The Ifrit roared, a pillar of smokeless fire. "I will scorch the earth!" He raised a scimitar of ash. Ash-Forge Dominion.
Iktomi sat on a rock, seemingly terrified. He was actually spinning a web of invisible thread. Trickster's Weave.
"Oh, mighty one!" Iktomi cried. "You are too big! Too powerful! Surely you cannot fit in this tiny, insignificant jar?"
The Classic Trap
The Ifrit paused. His pride was prickled. "I am fire! I have no form I cannot master!"
"I don't believe you," Iktomi said, shaking his head. "You are vast, like a storm. physics says you can't shrink."
The Ifrit sneered. He swirled into a Smokeless Emberform and spiraled down, condensing his massive heat into the small clay pot Iktomi held.
"See?" the Ifrit's voice echoed from inside. "I am supreme!"
"You are canned," Iktomi corrected.
He corked the jar and sealed it with wax and a Lesson Snare.
Iktomi patted the jar. "Warm," he noted. "Good for cold nights."