The Fool had been edging along the log. 'If I kiss you,' he added carefully, 'do I turn into a frog?'
Magrat looked down at her feet again. They shuffled themselves under her dress, embarrassed at all this attention.
She could sense the shades of Gytha Ogg and Esme Weatherwax on either side of her. Granny's spectre glared at her. A witch is master of every situation, it said.
Mistress, said the vision of Nanny Ogg, and made a brief gesture involving much grinning and waving of forearms.
'We shall have to see,' she said.
It was destined to be the most impressive kiss in the history of foreplay.
Time, as Granny Weatherwax had pointed out, is a subjective experience. The Fool's years in the Guild had been an eternity whereas the hours with Magrat on the hilltop passed like a couple of minutes. And, high above Lancre, a double handful of seconds extended like taffy into hours of screaming terror.
'Ice!' screamed Granny. 'It's iced up!'
Nanny Ogg came alongside, trying vainly to match courses with the tumbling, bucking broomstick. Octarine fire crackled over the frozen bristles, shorting them out at random. She leaned over and snatched a handful of Granny's skirt.
'I tole you it was daft!' she shouted. 'You went all through all that wet mist and then up into the cold air, you daft besom!'
'You let go of my skirt, Gytha Ogg!'
'Come on, grab hold o'mine. You're on fire at the back there!'
They shot through the bottom of the cloud bank and screamed in unison as the shrub-covered ground emerged from nowhere and aimed itself directly at them.
And went past.
Nanny looked down a black perspective at the bottom of which a boil of white water was dimly visible. They had flown over the edge of Lancre Gorge.
Blue smoke was pouring out of Granny's broomstick but she hung on, determined, and forced it around.
'What the hell you doing?' roared Nanny.
'I can follow the river,' Granny Weatherwax screamed, above the crackle of flames. 'Don't you worry!'
'You come aboard, d'you hear? It's all over, you can't do it . . .'
There was a small explosion behind Granny and several handfuls of burning bristles broke off and whirled away into the booming depths of the gorge. Her stick jerked sideways and Nanny grabbed her around the shoulders as a gout of fire snapped another binding.
The blazing broomstick shot from between her legs, twisted in the air, and went straight upwards, trailing sparks and making a noise like a wet finger dragged around the top of a wineglass.
This left Nanny flying upside down, supporting Granny Weatherwax at arm's length. They stared into one another's face and screamed.
'I can't pull you up!'
'Well, I can't climb up, can I? Act your age, Gytha!'
Nanny considered this. Then she let go.
Three marriages and an adventurous girlhood had left Nanny Ogg with thigh muscles that could crack coconuts, and the G-forces sucked at her as she forced the speeding stick down and around in a tight loop.
Ahead of her she made out Granny Weatherwax dropping like a stone, one hand clutching her hat, the other trying to prevent gravity from seeing up her skirts. She urged the stick forwards until it creaked, snatched the falling witch around the waist, fought the plunging stick back up to level flight, and sagged.
The subsequent silence was broken by Granny Weatherwax saying, 'Don't you ever do that again, Gytha Ogg.'
'I promise.'
'Now turn us around. We're heading for Lancre Bridge, remember?'