Golden light of the Arabian sun flooded across the surface of the rock in which the keyhole stood. The dyes and pigments of what had once been paint, flared into color and Zahi could see an eye, another eye, and a great, gaping maw of what looked to be a great bird, alternately gilt and covered in blood. He let go of the key which had, as if guided by magic, turned its full rotation as smoothly as if the mechanism were newly made and newly oiled. 

With the last pin in place, a seam broke out across the painted stone and a door, small enough that he might duck to enter, was visible. Zahi gazed at it for long moments. He had little use for magic outside of his precious Anat who carried the blood of her forefathers, the djinn whose winds still swept the dune tops and heralded, no – incited the storms to rise. Besides, he had miles to go, a talisman to take into the depth of an uninhabitable desert and there, to die with it and thus, keep his father's pride untarnished by bickering and bids for power. 

Still, it was a door and as such, demanded that it be used, for all it seemed new enough in the turning, every other sign told a very different tale. Here, the bones of one who had been searching, perhaps, for that very keyhole. Here, a lost civilization painting their vengeful god across its surface. So bid by a power of time and tale, Zahi put aside the pang in his side, the dull ache of his life leaving, and set his bloody hand to the center and gave a heave. 

The door proved to not be as smooth nor as helpful as the keyhole and it grated, complained, and gave but a little. But suddenly, it began to jerk under his hand, trying of its own accord to open. Seemingly, however, it could not do it alone and he was forced to set his shoulder to it and with the aid of the door, he was able to move it open enough for a man to enter through. 

Within, the dark called and Zahi considered that if he were to somehow close it behind him, particularly with the key in his hand, then none would ever find his body, his tribe's talisman, and such a place for death might have been the work of Anat and her people. 

He staggered as he slid into the opening and leaned heavily against the door's furthest edge. Immediately within, the scent of cool, wet, and human rank cut Zahi's sense of smell and into the pain, much like a dull knife tears at the flesh which is well cooked. A mallet would do better a job, if by no other means than brute force and the height of the preparing swing. 

Zahi squinted into the shadows within. The stone had been hollowed out in angles, with thick lines rent into it. Along the upper surfaces, a dim, green light flooded the chamber as twisted vines on the ceiling described the ceiling of both the inner room and hallways beyond going either direction. Despite the monolith being a chimney of sorts, beyond the door felt in his bones, like a great deal larger than the very rock into which it was bored. It had a sound within, almost that of the soughing of the night winds, but greater, a storm perhaps. 

The ground beneath him was hard and he looked down to see what it might have been and in the looking, his gaze swept over the shape beyond him. It stood, readied for him, its shape taken as that of a man, shirt white and hair wild. The djinn, for what could it have been else, was larger than he and with the pale skin and even paler eyes of the Franks with whom others had fought. He had heard that they stank, these foreigners, and this place which the door had led to reflected that belief. 

“As-salamu alaykum,” the prince rumbled through the smell and his own weariness. He tipped his head, touched fingertips to head, to chin, to mouth, and then gave a small, pained bow. “I am the Prince Zahi Akeem Gabir Hakim Amjad. O Djinn, I ask but your favor to lie in this blessed place and set down my burdens. If I die here, you might do as you will with my bones so long as you leave my father's mark behind the closed door. I have here, the key which you and my Anat directed for me to use.” That said, he held out the key between them to prove his worth. 

The Djinn though, as the shadows passed and its face came to be more distinct, looked not at all pleased to see him. Rather, he gave Zahir a glance of thunder and then fixated on the key. In fact, the Djinn was strangely human looking. The fierce free will of Anat's people, the sharp teeth, the golden fire of their spirit was lacking in this one. Zahir let his hand fall and gripped it, and the key, against his side. “If you were captured here, and I may presume, I would grant you your freedom for the right to bury myself out of any man's sight.” The creature had done nothing to make Zahir sure of himself and despite his initial belief that this was the Djinn's notions which had brought him here, he had begun to believe that perhaps it was more the will of the key, if such an intelligence could live in a key. 

Behind, through the still open door, Anat snorted and the wind began to sift sand through the entry, pale against the hard floor underneath.