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There was a flare of light far below, and a confused shouting, and then more lights, more shouting, and a line f torches starting up the long spiral.
'There's some people coming up the stairs,' said Twoflower, always keen to inform.
'I hope they're running,' said Rincewind. 'I can't feel my arm.'
'You're lucky,' said Twoflower. 'I can feel mine.'
The leading torch stopped its climb and a voice rang out, filling the hollow tower with indecipherable echoes.
'I think,' said Twoflower, aware that he was gradually sliding further over the hole, 'that was someone telling us to hold on.'
The eighth spell,' he said. 'Give it to me.'
Rincewind backed away.
'This is disobedience, Rincewind. I am your superior, after all. In fact, I have been voted the supreme head of all the Orders.'
'Really?' said Rincewind hoarsely. He looked at the other wizards. They were immobile, like statues.
'Oh yes,' said Trymon pleasantly. 'Quite without prompting, too. Very democratic.'
'I preferred tradition,' said Rincewind. 'That way even the dead get the vote.'
'You will give me the spell voluntarily,' said Trymon. 'Do I have to show you what I will do otherwise? And in the end you will still yield it. You will scream for the opportunity to give it to me.'
If it stops anywhere, it stops here, thought Rincewind.
'You'll have to take it,' he said. 1 won't give it to you.'
'I remember you,' said Trymon. 'Not much good as a student, as I recall. You never really trusted magic, you kept on saying there should be a better way to run a universe. Well, you'll see. I have plans. We can —'
'Not we,' said Rincewind firmly.
'Give me the Spell!'
'Try and take it,' said Rincewind, backing away. 1 don't think you can.'
'Oh?'
Rincewind jumped aside as octarine fire flashed from Trymon's fingers and left a bubbling rock puddle on the stones.
He could sense the Spell lurking in the back of his mind. He could sense its fear.
In the silent caverns of his head he reached out for it. It retreated in astonishment, like a dog faced with a maddened sheep. He followed, stamping angrily through the disused lots and inner-city disaster areas of his subconscious, until he found it cowering behind a heap of condemned memories. It roared silent defiance at him, but Rincewind wasn't having any.
Is this it? he shouted at it. When it's time for the showdown, you go and hide? You're frightened?
The Spell said, that's nonsense, you can't possibly believe that, I'm one of the Eight Spells. But Rincewind advanced on it angrily, shouting, Maybe, but the fact is I do believe it and you'd better remember whose head you're in, right? I can believe anything I like in here!
Rincewind jumped aside again as another bolt of fire lanced through the hot night. Trymon grinned, and made nother complicated motion with his hands.
Pressure gripped Rincewind. Every inch of his skin felt as though it was being used as an anvil. He flopped onto his knees.
'There are much worse things,' said Trymon pleasantly. 'I can make your flesh burn on the bones, or fill your body with ants. I have the power to —'
'I have a sword, you know.'
The voice was squeaky with defiance.
