'Yes!'
Death looked surprised. THE GODS CAN DEMAND NOTHING OF ME. EVEN GODS ANSWER TO ME, EVENTUALLY.
'Doesn't seem very fair, does it? Don't the gods bother about justice and mercy?' snapped Ysabell. Without anyone quite noticing she had picked up the sword.
Death grinned. I APPLAUD YOUR EFFORTS, he said, BUT THEY AVAIL YOU NAUGHT. STAND ASIDE.
'No.'
YOU MUST BE AWARE THAT EVEN LOVE IS NO DEFENCE AGAINSTME. I AM SORRY.
Ysabell raised the sword. 'You 're sorry?'
STAND ASIDE, I SAY.
'No. You're just being vindictive. It's not fair!'
Death bowed his skull for a moment, then looked up with his eyes blazing.
YOU WILL DO AS YOU ABE TOLD.
'I will not.'
YOU'RE MAKING THIS VERY DIFFICULT.
'Good.'
Death's fingers drummed impatiently on the scytheblade, like a mouse tapdancing on a tin. He seemed to be thinking. He looked at Ysabell standing over Mort, and then turned and looked at the others crouching against a shelf.
No, he said eventually. No. I CANNOT BE BIDDEN.
I CANNOT BE FORCED. I WILL DO ONLY THAT WHICH I KNOW TO BE RIGHT.
He waved a hand, and the sword whirred out of Ysabell's grasp. He made another complicated gesture and the girl herself was picked up and pressed gently but firmly against the nearest pillar.
Mort saw the dark reaper advance on him again, blade swinging back for the final stroke. He stood over the boy.
YOU DON'T KNOW HOW SORRY THIS MAKES ME, he aid.
Mort pulled himself on to his elbows.
'I might,' he said.
Death gave him a surprised look for several seconds, and then started to laugh. The sound bounced eerily around the room, ringing off the shelves as Death, still laughing like an earthquake in a graveyard, held Mort's own glass in front of its owner's eyes.
Mort tried to focus. He saw the last grain of sand skid down the glossy surface, teeter on the edge and then drop, tumbling in slow motion, towards the bottom. Candlelight flickered off its tiny silica facets as it spun gently downward. It landed soundlessly, throwing up a tiny crater.
The light in Death's eyes flared until it filled Mort's vision and the sound of his laughter rattled the universe.
And then Death turned the hourglass over.
Once again the great hall of Sto Lat was brilliant with candlelight and loud with music.
As the guests flocked down the steps and descended on the cold buffet the Master of Ceremonies was in non-stop voice, introducing those who, by reason of importance or simple absent-mindedness, had turned up late. As for example:
The Royal Recogniser, Master of the Queen's Bedchamber, His Ipississumussness Igneous Cutwell, Wizard Ist Grade (UU).'
Cutwell advanced on the royal couple, grinning, a large cigar in one hand.