Death - pass

Mort backed away until he felt the roughness of a stone pillar on his neck. Death’s glass with its dauntingly empty bulbs was a few inches from his head.

Death himself wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking down thoughtfully at the jagged remains of the Duke’s life.

Mort yelled and swung his sword up, to the faint cheers of the crowd that had been waiting for him to do this for some time. Even Albert clapped his wrinkled hands.

But instead of the tinkle of glass that Mort had expected there was—nothing.

He turned and tried again. The blade passed right through the glass without breaking it.

***

Mort p199