Mort by Terry Pratchett

appeared to notice what he was doing only when there was no more to drink, at which point his eyes focused on the bottle and, through a rising pink mist, read the label which said ‘Granny Weatherwax’s Ramrub Invigatore and Passions Philtre, Onne Spoonful Onlie before bed and that Smalle’.
    ‘By myself?’ said Mort.
    C ERTAINLY . I HAVE EVERY FAITH IN YOU .
    ‘Gosh!’
    The suggestion put everything else out of Mort’s mind, and he was rather surprised to find that he didn’t feel particularly squeamish. He’d seen quite a few deaths in the last week or so, and all the horror went out of it when you knew you’d be speaking to the victim afterwards. Most of them were relieved, one or two of them were angry, but they were all glad of a few helpful words.
    T HINK YOU CAN DO IT ?
    ‘Well, sir. Yes. I think.’
    T HAT’S THE SPIRIT . I’ VE LEFT BINKY BY THE HORSETROUGH ROUND THE CORNER . T AKE HIM STRAIGHT HOME WHEN YOU’VE FINISHED .
    ‘You’re staying here, sir?’
    Death looked up and down the street. His eyesockets flared.
    I THOUGHT I MIGHT STROLL AROUND A BIT , he said mysteriously. I DON’T SEEM TO FEEL QUITE RIGHT . I COULD DO WITH THE FRESH AIR . He seemed to remember something, reached into the mysterious shadows of his cloak, and pulled out three hourglasses.
    A LL STRAIGHTFORWARD , he said. E NJOY YOURSELF .
    He turned and strode off down the street, humming.
    ‘Um. Thank you,’ said Mort. He held the hourglasses up to the light, noting the one that was on its very last few grains of sand.
    ‘Does this mean I’m in charge?’ he called, but Death had turned the corner.
    Binky greeted him with a faint whinny of recognition. Mort mounted up, his heart pounding with apprehension and responsibility. His fingers worked automatically, taking the scythe out of its sheath and adjusting and locking the blade (which flashed steely blue in the night, slicing the starlight like salami). He mounted carefully, wincing at the stab from his saddlesores, but Binky was like riding a pillow. As an afterthought, drunk with delegated authority, he pulled Death’s riding cloak out of its saddlebag and fastened it by its silver brooch.
    He took another look at the first hourglass, and nudged Binky with his knees. The horse sniffed the chilly air, and began to trot.
    Behind them Cutwell burst out of his doorway, accelerating down the frosty street with his robes flying out behind him.
    Now the horse was cantering, widening the distance between its hooves and the cobbles. With a swish of its tail it cleared the housetops and floated up into the chilly sky.
    Cutwell ignored it. He had more pressing things on his mind. He took a flying leap and landed full length in the freezing waters of the horsetrough, lying back gratefully among the bobbing ice splinters. After a while the water began to steam.
    Mort kept low for the sheer exhilaration of the speed. The sleeping countryside roared soundlessly underneath. Binky moved at an easy gallop, his great muscles sliding under his skin as easily as alligators off a sandbank, his mane whipping in Mort’s face. The night swirled away from the speeding edge of the scythe, cut into two curling halves.
    They sped under the moonlight as silent as a shadow, visible only to cats and people who dabbled in things men were not meant to wot of.
    Mort couldn’t remember afterwards, but very probably he laughed.
    Soon the frosty plains gave way to the broken lands around the mountains, and then the marching ranks of the Ramtops themselves raced across the world towards them. Binky put his head down and opened his stride, aiming for a pass between two mountains as sharp as goblins’ teeth in the silver light. Somewhere a wolf howled.
    Mort took another look at the hourglass. Its frame was carved with oak leaves and mandrake roots, and the sand inside, even by moonlight, was pale gold. By turning the glass this way and that, he could just make out the name ‘Ammeline Hamstring’ etched in