Death - sword

Death sighed. No, he said, handing his drink to a page who was surprised to find he was suddenly holding an empty glass, THERE’S JUST ME. He drew his sword, which had the same ice blue, shadow-thin blade as the scythe of office, and
stepped forward.

“I thought you used the scythe,” whispered Mort.

KINGS GET THE SWORD, said Death. IT’S A ROYAL WHATS-NAME, PREROGATIVE.

***

Mort p35-36