A double rainbow corruscated into being. Close into the lip of the Rimfall were the seven lesser colors, sparkling and dancing in the spray of the dying seas. But they were pale in comparison to the wider band that floated beyond them, not deigning to share the same spectrum. It was the King Color, of which all the lesser colors are merely partial and wishy-washy reflections. It was octarine, the color of magic. It was alive and glowing and vibrant and it was the undisputed pigment of the imagination, because wherever it appeared it was a sign that mere matter was a servant of the powers of the magical mind. It was enchantment itself. But Rincewind always thought it looked a sort of greenish purple.
The Color of Magic by Terry Pratchett
