The little figure peered over the top of its glasses.

"I see," he said testily. "What could you manage then, do you think?"

"Well, er -" said Rincewind, "I suppose I could go down to the shops and get a packet of mints, or something."

There was a pause.

"You really can't do all those things?"

"Sorry. Look I'll tell you what. You just release me, and I'll be sure to pass the word around when I get back to -" Rincewind hesitated. Where the hell did demons live, anyway? "Demon City," he said hopefully.

"You mean Pandemonium?" said his captor suspiciously.

"Yes, that's right. That's what I meant. I'll tell everyone, next time you're in the real world be sure and look up - what's your name?"

"Thursley. Eric Thursley."

"Right"

"Demonologist. Midden Lane, Pseudopolis. Next door to the tannery," said Thursley hopefully.

"Right you are. Don't you worry about it. Now, if you'll just let me out -"

Thursley's face fell.

"You're sure you really can't do it?" he said, and Rincewind couldn't help noticing the edge of pleading in his voice. "Even a small chest of gold would do. And, I mean, it needn't be the most beautiful woman in the whole of history. Second most beautiful would do. Or third. You pick any one out of, you know, the top one hundr - thousand. Whatever you've got in stock, sort of thing." By the end of the sentence his voice twanged with longing.

Rincewind wanted to say: Look, what you should do is stop all this messing around with chemicals in dark rooms and have a shave, a haircut, a bath, make that two baths, buy yourself a new wardrobe and get out of an evening and then - but he'd have to be honest, because even washed, shaved and soaked in body splash Thursley wasn't going to win any prizes - and then you could have your face slapped by any woman of your choice.