On a Pale Horse by Piers Anthony

virtue. There were blots on his conscience that could never be erased. He was, in secret fact, a murderer—now he had to admit it to himself!—and he had believed for some time that he was destined for Hell, though he had not quite allowed himself to believe Hell existed. Who was he to judge the souls of others? So the schoolboy had the sins of drug addiction on his soul; was Zane himself any better?
    Yet what choice did he have now? It always came back to that. If he didn’t do his job, how would that improve anyone’s situation? Someone else would replace him in the office of Death, and the grim game would continue.
    “It might as well be me,” Zane said, pressing the button to resume the countdown. But he remained unsatisfied. He had not really answered his question. He was doing this job because he didn’t know what else to do and wasn’t ready to quit what form of life remained to him. His own suicide attempt had been a passing thing, a wild impulse of the moment; he really did want to live. Since he had to perform or face some sort of Divine accounting, he performed. That really was not much credit to him.
    In fact, Zane realized, he was not much of a person. If he had never lived, the world would not have been aworse place. He was just one of the blah mediocrities that cluttered the cosmos. It was ironic that he should have backed into the significant office he now held.
    He had started and oriented the car. He was zooming across the surface of the world, hardly paying attention. This was, if he remembered correctly, his sixth case coming up; he was getting the hang of it. Of course there was still much to learn—assuming he really wanted to learn it.
    Ocean gave way to land. There was a fleeting beach, and a green shore region; then they plowed through mountains and across a desert whose sands were wrinkled into dunes like the waves of the sea, frozen in place. On south, still in hyperdrive; this was a huge island—in fact, a continent!
    The Deathmobile stopped at last at the dead end of a dirt road in mountainous country. Four minutes remained on the timer. Where was the client?
    The arrowstone for once seemed uncertain. He turned it about, and the arrow was inconsistent. In any event, there was no human habitation in sight in this wild land.
    A blinking light on the dash caught his attention. It was the one with the horsehead silhouette. Zane pushed it.
    He was astride the great stallion, his cloak swirling in the breeze. “What next, friend steed?” he inquired.
    The Deathhorse moved forward, galloping up the steep slope to the side. No ordinary horse could have moved this way—but of course this was a unique animal. Mortis leaped to the top of the mountain ridge, where a primitive cottage perched.
    This was the place. The arrowstone had not guided him before, because he had been holding it level instead of angled. It had not been able to point upward to the cottage. The car had not driven here because no ordinary car could, and the approach of Death was always circumspect.
    As they traversed the somewhat harrowing slope of the mountain, Zane thought again about himself and his office. There was something about the appearance of danger, such as a possible fall, that caused him to review hismost morbid thoughts. If he felt unfit for the office of Death and did not want to judge others when he knew he was no better than they were, why should he do it? If his abdication meant he would die the death he had aborted before, maybe that was proper. If he went to Hell, maybe that, too, was proper. After all, he had killed his mother; he could hardly go to join her in Heaven! The fact that he now clung to a kind of life had no relevance; it was fitting that he pay his penalty.
    Yes—that was what he had to do! “I resign the office!” he cried impulsively. “Take me directly to Hell!”
    Nothing happened. The horse trotted toward the cottage, ignoring Zane’s outburst.
    Of course. He could not blithely