wizard!' He stamped a foot petulantly.
'Indeed?' said the dryad. 'Then let us see you pass a spell.'
'Uhâ' began Rincewind. The fact was that, since the ancient and mysterious spell had squatted in his mind, he had been unable to remember even the simplest cantrap for, say, killing cockroaches or scratching the small of his back without using his hands. The mages at Unseen University had tried to explain this by suggesting that the involuntary memorizing of the spell had, as it were, tied up all his spell-retention cells. In his darker moments Rincewind had come up with his own explanation as to why even minor spells refused to stay in his head for more than a few seconds.
They were scared, he decided.
'Umâ' he repeated.
'A small one would do,' said Druellae, watching him curl his lips in a frenzy of anger and embarrassment. She signalled, and a couple of he-dryads closed in.
The Spell chose that moment to vault into the temporarily abandoned saddle of Rincewind's consciousness. He felt it sitting there, leering defiantly at him.
'I do know a spell,' he said wearily.
'Yes? Pray tell,' said Druellae.
Rincewind wasn't sure that he dared, although the spell was trying to take control of his tongue. He fought it.
'You thed you could read by bind,' he said indistinctly. 'Read it.'
She stepped forward, looking mockingly into his eyes.
Her smile froze. Her hands raised protectively, she crouched back. From her throat came a sound of pure terror.
Rincewind looked around. The rest of the dryads were also backing away. What had he done? Something terrible, apparently.
But in his experience it was only a matter of time before the normal balance of the universe restored itself and started doing the usual terrible things to him. He backed away, ducked between the still-spinning dryads who were creating the magic circle, and watched to see what Druellae would do next.
'Grab him,' she screamed. 'Take him a long way from the Tree and kill him!'
Rincewind turned and bolted.
Across the focus of the circle.
There was a brilliant flash.
There was a sudden darkness.
There was a vaguely Rincewind-shaped violet shadow, dwindling to a point and winking out.
There was nothing at all.
Hrun the Barbarian crept soundlessly along the corridors, which were lit with a light so violet that it was almost black. His earlier confusion was gone. This was obviously a magical temple, and that explained everything.
It explained why, earlier in the afternoon, he had espied a chest by the side of the track while riding through this benighted forest. Its top was invitingly open, displaying much gold. But when he had leapt off his horse to approach it the chest had sprouted legs and had gone trotting off into the forest, stopping again a few hundred yards away.
Now, after several hours of teasing pursuit, he had lost it in these hell-lit tunnels. On the whole, the unpleasant carvings and occasional disjointed skeletons he passed held no fears for Hrun. This was partly because he was not exceptionally bright while being at the same time exceptionally unimaginative, but it was also because odd carvings and perilous tunnels were all in a day's work. He spent a great deal of time in similar situations, seeking gold or demons or distressed virgins and relieving them respectively of their owners, their lives and at least one cause of their distress.
Observe Hrun, as he leaps cat-footed across a suspicious tunnel mouth. Even in this violet light his skin gleams coppery. There is much gold about his person, in the form of anklets and wristlets, but otherwise he is naked except for a leopardskin loincloth. He took that in the steaming forests of Howondaland, after killing its owner with his teeth.
In his right hand he carried the magical black sword Kring, which was forged from a thunderbolt and has a soul but suffers no scabbard. Hrun had stolen it only three days before from the impregnable palace of the Archmandrite of B'Ituni, and he was
'Indeed?' said the dryad. 'Then let us see you pass a spell.'
'Uhâ' began Rincewind. The fact was that, since the ancient and mysterious spell had squatted in his mind, he had been unable to remember even the simplest cantrap for, say, killing cockroaches or scratching the small of his back without using his hands. The mages at Unseen University had tried to explain this by suggesting that the involuntary memorizing of the spell had, as it were, tied up all his spell-retention cells. In his darker moments Rincewind had come up with his own explanation as to why even minor spells refused to stay in his head for more than a few seconds.
They were scared, he decided.
'Umâ' he repeated.
'A small one would do,' said Druellae, watching him curl his lips in a frenzy of anger and embarrassment. She signalled, and a couple of he-dryads closed in.
The Spell chose that moment to vault into the temporarily abandoned saddle of Rincewind's consciousness. He felt it sitting there, leering defiantly at him.
'I do know a spell,' he said wearily.
'Yes? Pray tell,' said Druellae.
Rincewind wasn't sure that he dared, although the spell was trying to take control of his tongue. He fought it.
'You thed you could read by bind,' he said indistinctly. 'Read it.'
She stepped forward, looking mockingly into his eyes.
Her smile froze. Her hands raised protectively, she crouched back. From her throat came a sound of pure terror.
Rincewind looked around. The rest of the dryads were also backing away. What had he done? Something terrible, apparently.
But in his experience it was only a matter of time before the normal balance of the universe restored itself and started doing the usual terrible things to him. He backed away, ducked between the still-spinning dryads who were creating the magic circle, and watched to see what Druellae would do next.
'Grab him,' she screamed. 'Take him a long way from the Tree and kill him!'
Rincewind turned and bolted.
Across the focus of the circle.
There was a brilliant flash.
There was a sudden darkness.
There was a vaguely Rincewind-shaped violet shadow, dwindling to a point and winking out.
There was nothing at all.
Hrun the Barbarian crept soundlessly along the corridors, which were lit with a light so violet that it was almost black. His earlier confusion was gone. This was obviously a magical temple, and that explained everything.
It explained why, earlier in the afternoon, he had espied a chest by the side of the track while riding through this benighted forest. Its top was invitingly open, displaying much gold. But when he had leapt off his horse to approach it the chest had sprouted legs and had gone trotting off into the forest, stopping again a few hundred yards away.
Now, after several hours of teasing pursuit, he had lost it in these hell-lit tunnels. On the whole, the unpleasant carvings and occasional disjointed skeletons he passed held no fears for Hrun. This was partly because he was not exceptionally bright while being at the same time exceptionally unimaginative, but it was also because odd carvings and perilous tunnels were all in a day's work. He spent a great deal of time in similar situations, seeking gold or demons or distressed virgins and relieving them respectively of their owners, their lives and at least one cause of their distress.
Observe Hrun, as he leaps cat-footed across a suspicious tunnel mouth. Even in this violet light his skin gleams coppery. There is much gold about his person, in the form of anklets and wristlets, but otherwise he is naked except for a leopardskin loincloth. He took that in the steaming forests of Howondaland, after killing its owner with his teeth.
In his right hand he carried the magical black sword Kring, which was forged from a thunderbolt and has a soul but suffers no scabbard. Hrun had stolen it only three days before from the impregnable palace of the Archmandrite of B'Ituni, and he was
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