Мор - ученик смерти

           Nowitwasallcomplicatedagain.

           Notthathewantedtodie,ofcourse.Thegodswereveryfirmonthesubjectofsuicide.Hejusthadn’twantedtoberescued.

           Throughredeyesinamaskofslimeandduckweedhepeeredattheblurredformabovehim,andshouted,’Whydidyouhavetosaveme?’

           Theanswerworriedhim.Hethoughtaboutitashesquelchedallthewayhome.ItsatatthebackofhismindwhileGwladyscomplainedaboutthestateofhisclothes.Itsquirrelledaroundinhisheadashesatandsneezedguiltilybythefire,becausebeingillwasanotherthingGwladysdidn’tholdwith.Ashelayshiveringinbeditsettledinhisdreamslikeaniceberg.Inthemidstofhisfeverhemuttered,’Whatdidhemean,"FORLATER"?’

           TorchesflaredinthecityofStoLat.Wholesquadsofmenwerechargedwiththetaskofconstantlyrenewingthem.Thestreetsglowed.Thesizzlingflamespushedbackshadowsthathadbeenblamelesslymindingtheirownbusinesseverynightforcenturies.Theyilluminatedancientcornerswheretheeyesofbewilderedratsglitteredinthedepthsoftheirholes.Theyforcedburglarstostayindoors.Theyglowedonthenightmists,forminganimbusofyellowlightthatblottedoutthecoldhighflamesstreamingfromtheHub.ButmainlytheyshoneonthefaceofPrincessKeli.

           Itwaseverywhere.Itplasteredeveryflatsurface.BinkycanteredalongtheglowingstreetsbetweenPrincessKeliondoors,wallsandgableends.Mortgapedatpostersofhisbelovedoneverysurfacewhereworkmenhadbeenabletomakepastestick.