Author's Note
After reading writerannabelle's Home for Horny Monsters series I wanted to try my hand at writing a nonhuman story.
I strongly recommend reading her series. They are very good.
*****
John Prester quietly cursed the heat, the unforgiving sun, and the dust that curled in the air. Cairo had become a popular tourist destination at the end of the Great War, but he could no longer see the appeal.
No longer under British rule, British soldiers and officers were still common, preserving the presence of that great empire. With another week before a vessel would take him back to America, John decided to head to a bazaar, one of the collections of ramshackle stalls designed to part tourists and their money. It was that or return to drinking, and he was not in the mood for that.
"Effendi!" The cries from the sellers attracting attention to their wares created a din that John could not help likening to the crash of artillery and the roar of gunfire that still echoed in his ears years after leaving Black Jack Pershing's Allied Expeditionary Force.
"Effendi!"
"Effendi!"
John cast an eye over the tables and stalls, over rough blankets spread on the sand. Trinkets, some perhaps torn from tombs ancient even in the time of Cleopatra, on display. Much as he despised the climate, it was indeed a country out of the history books, millennia older than his own home country.
Tourists, English, American, French, even some Germans, wandered to and fro. He caught the eye of a pretty blonde, laughing under her broad white sun hat and small parasol, and they exchanged smiles before an older woman, probably her mother, took her arm and led her away, directly a scowl in John's direction.
John allowed himself a chuckle. Parting daughters from the mothers determined to preserve their virtue, then parting said daughters from that same virtue, provided him with some entertainment, but not even such dalliances could dispel the ennui that beset him.
"Effendi!" John's eyes snapped back into focus. An elderly man, gray-bearded, his dark skin heavily lined under his yellowing turban, sat cross-legged behind a blanket. "Effendi?" He glanced at the departing women and his teeth flashed in a sudden smile. "Ah, a woman?" His English was heavily accented, but intelligible, just.
With a laugh the American squatted down. His Arabic was probably worse than the old man's English, but he practiced when he could, and the Egyptians he'd spoken with seemed to appreciate his efforts.
"I am Nasir." The man placed a hand on his chest.
"John." The American responded in the same way. Another broad smile. John looked down, using a finger to stir through the bric-a-brac that covered the blanket. He continued in his halting Arabic. "What have you today, Nasir?"
The man's eyes widened in delight, and he began to rattle off his answer in Arabic, too fast for John to follow. John raised a hand to stop him.
"Please. Slow. I am not good at this." Nasir laughed then, reaching up to clap the younger man's shoulder.
"You are doing well." This time in English. "These are treasures, taken from the tombs of the Pharaohs themselves." John kept a smile on his face at the old man's patter. They both knew that little here would have been found within miles of a Pharaoh's tomb. Instinctively he glanced up, to the Southwest, reminded of the Giza pyramids that dominated the Cairo skyline.
Returning his gaze to the mat, John was startled when his fingers brushed over a heavy lump of metal. Picking it up he turned it in his fingers. It was a ring of sorts, crudely formed, patinated with age, and it felt strangely chill to the touch.
He glanced up at Nasir, who was regarding the ring with a faintly puzzled expression. "Nasir, what would you want for this?" The old man's brown eyes snapped back to attention, his expression shrewd.
"It is truly an ancient and precious item, Effendi John." There was a hint of excitement in the man's voice. If something about the ring confused him, it was certainly not the possibility of selling it. "I could... perhaps... ten British pounds."
John clutched his chest as though his heart was breaking. "Honorable grandfather," he exclaimed. "Would you cheat such a young and foolish man as myself?" He motioned a hand around the bazaar. "Surely ten pounds would allow me to buy everything here." He made as if to place the ring back on the blanket.
"Effendi, I have a son in need of mahr, and a sick goat... two sick goats." The old man sounded sorrowful. "I could not part with this ring for less than... perhaps... eight British pounds."
John lifted the ring again as if to examine it once more. "You swindler. I'm sure that one of those goats is dead already. One pound. No more."
"No, Effendi John. The goat is very much alive, but sick. Yes. Very sick." Behind the mask of offense, John sensed the curl of the old man's lips. He was enjoying this as much as John himself. Four pounds. Four pounds for my son, and my goats."
John sighed, appearing to relent. "You'll leave me a beggar yet, you and your goats. Three pounds then." Nasir smiled again.
"Three pounds." John slipped a hand inside his shirt, counting three pound notes from his purse by touch, and handing them to Nasir. In truth it was probably more than the ring was worth, but he wasn't short of money.
"Effendi, salaam." Nasir touched his forehead, and John nodded in response. He rose, stepping back, sliding the ring into his pocket.
"Salaam."
John wandered around the bazaar for some time, but nothing else caught his eye. As the sun sank slowly in the West he returned to his hotel.
In the dining room he ordered a meal, attended dutifully by a bright young boy named Ahmed. His appetite sated, he tipped the boy and climbed the stairs to his room. Once inside he stripped to the waist, using the pitcher and basin to wash away most of the dust and sweat from his wanderings. With his ablutions completed, and his purse no longer hung from his neck but tucked under his pillow, he took out the ring that he'd purchased.
Looking closer he could see that its apparent crudeness might rather be attributed to the ravages of age. With water from the basin and a cloth he set to cleaning it as best he could.
With the dirt removed there lay in his hand a thick ring of brass, patinated, and the round head inlaid with a raised hexagram in a circle. The inlay was in a silvery metal that, although untouched by corrosion, John judged to be iron.
A ring containing a hexagram, made from brass and iron. The hair on the back of John's neck rose as he contemplated what he held.
"The Seal of Solomon." He said out loud, then laughed at himself. Of course he'd heard of the legendary artifact that gave the Jewish king mastery of the spirit realm, but the idea that it was real, and if real that he'd found it in a Cairo bazaar for the princely sum of three pounds, was ridiculous. No. It was old, certainly, but it could only be a medieval copy.
"Still." John took the ring and slid it onto the ring finger of his right hand. He released it, then gasped at a sudden stab of cold through his hand. He grabbed the ring to pull it off, but the ring that had formerly been a loose fit on that finger was now tight, and would not move.
What?" As he watched the ring began to change, the patina melting away to leave the sheen of polished brass, the inlaid hexagram glowing. Brighter and brighter still, until he tried to tear his eyes away, but he could not. Then, when he felt that he could bear no more, it dimmed again.
John stared at the ring encircling his finger. With the light faded its appearance had also changed. The wear of centuries washed away, leaving a gleaming brass band that looked new.
"I..." John poked the ring with the forefinger of his left hand. It felt normal, except there was still no movement on his finger. "What the hell?" He ran his thumb across the iron seal, rubbing it.
An orange-gold cloud suddenly expanded from the ring, filling the room, and then vanishing without a trace. John inhaled in surprise, and then froze.
A woman stood before him, her head bowed. She was small, a foot shorter than his own six feet, her skin a pleasant olive tone, the hair that fell forward, covering her face, was a ruddy golden shade. Filmy rose silks wrapped around her body, strangely suspended as though blown by a wind he could not feel. She was otherwise naked.
