"Stephen Goldin - Storyteller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

Hakem Rafi sat up slowly, then stared about him at the wonder that had occured.
 True to his word, the king of the daevas had restored the palace to its former glory. The cobwebs were
cleared from the corners, and not a speck of dust lay anywhere about. The rats had vanished, their holes
were plugged and plastered over, the insects were gone, and the air smelled lightly of lemon blossoms.

The hall he was in contained three fountains, each over five cubits in diameter, whose water was scented
with citrus blossoms. Above each was a dome of paper-thin alabaster, allowing the softest filtered light of
peach hue to color the creamy marble floor below. The marble was patterned in cream and gray in an
intricate basket weave. At certain points on either side it became denser, outlining shallow pits filled with
soft rugs and huge pillows.

The tapestries that were faded and dust filled the night before, now were bright depictions of erotic
events. The largest and finest of these showed Hakem Rafi in the embrace of the wali's wife, as she was
obviously straining to pull him to her. The portraiture was very flattering, and Hakem Rafi resolved to
have the daeva make him similarly endowed as soon as possible.

The delicious bubbling sound of the fountains mingled with the songs of many birds in golden cages
suspended from the carved onyx ceiling panels. They swayed gently in the breeze cooled by the
fountains, and made the palace seem full of life. On the walls and stands were inlaid lamps that, come the
night, would give the soft, sensual light shed by burning the finest oils.

Hakem Rafi stood up, gawking at the beauty of the building around him, until he realized suddenly that
he was naked. He quickly donned the uniform he'd been wearing when Aeshma snatched him from the
forest, and walked about the hallway to admire his new home. Everywhere he looked was beauty
compounded on beauty—pictures, carpets, tiles, furniture, fixtures. And every bit of it was his. It was
true. He was the richest, most powerful man in Parsina.

A sudden thought brought him up short. One man had possessed all this wealth before, and where was
he now? Dead and dust, and his memory totally forgotten. Great though he was, Rashwenath was mortal
and his name had died centuries ago. All he'd strived for was gone, all he'd built evaporated. Hakem Rafi
was mortal, too; he'd never given the matter much thought before, but now it seemed suddenly of vital
concern.

“Aeshma!” he called, and his voice echoed down the empty hallways, muffled only slightly by the
restored tapestries.

The daeva's huge form materialized out of smoke before him. “Ever at my master's call,” Aeshma said
with surprising softness.

“I want you to make me immortal,” the thief said brusquely.

For the first time, the daeva hesitated. “That I cannot do, O my master."

“You swore to obey all my commands,” Hakem Rafi said in a petulant whine.

“And so I shall, in everything within my ability. My powers are unequaled upon the face of the earth, but
power over death is not mine. Death was created by my lord Rimahn to inflict upon the creatures of
Oromasd. I have not the ability to undo what my own lord and creator has done. I shall obey you in all
things, save that I am powerless to forestall your eventual and inevitable death. As I promised you, I will
not cause it—but neither can I stop it from happening some day."