Equal Rites (Terry Pratchett)

Cutangle opened his eyes again.

Granny was standing with her left arm extended full length in front of her, her hand clamped around the staff.

The ice was exploding off it, in gouts of steam.

“Right,” finished Granny, “and if this happens again I shall be very angry, do I make myself clear?”

Cutangle lowered his hands and hurried toward her.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “It’s like holding a hot icicle,” she said. “Come on, we haven’t got time to stand around chatting.”

“How are we going to get back?”

“Oh, show some backbone, man, for goodness sake. We’ll fly.”

Granny waved her broomstick. The Archchancellor looked at it doubtfully.

“On that?”

“Of course. Don’t wizards fly on their staffs?”

“It’s rather undignified.”

“If I can put up with that, so can you.”

“Yes, but is it safe?”

Granny gave him a withering look.

“Do you mean in the absolute sense?” she asked. “Or, say, compared with staying behind on a melting ice floe?”