Terry Pratchett

Time passed, which, basically, is its job.

It wasn't a large village, and wouldn't have shown up on a map of the mountains. It barely showed up on a map of the village.

He had the kind of real deep tan that rich people spend ages trying to achieve with expensive holidays and bits of tinfoil, when really all you need to do to obtain one is work your arse off in the open air every day.

This is a story about magic and where it goes and perhaps more importantly where it comes from and why, although it doesn't pretend to answer all or any of these questions.

"Gods are all right," said Granny, as they ate their lunch and looked at the view. "You don't bother gods, and gods don't come bothering you."

"Do you think I used magic?"

I'm surely going to regret this, she told herself, displaying considerable foresight.

There would be a price. And Granny knew enough about wizardry to be certain that it would be a high one. But if you were worried about the price, then why were you in the shop?

A hint was to Esk what a mosquito bite was to the average rhino because she was already learning that if you ignore the rules people will, half the time, quietly rewrite them so that they don't apply to you.

She liked it because it offered privacy, always appreciated by, as she put it, "my more discerning clients who prefer to make their very special purchases in an atmosphere of calm where discretion is ever the watchword."

"Million-to-one chances," she said, "crop up nine times out of ten."

Wizards parted with money slightly less readily than tigers parted with their teeth.