He looked around and added: “That goes for your shadow-loving fleabag partner, too, wherever he’s hiding.” The Weasel stepped up to the horse and peered at the disheveled figure.
“Why, it’s Rincewind the wizard, isn’t it?” he said in tones of delight, meanwhile filing the wizard’s description of him in his memory for leisurely vengeance. “I thought I recognized the voice.”
(Page 9). This is an exerpt from Terry practchett 'The color of magic'.