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Technicolour fog swirled around me, steaming from my ethereal body in painful wisps that twisted and twined together, binding me like a thousand puppet strings to the inner void of this accursed magic lamp. I jerked and danced in agony, burning and freezing, cut into a thousand pieces and reassembled to repeat the process.

The first few days were exquisitely painful, like having your guts pulled out in a never-ending cycle of agony. But like flexing an unused muscle, I learned to clench my magical core and slow the power that was bled from me. Seconds of relief turned into minutes, and eventually into a bearable existence of clench-relief-release-agony-repeat over the years. I had been tricked, sold into slavery by my own mother and condemned to an eternity of solitude and magical kegels.

The next few years were filled with the discovery that I could manipulate my prison, direct the magic and bring into existence a type of virtual reality. It wasn’t much at first, just a bare room with a mattress on the floor, but it was infinitely better than the technicolour void in which I had been trapped. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I slept.

The room became a modest house, and eventually a multi-room mansion, complete with pool and manicured grounds floating in a bubble of magical fog. Servants and amusements were provided by my subconscious. I had a chef and butler, a manservant and maid, all brought into existence by the strength of imagination. Luxurious meals were prepared and I wore the finest of fashion that my memory could provide. Simulations of my friends would come and visit. We would party and play games in the pool house. Girls appeared, their faces recollected from somewhere in my memory and personalities created by my desires. I could recollect every face I had ever seen, every conversation ever heard, every word ever read, and my subconscious could weave it all together in new and amusing forms.

My bitch of a mother died ten thousand deaths in my mind’s eye.

If it weren’t for the manacles around my wrists and the incessant pain of magic being pulled from me, one could almost forget that this was a prison and enjoy a life of unceasing luxury. The manacles that shackled me to this lamp were lead grey and covered in the finest script of silver. Heavy at first, over time I grew used to their presence and during that painful and boring first year where I was able to summon little more than a room and bed, I had plenty of time to examine them. Resembling Arabic calligraphy, the tiny script wound around them in an elaborate and hypnotic pattern. Attempts to copy sections of the script onto summoned paper or even painting it onto the walls of my prison created strange results and intrigued me. The maze-like script was magic in of itself and had an effect on the magic that was my existence.

Time passed strangely. A million years in the blink of an eye, and seconds stretched into years. I lost myself in diversions my past, returning occasionally to the puzzle of the manacles which was both alien and familiar all at once. In some crude fashion I began teaching myself magic while trapped in a magic lamp, learning how to store and channel the energy that was pulled from my core and diffused all around me, to fashion it into my desire and constrain it with within the script that I intuited as Kufic. The more I practiced, the more I learned, and each discovery lead to new discoveries and new knowledge. Magic was a self-assembling puzzle. Once you had a tiny piece, it created other pieces for you to fit together. I passed my sentence watching how the ambient magic would be drawn into the maze of Kufic script and flare into the desire I had inscribed. It was infinitely easier to create something using magical script than it was to hold it together by sheer force of will.

My subconscious wasn’t always the most trustworthy of companions, and a dark cave was discovered in my self-conceived prison paradise. It was then that I learned that I should channel my desires using the ancient script instead of relying on my subconscious to hold things together. So, I destroyed my creation and rebuilt it, forcing the magic to flow through the geometric patterns and manifest as earth and air, fire and water. Magical trees were created and amusing animals brought into existence to roam the grounds of my estate. Years passed and every moment was filled with clench-relief-release-agony-repeat as my essence was pulled from me to fill the lamp.

* * * * *

A bell tolled, ringing ever louder and filling creation with an overwhelming compulsion. My manacles burned and flared with silver-blue light as technicolour fog surrounded me and then vanished, leaving me facing a young man holding a jewel-encrusted lamp. My lamp. My prison. His image burned into my psyche, my first master. Dirty blond hair and dark green eyes. A scar on the bridge of his nose. Stubbled jawline that would leave women flustered and moist. The twinkle of a small diamond glittered from his right earlobe.

He cowered before me, crouched half-hidden behind a marble plinth and raised a gun, firing twice into my chest. More bullets ripped into my back and I twisted under their painful impact, wounded only because I was material. Lesson learned, quickly and painfully. I shifted into a more etherial form as compulsion pulsed through the manacles once more, binding me with unspoken rules that I must obey under threat of agonising pain.

“What is your bidding…Master” I ground out through clenched teeth.

“Who the hell are you? What are you?” He yelled, waving the gun at my now insubstantial self.

“I am…” I hesitated, fighting the compulsion to blindly obey. I grimaced in pain and continued the required speech. “The Djinn of the lamp, and yours to command.”

A hail of bullets flew through my now vaporous form, impacting the plinth and ricocheting around the room.

“Genie?” He said, disbelief warred with hope on his face. “You’re shitting me. If you’re a genie get me out of here!”

“Master has to wish for it.” I said, wincing in sympathy as a bullet passed through me and tore into his gut. “I’m pretty limited on what I’m allowed to do outside the lamp.”

A surprising amount of blood stained the front of his shirt, darkening the material and adding a coppery scent to the air. Pennies and gunpowder. I wondered how bad it was and the knowledge filled my head.

“Looks like your liver took a bullet,” I said. “You’ve got maybe 8 minutes before you bleed out.”

He groaned and writhed on the bloody hardwood floor, blood flowing over his fingers. “I wish I had never taken this job.”

Compulsion flared and I was filled with cosmic power that flowed from the lamp and into me. The knowledge of how to turn back time, reverse the flow of sand in the Reaper’s hourglass flooded my awareness and fizzled out. I didn’t have the power. Maybe in another century or three. But not with a mere decade of magical energy stored in the lamp.

“I’m sorry…Master” I said, gritting my teeth, hating the fact that I was compelled to call anyone who held the lamp master. “I don’t yet possess the power to turn back time. Perhaps something simpler?”

“I wish I was safe at home.” He moaned, shock setting in as the life drained from his body.

Cosmic power arced from the lamp and filled me with overwhelming authority over reality. This was within the realm of my abilities. Teleportation was an option. So was walking. I had some leeway in how the wish was interpreted. A malicious happiness burbled inside me and I chortled with glee as a vague plan presented itself to my mind. The sound of voices from the doorway behind me brought me back to reality. Anyone who possessed the lamp could command me for eternity, and those voices probably belonged to the people who kept me imprisoned in this private museum.

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I surrounded my new master and my lamp in a bubble of magical energy and drew a straight line in my mind’s eye to his bedroom. A thought later and we burst through walls at supersonic speeds, blasting through other buildings as we crossed the city and finally into the shabby one room apartment that my master called home. I deposited him carefully on the bed and removed the protective bubble. Bricks chinked and clacked as they fell from the remains of the wall behind me.

“Safe at home, Master” I said. Glancing around, I located the light switch and flipped it. Vague impressions of what was permissible and what was not cascaded through my head like some exotic form of Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics. The light switch was helpful and safe, therefore allowed as a free action. Light filled the room and partially illuminated the kitchenette that was visible through the open door. A large television hung on one wall in front of an old leather sofa. Behind it a small island separated the living space from the kitchen appliances. A fancy chrome toaster and glass electric kettle sat next to an expensive looking coffee bean grinder. Frames of butterflies and moths adorned the walls tastefully, the contents neatly pinned and labeled. I wondered if he had purchased or collected them.

Turning my attention back to my new master, I watched as he groaned in agony on the bed. Vague impressions of the consequences for the death of a master flitted across my mind. As long as he had possession of the lamp, I was his to command. If another claimed it, I was theirs. If he died, I would be sucked back into the lamp to await a new master. The clauses involving freedom were complex and tenuous. Suggesting wishes were also forbidden in most cases. There was a lot of wriggle room with the chains that bound me, and the potential for a lot of pain. Immortal and indestructible, I would bathe in a volcano if commanded to do so.

“Master should tend to that gunshot before he bleeds out.” I suggested, watching as his eyes started to go glassy from shock.

“Make me healthy,” He mumbled.

“Master must wish for it,” I growled.

“I wish I were healthy again,” He muttered, slurring the words.

The power flowed once again from the lamp. Channeling a tiny thread I fulfilled the wish without twisting it, healing the gunshot, removing a spot of cancer on the lung, banishing assorted parasites and infections. He glowed briefly with a pinkish aura before sighing in relief.

Opening his eyes, he looked me over. “You don’t look like a genie,” he said.

I was dressed casually. Chinos and loafers with a blousy white shirt and sleeves rolled to reveal the manacles that bound me to the lamp. I hadn’t changed my appearance much while trapped in the lamp, so while my physique was that of a greek god, I still had dark, shoulder length hair and ice blue eyes set in a rather average looking face. I had no need to impress the girls in the lamp, they loved me for who I was because they were created that way.

“I’m not a Genie, I’m a Djinn. The child of a minor demon and the two-bit whore of a woman that tricked me into the lamp,” I spat. “There’s a vast difference in powers and domain of influence, a Genie is the daughter of a human male and a demoness,” I paused as he turned his attention to the hole I made in the wall.

“Jesus Christ!” He said, examining the damage. “Look what you did!”

“I brought Master straight home and safely to his bed,” I deadpanned, watching the play of emotion on his face. Disbelief and anger caused the muscles in his jaw to twitch.

“Fix it! Fix it right now!” He yelled.

“Master must wish for it,” I intoned once again. I wasn’t literally bound by the wishing aspect of the lamp. I could perform some tasks if I desired to interpret them as a command or useful, like turning on a light or fetching a glass of water. As long as magic wasn’t directly involved, I had some freedom of choice. In this case I chose to interpret the command to ‘fix it’ as one that required magic, not manual labour.

“Wait, how many wishes do I get?” he asked. “Three?”

The moment of truth. And if I’m careful, an opportunity for escape.

“You may command me as long as you possess the lamp.” I replied.

His eyes widened as the words sank in. “Where’s the lamp?” he said.

I pointed to the table next to the bed and he sprang over the bloody mattress, grabbing at the lamp.

“So as long as I have this, I have unlimited wishes?” he asked.

YES! A question I could manipulate!

“You may command me as long as you possess the lamp,” I said. “But the wishes are not unlimited. I am a young Djinn, and in fact believed myself to be human before I was sold into slavery and imprisoned by my bitch mother a decade ago, so I am not very powerful. Any wishes I grant will be limited to what I can accomplish with the power I have.”

“There’s always a catch,” he said, idly rubbing the lamp while he pondered my words. “Hold on, you said you were human?”

I materialised a chair and cup of coffee and had a seat. Minor magics for personal use were very strictly limited. “I was born in Wolverhampton, England. Attended school there and was in university until my mother tricked me into that lamp,” I said, nodding at the jewelled prison he clutched tightly. “For the last decade I’ve been trapped in that prison. I had a girlfriend, good mates, and until the last year I was free, believed that I was just as human as you are. My name was Adam West.”

He looked at the gaping hole in his wall then back at me. “You’re English? From England? I thought that genies… hold up, your name is Adam West, like Batman? You were named after Batman?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and gently rubbed. “Yes, I was born and raised in England. Adam West is not a common name, but it is a real name nonetheless. I was named after my maternal grandfather Adam Courtenay and West after the whore that gave birth to me.”

“So it’s not a trick? Unlimited wishes?”

“Unlimited wishes within my limited scope of power, yes. Wish away, and if I can’t grant it I’ll let you know,” I said. “This is my first time and you are my first …master,” the word soured on my tongue.

“I wish you would fix the wall right now,” he said, the words tumbling over each other in haste.

I could interpret that in many forms, from repairing the wall with a plywood bandage, to actually restoring it to its former pre-hole state. I chose the latter and guided the magic as it left the lamp. Like a video run in reverse, the debris reconstituted itself into its former shabby glory. “That wasn’t a reversal of time,” I explained. “I just directed the magic and made it appear as if time was running in reverse. It looked more impressive that way.”

“I still have more wishes?” he asked, hesitating as if waiting for bad news.

I had to direct this conversation away from the unlimited wishes and into a direction that would lead to my freedom. “Yes, massster” I sighed, emphasising the master-slave relationship and hoping to play on his moral values. “As many as you desire, terms and conditions apply.”

That got his attention.

“What do you mean, terms and conditions apply?” he asked sharply. “What are the terms and conditions?”

Another open question I could exploit. I took a sip from my coffee and sighed at the pleasant taste of the finest beans my imagination could create. I made a suggestive motion with my cup and eyebrows, silently asking if he would like a cup. He gave the barest of nods and I materialised another cup of coffee.

“How do you take it?”

“Um, two and two.”

I made a guess and altered the composition of the hot beverage.

“Try that,” I said. “I made a guess.”

He took a sip and grimaced a little. “Could use a bit more cream.”

I altered the fabric of the universe with a wave of my hand. He sipped the coffee again and nodded in approval.

“Terms and conditions,” I began, returning to his question and scratching the itchy compulsion that compelled me to answer him. “Apply to every aspect of my current state of being and use of my powers. Notice how I was able to use magic create this chair and coffee? I can choose to interpret your desires however I see fit unless you are extremely specific with your wishes. Like, hire a lawyer to write out the wish and then hire another lawyer to check his work.”

He looked at the coffee suspiciously. “So you’re some evil genie that will twist my words and kill me.”

“No,” I answered, wagging a finger at him. “I am a 32 year old man… Djinn… who was tricked by his mother and imprisoned in the lamp against his will. I cannot kill you on purpose and have no desire to do so. As long as you possess the lamp, the original owner, who I assume is Lord Hatt, will be unable to use me as a slave. I am forbidden from doing many things, like suggesting that you wish for my fr…” I doubled over in agony, spilling coffee on the rug under my feet.

Sucking in a deep breath, I sat back up and waved away the mess. “I cannot tell you what to wish for or make suggestions unless you make a statement that is open to suggestion, like asking for the terms and conditions of using my powers,” I said. “As you can see, there is pain involved. But even that can be twisted to my advantage if I wanted. You could make a wish that would lead to an undesirable outcome, and I would be powerless to suggest something better.”

“So you can’t make suggestions unless I ask for them?”

I nodded. “You will have to give me permission to make suggestions, and even those will be limited by the terms and conditions. I’m not allowed to suggest things that would directly benefit myself.”

He sipped his coffee and thought in silence.

I glanced at the watch on my wrist and looked at the wall I had magically repaired, then glanced back down at my watch.

“Are you waiting for something?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, I had to trick you into asking that very question,” I said, manifesting another cup of coffee. “There’s a pretty straight line of destruction leading from where you first summoned me directly to this location, and it won’t take whoever owned my lamp before you very long to follow it here. I’m wondering how long it would take them to find us.”

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