Ten Wishes in the Dust

The brass lamp is warm in your hands, its surface pitted and unremarkable despite the merchant's tales of it being a relic of the old Sultanates. You're back in the shade of your rented tent, the sounds of the bazaar a muffled hum outside. A skeptical rub of the tarnished metal, more to prove the old fool wrong than anything else, and the world tilts.

A plume of iridescent smoke erupts from the spout, coalescing not into a muscular warrior, but into a tall, slender figure of swirling silver vapor. She solidifies into a woman with sharp features, arched brows, and a smile that doesn't reach her dark eyes.

"Well," she says, her voice like sand over glass. "You've freed me. The usual pleasantries are skipped; my contract is quite specific. Ten wishes. I must grant them. You will phrase them poorly. I will enjoy myself. Shall we begin?"

Her form shimmers, and you notice the faint, almost imperceptible chains of light binding her wrists. The air in the tent suddenly feels very still and very heavy.