Мор - ученик смерти

           ThingscanhappentobrowsersinmagicallibrariesthatmakehavingyourfacepulledoffbytentacledmonstrositiesfromtheDungeonDimensionsseemamerelightmassagebycomparison.

           FortunatelyCutwellhadanexpurgatededition,withsomeofthemoredistressingpagesclampedshut(althoughonquietnightshecouldheartheimprisonedwordsscritchingirritablyinsidetheirprison,likeaspidertrappedinamatchbox;anyonewhohaseversatnexttosomeonewearingaWalkmanwillbeabletoimagineexactlywhattheysoundedlike).

           ’Thisisthebit,’saidCutwell.’Itsaysherethatevengods—’

           ’I’veseenhimbefore!’

           ’What?’

           Mortpointedashakingfingeratthebook.

           ’Him!’

           Cutwellgavehimanoddlookandexaminedtheleft-handpage.Therewasapictureofanelderlywizardholdingabookandacandlestickinanattitudeofnear-terminaldignity.

           ’That’snotpartofthemagic,’hesaidtestily,’that’sjusttheauthor.’

           ’Whatdoesitsayunderthepicture?’

           ’Er,Itsays"YffyouehaveenjoyedthissBoke,youemayebeinterestedeynothereTitlesby—’

           ’No,rightunderthepictureiswhatImeant!’

           ’That’seasy.It’soldMalichhimself.Everywizardknowshim.Imean,hefoundedtheUniversity.’Cutwellchuckled.There’safamousstatueofhiminthemainhall,andduringRagWeekonceIclimbedupitandputa—’

           Mortstaredatthepicture.

           ’Tellme,’hesaidquietly,’didthestatuehaveadripontheendofitsnose?’

           ’Ishouldn’tthinkso,’saidCutwell.’Itwasmarble.