Sourcery

can either of you hear a sort of creaking and groaning?”
    “Shut up,” said Conina distractedly.
    Creosote leaned over and patted her hand.
    “Cheer up,” he said, “it’s not the end of the world.” He thought about this statement for a bit, and then added, “Sorry. Just a figure of speech.”
    “What are we going to do ?” she wailed.
    Nijel drew himself up.
    “I think,” he said, “that we should go and explain.”
    They turned toward him with the kind of expression normally reserved for messiahs or extreme idiots.
    “Yes,” he said, with a shade more confidence. “We should explain.”
    “Explain to the Ice Giants?” said Conina.
    “Yes.”
    “Sorry,” said Conina, “have I got this right? You think we should go and find the terrifying Ice Giants and sort of tell them that there are a lot of warm people out here who would rather they didn’t sweep across the world crushing everyone under mountains of ice, and could they sort of reconsider things? Is that what you think we should do?”
    “Yes. That’s right. You’ve got it exactly.”
    Conina and Creosote exchanged glances. Nijel remained sitting proudly in the saddle, a faint smile on his face.
    “Is your geese giving you trouble?” said the Seriph.
    “Geas,” said Nijel calmly. “It’s not giving me trouble, it’s just that I must do something brave before I die.”
    “That’s it though,” said Creosote. “That’s the whole rather sad point. You’ll do something brave, and then you’ll die.”
    “What alternative have we got?” said Nijel.
    They considered this.
    “I don’t think I’m much good at explaining,” said Conina, in a small voice.
    “I am,” said Nijel, firmly. “I’m always having to explain.”

    The scattered particles of what had been Rincewind’s mind pulled themselves together and drifted up through the layers of dark unconsciousness like a three-day corpse rising to the surface.
    It probed its most recent memories, in much the same way that one might scratch a fresh scab.
    He could recall something about a staff, and a pain so intense that it appeared to insert a chisel between every cell in his body and hammer on it repeatedly.
    He remembered the staff fleeing, dragging him after it. And then there had been that dreadful bit where Death had appeared and reached past him, and the staff had twisted and become suddenly alive and Death had said, I PSLORE THE RED , I HAVE YOU NOW .
    And now there was this.
    By the feel of it Rincewind was lying on sand. It was very cold.
    He took the risk of seeing something horrible and opened his eyes.
    The first thing he saw was his left arm and, surprisingly, his hand. It was its normal grubby self. He had expected to see a stump.
    It seemed to be nighttime. The beach, or whatever it was, stretched on toward a line of distant low mountains, under night sky frosted with a million stars.
    A little closer to him there was a rough line in the silvery sand. He lifted his head slightly and saw the scatter of molten droplets. They were octiron, a metal so intrinsically magical that no forge on the Disc could even warm it up.
    “Oh,” he said. “We won, then.”
    He flopped down again.
    After a while his right hand came up automatically and patted the top of his head. Then it patted the sides of his head. Then it began to grope, with increasing urgency, in the sand around him.
    Eventually it must have communicated its concern to the rest of Rincewind, because he pulled himself upright and said, “Oh, bugger.”
    There seemed to be no hat anywhere. But he could see a small white shape lying very still in the sand a little way away and, further off—
    A column of daylight.
    It hummed and swayed in the air, a three-dimensional hole into somewhere else. Occasional flurries of snow blew out of it. He could see skewed images in the light, that might be buildings or landscapes warped by the weird curvature. But he couldn’t see them very clearly, because of the tall, brooding shadows that surrounded it.
    The human mind is an astonishing thing. It can operate on several levels at once. And, in fact, while Rincewind had been wasting his intellect in groaning and looking for his hat, an inner part of his brain had been observing, assessing, analyzing and comparing.
    Now it crept up to his cerebellum, tapped it on the shoulder, thrust a message into its hand and ran for it.
    The message ran something like this: I hope I find me well. The last trial of magic has been too