Rolfe felt the cold as never before.

The wind wound its way beneath his heavy cloak, its fingers creeping under his tabard to chill his flesh. He shivered as he rode, knowing that winter had only just bared its teeth. It had not even snowed as yet.

Clearly, his years beneath Outremer’s sun had thinned his blood overmuch.

Wolves howled, their voices at greater proximity than Rolfe might have liked. He was in the forests that covered the flanks of the Alps to the south of the Beauvoir pass, and he knew it would become colder as he climbed higher. He regretted leaving Thierry and Luc in Milan, for he would have welcomed their company, but he was determined to arrive at Viandin well before the Yule.

He refused to think of the cheerful inn in Milan, or of the comfort of his fellows there. Instead, Rolfe thought of the greeting he would receive from his brother and mother, as well as the satisfaction of warmth and plentiful food. He had grown lean in his time away.

It would be worth this weather to be home.

Rolfe was keenly aware of his solitude as he rode onward. He had forgotten that a winter forest like the one surrounding him could be so bleak. He was certain there were no other men within earshot. The trees’ barren branches seemed to scratch the dark bellies of the clouds scurrying across the sky. A few dry leaves scuttled over the ground, their rattle like a muttering of unwelcome intruders.

Not a creature stirred; not a bird sang.

Rolfe huddled lower in his cloak, wishing he had not taken the short cut he thought he recalled. The path had been clear at first but had dwindled. He had the odd sense that the forest was reluctant to let him pass. His way had been obstructed multiple times and he wondered if he had lost the path completely. He eyed the faint glow of the sun and hoped he had not lost his direction. On an overcast day like this one, it would be an easy error to make.

He deliberately thought of Château Viandin. His older brother, Adalbert, should feel secure in his seat as Lord de Viandin by now. He would have the administration organized and the tithes collected. He would have made his bonds with local overlords and undoubtedly be in the confidence of at least one king. Perhaps Adalbert would have a bride, even a son. Rolfe permitted himself to hope that his brother might be inclined to be generous.

He did not wish for much: just a small property to manage. Perhaps one that Adalbert wished to see securely beholden to his hand. Perhaps there was a holding on the perimeter of Viandin in need of vigorous defense. One with a bridge or a toll. Rolfe would be ideal to oversee the defense of a border, in his own opinion. It would put his experience to good use.

Adalbert, of course, might not share his view.

Rolfe’s gaze fell to the black decanter lashed to his saddle. He had itched to open it since Marcus had placed it in his hands, but he was determined not to insult Adalbert with a used gift.

That would not make his dream come true.

Yet the months and the miles had fed an imagination Rolfe had not known he possessed. He had grown more certain that there was a treasure inside, simply waiting to be discovered. He imagined a rare liqueur created from pomegranates, or an exotic healing potion, or even a perfume the like of which had never been smelled west of Byzantium.

Rolfe ran a finger down the neck of the decanter.

It was then that he noticed that the wax seal had lifted cleanly away from the bottle. He was certain it had been firmly adhered before. But now the glittering cord swung free and the seal was still whole upon it.

Perhaps the cold had lifted it from the bottle.

He could satisfy his curiosity without Adalbert ever knowing the difference.

Rolfe did not need to consider the matter twice.

He pulled his destrier to an unceremonious halt before he could question his impulse. Mephistopheles’ ears flicked, as though the beast made a comment about stopping where there was no sign of shelter, but Rolfe ignored him.

He freed Adalbert’s gift from the lashing with impatient fingers, then halted in wonder once the weight of it filled his hand. The dark bottle fit perfectly into his gloved palm, and he sat, turning it and transfixed by the lights reflected from its surface, for a long moment. A fresh gust of wind swirled around him, lifting the ends of his cloak, and Rolfe shivered.

He tried to twist the cork free, but it was more resolutely anchored than he might have expected. Rolfe grimaced as he pulled, but to no avail. Mephistopheles nickered, impatient with their delay, and when the beast danced sideways, Rolfe’s grip on the bottle slipped. It leaped from his grip and for a terrifying moment, it was loose in the air. Rolfe managed to snatch it out of the air before it fell to the ground, and he closed his eyes in relief.

It was obvious he needed a sure footing for this task. He dismounted then twisted the dark top with all his might.

The cork popped with sudden vigor, its release sending Rolfe sprawling backward. When he fell, the bottle danced from his grip.

“Fool!” he muttered and lunged after the bottle. To his relief, it hit the ground and rolled without breaking. It stopped an arm’s length away, apparently undamaged.

Perhaps it was charmed. Rolfe exhaled shakily and reached for the bottle. Nothing had spilled from it either and he wondered if it might be empty after all.

No sooner had his hand closed around its base than something began to spew forth from its mouth. It was neither elixir, nor liqueur, nor exotic scent.

As Rolfe stared, a dark cloud billowed from the bottle with alarming speed. It was unnatural, to say the least. He dropped the decanter and stepped backward, staring in awe at the erupting cloud. What had he released?

How would he get it back inside for Adalbert?

The dark mist swirled into the shape of a tall woman with long dark hair. She was before him, yet she was not. Her features were clearly visible, but Rolfe could also see the trees through her form. His heart skipped in fear as she loomed high above him.

It stopped when she fixed her gaze upon him.

Rolfe swallowed. This sight could not be real.

The vision leaned closer as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. Obviously, this was some trickery, like that caused by certain mushrooms.

It was an illusion, if a very detailed one.

“You!” the shadow roared and pointed a finger at him.

Rolfe jumped at the volume of her voice.

As far as he knew, visions from mushrooms were silent.

But he was not the only one to have heard the vision’s cry. His palfrey, usually content to follow Mephistopheles, whinnied in fright and tugged vehemently at its reins. It snapped the leather from Rolfe’s astonished grip and bolted into the woods.

Curse the skittish creature! His supplies were in the palfrey’s saddlebags! That fact recalled Rolfe to his senses. He called after the palfrey, but she did not halt.

He turned angrily on the vision responsible for his woes. “You have frightened one of my steeds and now my supplies are lost!”

“Me?” she purred, and Rolfe shivered. The specter leaned closer suddenly and he was granted a view of wickedly sharp teeth.

Perhaps he should have worded his question more politely.

The scents of saffron, cinnamon, cloves, and ambergris flooded Rolfe’s nostrils as her dark cloud surrounded him. He struggled to explain the presence of smells that had no place in this northern forest and failed.

Losing his palfrey might be the least of his problems.

“Confess to me your name, mortal,” she growled.

“Rolfe de Viandin.” He answered before he could question the wisdom of doing so. He was dismayed to find his voice no more than a shadow of its usual bold tone.

“So, it is Rolfe de Viandin who condemns me to leave my beloved palace in this place. Trust a mortal man to complicate matters!”

The specter spat. The ground melted with a hiss where the missile landed, just to Rolfe’s left. He watched in alarm as a cloud of steam rose from the spot.

He should have set that old cheese aside at midday, he reasoned wildly. Clearly, the cheese had been past its prime. He had suspected as much at the time but hunger had compelled him to avoid wasting it.

He would discard the rest of it.

Rolfe eased a little farther away from this manifestation of a sour stomach.

Caution was the better part of valor, after all.

Before he got far, the vision flung her arms wide with a bellow of astonishing volume. The cloud, still erupting from the bottle, boiled angrily beneath her.

“A curse upon you, Rolfe de Viandin!” she cried, pointing a finger directly at him. The fury of her gaze made him tremble in his boots, despite all he had faced in the past few years. “A mortal man is at the root of my woes and you shall pay the price of the faithlessness of your kind!”

That did not sound promising, but Rolfe had little time to reflect upon her words.

The dark cloud began to swirl like a tempest, picking up dirt and leaves, gathering them in a spinning column. Rolfe’s cloak whipped around him, its hem snapping across Mephistopheles’ side, and his hair blew across his brow, obscuring his vision.

He snatched at the cloak, closed his eyes, and lifted his arm over his face to protect himself from the unexpected assault. He leaned his face against his destrier, who snorted indignantly and lowered his head. Rolfe was halfway certain that every scrap of clothing he wore would be ripped apart. He did not dare to consider how cheese could manage such a feat.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the raging wind fell silent.

Inexplicably, Rolfe heard a bird sing.

His garments seemed suddenly too warm and he felt the heat of the sun upon his head. Rolfe lifted his head and blinked in shock at the sight that greeted his eyes.

He stood in a garden surrounded by lushly fragrant and exotic blooms, although that seemed decidedly against the odds. Was this an illusion, as well? He stared in disbelief. Golden sunlight poured on the blossoms around him and the air was alive with the hum of insects. The bleak forest where he had ridden just moments past was nowhere to be seen.

Truly, the cheese had outdone itself.

Surrounding the garden was a high wall made of an unfamiliar white stone, artfully fitted and gleaming so brightly in the sunlight that it might have been made of silver. A low palace stretched out behind him. A long pool lined with blue tiles guided the eye directly to its doorway, and the scent of Eastern cooking teased his nostrils.

Rolfe blinked, but the illusion stubbornly remained.

As did the specter before him. She folded her arms across her chest, dissatisfaction clear in the harsh line of her lips.

Rolfe licked his lips. He had hoped for a home and now he stood in a palace. She had said she would surrender it to him. He had been cold and yearned for warmth.

Was this vessel trying to make his dreams come true?

That was beyond belief.

It had to be an illusion or a jest. Rolfe braced his booted feet on the ground and faced the vision. “What manner of trickery is this?” he demanded. “I insist that you return me to the forest and restore my palfrey.”

She arched a brow. “Make no mistake, mortal, my palace is as real as you are.”

Rolfe eyed his surroundings. He shed his gloves, sniffed a bloom, fingered the leaves of a shrub, and found nothing amiss. A type of insect he did not recognize ambled along the shrub’s leaves and he touched it.

It stung him. Rolfe cursed and leaped backward, shaking the creature from his hand.

He eyed the specter. “Where are we? What have you done?”

“You are precisely where you were before,” she replied. “It is my palace that has moved here, to satisfy the curse laid upon me.” Her eyes narrowed to fierce slits and her voice dropped low. “Now it is yours. I hope that you are satisfied.” There was no denying her bitterness, which made Rolfe wonder if she told the truth.

Wolves bayed in the distance, their howls carrying over the walls in support of her claim.

There were no wolves in the East, from whence this palace seemed to have sprung. And he had heard wolves in the forest just before opening the bottle.

This must be a deception, and he had only to figure out how it had been accomplished.

“I do not understand,” Rolfe said, although he thought he might. “What have I done? If this is your palace, take it where you will. It is not my fault that it is here.”

The spirit granted him a chilling glance. “Of course, it is your doing!” she replied. “Do you imagine that I would choose such a dismal locale?” She shuddered and eyed him with accusation. “It was you who opened the bottle and you to whom I am indebted for my release.”

“You seem less than pleased,” he replied. “Surely to be released from confinement is no small thing?”

“Perhaps it would be a relief if I did not have to pay such a heavy price! Who would be pleased to give their greatest treasure to a mere mortal?”

At that, Rolfe was insulted. Mere mortal? “I asked you for nothing!”

The specter bent down, her eyes flashing with fury. “And what you want is of no consequence! Trust me, mortal, if I could betray my obligation, I most surely would, for no being ever deserved such a gift less than a mortal man!” She folded her arms across her chest once more. “But a curse required me to grant possession of my palace to whoever freed me from my prison. Even a djinn must adhere to some code of honor.”

A djinn? Rolfe had heard of those beings but had never believed they existed.

She glanced about herself, her displeasure more than clear. “Though nothing was said of doing so with grace.”

But no one would surrender such a palace willingly. A tale too fair was seldom true. This had to be a trick, a trick designed to rid him of his possessions. The palfrey was already gone, and with it a goodly quantity of his supplies.

Rolfe glared at the inexplicable being before him. He had heard of such deceptions. Bayard had been cheated of his coin upon arrival in Outremer, having been convinced to pay for a saddle for a steed that he could have free of charge. He had paid for the saddle, then both steed and saddle had vanished in the night, leaving him penniless and without a mount.

Rolfe’s grip tightened on Mephistopheles’ reins. No one would take from him what was his.

“You grant nothing to me,” Rolfe argued. “This is merely a trick.”

The djinn’s eyes blazed. “A trick? You spurn my glorious gift?”

“I have no need of your spells and sorcery,” he retorted. “Return my palfrey and let me continue on my way.”

“No need?” the djinn echoed. Another wolf howled beyond the walls and a glint lit her eye. Dread trickled down Rolfe’s spine, and he took a step back before he could stop himself.

The djinn pursued him with terrifying speed. Her face filled Rolfe’s vision, and when she smiled, he saw that her teeth were not just sharp, but points of brass.

“Perhaps you will soon see the need of spells and sorcery,” she hissed. “I reserve the right to reward ingratitude.” She drew herself up taller and flung her hands skyward, her growing size making both Rolfe and his black destrier ease toward the gates.

Rolfe wondered if they could flee while her attention was averted.

“Rolfe de Viandin,” she roared, and the ground trembled at her words.

A wolf!

Despite his conviction that this was nonsense, Rolfe waited for a moment, holding his breath. When nothing changed, he dared to feel relief. His relief was quickly followed by scorn.

Spells and sorcery were fables.

“A wolf?” he repeated, his tone skeptical.

“You do not believe me?”

Rolfe shrugged. “I believe in what I see, as well as what I can hold in my hands. I see that nothing has changed. I suspect that you and this—” he gestured to the palace “—are a reminder that the cheese I ate at midday was past its prime.”

“Cheese?” the djinn echoed. Rolfe jumped at the volume of her voice and even Mephistopheles’ eyes widened. “You dare to attribute my presence to cheese?”

Her eyes flashed as the clear sky was abruptly obscured by dark clouds. Thunder rumbled overhead. Lightning crackled and the ground stirred beneath Rolfe’s feet. The black destrier stepped sideways with a skittishness more typical of the lost palfrey.

“I am more than mere cheese and you will see the truth!”

“Perhaps I should have been more tactful,” Rolfe murmured. Mephistopheles flicked one ear, as if to agree. The djinn grew to the height of a mountain before them and Rolfe could not help but dread her pronouncement.

Cheese. Rolfe repeated the word like a litany, but as he watched the ominous cloud grow, his conviction faded.

When the djinn spoke again, her voice made the ground shake. The trees quivered from the tumult of her breath. The flowers abruptly closed against the storm.

The wind ripped at Rolfe’s cloak again as her voice fell silent. When the wind stilled and he opened his eyes, he was outside the smooth white walls. The silent forest surrounded him again, and snow fell thickly around him. There was no sign of the djinn, although winter had fallen with a sudden vengeance. At least Mephistopheles was still by his side, perhaps because he still clutched the reins tightly.

“May you be as miserable as I have been, mortal!” The djinn’s voice came from every side, though she was not within view.

Rolfe spun around, but he could not see her.

Or the bottle for Adalbert.

Much less his palfrey.

“Look for your change by nightfall.” Her laughter filled the forest, coming from everywhere and nowhere at all.

Rolfe shivered, telling himself it was only the unexpected change of temperature he felt. The sky was darkening, though he refused to let himself dread the night.

“Cheese,” he said to Mephistopheles. Although he spoke to the destrier, he knew his words were meant to reassure himself as much as any.

“The vision is clearly over,” he continued with a resolve he was far from feeling. “We are in the forest, just as we were before and, undoubtedly, just as we have been all along. It is not surprising in the least that I did not see this palace wall, for it is as white as the falling snow.”

Rolfe waved his hand, deliberately ignoring the fact that it had not been snowing earlier. “Perfectly logical,” he concluded. “We will seek the palfrey and continue our journey home. Perhaps Adalbert will be indulgent even though I have lost his gift.”

Mephistopheles gave his knight a glance that might have been skeptical, had it come from a man instead of a beast. Then the horse’s gaze fell pointedly on the space behind Rolfe. Mephistopheles snorted and tossed his head, backing away from his knight.

A curious tickling sensation made Rolfe dread what he might see. He turned and caught a glimpse of a silver-gray tail.

Rolfe twisted, and the tail danced merrily out of sight as he turned in ever tighter circles, trying to get a better look at it.

He grabbed at it, his eyes widening in shock at the answering tug he felt. The tail trapped within his grip was long and quite firmly affixed to him. It was graced with thick silver hair that shaded to white at the tip.

Precisely like that of a wolf.

Before he could utter another sound, Mephistopheles nickered a warning.

Rolfe swiveled to see the bottle rolling across the ground, seemingly of its own volition. Where had it come from? What would spill from its mouth now? More trouble, to be sure, but Rolfe could not see the cork anywhere.

He knew he should flee, but he could not tear his gaze away from the bottle. It rolled first this way and then the other, leaving a trail in the thickly falling snow. He was struck by the conviction that something was trying to get out of it.

Where was the cork?

He had seized a fistful of snow, hoping to jam it into the vessel, when a voice spoke from its interior. He dropped the decanter in surprise.

“A curse upon this bottle! In all truth, one would think that to be free of her company would be blessing indeed, but no! This wretched bottle has to hamper my departure in a most uncomfortable way. Too many centuries waiting for rescue has a way of going to one’s hips, I suppose, but truly...”

Rolfe’s eyes widened. Mephistopheles stamped his hooves when the feminine voice squeaked.

“Oh! I never thought I had indulged that much. Certainly, she consumed twice what I did, if not more, but perhaps malice is better for the figure in the long run. Would that not be a sad statement on the world, if such were the case! I cannot imagine it, but certainly, it would appear to be so.”

It was another djinn.

Rolfe had had enough of djinns and their interference for this day.

“Away with you!” he shouted. “Trouble another if you must, but leave me be! I have had my share of djinns and their curses to last a lifetime!”

The voice fell silent, but Rolfe intended to put as much distance between himself and the vessel as possible. He flung the bottle through the air, no longer wanting to take it home. It did not travel as far as Rolfe might have hoped before bouncing in the snow. Another muffled squeak had Rolfe reaching for his saddle, tail or no.

He had no intention of waiting like a fool to see what this djinn’s response might be.

A rosy cloud unfurled from the bottle’s mouth this time, making the air around Rolfe and his destrier glow like the first light of dawn.

It was not unpleasant.

Rolfe found himself glancing back over his shoulder in curiosity, one foot in the stirrup.

“Much better, oh yes, much better indeed,” that feminine voice declared. “What a relief it is to have room to stretch.”

The glow grew high and wide, stretching out to encompass all of the surrounding woods, before rolling back into a tight orb. That sphere radiated an opalescent light, but beyond its periphery, the sky grew steadily darker. It was as if the moon floated before Rolfe, or a small version of it.

Rolfe leaned closer then there was a loud crack that made him jump.

A plump woman of indeterminate age sat on the upturned bottle. She smiled at Rolfe and propped her chin on her hand to study him, as if there was nothing unusual about her sudden appearance at all.

Rolfe blinked and she smiled at him.

She wore the sheer trousers and upturned leather shoes like those he had seen in Outremer, topped by a high-necked, heavily embroidered tunic. Her hair was dark and hung on either side of her face in thick braids. She wore a round fur hat with red woolen balls dangling from its rim, and those balls danced as she moved her head. A broadsword much like Rolfe’s own hung by her side.

She returned his regard intently for a moment then suddenly stared down at herself.

“Oh, my,” she whispered and one hand rose to her lips.

A shimmer of light blinded Rolfe for a moment. He blinked, and incredibly, in that short interval, the woman’s garb changed.

She wore a fitted blue kirtle over an undyed chemise and a fur-lined cloak that fell all the way to her boots. She looked like any noblewoman Rolfe might have seen before, with the exception of her strange hat which remained.

She touched it and smiled at Rolfe’s glance. “It is warm,” she informed him. She had a certain girlish charm, but he would not be swayed from his suspicions.

“Are you another djinn?” he asked, realizing that his tone was hostile.

“Yes, that I am.” She drew herself taller. “I must say your manner is decidedly forward, if not rude.”

“My manner is nothing compared to that of the last djinn I met,” Rolfe declared. “How many of you are in there?”

She looked startled by his question. “Only two, mercifully, for she was company enough for me.” She sighed. “I can tell you that centuries take considerably longer to pass than one might think when the company is less than ideal.”

Rolfe had no idea how to reply, but she continued as if not expecting him to do so.

“I am so relieved to be released. I should even grant you a wish.” She frowned and tapped one finger on her lip. “Was that how it worked?” she mused to herself. “One wish? Three wishes?” She flicked a glance at Rolfe. “One must follow the rules, you know.”

The last djinn had spoken similarly just before she had taken her vengeance upon Rolfe.

Clearly, it was time to leave.

“It does not matter,” he said hastily. “I thank you, but have no need of any favors from djinns.” He took several quick steps backward and reached for his saddle once more. Could he mount and ride away without her stopping him? It was certainly worth a try.

“Oh, but I must insist—”

“No, it is best saved for another. If you will excuse me?” Rolfe pivoted and had one foot in a stirrup before she clicked her tongue.

“Oh, she is good,” she said.

Rolfe knew this djinn had spotted his tail and he felt his neck heat in embarrassment. Something tingled at his fingertips before he could speak, and he glanced down to find his nails had turned dark.

Like claws. Panic made him spin back to face the djinn, for lack of other alternatives.

He was changing to a wolf!

Right before his own eyes.

Perhaps spells and sorcery had their uses, after all.

“You said you could grant me a wish?” he asked. The djinn nodded. “Can you undo her spell?”

“Undo?” The djinn shook her head. “No one can undo anything. That is not the way.”

“Then you cannot help me?”

The djinn sat up straight. “I did not say that,” she replied. “I will help you, despite your manner, because I think she was ungracious in cursing her liberator. We had hopes, you know, that time would cure her of her malicious tendencies, but it seems she has only become more vengeful.” The djinn fired a glance at Rolfe. “And I was always taught that there was no excuse for rudeness, under any circumstance.”

Rolfe averted his gaze, for he knew his own manners had been decidedly lacking.

Even if there were extenuating circumstances. The wind riffled through his new tail as though to remind him of the precise nature of those circumstances.

“I do apologize,” he said. “I have never encountered a djinn before, much less two in rapid succession.”

“Of course not,” the djinn replied. “We are somewhat rare, although I have always been burdened with an inexplicable affection for mortals.”

Rolfe did not miss her slight emphasis. He felt himself color and decided his charm had picked a poor time to desert him. “I apologize for my earlier manner...” he began, trying to make matters right.

The djinn, however, seemed to have forgotten his presence. “Let me see...” she mused. She tapped one fingertip against her lips, clearly thinking.

Suddenly, Rolfe’s ears felt odd. He lifted one hand, hoping that he would not find what he feared, but fur greeted his touch. His ears were pointed and covered with fur.

The djinn did not appear to notice, and frustration filled Rolfe.

Was he to be no more than a pawn in these djinns’ foolish games?

What had he done to merit such a fate?

“God’s wounds, woman!” Rolfe cried in his impatience. She jumped in a most satisfactory way. “Think if you must, but do it quickly! I will be all wolf before you are done!”

The djinn’s gaze landed on him and her eyes widened in surprise. “How very quickly she works,” she murmured. She pursed her lips, looking all of six summers old as she concentrated.

She hesitated and nibbled on her bottom lip as she clearly fought to make a rhyme.

It said something about Rolfe’s fortune that the malicious djinn had possessed a greater gift with words.

“Befo’e?” he echoed.

The djinn shot him a hostile glance. “Spells are not my greatest talent,” she informed him archly. She closed her eyes before Rolfe could respond. “Now, I have forgotten where I was.” She frowned, and he did not dare interrupt again.

She nodded with satisfaction at her own conclusion.

Rolfe caught his breath.

He waited.

He watched.

Nothing changed.

If anything, his tail seemed a little more thick.

This djinn’s powers were apparently less than compelling.

And little wonder, given the quality of her rhymes.

“Alakazam,” Rolfe repeated under his breath. “Now there is a spell.” He rolled his eyes, then was took such a blow to the shoulder that he nearly fell to his knees. Rolfe staggered to regain his balance and glanced about himself. There was no one behind him.

The djinn smiled at him with such serenity that he knew she had somehow struck him without moving.

“A completely inexplicable affection,” she reminded him. Any urge Rolfe might have felt to apologize was swept away by her next words. “But quite a nice spell, I think, all the same.”

“That is all? You intend to do no more?” Rolfe was astonished. “What manner of solution is that? Being a wolf by day is little better than being one all of the time! With all respect, I must say that I had hoped for more!”

The djinn rose to her feet. “I told you that I could not undo the charm,” she said. “In truth, for spontaneous work, I thought it was not at all bad.” She eyed him, as if this situation were all his own fault. “My best work is not performed under duress.”

Rolfe fought to maintain his temper. Half his time as a wolf was better than all the time.

Maybe she could do better yet, if his manner was sweeter than it had been so far. His charm had brought him good fortune in the past, if not the grace of more than one maiden’s favors. He might do well to spare some of his charisma for this djinn.

Mindful that he could easily make his situation worse, Rolfe bowed to the djinn. “You have indeed outdone yourself in aiding me on such short notice.”

The djinn eyed him, clearly skeptical of his change of tone, and Rolfe spared her his most winning smile. She thawed a little, though her gaze flicked away. The feminine gesture was familiar and fed Rolfe’s confidence as nothing else could.

It was reassuring that djinns and mortal women were not that dissimilar.

“Make no mistake, madame,” he continued. “I do appreciate your endeavors. Undoubtedly, the shock of this change made me speak in haste.” Rolfe held her gaze when she turned to him, and deliberately let his voice deepen. “I would thank you with all my heart for your assistance.”

The djinn granted him a smile. “I could try again,” she offered.

“You cannot imagine how greatly I would appreciate your efforts,” Rolfe said. Encouraged by her offer, he dared to suggest once more, “Perhaps we could remove the entire curse?”

“Oh, no.” The djinn dismissed his suggestion without giving it the consideration Rolfe thought it deserved. “It is not the way. You must earn your salvation with the conditions you have been granted. I cannot change that, but I can grant another point in your favor.”

“Earn?” His temper flared. “I did nothing to earn this curse!”

A tingling sensation halted his protest. Rolfe looked down to find silver fur sprouting all over his flesh. He gasped aloud, but his voice sounded more like a muffled yelp.

He appealed to the djinn, but she only shrugged.

She shook a finger beneath Rolfe’s nose, which he was alarmed to see had turned black. “You opened the bottle,” she explained. “Do you not see? That deed earned you this.”

“But can you not do something? I beg of you, madame, help me however you can!”

“Well, perhaps a little more,” the djinn mused, her expression considering.

“Then hurry! Please!”

“I told you that I do not like to be pressured.”

Rolfe was going to interrupt her, but his voice was a bark this time. Panic flooded through him, but the djinn merely closed her eyes again.

She opened her eyes and smiled with satisfaction. “That was rather a good one, was it not?”

Rolfe could not confess to be in the least pleased by the djinn’s intervention. He thought he had won her assistance! Forest’s plight? Blessing of love?

What manner of solution was this?

He did not believe in love. That was a whimsy favored by women, and truly not a condition for his release that would suffice.

There was a shimmer beside him and Mephistopheles disappeared. Rolfe had been deprived of his possessions, after all.

He barked in frustration, but it was too late. He ran upon all fours in the snow around the djinn. He could see that the sun was sinking and the shadows were growing longer.

How could that be? What about her spell? Night was falling and he was still a wolf. Rolfe howled deliberately at the stars overhead, then fixed the djinn with an accusing glance.

The djinn’s lips twisted as she considered the hue of the sky overhead. “It is just a question of timing,” she assured Rolfe but he knew he was not the only one who was not convinced. “That is far and away the most complicated part of casting spells.”

Rolfe had thought it was the rhymes she found troubling, but he could hardly argue with her.

He heard his destrier nicker from inside the walls of the palace, then the stallion kicked the gates from the other side. How did the palace reflect his will if his horse was inside and he was outside?

The djinn smiled tentatively. “He is safe from wolves,” she suggested.

The palfrey neighed then, the sound also coming from inside the walls. He had been robbed of both of his steeds.

The djinn shrugged. “Both safe,” she offered. “You wanted a home.” She smiled. “We do advise that one should be careful of making wishes.”

Rolfe snarled for the first time and liked the feel of it.

He enjoyed the way the djinn jumped when he did it. She retreated behind her bottle, as if that small vessel could defend her, and watched him warily.

“You know, it is not very fitting to have her flying freely,” she said. “There was a reason why she was confined to this bottle in the first place, as you can well imagine. It might be wise to see her thus confined again. You could help...”

That was enough. Rolfe was finished with djinns and their curses. He could see no benefit to furthering their association.

There was one good way to express his opinion.

He lunged toward the djinn and bared his teeth. He snapped, and though his jaws closed on empty air, he was convinced he had made his feelings clear.

“Well, well.” The djinn sniffed from several feet away. “I see I shall have to find someone else to assist me. It is a most inexplicable affection.” She snatched up the bottle she had vacated, then pivoted and stalked off into the forest. The red balls on her hat bounced indignantly as she walked. Her footsteps left no mark upon the surface of the snow, and in the twinkling of an eye, she had disappeared completely.

Rolfe was left alone in the forest outside the first djinn’s palace.

Were it not for his changed form and the palace wall behind him, the entire incident might not have happened.

Wolves howled again, although they were closer, and Rolfe felt a primal urge to lift his voice along with theirs. The forest was more alien to him than it had ever been. He was snared and he was cursed.

Marcus had been wrong. This was a far cry from making his dreams come true.

Although Rolfe was uncertain what he could do about it.

And the knowledge that he was powerless in this situation was what bothered him most of all.