The Colour of Magic   ::   Пратчетт Терри

They didn’t seem bothered aboutRincewind. He had a brief but chilling vision of himself living the rest of his life out in this tree, subsisting on raw birds and such fish as he could snatch as they plummeted past.

The tree moved distinctly. Rincewind gave a whimper as he found himself sliding backwards, but managed to grab a branch. Only, sooner or later, he would fall asleep…

There was a subtle change of scene, a slight purplish tint to the sky. A tall, black-cloaked figure was standing on the air next to the tree. It had a scythe in one hand. Its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood.

I have come for thee , said the invisible mouth, in tones as heavy as a whale’s heartbeat.

The trunk of the tree gave another protesting creak, and a pebble bounced off Rincewind’s helmet as one root tore loose from the rock.

Death Himself always came in person to harvest the souls of wizards.

“What am I going to die of?” said Rincewind.

The tall figure hesitated.

Pardon? it said.

“Well, I haven’t broken anything, and I haven’t drowned, so what am I about to die of? You can’t just be killed by Death; there has to be a reason,” said Rincewind.

To his utter amazement he didn’t feel terrified any more. For about the first time in his life he wasn’t frightened. Pity the experience didn’t look like lasting for long.

Death appeared to reach a conclusion.

You could die of terror , the hood intoned. The voice still had its graveyard ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty.

“Won’t work,” said Rincewind smugly.

There doesn’t have to be a reason , said Death, I can just kill you .

“Hey, you can’t do that! It’d be murder!”

The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. Instead of the grinning death’s head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts.

“I’m making rather a mess of this, aren’t I?” it said wearily.

“You’re not Death! Who are you?” cried Rincewind.

“Scrofula.”

“Scrofula?”

“Death couldn’t come,” said the demon wretchedly. “There’s a big plague on in Pseudopolis. He had to go and stalk the streets. So he sent me.”

“No-one dies of scrofula! I’ve got rights. I’m a wizard!”

“All right, all right.