Pyramids by Terry Pratchett

white fish. The squishi chef was scrutinizing him with the air of one watching a toddler on his first birthday. So, he realized, was the rest of the restaurant.
    He chewed it carefully. It was salty and faintly rubbery, with a hint of sewage outfall.
    “Nice?” said Chidder anxiously. Several nearby diners started to clap.
    “Different,” Teppic conceded, chewing. “What is it?”
    “Deep sea blowfish,” said Chidder.
    “It’s all right,” he said hastily as Teppic laid down his fork meaningfully, “it’s perfectly safe provided every bit of stomach, liver and digestive tract is removed, that’s why it cost so much, there’s no such thing as a second-best blowfish chef, it’s the most expensive food in the world, people write poems about it—”
    “Could be a taste explosion,” muttered Teppic, getting a grip on himself. Still, it must have been done properly, otherwise the place would now be wearing him as wallpaper. He poked carefully at the sliced roots which occupied the rest of the plate.
    “What do these do to you?” he said.
    “Well, unless they’re prepared in exactly the right way over a six-week period they react catastrophically with your stomach acids,” said Chidder. “Sorry. I thought we should celebrate with the most expensive meal we could afford.”
    “I see. Fish and chips for Men ” said Teppic.
    “Do they have any vinegar in this place?” said Arthur, his mouth full. “And some mushy peas would go down a treat.”
    But the wine was good. Not incredibly good, though. Not one of the great vintages. But it did explain why Teppic had gone through the whole of the day with a headache.
    It had been the hangunder. His friend had bought four bottles of otherwise quite ordinary white wine. The reason it was so expensive was that the grapes it was made from hadn’t actually been planted yet. *

    Light moves slowly, lazily on the Disc. It’s in no hurry to get anywhere. Why bother? At lightspeed, everywhere is the same place.
    King Teppicymon XXVII watched the golden disc float over the edge of the world. A flight of cranes took off from the mist-covered river.
    He’d been conscientious, he told himself. No one had ever explained to him how one made the sun come up and the river flood and the corn grow. How could they? He was the god, after all. He should know. But he didn’t, so he’d just gone through life hoping like hell that it would all work properly, and that seemed to have done the trick. The trouble was, though, that if it didn’t work, he wouldn’t know why not. A recurrent nightmare was of Dios the high priest shaking him awake one morning, only it wouldn’t be a morning, of course, and of every light in the palace burning and an angry crowd muttering in the star-lit darkness outside and everyone looking expectantly at him…
    And all he’d be able to say was, “Sorry.”
    It terrified him. How easy to imagine the ice forming on the river, the eternal frost riming the palm trees and snapping off the leaves (which would smash when they hit the frozen ground) and the birds dropping lifeless from the sky…
    Shadow swept over him. He looked up through eyes misted with tears at a gray and empty horizon, his mouth dropping open in horror.
    He stood up, flinging aside the blanket, and raised both hands in supplication. But the sun had gone. He was the god, this was his job, it was the only thing he was here to do, and he had failed the people.
    Now he could hear in his mind’s ear the anger of the crowd, a booming roar that began to fill his ears until the rhythm became insistent and familiar, until it reached the point where it pressed in no longer but drew him out, into that salty blue desert where the sun always shone and sleek shapes wheeled across the sky.
    The pharaoh raised himself on his toes, threw back his head, spread his wings. And leapt.
    As he soared into the sky he was surprised to hear a thump behind him. And the sun came out from behind the clouds.
    Later