Мор - ученик смерти

           Keeble,stillslumpedinhischair,gaveakindofstrangledgurgle.

           ’Itwastrue!’hesaid.’Ithoughtyouwereanightmare!’

           ICOULDTAKEOFFENCEATTHAT,saidDeath.

           ’YoureallyareDeath?’saidKeeble.

           YES.

           ’Whydidn’tyousay?’

           PEOPLEUSUALLYPREFERMENOTTO.

           Keeblescrabbledamonghispapers,gigglinghysterically.

           ’Youwanttodosomethingelse?’hesaid.Toothfairy?Watersprite?Sandman?’

           DONOTBEFOOLISH.ISIMPLY–FEELIWANTACHANGE.

           Keeble’sfranticrustlingatlastturnedupthepaperhe’dbeensearchingfor.HegaveamaniacallaughandthrustitintoDeath’shands.

           Deathreadit.

           THISisAJOB?PEOPLEAREPAIDTODOTHIS?

           ’Yes,yes,goandseehim,you’rejusttherighttype.Onlydon’ttellhimIsentyou.’

           Binkymovedatahardgallopacrossthenight,theDiscunrollingfarbelowhishooves.NowMortfoundthattheswordcouldreachoutfurtherthanhehadthought,itcouldreachthestarsthemselves,andheswungitacrossthedeepsofspaceandintotheheartofayellowdwarfwhichwentnovamostsatisfactorily.Hestoodinthesaddleandwhirledthebladearoundhishead,laughingastheblueflamefannedacrosstheskyleavingatrailofdarknessandembers.

           Anddidn’tstop.Mortstruggledastheswordcutthroughthehorizon,grindingdownthemountains,dryinguptheseas,turninggreenforestsintopunkandashes.Heheardvoicesbehindhim,andthebriefscreamsoffriendsandrelativesasheturneddesperately.