An arm barbed with spikes swept him away, and he rolled over in the gritty black dust.

Instinctively he curled into a ball, but nothing happened. Instead of the onslaught of fury he expected he opened his eyes to see the creature limping away from him, various liquids leaking from it.

It was the first time anything had ever run away from Rincewind.

He dived after it, caught a scaly leg, and wrenched. The creature chittered at him and flailed desperately with such appendages as were still working, but Rincewind’s grip was unshakeable. He pulled himself up and planted one last satisfying blow into its remaining eye. It screamed, and ran. And there was only one place for it to run to.

The tower and the red sky came back with the click of restored time.

As soon as he felt the press of the flagstones under his feet Rincewind flung his weight to one side and rolled on his back with the frantic creature at arms’ length.

‘Now!’ he yelled.

‘Now what?’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh. Yes. Right!’

He swung the sword inexpertly but with some force, missing Rincewind by inches and burying it deeply in the Thing. There was a shrill buzzing, as though he had smashed a wasp’s nest, and the melee of arms and legs and tentacles flailed in agony. It rolled again, screaming and thrashing at the flagstones, and then it was thrashing at nothing at all because it had rolled over the edge of the stairway, taking Rincewind with it.

There was a squelching noise as it bounced off a few of the stone steps, and then a distant and disappearing shriek as it tumbled the depth of the tower.

Finally there was a dull explosion and a flash of octarine light.

Then Twoflower was alone on the top of the tower—alone, that is, except for seven wizards who still seemed to be frozen to the spot.

He sat bewildered as seven fireballs rose out of the blackness and plunged into the discarded Octavo, which suddenly looked its old self and far more interesting.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I suppose they’re the Spells.’

‘Twoflower.’ The voice was hollow and echoing, and just recognisable as Rincewind’s.

Twoflower stopped with his hand halfway to the book.

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Is that—is that you, Rincewind?’

‘Yes,’ said the voice, resonant with the tones of the grave. ‘And there is something very important I want you to do for me, Twoflower.’

Twofiower looked around. He pulled himself together. So the fate of the Disc would depend on him, after all.

‘I’m ready,’ he said, his voice vibrating with pride. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

‘First, I want you to listen very carefully,’ said Rincewind’s disembodied voice patiently.

‘I’m listening.’

It’s very important that when I tell you what to do you don’t say "What do you mean?" or argue or anything, understand?’

Twoflower stood to attention. At least, his rnind stood to attention, his body really couldn’t. He stuck out several of his chins.

‘I’m ready,’ he said.

‘Good. Now, what I want you to do is —’

‘Yes?’

Rincewind’s voice rose from the depths of the stairwell.

‘I want you to come and help me up before I lose my grip on this stone,’ it said.

Twoflower opened his mouth, then shut it quickly. He ran to the square hole and peered down. By the ruddy light of the star he could just make out Rincewind’s eyes looking up at him.

Twoflower lay down on his stomach and reached out. Rincewind’s hand gripped his wrist in the sort of grip that told Twoflower that if he, Rincewind, wasn’t pulled up then there was no possible way in which that grip was going to be relaxed.

‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ he said.

‘Good. So am I,’ said Rincewind.

He hung around in the darkness for a bit. After the past few minutes it was almost enjoyable, but only almost.

‘Pull me up, then,’ he hinted.

‘I think that might be sort of difficult,’ grunted Twoflower. ‘I don’t actually think I can do it, in fact.’

‘What are you holding on to, then?’

‘You.’

‘I mean besides me.’

‘What do you mean, besides you?’ said Twoflower.

Rincewind said a word.

‘Well, look,’ said Twoflower. The steps go around in a spiral, right? If I sort of swing you and then you let go —’

‘If you’re going to suggest I try dropping twenty feet down a pitch dark tower in the hope of hitting a couple of greasy little steps which might not even still be there, you can forget it,’ said Rincewind sharply.

‘There is an alternative, then.’

‘Out with it, man.’

‘You could drop five hundred feet down a pitch black tower and hit stones which certainly are there,’ said Twoflower.

Dead silence came from below him. Then Rincewind said, accusingly, ‘That was sarcasm.’

‘I thought it was just stating the obvious.’

Rincewind grunted.

‘I suppose you couldn’t do some magic—’ Twoflower began.

‘No.’

‘Just a thought.’

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.’

Rincewind said another word.

Then he said, in a lower and more urgent tone, ‘Actually, I don’t think I can hang on any longer.’

‘Try.’

‘It’s no good, I can feel my hand slipping!’

Twoflower sighed. It was time for harsh measures. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Drop, then. See if I care.’

‘What?’ said Rincewind, so astonished he forgot to let go.

‘Go on, die. Take the easy way out.’

‘Easy?’.

‘All you have to do is plummet screaming through the air and break every bone in your body,’ said Twoflower. ‘Anybody can do it. Go on. I wouldn’t want you to think that perhaps you ought to stay alive because we need you to say the Spells and save the Disc. Oh, no. Who cares if we all get burned up? Go on, just think of yourself. Drop.’

There was a long, embarrassed silence.

‘I don’t know why it is,’ said Rincewind eventually, in a voice rather louder than necessary, ‘but ever since I met you I seem to have spent a lot of time hanging by my fingers over certain depth, have you noticed?’

‘Death,’ corrected Twoflower.

‘Death what?’ said Rincewind.

‘Certain death,’ said Twoflower helpfully, trying to ignore the slow but inexorable slide of his body across the flagstones. ‘Hanging over certain death. You don’t like heights.’

‘Heights I don’t mind,’ said Rincewind’s voice from the darkness. ‘Heights I can live with. It’s depths that are occupying my attention at the moment. Do you know what I’m going to do when we get out of this?’

‘No?’ said Twoflower, wedging his toes into a gap in the flagstones and trying to make himself immobile by sheer force of will.

‘I’m going to build a house in the flattest country I can find and it’s only going to have a ground floor and I’m not even going to wear sandals with thick soles —’

The leading torch came around the last turn of the spiral and Twoflower looked down on the grinning face of Cohen. Behind him, still hopping awkwardly up the stones, he could make out the reassuring bulk of the Luggage.

‘Everything all right?’ said Cohen. ‘Can I do anything?’

Rincewind took a deep breath.

Twoflower recognised the signs. Rincewind was about to say something like, ‘Yes, I’ve got this itch on the back of my neck, you couldn’t scratch it, could you, on your way past?’ or ‘No, I enjoy hanging over bottomless drops’ and he decided he couldn’t possibly face that. He spoke very quickly.