The Colour of Magic

Let’s just say that if complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting ‘All gods are bastards.’ Got any food?”
    “There’s some chicken,” said Weasel. “In exchange for a story.”
    “What’s his name?” said Bravd, who tended to lag behind in conversations.
    “Twoflower.”
    “Twoflower?” said Bravd. “What a funny name.”
    “You,” said Rincewind, dismounting, “do not know the half of it. Chicken, you say?”
    “Deviled,” said Weasel. The wizard groaned.
    “That reminds me,” added the Weasel, snapping his fingers, “there was a really big explosion about, oh, half an hour ago—”
    “That was the oil bond store going up,” said Rincewind, wincing at the memory of the burning rain.
    Weasel turned and grinned expectantly at his companion, who grunted and handed over a coin from his pouch. Then there was a scream from the roadway, cut off abruptly. Rincewind did not look up from his chicken.
    “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 colors 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 called 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?”
    Bravd looked at the shape on the road. It was closer now, and clearer in the pre-dawn light. It looked for all the world like a—
    “A box on legs?” he said.
    “I’ll tell you about it,” said Rincewind. “If there’s any wine, that is.”
    Down in the valley there was a roar and a hiss. Someone more thoughtful than the rest had ordered to be shut the big river gates that were at the point where the Ankh flowed out of the twin city. Denied its usual egress, the river had burst its banks and was pouring down the fire-ravaged streets. Soon the continent of flame became a series of islands, each one growing smaller as the dark tide rose. And up from the city of fumes and smoke rose a broiling cloud of steam, covering the stars. Weasel thought that it looked like some dark fungus or mushroom.

    The twin city of proud Ankh and pestilent Morpork, of which all the other cities of time and space are, as it were, mere reflections, has stood many assaults in its long and crowded history and has always risen to flourish again. So the fire and its subsequent flood, which destroyed everything left that was not flammable and added a particularly noisome flux to the survivors’ problems, did not mark its end. Rather it was a fiery punctuation mark, a coal-like comma, or salamander semicolon, in a continuing story.
    Several days before these events a ship came up the Ankh on the dawn tide and fetched up, among many others, in the maze of