This is my first story. If I get decent reviews, I'll continue it. If anyone would like to help me out by being a reader for me, I'd love that; I'm horrible with spelling and such.

This prologue is taking place about nine years prior to the events in the first Aladdin movie. The other chapters will be taking place about the time of the television series, and will feature Mozenrath after the first chaper.

Anyway, hope everyone enjoys.


PROLOGUE - Nine years ago

Screaming sands, biting cold, and talons dug painfully into this flesh. Hardly how the Grand Vizier planned on spending his nights. He certainly hoped the acquiring of a familiar would be worth all this trouble. He could be back in his bedchambers, reclining on his large soft bed, having figs hand-fed to him by one of the beautiful and accommodating harem girls.

But no, he had been suckered into acquiring a dirty, wretched bird that was even now trying to rip the very bones from his shoulder. Scared, the creature was trying to fly away on its clipped wings. He had trimmed back the feathers, and the scarlet macaw was simply flailing madly, wings battering his face, feet locked into a death-grip on his shoulder, squawking loudly in his ear.

Irritated, the man turned to the bird. Stroking his feathers, he murmured, "Be still my pet, this will all be over soon. In the end, you will agree it was worth it. Heightened intelligence, long life, magical abilities. It is worth a bit of pain and discomfort, when you think of the payoff. You must learn patience."

The bird, soothed by the man's low voice and subsequent stroking of his feathers, calmed down a bit, but was still nervous. Large yellow eyes widened with fear, the bird began to dig his claws even deeper into the sorcerer's shoulder.

Wincing in pain, the man tried to hold his patience in with his pet, soon to be a familiar, telling himself that the dumb animal did not understand what was happening. He had invested far to much time, expense, and energy into getting this bird healthy, testing it's intelligence, and getting it ready for this night to simply break the birds neck as he wanted to do, and head back to the Palace.

He began to rummage in a bag tied to his hip, and pulled out lavender; one of the many expensive leaves needed for this spell, and sprinkled some on the ground. The sorcerer lifted his hands, holding a golden staff high in the air, and began to speak an incantation. The sand began to spin around the man and his pet, battering them with thousands of tiny stings.

He took the small bird from his shoulder and placed him on the lavender and sand before him. The nervous animal began to pace, still flapping his wings in an ineffective attempt to flee. The man stepped back. The frightened bird would have liked to return to the man's shoulder, but lacked the ability to do so.

The sand stopped spinning around the sorcerer as he continued to chant, instead concentrating around the hapless macaw. Squawking in fright, the bird tried to escape the stinging missals, but no matter which way he turned, they were there, closing in on him, burying into his feathers, stinging his eyes, scratching his throat. The wind whipped by and sucked the air from his throat, and he was gasping in spinning cylinder of sand, while his master stood outside of it, talking and watching. What had he done to anger him?

The sorcerer lit a bundle of blood root and threw the burning mass at the bird. The bird saw the flaming missal hurling toward him in a break in the sand, and ducked. He had very little room to move, and the bundle landed in the cylinder next to him, and began eating at the sand walls. The flames slowly climbed up the whirling walls around him, scorching his feathers, and finally, slowly roasting his skin. Now, he was trapped in a cylinder of fire.

The bird, maddened by fright and pain, thought his heart was going to explode. As his body continued to heat, the bird collapsed, and then rose again, stumbling in his fiery prison. On and on this went, with the master talking outside. Smoke was pouring through his beak, down his throat.

Already raw from the blasts of sand, this agony was too much for the bird to endure. Collapsing on the sand, the bird began to go into shock, smelling his own skin and feathers cooking. He felt his feathers finally catch fire, and he closed his eyes, waiting for death to finally overtake him, and wondered how he displeased his master.

His master was outside, just watching. He raised his hands, the eyes of the carved cobra head glittering in the full moonlight, and chanted. Winds whipped up, and fanned the flames, stirring more sand and smoke around the bird. The bird screamed and squawked as he felt his body elongating, stretching out in five different directions. A pain began in his head, behind his eyes, finally overtaking his entire body. Sand from below him encircled his neck, constricting his thrashing head.

Out through his bleary watery eyes, he watched his master stop talking, and, holding out his hand, saw water begin coming up the walls, and, when reaching the top of the cylinder, poured back down over the bird, soothing his charred feathers and skin.

The water continued to flow, and began to fill up the cylinder. The rushing sound filled the dazed bird's ears, and he felt himself being lifted gently by the water, being rocked back and forth within the flowing walls. Opening his eyes, he turned his head slightly, and saw that he was not burned at all, not a single singe spot on any feather.

Surprise went through the birds mind. Not only was he not burned, he was aware he was not burned, but should be. More than luck was involved here. The only lingering affects seemed to be he was exhausted, and he had a headache. He was aware of something around his neck, but it was neither uncomfortable nor seemed to hinder his movements, so he dismissed it. There was too much else to worry about.

He was more aware of everything. He realized he was thinking different, and wondered briefly if he was dead. That could not be possible. So, what was this new sentience - he was a bird, he should be thinking like a bird. Food, flight, sleep, shiny pretty things; these were the most he had ever thought of before. What was this change that had come over him?

More curious than frightened by this new revelation, he ducked his head under the water, hoping to clear his head, and beat his wings. He still could not fly. The master had clipped his feathers, afraid of losing his new prize, he remembered, probing his memories, most looking like he was viewing them through a veil, so dim they were.

Thinking of his master, the bird turned. The waters, which had been pushing him up like a living fountain, were gradually receding, the walls shortening in height. He rode the waves, unafraid; until he was sitting on the wet sand, which grew damp, then dry, the water gone as if it had been nothing more than a memory. His feathers were dry, but he shook himself anyway, the innate instinct kicking in. But the pain and fear he had felt just minutes ago was still fresh in his mind. He wanted to know what he had done, so he never did it again.

His master was standing where he had been the entire time, a satisfied smirk on his face. He slowly came toward him, and the bird involuntary stepped back, afraid of more torture. His master crouched down, though, still holding his glittering staff, and holding his other arm out to the bird, spoke.

"Welcome, Iago."