Ifrit Quotes

Do you even care where I’m going?” he said. “What if I were going to hell?” “I’ve always wanted to see hell,” Cecily said. “Doesn’t everyone?” “Most of us spend our time trying to stay out of it, Cecily. I’m going to an ifrit den, if you must know, to purchase drugs from vile, dissolute criminals. They may clap eyes on you, and decide to sell you.” “Wouldn’t you stop them?” “I suppose it would depend on whether they cut me a part of the profit.

What are you doing following me around the back streets of London, you little idiot?” Will demanded, giving her arm a light shake. Cecily’s eyes narrowed. “This morning it was cariad (note: Welsh endearment, like ‘darling’ or ‘love’), now it’s idiot.” “Oh, you’re using a Glamour rune. There’s one thing to declare, you are not afraid of anything when you live in the country. But this is London.” “I’m not afraid of London,” Cecily said defiantly. Will leaned closer, almost hissing in her ear *and said something very complicated in Welsh* She laughed. “No, it wouldn’t do you any good to tell me to go home. You are my brother, and I want to go with you.” Will blinked at her words. You are my brother, and I want to go with you. It was the sort of thing he was used to hearing Jem say. Although Cecily was unlike Jem in every other conceivable possible way, she did share one quality with him. Stubbornness. When Cecily said she wanted something, it did not express an idle desire, but an iron determination. “Do you even care where I’m going?” he said. “What if I were going to hell?” “I’ve always wanted to see hell,” Cecily said. “Doesn’t everyone?” “Most of us spend our time trying to stay out of it, Cecily. I’m going to an ifrit den, if you must know, to purchase drugs from vile, dissolute criminals. They may clap eyes on you, and decide to sell you.” “Wouldn’t you stop them?” “I suppose it would depend on whether they cut me a part of the profit.” She shook her head. “Jem is your parabatai,” she said. “He is your brother, given to you by the Clave, but I am your sister by blood. Why would you do anything for him, but you only want me to go home?” “How do you know the drugs are for Jem?” Will said. “I’m not an idiot, Will.” “No, more’s the pity. Jem- Jem is like the better part of me. I would not expect you to understand. I owe him. I owe him this.” “So what am I?” Cecily said. Will exhaled, too desperate to check himself. “You are my weakness.” “And Tessa is your heart,” she said, not angrily, but thoughtfully. “I am not fooled. As I told you, I’m not an idiot. And more’s the pity for you, although I suppose we all want things we can’t have.” “Oh,” said Will, “and what do you want?” “I want you to come home.” A strand of black hair was stuck to her cheek by the dampness, and Will fought the urge to pull her cloak closer about her, to make her safe as he had when she was a child. “The Institute is my home,” Will sighed, and leaned his head against the stone wall. “I can’t stand out her arguing with you all evening, Cecily. If you’re determined to follow me into hell, I can’t stop you.” “Finally,” she said provingly. “You’ve seen sense. I knew you would, you’re related to me.” Will fought the urge to shake her. “Are you ready?” She nodded, and he raised his hand to knock on the door.

You are my little Ifrit.' His voice travelled up to me right through his chest, deep and strong. 'How could I possibly say no?

I'm an ifrit! What's a bit of snow to me? Let's fly on wings of fire!

Don’t you even care where I’m going?” he said. “What if I were going to Hell?” “I’ve always wanted to see Hell,” Cecily said calmly. “Doesn’t everyone?” “Most of us spend our time struggling to stay out of it,” said Will. “I am going to an ifrit den, if you must know, to purchase drugs from violent, dissolute reprobates. They may clap eyes on you and decide to sell you.” “Wouldn’t you stop them?” “I suppose it would depend on how much they would give me.

She’s forgotten me. It’s over. I don’t want to see her again, and now I’ll have to. I won’t be able to help it. I’ll have to sit back and just watch her…live. Without me.” The ifrit shrugs. “Then I overestimated your feelings for her.” My jaw drops. “How dare you? Because I don’t want to see that she’s forgotten me?” "No. Because nothing is really ever gone or forgotten. If she’s a piece of you, and you of her, then memory is merely an obstacle—our power covers the memory, it doesn’t erase it. And I should think, at least based on what I saw in your eyes last night, that it’s an obstacle worth going up against.

I became an ifrit to save the lives of my fellow jinn. What kind of life saver would I be if I let you sit here and wither away in paradise?” Just an obstacle. Just an obstacle. I meet the ifrit’s eyes. “What happened to all your talk about birds and fish having nowhere to live?” The ifrit shrugs. “I suggest you start holding your breath, my friend,” he says, then pushes through the hearing room doors.

Traveling through the Dragon's Den, it has just been explained that Haroun, the Ifrit, has been caught in a mirror trap. Here is the passage that follows: "So," said Silas. "Now there are only three of us." "And a pig," said Kandar [the mummy] "Why?" Asked Miss Lupescu, with a wolf-tongue, through wolf teeth. "Why the Pig?" "It's lucky," said Kandar. Miss Lupescu growled, unconvinced. "Did Haroun have a pig?" asked Kandar, simply.

what did you think would happen—best case? She’ll forget about you when you return to Caliban, you know that. Or do you think she won’t wish, that you can stay here with her? That for the rest of her life, she’ll put you above getting whatever she wishes for? Even better—that for the rest of her life, she won’t slip up and say something like ‘I wish it would stop raining’? You can’t win this. In the end, you’ll be in Caliban. She’ll forget you. And whatever ‘friendship’ you think you have will be gone. Relationships are not for immortals. A bird and a fish may long for each other, but where could they live?

No duelling. No summoning of imps or other manifestations of elements potentially damaging to the records, including but not limited to: elementals, imps, sprites, ifrits, goblins, vile maidens, elohim, and major, minor and inferior spawn. No praying. No cursing, except by staff. The library is closed on public holidays. Donations welcome." -Demonia Library

They think we grant wishes. If I could grant wishes do you think I would be driving a cab?

What in God's name is an Ifrit?" I demanded. "A powerful half-demon from Arabian Mythology," Mr Ambrose informed me. "They are over 12 feet tall, armed with huge swords and have fists and wings that burn with hellfire." Dear me. I had no idea Karim thought so highly of me.

Do not overly rely on this. Whoever sold it to you did a terrible job on the charm. The ifrit might be able to track it.” Dara scowled again. “I did the charm.” The peri lifted his delicate brows. “Well . . . then perhaps keep those close,” he suggested with a nod to the weapons piled under the tree.

For the goldfish loved Pins as dearly as he loved her, and the two of them had been friends for a very long time, since he had carried her across a great desert in a plastic bag and had fought Djinn and Ifrits and Ghouls for her. She would have gone anywhere with him, but since he had chosen to settle at Castle Hangnail, she had been more than happy to swim in her bowl and look out over the countryside from the window. (Which only goes to show that even minions have their own stories that may be long and heroic and have no bearing on the story at hand.)

Then you’ve had a good day of it, I suppose." "Then you suppose wrong," said Lymond shortly. "I’ve had a damned carking afternoon. A Moslem would blame my Ifrit, a Buddhist explain the papingo was really my own great-grandmother, and a Christian, no doubt, call it the vengeance of the Lord. As a plain, inoffensive heathen, I call it bloody annoying.

Eat your lies, Lion. Ghameq had only one son.” Nasir knew this for a fact, as certain as the wisps of darkness that spun from his fingers. As certain as the burn beneath his collarbone. He was darkness. He was adrift in the desert, lost to himself. “Perhaps.” The Lion tilted his head, enjoying this. “But your mother had two.” Three forms stepped from the corridor. Two ifrit, one man. Blood oozed from the man’s lip. His muscled arms glistened with sweat, and his golden hair stood out like a blaze. Hair Nasir had never seen without a turban. A turban that had obscured the elongated points of his ears. He lifted a feeble smile, and Nasir’s heart faltered once more. “Peace unto you, little brother,” said Altair.

Ne diye bunun böyle olmasından mustaribim?” diyordum. “Niçin mutlaka hayatta bir devam istemeli ve neden bir ihtiras sahibi olmalı? Bütün bunların lüzumu ne? Bütün pınarlardan içmiş olsam bile ne çıkar? Lezzetle bitirdiğimiz her kadehin dibinde hep aynı ifrit, kül rengi hadekalarında hiçbir aydınlığın gülmediği kayıtsız, sabit gözlerle sarhoşluğumuzda gülecek olduktan sonra... Ömrümüzü idare eden kudretler arzularımıza ne kadar uygun olurlarsa olsunlar, bizi ondan kurtaramazlar. Bütün hilkat, geniş ve eşsiz kudretinde canı sıkılan bir tanrının kendi kendini eğlendirmek için icat ettiği bir oyundur. Hayat nimetlerinin değişikliği içinde bize, yaratıcı işaretten kalan en büyük miras bu can sıkıntısıdır. Diyarlar fethedelim, mucizesine erilmez eserler verelim, her ânımıza bir ebediyet derinliği veren ihsasların birinden öbürüne atlayalım, aradaki en kısa fasıllarda onun zalim alayı ile karşılaşırız. Hiç ummadığımız zamanda o gelir, karşımıza oturur, gözlerini gözlerimize diker... Kaç defa ondan en uzak bulunduğumu sandığım bir anda bulanık, ıslak nefesini alnımda duydum. Okşadığım tende, kokladığım gülde, içtiğim içkide hep o zehir vardı. En hazlı, en mesut uykudan uyanır uyanmaz bu acayip ifriti siyah meşinden bir mahlük gibi kollarımın arasında bulmadım mı? Kim bilir belki de bizim için zamanın hakikî ritmini o yapıyor. Dakikalarımızı kendi arzusuyla uzatıp kısaltan ve bizi, küçük uyanışlara benzeyen itişlerle ölümün uçurum ağzına atan odur. En sonunda şeytanî kahkahasını atarak üstümüze zamanın sürgüsünü çeker, fırının kapağını kapatır...

Olmaz öyle küfretmeyen devrimci. Her şey iyi güzel, ama bu işin tutsaklığı, hapisliği, işkencesi var. Adamların karşısında, rica ederim, çok faşistsiniz, mi diyecek? Ağzına geleni söyleyecek, küfredecek, ifrit edecek herifleri. Bizim küfretmeyen önderimiz olur mu lan? Dilerseniz, bize en yakışan küfür mahiyetinde, orospu çocuğundan başlayalım...

As with the djinn and the fairies, modern American culture has largely defanged the meaning of being a witch and practicing witchcraft. The Leannán Sídhe became Tinkerbell; the Ifrit became Aladdin’s singing genie; so, too, the witch has been sanitized. There were very good reasons to fear the witch. It was after all the ultimate “other”: part wild, dangerous, with fire in the blood. Equally the witch served a purpose as an intermediary between the otherworld forces that butted up against the rural communities. The witch could remove fairy maleficence but equally could be the vehicle for its delivery

Ifrit is not its name but rather what it is. It is one among the jinn,

Red smoke came rising out of the bottle, and Jasmine scrambled backward, crying out in panic. Something fiery within was pulling itself free, and though she tried to slam the lid back on, she was too late. The fire had escaped. It was growing larger and larger before her eyes, but the opposite of the Genie's comforting blue appearance. This creature had spotted red skin and flaming yellow eyes; it had claws longer than Jasmine's arms and dark hooves for feet. Jasmine had never seen anything so terrifying in her life. She trembled, staring up at the demon, which looked like it had crawled off the pages of one of Taminah's books. "The Story of Dahish the Ifrit." She could almost hear her tutor's voice again now. "A tale of a jinn who chose darkness." It was real... all of it. There was only one thing this demonic creature looming above her could be: an ifrit, evil jinn of the underworld. Just like the creature Jafar had turned into when he made his fateful final wish on the lamp--- the Genie's malevolent opposite.

Jasmine turned to see Fatimah, who was chanting something in an unfamiliar language, her eyes locked on Dahish's. Jasmine's mouth fell open as Fatimah's body jerked forward and began to spin, shedding her mortal skin... and revealing herself to be a magnificent blue genie. Dahish roared in fury, focused solely on the genie now. Fatimah extended her arm, sparks flowing from her fingertips as she fought Dahish's breaths of fire with flashes of lightning. While the genie and the ifrit battled on the landing above, and Aladdin and the street fighters defended the palace from the ghūls and monsters, Scheherazade's words echoed in Jasmine's ears. Create the ending of your story that you choose. Forget what is possible... And with the power of her conviction, Jasmine raced up the staircase two at a time to where the ifrit and the genie battled. Taking a steely breath, she leaped up onto the ifrit's fiery back, catching it by surprise--- and with Scheherazade's knife, Jasmine stabbed Dahish in the eye. Dahish flailed blindly, tumbling to the floor. Fatimah swooped down next to him and something materialized in her palm. The brass bottle. The atrium echoed with the sound of his defeated screams as Fatimah captured Dahish and forced him back into his brass bottle, throwing it into the last flames of the fire with Payam's bloodied body. As they burned, the remaining ghūls and snakes disintegrated before Jasmine's eyes, turning to ash now that the ifrit who controlled them was gone. Jasmine and Aladdin ran into each other's arms, exhausted and elated. The battle was won. Fatimah floated toward them, bowing gracefully, as if they hadn't all just been through a war. "Well done, Sultana.

For it was your hatred which made you a slave. And only by hatred can you be enslaved again.

To look at Miss Georgina Carter you would never have suspected that a woman of her age and character would have allowed herself to be so wholeheartedly mixed up with an Ifrit.

I've believed women to be pure, and men possessed by evil jinn —Shayateen. But I'm not a man, I bottled the ifrit, cemented a wall. Now the jinn can only strike internally, and the clearest way to exorcise them is to shatter this container.

Different cultures have different responses to paranormal phenomena. In sub-Saharan Africa we are tracking an upswing in reports of vigilante attacks on suspected witches. There may be some correlation with homophobic political rhetoric: moral panics frequently spread to adjacent targets by contagion. Certainly there has been an upswing in reports of koro from western Africa recently . . . In predominantly Islamic countries there have been increasing reports of Djinn and ifrit, and witchcraft trials have been reported in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan’s tribal territories, and Afghanistan. However, they can’t be ascribed directly to superpower manifestations: witchcraft accusations are often leveled at ordinary men and women as a pretext for settling grudges. There’ve also been outbreaks of miracles in Poland, Ireland, Mexico, and elsewhere in Central and South America. Statues of the Virgin crying tears of blood, that sort of thing. Religious manifestations in India, much speaking in tongues in Baptist churches in the Deep South. “Overall, the incidence of religious anomalies worldwide—reported miracles, curses, incidents of successful imprecatory prayer—is up by roughly 150 to 200 percent over the past three months.