The Amulet of Samarkand

at a grotesque angle—then its legs gave way. It collapsed in a fiery mess of blackening limbs.
    I was about to do the same to its companion, which had hopped over the bonfire and was fast approaching, when a slight sound behind alerted me to the partial recovery of Sholto Pinn. I glanced back. Sholto was half sitting up, looking as if he'd been hit by a herd of buffalo. A pair of Y-fronts draped his forehead at a fetching angle. But he was still dangerous. He groped for his staff, found it, stabbed it in my direction. The yellow ray of light shot out once more—but I was already gone from the spot, and the plasms enveloped the second mannequin in mid bound. Its limbs helplessly frozen, it crashed to the floor, shattering a leg into a dozen pieces.
    Sholto cursed, looked around wildly. He really didn't have to look far for little me. I was right above him, balanced on the top of a free-standing set of shelves. The whole stack was filled with meticulously indexed files and beautifully arranged displays of shields, statuary, and antique boxes that had all no doubt been filched from their proper owners across the world. It must have been worth a fortune. I leaned my back against the wall, set my feet firmly on the shelf top and pushed hard.
    The set of shelves groaned and teetered.
    Sholto heard the sound. He looked up. I saw his eyes widen in horror.
    I gave an extra-hard push, putting a bit of venom into it. I was thinking of the helpless djinn trapped inside the ruined mannequins.
    The shelves hung suspended for an instant. A small Egyptian canopic jar was the first to fall, closely followed by a teak incense chest. Then the center of gravity shifted, the shelves shuddered, and the whole edifice toppled down with wondrous swiftness upon the sprawling magician.
    Sholto had time for maybe half a cry before his accoutrements hit him.
    At the sound of the impact cars on Piccadilly swerved, collided. A cloud of incense and funeral dust boiled up from the strewn remnants of Sholto's fine display.
    I was satisfied with my performance so far, but it is always best to quit while you're ahead. I eyed the shelving cautiously, but nothing stirred beneath it. Whether his defensive Shield had been enough to save him I couldn't tell. No matter. Surely now I was free to leave.
    Once more, I made for the hole in the window. Once more, a figure rose to block my way.
    Simpkin.
    I paused in midair. "Please," I said, "don't waste my time. I've already rearranged your face once for you." Rather like the finger of an inside-out glove, his previously protruding nose was still squished back deep into his head. He looked testy.
    He gave a nasal whisper. "You've hurt the master."
    "Yes, and you should be dancing with joy!" I sneered. "If I was in your place I'd be going in to finish him off, not whining on the sidelines like you, you miserable turncoat."
    "It took me weeks to set up that display."
    I lost patience. "You've got one second to split, traitor."
    "It's too late, Bodmin! I've sounded the alarm. The authorities have sent an af— "
    "Yeah, yeah." Summoning the last of my remaining energy, I changed into the falcon. Simpkin didn't expect such a transformation from a humble messenger imp. He stumbled back; I shot over his head, depositing a farewell dropping on his scalp as I did so, and burst out at last into the freedom of the air!
    Upon which, a net of silver threads descended, dragging me down against the Piccadilly pavement.
    The threads were a Snare of the most resilient kind: they bound me on every plane, adhering to my struggling feathers, my kicking legs and snapping beak. I fought back with all my strength, but the threads clung to me, heavy with earth, the element that is most alien to me, and with the agonizing touch of silver. I could not change, I could not work any magic, great or small. My essence was wounded by the barest contact with the threads—the more I flailed about, the worse it felt.
     
    After a few seconds, I gave up. I lay there huddled under the net, a small, still, feathered mound. One of my eyes peeped out under the crook of my wing. I looked beyond the deadly lattice of threads to the gray pavement, still wet after the last rain and thinly covered with a sprinkling of glass shards. And somewhere or other, I could hear Simpkin laughing, long and shrill.
    Then the paving slabs grew dark under a descending shadow.
    Two great, cloven hooves landed with a soft clink upon the slabs. The concrete bubbled and