Oshannus Unmade

Azraq Oshannus rose from his throne. "Stand down, Portia. You go no farther."

Portia peered up at him with bored, lidded eyes. "Oh, dear Oshannus," she said with a sigh. "I'm afraid it's you who will go no farther."

She flicked her hand in the air.

Djinn are elemental creatures born of the outer planes. To strip them of their element is the equivalent of stripping a person of blood, bone, and flesh.

For Oshannus, the heat came first. Then a feeling he could only define as slackness. His limbs, his joints, coming undone. His jaw sliding downward. His knuckles loosening, his fingers elongating.

Then came the flesh. His cheeks softening. His skin running like melted wax. Inside, his bones losing their hold.

And then the pain. Oh, heaven's mercy, the pain.

He stared at Portia, wide-eyed, disbelieving, imploring. He tried to speak, to beg for release. But his lips slipped from his mouth and ran down his chin.

Then his eyes followed.

In the end, all that remained of the great djinn known as Azraq Oshannus—who had raged like a storm for centuries, who had fought and conquered and ruled and loved—was a puddle of evaporating water at Portia's feet.

She stared at it for a moment.

"We're done here."

She left. By nightfall, there was only dry stone where Oshannus had once sat upon his throne.