On many worlds, people believe that Death is a cloaked skeleton with a scythe. They are right.

On some worlds, people believe that Death is a beautiful woman. They are also right.

On one of the less imaginative worlds, a lot of people believe that death is just a force of nature. Even they are right. Death is what you make it.

Discworld is a world of the first sort.

At this moment# Death was staring glumly at a broken pot.

I DON'T KNOW. I JUST DON'T THINK I'M AN ARTY PERSON. He said to his servant, Albert.

"I agree with you there, master. It's all nonsense, really, when you think about it. There's more than enough of the world already without making any more."

NO. IT WAS GOING TO HAVE A CAT ON IT. THERE CAN NEVER BE TOO MANY CATS.

Albert sighed. He had worked for Death long enough to know the signs: if he was trying something new, the job was getting him down again. Of course, a job like that would get anyone down after a few millennia, but things could get really strange when the master got bored. If you were lucky he'd just make pots or start playing the violin. If you were unlucky-

IT'S A SHAME ABOUT THE PLATES, TOO.

"What?" said Albert, jerked out of his speculations.

THOSE PLATES THAT YOU CARRIED IN HERE AND DROPPED. THAT WAS WHAT MADE ME BREAK THE POT.

"Oh! Shame, yes." Albert muttered, guiltily.

WHY WERE YOU CARRYING A STACK OF PLATES AROUND, ALBERT?

"I...er...thought they needed airing."

HMM...

Death turned away and glanced at his desk.

I MUST GO. I HAVE A JOB TO DO.

# In as much as there were moments where Death lived. In his house, time didn't so much pass as stretch like a kind of forth dimension chewing gum.

Judith still wasn't looking where she was going. In truth, she didn't really know where she was going, or what she would do when she got there. She'd never had a home in the city outside of the Teachers Guild, and she couldn't go back there now.

Judith sighed quietly. It hadn't been a good job. People with good jobs were managers, directors, officials, all single word titles, whereas something with as many syllables as second assistant deputy head of the undead languages department was never going to get you invited to important dinners. No, the pay, the hours and the work had all been awful, but at least it had kept her busy. When she wasn't busy, Judith tended to drift around and worry.

Then she stepped in to the Ankh.

Actually, stepping in to the Ankh was practically impossible. The thick crust meant that you would need to be a troll in high-heeled boots to make much impact. What Judith actually did was trip on to it and get one of her hands stuck. This is the point where most of Ankh Morpork's citizens would swear, but Judith had been well brought up.

"Oh dear!" she screamed. This didn't make her feel much better.

YES. OH DEAR INDEED. Said a voice. This made her feel much, much worse.

"Who are you?" Judith squeaked.

DEATH. It said. DEATH IS WHO I AM AND DEATH IS WHAT I DO.

"I'm going to die?"

I THINK IT QUITE POSSIBLE.

"Possible?" Reaching the conclusion that someone this well informed about her death needed respect, she quickly added "Sir?"

YOU HAVE...

Death took an hourglass from his robe

...FIVE MINUTES TO GIVE ME AN ALTERNATIVE.

"Alternative?"

IS THERE A JOB MORE FUN THAN COLLECTING SOULS?