Sourcery (Discworld, #5; Rincewind, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

Spelter was thinking, eight sons, that means he did it eight times. At least. Gosh.

There was a noise that Spelter felt rather than heard, and Carding bounced across the gallery and struck the opposite wall with a sound like a sack of lard hitting a pavement.

With fifty years ahead of him, he thought, he could elevate tedium to the status of an art form. There would be no end to the things he wouldn’t do.

“Your breasts are like, like,” the Seriph swayed sideways a little, and gave a brief, sorrowful glance at the empty bottle, “are like the jewelled melons in the fabled gardens of dawn.” Conina’s eyes widened. “They are?” she said. “No,” said the Seriph, “doubt about it. I know jewelled melons when I see them.

He had to set himself up with what came to hand. He had nothing in the whole world but a magic carpet, a magic lamp, a magic ring and a grotto full of assorted jewels.” “Came up the hard way, did he?” said Rincewind.