By the time he had floundered his way out of it, Batch was a dirtier and richer imp than he had been moments before. Filth-crusted from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, he admired his new silver coins—tossed here, he knew, by silly mannies trying to buy wishes—and one old rusty key. He shoved the key into his satchel along with the coins, trusting his gift enough to know that when he found a thing, there was likely a use for it around the bend.

He padded around the pit of the well until he found a deep-set door. A door that had not been opened for centuries. At his push it creaked inward and the air from the well shaft flowed in and over a lake of smoke, finding and feeding a low smoldering ember in the depths of the cavern.

The ember glowed brighter.

Batch took one slinking step over the threshold.

Suddenly the ember sparked into flame and reared like a waking beast. Salamanders leapt from stalactites and scurried away as it flared and spun and stretched limbs of fire. Its bright dance seared the eyes, too hot to look upon. Batch flung his hands over his face.

He had found what he sought. He always did.

The fire turned slowly toward him. It didn’t know how long it had slept. Long. It didn’t know if it wanted to wake. The old malice had awoken with it, and also a dull awareness of a new presence in the fabric of the world. Or a new absence. Or both.

“Who comes?” it hissed.

Batch stumbled forward. “M-m-my Lord Magruwen,” he stammered, eyes downcast. “Forgive my intrusion. I bring you a riddle!”

Once, the Magruwen had cherished riddles. In the long-gone days of visitors he had traded treasures for them. There were no more visitors now—he had gone deep where no one would find him. And yet here was an imp, smelling of graveyards and drains. The Magruwen started toward him, then paused. He hadn’t worn his head for a very long time. He sucked himself together out of the swirling vapors of his cavern and funneled himself into an ancient skin, buttoning it up and settling the head on last. His eyes burned through vertical slashes in the mask, and where the skin was worn thin, flames could be seen dancing inside it.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a voice to scald the ears.

Trembling, Batch answered, “I am Batch, Lord. Just a lowly imp. A low creature . . .”

“Low creature?” repeated the Magruwen. “You insult the craft of the Djinn who shaped your kind. We made no creature low. If you are low it is because you choose to creep. Are you low?”

Batch froze. His master had schooled him in just what to say and he’d already botched it. What was he to answer? Was he low or wasn’t he? No ideas came to him, so he blurted, “The riddle, it’s new!”