The Ring of Solomon

onrushing display of casual power. ‘Surely,’ she whispered, ‘this is Solomon himself …’
    Beside her, the djinni Bartimaeus grunted. ‘Nope. Guess again. This is just one of Solomon’s seventeen master magicians, though perhaps the most formidable of them all. His name is Khaba. I say again, beware of him.’
    Sand swirled, the wind howled, giant iridescent wings slowed their beating; six demons halted in mid-air, hovered briefly, dropped lightly to the road. In their centre, the seventh shrugged the carpet off its shoulders onto its great spread arms; bowing low, it retreated backwards, leaving the carpet hanging unsupported a few feet above the ground.
    Asmira stared at the silent row of demons. Each wore the body of a man seven or eight foot tall. Save for the one named Faquarl (still stubbornly stocky, bull-necked and pudgy round the waist, and scowling as it looked at her), all were muscular, athletic, dark of skin. They moved gracefully, deftly, confident in their supernatural strength, like minor gods let loose upon the Earth. Their faces were beautiful; their golden eyes gleamed in the dimness of the gorge.
    ‘Don’t get too worked up,’ Bartimaeus said. ‘Most of them are idiots.’
    The figure on the carpet sat motionless, straight-backed, cross-legged, hands folded calmly in his lap. He wore a hooded cloak, clasped tight about him to protect his body from the rigours of the upper air. His face was shadowed, his legs covered in a rug of thick black fur. His long, pale hands were the only part of him exposed; now they unclasped, thin fingers snapped, a word was spoken in the depths of the hood. The carpet dropped to Earth. The man removed the furs and, with a single fluid movement, sprang to his feet. Stepping off the carpet, he walked towards Asmira swiftly, leaving his group of silent demons behind him.
    Pale hands pushed back the hood; a mouth stretched wide in welcome.
    To Asmira the magician’s appearance was almost more disturbing than that of his slaves. As if in a dream she saw two big, moist eyes, deep scars notched upon his ashen cheeks, thin smiling lips as tight as gut-strings.
    ‘Priestess,’ the magician said softly. ‘I am Khaba, Solomon’s servant. Whatever sorrows and terrors have beset you shall be no more, for you are come into my care.’ He inclined his bald head towards her.
    Asmira bowed likewise. She said, ‘I am Cyrine, a priestess of the Sun in the land of Himyar.’
    ‘So my slave informed me.’ Khaba did not look back at the line of djinn; Asmira noticed that the burly demon had folded its arms and was regarding her sceptically. ‘I am sorry that I have kept you waiting,’ the magician continued, ‘but I was a great distance away. And, of course, I am all the more sorry that I was not able to prevent this … atrocious attack upon you.’ He waved a hand at the desolation all around.
    Khaba stood rather closer to her than Asmira would have liked. He had a curious odour about him that reminded her of the Hall of the Dead, where the priestesses burned incense to the memory of all mothers. It was sweet, pungent and not entirely wholesome. She said, ‘I am grateful to you even so, for your servants saved my life. One day soon, when I return to Himyar, I will see to it that you benefit from the gratitude of my queen.’
    ‘I regret I am not familiar with your land,’ the magician said. The smile upon his face did not alter; the big eyes gazed into hers.
    ‘It is in Arabia, east of the Red Sea.’
    ‘So … not far from Sheba, then? It is a curious fact that all the lands thereabouts seem to be ruled by women!’ The magician chuckled at the quaintness of the notion. ‘My birthplace, Egypt, has occasionally flirted with such things,’ he said. ‘It is rarely a success. But, Priestess, in truth I can claim no honour for saving you. It was my king, great Solomon himself, who demanded that we clear the region of these outlaws. If you owe thanks to anyone, it is to him.’
    Asmira gave what she hoped was a charming smile. ‘I would wish to give that thanks in person, if I can. Indeed, I travel to Jerusalem on royal business, and crave an audience with Solomon.’
    ‘So I understand.’
    ‘Perhaps you could assist me?’
    Still the smile remained fixed, still the eyes gazed at her; Asmira had not yet seen them blink. ‘Many wish audience with the king,’ the magician said, ‘and many are disappointed. But I think your status and – if I may say so –