Equal Rites (Terry Pratchett)

Skiller rushed past his wife and laid a hand on the tap of the nearest barrel. He paused, and then wrenched it open.

The smell of peach brandy filled the room, sharp as knives. He shut off the flow and relaxed.

“Afraid it would turn into something nasty?” asked his wife. He nodded.

“If you hadn’t been so clumsy—” she began.

“I tell you it bit me!”

“You could have been a wizard and we wouldn’t have to bother with all this. Have you got no ambition?”

Skiller shook his head. “I reckon it takes more than a staff to make a wizard,” he said. “Anyway, I heard where it said wizards aren’t allowed to get married, they’re not even allowed to—” He hesitated.

“To what? Allowed to what?”

Skiller writhed. “Well. You know. Thing.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mrs. Skiller briskly.

“No, I suppose not.”

He followed her reluctantly out of the darkened barroom. It seemed to him that perhaps wizards didn’t have such a bad life, at that.

He was proved right when the following morning revealed that the ten barrels of peach brandy had, indeed, turned into something nasty.