"I can't see why you'd want to live for ever," said Rincewind, privately determining that the words "moth-eaten" would be paid for, if ever he got the opportunity. "Being young again, I can understand that."

"Huh. Being young's not much fun," said Thursley, and then clapped his hand over his mouth.

Rincewind leaned forward.

About fifty years. That was what was missing.

"That's a false beard!" he said. "How old are you?"

"Eighty-seven!" squeaked Thursley.

"I can see the hooks over your ears!"

"Seventy-eight, honest! Avaunt!"

"You're a little boy!"

Eric pulled himself up haughtily. "I'm not!" he snapped. "I'm nearly fourteen!"

"Ah-ha!"

The boy waved the sword at Rincewind. "It doesn't matter, anyway!" he shouted. "Demonologists can be any age, you're still my demon and you have to do as I say!"

"Eric!" came a voice from somewhere below them.

Eric's face went white.

"Yes, mother?" he shouted, his eyes fixed on Rincewind. His mouth shaped the words: don't say anything, please.

"What's all that noise up there?"

"Nothing, mother!"

"Come down and wash your hands, dear, your breakfast's ready!"

"Yes, mother." He looked sheepishly at Rincewind. "That's my mother," he said.

"She's got a good pair of lungs, hasn't she," said Rincewind.

"I'd, I'd better go, then," said Eric. "You'll have to stay up here, of course."

It dawned on him that he was losing a certain amount of credibility at this point. He waved the sword again.

"Avaunt!" he said. "I command you not to leave this room!"

"Right. Sure," said Rincewind, eyeing the windows.

"Promise? Otherwise you'll be sent back to the Pit."

"Oh, I don't want that," said Rincewind. "Off you trot. Don't worry about me."