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sword in his hands, the only chance I've got is to argue him out of it on his own terms,“ -only, d'you see, I'm not a very superior kind of demon and I'm afraid those sort of errands are a bit out of my league, sorry. You can avaunt as much as you like, but they're just beyond me.”
The little figure peered over the top of its glasses.
“I see,” he said testily. “What could you manage then, do you think?”
“Well, er -” said Rincewind, “I suppose I could go down to the shops and get a packet of mints, or something.”
There was a pause.
“You really can't do all those things?”
“Sorry. Look I'll tell you what. You just release me, and I'll be sure to pass the word around when I get back to -” Rincewind hesitated. Where the hell did demons live, anyway? “Demon City,” he said hopefully.
“You mean Pandemonium?” said his captor suspiciously.
“Yes, that's right. That's what I meant. I'll tell everyone, next time you're in the real world be sure and look up - what's your name?”
“Thursley. Eric Thursley.”
“Right”
“Demonologist. Midden Lane, Pseudopolis. Next door to the tannery,” said Thursley hopefully.
“Right you are. Don't you worry about it. Now, if you'll just let me out -”
Thursley's face fell.
“You're sure you really can't do it?” he said, and Rincewind couldn't help noticing the edge of pleading in his voice. “Even a small chest of gold would do. And, I mean, it needn't be the most beautiful woman in the whole of history. Second most beautiful would do. Or third. You pick any one out of, you know, the top one hundr - thousand. Whatever you've got in stock, sort of thing.” By the end of the sentence his voice twanged with longing.
Rincewind wanted to say: Look, what you should do is stop all this messing around with chemicals in dark rooms and have a shave, a haircut, a bath, make that two baths, buy yourself a new wardrobe and get out of an evening and then - but he'd have to be honest, because even washed, shaved and soaked in body splash Thursley wasn't going to win any prizes - and then you could have your face slapped by any woman of your choice.
I mean, it wouldn't be much, but it would be body contact.
“Sorry,” he said again.
Thursley sighed. “The kettle's on,” he said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Rincewind stepped forward into a crackle of psychic energy.
“Ah,” said Thursley uncertainly, as the wizard sucked his fingers, “I'll tell you what. I'll put you under a conjuration of duress.”
“There's no need, I assure you.”
“No, it's best this way. It means you can move around. I had it all ready anyway, in case you could go and fetch, you know, her.”
“Fine,” said Rincewind. As the demonologist mumbled words from the book he thought: Feet. Door. Stairs. What a great combination.
It occurred to him that there was something about the demonologist that wasn't quite usual, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He looked pretty much like the demonologists Rincewind had known back in Ankh-Morpork, who were all bent and chemical-stained and had eyes with pupils like pinheads from all the chemical fumes. This one would have fitted in easily. It was just that there was something odd.
“To be honest,” said Thursley, industriously mopping away part of the circle, “you're my first demon. It's never worked before. What is your name?”
“Rincewind.”
Thursley thought about this. “It doesn't ring a bell,” he said. “There's a Riinjswin in the Demonologie. And a Winswin. But they've got more wings than you. You can step out now. I must say that's a first-class materialisation. No-one would think you were a fiend, to look at you. Most demons, when they want to look human, materialise in the shape of nobles, kings and princes. This moth-eaten-wizard look is very clever. You could've almost fooled me. It's a shame you can't do any of those things.”
“I can't see why you'd want to live for ever,” said Rincewind, privately determining that the words “moth-eaten” would be paid for, if ever he got the opportunity. “Being young again, I can understand that.”
“Huh. Being young's not much fun,” said Thursley, and then clapped his hand over his
