The Last Hero

eating broccoli, priests who required unmarried girls to cover their ears lest they inflame the passions of other men, and priests who worshipped a small shortbread-and-raisin biscuit. Nothing was non-controversial.
    "You see, it does appear that the world is going to end," he said weakly.
    "Well? Some of us have been expecting that for some considerable time! It will be a judgement on mankind for its wickedness!"
    "And broccoli!"
    "And the short haircuts girls are wearing today!"
    "Only the biscuits will be saved!"
    Ridcully waved his crozier frantically for silence.
    "But this isn't the wrath of the gods," he said. "I did tell you! It's the work of a man!"
    "Ah, but he may be the hand of a god!"
    "It's Cohen the Barbarian," said Ridcully.
    "Even so, he might —"
    The speaker in the crowd was nudged by the priest next to him.
    "Hang on..."
    There was a roar of excited conversation. There were few temples that hadn't been robbed or despoiled in a long life of adventuring, and the priests soon agreed that no god ever had anything in his hand that looked like Cohen the Barbarian. Hughnon turned his eyes up to the ceiling, with its beautiful but decrepit panorama of gods and heroes. Life must be a lot easier for gods, he decided.
    "Very well," said one of the objectors, haughtily. "In that case, I think perhaps we could, in these special circumstances, get around a table just this once."
    "Ah, that is a good —" Ridcully began.
    "But of course we will need to give some very serious consideration as to what shape the table is going to be."
    Ridcully looked blank for a moment. His expression did not change as he leaned down to one of his sub-deacons and said, "Scallop, please have someone ran along and tell my wife to pack my overnight bag, will you? I think this is going to take a little while..."
    The central spire of Cori Celesti seemed to get no closer day by day.
    "Are you sure Cohen's all right in the head?" said Evil Harry, as he helped Boy Willie manoeuvre Hamish's wheelchair over the ice.
    "'Ere, are you tryin' to spread discontent among the troops, Harry?"
    "Well, I did warn you, Will. I am a Dark Lord. I've got to keep in practice. And we're following a leader who keeps forgetting where he put his false teeth."
    "Whut?" said Mad Hamish.
    "I'm just saying that blowing up the gods could cause trouble," said Evil Harry. "It's a bit... disrespectful."
    "You must've defiled a few temples in your time, Harry?"
    "I ran 'em, Will, I ran 'em. I was a Mad Demon Lord for a while, you know. I had a Temple of Terror."
    "Yes, on your allotment," said Boy Willie, grinning.
    "That's right, that's right, rub it in," said Harry sulkily. "Just because I was never in the big league, just because —"
    "Now, now, Harry, you know we don't think like that. We respected you. You knew the Code. You kept the faith. Well, Cohen just reckons the gods've got it comin' to them. Now, me , I'm worried because there's some tough ground ahead."
    Evil Harry peered along the snowy canyon.
    "There's some kind of magic path leads up the mountain," Willie went on. "But there's a mass of caves before you get there."
    "The Impassable Caves of Dread," said Evil Harry.
    Willie looked impressed. "Heard of them, have you? Accordin' to some old legend they're guarded by a legion of fearsome monsters and some devilishly devious devices and no one has ever passed through. Oh, yeah... perilous crevasses, too. Next, we'll have to swim through underwater caverns guarded by giant man-eating fish that no man has ever yet passed. And then there's some insane monks, and a door you can pass only by solving some ancient riddle... the usual sort of stuff."
    "Sounds like a big job," Evil Harry ventured.
    "Well, we know the answer to the riddle," said Boy Willie. "It's 'teeth'."
    "How did you find that out?"
    "Didn't have to. It's always teeth in poxy old riddles," Boy Willie grunted as they heaved the wheelchair through a particularly deep drift. "But the biggest problem, is going to be getting this damn thing through all that without Hamish waking up and making trouble."
    In the study of his dark house on the edge of Time, Death looked at the wooden box.
    Perhaps I shall try one more time, he said.
    He reached down and lifted up a small kitten, patted it on the head, lowered it gently into the box, and closed the lid.
    The cat dies when the air runs out?
    "I suppose it might, sir," said Albert, his manservant. "But I don't reckon that's the point. If I understand it