"All of it, saidi," smiled the darvish. "Except the final outcome. And that, inshallah, depends on your sword."
Rankin leaped to the tiled floor and flexed his cramped legs. He stared in wonder at the unveiled features of Azizah.
"Allah, and again, by Allah! Neferte ... after all these centuries.... Then give me a sword!"
"Presently, my lord, presently." And then, to the Shareef: "Kaffir or true believer, she is his ... for even Satan's fortune can not last forever."
Whereupon Ismeddin with a piece of chalk traced on the floor a circle some ten paces in diameter; and at three of the four cardinal points of the compass he inscribed a curious symbol, and several characters in the ancient Kufic script. Then from his knapsack he took a small box whose contents, a fine, reddish powder, he poured evenly in a circle that inclosed the first circle drawn in chalk, except for a yard-long gap precisely in front of the dark stranger's throne.
"Saidi Rankin—Abdemon, as tonight you are—take your post," commanded the darvish. "Just a pace from the inner circumference, and facing that dark mocker on his lofty throne. Will you use my sword, or that of our lord, the Shareef?"
"Yours will bring me luck, Hajj Ismeddin," replied Rankin. "Though all swords are alike tonight," he concluded, as with a final glance at the sleeping loveliness on the porphyry block, he turned to belt Ismeddin's scimitar to his waist.
"No scabbards tonight," directed the darvish. "Take only the blade."
As Rankin took his post, Ismeddin advanced to the foot of the dais. Extending his arms, Ismeddin began his invocation:
"Father of Mockeries, Master of Deceptions," he intoned, "the dusty centuries are weary of your dominion. The word of Suleiman seeks its fulfilment, and the servant of Suleiman awaits your awakening. Dark Prince, Black Lord, the circle of your destiny has been drawn, and a doom awaits you with a sword."