That could only mean one thing. All right, two things. Three things.

All-out. Thaumaturgical. War.

And there were of course no alliances, no sides, no deals, no mercy, no cease. The skies twisted, the seas boiled. The scream and whizz of fireb.a.l.l.s turned the night into day, but that was all right because the ensuing clouds of black smoke turned the day into night. The landscape rose and fell like a honeymoon duvet, and the very fabric of s.p.a.ce itself was tied in multidimensional knots and bashed on a flat stone down by the river of Time. For example, a popular spell at the time was Pelepel's Temporal Compressor, which on one occasion resulted in a race of giant reptiles being created, evolving, spreading, flourishing and then being destroyed in the s.p.a.ce of about five minutes, leaving only its bones in the earth to mislead forthcoming generations completely. Trees swam, fishes walked, mountains strolled down to the shops for a packet of cigarettes, and the mutability of existence was such that the first thing any cautious person would do when they woke up in the mornings was count their arms and legs.

That was, in fact, the problem. All the wizards were pretty evenly matched and in any case lived in high towers well protected with spells, which meant that most magical weapons rebounded and landed on the common people who were trying to scratch an honest living from what was, temporarily, the soil, and lead ordinary, decent (but rather short) lives.

But still the fighting raged, battering the very structure of the universe of order, weakening the walls of reality and threatening to topple the whole rickety edifice of time and s.p.a.ce into the darkness of the Dungeon Dimensions...

One story said that the G.o.ds stepped in, but the G.o.ds don't usually take a hand in human affairs unless it amuses them. Another one-and this was the one that the wizards themselves told, and wrote down in their books-was that the wizards themselves got together and settled their differences amicably for the good of mankind. And this was generally accepted as the true account, despite being as internally likely as a lead lifebelt.

The truth isn't easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than the soap, and much more difficult to find...

"What happened, then?" said Conina.

"It doesn't matter," said Rincewind, mournfully. "It's going to start all over again. I can feel it. I've got this instinct. There's too much magic flowing into the world. There's going to be a horrible war. It's all going to happen. The Disc is too old to take it this time. Everything's been worn too thin. Doom, darkness and destruction bear down on us. The Apocralypse is nigh."

"Death walks abroad," added Nijel helpfully.

"What?" snapped Rincewind, angry at being interrupted.

"I said, Death walks abroad," said Nijel.

"Abroad I don't mind," said Rincewind. "They're all foreigners. It's Death walking around here I'm not looking forward to."

"It's only a metaphor," said Conina.

"That's all you know. I've met him."

"What did he look like?" said Nijel.

"Put it like this-"

"Yes?"

"He didn't need a hairdresser."

Now the sun was a blowlamp nailed to the sky, and the only difference between the sand and red-hot ash was the color.

The Luggage plodded erratically across the burning dunes. There were a few traces of yellow slime rapidly drying on its lid.

The lonely little oblong was watched, from atop of a stone pinnacle the shape and temperature of a firebrick, by a chimera.* The chimera was an extremely rare species, and this particular one wasn't about to do anything to help matters. The chimera was an extremely rare species, and this particular one wasn't about to do anything to help matters.

It judged its moment carefully, kicked away with its talons, folded its leathery wings and plummeted down toward its victim.

The chimera's technique was to swoop low over the prey, lightly boiling it with its fiery breath, and then turn and rend its dinner with its teeth. It managed the fire part but then, at the point where experience told the creature it should be facing a stricken and terrified victim, found itself on the ground in the path of a scorched and furious Luggage.

The only thing incandescent about the Luggage was its rage. It had spent several hours with a headache, during which it had seemed the whole world had tried to attack it. It had had enough.

When it had stamped the unfortunate chimera into a greasy puddle on the sand it paused for a moment, apparently considering its future. It was becoming clear that not belonging to anyone was a lot harder than it had thought. It had vague, comforting recollections of service and a wardrobe to call its own.

It turned around very slowly, pausing frequently to open its lid. It might have been sniffing the air, if it had a nose. At last it made up its mind, if it had a mind.

The hat and its wearer also strode purposefully across the rubble that had been the legendary Rhoxie to the foot of the tower of sourcery, their unwilling entourage straggling along behind them.

There were doors at the foot of the tower. Unlike those of Unseen University, which were usually propped wide open, they were tightly shut. They seemed to glow.

"You three are privileged to be here," said the hat through Abrim's slack mouth. "This is the moment when wizardry stops running," he glanced witheringly at Rincewind, "and starts fighting back. You will remember it for the rest of your lives."

"What, until lunchtime?" said Rincewind weakly.

"Watch closely," said Abrim. He extended his hands.

"If we get a chance," whispered Rincewind to Nijel, "we run, right?"

"Where to?"

"From," said Rincewind, "the important word is from from."

"I don't trust this man," said Nijel. "I try not to judge from first impressions, but I definitely think he's up to no good."

"He had you thrown in a snake pit!"

"Perhaps I should have taken the hint."

The vizier started to mutter. Even Rincewind, whose few talents included a gift for languages, didn't recognize it, but it sounded like the kind of language designed specifically for muttering, the words curling out like scythes at ankle height, dark and red and merciless. They made complicated swirls in the air, and then drifted gently toward the doors of the tower.

Where they touched the white marble it turned black and crumbled.

As the remains drifted to the ground a wizard stepped through and looked Abrim up and down.

Rincewind was used to the dressy ways of wizards, but this one was really impressive, his robe so padded and crenellated and b.u.t.tressed in fantastic folds and creases that it had probably been designed by an architect. The matching hat looked like a wedding cake that had collided intimately with a Christmas tree.

The actual face, peering through the small gap between the baroque collar and the filigreed fringe of the brim, was a bit of a disappointment. At some time in the past it had thought its appearance would be improved by a thin, scruffy mustache. It had been wrong.

"That was our b.l.o.o.d.y door!" it said. "You're really going to regret this!"

Abrim folded his arms.

This seemed to infuriate the other wizard. He flung up his arms, untangled his hands from the lace on his sleeves, and sent a flare screaming across the gap.

It struck Abrim in the chest and rebounded in a gout of incandescence, but when the blue after-images allowed Rincewind to see he saw Abrim, unharmed.

His opponent frantically patted out the last of the little fires in his own clothing and looked up with murder in his eyes.

"You don't seem to understand," he rasped. "It's sourcery you're dealing with now. You can't fight sourcery."

"I can use use sourcery sourcery," said Abrim.

The wizard snarled and lofted a fireball, which burst harmlessly inches from Abrim's dreadful grin.

A look of acute puzzlement pa.s.sed across the other one's face. He tried again, sending lines of blue-hot magic lancing straight from infinity toward Abrim's heart. Abrim waved them away.

"Your choice is simple," he said. "You can join me, or you can die."

It was at this point that Rincewind became aware of a regular sc.r.a.ping sound close to his ear. It had an unpleasant metallic ring.

He half-turned, and felt the familiar and very uncomfortable p.r.i.c.kly feeling of Time slowing down around him.

Death paused in the act of running a whetstone along the edge of his scythe and gave him a nod of acknowledgment, as between one professional and another.

He put a bony digit to his lips, or rather, to the place where his lips would have been if he'd had lips.

All wizards can see Death, but they don't necessarily want to.

There was a popping in Rincewind's ears and the specter vanished.

Abrim and the rival wizard were surrounded by a corona of randomized magic, and it was evidently having no effect on Abrim. Rincewind drifted back into the land of the living just in time to see the man reach out and grab the wizard by his tasteless collar.

"You cannot defeat me," he said in the hat's voice. "I have had two thousand years of harnessing power to my own ends. I can draw my power from your power. Yield to me or you won't even have time to regret it."

The wizard struggled and, unfortunately, let pride win over caution.

"Never!" he said.

"Die," suggested Abrim.

Rincewind had seen many strange things in his life, most of them with extreme reluctance, but he had never seen anyone actually killed by magic.

Wizards didn't kill ordinary people because a) they seldom noticed them and b) it wasn't considered sporting and c) besides, who'd do all the cooking and growing food and things. And killing a brother wizard with magic was well-nigh impossible on account of the layers of protective spells that any cautious wizard maintained about his person at all times.* The first thing a young wizard learns at Unseen University-apart from where his peg is, and which way to the lavatory-is that he must protect himself at all times. The first thing a young wizard learns at Unseen University-apart from where his peg is, and which way to the lavatory-is that he must protect himself at all times.

Some people think this is paranoia, but it isn't. Paranoids only think everyone is out to get them. Wizards know know it. it.

The little wizard was wearing the psychic equivalent of three feet of tempered steel and it was being melted like b.u.t.ter under a blowlamp. It streamed away, vanished.

If there are words to describe what happened to the wizard next then they're imprisoned inside a wild thesaurus in the Unseen University Library. Perhaps it's best left to the imagination, except that anyone able to imagine the kind of shape that Rincewind saw writhing painfully for a few seconds before it mercifully vanished must be a candidate for the famous white canvas blazer with the optional long sleeves.

"So perish all enemies," said Abrim.

He turned his face up to the heights of the tower.

"I challenge," he said. "And those who will not face me must follow me, according to the Lore."

There was a long, thick pause caused by a lot of people listening very hard. Eventually, from the top of the tower, a voice called out uncertainly, "Whereabouts in the Lore?"

"I embody the Lore."

There was a distant whispering and then the same voice called out, "The Lore is dead. Sourcery is above the Lo-"

The sentence ended in a scream because Abrim raised his left hand and sent a thin beam of green light in the precise direction of the speaker.

It was at about this moment that Rincewind realized that he could move his limbs himself. The hat had temporarily lost interest in them. He glanced sideways at Conina. In instant, unspoken agreement they each grasped one of Nijel's arms and turned and ran, and didn't stop until they'd put several walls between them and the tower. Rincewind ran expecting something to hit him in the back of the neck. Possibly the world.

All three landed in the rubble and lay there panting.

"You needn't have done that," muttered Nijel. "I was just getting ready to really give him a seeing-to. How can I ever-"

There was an explosion behind them and shafts of multi-colored fire screamed overhead, striking sparks off the masonry. Then there was a sound like an enormous cork being pulled out of a small bottle, and a peal of laughter that, somehow, wasn't very amusing. The ground shook.

"What's going on?" said Conina.

"Magical war," said Rincewind.

"Is that good?"

"No."

"But surely you want wizardry to triumph?" said Nijel.

Rincewind shrugged, and ducked as something unseen and big whirred overhead making a noise like a partridge.

"I've never seen wizards fight," said Nijel. He started to scramble up the rubble and screamed as Conina grabbed him by the leg.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," she said. "Rincewind?"

The wizard shook his head gloomily, and picked up a pebble. He tossed it up above the ruined wall, where it turned into a small blue teapot. It smashed when it hit the ground.

"The spells react with one another," he said. "There's no telling what they'll do."

"But we're safe behind this wall?" said Conina.

Rincewind brightened a bit. "Are we?" he said.

"I was asking you."

"Oh. No. I shouldn't think so. It's just ordinary stone. The right spell and...phooey."