The Amulet of Samarkand

chairs, scattered bags, and belongings—all stretched, twisted, glimmering with unnatural tones and colors. Nathaniel tried to blot it from his mind; he gazed at the Amulet's chain, readying himself for another try.
    Lovelace smiled. "Even now you haven't given up," he said. "And that's exactly what I'm talking about—that's your iron will in action. It's very good. But if you'd been my apprentice, I'd have trained you to keep it in check until you had the ability to follow through. If he is to survive, a true magician must be patient."
    "Yes," Nathaniel said huskily, "I've been told that before."
    "You should have listened. Well, it's too late to save you now; you've done me too much harm, and even were I so disposed, there's nothing I could do for you in here. The Amulet can't be shared."
    For a moment, he considered Ramuthra: the demon had cornered an outlying pocket of magicians and was reaching down toward them with grasping fingers. A shrill screaming was suddenly cut off.
    Nathaniel made a tiny movement. Instantly, Lovelace's eyes snapped back to him. "Still fighting?" he said. "If I can't trust you to lie down and die with all those other fools and cowards, I shall have to dispose of you first. Take it as a compliment, John."
    He set the horn to his lips and blew briefly. Nathaniel's skin crawled; he sensed a change behind him.
    Ramuthra had halted at the sound from the horn. The disturbance in the planes that marked its edges intensified, as if it radiated a strong emotion, perhaps anger. Nathaniel watched it turn; it appeared to be regarding Lovelace across the breadth of the hall.
    "Do not hesitate, slave!" Lovelace cried. "You shall do my bidding! This boy must die first."
    Nathaniel felt an alien gaze upon him. With a strange detached clarity, he noticed a beautiful golden tapestry hanging on the wall beyond the giant head; it seemed larger than it should be, in crystal-clear focus, as if the demon's essence magnified it.
    "Come!" Lovelace's voice sounded cracked and dry. A great wave rippled out from the demon, turning a nearby chandelier into a host of tiny yellow birds that broke away and flew across the rafters of the hall before dissolving. Ponderously turning its back on the remaining magicians, it set off in Nathaniel's direction.
    Nathaniel's bowels turned to water. He backed away.
    Beside him, he heard Lovelace chuckle.
    Bartimaeus
     
    So here we were again, Jabor and I, like partners in a dance—I retreating, he pursuing, step by synchronized step. Across the chaotic hall we flew, avoiding the scurrying humans, the explosions of misdirected magic, the shock waves radiating from the great being stalking in its midst. Jabor wore a grimace that might have been annoyance or uncertainty, since even his extreme resilience would be tested in this new environment. I decided to undermine his morale.
    "How does it feel to be inferior to Faquarl?" I called, as I ducked behind one of the few remaining chandeliers. "I don't see Lovelace risking his life by summoning him here today."
    From the other side of the chandelier, Jabor tried to lob a Pestilence at me, but a ripple of energy disrupted it and it became a cloud of pretty flowers drifting to the floor.
    "Charming," I said. "Next, you need to learn to arrange them properly. I'll lend you a nice vase, if you like."
    I don't think Jabor's grasp of insults extended far enough to take that quite on board, but he understood the tone, and it actually roused him to verbal response.
    "He summoned me because I'm stronger!" he bellowed, wrenching the chandelier from the ceiling and hurling it at me. I dodged balletically and it shattered against the wall, to rain down in little lumps of crystal on the magicians' cowering heads.
    Jabor did not seem impressed by this graceful maneuver. "Coward!" he cried. "Always, you sneak and crawl and run and hide."
    "It's called intelligence," I said, pirouetting in midair, seizing a splintered beam from the ceiling rafters and hurling it at him like a javelin. He didn't bother to move, but let it crack against his shoulders and fall away. Then he came closer. Despite my fine words, none of my sneaking, crawling, running or hiding was having much effect right now, and looking down across the hall, I saw that the situation was in fact deteriorating rapidly. Ramuthra[4] had turned and was proceeding back across the room toward where the magician and my master were standing. It wasn't hard to see what Lovelace intended: the