Ptolemy's Gate

laughing, falling, as their masters explored their limitations. Occasional bursts of magical energy exploded against the walls; the air was full of the murmuring of alien tongues, strange cries of joy and pain. And what was that among them, head twitching, hands rising and falling like a puppet's, florid face gleaming and vacuous? Nathaniel recoiled.
    Rupert Devereaux, the Prime Minister . . .
    Despite everything that had occurred, despite his awakening abhorrence of what the man had been and represented, Nathaniel felt tears pricking at his eyes. For an instant he was twelve years old again, caught up in the swirl of Westminster Hall, seeing Devereaux for the first time—dazzling, charming, everything he aspired to be. . .
    Devereaux's body gave a caper, collided with another, and collapsed in a writhing heap. Nathaniel was sick with horror; he felt his knees sag.
    "Up with you!" The mercenary gave him a cursory shove. "Join the line."
    "Wait!" Nathaniel half turned. "Kitty—"
    "She does not share your destiny, for which you may be thankful."
    Nathaniel stared across at Kitty, who for a single moment caught his gaze; then he was propelled savagely toward the crowd of prisoners. Lime's body turned, caught sight of him; he saw green lights far off behind the eyes. A harsh voice, like the snapping of twigs, emerged from the loose mouth: "Faquarl! Here is Bartimaeus's friend! You want him next?"
    "Certainly I do, Caspar. He can jump the queue. He shall come after this sour creature. Lord Nouda, I assume you have no wish to taste this one."
    The great voice rumbled from on high. "I have seen better flesh on a pharaoh's corpse. When she turns sideways, she all but disappears. Process her and be done."
    Nathaniel's eyes were fixed on the figure in the pentacle. Stick-thin, white hair disheveled, his old master Jessica Whitwell stood staring up toward the throne. The demon in Withers's body had just removed her bonds; her hands were knotted fists.
    "Very well." Faquarl consulted his book. "Number twenty-eight. Let me see. I have chosen the afrit Mormel for you. You should be honored. He is a noble spirit."
    Ms. Whitwell stared up at the figure on the throne. "What is your plan for us?"
    "Do not think to address the great Nouda!" Faquarl cried. "You and your kind have enslaved us for centuries, showing no consideration. What do you think we plan? This revenge has been incubated for five thousand years! No portion of the world will be safe from us."
    Ms. Whitwell laughed contemptuously. "I think you are overoptimistic. Look at you all, trapped in awkward bodies, barely able to walk in a straight line."
    "Our inconveniences are only temporary," Faquarl said. "Yours shall be permanent. Begin the summons."
    Jessica Whitwell spoke quietly. "To all the others you have given a choice. You have not asked me for mine."
    Faquarl lowered his book; his eyes were narrowed. "Well, I assume, like all the other wretches, you prefer life to death, even if it is life worked through another."
    "You assume wrongly."
    Ms. Whitwell raised her hands and made an ornate sign; she shouted out two words. A burst of yellow light, a cloud of brimstone—her afrit, wearing the form of an uneasy-looking grizzly bear—appeared above her head. Whitwell screamed an order; a shimmering blue Shield rose up around her body. The afrit sent a Detonation at the startled Faquarl: it struck him head-on, knocking him off his chair and halfway through the wall.
    The demons in the bodies of the conspirators set up a clamor. Naeryan raised a finger: from Jenkins's hand a lance of emerald light stabbed at Whitwell. The Shield absorbed it; Whitwell was already turning, running for the exit. The demon Caspar, encased in the body of Lime, leaped forward to intercept her; Nathaniel stretched out a boot; the demon tripped, was unable to right itself, fell crashing to the ground.
    Nathaniel turned and ran; above his head the bear afrit sent successive Detonations toward the golden throne.
    Where was Kitty? There! But the mercenary held her by the arm. She struggled, kicked, could not break free.
    Nathaniel sped toward her—
    The floor shook; he stumbled, fell—and, for a moment, looked behind him.
    The body in the golden chair had moved. It was surrounded by a nimbus of pale fire. Energies crackled from its fingers; its eyes were silver notches in the darkened face. One hand was outstretched. The power that came from it—arcing out in five looping bolts, one from each