Mozenrath stood on the deck, oblivious to the swaying of the ship as it rocked and rolled in the waves. His body was moving, slowly, a soft, fluid, swaying motion, almost mimicking the waves itself. He held his hands before him, gauntlet fisted, the palm of his left flattened and held out, like a man signaling someone to stop. He drew his hands back to his chest, and exhaled, pushing the air deep from within his diaphragm. Then he slowly straightened, and stood up. The Chi Gung breathing had served its purpose. He was relaxed now.

An ordinary sailor would have thought the ship to be almost eerily quiet. The only sound was the creak of the rigging, and the soft groaning of the ship's timbers in the swell. The Mamluk who manned this vessel had one thing in their favour: they didn't jabber and moan about storms, typhoons, or tsunami like some sailors did. Being dead, death was not high on their list of worries. Also, Mozenrath would have preferred not to use a ship at all: teleportation, though draining, was much more economical. You made no noise, and no-one saw you coming. But, he had to use a ship this once. It was bait. And to ensure his little expedition went as planned, he had to be here. A snatch of verse from some foreign poet floated through his mind.

Oh, have you built your Ship of Death? Oh, build your Ship of Death, for you will need it...

It was a Ship of Death, the sorcerer thought. A Ship of Death, sailed by the dead, manned by a skeleton crew, he thought wryly. And, the time was right. The time, in fact, was now. Suddenly, all forward motion ceased. The rails did not creak, the rigging was silent; even the wind seemed to have dropped away. There was nothing. It was, he thought, the calm before the storm.

The tentacles erupted from the larboard side, and he did not see them, but he heard them. There was a series of quick, wet, tearing noises. Something was dismembering Mamluks as a child pulls the petals from a daisy. Unhurried, unworried, he turned and saw the muscular tentacles writhing across the deck. He blasted one as it glided tentatively over his boot, and it drew back quickly. He saw Mamluks, mummified in the wet, pulsating coils, being dragged over the side, to a watery doom. Or perhaps not: whatever fate awaited them they would not drown.

Then the ship pitched and buckled inward at its very centre. There was a strong signature of magic all around him now. The ship was crumpling inwards and beginning to spin: he saw the signs of a vast whirlpool forming about him. He smiled, his lips pulling from his teeth in a vulpine grin. He just had to wait. He stepped away from the centre of the devastation, planted his feet, and waited. The ship whirled around him now, like a stream of water being sucked down the plug hole of a giant drain. The water was lapping at his boots. He muttered a spell and was surrounded instantly by a sheath of air. The water drew back. The sorcerer closed his eyes, and breathed normally. He did not even try to resist when the water sucked him down.

The descent to the bottom was slow, almost dreamlike; he was untouched by the whirling maelstrom about him. He was alone now: the Mamluks had either fallen victim to the tentacles, or the force of the vortex had battered them all to pieces. The ship had been reduced to so much splinters and toothpicks, and floated towards the surface. There was only him, his bubble of air, and the vortex that imprisoned him.

Sucking in another mouthful of air, Mozenrath let himself go limp. He relaxed the shield to let a stream of bubbles drift from his mouth. The appearance was vital. The person he was coming to see needed to think he was drowning, or already drowned. It wasn't his style to thrash about and struggle, face pinching as he tried to breathe, he was not that sort of man. To bring it off successfully would have been difficult. Better to play the victim of the fierce water: lungs filled with seawater, their incessant pumping having flooded them, the brain slowly dying, flickering like a candle going out. In aqua mortis.

He would endure for as long as it took, and when the time was right, he would strike. His involuntary smile sent another group of bubbles from his mouth. Right now, he had to enjoy the ride.

Saleen studied the newcomer with interest, as his body slowly bobbed in the vortex like a cork. She was slightly disappointed: the elemental enjoyed watching the sailors struggle and drown, this effeminate nancy-boy had no staying power at all, it seemed. He had been a living man on the surface, now, he was just so much flotsam. She sensed the changes in the water pressure as Armand, her faithful
octopus, loomed up behind her.

'Get him out of there,' she ordered. In a way, it was almost a shame, she thought. He wasn't as handsome as Aladdin; he was a bit older, in fact, but his face and body did have a certain sensuality about it. It might have been fun to know him for a while, but that chance had passed.

Armand drifted over, cradling the body in his tentacles. Saleen looked at the drowned man closely. Whatever headgear the man had been wearing had come askew, or perhaps been lost; his hair was thick, black, and curling, drifting in the swell like ebony seaweed. His clothes were rich, and well-tailored: she'd sunk a few treasure ships too, and merchants had added their bones to her ocean-floor trophy case. The clothes this man wore suggested something similar. His eyes were large, though closed, the lids delicate, and long-lashed. His lips were thick and sensual. Saleen touched them with her finger. A single bubble escaped from them, drifted upwards to be lost like a dream.

Saleen started back. This was not right. He should have no air in his lungs. He had drowned. He --. And then she froze as his eyes flicked open and stared at her. They were deep and black, probably capable of great expression. But now they were flat and lifeless as the eyes of a shark. More bubbles flowed as he sat up, face twisted into a mocking grin. And Saleen realised that some sharks walk on two legs.

Armand's tentacles coiled round him with the speed of thought, much quicker in the water than he. The young man made a shrugging gesture with his shoulders, and fire -- yes, fire! though a strange blue-black -- erupted in the water behind him. The octopus fell back, tentacles thrashing and beating the water like snakes. Then the man's hand, covered in a strange leather glove, was lunging for her wrist, clamped around it like a band of steel. That strange fire flared again, and she lost consciousness...

Mozenrath allowed himself his tight little grin again. Then, there was a flash of light so bright the water actually foamed and steamed. When it cleared, they were gone. Armand stared at the empty water in disbelief.

Saleen woke, imprisoned behind glass. This wasn't the first time it had happened: her last attempt to snag Aladdin had resulted in her being trapped in a similar container. The man was obviously a sorcerer; there was no reason to believe the glass here was any different. She swam up to the edge of the bowl and cupped her hands against the glare. He was seated cross-legged, staring at her, and smoking a hookah with calm deliberation. The smoke rings made fabulous colours she could not even name.

'What do you want of me?' she asked abruptly.

No sound but the suck and hiss of the water-pipe as it bubbled. The smoke rings drifted.

'Land-dwelling wretch! What do you want?'

No response. A gentle suck and sigh. Smoke rings.

'Answer me!' The elemental's fist hit the glass so hard it rocked, then steadied itself. Water spilt over the rim, wetting the fine carpets. No response. Instead, he blew a tremendous smoke ring that hovered over the bowl, and descended. Upon contact with the water, it changed to a thick, rich, black, like cuttlefish ink. The water went black as pitch. Saleen realised she was feeling logy. The smoke was reacting with the water, becoming some chemical that was soaking through the pores of her skin. She thrashed her tail around, trying to fight the lassitude creeping up on her. She failed. Instead, she heard, as if from a long way away, his voice in a slow chant:

'What master do?' Xerxes wanted to know.

'Quiet!' Mozenrath hissed. His left hand, on the knife, was steady and sure. Strips of the ebony bark were peeling away, showing the glossy interior. 'You'll break my concentration!' He continued to whittle.

What he had, looked like a stick approximately three feet in length, made of polished black wood. One end had been honed to a fine point, where it was split. The other end was open. To the eel, it seemed that the tube was being hollowed, somehow. There were the suggestions of tiny holes along the top. It looked like some sort of flute, or recorder. 'Master make music?'

'I told you,' Mozenrath said tightly, 'to be silent!' He abruptly stopped whittling, and placed the flute, or whatever it was, down on the bench beside him. He gathered his cloak. Strangely, he kept the knife, turning it over and over in his fingers, as if it were a toy. Light flashed from its blade, which seemed made from some crystalline substance. Abruptly he slipped it into a pocket of his cloak, and stood up. He gathered his will. Then he was gone.