Gustav Klimt Pear Tree

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fire, driven by the wind, spread out from the Drum faster than a man could walk. The timbers of the Widdershin Gate were already on fire when Rincewind, his face blistered and reddened from the flames, reached them. By now he and Twoflower were on horseback - mounts hadn't been that hard to obtain. A wily merchant hadBloody hell, he thought. He's alive! Me too. Who'd have thought it? Perhaps there is something in this reflected-sound-of-underground- spirits? It was a cumbersome phrase. Rincewind tried to get his tongue round the thick syllables that were the word in Twoflower's own language.
"Ecolirix?" he tried. "Ecro-gnothics? Echo-gnomics?"
That would do. That sounded about right. asked fifty times their worth, and had been left gaping when one thousand times their worth had been pressed into his hands.They rode through just before the first of the big gate timbers descended in an explosion of sparks Morpork was already a cauldron of flame.As they galloped up the red-lit road Rincewind glanced sideways at his travelling companion currently trying hard to learn to ride a horse.