The Ring of Solomon

given the shadow a scented massage if I thought it would save my skin.
    But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. I thought I glimpsed a possible way out.
    ‘However, great as you are, and humble as I am,’ I went on, ‘in one aspect we are alike, are we not? For we are both enslaved to this vile Khaba, a man depraved even by the standards of magicians. Look around you! See what wicked things he does to spirits in his power. Listen to the sighs and moans that fill this unhappy vault! These essence-cages are an abomination!’
    The shadow had looked up at me sharply during this fine oration. I paused, giving it a chance to agree with me here, but it only continued its snake-like swaying from side to side, and said nothing.
    ‘Now of course you must obey Khaba’s commands,’ I said. ‘I understand that. You are enslaved just as much as I. But before you act to confine me in this bottle, consider one thing. My prospective fate is terrible indeed – but is yours truly any better? Yes, I will be held captive, but so shall you, for when the magician returns, you will once again slip beneath his feet and be forced to trail behind him in the dirt and dust. Khaba treads upon you daily as he goes! This is treatment that would be demeaning for an imp , let alone a glorious marid. Consider Gezeri,’ I continued, warming to my theme, ‘a grotesque and squalid foliot, who luxuriates foully in his cloud while you are dragged below him among the stones! Something is wrong here, friend Ammet. This is a perverse situation, as all can see, and we must remedy it together.’
    Hard as it generally is to analyse the expression of a thing without facial features, the shadow did appear to be deep in thought. Growing in confidence, I sidled forth towards the edge of the obsidian circle, towards the shadow and away from the crystal bottle.
    ‘So, let us talk openly of our joint predicament,’ I concluded earnestly. ‘Perhaps, if we explore the exact wording of your charge, we might find some way to overcome its power. With luck I will be saved, you will be freed, and we will achieve our master’s downfall!’
    I took a break here, not because I was out of breath (I don’t breathe), nor because I’d run out of glib platitudes (of which I’ve an infinite supply), but because I was perplexed and frustrated by the shadow’s continued silence. Nothing I’d said seemed in any way unreasonable, yet still the towering form remained inscrutable, just swaying to and fro.
    The young man’s handsome face drew close to the shadow’s. I was going for ‘impassioned and confidential’ here, with a side order of ‘idealistic fervour’. ‘My comrade Faquarl has a maxim,’ I cried. ‘Only together can we spirits hope to defeat the wickedness of men! So, let us prove the truth of this, good Ammet. Let us work together and find a loophole in your summoning that we might exploit. Then, before the day is out, we shall kill our enemy, crack his bones and sup long upon his marrow!’ 3
    My finale reverberated between the pillars and set the imp-lights twinkling. Still the shadow said nothing, but its fibres darkened, as if with some strong and unexpressed emotion. This might have been good … or, in all honesty, it might have been bad.
    I drew back a tad. ‘Maybe the marrow bit’s not to your taste,’ I said hastily, ‘but you’ll surely share the sentiment. Come, Ammet, my friend and fellow slave, what do you say?’
    And now, finally , the shadow stirred. Swaying out from behind the lectern, it drifted slowly forth.
    ‘Yes …’ it whispered. ‘Yes, I am a slave …’
    The handsome young man, who’d really been on tenterhooks, though he was trying hard not to show it, gave a gasp of relief. ‘Good! That’s right! Well done. Now we—’
    ‘I am a slave who loves his master.’
    There was a pause. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘your voice was just a trifle too sinister for me to catch there. For all the world, I thought you said—’
    ‘I love my master.’
    Now it was my turn to do the silent thing. I stepped carefully backwards, step by step, and the shadow bore down on me.
    ‘We are talking about the same master, aren’t we?’ I began hesitantly. ‘Khaba? Bald, Egyptian, ugly? Eyes like wet stains on a dirty rag …? Surely not. Oh. We are.’
    A slender arm of black lace-like threads had suddenly extended; tapering fingers grasped me by the throat, held me choked and dangling above the ground. Without effort, they crushed