Eric

sand. Hundreds of them. They ran backward and forward, as if something had been frantically searching, and then vanished.
    He leaned nearer. It was hard to make out, what with all the footprints and the effects of the wind and the tide, but just on the edge of the encroaching surf were the unmistakable signs of a magic circle.
    Astfgl said a swearword that fused the sand around him into glass, and vanished.
    The tide got on with things. Further down the beach the last surge poured into a hollow in the rocks, and the new sun beamed down on the soaking remains of a half-eaten egg and cress sandwich. Tidal action turned it over. Thousands of bacteria suddenly found themselves in the midst of a taste explosion, and started to breed like mad.
    If only there had been some mayonnaise, life might have turned out a whole lot different. More piquant, and perhaps with a little extra cream in it.

    Traveling by magic always had major drawbacks. There was the feeling that your stomach was lagging behind. And your mind filled up with terror because the destination was always a little uncertain. It wasn’t that you could come out anywhere. “Anywhere” represented a very restricted range of choices compared to the kind of places magic could transport you to. The actual traveling was easy. It was achieving a destination which would, for example, allow you to survive in all four dimensions at once that took the real effort.
    In fact the scope for error was so huge it seemed something of an anticlimax to emerge in a fairly ordinary, sandy-floored cavern.
    It contained, on the far wall, a door.
    There was no doubt it was a forbidding door. It looked as though its designer had studied all the cell doors he could find and had then gone away and produced a version for, as it were, full visual orchestra. It was more of a portal. Some ancient and probably fearful warning was etched over its crumbling arch, but it was destined to remain unread because over it someone else had pasted a bright red-and-white notice which read: “You Don’t Have To Be ‘Damned’ To Work Here, But It Helps!!!”
    Rincewind squinted up at the notice.
    “Of course I can read it,” he said. “I just don’t happen to believe it.”
    “Multiple exclamation marks,” he went on, shaking his head, “are a sure sign of a diseased mind.”
    He looked behind him. The glowing outlines of Eric’s magic circle faded and winked out.
    “I’m not being picky, you understand,” he said. “It’s just that I thought you said you could get us back to Ankh. This isn’t Ankh. I can tell by the little details, like the flickering red shadows and the distant screaming. In Ankh the screaming is usually much closer,” he added.
    “I think I did very well to get it to work at all,” said Eric, bridling. “You’re not supposed to be able to run magic circles in reverse. In theory it means you stay in the circle and reality moves around you. I think I did very well. You see,” he added, his voice suddenly vibrating with enthusiasm, “if you rewrite the source codex and, this is the difficult bit, you route it through a high-level—”
    “Yes, yes, very clever, what will you people think up next,” said Rincewind. “The only thing is, we’re, I think it’s quite possible that we’re in Hell.”
    “Oh?”
    Eric’s lack of reaction made Rincewind curious.
    “You know,” he added. “The place with all the demons in it?”
    “Oh?”
    “Not a good place to be, it’s generally felt,” said Rincewind.
    “You think we might be able to explain?”
    Rincewind thought about this. He wasn’t, when you got right down to it, quite sure what it was that demons did to you. But he did know what humans did to you, and after a lifetime in Ankh-Morpork this place could turn out to be an improvement. Warmer, at any rate.
    He looked at the door-knocker. It was black and horrible, but that didn’t matter because it was also tied up so that it couldn’t be used. Beside it, with all the signs of being installed recently by someone who didn’t know what they were doing and didn’t want to do it, was a button set into the splintered woodwork. Rincewind gave it an experimental prod.
    The sound it produced might once have been a popular tune, possibly even one written by a skilled composer to whom had been vouchsafed, for a brief ecstatic moment, the music of the spheres. Now, however, it just went bing-BONG-ding-DONG.
    And it would be a lazy use of language to say that