Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett

a gleaming black statue in the fitful moonlight.
    “ Well ?” it said.
    “Who’re you?” said Granny, bluntly.
    The head revolved to face her.
    “ My name is unpronounceable in your tongue, woman ,” it said.
    “I’ll be the judge of that,” warned Granny, and added, “Don’t you call me woman.”
    “ Very well. My name is WxrtHltl-jwlpklz ,” said the demon smugly.
    “Where were you when the vowels were handed out? Behind the door?” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Well, Mr.—” Granny hesitated only fractionally—“WxrtHltl-jwlpklz, I except you’re wondering why we called you here tonight.”
    “ You’re not supposed to say that ,” said the demon. “ You’re supposed to say —”
    “Shut up. We have the sword of Art and the octogram of Protection, I warn you.”
    “ Please yourself. They look like a washboard and a copper stick to me ,” sneered the demon.
    Granny glanced sideways. The corner of the washroom was stacked with kindling wood, with a big heavy sawhorse in front of it. She stared fixedly at the demon and, without looking, brought the stick down hard across the thick timber.
    The dead silence that followed was broken only by the two perfectly-sliced halves of the sawhorse teetering backward and forward and folding slowly into the heap of kindling.
    The demon’s face remained impassive.
    “ You are allowed three questions ,” it said.
    “Is there something strange at large in the kingdom?” said Granny.
    It appeared to think about it.
    “And no lying,” said Magrat earnestly. “Otherwise it’ll be the scrubbing brush for you.”
    “ You mean stranger than usual ?”
    “Get on with it,” said Nanny. “My feet are freezing out here.”
    “ No. There is nothing strange .”
    “But we felt it—” Magrat began.
    “Hold on, hold on,” said Granny. Her lips moved soundlessly. Demons were like genies or philosophy professors—if you didn’t word things exactly right, they delighted in giving you absolutely accurate and completely misleading answers.
    “Is there something in the kingdom that wasn’t there before?” she hazarded.
    “ No .”
    Tradition said that there could be only three questions. Granny tried to formulate one that couldn’t be deliberately misunderstood. Then she decided that this was playing the wrong kind of game.
    “What the hell’s going on?” she said carefully. “And no mucking about trying to wriggle out of it, otherwise I’ll boil you.”
    The demon appeared to hesitate. This was obviously a new approach.
    “Magrat, just kick that kindling over here, will you?” said Granny.
    “ I protest at this treatment ,” said the demon, its voice tinged with uncertainty.
    “Yes, well, we haven’t got time to bandy legs with you all night,” said Granny. “These word games might be all right for wizards, but we’ve got other fish to fry.”
    “Or boil,” said Nanny.
    “ Look ,” said the demon, and now there was a whine of terror in its voice. “ We’re not supposed to volunteer information just like that. There are rules, you know .”
    “There’s some old oil in the can on the shelf, Magrat,” said Nanny.
    “ If I simply tell you —” the demon began.
    “Yes?” said Granny, encouragingly.
    “ You won’t let on, will you ?” it implored.
    “Not a word,” promised Granny.
    “Lips are sealed,” said Magrat.
    “ There is nothing new in the kingdom ,” said the demon, “ but the land has woken up .”
    “What do you mean?” said Granny.
    “ It’s unhappy. It wants a king that cares for it .”
    “How—” Magrat began, but Granny waved her into silence.
    “You don’t mean people, do you?” she said. The glistening head shook. “No, I didn’t think so.”
    “What—” Nanny began. Granny put a finger to her lips.
    She turned and walked to the washhouse’s window, a dusty spiderweb graveyard of faded butterfly wings and last summer’s bluebottles. A faint glow beyond the frosted panes suggested that, against all