By the afternoon, a thirsty heat had pried its way under his skin, reaching in to wick the moisture from his bones. Jesus knew he would have to find water. He had not rationed as well as he might have, relying instead on Solomon’s assurance that he would find springs in the lower depressions. As yet, however, he had not discovered any water sources, and his meager supply was running low.

The first layer of skin began to peel from his lips. Though he had faced stronger sun in the past, for some reason Jesus felt particularly susceptible to the heat. He searched several low spots for a spring. But found nothing. The extra exploration delayed his journey and he was frustrated by the slowed progress.

Pausing to confirm his bearings, he watched the distant horizon ripple upward in waves. He perceived the usual mirages: a giant lake stretching between crests, a lush green jungle sprouting from nowhere. His mind struggled against the temptations. But his thoughts began to fray.

Why had Solomon allowed him to take such a dangerous and hopeless journey? Was it revenge? Could he possibly have wanted him dead?

The land began to tilt. He tried to still his mind, but the questions spiraled. He was just on the verge of losing control when a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. The cry flattened him to the ground. He pressed his lips into the dust, too scared to look up. He waited for another scream. But only silence followed. He held still for several minutes, wondering what he should do. Slowly, he lifted his head and wiped the sand from his cheeks. He scanned the horizon, expecting to see the headless bodies of the jinn. But he saw nothing. Only the columnar ridge, looming closer.

Unable to sleep, Jesus struggled to remember Solomon’s instructions, and the landmarks and timetables he had given him. Staring through the dark, he could make out the ridgeline. He knew he would cross it by the end of the next day.

But was he behind schedule? Should he have already crossed?

His mind fumbled. He rose and built a small fire. He poured the last water from his goatskin to make a cup of tea and gnawed on a handful of dried dates. His stomach growled for more.

Finally, he arrived at the bottom of the ridge. Anxious to have the journey behind him, he scrambled up its side. His feet slipped on the loose rocks and crusty soil. At the top, he felt as though he was standing on the slicing edge of a knife. The land on the opposite side dropped too abruptly to be traversed without the risk of broken bones. He knew that going straight down would be the fastest way, but Solomon had warned him against this temptation. “Keep to the top until it is safe to descend,” he had cautioned.