The Seven Deserts. Ancient cities standing seemingly unchanged since the beginning of time; a testament to the power and ingenuity of man. Seven kingdoms. Once there were but two. They were Ashan and Mam, their destinies forever linked.

There was an ancient quarrel between them, so old that the original reason for it had been long forgotten, and the two states were locked in a cycle of perpetual warfare. In the fight against each other, each side eventually turned to the magic arts, and over the generations the lords of Ashan and Mam became powerful sorcerers. As the years passed, each was almost wiped out by the other several times, but they always returned stronger than before. And so it was for centuries: the cities continued to wreak havoc upon each other, oblivious to the smaller cities and villages that began to spring up around them.

Until it came to pass one day that, as the lord of Ashan held court in his great palace, a dark figure appeared in the throne room and was recognized instantly as the lord of Mam. The Ashani guards instantly ran to deal with the intruder, but soon realized that it was not the actual lord, but only an illusion. The image turned to the Ashani leader and spoke:

"Greetings, my Ashani cousin," he said in a parody of diplomacy, "I appear before you to announce that I have discovered a power, a power so great that with it I will finally be able to rid the Earth of your accursed city. The end is upon you, Ashan! Goodbye and good riddance." With that, the lord of Mam raised his arm and began to concentrate his power, while the court of Ashan cowered in fear and prayed for their lives.

But something went wrong. The image of the lord of Mam suddenly dropped his arm, and his eyes grew at the sight of something in front of him that was unseen to the Ashanis. "No! It can’t be! Nooooo. . ." he cried, and the image flickered out of existence.

Then, from outside was heard a deafening boom. The nobles dashed out onto the balcony to see what had happened. In the distance could be seen a dark mountain, underneath which stood the city of Mam. In Ashan it was called Slave Mountain; the Mamish name had been long forgotten. Over it hung a dark cloud.

Gradually, the black cloud grew, until it covered the entire sky and blocked out the sun. Then, like black snow, ash began to fall. It fell for days, so much that by the time it stopped all of Ashan was waist-deep in midnight black ash.

And what of Mam? If Ashan, miles away from Slave Mountain, could have been so affected, surely Mam, at the mountain’s base, must have been destroyed. This was confirmed when months passed and nothing was heard of the Mamites. Mam was finally gone for good.

With its ancient enemy destroyed, Ashan settled easily into a new role. It opened trade and diplomatic relations with the surrounding, younger kingdoms, and it was one of this city’s lords who first proposed the Seven Deserts alliance. Ashan grew rich and prosperous. And since history is written by the victors, even those who have won by default, Ashan became known as the city that had defended the entire desert from the great darkness that was Mam, until it was finally destroyed by its own evil.

One hundred years after the destruction of Mam, but still sixty years before anyone had ever heard of a young man named Aladdin, Ashan remained a city of peace and prosperity and the jewel of the Seven Deserts. The lord of Ashan ruled justly with the guidance of his grand visier, a wise, white-bearded old man, the proud descendant of an ancient, foreign king. His son was the second visier, and his grandson, the third visier, was an intelligent young man named Akmed.

While the grand and second visiers had many important duties to perform, all that Akmed was required to do was x his name on whatever official documents were handed to him. In Ashan at least, a third visier’s job was what he made it. This particular third visier also had decided to become the tutor for the young prince of Ashan.

On the afternoon in question, Akmed was giving the prince his history lesson. The lesson took place in Akmed’s room, which was filled with his hobby: fish. In spite of living in the desert, or perhaps because of it, Akmed was fascinated with fish, and his room was full of bowls and tanks containing rare and exotic species from around the world. His position in the court provided him with enough wealth to afford the many types of expensive food, plants, and magical devices to give the fish enough heat and oxygen to stay alive. The prince was watching a betta circling as Akmed gave his lecture.

". . . At that time, the eruption of Slave Mountain was heard in the distance. . . Highness, stop staring at Darius and listen to me. . . The ash from the explosion covered Ashan, and Mam was completely destroyed. No longer having to defend itself and the rest of the desert against its ancient enemy’s unwarranted aggression, Lord Imran XII was free to direct more of Ashan’s money and resources towards diplomatic. . ."

The prince yawned loudly.

"You know, highness, if you don’t feel up to it now, we can finish this lesson later," said the third visier’s voice, but his tone said that this was not an option.

"Oh, come on, Akmed," argued the prince, "I’ve heard this story a million times. Lord of Mam shows up and speaks in cliches, mountain explodes, black ash, boring diplomacy. . . I already know it. Can’t we do something else?"

"Number one: don’t call me Akmed. Number two: If you are going to be the lord of Ashan one day it is important for you to have some kind of historical perspective."

"Okay, if you know so much, tell me: why did we start fighting Mam in the first place?"

"I thought you already knew everything about history, young master."

"You don’t know, do you? Nobody remembers!"

"Ah, but if our ancestors had bothered to learn their history, we WOULD know!" the third visier retorted, wagging his finger. Then, just as quickly, he was serious again. "Besides, Mam was evil."

"Why?"

"They killed thousands of Ashanis!" Akmed was becoming pretty annoyed by now.

"And we killed thousands of Mamites, does that make us evil?"

"Now we’re getting into philosophy. . ." Akmed drolled, rolling his eyes.

"And another thing," the prince continued, "If no one’s been to Mam for one hundred years, how do we know that they are really destroyed?"

"You know, your majesty," Akmed spat bitterly, "I think I’m starting to understand why all of your old tutors quit."

"But why NOT go? If they’re all long dead, what’s everyone so afraid of?" The prince smiled at Akmed; it was the same wry smirk he always wore. Something about it always unnerved him for some reason, not that he would ever admit being afraid of a twelve-year-old boy.

Akmed opened his mouth to argue, but no sound came out. Like it or not, the boy had a point. "I don’t know," he admitted softly.

"If they were so powerful, I’ll bet there’s all kinds of magic just waiting for someone to come and take it. Someone should. . . WE should go!"

"What?!" Akmed was shocked.

"We can leave tomorrow. Think of it, Akmed! If we find anything important, we’ll be the ones in the history books." The prince’s smile grew.

"YOU will be in the history books anyway. Besides, I have to clean the fish tanks."

"Puh-leez, Akmed?"

"I don’t think your father would approve."

"My father doesn’t have to know yet. What’s wrong, are you afraid?"

"ENOUGH!" Akmed bellowed, and slammed his fist down on the table. The smile was temporarily wiped off the boy’s face. Hundreds of fish darted to the farthest corners of their bowls.

The third visier took a deep breath and regained some of his composure, but was still visibly shaken. "I think that is enough history for today, young master," he said, avoiding looking the prince in the eye.

"All right, Akmed, I just thought you would understand. I don’t know why. . ." He gathered his books and left.

Hours later, Akmed paced the floor of his quarters anxiously, in deep thought. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mam and about the prince’s words.

He was reminded of an incident from his own childhood, when the meek, nervous third visier had been a meek, nervous seven-year-old boy. In a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, he had asked his father what the point of continuing the war with Mam had been after the reason for it had been forgotten. As punishment, he had been beaten within an inch of his life, then dragged out to listen to Akmed’s ancient great-grandfather tell, in unnecessarily graphic terms, about how his own father, then grand visier of Ashan, had been killed by Mamites and his head sent to him in a gift box for his birthday. (Conspicuously missing, however, was the story of how one hundred Mamite women and children had been murdered in retaliation.) After that he knew well enough to stay off the subject of Mam.

The prince, however, was considerably more bold than Akmed had been; this had not been the first time that the two had argued about Mam, although it had been the first time he had suggested actually going there.

The boy seemed so willing to stand up for the Mamites, even after all they had done. Perhaps this was a sign of hidden wisdom and benevolence. That such a man would one day be lord of Ashan!

And then there was the prospect of seeing Mam. What wonderful things might be found there? The sense of adventure that had long lay dormant inside the young man awoke in him.

Of course, getting there would be a problem. Akmed knew his job probably wouldn’t survive asking the lord for permission to take his son to Mam, and he seriously doubted that he himself would survive if he was caught trying to smuggle the prince out of Ashan. Was it worth it?

He continued to pace, deep in thought. . .

It was an hour before dawn. The young prince had scared away the soldiers that had been guarding the royal stables with some simple magic his father had taught him, and now he took a saddlebag that was filled with provisions he would need for his trip and put it on the back of his midnight-black horse. As he mounted the horse, he noticed a figure standing in the doorway. His heart sank as he recognized the familiar voice:

"Going for a ride, young master?"

"Please, Akmed," the prince pleaded, "Please don’t tell father!"

"Don’t call me Akmed," he said coolly, "And I’ve already spoken to your father."

"But. . ."

"I explained to him that we are going to the Adel Oasis."

"Oasis?" The child looked confused.

"To study plants."

The boy looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"Well, I didn’t hear YOU coming up with any alibis," Akmed pointed out, "Did you think no one was going to notice that the heir to the throne was missing? You would have been caught before you got out of the city. Really, your highness, what would you do without me?"

At this point, the prince realized that Akmed was holding a full saddlebag. He placed it on the back of his horse, a dappled-gray stallion, and then climbed up himself. He spurred it gently with his ankles, and it started out through the stable doors.

"Well, are you coming or not?" Akmed called back to the boy, who, he noticed, was looking up at him with what seemed to be respect. "About time," Akmed mumbled under his breath, and did an uncanny impersonation of the prince’s usual smile as he exited the stable. Recomposing himself, the boy kicked his horse and followed. The two crossed the landbridge that connected the palace with the rest of the city, past two sentries wearing the white and brown uniform of the Ashani army. They started through the still-sleeping city, towards the open desert.

A few hours had passed, and the two travelers now rode through the open desert towards the ancient city of Mam, using the dark, looming mass of Slave Mountain as a guide.

This, Akmed thought, was the worst idea he had ever had. What was he thinking, taking the prince to some city that no one knew anything about? It could be dangerous! And how would he explain where they had been when they got back?

Also, there was something about the land itself that made him uneasy. He couldn’t explain why, but the nearer he got to the mountain, the deeper he sank into despair. Slave Mountain, thanks to the eruption and one hundred years of erosion by the wind, was considerably less imposing than it had been in ancient times, but it still had a profoundly negative effect on the third visier, making him even more nervous than usual. The young prince, however, seemed to have improved during the journey.

Anxiously, Akmed surveyed the rocky, ashen landscape. One would have thought that after a hundred years the wind would have dispersed the ash that had covered Ashan and Mam, however much there had been, but the black ash still covered the desert, swirling in with the lighter sand, giving the desert the semblance of a giant marble cake. Understandably, there was more of the ash as they neared Mam, but much less explainable was the darkness that seemed to hang in the very air, even though it must have been almost noon. It was almost as if the darkness that pervaded the land had seeped into the air itself.

"I think that we have to go through this canyon up ahead, Akmed," the boy remarked casually, breaking the long silence. The unnatural weight and thickness of the air gave his voice a sinister quality to it. And that smile again. . .

"For the last time," the man snapped, "Don’t call me Akmed! Royalty and courtiers should not use such. . . familiar terms for each other. Just once I’d like to hear you call me ‘sir.’ I’d even settle for ‘mister.’"

"When I was in Agrabah, I heard their sultan call his visier by his first name," the prince argued, not seeming particularly interested.

"Well, I wouldn’t aspire after THOSE barbarians if I were you," Akmed sniffed haughtily, "In Ashan we treat each other with respect."

"We’re not in Ashan anymore," the prince said to himself softly, grinning to himself. Akmed felt a chill go over him.

And the two rode on in silence.

The canyon, which had been narrow until this point, widened suddenly into a huge, almost circular-shaped gorge. In the center, a tall, crooked rock jutted out of the ground. It was there that they met the first of the dead.

Akmed spotted him first. It was a man’s skeleton. His once white bones were now turned gray from the black ash that covered them, the same ash that, falling burning hot from the sky a hundred years ago, had killed him. The tattered remains of his clothing clung to some of the bones, and other bones, presumably those of the horse he had been riding, were mixed in as well. Some of the bones were scattered or lay at odd angles, showing that the corpses had been attacked by scavengers.

Noticing Akmed’s horrified expression, the prince turned and saw the bones himself. However, he seemed excited to see them and leapt of his horse and ran to them, carelessly kicking a few stray bones out of his way.

"Your majesty, what are you doing?" the older man cried in shock.

The child ignored him, though, and reached into the sand and lifted out the man’s skull.

"Put that down!" Akmed stammered.

Misunderstanding the reasoning behind his words, the boy strode over to Akmed and held the skull out for him. "Do you want it?"

"No!" he snapped, "What would I want a skull for?"

The prince thought for a moment. "Well. . . it might look good in one of your fish tanks."

"Oh, I’m sure it would compliment the goldfish nicely," Akmed remarked sarcastically. Sarcasm is the only way to deal with a twelve-year-old sticking a skull in your face.

"I don’t know," the prince continued, "It might go well with the eel."

"You would force the poor thing to stare into death’s face everyday?"

The boy shrugged, then went over to his horse again and placed the skull in his bag.

"You’re not keeping it, are you?" asked the third visier, aghast.

"It’s just a skull," the prince chuckled, "Dead things can’t hurt you." He mounted his horse once again and began to ride away, not looking back at his companion.

Akmed looked down again at the dead man’s remains. Until now, he had never really thought about what they would find once they got to Mam. He had never actually stopped to think about the fact that hundreds of Mamites had been killed, and that they were most likely still there. Before, he had been afraid of being caught; now he was afraid of Mam.

The canyon was narrow for a little while longer, but then it began to widen steadily. Other canyons joined and broke off of it, and they found a few other skeletons which, to Akmed’s relief, the prince ignored. The path inclined upwards for a ways, until finally the travelers reached the top of the hill.

They were at the end of the canyon, and below them stood the city of Mam. It was about the same size as Ashan, and was surrounded by rocky cliffs with canyons leading off in different directions. There was an enormous amount of the ash here, and dunes of it covered entire buildings. The buildings here were mostly stone, as opposed to the mud-brick Ashani dwellings, and the fancier buildings were rounder than those Ashan, and were darker colors. The land sloped downward in front of them into the valley’s center, then rose up again towards the dark, hulking mass of Slave Mountain, in front of which stood the palace of Mam.

The palace itself was gigantic, much bigger than the palace of Ashan, and must have been an incredible sight back in its heyday, but now it was only a ruin. When the mountain had exploded, a rock slide had demolished half of the palace, and the main dome had cracked and fallen partway in on itself. The rest was buried almost all the way to the top by the black dunes.

All told, the dead in Mam were not as bad as Akmed had thought they would be. They were much, much worse. He had expected skeletons, like he had seen before, but these dead were different. Being buried alive by the hot, black ash had partially mummified them, their skin stretched tightly over their bones to the point of breaking, and turned unnatural shades of brown or green. They lay everywhere in the silent, ashen streets: men, women, and children, their faces frozen in the expression they had worn when they had realized that they were going to die, their sunken eyes and mouths like black holes. The stench of death pervaded the city. Akmed tried to hold back waves of nausea, but was spectacularly unsuccessful.

The prince ignored these dead as well, and rode with single-minded purpose through the main avenue of the city. Akmed, more terrified than he had been in his life, followed close behind him. To his horror, the boy let his horse trample over any of the dead that lay in his path, and Akmed had to keep from fainting at the sound of cracking bones. Even worse, while the prince did this he smiled silently to himself.

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the foot of the black dune which pressed against the palace. The boy kicked his horse again and it began to climb the dune, and Akmed followed suit. About two-thirds of the way up, the boy’s horse had sunk to deep into the sand to climb any further, so he abandoned it and climbed up the rest of the way himself. Akmed too was forced to leave his horse behind, but climbing was much harder for him; the ash had an eerie coldness to it that seemed to suck the heat out of him.

Once they reached the top of the dune, the prince stood and looked down at the palace, surveying it. Then he spotted something: the top edge of a giant picture window stuck up out of the dune below them, creating an entrance hole. After making a few quick mental calculations, the boy slid down the opposite side of the dune, right through the opening. Akmed took a deep breath, then followed.

Akmed slid to a stop at the bottom of the dune inside the palace. No light entered through the narrow opening, and the room was pitch-black.

Suddenly, he felt a hand grip his arm, and he screamed in terror. Then a bright blue light shined in his eyes, and illuminated the prince’s face. The light came from a glowing blue globe of magic that hung in the air just above his shoulder, apparently another magic trick his father had taught him.

The room was huge and cavernous, and ash covered the floor up to their shins. Tapestries covered the walls, and Akmed almost forgot where he was for a moment while examining a tapestry decorated with pictures of strange creatures. Then he noticed the prince out of the corner of his eye looking at something. He spun around and saw something he hadn’t seen before.

Apparently, this was the throne room. On the far wall was an enormous throne, around which were scattered the dead bodies of the Mamish court. Akmed’s heart sank; he had almost forgotten about the dead. These corpses wore the remains of what were once fine robes and dresses, and were covered in gold and jewels. Slumped in the throne was the lord of Mam himself. He wore a dark green suit covered with a golden cape, and a thin gold crown circled his head. Rings set with precious stones were around his fingers. The third visier stared at him in awe; he was impressed to see someone he had heard so much about, even if he had seen infinitely better days. The prince, too, was staring at the dead ruler.

Then, Akmed noticed something strange about the dead lord. While his left hand was covered in rings, on his right hand he wore a single leather glove. This was strange, first of all, that a wealthy ruler would wear leather gloves, and, second, that he would wear just one glove of any kind. With a start, Akmed realized that it was not the lord himself that the prince was staring at, but this glove.

The prince, who had been slowly approaching the throne the whole time, now reached out towards the glove. A million alarms went off in Akmed’s head; something was very wrong.

"Your highness, don’t touch that," he said softly.

The child pulled the glove off the corpse’s hand. Although the other hand was shriveled, this one was completely skeletal.

"Young master, please, put that down," Akmed insisted.

The prince pulled the glove on, and it began it glow a dull blue. He winced with pain for a moment, than he was all right. He smiled to himself as he flexed his hand, which now glowed with bright blue magic.

"Prince Destane, please! It’s dangerous! Put it down down!" Akmed nearly screamed; he was almost hyperventilating now.

At the sound of his name, Prince Destane looked up in surprise, with an expression that seemed as if he was surprised that Akmed was still there. "Shut up," he said offhandedly, then went back to ignoring him.

Acting out of overwhelming fear, Akmed dashed over to the prince and tried to rip the glove off his hand. Realizing what he was doing, Destane sent a bolt of blue energy from his hand. Akmed was frozen for a moment as the energy flowed through every part of his body, then was thrown backwards and landed on his back in the center of the throne room, his fall broken by the black sand.

Dizzily, Akmed tried to sit up, and saw young Destane glaring furiously at him. "Traitor!" he cried, "How dare you defy the prince of Ashan and," he said, plucking the crown from the lord of Mam’s head and placing it on his own, "the lord of Mam?! You’re through ordering me, Akmed. . . oh, I’m sorry. . . MISTER Xerxes," he added sarcastically, "I’ll teach you to disobey me."

Destane gestured with his gloved hand, and the black sand began to take on a liquid quality, and rose up around the edges of the throne room. Then, he clenched his hand, and the sand fell, and Akmed was hit by a thick, black wave. Trapped inside, he tried frantically to escape, but he could feel the thick, black substance entering his throat.

Akmed Xerxes’s life flashed before his eyes, but with a difference. Instead of seeing his past, he saw his future, and Xerxes’s future was one full of fear, pain, and misery. Then, the sand began to fall away, and Akmed coughed and started breathing again. The vision of the rest of his life was gone, erased from his memory, but the despair that it had caused him still remained.

He saw young Destane standing over him, smiling. That same old smile again. How had he missed the evil in it before?

"So," he said offhandedly, "Learned your lesson?"

The man coughed, and then croaked his answer. "Yes master. . ."

Destane and Xerxes are property of the Walt Disney Co. and are used without permission; all other characters are mine.