It took place in the midnight in the University's Great Hall, in a welter of incense, candlesticks, runic inscriptions and magic circles, none of which was strictly necessary but made the wizards feel better. Magic flared, the chants were chanted, the invocations were truly invoked.

The wizards stared into the magic octogram, which remained empty. After a while the circle of robed figures began to mutter amongst themselves.

"We must have done something wrong."

"Oook."

"Maybe He is out."

"Or busy..."

"Do you think we could give up and go back to bed?"

WHO ARE WE WAITING FOR, EXACTLY?

The Bursar turned slowly to the figure beside him. You could always tell a wizard's robe; it was bedecked with sequins, sigils, fur and lace, and there was usually a considerable amount of wizard inside it. This robe, however, was very black. The material looked as though it had been chosen for its hard-wearing qualities. So did its owner. He looked as though if he wrote a diet book it would be a bestseller.

Death was watching the octogram with an expression of polite interest.

"Er," said the Bursar. "The fact is, in fact, that, er, you should be on the inside."

I'M SO SORRY.

Death stalked in a dignified way into the centre of the room and watched the Bursar expectantly.

I HOPE WE ARE NOT GOING TO HAVE ANY OF THIS "FOUL FIEND" BUSINESS AGAIN, he said.

"I trust we are not interrupting any important enterprise?" said the Bursar.

TO SOMEBODY.

"Er. Er. The reason, o fou - sir, that we have called you here, is for the reason -"

IT IS RINCEWIND.

"What?"

THE REASON YOU HAVE SUMMONED ME. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND.

"But we haven't asked you the question yet!"

NEVERTHELESS THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND.