Sahla sold the copper ring to a peddler and never thought of it again beyond the handful of pennies he'd received. The ring passed from the ignorant to the uninformed. The intricate markings filled with the grime of a thousand hands. Each generation thought less and less of the wondrous legends and increasingly more of the newest wizardries. Eventually the lore rested in the minds of rare few, and these no more worthy than the wielders of old times.

     Stephen (never Steve) wandered from table to table. He'd found treasure here in the past — a tattered book, a dirt-encrusted platter, or odd piece of jewelry. His instincts were good, only twice had he wasted his time bickering on something worthless.
     The dark ring lay on the stained linen tablecloth along with the odds and ends of estate jewelry, stage fripperies, and costume paste. The flowing design caught his eye, and he appraised the piece while feigning interest in a garish bracelet.
     ''How about this?'' Stephen asked, touching the ring.
     ''Oh, oh. Is rare, very special. Must ask much,'' the Asian woman replied.
     ''Ten dollars,'' he offered, starting the haggling — the final price far less important than the dance of negotiation.

     His jeweler's guides yielded nothing, not even a starting point. Using a dilute copper cleaner to wipe away the layers of sediment, he discovered the etchings were written script. Stephen rubbed the etchings onto tissue-thin tracing paper and scanned the original onto a floppy.
     His friend at the university was as impressed by the rubbing as by the customary fifty that crossed his palm.
     ''Where'd you find this?'' the linguist asked, not expecting an answer. Talking merely jump-started the process of logical thought. He loaded a translation disk in the CD drive of his computer and retrieved a heavy reference book from the shelf behind him. Hemming and humming, he paged through and cross-referenced between the rubbing, the CD and text.
     Stephen waited. The circle of copper burned like a miniature sun in his imagination. Somewhere, he was quite certain, he'd read something or seen something.
     ''Is this an inscription on a container?''
     ''No.'' Stephen asked, jostled from his musings. ''Why?''
     ''This is the cursiform for conceal — hajb , and this mark implies enslavement.'' His friend pointed out the shape and the tiny slash. The little nugget generated a spark and Stephen made the connection. His mind whirled like leaves in a dust devil with the possibilities. This find would end his scrounging at flea markets.
     ''What does it say?'' Stephen demanded.
     ''Enslaved by metal, contained by vow. Beware the batil - the liar.''
     ''That's it?'' Stephen slumped back into the ratty chair, expecting more.
     '' Iblis. Hijrah ,'' the man said. ''Outsider, come forth.''
     That would be one translation, Stephen mused, but he knew a better one. Feeling magnanimous, Stephen fished out another twenty for the linguist's time and silence.

     Stephen spent two more days researching the band and the legends surrounding such devices. The archivists warned that only Alim Muhsin — wise and pure doers-of-good-deeds — should attempt use of the dangerous tool. He planned carefully, listing commands and words of geas. Finally he slipped the ring on his pinkie — the only one it fit — and, feeling slightly ridiculous in spite of his certitude, spoke the command.
     '' Iblis. Hijrah .'' Jinn appear.

     He'd half expected Barbara Eden but a dark-haired, olive-skinned, brown-eyed androgynous waif stood before him. Maybe four and a half feet tall, Stephen had to look long and hard to determine its gender. The jinni — it was a she — hadn't blinked or moved or shown any signs of breathing. Her last master had sent her into Ghaib - the unseen nether world — probably as punishment.
     Stephen greeted, '' As sala'amu alaikum .''
     The eyes fluttered, losing the glazed cast, and her shoulders slumped. She drew a deep breath and glanced up at him. '' Wa laikum as-sala'am .'' Her voice was low pitched and, coming from the child-like face, unexpectedly deep. Her chocolate irises were rimmed with a copper-colored band.
     Stephen pulled his eyes away. The books warned of the master becoming enchanted in these first critical minutes. He stumbled through the first command on his list.
     She looked blankly at him.
     '' Wajib !'' he reinforced the command. He wished the jinn to understand his words.
     She nodded.
     He repeated the command.
     ''I have obeyed, Maula .'' She smiled — at his embarrassment, he worried.
     Damn, he'd expected some outward manifestation of the use of power. He'd made a mistake and had to work decisively to correct it.
     ''I wield the hajb device. I have the knowledge. Do you submit to me?'' Improperly bonded jinni could cause a lot of trouble.
     The shining eyes raked him from head to toe, taking his measure.
     ''I have the fiqh . I own the ring. Do you choose Dunja or Ghaib ?''
     She crossed her arms on her chest, her palms in, and bowed. ''This world or the unseen one? I have no wish to return there. I submit, Maula .''
     ''You are fajarah . All jinn lie. Tell me your true name!''
     ''There are other reasons to be enslaved by metal. I did no evil.'' She would distract him if possible from his demand.
     '' Wajib . Your name.'' Knowing her name would prevent mischief making and give him an additional armor against her tricks.
     ''Narenhia.'' Her eyes filled with tears, but he ignored them. Jinn cried for many reasons, not the pettiest of which was pique. ''Your least wish is my command.''

     His least wish was about the extent of her magic. She could make gold and jewels appear but, when questioned about how she did it, only by taking them from somewhere else. Sooner or later the missing treasure would be noticed and traced to him if he spent any. He ordered her to return it.
     She could cook using magic. Any evidence of her small thefts would disappear as soon as he finished eating. The dishes were tasty and exotic. She could cure heartburn and headaches and warts (or so she claimed).
     She could remove a stain from his shirt and smooth wrinkles in his slacks. She could tidy and clean. Dust, cobwebs, and lint spirited away with a wish. She performed only what he requested — without comment.
     She had no inkling of the future beyond a few minutes or single events. She could predict the toss of a coin, or influence it mid-spin to fall the way he wanted. He thought maybe, in time, he'd explain the stock market.
     Narenhia could find things. Keys, pens, and the TV remote would appear as soon as he described the missing object. The more complicated the thing, the longer she took to understand his description. Keys for cars long sold filled a bowl on the table. Pens, most with no ink, littered the coffee table. Remotes he'd thrown away appeared on the entertainment center. Some were covered with landfill crud. He ordered her to stop.
     He explained television and showed her the various settings. She could change from station to the next easily, and could pirate the scrambled movie channels.
     A movie with his favorite actress was playing. He fell into couch-potato mode and let his mind rest from the, so far, fruitless task of trying to figure out what good Narenhia would actually be. It was bad enough that her powers were so limited; did she have to look like a boy — an ugly one — to boot? He let the story lull him.
     He finally glanced up from the movie to ask a question. The words died in his dry mouth. This was magic. The movie's pretty female lead perched on the far end of the sofa. A perfect replica reduced to imp-proportions.
     The naked pseudo-Sandra Bullock suddenly nestled in his lap.
     ''Can you read minds?'' he asked. Her hair flowed like silk under his fingers, which had made plans of their own.
     ''That is haraam .'' Forbidden — but she didn't say impossible.
     ''How did you know to do this?'' he said, losing any semblance of an academic distance. His hands felt what his eyes perceived. The jinn smiled — for his amazement, he thought.
     ''It is not an uncommon command.'' She floated a feather-light kiss on his lower lip. ''We are Alamin . Would Allah create us thus if discourse and intercourse were not anticipated?'' Her caresses were as delicate as the brush of butterfly wings against him.
     Alamin . All that exists. Man had been formed of solid particles of matter, and heated to life over a smoky fire. The Jinn were created from ether and air, and baked on a smokeless fire. Man — beings of that which is. Jinn — beings of that which isn't. Yin and Yang of all that exists or can be.
     This newfound talent diverted Stephen for several days. She could be anyone he wanted, in a pint-sized package. He informed his supervisor of an illness. His co-workers thought he had the flu, but he had a fever — one with a single cure.

     Narenhia reverted to her own form as she dozed. Stephen whispered, '' Wajib .'' The tiny features once again resembled Sandra. ''What earthly use are you? How can you make me rich?'' he asked.
     To his surprise, she had an answer to his rhetorical question. ''Gamble. I can influence the turn of a card or the roll of dice. I can predict the winner of a race. I can bring you untold wealth, Maula .''

     To his great displeasure, Narenhia couldn't magic them to the racetrack. She could materialize only in places she'd already been.
     He swore about the traffic, but the jinn sat unperturbed. The technological changes the world had undergone made no visible impression on her, but the crowds of people in the grandstand thrilled her. She caught their energy and Stephen had to use strong binding words to make her sit still long enough for him to read the program. She could pick a winner, but the Trifacta had too many possibilities. He didn't completely understand her explanation but accepted her limitations.

     Seven races later, he placed thirty thousand dollars on Big Chance. The twenty to one long shot had a good race and nosed ahead at the wire. Narenhia followed Stephen to collect his winnings.
     Two large men in expensive black suits joined them.
     ''Mr. Reagin would like a moment of your time, Mr. …?'' the smaller thug said.
     ''Johnson,'' Stephen lied. ''What for?''
     ''Your unprecedented streak of luck.''
     The couple was waved into a pair of chairs in an underground office.
     ''The manager will be right with you,'' said the man. He and his cohort returned to the outer office.
     '' Wajib !'' Stephen said, as soon as the door closed. ''In my car, now!''

     He materialized with his legs tangled in the stick shift and steering wheel. The jinn curled in the passenger side. He patted his pockets and found the wad of bills intact. '' Wajib . Home. Car in the garage and us in the living room.'' They reappeared in his house.
     Specific commands worked better, he'd learned.
     The track was off-limits. But Las Vegas was only a plane ride away.

     Roulette turned out to be her game. She could predict the color and influence the number. Casino after casino barred him from play at the wheel. Entering the next casino, Narenhia stopped next to a slot machine. The jackpot, posted in eighteen inch high digital numbers, stood at forty-two million, one hundred and fifty-six thousand, eight hundred and ninety-eight.
     ''This one,'' she said, following his instructions about telling him of any opportunity to win. He put five silver dollars in, and pulled the lever. Two cherries and a BAR . He raised an eyebrow. She nodded. Two cherries and a BAR , again.
     ''Trust me,'' she said with an earnest look. ''This is the one.''
     Eight times, Stephen fed the machine. Each time the same combination rolled to front. He figured the probability of that coincidence was next to zero, so he dropped his last five coins into the one-armed bandit.
     BAR. BAR. BAR . Straight across. A klaxon bleated and the red bubble on the top of the machine flashed out in strident beams. A winner.
     Narenhia smiled. For his obvious pleasure, Stephen thought.

     The stock market was easier than Las Vegas. The millions became hundreds of millions and more. Narenhia had spoken the truth. Wealth beyond reckoning. The little jinn picked the hotties from the morning paper and Stephen phoned his broker.

     He spent money frivolously, like water. Like water, more poured in.

     The life of a jet setter claimed him for a while. Fast cars, beautiful women, and expensive toys filled his houses. Skiing, boating, dancing and carousing consumed him. He visited exotic cities and locales. The little jinni could take him home whenever he wished, and Stephen found himself wishing it more often than not.

     ''I'm bored.''
     Narenhia floated on a thin mat in one of his pools. She liked this one because of the fountain and waterfall. She looked like Sarah Louise Parker at the moment. She opened her eyes and gave him that impassive look.
     ''Amuse me,'' he said.
     ''Free me, and I'll show you wonders of which you've never dreamed,'' she begged. ''Let me your companion instead of your slave.''
     All metal caged jinn would ask for their independence. Granting it was dangerous. Once free the jinn could exact revenge for any cruelties. Stephen considered his treatment of the jinni, and decided she might have some complaints.
     ''No. Don't ask again. Wajib !''
     She nodded and closed her eyes.
     ''What else can you do?''
     ''Of magic?'' she asked, turning over. She didn't roll — she just materialized face-up.
     ''Yes. Narenhia, answer me.'' He saw a wince cross her face.
     ''I can travel the past. I can take you anyplace we've seen during any moment in your history. Paris, Beijing, London, St. Petersburg,'' she said, with her solemn voice. ''Rome? Would you like to see the Coliseum and the Caesar?''
     Maybe that would end his ennui. Spontaneous and unplanned adventures into the interesting epochs might spark his enthusiasm, again.
     ''Take me there!''

     The bright sun blinded him, but he could hear the colophony of thousands of roaring voices. He blinked to hurry his vision back. The smells — sweat, sand and hot metal — were overpowering. He saw the gleaming marble walls and the blur of faces above. He turned slowly, searching for Caesar.
     Another roar met his ears. The lion leapt. The mouth of terrible teeth buried in his neck and tore away his throat before he could make a wish or utter a curse. Stephen could hear the wet sucking sound as the big cat pulled out his guts. He could smell fresh hot blood and feces.
     He could see Narenhia watching from the emperor's side.
     She smiled. This time he knew it was for his pain.

     Sahla, the keeper of the animal pens, brushed lion shit off the bright copper ring. A pretty thing with all those wavy lines, maybe it would be worth a few pennies. He sold the trinket for a gold coin to a dark-haired, olive-skinned, brown-eyed waif.
     She smiled. He thought it was for joy.

The End