plain, human features. The men come, knights and Saracens, Moors and moguls, and they vie for the chance to rescue her. None seem to notice the ragged young man whose legs are tangled with her own.
It is amazing how little magic, and how many years, it takes to create a princess from a peon.
They come, they fight their way into the sphere long enough to grab my lamp and rub it. But "always like this" doesn't include extras, and they are thrown from the circle while my lamp glides back to its resting place, Thay have the right idea, for only I can break the spell I set, but they have one problem to overcome.
Anjoree has one more wish.
The contract is very clear. I must fulfill her three wishes befre moving on to another owner. That business with Aladdin, pishwah. He and his uncle set it up. As soon as one used his three wishes, the other "stole" the lamp, and the Djinn was forced to grant three more wishes. Over an over they pulled this scam. They'll be lawyers in another life.
I don't remember how the Djinn slipped out of that the loophole, but it had something to do with sausages, which are practical, but unhealthy, especially in a Moslem town.
I was beginning to long for Solomon, not so much for his wisdom in the matter, but I figured he, of all people, would be able to get me out of the fix, if only to seal me up in a bottle for eternity. After a century of watching Anjoree and Ramaal frozen mid-writhe, the bottle seemed preferable.
The Hamar snuck in. Hope surged when I saw the animated bundle of rags creep through the cavern. Beggars or princess in dusguise always stand a better chance than those posturing idiots the kings and sultans send. Wit and grit over silver and steel. A dull jug hung from his belt, the distinctive seal glowing in the dim light. Another Djinn.
Smoke billowed as the seal was cracked and, for once, I was grateful for my immobile features. i detest showy entrances, and rolling my eyes at the newcomer wouldn't exactly endear him to my cause.
"Oh, J'meera," a smooth voice rumbled from the solidifying fog. "What have you done this time?"
When I didn't - couldn't - answer, M'laar bellowed with laughter. "It took th Mortal's wisest mind to trap me, sister, not a ragamuffin grave robber. Let's see what can be done."
His master gave a timid cough. ""Ummm...my wishes?"
M'laar looked down on the pitiful boy - a real beggar, for a prince is a prince, in silk, rags, or stark naked.
"Before you waste your wishes on something useless, may I make a suggestion?"
The boy's eyes narowed. We Djinn are not known for philanthropy. It is said that any child born of a Djinn and Human coupling inhereits the worst of both species. They inevitably end up in politics.
"Let's hear the suggestion,"
"I can't break J'meera's spell. The most I can do is release its holder - the girl - for a brief moment, long enough to make her third wish. Unless a hundred years of freeze tag has rotted her brains, she will know what wish to make."
"And that will only take one wish of mine?"
Stupid boy. There is a reason for three wishes........ continued......