Trumps of Doom by Roger Zelazny. CHAPTER 7,8

I wrapped my cloak about her carefully, turning it into a shroud. Last of all, I folded a flap over her face. I fixed everything into place with the clasp I’d used to close it at my neck when I’d worn it. Then I waded out into deeper water.

“Just let me sink here.” Sometimes the dead sink quickly, sometimes they float . . .

“Good-bye, lady,” I said. “Wish I knew your name. Thanks again.”

I released my hold upon her. The waters swirled. She was gone. After a time, I looked away then moved away. Too many questions and no answers.

Somewhere, a maddened horse was screaming . . .

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