On A Pale Horse by Piers Anthony Page B

but all creatures feared Death, if they recognized him.
    As his watch signaled time, Zane walked into the main room of the house. There was an old man, seated in an easy chair.
    “Stay your hand a moment, Death,” the man said. “I would converse with you.”
    “I'm running late,” Zane demurred, no longer as surprised as he had first been when people saw him and addressed him directly. It was evident that anyone who really wished to could relate to him.
    The man smiled. “I must advise you that I am a Magician of the thirty-second rank, whose name you would not recognize because my magic protects my anonymity. I can stay your hand—yea, even yours, Death!—for a time. But I do not seek to oppose you, only to converse a moment with you. Put away your weapon, grant me a period of your attention, and I will reciprocate with something of greater value.”
    “Do you seek to bribe Death?” Zane asked, half angry and two-thirds curious. He folded the scythe and leaned it against the wall near the door. “What possible thing could you offer me?”
    “I have already given you more than you can afford to know,” the Magician said. “But I will couch my offer succinctly. Stop your watch, and if after five minutes you do not wish to converse longer, I will yield you my soul with singular grace. In return, I proffer you the dominant option on the love of my daughter.”
    This did not please Zane. The bitterness of his foolish loss of Angelica to the proprietor of the Mess O' Pottage shop was still fresh. “What use does Death have for any woman?” he asked.
    “You remain a man, behind the Death mask. Even Death does not exist by souls alone.”
    “What am I to make of a man who would prostitute his daughter to gain a few more minutes of life?” Zane asked, repelled.
    “Especially one who would prostitute her to a person who killed his mother,” the Magician agreed,
    Zane punched the STOP button, freezing the overextended countdown. “You have my attention, Magician,” he said between his teeth.
    “I shall summon her,” the man said. He tapped one gnarled finger against the arm of his chair with a sound like the clang of a small bell.
    That was not what Zane had meant, but he kept silent. The Magician was evidently a complex, knowledgeable man who had done his research on Zane's past. Why he chose to bring his daughter into it, Zane could not guess, but that was the Magician's business. Maybe the girl was so homely that no one would seek to take advantage of her anyway.
    The girl entered the room. She was naked. Her hair was bound under a bathing cap; evidently she had just stepped out of an air-shower. Her body was slender and well formed, but not spectacular. She was just a normal, healthy young woman of perhaps twenty years. “What is it. Father?” she inquired, her voice gently melodious.
    “I have offered your love to this person, Luna,” the Magician said, gesturing to Zane.
    She glanced about, perplexed. “What person?”
    “You can see him, if you try. He is the new Death.”
    “Death!” she exclaimed with mild horror. “So soon?”
    “He has come for me, not you, my dear, and I shall go with him shortly. But I wanted you to meet him before I gave him the love-spell with your name on it.”
    She squinted, looking at Zane, beginning to see him. “But I'm not dressed!” she protested.
    “Dress, then,” her father said, as if indifferent. “I wish you to make an impression on him so he will desire you.”
    “As you wish, Father,” she said dutifully. “I have yet to meet the man I couldn't impress when I tried, but I doubt I have much future with the like of Death.” She turned and departed the way she had arrived, poised but still not special. It seemed to Zane that Magician and daughter both had considerable arrogance, assuming so blithely that the office holder of Death could be swayed by such obvious means.
    Perhaps, he thought further, his glimpse of lovely Angelica had forever spoiled