On a Pale Horse by Piers Anthony Page B

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 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.

– 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 hyperdrive! 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 Deathsteed 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 haveto, 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