People hated to die on a nice day.

And that was a damn fine spring day, with a warm sun about to set, happy flocks of swallows in the topaz-blue sky, green meadows, fragrant flowers, and all the sickening wonder that only such days could have. Including the jackrabbits jumping through the thickest bushes.

Death felt a healthy indifference to the jackrabbits, as well as to the flowers, swallows, and everything else. But put all together they gave her a sort of itchy hand that men would have called hatred.

And it wasn't the fault of the hares, daisies and migratory birds, but of the men, who seemed particularly reluctant to accept their mortal condition on such days.

But there was someone else who, although not about to die, was beginning to feel a deep resentment towards that magnificent day. His name was Malacchio Mac Lynacchi, but to most he was known as Malachi the Shady. He, instead, loved to introduce himself as Malachi, the sorcerer who invented sorcery.

If this was not enough to outline the essential traits of the character, we can add that he was cultured, but coarse and vulgar, as well as rather ugly; of an untrustworthy and shy character, but changeable, so much so that in the presence of underwear he became sociable and lascivious; and he was in fact a master in the magical arts. Not that he had invented them, since magic was the very foundation of Eudopia, but for a long time men had forgotten how to tame it and had labeled it as a myth. Then Malachi came, the first to conceive since the memory of man, and destroyed that label with a huge fireball. If we add to this the fact that he was descended from two rich and noble families, whose combined wealth could have fed an entire town for a couple of generations, it was really hard to imagine what was upsetting him to the point of ruining such a splendid day.

Or rather, it was difficult for an ordinary mortal. But Death knew very well that the sorcerer's discontents were closely linked to her own.

Everything had originated from a fixation that Malachi had inherited from his father—achieving immortality.

Most of the studies and magical efforts made by man were in fact aimed at this pretentious goal, second only to the conquest of absolute dominion over the world. Well aware, however, that the power itself was nothing without the possibility to enjoy it for a number of years as much as possible tending to infinity, Malachi devoted much of his time to experiments on immortality.

The problem was that experimenting with methods to overcome death usually involved killing someone. And since the experiments had all failed so far, that's why Death was often a spectator of such nefarious shows.

The last of which was being held that very day.

It usually worked like this. When Malachi had at hand some new formula that he thought useful to the "immortality project", he organized a party in one of his mansions, distributing invitations in the poorest and most disreputable suburbs of the nearby cities of the Empire. Punctually, about twenty scroungers and derelicts showed up at the gates ready to enjoy the lavish banquet. However, they did not go beyond the welcome toast, since a powerful sleeping pill was added to the watered down beer. At that point the two servants of Malachi, who were also the first followers of his nascent school of magic, took care of tying up the unfortunate ones, taking care to lock up in the dungeon the most attractive girls, that the Master preferred to use for other purposes.

At that moment Death was observing sixteen unfortunates to whom fate had turned its back, piled up like sacks of potatoes in a corner of the garden.

Malachi and his minions, on the other hand, were busy straightening a jumble of beams vaguely reminiscent of a gallows for hanging, on top of which a hook was fixed and under which the sorcerer himself was about to place a small earthenware amphora.

"Hang one," he said to his servants when convinced that the structure could hold.

The minions approached the pile, but before they could lay hands on the first desperate one, he sprang to his feet and ran like a colt toward the high fence wall. Evidently, he'd had little to drink and the knots weren't as tight. The two, who athletically were not up to the task, tried a timid pursuit, but the prisoner reached the wall before they could take three steps.

Probably, in another occasion, the man would have climbed the wall with extreme ease, but the landlord only had to lift a finger and utter weak words for a ray of purple electricity to snake from the tip of his fingernail to the back of the poor man, who fell plummeting in a cloud of black smoke.

"Check to see if it's still usable," growled the sorcerer in all his disappointment.

Death, unlike the two servants, had no need to check. "Come, Samerius, I will lead you to..."

"No, please, no," pleaded the one throwing himself at her feet. "Don't kill me, please."

"Look you're already..."

"I had such a beautiful, warm day ahead of me, a sumptuous meal," he whimpered.

Death scratched her head. "I understand, but I can't really do anything about it, it's my job."

"You're still on time, spare me, please."

"No, look, you don't understand, you're already..."

"Mercy," cried the man at the height of despair.

Death would have wanted eyes so she could raise them to the sky, and that was only the first of sixteen.