‘Do you know what’s odd about that heap of stone?’ said Conina.
Rincewind glanced at it. He screwed up his eyes.
‘What, apart from the legs?’ he said.
It took several minutes to dig the Seriph out. He was still clutching a wine bottle, which was almost empty, and blinked at them all in vague recognition.
‘Powerful,’ he said, and then after some effort added, ’stuff, this vintage. Felt,’ he continued, ‘as though the place fell on me.’
‘It did,’ said Rincewind.
‘Ah. That would be it, then.’ Creosote focused on Conina, after several attempts, and rocked backwards. ‘My word,’ he said, ‘the young lady again. Very impressive.’
‘I say-’ Nijel began.
‘Your hair,’ said the Seriph, rocking slowly forward again, ‘is like, is like a flock of goats that graze upon the side of Mount Gebra.’
‘Look here
‘Your breasts are like, like,’ the Seriph swayed sideways a little, and gave a brief, sorrowful glance at the empty bottle, ‘are like the jewelled melons in the fabled gardens of dawn.’
Conina’s eyes widened. ‘They are?’ she said.
‘No,’ said the Seriph, ‘doubt about it. I know jewelled melons when I see them. As the white does in the meadows of the water margin are your thighs, which-’
‘Erm, excuse me-’said Nijel, clearing his throat with malice aforethought.
Creosote swayed in his direction.
‘Hmm?’ he said.
‘Where I come from,’ said Nijel stonily, ‘we don’t talk to ladies like that.’
Conina sighed as Nijel shuffled protectively in front of her. It was, she reflected, absolutely true.
‘In fact,’ he went on, sticking out his jaw as far as possible, which still made it appear like a dimple, ‘I’ve a jolly good mind-’
‘Open to debate,’ said Rincewind, stepping forward. ‘Er, sir, sire, we need to get out. I suppose you wouldn’t know the way?’
‘Thousands of rooms,’ said the Seriph,’ in here, you know. Not been out in years.’ He hiccuped. ‘Decades. Ians. Never been out, in fact.’ His face glazed over in the act of composition. ‘The bird of Time has but, um, a little way to walk and lo! the bird is on its- feet.’
‘It’s a geas,’ muttered Rincewind.
Creosote swayed at him. ‘Abrim does all the ruling, you see. Terrible hard work.’
‘He’s not,’ said Rincewind, ‘making a very good job of it just at present.’
And we’d sort of like to get away,’ said Conina, who was still turning over the phrase about the goats.
‘And I’ve got this geas,’ said Nijel, glaring at Rincewind.
Creosote patted him on the arm.
‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Everyone should have a pet.
‘So if you happen to know if you own any stables or anything…’ prompted Rincewind.
‘Hundreds,’ said Creosote. ‘I own some of the finest, most … finest horses in the world.’ His brow wrinkled. ‘So they tell me.’