Albert peered at the thing in Death's hand.

"But... the sand, sir. It's pouring."

QUITE SO.

"But that means... I mean... ?"

IT MEANS THAT ONE DAY THE SAND WILL ALL BE POURED, ALBERT.

"I know that, sir, but... you... I thought Time was something that happened to other people, sir. Doesn't it? Not to you, sir. " By the end of the sentence Albert's voice was beseeching.

Death pulled off the towel and stood up.

COME WITH ME.

"But you're Death, master," said Albert, running crab-legged after the tall figure as it led the way out into the hall and down the passage to the stable.

"This isn't some sort of joke, is it?" he added hopefully.

I AM NOT KNOWN FOR MY SENSE OF FUN.

"Well, of course not, no offense meant. But listen, you can't die. because you're Death, you'd have to happen to yourself, it'd be like that snake that eats its own tail -"

NEVERTHELESS, I AM GOING TO DIE. THERE IS NO APPEAL.

"But what will happen to me?" Albert said. Terror glittered on his words like flakes of metal on the edge of a knife.

THERE WILL BE A NEW DEATH.

Albert drew himself up.

"I really don't think I could serve a new master," he said.

THEN GO BACK INTO THE WORLD. I WILL GIVE YOU MONEY. YOU HAVE BEEN A GOOD SERVANT, ALBERT.

"But if I go back -"

YES, said Death. YOU WILL DIE.

In the warm, horsey gloom of the stable, Death's pale horse looked up from its oats and gave a little whinny of greeting. The horse's name was Binky. He was a real horse. Death had tried fiery steeds and skeletal horses in the past, and found them impractical, especially the fiery ones, which tended to set light to their own bedding and stand in the middle of it looking embarrassed.

Death took the saddle down from its hook and glanced at Albert, who was suffering a crisis of conscience.