"Don't be a stranger, you hear?" said the Archchancellor.

Windle Poons nodded amiably. He hadn't heard what they were saying. He nodded on general principles.

The wizards, as one man, faced the door.

The hatch under the 12 snapped up again.

"Bing bing bong bing," said the demon. "Bingely-bingely bong bing bing."

"What?" said the Bursar, jolted.

"Half past nine, " said the demon.

The wizards turned to Windle Poons. They looked faintly accusing.

"What're you all looking at?" he said.

The seconds hand on the watch squeaked onwards.

"How are you feeling?" said the Dean loudly.

"Never felt better," said Windle. "Is there any more of that, mm, rum left?"

The assembled wizards watched him pour a generous measure into his beaker.

"You want to go easy on that stuff," said the Dean nervously.

"Good health!" said Windle Poons.

The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on the table.

"Mr. Poons, " he said, "are you quite sure?"

Windle had gone off at a tangent. "Any more of these toturerillas? Not that I call it proper food," he said, "dippin' bits of hard bikky in sludge, what's so special about that? What I could do with right now is one of Mr. Dibbler's famous meat pies -"

And then he died.

The Archchancellor glanced at his fellow wizards, and then tiptoed across to the wheelchair and lifted a blueveined wrist to check the pulse. He shook his head.

"That's the way I want to go, " said the Dean.

"What, muttering about meat pies?" said the Bursar.

"No. Late."

"Hold on. Hold on," said the Archchancellor. "This isn't right, you know. According to tradition, Death himself turns up for the death of a wiz - "

"Perhaps He was busy, " said the Bursar hurriedly.

"That's right," said the Dean. "Bit of a serious flu epidemic over Quirm way, I'm told."