The Colour of Magic

Rincewind’s head, jarring him so hard that one foot jerked out of its ring and flailed desperately.

    Rincewind knew himself to be almost certainly the worst wizard on the Discworld since he knew but one spell; yet for all that he was still a wizard, and thus by the inexorable laws of magic this meant that upon his demise it would be Death himself who appeared to claim him (instead of sending one of his numerous servants, as is usually the case).
    Thus it was that, as a grinning Lio!rt swung back and brought his sword around in a lazy arc, time ran into treacle.
    To Rincewind’s eyes the world was suddenly lit by a flickering octarine light, tinged with violet as photons impacted on the sudden magical aura. Inside it the dragonlord was a ghastly-hued statue, his sword moving at a snail’s pace in the glow.
    Beside Lio!rt was another figure, visible only to those who can see into the extra four dimensions of magic. It was tall and dark and thin and, against a sudden night of frosty stars, it swung two-handed a scythe of proverbial sharpness…
    Rincewind ducked. The blade hissed coldly through the air beside his head and entered the rock of the cavern roof without slowing. Death screamed a curse in his cold crypt voice. The scene vanished. What passed for reality on the Discworld reasserted itself with a rush of sound. Lio!rt gasped at the sudden turn of speed with which the wizard had dodged his killing stroke and, with that desperation only available to the really terrified, Rincewind uncoiled like a snake and launched himself across the space between them. He locked both hands around the dragonlord’s sword arm, and wrenched.
    It was at that moment that Rincewind’s one remaining ring, already overburdened, slid out of the rock with a nasty little metal sound.
    He plunged down, swung wildly, and ended up dangling over a bone-splintering death with his hands gripping the dragonlord’s arm so tightly that the man screamed.
    Lio!rt looked up at his feet. Small flakes of rock were dropping out of the roof around the ring pitons.
    “Let go, damn you!” he screamed. “Or we’ll both die!”
    Rincewind said nothing. He was concentrating on maintaining his grip and keeping his mind closed to the pressing images of his fate on the rocks below.
    “Shoot him!” bellowed Lio!rt.
    Out of the corner of his eye Rincewind saw several crossbows leveled at him. Lio!rt chose that moment to flail down with his free hand, and a fistful of rings stabbed into the wizard’s fingers.
    He let go.

    Twoflower grabbed the bars and pulled himself up.
    “See anything?” said Hrun, from the region of his feet.
    “Just clouds.”
    Hrun lifted him down again, and sat on the edge of one of the wooden beds that were the only furnishings in the cell. “Bloody hell,” he said.
    “Don’t despair,” said Twoflower.
    “I’m not despairing.”
    “I expect it’s all some sort of misunderstanding. I expect they’ll release us soon. They seem very civilized.”
    Hrun stared at him from under bushy eyebrows. He started to say something, then appeared to think better of it. He sighed instead.
    “And when we get back we can say we’ve seen dragons!” Twoflower continued. “What about that, eh?”
    “Dragons don’t exist,” said Hrun flatly. “Codice of Chimeria killed the last one two hundred years ago. I don’t know what we’re seeing, but they aren’t dragons.”
    “But they carried us up in the air! In that hall there must have been hundreds—”
    “I expect it was just magic,” said Hrun, dismissively.
    “Well, they looked like dragons,” said Twoflower, an air of defiance about him. “I always wanted to see dragons, ever since I was a little lad. Dragons flying around in the sky, breathing flames…”
    “They just used to crawl around in swamps and stuff, and all they breathed was stink,” said Hrun, lying down in the bunk. “They weren’t very big, either. They used to collect firewood.”
    “ I heard they used to collect treasure,” said Twoflower.
    “ And firewood. Hey,” Hrun added, brightening up, “did you notice all those rooms they brought us through? Pretty impressive, I thought. Lot of good stuff about, plus some of those tapestries have got to be worth a fortune.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully, making a noise like a porcupine shouldering its way through gorse.
    “What happens next?” asked Twoflower.
    Hrun screwed a finger in his ear and inspected it absently.
    “Oh,” he said,