On a cramped and twisted street, in the low-born section of a filthy city, five hundred years after the birth of the prophet Suhail, a man who had been trying for years to achieve a certain thing reached his goal at last.  Shakoor Temiz finally managed to get his hands on a genii lamp.

It happened in the most annoyingly coincidential fashion he could have imagined (but then Shakoor’s imagination tended to stick to the single topic of what could make him as happy as possible, and didn’t waste its time with lesser things.)  His old uncle Saad finally died, leaving the hovel he’d lived in open to Shakoor’s determined rummaging.  After half a day of searching for anything worth hanging onto, he uncovered at last, along with the nest of puppies who’d been living in one corner, a dingy oil lamp.  Instantly, he knew that he had found what he was looking for, and excitement shot through him like a hot gale wind.  He snatched it up and sketched a quick shape in the air, murmuring the cantrip that would show him any magics that lay on the thing.  What else had he been studying for, the last twenty years, if not for this?

The lamp glowed a deep sapphire, and he hissed triumph under his breath.

Without another look around he grabbed the lamp and left, leaving everything else behind – perhaps he could’ve gotten money for the puppies, but this was far more important.

Once he reached his own cramped abode, he wasted no time in setting up the incense, the burning oil, the bowls of bespelled water, all with the lamp at their center.  Then, Shakoor Temiz worked the biggest spell of his life, a spell that no one had ever thought of before, and because he was very determined and had studied hard for half his life for this very end result, the spell worked.  Perfectly.

To Shakoor’s sight, colors swirled and fought inside the circle he’d drawn in the center of the floor, strangely-colored lightning snapped off its invisible boundaries, and a jagged rip seemed to open in the air before sealing itself raggedly shut again.

In the material world, not very much happened.  A slight breeze swept through the open window, rustling some papers stacked on the table.  Several streets away a dog started barking its head off.

And a genii appeared in the center of the circle.

Shakoor knew he was the lamp’s genii, because his ears were pointed, the dazed, squinting eyes were golden, with slitted pupils of a deep emerald, and his skin was as blue as an oasis at midday.  The genii stood in the middle of the circle bent over, hands clutching his head as if it ached, swaying slightly.

“Finally!” Shakoor said, and the genii jumped.  His head snapped up and the gold eyes stared at Shakoor as if he were the blue-skinned demon.  Shakoor laughed, letting his lips curl a bit smugly.

“You’re mine now,” he informed the genii, who didn’t look as if he were listening.  Cat-slitted eyes stared around the tiny shack Shakoor was forced to call home, despite being a brilliant and knowledgable magician, and slender black brows creased.

“The lamp has passed on,” said the genii, in a deep, rich voice like spiced honey, but hesitant.  “That is as usual, but what is this feeling?  There is something…”

“Yes,” Shakoor snapped, disliking the sense that he was being ignored.  “Me.”  He curled the fingers of one hand, murmuring a control word of the spell he had made, and twitched his hand as if lightly tugging a thread that ran from it to the genii.

The genii doubled over with a startled gasp, changing to a muffled groan, and Shakoor smirked, letting go the spell to put his hands on his hips.  “As I said, you’re mine now.”

Any less determined man would have flinched at the burning stare directed at him from those gold eyes, but Shakoor had been ready for this moment for the last thirty years, and he was not afraid now. 

“What did you do,” said the genii, in a tone that was pure threat and very little question.

Shakoor widened his smile to show teeth.  “I erased the rules that restricted your service with pointless limits.  You will serve me as long as I desire now, however I like, and I will not have to make wishes or meet unreasonable demands.  There are a few other minor details that you will, no doubt, discover in time.”

Scornful cat’s eyes pinned him.  Shakoor bristled.  Muscular blue arms crossed across the bare chest, long legs shifted subtly, and abruptly the genii’s entire posture radiated mockery.

Nearly snarling, Shakoor snapped the fingers of one hand and twisted hard, and the genii cried out in pain, dropping hard to his knees without grace or dignity.  Breathing in a harsh rasp, he curled over for a moment as Shakoor dropped the spell again.  Even with the blue skin, his bare feet were elegantly arched and his body in general seemed well-formed, the magician noticed.

“Eventually,” Shakoor said coolly, after a long breath, “you will learn to obey me quickly and without question.  I hope, for convenience’s sake, that it is soon.”

Slowly, the genii dragged himself up to his knees, breath shuddering through him.  He looked up at Shakoor, and at last his new master saw a hint of fear.

“I hope,” said the voice like spiced honey, “that you will understand a certain initial reticence to obey the human magician who has abruptly rendered me helpless and wholly without defense.”

“Oh, I will understand,” Shakoor purred.  “But I will not forgive. 

“I am certain,” he continued, smiling and waving both hands idly in the air, enjoying how warily the genii eyed them, “that we can teach you better very quickly.”

*                                                          *

Shakoor moved excitedly through his new palace, rubbing his hands across the heavy tapestries on the walls, tapping a fingernail against delicate porcelain vases and sculptures of gold and silver.  A small, dingy oil lamp hung by the handle from the rich green sash at his waist, looking entirely out of place against its opulant backdrop.  The caftan Shakoor wore was of deep blue silk, the loose pants beneath of finely embroidered linen, and the luxurious materials gave his short, heavy frame a certain presence it had not carried before.  Sharp dark eyes flickered as he moved through, resting on each fabulous new possession, tallying style, elegance, grace, then flicking to the next.

He passed through a doorway that led into a beautiful roofed courtyard, open to the air yet filled with cool shade from the sun.  A fountain ran in the center of the tiled floor, the sounds of water leaping and splashing bouncing off the smooth marble walls musically.

Both arms flung out in an extravagant gesture of fulfillment and Shakoor stared proprietarily at the elegance around him with a wide, smug smile on his broad countenance.  Then he turned and looked at the wall behind him.  Blank and with the best view of the courtyard, anything set there would have the option of being the center of attention or silently surveying the goings-on.

“A dias here,” he snapped aloud.  A tendril of shining mist coiled out of the mouth of the lamp at his waist and flew to the wall, covering the base with a large, opaque cloud in seconds, then clearing.  The low platform it left behind stood knee-height and was smothered in huge, soft cushions.

Nodding satisfaction, Shakoor sat and lounged back on his cushions with the air of one well deserving the luxuries he now enjoys.  He lay there for a while, enjoying the view.  It was definitely a good courtyard.  The fountain sparkled in the glow of sunlight reflecting off the white stone outside, and lush green grass flourished just past the marble.  Brilliantly colored birds flew and sang in the trees beyond the grass, which stood thick enough to entirely block all sight of the hateful desert.  Shakoor wondered if the genii had created an entirely new source of water for the palace to draw from, or if the water simply came from… somewhere else.

Abruptly finding himself dreaming of sweetmeats, Shakoor scowled.  “Good, loyal servants!  Now!”

The mist rose up from the lamp more slowly this time, almost as if it were hesitating.  Then, having made up its mind, it whipped into a lump in front of the dias, and cleared away to reveal an older man kneeling obsequeously.

“What is your will, Master?”

“Food.  Bring me sugared dates and nuts,” Shakoor said, staring intently at the man as if worried he would dissolve into dustmotes in a moment.

“Instantly, my master,” and the man rose with a small grunt at aging joints and hurried away.

“Where did he come from?” Shakoor demanded, seemingly of empty space.  “He seemed real enough, and human.”

“He is.”  The voice came from thin air and no specific place, a deep, rich voice that sounded suspiciously neutral.  Wise enough not to show open dislike of his master, the genii was not yet able to hide the effort of concealing his feelings.  He would learn in time.

Shakoor grimaced, fingers curling into silk as he glared down at the lamp and interrupted.  “Don’t do that!  I command you to materialize when you speak to me!”

Golden curls of smoke reluctantly coiled out of the lamp’s mouth and coalesced in front of the dias, resolving into a tall, slender man with pure blue skin.  A sapphire earring pierced his pointed ear, and the arrogant expression on his face barely served to hide the tired, wary look in the golden eyes.

Shakoor recoiled, grimacing in disgust.  “And what did I say about your form?  Now!”

Eyes falling shut, the genii bent at the waist in a stiff, shallow bow, mist flowing off his skin for a moment.  When it cleared, the slitted pupils of his eyes had changed to round, the gold irises had shifted to brown, and the blue skin had gone deep gold, shimmering faintly.  Shakoor eyed his skin darkly for a long moment, and the genii bowed again, forstalling him.

“As I told you before, Master, this is the farthest I can alter my own form and be physical for any long period of time.  If I were to change my skin to an entirely human color, I would be unable to remain substantial – and you said you wish me to be fully… tangible, did you not?”

“I did!” Shakoor barked.

The genii bowed again.  “I fulful your desires as best I can, Master.  What is it you wish of me?”

“Where did he come from?” repeated the magician sharply, uneasy.  “Is he a real person you took from some other place and bewitched to be my servant?  A created thing, a golem or a wraith?”

“He is a real person, with a mind and heart of his own which I do not control,” the genii replied, expressionless.  “I did not take him from somewhere else, I required that he be here and he is here.  That is what I do.”

“You created him, then?” demanded his master, disbelieving.  “You dare to say that you can create human life?”

“I do not, Master.  As I said, I only required him to be here.  How he came to live, or be who he is, I cannot say.”  Any traces of expression that might have been left on the genii’s face were cleared away, leaving him blank and unoffending as an empty expanse of sand. 

But Shakoor hated the desert.  “Mmf.”  Satisfied that the serving man was at least human, and not likely to disturb him with any strange activities, the magician waved his irksome slave away.

“May I return to my lamp, Master?” he asked with a deep bow.

“No.  Stand there,” Shakoor said, and waved at a corner of the dias.  Bowing again, the genii moved to take up his post without another word, standing tall and silent in front of the dias without blocking his master’s view of the fountain.

For a while Shakoor was content to sit and watch the birds darting through the trees under the bright sun, flashing like well-cut jewels, but eventually he grew bored.

“Where is the food I ordered?”  He did not look at the genii, but the irritation was shot in that direction.

“Master, your new servants are human.  They cannot turn stones into dates.  And your palace is very large.  Once the food is prepared, it will take time for them to bring it to you.”

Shakoor turned his head to glower at the genii, who hadn’t moved from his respectful stance at the corner of the dias.  The brown eyes that met his gaze were blank and empty, completely unreadable, and Shakoor’s anger sparked.  He raised a hand threateningly, twisted the fingers as if holding a thread, and watched in satisfaction as the genii tensed, expression aquiring a certain stiffness.

“I will not stand for insolence, slave,” he growled.

Every muscle visibly tensed, the genii didn’t move for a moment.  Then his face shuttered even more tightly then before and he bowed deeply.  “Of course, my master.  I did not intend to be insolent, and I apologize for my offense.”

Content with his submissiveness, Shakoor turned back to the fountain.  “Well, if I must wait,” he said, resigned, “let there be entertainment to pass the time.  Let me see tumblers!”

A cloud of smoke swept out of the lamp and flowed across the courtyard, leaving in its wake four brightly-clothed youths, who bowed before springing into their act. 

Shakoor watched in undisguised amazement.  The darkest boy, the color of roasted almonds, leaped into the air from the shoulders of the tallest and flipped three times before hitting the ground in a crouch, whereupon the smallest jumped onto his back and balanced there on his hands.  Meanwhile the tallest was swinging and flipping the long-haired boy over his arms and around his waist like a flexible staff.

By the time they ended Shakoor had decided that they deserved to be feasted.  He had been so distracted by the acrobatics that he hadn’t registered the return of the older servant with a younger man, both carrying small trays with bowls of sweets and an assortment of wine, although he’d been absently partaking of the array while deep in fascination.

Now he clapped his hands and commanded that the tumblers should eat at his table, and the servants bowed humbly and hurried off again.

Having a genii of one’s very own, unrestricted by all the foolish jabber about three wishes, was clearly the only way to live.

*                                                          *

For a while everything was peaceful.  Shakoor enjoyed the antics and awed, respectful conversation of the tumblers at his table every evening, the servants were dutiful and humble, and the genii was, if as infuriatingly unreadable as ever, obedient.  Shakoor finally thought to ask for a proper library, and received a beautiful little room with a view of a quiet pool, a wall of poetry books, and writing implements to practice his own meditations. 

Now, with his palace fully populated with ranks of servants, the tumblers, and various other musicians and entertainers he required from the genii on occasion, all of whom treated him with the respect due an intelligent scholar and a rich and powerful man, he began to know what contentment was for the first time in his life.  When they moved on in their travelling, the entertainers spread the word that there was a new man of wisdom and power in the desert, and Shakoor Temiz began to receive the rare visiter.  Amazed at the luxury they saw around them, these men behaved humbly and were grateful for his graciousness in allowing them to dine and speak with him, and he always treated them well in return.

Life was good for spans of days.

Then, one unusually stifling afternoon, as Shakoor sat racking his overheated mind for the proper word to finish off a line of poetry, the genii lapsed.  Shakoor had demanded that he cause a cool breeze to blow through the library, gently enough not to disturb his papers, but enough to keep the room comfortable, and he distinctly saw scorn gleaming in the brown eyes, hatred twisting the mouth.

Lacing his fingers, Shakoor sat back in his chair.  The heat had made him irritable, but pulling on the spell to remind the genii of his position held no appeal today.  He needed something different, something that would put him in his place for good.

Shakoor turned in his chair to stare thoughtfully at the genii.  When he spoke, his voice was considered, slow, and flat and hard as the marble walls.

“You will shift form to be female, and you will remain that way for several hours, until I say you may shift back.”

He was rewarded with widened brown eyes.  The genii actually looked unsettled.

“Master, of course you recall that it is difficult for me to hold a form so far from my natural one and remain solid, that it requires a great deal of power, so great that I will not be able to serve you otherwise for perhaps as long as a day.”

Shakoor smiled.  “Of course.  Obviously this is of no concern to me, or I would not have commanded you to do what you have not yet done.”  His smile faded to a cold stare, and the genii looked down and bowed deeply, clearly unhappy with his situation.

He would be far less happy with it by the end, Shakoor intended to see to that.

Staring at the floor, the genii folded his arms across his chest, mist curling off his body to form a curtain around him.  Shakoor could barely see the form shifting through the shimmering fog, like a twisting shadow on the wall.

Then the mist faded away, and Shakoor stared at the female genii, who stared back at him, clearly no happier than she had been before.  He had heard that all members of the genii race were exquisitely attractive, but he found it difficult to judge his own sex in appearance.

This slender, curvaceous creature before him presented no such difficulty.  Abruptly Shakoor was very glad that he had entertained the strange idea that had presented itself to him a moment ago.  He smiled again, aware that it had a different edge now, hungry, and told her, “Take us to my bedroom.”

Brown eyes like a gazelle’s widened again, and she began, “My master, if you – ”

“Now,” he growled, fingers digging into the arms of his chair.

Head bowed, she waved a graceful hand, and for a moment his vision was obscured by mist, and the entire world seemed to shift unnervingly under his feet.  Then he stood in the center of his bedroom, some distance away from the genii, who was standing in the doorway.

He turned to look at her and she bowed.  “Master, would you like me to summon the dancing girls?  I am certain they would be very pleased to give you a private showing – ”

“No,” he said.  “I would have told you if I wanted dancing girls.  Come here.”

“Master,” the genii said, staying in the doorway, “if you wish to be personally attended, I could bring you a succubus, or even several, who are highly skilled and would be delighted to fulfill any need – ”

“Had I wanted a succubus,” Shakoor snarled at her, wrapping the twist of invisible thread around his fingers in plain sight, “I would have mentioned it.  Now, are you going to come, or must I drag you?”

Silent, eyes on the rug, she stepped into the room and moved toward him, stopping several paces away.

“Get on the bed,” he said shortly, feeling a shiver of anticipation move through his body.  It had not been so long since he had enjoyed a woman – there had been the beautiful churak player who had much appreciated his company only a span of days ago – but he had never in his life had a genii.

Immobile as a statue, she stared up at him, almost seeming to plead.  “Master, I have no experience with the sport, I will be much less pleasing than a succubus – I have never been a woman before.  Please, allow me to summon a creature better suited for what you intend.”

Shakoor stepped close to her to stare directly down into her eyes.  “No.  Skill is not required.  Fortunately for you, I am more loathe to hurt you in this form, or you would already have felt the sting of this hesitation.  Will you obey my command, or must I remind you who has bound you?”

Her expression shuttered, as it did so often in her normal form, and he almost ground his teeth.

“No, Master.  I obey,” she said quietly, and walked over to the silken bed, curling into a pose like a sleepy cheetah on the soft spread.

Shakoor slitted his eyes and watched her for a moment.  Before an hour was out, he promised himself, he would see that blank façade shattered like a porcelain vase.

He was not rough.  Cruelty had never been one of the main elements of his personality.  But in some situations, brutality is unnecessary to get the point across, and Shakoor did not concern himself particularly with whether the genii was enjoying herself.  It was not his fault that he appreciated her fine smooth (if shimmering golden) skin with his mouth, or that such attentions left her covered with marks in visible places like her shoulders and neck, not to mention places that would most certainly be visible in her male form.

By the morning, he had allowed her to shift back and return to the lamp again, and Shakoor himself had enjoyed the most restful sleep he’d had in years.

The next day, he smiled rather more than usual, entertaining the wandering philosopher who had stopped to beg some water and whom he had invited to take the midday meal at his table with his more intriguing insights on the poet Utbah Hamid.  It was evening when he finally decided to see what effect his chastening had made on the genii, and called him from his lamp once more.

He had never seen the genii fully clothed before.  A high-necked leather vest came up nearly to the chin, the loose sleeves of the shirt beneath fell below the elbow, and all the cloth of shirt and pants was completely opaque.  Usually the genii wore jewelry and pants alone, which hinted that only layer on layer of shimmering cloth prevented intimate disclosure.

 Shakoor didn’t bother to hide either his surprise or his smile when he recognized the shame behind the change of dress, and the genii’s face tightened, although he would not meet Shakoor’s eyes.

“Have you recovered yet?” Shakoor said sweetly.

“My powers have almost returned to level,” the deep voice replied.  The honey of his tone seemed thinly spread over black rocks this time, dark and grating beneath the flowing accent.

“Good.  Then you will be ready to attend me the same way tomorrow night,” Shakoor said, and watched the strong frame go taut, although the frozen expression stayed directed at the floor.

There was an extremely long pause, it seemed, before the genii said quietly, “As you command, my master.”  He almost managed to keep it from sounding forced.

Shakoor smiled again and allowed him to return to his lamp.  The point was made, and would continue to be made.  Any wise man would hold his victory graciously, and not push it in the face of the defeated.