This was most definitely not in his job description.
Not that he had a job description, exactly(1). Any summary of his job would be about as well-received as 'WANTED: Ankh Corpse-Retriever (chisels provided)" or "Come join our ranks at the Beggars' Guild! We really need new members! Please? Please? (Also, do you have £200,000 we can borrow?)" But if he had a figurative job description, and this was expressly detailed in it, he'd have long since started looking for alternative employment. Having a skull for a face didn't close as many doors in Ankh-Morpork as it probably should(2).
Truthfully, Death had used to like this 'play a game for your soul' malarkey. A quick chess game was a calming respite from a day of directing spirits into the afterlife, albeit the occasional blood pressure spike(3) after the fifteenth cry of 'Knights don't move like that!'
What he had not expected was to be challenged to a game of Twister. Which was proving problematic.
You see, skeletons aren't designed for elasticity. (Probably due to the lack of, y'know, anything other than bones.) So he was now finding himself in a rather compromising position, vertebrae uncomfortably locked, the edge of his cloak caught somewhere he'd rather not think about, and hearing several 'clicks' whenever he moved. His opponent, on the contrary, appeared to have the flexibility of a plasticine gymnast, and her arms were curved deftly over his stiffened tibias.
It was times like this where he really, really hated smart people.
Death reached out a bony finger and flicked the spinner, watching it land. LEFT FOOT BLUE. He twisted his head, heart sinking(4) as he glanced behind him as he moved and saw his forearm dislodge, dropping theatrically to the floor.
I WOULD LIKE A TIME OUT.
"Time outs aren't allowed in Twister."
I AM DEATH, ETERNAL GUIDE OF SOULS FOR THE ENTIRETY OF THE DISCWORLD. I THINK MY SKILLS STRETCH TO READING A RULEBOOK.
"You haven't got any eyes."
YOUR OBSERVATIONAL SKILLS ASTOUND ME. NOW LET ME FIX MY ARM BACK ON.
"There's some glue on the nightstand, I think."
Death would've rolled his eyes, if such a thing was possible. (One of the few things Ysabell bettered him at; another, ironically, would be this.) As it was, he just picked up the arm, fingers splayed rather forlornly against the plastic mat, and proceeded over to the nightstand in a way that would've been far more majestic if his cloak wasn't tangled in his thorax.
A long, incredulous silence followed, and the girl looked up through her crossed arms. "You doing okay back there, uh, Death?"
...PRITT STICK WAS NOT WHAT I HAD IN MIND.
It was going to be a long day.
(1) Minions of Azrael don't tend to apply for the post. They're more...conscripted, by virtue of being parts of him, and therefore knowing full well that having an argument with an entity that takes an entire page to say YES is more trouble than it's worth, as well as a colossal waste of paper.
(2) So far, the only jobs theoretically out of bounds were schoolteacher, Assassin (unless he really hated the bastard) and seamstress (didn't have the curves for it).
(3) Well, figuratively.
(4) Well, figuratively. Even if he'd had a heart, it currently wouldn't be in much shape to sink - or move in any other direction for that matter, - considering the current state of his ribcage.