The Colour of Magic

He was lost, he knew that. Either the building was much bigger than it looked, or he was now on some wide underground level without having gone down any steps, or—as he was beginning to suspect—the inner dimensions of the place disobeyed a fairly basic rule of architecture by being bigger than the outside. And why all these strange lights? They were eight-sided crystals set at regular intervals in the walls and ceiling, and they shed a rather unpleasant glow that didn’t so much illuminate as outline the darkness. And whoever had done those carvings on the wall, Twoflower thought charitably, had probably been drinking too much. For years.

On the other hand, it was certainly a fascinating building. Its builders had been obsessed with the number eight. The floor was a continuous mosaic of eight-sided tiles, the corridor walls and ceilings were angled to give the corridors eight sides if the walls and ceilings were counted and, in those places where part of the masonry had fallen in Twoflower noticed that even the stones themselves had eight sides.

“I don’t like it,” said the picture imp, from his box around Twoflower’s neck.

“Why not?” inquired Twoflower.

“It’s weird.”

“But you’re a demon. Demons can’t call things weird. I mean, what’s weird to a demon?”

“Oh, you know,” said the demon cautiously, glancing around nervously and shifting from claw to claw. “Things. Stuff.”

Twoflower looked at him sternly. “What things?”

The demon coughed nervously (demons do not breathe, however, every intelligent being, whether it breathes or not, coughs nervously at some time in its life. And this was one of them as far as the demon was concerned). “Oh, things,” it said wretchedly. “Evil things. Things we don’t talk about is the point I’m broadly trying to get across, master.”

Twoflower shook his head wearily. “I wish Rincewind was here,” he said. “He’d know what to do.”

“Him?” sneered the demon. “Can’t see a wizard coming here. They can’t have anything to do with the number eight.” The demon slapped a hand across his mouth guiltily.

Twoflower looked up at the ceiling.

“What was that?” he asked. “Didn’t you hear something?”

“Me? Hear? No! Not a thing,” the demon insisted.

It jerked back into its box and slammed the door. Twoflower tapped on it. The door opened a crack.

“It sounded like a stone moving,” he explained.

The door banged shut. Twoflower shrugged.

“The place is probably falling to bits,” he said to himself.

He stood up.

“I say!” he shouted. “Is anyone there?”

AIR, Air, air, replied the dark tunnels.

“Hullo?” he tried. lo, Lo, lo.

“I know there’s someone here, I just heard you playing dice! “

ICE, Ice, ice.

“Look, I had just—”

Twoflower stopped. The reason for this was the bright point of light that had popped into existence a few feet from his eyes. It grew rapidly, and after a few seconds was the tiny bright shape of a man. At this stage it began to make a noise, or, rather Twoflower started to hear the noise it had been making all along. It sounded like a sliver of a scream, caught in one long instant of time.

The iridescent man was doll-sized now, a tortured shape tumbling in slow motion while hanging in mid-air. Twoflower wondered why he had thought of the phrase “a sliver of a scream”…and began to wish he hadn’t.

It was beginning to look like Rincewind. The wizard’s mouth was open, and his face was brilliantly lit by the light of—what? Strange suns, Twoflower found himself thinking. Suns men don’t usually see. He shivered.

Now the turning wizard was half man-size. At that point the growth was faster, there was a sudden crowded moment, a rush of air, and an explosion of sound. Rincewind tumbled out of the air, screaming. He hit the floor hard, choked, then rolled over with his head cradled in his arms and his body curled up tightly.

When the dust had settled Twoflower reached out gingerly and tapped the wizard on the shoulder.

The human ball rolled up tighter.

“It’s me,” explained Twoflower helpfully. The wizard unrolled a fraction.

“What?” he said.

“Me.”

In one movement Rincewind unrolled and bounced up in front of the little man, his hands gripping his shoulders desperately. His eyes were wild and wide.

“Don’t say it!” he hissed. “Don’t say it and we might get out! “

“Get out? How did you get in? Don’t you know—”

“Don’t say it!”

Twoflower backed away from this madman

“Don’t say it!”

“Don’t say what?”

“The number.”

“Number?” said Twoflower. “Hey, Rincewind—”

“Yes, number! Between seven and nine. Four plus four”

“What, ei—”

Rincewind’s hands clapped over the man’s mouth. “Say it and we’re doomed. Just don’t think about, right. Trust me!”

“I don’t understand,” wailed Twoflower.

Rincewind relaxed slightly; which was to say that he still made a violin string look like a bowl of jelly.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s try and get out. And I’ll try and tell you.”