death 's hands moved in a blur as he blocked every chop and thrust , and then changed grip on the scythe and brought the blade swinging up in an arc that mort sidestepped awkwardly , nicking the frame of an hourglass with the hilt of his sword and sending it flying across the room ... ... ... in the ramtop mountains a tharga-herder , searching by lamplight in the high meadows for a lost cow , missed his footing and plunged over a thousand foot drop ... ... ... gutwell dived forward and caught the tumbling glass in one desperately outstretched hand , hit the floor and slid along on his stomach ... ... ... a gnarled sycamore mysteriously loomed under the screaming herder and broke his fall , removing his major problems - death , the judgement of the gods , the uncertainty of paradise and so on - and replacing them with the comparatively simple one of climbing back up about one hundred feet of sheer , icy cliff in pitch darkness .