Mort

looked down, giggled, and changed the dress into something leaf-green and clingy.
    “What do you think, Mort?” she said. Her voice had sounded cracked and quavery before. Now it suggested musk and maple syrup and other things that set Mort’s adam’s apple bobbing like a rubber ball on an elastic band.
    “…” he managed, and gripped the scythe until his knuckles went white.
    She walked towards him like a snake in a four-wheel drift.
    “I didn’t hear you,” she purred.
    “V-v-very nice,” he said. “Is that who you were?”
    “It’s who I’ve always been.”
    “Oh.” Mort stared at his feet. “I’m supposed to take you away,” he said.
    “I know,” she said, “but I’m going to stay.”
    “You can’t do that! I mean—” he fumbled for words—“you see, if you stay you sort of spread out and get thinner, until—”
    “I shall enjoy it,” she said firmly. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss as insubstantial as a mayfly’s sigh, fading as she did so until only the kiss was left, just like a Cheshire cat only much more erotic.
    “Have a care, Mort,” said her voice in his head. “You may want to hold on to your job, but will you ever be able to let go?”
    Mort stood idiotically holding his cheek. The trees around the clearing trembled for a moment, there was the sound of laughter on the breeze, and then the freezing silence closed in again.
    Duty called out to him through the pink mists in his head. He grabbed the second glass and stared at it. The sand was nearly all gone.
    The glass itself was patterned with lotus petals. When Mort flicked it with his finger it went “Ommm.”
    He ran across the crackling snow to Binky and hurled himself into the saddle. The horse threw up his head, reared, and launched itself towards the stars.

Great silent streamers of blue and green flame hung from the roof of the world. Curtains of octarine glow danced slowly and majestically over the Disc as the fire of the Aurora Coriolis, the vast discharge of magic from the Disc’s standing field, earthed itself in the green ice mountains of the. Hub.
    The central spire of Cori Celesti, home of the gods, was a ten-mile-high column of cold coruscating fire.
    It was a sight seen by few people, and Mort wasn’t one of them, because he lay low over Binky’s neck and clung on for his life as they pounded through the night sky ahead of a comet trail of steam.
    There were other mountains clustered around Cori. By comparison they were no more than termite mounds, although in reality each one was a majestic assortment of cols, ridges, faces, cliffs, screes and glaciers that any normal mountain range would be happy to associate with.
    Among the highest of them, at the end of a funnel-shaped valley, dwelt the Listeners.
    They were one of the oldest of the Disc’s religious sects, although even the gods themselves were divided as to whether Listening was really a proper religion, and all that prevented their temple being wiped out by a few well-aimed avalanches was the fact that even the gods were curious as to what it was that the Listeners might Hear. If there’s one thing that really annoys a god, it’s not knowing something.
    It’ll take Mort several minutes to arrive. A row of dots would fill in the time nicely, but the reader will already be noticing the strange shape of the temple—curled like a great white ammonite at the end of the valley—and will probably want an explanation.
    The fact is that the Listeners are trying to work out precisely what it was that the Creator said when He made the universe.
    The theory is quite straightforward.
    Clearly, nothing that the Creator makes could ever be destroyed, which means that the echoes of those first syllables must still be around somewhere, bouncing and rebounding off all the matter in the cosmos but still audible to a really good listener.
    Eons ago the Listeners had found that ice and chance had carved this one valley into the perfect acoustic opposite of an echo valley, and had built their multi-chambered temple in the exact position that the one comfy chair always occupies in the home of a rabid hi-fi fanatic. Complex baffles caught and amplified the sound that was funneled up the chilly valley, steering it ever inwards to the central chamber where, at any hour of the day or night, three monks always sat.
    Listening.
    There were certain problems caused by the fact that they didn’t hear only the subtle echoes of the first words, but every