On A Pale Horse by Piers Anthony Page A

have not held this office long. I just don't like to see a life wasted or a person damned who could be saved.”
    “Yet you were asking me to kill you!”
    “I see now that was wrong of me. I will make you a deal: you live, and I will live.”
    She smiled more openly, looking rather pretty. “I'll do it! I don't need my husband anyway.”
    Zane stood. “I regret I have other appointments. May we never meet again.” He extended his hand.
    She took it, though it seemed skeletal. “This I will remember—shaking hands with Death.”
    Zane laughed. “That's better than what you contemplated.”
    “Also better than what you contemplated!” He nodded agreement, then returned to the horse and mounted. He waved to her as he departed.

Chapter 4 - MAGICIAN
     
    The Deathwatch was counting down again. Only ninety seconds remained. “No time to ride down the mountain,” Zane said. “Can you take me there directly, Mortis?”
    The stallion neighed, reared, and leaped into the air. Clouds raced by, and land and sea and more land. This was hyper drive! When the horse landed, they were back in America. In fact, they were in Kilvarough; he knew his home city well. Well, of course people died here as well, and some would be in near balance; no need to be surprised.
    They stopped at an affluent suburban estate. A fence of iron spikes surrounded it, and two lean young griffins patrolled the grounds. They were beautiful creatures, with powerful beaks and talons and rippling muscles on their bodies. Crossbreed of eagle and lion, with certain magical endowments, yet loyal to whatever person or creature they gave their loyalty to, they were just about the best protection an estate could have. This, more than the obvious wealth of the property, impressed him with the status of its owner.
    But when the creatures menaced Zane, the Death steed lifted one steel forefoot in unmistakable warning, backing them off. Few griffins feared horses, but these were smart enough to perceive that this was no ordinary horse.
    Still, Zane wasn't eager to leave the protection Mortis provided while the griffins remained. But he would have to, for he was sure the horse would not enter the building. He glanced about—and spied an object strapped to the saddle. He lifted it out and found two pegs mounted on a long, curving shaft. He gripped it by these, and a massive, gleaming blade snapped out at right angles to the base. Sure enough—it was a switchblade scythe.
    Zane had had only very limited experience with a scythe in a class on archaic farming and harvesting. Certain magic crops suffered heavy losses when worked by machinery, so ancient tools were still used for them, and most schools had a course or two in the application of these. So Zane knew what this was and how to swing it, but would have trouble using it as a weapon. Still, as he held it now, felt the proper heft of it and its fine balance, and eyed the deadly expanse of the blade, a certain nervous confidence suffused him. This was a magic weapon, surely; its enchantment made the wielder at least halfway competent. He believed he could use it and that its power and quality would enhance his ability. After all, the scythe was Death's traditional instrument, the grim tool of the Grim Reaper, and he was now that entity.
    The horse stopped, and Zane dismounted. Yes, he was Death, standing here holding this deadly instrument. He began to believe. Perhaps he could do the job the way it should be done.
    Thirty seconds remained. He strode toward the house. The two griffins spread their wings and rose up to the rampant posture, their elevated front claws springing out like narrow daggers, their beaks gleaming. A kind of screaming growl started in the two throats.
    Zane drew his Death cloak close about him and lifted the scythe. The griffins reared back, wary of its terrible blade. He strode toward them, glaring through the narrow aperture of his hood.
    That did it. The monsters might fear nothing living,