On A Pale Horse by Piers Anthony

it could go either way.”
    “But I took poison so I could go at a time of my choosing!” she protested. “I've got to go to Heaven!”
    “Take an antidote or an emetic quickly,” Zane urged, wondering whether this was feasible. Would he have been summoned, had demise not been certain? And how could she turn the poison she had already taken against him? This was not working out at all! “Extend your life, and we shall talk.”
    The woman hesitated. “I don't know—”
    “Hurry!” Zane cried, seeing his chance slip away. If she had to die, he would not leave his office this time, and might not have the courage to make the next client turn against him.
    “I do have a healing potion that should neutralize it, but—”
    “Take it!” he pleaded.
    Dominated by his urgency, she complied, drinking the potion.
    “Now find a gun or a knife,” he told her.
    “What? Why should I neutralize the poison, only to use something much more messy?”
    “Not for you. For me. I want you to kill me.”
    She gaped at him. “I'll do no such thing! What do you think I am?”
    Zane saw that this wasn't remotely feasible. Of course she was not a murderess! He dismounted, took her hand, and led her to a patio where there were chairs and a table. “Why did you want to die?” he asked.
    “What do you care, Death?” she asked, wary of him but curious, too. She spoke with the strong Down under accent of this region.
    “Not long ago, I sought to die,” he said. “I changed my mind when—well, that's hard to explain. Now I want to die again.”
    “How can Death die even once?”
    “Believe me, Death can die. It is only an office I hold, and that office can be yours if—”
    “This is completely appalling!” she cried. “I'll not listen to this!”
    Zane sighed. “Tell me your problem.” He knew himself to be no psychologist, but he needed to extricate himself from this awkwardness he had put himself into.
    “My husband left me,” she said grimly. “After fifteen years—a younger woman—I'll show him!”
    “Isn't it a sin to commit suicide, according to your religion?” he asked.
    She paused, frowning. “I suppose it is, but—”
    “And should you do such a thing to spite him? Why match the wrong he did you with a wrong done to yourself?”
    “I am a woman,” she said with a wry smile. “I owe more to emotion than to logic.”
    Zane returned her smile, showing that he appreciated her humor. No woman really thought herself illogical, however strongly she might feel, but it was fashionable to seem otherwise. “But your soul is so close to balance, the evil matching the good, that these wrongs could tip you into Hell. Do what you know is right, and your balance should favor Heaven.”
    “Oh, I hadn't thought of that! I don't want to go to Hell!”
    “Believe me, you stand at the very brink of it now. You have done evil before, and this—”
    She sighed. “It is true. I have much evil to account for. I drove him away. I suppose you know how bitchy a woman can be when she tries.”
    “Not really. I always thought of women as pristine and pure,” Zane admitted. “Most of the evil resides in men. Women should go to Heaven when they die.”
    She laughed bitterly. “You idiot! There is more sin concealed in women than in men! My husband errs because it is his male nature; I, at least, should have known better. I was fooling myself when I dreamed of Heaven.”
    “Not at all,” Zane said. “I didn't say you were doomed to Hell; I said you stood at the verge. Heaven is within your potential. I am sure of this. You can redeem yourself. I am in a position to know, for I collect the borderline souls. Go and do good with what remains of your life, and you will go to Heaven. This promise is surely worth some sacrifice.”
    “Yes, surely it is,” she agreed. “But how is it you, the Grim Reaper, urge this course on me? If I live, doesn't that cost you points or something?”
    “I don't know,” Zane admitted. “I