Sourcery by Terry Pratchett

Archchancellor’s hat.
    The octarines around its crown blazed in all eight colors of the spectrum, creating the kind of effects in the foggy alley that it would take a very clever special effects director and a whole battery of star filters to achieve by any non-magical means. As she raised it high in the air it created its own nebula of colors that very few people ever see in legal circumstances.
    Rincewind sank gently to his knees.
    She looked down at him, puzzled.
    “Legs given out?”
    “It’s—it’s the hat. The Archchancellor’s hat,” said Rincewind, hoarsely. His eyes narrowed. “You’ve stolen it!” he shouted, struggling back to his feet and grabbing for the sparkling brim.
    “It’s just a hat.”
    “Give it to me this minute! Women mustn’t touch it! It belongs to wizards!”
    “Why are you getting so worked up?” she said.
    Rincewind opened his mouth. Rincewind closed his mouth.
    He wanted to say: It’s the Archchancellor’s hat, don’t you understand? It’s worn by the head of all wizards, well, on the head of the head of all wizards, no, metaphorically it’s worn by all wizards, potentially, anyway, and it’s what every wizard aspires to, it’s the symbol of organized magic, it’s the pointy tip of the profession, it’s a symbol, it’s what it means to all wizards…
    And so on. Rincewind had been told about the hat on his first day at University, and it had sunk into his impressionable mind like a lead weight into a jelly. He wasn’t sure of much in the world, but he was certain that the Archchancellor’s hat was important. Maybe even wizards need a little magic in their lives.
    Rincewind , said the hat.
    He stared at the girl. “It spoke to me!”
    “Like a voice in your head?”
    “Yes!”
    “It did that to me, too.”
    “But it knew my name!”
    Of course we do, stupid fellow. We are supposed to be a magic hat after all .
    The hat’s voice wasn’t only clothy. It also had a strange choral effect, as if an awful lot of voices were talking at the same time, in almost perfect unison.
    Rincewind pulled himself together.
    “O great and wonderful hat,” he said pompously, “strike down this impudent girl who has had the audacity, nay, the—”
    Oh, do shut up. She stole us because we ordered her to. It was a near thing, too .
    “But she’s a—” Rincewind hesitated. “She’s of the female persuasion…” he muttered.
    So was your mother .
    “Yes, well, but she ran away before I was born,” Rincewind mumbled.
    Of all the disreputable taverns in all the city you could have walked into, you walked into his , complained the hat.
    “He was the only wizard I could find,” said the girl. “He looked the part. He had ‘Wizard’ written on his hat and everything.”
    Don’t believe everything you read. Too late now, anyway. We haven’t got much time .
    “Hold on, hold on,” said Rincewind urgently, “What’s going on? You wanted her to steal you? Why haven’t we got much time?” He pointed an accusing finger at the hat. “Anyway, you can’t go around letting yourself be stolen, you’re supposed to be on—on the Archchancellor’s head! The ceremony was tonight, I should have been there—”
    Something terrible is happening at the University. It is vital that we are not taken back, do you understand? You must take us to Klatch, where there is someone fit to wear me .
    “Why?” There was something very strange about the voice, Rincewind decided. It sounded impossible to disobey, as though it was solid destiny. If it told him to walk over a cliff, he thought, he’d be halfway down before it could occur to him to disobey.
    The death of all wizardry is at hand .
    Rincewind looked around guiltily.
    “Why?” he said.
    The world is going to end .
    “What, again?”
    I mean it , said the hat sulkily. The triumph of the Ice Giants, the Apocralypse, the Teatime of the Gods, the whole thing .
    “Can we stop it?”
    The future is uncertain on that point