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The imp gave him a kind but pitying look. “Lightning is the spears hurled by the thunder giants when they fight,” it said gently. “Established meteorological fact. You can’t harness it.” “I know,” said Rincewind miserably. “That’s the flaw in the argument, of course.”
It landed lightly. Rincewind saw its lid open again, slightly. Just far enough for a tongue, large as a palm leaf, red as mahogany, to lick up a few errant feathers.
No deity can disguise the manner and nature of his eyes.
All Rincewind could manage to say was, “You know, I never imagined there were he-dryads. Not even in an oak tree.” One of the giants grinned at him. Druellae snorted. “Stupid! Where do you think acorns come from?”
But why were there dryads at all? As far as he could recall, the tree people had died out centuries before. They had been out-evolved by humans, like most of the other Twilight Peoples. Only elves and trolls had survived the coming of Man to the Discworld; the elves because they were altogether too clever by half, and the trollen folk because they were at least as good as humans at being nasty, spiteful and greedy. Dryads were supposed to have died out, along with gnomes and pixies.
