The Ring of Solomon

tree-stumps bearing gifts. But Ammet, Khaba’s lap-dog, probably hadn’t done a decent day’s work in twenty years, and had forgotten, if he ever knew, the importance of extreme caution. Also, secure in his arrogance and power, and with his own ultimatum ringing in his ears, he clearly thought I’d legged it. So, with a hiss of satisfaction, he darted forth, lengthening a little in his eagerness, stretching for his prize.
    Behind him came a whirl of movement – something massive thrown with force. Before Ammet could react, before he could reach the Ring, a medium-sized tree trunk, its end sharpened to the keenest point, shot down diagonally from the slope above. It struck the shadow precisely in the centre of his elongated back, pierced him through and embedded deeply in the forest mould below. The shadow was pinioned through his middle; he emitted a shrill and horrid cry.
    The young Sumerian spear-bearer hopped into view above, brandishing a second stake. ‘Morning, Ammet,’ I chirruped. ‘Having a rest? I suppose it has been a taxing night. Uh-uh, naughty – not for you.’ One of the shadow’s arms was still stretching for the Ring; the other was wound about the tree trunk and was slowly, effortfully, forcing it upwards. I bounded over and scooped up the finger. ‘ I’ll take that, I think,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry, I believe in sharing. I’ll give you something else.’
    So saying, I leaped back, hefted the second stake and hurled it unerringly towards the shadow’s head.
    Ammet acted with frantic speed; ripping the first stake clear of the ground, and regardless of the gaping rent now showing in his midriff, he swung the tree trunk like a club, struck my missile aside and sent it crashing off amongst the trees.
    ‘Not bad,’ I said. The spear-bearer had shifted, become the phoenix once again. ‘But how fast are you in the air , with a hole right through you? I’m betting not very.’
    With that I was up above the pines again and heading westwards in a blaze of fire.
    After a while I looked back. The shadow had risen above the trees and was following me doggedly. As I’d hoped, his injury had temporarily inconvenienced him – his outline was somewhat more ragged than before. He’d slowed a little too, and, though keeping pace, was no longer gaining. That was the good part. I was going to reach the sea.
    Trouble was – none of this would be enough to save me in the end.
    Ammet still had me in his sights. The moment I threw the Ring into the ocean, he would simply hasten forward, dive down and get it out. Nor was there any hope of tricking him again, for I was weakening swiftly now. The chase, and my injuries, and the coruscating power of the Ring, which continued to burn small holes in my poor beak – all of this was overpowering me. My fires were almost spent. Though I could hear the roaring of the waves, they promised me nothing much except a more than usually damp demise.
    What choice did I have? I had to go on. Racking its brains, expending itself in a final heroic effort, the sputtering phoenix laboured towards the open sea.

    1 It’s the fiery tail-wind that provides the jet-propulsion, making a phoenix one of the fastest aerial guises around. Lightning bolts are faster, admittedly, but tough to direct. You usually end up wedged head-first in a tree.
    2 Nor the nastiest, either. Not by a long shot.
    3 I say perhaps . The Ring was so close to me I could not open my eyes to any of the higher planes for fear of being blinded. And this wasn’t my only problem. Even though I wasn’t touching the thing, its power was hurting me. Small drips of essence were already running off my beak.
    4 Akurgal the Unsmiling was present, and Lugalanda the Stern; also Shulgi the Desolate, black-browed Rimush, Shar-kali-sharri (commonly known as Shar-kali-sharri of the Shrivelled Heart) and Sargon the Great, aka Old Scowler. Yep, all my dear old masters from the morning of the world. What happy days.
    5 It had really begun to droop by now. I looked like a depressed macaw.
    6 Except Lugalanda the Stern. He’d have skipped the belly-dancing bit in favour of some executions.
    7 Which was, needless to say, a downright fib. Aside from the occasional whiff of brimstone, which I save for really special occasions, I never extrude a smell of anything – fear least of all.
    8 Since only the very strongest magicians ever summon them, and since these magicians are invariably based in cities at the hubs of