The Colour of Magic

snapped His fingers. The insects fell out of the air. But, somehow, it wasn’t quite the same.

    Blind Io pushed his stack of chips across the table, glowered through such of his eyes that were currently in the room, and strode out. A few demigods tittered. At least Offler had taken the loss of a perfectly good troll with precise, if somewhat reptilian, grace.
    The Lady’s last opponent shifted his seat until he faced her across the board.
    “Lord,” she said, politely.
    “Lady,” he acknowledged. Their eyes met.
    He was a taciturn god. It was said that he had arrived in the Discworld after some terrible and mysterious incident in another Eventuality. It is of course the privilege of gods to control their apparent outward form, even to other gods; the Fate of the Discworld was currently a kindly man in late middle age, graying hair brushed neatly around features that a maiden would confidently proffer a glass of small beer to, should they appear at her back door. It was a face a kindly youth would gladly help over a stile. Except for his eyes, of course.
    No deity can disguise the manner and nature of his eyes. The nature of the two eyes of the Fate of the Discworld was this: that while at a mere glance they were simply dark, a closer look would reveal—too late!—that they were but holes opening onto a blackness so remote, so deep that the watcher would feel himself inexorably drawn into the twin pools of infinite night and their terrible, wheeling stars…
    The Lady coughed politely, and laid twenty-one white chips on the table. Then from her robe she took another chip, silvery and translucent and twice the size of the others. The soul of a true Hero always finds a better rate of exchange, and is valued highly by the gods.
    Fate raised an eyebrow.
    “And no cheating, Lady,” he said.
    “But who could cheat Fate?” she asked. He shrugged.
    “No one. Yet everyone tries.”
    “And yet, again, I believe I felt you giving me a little assistance against the others?”
    “But of course. So that the endgame could be the sweeter, Lady. And now…”
    He reached into his gaming box and brought forth a piece, setting it down on the board with a satisfied air. The watching deities gave a collective sigh. Even the Lady was momentarily taken aback.
    It was certainly ugly. The carving was uncertain, as if the craftsman’s hands were shaking in horror of the thing taking shape under his reluctant fingers. It seemed to be all suckers and tentacles. And mandibles, the Lady observed. And one great eye.
    “I thought such as He died out at the beginnings of Time,” she said.
    “Mayhap our necrotic friend was loath even to go near this one,” laughed Fate. He was enjoying himself.
    “It should never have been spawned.”
    “Nevertheless,” said Fate gnomically. He scooped the dice into their unusual box, and then glanced up at her.
    “Unless,” he added, “you wish to resign…?”
    She shook her head.
    “Play,” she said.
    “You can match my stake?”
    “Play.”

    Rincewind knew what was inside trees: wood, sap, possibly squirrels. Not a palace.
    Still—the cushions underneath him were definitely softer than wood, the wine in the wooden cup beside him was much tastier than sap, and there could be absolutely no comparison between a squirrel and the girl sitting before him, clasping her knees and watching him thoughtfully, unless mention was made of certain hints of furriness.
    The room was high, wide and lit with a soft yellow light which came from no particular source that Rincewind could identify. Through gnarled and knotted archways he could see other rooms, and what looked like a very large winding staircase. And it had looked a perfectly normal tree from the outside, too.
    The girl was green—flesh green. Rincewind could be absolutely certain about that, because all she was wearing was a medallion around her neck. Her long hair had a faintly mossy look about it. Her eyes had no pupils and were a luminous green. Rincewind wished he had paid more attention to anthropology lectures at University.
    She had said nothing. Apart from indicating the couch and offering him the wine she had done no more than sit watching him, occasionally rubbing a deep scratch on her arm.
    Rincewind hurriedly recalled that a dryad was so linked to her tree that she suffered wounds in sympathy—
    “Sorry about that,” he said quickly. “It was just an accident. I mean, there were these wolves, and—”
    “You had to