The Colour of Magic

Wooden thing. That was it. Branches and twigs and things. And Rincewind, lying in it. Tree. Dripping wet. Cold white cloud all around. Underneath, too. Now that was odd.
    He was alive and lying covered in bruises in a small thorn tree that was growing in a crevice in a rock that projected out of the foaming white wall that was the Rimfall. The realization hit him in much the same way as an icy hammer. He shuddered. The tree gave a warning creak.
    Something blue and blurred shot past him, dipped briefly into the thundering waters, and whirred back and settled on a branch near Rincewind’s head. It was a small bird with a tuft of blue and green feathers. It swallowed the little silver fish that it had snatched from the Fall and eyed him curiously.
    Rincewind became aware that there were lots of similar birds around.
    They hovered, darted and swooped easily across the face of the water, and every so often one would raise an extra plume of spray as it stole another doomed morsel from the waterfall. Several of them were perching in the tree. They were as iridescent as jewels. Rincewind was entranced.
    He was in fact the first man ever to see the rimfishers, the tiny creatures who had long ago evolved a lifestyle quite unique even for the Disc. Long before the Krullians had built the Circumfence the rimfishers had devised their own efficient method of policing the edge of the world for a living.
    They didn’t seem bothered about Rincewind. He had a brief but chilling vision of himself living the rest of his life out in this tree, subsisting on raw birds and such fish as he could snatch as they plummeted past.
    The tree moved distinctly. Rincewind gave a whimper as he found himself sliding backward, but managed to grab a branch. Only, sooner or later, he would fall asleep…
    There was a subtle change of scene, a slight purplish tint to the sky. A tall, black-cloaked figure was standing on the air next to the tree. It had a scythe in one hand. Its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood.
    I HAVE COME FOR THEE , said the invisible mouth, in tones as heavy as a whale’s heartbeat.
    The trunk of the tree gave another protesting creak, and a pebble bounced off Rincewind’s helmet as one root tore loose from the rock.
    Death Himself always came in person to harvest the souls of wizards.
    “What am I going to die of?” said Rincewind.
    The tall figure hesitated.
    P ARDON ? it said.
    “Well, I haven’t broken anything, and I haven’t drowned, so what am I about to die of? You can’t just be killed by Death; there has to be a reason,” said Rincewind. To his utter amazement he didn’t feel terrified anymore. For about the first time in his life he wasn’t frightened. Pity the experience didn’t look like lasting for long.
    Death appeared to reach a conclusion.
    Y OU COULD DIE OF TERROR , the hood intoned. The voice still had its graveyard ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty.
    “Won’t work,” said Rincewind smugly.
    THERE DOESN ’ T HAVE TO BE A REASON , said Death. I CAN JUST KILL YOU .
    “Hey, you can’t do that! It’d be murder!”
    The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. Instead of the grinning death’s head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts.
    “I’m making rather a mess of this, aren’t I?” it said wearily.
    “You’re not Death! Who are you?” cried Rincewind.
    “Scrofula.”
    “ Scrofula? ”
    “Death couldn’t come,” said the demon wretchedly. “There’s a big plague on in Pseudopolis. He had to go and stalk the streets. So he sent me.”
    “No one dies of scrofula! I’ve got rights. I’m a wizard!”
    “All right, all right. This was going to be my big chance,” said Scrofula, “but look at it this way—if I hit you with this scythe you’ll be just as dead as you would be if Death had done it. Who’d know?”
    “I’d know!” snapped Rincewind.
    “You wouldn’t. You’d be dead,” said Scrofula logically.
    “Piss off,” said Rincewind.
    “That’s all very well,” said the demon, hefting the scythe, “but why not try to see things from my point of view? This means a lot to me, and you’ve got to admit that your life isn’t all that wonderful. Reincarnation can only be an improvement—uh.”
    His hand flew to his mouth but Rincewind was already pointing a trembling finger at him.
    “Reincarnation!” he said excitedly. “So it is