The Color of Magic (Discworld 1)

“I don’t do - that sort of spell.”

“You mean you can’t.”

Rincewind ignored this, because it was true. “Try it again,” he suggested.

Hrun pulled out a fistful of coins.

The first two landed in the usual manner. So did the fourth. The third landed on its edge and balanced there. The fifth turned into a small yellow caterpillar and crawled away. The sixth, upon reaching its zenith, vanished with a sharp “spang!”

A moment later there was a small thunder clap.

“Hey, that one was silver,” exclaimed Hrun, rising to his feet and staring upwards. “Bring it back!”

“I don’t know where it’s gone, said Rincewind wearily. “it’s probably still accelerating. The ones I tried this morning didn’t come down, anyway.”

Hrun was still staring into the sky.

“What?” said Twoflower.

Rincewind sighed. He had been dreading this.

“We’ve strayed into a zone with a high magical index,” he said. “Don’t ask me how. Once upon a time a really powerful magic field must have been generated here, and we’re feeling the after-effects.”

“Precisely,” said a passing bush.

Hrun’s head jerked down.

“You mean this is one of those places?” he asked.

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Right,” agreed Rincewind. “if we retrace our steps we might make it. We can stop every mile or so and toss a coin.”

He stood up urgently and started stuffing things into his saddlebags.

“What?” said Twoflower.

Rincewind stopped. “Look,” he snapped. “Just don’t argue. Come on.”

“It looks alright,” said Twoflower. “Just a bit underpopulated that’s all…”

“Yes,” said Rincewind. “Odd, isn’t it? Come on!”

There was a noise high above them, like a strip of leather being slapped on a wet rock. Something glassy and indistinct passed over Rincewind’s head, throwing up a cloud of ashes from the fire, and the pig carcass took off from the spit and rocketed into the sky.

It banked to avoid a clump of trees, righted itself, roared around in a tight circle, and headed hubwards leaving a trail of hot pork-fat droplets.

“What are they doing now?” asked the old man.

The young woman glanced at the scrying glass. “Heading rimwards at speed,” she reported. “By the way -they’ve still got that box on legs.”

The old man chuckled, an oddly disturbing sound in the dark and dusty crypt. “Sapient pearwood,” he said. “Remarkable. Yes, I think we will have that. Please see to it, my dear - before they go beyond your power, perhaps?”

“Silence! Or-“

“Or what, Liessa?” said the old man (in this dim light there was something odd about the way he was slumped in the stone chair). “You killed me once already, remember?”

She snorted and stood up, tossing back her hair scornfully. It was red, flecked with gold. Erect, Liessa Wyrmbidder was entirely a magnificent sight. She was also almost naked, except for a couple of mere scraps of the lightest chain mail and riding boots of iridescent dragonhide. In one boot was thrust a riding crop, unusual in that it was as long as a spear and tipped with tiny steel barbs.