There was a rhythmic noise coming from the bushes further up the slope, where sliding earth had left another bush-filled ravine.

'Sounds like a carpenter, m'lord,' said one of the soldiers.

'Up here? In the middle of a war? Go and see what it is!'

The man scrambled away. After a while there was a pause in the sawing noise. Then it started again.

Lord Fang had been trying to work out a fresh battle plan according to the Nine Useful Principles. He threw down his map.

'Why is that still going on? Where is Captain Nong?'

'Hasn't come back, m'lord.'

'Then go and see what has happened to him!'

Lord Fang tried to remember if the great military sage had ever had anything to say about fighting giant invulnerable statues. He—

The sawing paused. Then it was replaced by the sound of hammering.

Lord Fang looked around.

'Can I have an order obeyed around here?' he bellowed.

He picked up his sword and scrambled up the muddy slope. The bushes parted ahead of him. There was a clearing. There was a rushing shape, on hundreds of little le—

There was a snap.

The rain was coming down so fast that the drops were having to queue.

The red earth was hundreds of feet deep in places. It produced two or three crops a year. It was rich. It was fecund. It was, when wet, extremely sticky.

The surviving armies had squelched from the field of battle, as red from head to toe as the terracotta men. Not counting those merely trodden on, the Red Army had not in fact killed very many people. Terror had done most of their work. Rather more soldiers had been killed in the brief inter-army battles and, in the scramble to escape, by their own sides.

The terracotta army had the field to itself. It was celebrating victory in various ways. Many guards were walking around in circles, wading through the clinging mud as if it was so much dirty air. A number were digging a trench, the sides of which were washing in on them in the thundering rain. A few were trying to climb walls that weren't there. Several, possibly as a result of the exertion following centuries of zero maintenance, had spontaneously exploded in a shower of blue sparks, the red-hot clay shrapnel being a major factor in the opposition's death count.

And all the time the rain fell, a solid curtain of water. It didn't look natural. It was as though the sea had decided to reclaim the land by air drop.

Rincewind shut his eyes. Mud covered the armour. He couldn't make out the pictures any more, and that was something of a relief because he was pretty certain he was messing things up. You could see what any warrior was seeing - at least, presumably you could, if you knew what some of the odder pictures actually did and how to press them in the right order. Rincewind didn't, and in any case whoever had made the magic armour hadn't assumed it would be used in knee-deep mud during a vertical river. Every now and again it sizzled. One of the boots was getting hot.

It had started out so well! But there had been what he was coming to think of as the Rincewind factor. Probably some other wizard would have marched the army out and wouldn't have been rained on and even now would be parading through the streets of Hung-hung while people threw flowers and said, 'My word, there's a Great Wizard and no mistake.'

Some other wizard wouldn't have pressed the wrong picture and started the things digging.

He realized he was wallowing in self-pity. Rather more pertinently, he was also wallowing in mud. And he was sinking. Trying to pull a foot out was no use - it didn't work, and the other foot only went deeper, and got hotter.

Lightning struck the ground nearby. He heard it sizzle, saw the steam, felt the tingle of electricity and tasted the taste of burning tin.

Another bolt hit a warrior. Its torso exploded, raining a sticky black tar. The legs kept going for a few steps, and then stopped.

Water poured past him, thick and red now that the river Hung was overflowing. And the mud continued to suck on his feet like a hollow tooth.

Something swirled past on the muddy water. It looked like a scrap of paper.

Rincewind hesitated, then reached out awkwardly with a gloved hand and scooped it up.

It was, as he'd expected, a butterfly.

'Thank you very much,' he said, bitterly.

The water drained through his fingers.

He half closed his hand and then sighed and, as gently as he could, manoeuvred the creature on to a finger. Its wings hung damply.

He shielded it with his other hand and blew on the wings a few times.

'Go on, push off.'

The butterfly turned. Its multi-faceted eyes glinted green for a moment and then it flapped its wings experimentally.

It stopped raining.

It started to snow, but only where Rincewind was.

'Oh, yes,' said Rincewind. 'Yes indeed. Oh, thank you so very much.'

Life was, he had heard, like a bird which flies out of the darkness and across a crowded hall and then through another window into the endless night again. In Rincewind's case it had managed to do something incontinent in his dinner.

The snow stopped. The clouds pulled back from the dome of the sky with astonishing speed, letting in hot sunlight which almost immediately made the mud steam.

'There you are! We've been looking everywhere!'

Rincewind tried to turn, but the mud made that impossible. There was a wooden thump, as of a plank being laid down on wet ooze.

'Snow on his head? In bright sunshine? I said to myself, that's him all right.'

There was the thump of another plank.

A small avalanche slid off the helmet and slid down Rincewind's neck.

Another thump, and a plank squelched into the mud beside him.

'It's me, Twoflower. Are you all right, old friend?'

'I think my foot is being cooked, but apart from that I'm as happy as anything.'

'I knew it would be you doing the charades,' said Twoflower, sticking his hands under the wizard's shoulders and hauling.

'You got the "Wind" syllable?' said Rincewind. 'That was very hard to do, by remote control.'

'Oh, none of us got that,' said Twoflower, 'but when it did "ohshitohshitohshit I'm going to die" everyone got that first go. Very inventive. Er. You seem to be stuck.'

'I think it's the magic boots.'

'Can't you wiggle them off? This mud dries like - well, like terracotta in the sun. Someone can come along and dig them out afterwards.'

Rincewind tried to move his feet. There was some sub-mud bubblings and he felt his feet come free, with a muffled slurping noise.

Finally, with considerable effort, he was sitting on the plank.

'Sorry about the warriors,' he said. 'It looked so simple when I started out, and then I got confused with all the pictures and it was impossible to stop some of them doing things—'

'But it was a famous victory!' said Twoflower.

'Was it?'

'Mr Cohen's been made Emperor!'

'He has?'

'Well, not made, no-one made him, he just came along and took it. And everyone says he's the pre-incarnation of the first Emperor and he says if you want to be the Great Wizard that's fine by him.'

'Sorry? You lost me there...'

'You led the Red Army, didn't you? You made them rise up in the Empire's hour of need?'

'Well, I wouldn't exactly say that I—'

'So the Emperor wants to reward you. Isn't that nice?'

'How do you mean, reward?' said Rincewind, with deep suspicion.

'Not sure, really. Actually, what he said was... ' Twoflower's eyes glazed as he tried to recall. 'He said, "You go and find Rincewind and say he might be a bit of a pillock but at least he's straight so he can be Chief Wizard of the Empire or whatever he wants to call it, 'cos I don't trust you foreign..." ' Twoflower squinted upwards as he tried to remember Cohen's precise words ' "... house of auspicious aspect... scent of pine trees... buggers." '