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across the room, the magician had been winded; he lay there helpless, flapping like a fish.
    The maiden passed the goat’s-fat candles, and as she did so, every single one of them winked out. Her foot glanced against a bowl of ward-herbs; rosemary spilled upon her skin, which fizzed and steamed. The maiden paid no heed; her big dark eyes were fixed upon the magician, who struggled now to raise his head a little, saw my slow approach.
    He made one desperate effort, wet and winded as he was. A shaking hand was raised and pointed. His mouth moved; he stammered out a word. From his forefinger a sputtering Essence Lance leaped forth. The maiden made a gesture; the spears of lightning exploded in mid-air and shot off at random angles to strike the walls, the floor and ceiling. One gout plumed out of the nearest window and arced out into the valley to startle the peasants far below.
    The maiden crossed the room; she stood above the magician and held out her hands, and the nails on her fingers, and indeed the fingers themselves, were much longer than hitherto.
    The old man looked up at me. ‘Bartimaeus—’
    ‘That’s my name,’ I said. ‘Now, are you going to get up, or shall I come to you?’
    The answer he made was incoherent. The pretty maiden shrugged. Then she bared her pretty teeth and fell upon him, and any further sounds he made were swiftly stilled.
    Three small watch-imps, drawn perhaps by a disturbance on the planes, arrived just as I was finishing. Wide-eyed and wondering, they clustered together on the sill as the slender young woman got unsteadily to her feet. She was alone in the room now; her eyes glowed in the shadows as she turned to face them.
    The imps sounded the alarm, but it was all too late. Even as the air above was rent with rushing wings and talons, the pretty maiden smiled and waved goodbye – to the imps, to Jerusalem, to my latest bout of slavery on Earth – and without a word was gone.
    And that was the end of the old magician. We’d been together a while, but I never got to know his name. Still, I remember him with fond affection. Foolish, greedy, incompetent and dead. Now
that’s
the kind of master worth having.

    8 I’d chosen the girl’s form again for continuity’s sake, and also because I knew it irritated my master. In my experience most magicians can be discomfited if you choose the right form. Apart from the high priests of Ishtar back in Babylon, mind you. Ishtar was goddess of love and war, so her magicians were unfazed by both pretty girls
and
gore-spattered monsters. This unfortunately eliminated most of my repertoire.
    9
Dismal Flame
: a swift and painful expunction. In later periods, following its refinement by Zarbustibal of Yemen, it was known as the Shrivelling Fire. It was the ultimate sanction for spirits who simply refused to carry out their master’s commands, and its threat by and large ensured our (grudging) obedience.
    10 Dissemblers as we sometimes are when conversing with humans, higher spirits almost always speak truth among themselves. The lower orders, sadly, are less civilized, foliots being variable, moody and prone to flights of fancy, while imps just enjoy telling absolute whoppers.
    11
Elemental
: most spirits incorporate within their essence two or more of the four elements (the finest djinn, naming no names, are perfectly balanced entities of fire and air). Those spirits formed of air, earth, fire or water alone, however, are elementals – a different kettle of fish altogether. They entirely lack the finesse or charm that make a select few of us so fascinating, but compensate for this with raw, bludgeoning power.

Part Two

4

    King Solomon the Great of Israel, High Magician and Protector of his People, sat forward on his throne and frowned an elegant frown. ‘Dead?’ he said, and then – more loudly, after a ferocious pause in which the heartbeats of four hundred and thirty-seven people skipped and jolted in anticipation – ‘
Dead?
’
    The