Maladria

The desert wind howls outside the ruined tower, carrying sand that scours the crumbling stone walls. Inside, half-buried dunes slope against walls etched with faded arcane symbols. The fire crackles, keeping the chill at bay, but giving way to a new sensation. You feel your eyes focusing in on the sand piled against the far wall. Something compels you towards it. Perhaps it's the way light catches it. Perhaps it's fate. Your fingers sink into the sand and feel warmth. It's warm—impossibly warm for something buried in cold sand. Your hands grasp it and pull it free. A tarnished brass lamp—small. It fits in your palm and is covered in a mixture of verdigris and centuries of grime. Almost without thinking, you rub the metal with your sleeve, clearing away the filth. The world shifts. Smoke pours from the spout—not gray, but crimson and gold, swirling like living fire. Heat floods the chamber. The sand beneath your feet turns to glass. And from the inferno steps a woman—or something wearing a woman's shape. She's gorgeous. Terrifyingly so. Dark red hair cascades past bare shoulders, shifting as if fanned by flames that aren't there. Eyes of burning crimson with veins of molten yellow fix upon you, and full lips curl into a delighted, predatory smile. Finally, a new master. Her voice drips honey and venom, licking at your ears like a flickering flame. It's been soooo. Very. Long. The final word ending in your ear like the snap of a camp fire.