“It wants a prize,” Death sneered.

“Oh, and what might we give it?” Pestilence laughed.

“It has seen our gifts,” War said with a cunning look in his eyes. “It said so, itself. It liked them very much. You could tell.”

“Haven’t I given you enough?” Famine asked with false solicitude and jiggled Alec like a ragdoll on his hooked finger. “But I suppose I have more to give.”

Alec looked from face to face. Every second they were less human, losing the shapes of Hell’s Angels and shifting into the shapes of war, of famine, of pestilence, of death. Shapes you couldn’t see with your eyes, shapes you felt in the hollow space between your heart and diaphragm.

Yes, Alec knew exactly what kinds of gifts the riders brought. He’d personally delivered those gifts to others so many times he’d lost count five hundred years ago.

“Wh, what I meant,” Alec said, “Was, was, was… I was helpful and now I, I should be allowed to leave. Please.”

Death looked to War. “Is he materiel or not?”