“Ah, it’s my business partner!” said Tyr. “Have you got anything for me this time?”

“I certainly do,” replied Jón, and he gave Tyr his five percent.

“My, my,” said Tyr, marveling at the weight of the purse he’d been handed. “You’ve done well for yourself!”

“I’d do even better if you could get me another obsidian box,” said Jón.

“That could be arranged,” said Tyr, “but if I give you another, you’ll have to give me ten percent of your profits, rather than five.”

The higher commission meant Jón would earn a bit less on each transaction, but with two boxes he’d be able to do twice as much business. “You have a deal,” he said.

Tyr smiled, disappeared in a puff of smoke, and returned a few minutes later with a new box, nearly identical to the first.

Jón made another trip into the highlands. He was able to harvest twice as much sunlight, and he left regions of darkness behind him so vast it looked as if a solar eclipse had occurred. He sold it all, went back to harvest more, and made a handsome profit. He bought the largest house in Egilsstaðir to live in and hired a pair of armed guards to watch over his growing pile of money. But just when it seemed to Jón like the world was finally beginning to repay the debt it owed him, the ash clouds over Egilsstaðir began to abate.

Day by day, the sun was breaking through, and as it did, demand for Jón’s product dried up. It seemed his run of good luck had ended. He had only half a box of sunlight left, but it was selling so slowly that he didn’t bother making the long trip to the highlands to harvest more.

Then Tyr paid him a visit. Jón was smoking a pipe in his most comfortable chair when the strange man walked into his sitting room unannounced, startling Jón half to death.

“You might try knocking!” said Jón, leaping out of his chair. “And how did you get past my bodyguard?”

“Never mind that,” said Tyr. “I hear you’ve given up. It wasn’t part of our agreement that you could simply stop when you felt like it. If you’re not going to use them, you’ll have to give me my boxes back.”

“I’m not giving up,” Jón said irritably. “No one’s buying.”

“You disappoint me,” said Tyr. “I thought you wanted to be rich.”

Jón looked around the room—the well-made furniture, the bearskin rugs, the roaring fire—and said, “I am rich.”

Tyr laughed. “I mean really rich.”

“Of course,” said Jón, “but what am I supposed to do? The sun’s back. People aren’t going to pay for something that’s shining down from the heavens for free.”

“Why, certainly they are,” said Tyr.

“Oh yes?” said Jón. “Have you some book of spells to cast? Some dark enchantment to cloud their minds?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Tyr. “All you need is the magic of advertising.” And he sidled up close to Jón and whispered in his ear.