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'What, kill her?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Don't ask me. To make the crops grow or the moon rise or something. Or maybe they're just keen on killing people. That's religion for you.'
He became aware of a low humming sound, not so much heard as felt. It seemed to be coming from the stone next to them. Little points of light flickered under its surface, like mica specks.
Twoflower was opening and shutting his mouth.
'Can't they just use flowers and berries and things?' he said. 'Sort of symbolic?'
'Nope.'
'Has anyone ever tried?'
Rincewind sighed. 'Look,' he said. 'No self-respecting High Priest is going to go through all the business with the trumpets and the processions and the banners and everything, and then shove his knife into a daffodil and a couple of plums. You've got to face it, all this stuff about golden boughs and the cycles of nature and stuff just boils down to sex and violence, usually at the same time.'
To his amazement Twoflower's lip was trembling. Twoflower didn't just look at the world through rose-tinted spectacles, Rincewind knew – he looked at it through a rose-tinted brain, too, and heard it through rose-tinted ears.
The chant was rising inexorably to a crescendo. The head druid was testing the edge of his sickle and all eyes were turned to the finger of stone on the snowy hills beyond the circle where the moon was due to make a guest appearance.
'It's no use you—'
But Rincewind was talking to himself.
However, the chilly landscape outside the circle was not entirely devoid of life. For one thing a party of wizards was even now drawing near, alerted by Trymon.
But a small and solitary figure was also watching from the cover of a handy fallen stone. One of the Disc's greatest legends watched the events in the stone circle with considerable interest.
He saw the druids circle and chant, saw the chief druid I raise his sickle . . .'
Heard the voice.
'I say! Excuse me! Can I have a word?'
Rincewind looked around desperately for a way of escape. There wasn't one. Twoflower was standing by the altar stone with one finger in the air and an attitude of polite determination.
Rincewind remembered one day when Twoflower had thought a passing drover was beating his cattle too hard, and the case he had made for decency towards animals had left Rincewind severely trampled and lightly gored. The druids were looking at Twoflower with the kind of expression normally reserved for mad sheep or the sudden appearance of a rain of frogs. Rincewind couldn't quite hear what Twoflower was saying, but a few phrases like 'ethnic folkways' and 'nuts and flowers' floated across the hushed circle.
Then fingers like a bunch of cheese straws clamped over the wizard's mouth and an extremely sharp cutting edge pinked his adams apple and a damp voice right by his ear said, 'Not a shound, or you ish a dead man.'
Rincewind's eyes swivelled in their sockets as if trying to find a way out.
'If you don't want me to say anything, how will you know I understand what you just said?' he hissed.
'Shut up and tell me what that other idiot ish doing!'
'No, but look, if I've got to shut up, how can I—' The knife at his throat became a hot streak of pain and Rincewind decided to give logic a miss.
'His name's Twoflower. He isn't from these parts.'
'Doeshn't look like it. Friend of yoursh?'
'We've got this sort of hate-hate relationship, yes.'
Rincewind couldn't see his captor, but by the feel of it he had a body made of coathangers. He also smelt strongly of peppermints.
