Randomness has always been in the DNA of Discworld, reading theseīooks sometimes feel like watching a Monty Python movie. Readers mentioned that they thought the book's narrative is a bit It was certainly impressive from the cool, dark hilltop a few leagues away, where two figures were watching with considerable interest.Review, I browsed through some reviews for The Color of Magic. The smoke from the merry burning rose miles high, in a wind-sculpted black column that could be seen across the whole of the Discworld. In any case, sparks were riding the breeze and touching down far across the river in hidden gardens and remote rickyards. But already the ships in the Morpork docks- laden with grain, cotton and timber, and coated with tar- were blazing merrily and, their moorings burnt to ashes, were breasting the river Ankh on the ebb tide, igniting riverside palaces and bowers as they drifted like drowning fireflies toward the sea. By now the whole of downtown Morpork was alight, and the richer and worthier citizens of Ankh on the far bank were bravely responding to the situation by feverishly demolishing the bridges. Where it licked the Wizards’ Quarter it burned blue and green and was even laced with strange sparks of the eighth color, octarine where its outriders found their way into the vats and oil stores all along Merchant Street it progressed in a series of blazing fountains and explosions in the streets of the perfume blenders it burned with a sweetness where it touched bundles of rare and dry herbs in the storerooms of the drugmasters it made men go mad and talk to God. Who’d know?” “ I’d know!” snapped Rincewind.

This was going to be my big chance,” said Scrofula, “but look at it this way-if I hit you with this scythe you’ll be just as dead as you would be if Death had done it. So he sent me.” “No one dies of scrofula! I’ve got rights. “ There’s a big plague on in Pseudopolis. “ Scrofula.” “ Scrofula?” “ Death couldn’t come,” said the demon wretchedly. “ You’re not Death! Who are you?” cried Rincewind. “ I’m making rather a mess of this, aren’t I?” it said wearily. Instead of the grinning death’s head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts. “Hey, you can’t do that! It’d be murder!” The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. THERE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A REASON, said Death. The voice still had its graveyard ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty. YOU COULD DIE OF TERROR, the hood intoned. Pity the experience didn’t look like lasting for long.

For about the first time in his life he wasn’t frightened. To his utter amazement he didn’t feel terrified anymore.

Of? You can’t just be killed by Death there has to be a reason,” said Rincewind.

The color of magic by terry pratchett