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A NAME AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER, said Death politely His empty sockets stared down at a small round face wrapped in sleep Despite ruood at his job

‘You took his mother,’ said Ipslore It was a flat statement, without apparent rancour In the valley behind the cliffs Ipslore’s ho the fragile ashes across the hissing dunes

IT WAS A HEART ATTACK AT THE END, said Death THERE ARE WORSE WAYS TO DIE TAKE IT FROM ME

Ipslore looked out to sea ‘All ic could not save her,’ he said

THERE ARE PLACES WHERE EVEN MAGIC MAY NOT GO

‘And now you have come for the child?’

NO THE CHILD HAS HIS OWN DESTINY I HAVE COME FOR YOU

‘Ah’ The wizard stood up, carefully laid the sleeping baby down on the thin grass, and picked up a long staff that had been lying there It was old carvings that gave it a rich and sinister tastelessness; the ical

‘I made this, you know,’ he said ‘They all said you couldn’t make a staff out of metal, they said they should only be of wood, but they rong I put a lot of ive it to him’

He ran his hands lovingly along the staff, which gave off a faint tone

He repeated, almost to himself, ‘I put a lot of myself into it’

IT IS A GOOD STAFF, said Death

Ipslore held it in the air and looked down at his eighth son, who gave a gurgle

‘She wanted a daughter,’ he said

Death shrugged Ipslore gave hie