The Colour of Magic   ::   Пратчетт Терри

“Why don’t you ever worry?” he demanded petulantly. “Here we are, going to be sacrificed to some god or other in the morning, and you just sit there eating barnacle canapes.”

“I expect something will turn up,” said Twoflower.

“I mean, it’s not as if we know why we’re going to be killed,” the wizard went on.

You’d like to, would you ?

“Did you say that?” asked Rincewind.

“Say what?”

Twoflower gave him a worried look.

“I’m Twoflower,” he said. “surely you remember?”

Rincewind put his head in his hands.

“It’s happened at last,” he moaned. “I’m going out of my mind.”

Good idea , said the voice. It’s getting pretty crowded in here .

The spell pinning Rincewind to the wall vanished with a faint “pop.” He fell forward and landed in a heap on the floor.

Careful—you nearly squashed me.

Rincewind struggled to his elbows and reached into the pocket of his robe. When he withdrew his hand the green frog was sitting on it, its eyes oddly luminous in the half-light.

“Yes?” said Rincewind.

Put me down on the floor and stand back .

The frog blinked.

The wizard did so, and dragged a bewildered Twoflower out of the way.

The room darkened. There was a windy, roaring sound. Streamers of green, purple and octarine cloud appeared out of nowhere and began to spiral rapidly towards the recumbent amphibian, shedding small bolts of lightning as they whirled. Soon the frog was lost in a golden haze which began to elongate upwards, filling the room with a warm yellow light. Within it was a darker, indistinct shape, which wavered and changed even as they watched. And all the time there was the high, brain-curdling whine of a huge magical field…

As suddenly as it had appeared, the magical tornado vanished. And there, occupying the space where the frog had been, was a frog.

“Fantastic,” said Rincewind.

The frog gazed at him reproachfully.

“Really amazing,” said Rincewind sourly. “A frog magically transformed into a frog. Wondrous.”

“Turn around,” said a voice behind them. It was a soft, feminine voice, almost an inviting voice, the sort of voice you could have a few drinks with, but it was coming from a spot where there oughtn’t to be a voice at all. They managed to turn without really moving, like a couple of statues revolving on plinths.

There was a woman standing in the pre-dawn light.