Zantut whirled about, knife in hand.
The adepts leaped to their feet.
Ismeddin, sword in one hand, torch in the other, stood in the entrance. Following him came the Shareef.
"Holy darvish! Oh, son of many pigs!" roared the Shareef, and opened fire with his pistol. But the old man's rage was too much for his aim.
"Steady, uncle!" snapped Ismeddin. "You'll hit the girl!"
Zantut and his followers charged, swords drawn.
Ismeddin dashed his blade to the floor, drew from his djellab a slim tube the length of his forearm, and touched it with his torch.
The fuse sputtered ... and then a cascade of sparks and flame.
"There is neither might nor majesty save in Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate!" thundered Ismeddin. "Out, sons of calamity!"
And as he sprayed the devil-worshipers with his torrent of flame, he side-stepped to his right, flanking the howling, smoking, milling company of adepts, driving them toward the entrance of the vault.