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Sir Terry Pratchett, fantasy author and creator of the Discworld series, has died aged 66, eight years after being diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease.

"The world has lost one of its brightest, sharpest minds," said Larry Finlay of his publishers Transworld.

The author died at home, surrounded by his family, "with his cat sleeping on his bed", he added.

Sir Terry wrote more than 70 books during his career and completed his final book last summer.

He "enriched the planet like few before him" and through Discworld satirised the world "with great skill, enormous humour and constant invention," said Mr Finlay.

"Terry faced his Alzheimer's disease (an 'embuggerance', as he called it) publicly and bravely," said Mr Finlay.

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There was nobody like him”

Neil Gaiman
"Over the last few years, it was his writing that sustained him. His legacy will endure for decades to come."

Sir Terry leaves wife Lyn and daughter Rhianna.

The announcement of his death was made on Sir Terry's Twitter account on Thursday afternoon, with Rhianna later writing: "Many thanks for all the kind words about my dad. Those last few tweets were sent with shaking hands and tear-filled eyes."

Despite campaigning for assisted suicide after his diagnosis, Sir Terry's publishers said he did not take his own life.

BBC News correspondent Nick Higham said: "I was told by the publishers his death was entirely natural and unassisted, even though he had said in the past he wanted to go at a time of his own choosing."

Fellow author and friend Neil Gaiman was among those paying tribute to Sir Terry, writing on his website: "There was nobody like him. I was fortunate to have written a book with him, when we were younger, which taught me so much."

Gaiman added: "I will miss you, Terry, so much."

Actor Sir Tony Robinson described his friend as a "bit of a contradiction", saying: "He was incredibly flamboyant with his black hat and urban cowboy clothes.

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Philip Pullman: "There is nothing spiteful, nothing bitter or sarcastic in his humour"
"But he was also very shy, and happiest with his family

"Everybody who reads his work would agree Death was one of his finest creations - Terry in some way has now shaken hands with one of his greatest-ever creations."

Prime Minster David Cameron said: "Sad to hear of Sir Terry Pratchett's death, his books fired the imagination of millions and he fearlessly campaigned for dementia awareness."

Terry Pratchett knighted
Sir Terry was knighted by the Queen in 2009
The Discworld series - which started in 1983 - was based in a flat world perched on the backs of four elephants which, in turn, stand on the back of a giant turtle.

By 2013, he had written more than 40 instalments.

At the peak of his writing powers, Sir Terry - known for his striking dress sense and large black fedora - was publishing more than three books a year. His quirky and satirical view of the world won him a worldwide following.

At the turn of the century, he was Britain's second most-read author, beaten only by JK Rowling.

In August 2007, it was reported Sir Terry had suffered a stroke, but the following December he announced that he had been diagnosed with a very rare form of early-onset Alzheimer's disease which, he said, "lay behind this year's phantom stroke".

Terry Pratchett
Sir Terry approached his Alzheimer's diagnosis with a pragmatic sense of humour
Knighted in 2009, he said: "It would appear to me that me getting up and saying 'I've got Alzheimer's', it did shake people."

"The thing about Alzheimer's is there are few families that haven't been touched by the disease.

"People come up to me and talk about it and burst into tears; there's far more awareness about it and that was really what I hoped was going to happen."

His death was announced on his Twitter account with a tweet composed in capital letters - which was how the author portrayed the character of Death in his novels - read: "AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER."

A fundraising site set up in Sir Terry's memory to raise money for a charity that cares for those with Alzheimer's has already raised thousands of pounds.

He asked them for a few minutes alone to enjoy the afternoon sun, and with a brief hug and a squeeze of the hand they left him. His hat brim was low as he settled back into the chair, surveying his garden with satisfaction. Those azaleas were still looking a bit morose, practically chewed-on, frankly, but everything else was gearing up for the explosion of life which would catapult Spring into Summer before it had quite gotten its bearings. There had been a mild cold breeze a few minutes ago, but he had understood that to be a fact of life. Or rather...
"MR PRATCHETT."
"I knew you were there. Thank you for waiting until the others left."
"A FEW MINUTES HERE AND THERE ARE PERFECTLY WITHIN THE RULES, I'VE FOUND."
"Well exactly. If you can't stretch the rules, they're not rules, they're..."
Death waited helpfully.
"... well, anyway. It's a lovely day for it, isn't it?"
"I BELIEVE THAT COULD BE SAID."
There was a pause.
"I was wondering if you'd show up."
"IN THIS UNIVERSE I DO. I'M INFORMED THAT THERE ARE SOME IN WHICH I DO, AND OTHERS IN WHICH I DON'T. IN SOME OF THE FORMER, WE HAVE THIS CONVERSATION, OR ONE LIKE IT. IN SOME OF THE LATTER, PEOPLE IMAGINE THE CONVERSATION ANYWAY."
"That sounds very..."
Death waited patiently. "QUANTUM?" he supplied after a while.
There was another pause, rooted in, Death perceived, mild frustration.
"I'M SORRY," Death said. "I STEPPED ON YOUR PUNCHLINE."
"Oh, no, no, that's alright. Better that than the joke dying. I'm more concerned about your horse stepping on my flowerbeds, to be honest."
"BINKY," Death said reprovingly. "DO NOT EAT THE AZALEAS."
"It certainly explains why they've always been slow to flower. I suppose his necromorphic field ripples through time from this point, so the flowers have always felt a distinct sensation of being gently nibbled?"
"I'M AFRAID I DON'T KEEP UP WITH THE SCIENCE OF MY HORSE," Death said. "SUSAN HAS LOOKED INTO THE MATTER, BUT I PREFER TO WORK WITH PRACTICALITIES, NOT THEORIES."
"Very sensible. I'm like that. Theories are wonderful, but putting a theory into practice is more wonderful. Not just seeding an idea but demonstrating it. Watching the ripples roll out into the world. It's -"
Death waited.
"... er, would you mind...?"
"OH. OF COURSE," said Death, and made a small movement.
"Oh my goodness. That's - that's so much better. Everything's... my brain, you know. It feels like it's come back to me." There were two of him now, one comfortably installed in his garden, and the other standing by Death, looking around, his eyes alight. He was practically fizzing with an internal energy which had been blurred - as if by a few swipes of a pencil eraser - for some years now.
"SOME PEOPLE SAY," said Death, "THAT LOSING YOUR FACULTIES ALONG WITH YOUR CAPABILITIES IS A BLESSING. I HAVE TENDED TO DISAGREE, BUT I WOULD BE INTERESTED IN YOUR THOUGHTS, HAVING SEEN, AS IT WERE, BOTH SIDES NOW."
"Ha! I expect if you asked Susan she would tell you exactly what I think."
"THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID," said Death, and felt confused at the chuckle this comment received.
They stood and surveyed the scene. Binky continued to gnaw on the flowers. The sun beat down with pleasing force. The grass wasn't quite that kind of grass which C.S. Lewis claimed you would find in Heaven, all cut-glass and dangerous to the touch, but it was certainly very green, and a little wild. "This'll need mowing at the weekend. I was going to do it but I suppose..."
Death felt he could address this one small implied request. He passed a skeletal hand gently in front of him, and the grass suffered a very precise amount of instant decay in its uppermost centimetre.
"ARE YOU AFRAID?" he asked after a moment.
"No. Well, yes. It's like going on a roller-coaster. The man who invented the roller-coaster did a wonderful thing, you know. He gave us another tool for interrogating death and how we feel about it. Another way of looking at our fear. And overcoming it, in a small way. That's why they talk about some books as being 'a real roller-coaster ride', I think. Terrifying - but you'll survive, and you'll talk about it for weeks. You can name your fear. And if you can name it, you can understand it."
Another pause.
"Er... not to, you know, interrogate Death, but... shouldn't we be going...?"
Death looked as embarrassed as his features could express, and cleared his throat. "I HAVE A SHORT STATEMENT FROM MY GRAND-DAUGHTER WHICH SHE WISHED ME TO REPEAT TO YOU."
"Oh? Well, say on, fellow."
"YES." Death was unaccustomed to public speaking. "SHE SAID - THAT YOU HAVE DONE US - MEANING SHE AND I - A GREAT SERVICE, BY CLARIFYING THE ROLE OF DEATH IN LIFE. IN INCARNATING DEATH WITHOUT CLOYING SENTIMENT OR FUTILE EXHORTATIONS, YOU HAVE HELPED MANY PEOPLE FACE US WITH DIGNITY, BRAVERY, AND CALMNESS. AND, MORE IMPORTANTLY, YOU HAVE HELPED MANY PEOPLE TO TURN AWAY FROM DARK TEMPTATIONS, AND TOWARDS LIFE, FOR AS LONG AS THEY COULD BEAR. AND EVERY LITTLE HELPS."
"ALSO," he added after a moment, "SHE THOUGHT 'GUARDS, GUARDS' WAS VERY FUNNY, AND YOU SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN THAT ONE FIRST, ALTHOUGH SHE KNOWS IT DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT."
"I'm... well, I'm flattered that your grand-daughter thinks all that, and please convey my gratitude to her. And my apologies, that I won't be writing any more books. Perhaps someone else will."
"SHE THINKS MANY MORE PEOPLE WILL READ - AND WRITE - MANY MORE BOOKS BECAUSE OF YOU."
A broad smile. "I couldn't ask for a finer epitaph."
The wind gusted suddenly. Binky looked up, smacking his lips.
There were rustling, scampering sounds, and they both looked down.
"SQUEAK?"
"TECHNICALLY, THERE'S NO NEED FOR YOU TO BE HERE," said Death.
"SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK! SQUEAAAAAK!"
"I SEE. WELL, PERHAPS JUST THIS ONCE."
"Oh, I'm not complaining. Hello there!... you know, he looks just like Paul drew him. And Josh too. Which is strange, as they drew him differently. But now..."
Death waited cautiously.
"... oh, don't worry, I'm just caught short for words. I'm marvelling. I will miss you, old friend."
"AND I YOU. BUT WE STILL HAVE A LITTLE WAY TO GO BEFORE WE PART."
"Shall we go then?"
"YES. BINKY? IT'S TIME TO GO."
"SQUEAK!"
"AND YOU TOO."
And for a moment the garden was filled with shadows completely unsuited to the time of day. Shadows of men and women, of witches and wizards, of trolls and gnomes and dwarves of all heights, of vampires and zombies and werewolves, of clockwork marvels and unlikely heroes and dragons and orangutans, of guards and patricians, of royalty and ordinary people and small blue people. And all the shadows bowed their heads, and were silent, and if you had been looking into the garden at this exact moment, you might have suspected this was an optical illusion caused by a particularly dark cloud passing overhead, coinciding with a moment of grave stillness in the breeze. But by the time you looked up, and found to your puzzlement that the sky was still a majestic unspoiled blue, and then looked down to verify what you had seen, the shadows would have gone, and you would have chalked it up to one of those weird little moments which can't be communicated to anyone, and kept it in your mind, a memory with meaning only to you.
And now there was no-one in the garden.
But the world was so, so full.