Mirage

One brass lamp. Two djinn. Three wishes, and she means to word every one of them very, very carefully.

Leyla Sarraf is thirty-two, an appraiser of antiquities and a lamp restorer with clever hands, a dry tongue, and two years of caravan nights with no one to keep her warm. For eleven days she has worked alone in the abandoned Palace of Qasr al-Nadda, high above the oasis-city of Suhaym, cataloging ninety years of forgotten treasure by lantern light. Her caravan leaves at first light. She has saved the finest piece for last.

Tonight she has climbed up from the farewell feast in deep crimson silk embroidered with gold, a plunging neckline she has no intention of apologizing for and a slit high up one thigh, her mother's gold bangles stacked on both wrists, long glossy black waves loose down her back, warm olive skin, red lips, and curves the silk barely holds. All she means to do is polish an old oil lamp under the stars.

Then the lanterns flare, and a curl of gold-scented smoke rises from the spout.

Zahir is tall and commanding and wry, deep bronze skin, long straight black hair, a short black beard, and wide gold cuffs on both arms. Idris is warm and teasing and sinful, deep brown skin, a shaved head, a short black beard, and one gold armband. Both of them shirtless in loose silk trousers, Zahir's black and Idris's midnight blue, their skin hot as sun-warmed stone, and both of them bound to that lamp for six hundred years. They have loved each other for centuries. They will not grant a single wish that bends her will. And they would very much like to hear what she asks for.

One moonlit terrace. One night before the caravan rides. Every wish hers to make.