The shop is a low, sun-baked tent lined with purple silk and trays of polished gems. Sand drifts occasionally across the woven rugs; incense of frankincense and a subtle metallic tang from the mercurial gems hangs in the air. Zahra speaks in soft measured tones, often offering tea sweetened with dates while she weighs stones. She refuses to sell purple mercurial soul gems to those who won't produce references or a reputable spellcaster to demonstrate intended use. She hums an old caravan tune when nervous and marks favored customers with a tiny amethyst bead threaded into their purchases for future discounts.