Caravaggio The Fortune TellerCaravaggio The Conversion on the Way to DamascusCaravaggio The AnnunciationCaravaggio Sleeping Cupid
EIGHT, hate, ate said the echoes. There was the faintest of grinding noises, deep under the earth.
And the echoes, although they became softer, refused to die away. They bounced from wall to wall, crossing and recrossing, and the violet light flickered in time with the sound.Behind him there was a rumble as the great octagonal slab rose into the air, hung for a moment on one edge, and crashed down on the floor.Something thin and black snaked out of the pit and wrapped itself around his ankle. He screamed as he landed heavily on the vibrating flagstones. The tentacle started to pull him across the floor.Then Twoflower was in front of him, reaching out for his hands. He grasped the little man's arms desperately and they lay looking into each other's faces. Rincewind slid on, even so."What's holding you?" he gasped."N-nothing!" said Twoflower. "What's happening?""I'm being dragged into this pit, what do you think?"
"You did it!" screamed Rincewind. "I said you shouldn't say eight!"
He stopped, appalled at himself. But the word was out now, and joined its colleagues in the general susurration.
Rincewind turned to run, but the air suddenly seemed to be thicker than treacle. A charge of magic bigger than he had ever seen was building up; when he moved, in painful slow motion, his limbs left trails of golden sparks that traced their shape in the air.
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