Eight

 

As Philemon returned to his apartments, he found his people staring at him. They'd all heard his argument with the enchantress, then.

"I will address the people of the city at sunset, in the great hall cavern," he said, repeating the words over and over as he ascended the tunnels to his own dwelling.

It wasn't until he reached the privacy of his own chambers that he allowed his stiffened shoulders to slump as despair overwhelmed him. What was he to do now?

Philemon heard the crash of the main gate slamming open. No one but the djinn door guardian should have been able to do that.

A lesser man would have sent a servant to investigate, but Philemon was the Prince of Tasnim, and he would confront this threat head on.

He rubbed the ring, summoning the djinn guardian. Just because he wasn't a coward, didn't mean he was stupid.

The entry hall was full of dust, turning the people running through it into ghosts and shadows. But ghosts and shadows bent under the weight of whatever it was they carried. Philemon's blood ran cold.

"They can't leave! Don't let them take my treasures!" he shouted.

"As you command, Master," the djinn said, bowing, before disappearing into the gloom.

"Wait. You have to close the door!" Philemon called, but the djinn evidently hadn't heard him, for he didn't return.

"I would only open it again. You can't keep these people here to die," a female voice said. The enchantress.

She strode out of the dust, haloed against the open doorway like some sort of avenging angel. Philemon shrank away from the fury written across her face.

"You don't deserve this city, or my help, or any magical assistance at all. You demanded my assistance, then lied to me, blaming the dried-up wells on everything but your own stupidity. The djinn of the lamp told me everything. You commanded the djinn of the lamp to destroy your own water supply, not some imaginary enemy. Even after I sent him back into exile, you dared to refuse payment for my services. To evict me from your city. It is your city no longer. Your people flee, for the source of its wealth – the water – is gone, and they cannot live here any more. You deserve this."

Philemon couldn't help himself. "The djinn tricked me! He didn't tell me making that oasis would drain the city wells dry. My princess will never marry me if I am the prince of a city of no people. Make him fix it. Or use your powers to fix it!"

Lady Zuleika shook her head. "I do not take orders from you, Prince of Tasnim. Or should that be prince of a dead, dry cave?"

"Fix it!" he shouted. "You said you would help me!"

"I did help you. And I will do you one further favour. The only way for you to understand what has happened to your city's water supply is to inspect it personally, and you shall!" Purple light erupted from her hands, knocking him back against the wall of the well. But the magic kept pushing at him, leaning him back, until...

Philemon screamed as he fell backward into the well, arms flailing for something to stop him from falling to his death, but the well somehow gaped impossibly wide, and he could not grasp anything.

The fall should have killed him, but it just knocked the wind out of him, so all he could do was lie there on his back in a shallow puddle, listening to the sounds of his people deserting him.

A head appeared above. Hers, of course. "Fix your own plumbing problem. But even then, no woman in her right mind will want a toad like you, prince or not. If you ever find some princess who will take pity on you, take you to her bed and willingly lie in your slimy arms until dawn, maybe I'll find it in my heart to make you human again. For her sake."

And then she was gone.

Philemon reached for his ring of office, to summon the door guardian to lift him out of the well. But his fingers were bare – the ring had somehow fallen off.

He screamed in frustration, a sound that should have echoed around the underground chamber, striking fear in every heart. But the only sound he heard was a forlorn croak.