The Ring of Solomon

the wall behind me, destroying a painting and everything down to the bare bricks beneath it.
    I threw a bolt of Compression at the toad. With a small croak of regret it imploded into a dense blob of matter the size of a marble and dropped to the floor. I didn’t break stride. As I ran on down the corridor I placed a protective Shield around my physical body in case of further missiles.
    Which was a wise move as it happened, because the next instant a Detonation struck the floor directly behind me. The impact was so great that I was sent flying headlong at an angle down the corridor and half into the wall. Green flames licked around me, leaving streaks on the décor like the fingers of a giant hand.
    I struggled to my feet amidst the confusion of shattered bricks and turned round.
    Standing over the broken door at the end of the corridor was something that had taken the form of a very tall man with bright-red skin and the head of a jackal.
    ‘ BARTIMAEUS !’
    Another Detonation shot down the corridor. I somersaulted under it, aiming for the stairs, and as the green explosion vaporized the corner of the wall, rolled head over heels down the steps, through the banisters and two metres down onto the black and white tiled floor, cracking it quite badly.
    I got to my feet and took a look at the front door. Through the frosted glass beside it I could see the hulking yellow outline of one of the three sentinels. It was lying in wait, little realizing that it could be seen from inside. I decided to make my exit elsewhere. Thus does superior intelligence win over brute strength any day of the week!
    Speaking of which, I had to get out fast. Noises from above indicated pursuit.
    I ran through a couple of rooms – a library, a dining room – each time making a break for the window and each time retreating when one or more of the yellow creatures hove into view outside. Their foolishness in making themselves so obvious was only equalled by my caution in avoiding whatever magical weapons they carried.
    Behind me, my name was being called in a voice of fury. With growing frustration I opened the next door and found myself in the kitchen. There were no more internal doors, but one led out to what looked like a lean-to greenhouse, filled with herbs and greens. Beyond was the garden – and also the three sentinels, who came motoring round the side of the house at surprising speed on their rotating legs. To gain time, I put a Seal on the door behind me. Then I looked around and saw the cook.
    He was sitting far back in his chair with his shoes on the kitchen table, a fat, jovial-looking man with a red face and a meat cleaver in his hand. He was studiously paring his nails with the cleaver, flicking each fragment of nail expertly through the air to land in the fireplace beside him. As he did so he watched me continuously with his dark little eyes.
    I felt unease. He didn’t seem at all perturbed to see a small Egyptian boy come running into his kitchen. I checked him out on the different planes. On one to six he was exactly the same, a portly cook in a white apron. But on the seventh …
    Uh-oh. ‘Bartimaeus.’
    ‘Faquarl.’
    ‘How’s it going?’
    ‘Not bad.’
    ‘Haven’t seen you around.’
    ‘No, I guess not.’
    ‘Shame, eh?’
    ‘Yes. Well … here I am.’
    ‘Here you are, indeed.’
    While this fascinating conversation was going on, the sounds of a sustained series of Detonations came from the other side of the door. My Seal held firm though. I smiled as urbanely as I could.
    ‘Jabor seems as excitable as ever.’
    ‘Yes, he’s just the same. Only I think perhaps slightly more hungry , Bartimaeus. That’s the only change I’ve noticed in him. He never seems satisfied, even when he’s been fed. And that happens all too rarely these days, as you can imagine.’
    ‘Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, that’s your master’s watchword, is it? Still, he must be fairly potent to be able to have you and Jabor as his slaves.’
    The cook gave a thin smile and with a flick of the knife sent a nail paring spinning to the ceiling. It pierced the plaster and lodged there.
    ‘Now, now, Bartimaeus, we don’t use the s-word in civilized company, do we? Jabor and I are playing the long game.’
    ‘Of course you are.’
    ‘Speaking of disparities in power, I notice that you choose to avoid addressing me on the seventh plane. This seems a little impolite. Can it be that you are uneasy with my true