It was a standoff on the muddy banks of the Acheron.
Charon, ancient and ragged, blocked the gangplank. "One obol," he demanded. "No exceptions."
The Jinn hovered a few feet off the ground, a being of smokeless fire and endless possibility. He wore silks of woven flame and a grin that was too wide. "I have no coin, boatman. But I have power."
Charon raised his oar. "Power has no currency here."
The Failed Strike
Charon swung. Oar of Oblivion.
The heavy wood passed through the Jinn’s chest without resistance. The spirit dissolved into a cloud of heat and sparks—Smokeless-Fire Form—and reformed behind the ferryman, sitting comfortably on the captain’s bench.
"Violent," the Jinn tutted. "I prefer trade."
The Loophole
Charon turned slow, implacable. "Get off my boat."
"Your boat?" The Jinn tilted his head. "Is it? Or is it simply the vessel of the river?"
The Jinn snapped his fingers. Contract-Bend.
"I wish," the Jinn declared, his voice echoing with the binding magic of the old world, "that the master of this vessel grants me passage."
The magic twisted. Charon felt a compulsion, an order written into the fabric of his existence. He was the servant of the ferry. If the ferry had a master...
"And I wish," the Jinn continued, "that I was the captain for the day."
The oar jumped from Charon’s hand into the Jinn’s. The boat lurched forward, propelled by a wind that shouldn't exist in the underworld.
Charon found himself sitting among the weeping souls on the passenger benches, staring at his empty hands. The Jinn laughed, steering the boat in loop-de-loops down the river.
"Technically legal!" the Jinn shouted over the wind.