“One of the things he can’t do, he can’t ride a horse,” he said. Then he stiffened as if sandbagged by a sudden recollection, gave a small yelp of terror and dashed into the gloom. When he returned, the being called Twoflower was hanging limply over his shoulder. It was small and skinny, and dressed very oddly in a pair of knee length britches and a shirt in such a violent and vivid conflict of colours that Weasel’s fastidious eye was offended even in the half-light.

“No bones broken, by the feel of things,” said Rincewind. He was breathing heavily. Bravd winked at the Weasel and went to investigate the shape that they assumed was a pack animal.

“You’d be wise to forget it,” said the wizard, without looking up from his examination of the unconscious Twoflower. “Believe me. A power protects it.”

“A spell?” said Weasel, squatting down.

“No-oo. But magic of a kind, I think. Not the usual sort. I mean, it can turn gold into copper while at the same time it is still gold, it makes men rich by destroying their possessions, it allows the weak to walk fearlessly among thieves, it passes through the strongest doors to leach the most protected treasuries. Even now it has me enslaved—so that I must follow this madman willynilly and protect him from harm. It’s stronger than you, Bravd. It is, I think, more cunning even than you, Weasel.”

“What is it called then, this mighty magic?”

Rincewind shrugged. “in our tongue it is reflected-sound-as-of-underground-spirits. Is there any wine?”

“You must know that I am not without artifice where magic is concerned,” said Weasel. “only last year did I– assisted by my friend there—part the notoriously powerful Archmage of Ymitury from his staff, his belt of moon jewels and his life, in that approximate order. I do not fear this reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits of which you speak. However,” he added, “you engage my interest. Perhaps you would care to tell me more?”