'Well, actually... I shouldn't be singing it at all, to be honest. The Convocation of Ee struck it from the songbook as being incompatible with the ideals of modern Omnianism.'

'That line about crushing infidels?'

'That's the one, yes.'

'You sung it anyway, though.'

'It's the version my grandmother taught me,' said oats.

'She was keen on crushing infidels?'

'Well, mainly I think she was in favour of crushing Mrs Ahrim next door, but you've got the right idea, yes. She thought the world would be a better place with a bit more crushing and smiting.'

'Prob'ly true.'

'Not as much smiting and crushing as she'd like, though, I think,' said Oats. 'A bit judgemental, my grandmother.'

'Nothing wrong with that. Judging is human.'

'We prefer to leave it ultimately to Om,' said Oats and, out here in the dark, that statement sounded lost and all alone.

'Bein' human means judgin' all the time,' said the voice behind him. 'This and that, good and bad, making choices every day... that's human.'

'And are you so sure you make the right decisions?'

'No. But I do the best I can.'

'And hope for mercy, eh?'

A bony finger prodded him in the back.

'Mercy's a fine thing, but judgin' comes first. Otherwise you don't know what you're bein' merciful about. Anyway, I always heard you Omnians were keen on smitin' and crushin'.'

'Those were... different days. We use crushing arguments now.'

'And long pointed debates, I suppose?'

'Well, there are two sides to every question...'

'What do you do when one of 'em's wrong?'

The reply came back like an arrow.

'I meant that we are enjoined to see things from the other person's point of view,' said Oats patiently.

'You mean that from the point of view of a torturer, torture is all right?'

'Mistress Weatherwax, you are a natural disputant.'

'No, I ain't!'

'You'd certainly enjoy yourself at the Synod, anyway. They've been known to argue for days about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.'

He could almost feel Granny's mind working. At last she said, 'What size pin?'

'I don't know that, I'm afraid.'

'Well, if it's a ordinary household pin, then there'll be sixteen.'

'Sixteen angels?'

'That's right.'

,Why?,

'I don't know. Perhaps they like dancing.'

The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here.

'You've counted sixteen?' said Oats eventually.

'No, but it's as good an answer as any you'll get. And that's what your holy men discuss, is it?'

'Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example.'

'And what do they think? Against it, are they?'

'It's not as simple as that. It's not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey.'

'Nope.'

'Pardon?'

'There's no greys, only white that's got grubby. I'm surprised you don't know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That's what sin is.'

'It's a lot more complicated than that-'

'No. It ain't. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth. People as things, that's where it starts.'

'Oh, I'm sure there are worse crimes-'

'But they starts with thinking about people as things...'

Granny's voice tailed off. Oats let the mule walk on for a few minutes, and then a snort told him that Granny had awoken again.

'You strong in your faith, then?' she said, as if she couldn't leave things alone.

Oats sighed. 'I try to be.'

'But you read a lot of books, I'm thinking. Hard to have faith, ain't it, when you read too many books?'

Oats was glad she couldn't see his face. Was the old woman reading his mind through the back of his head?

'Yes,' he said.

'Still got it, though?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'If I didn't, I wouldn't have anything.'

He waited for a while, and then tried a counterattack.

'You're not a believer yourself, then, Mistress Weatherwax?'

There were a few moments' silence as the mule picked its way over the mossy tree roots. Oats thought he heard, behind them, the sound of a horse, but then it was lost in the sighing of the wind.

'Oh, I reckon I believes in tea, sunrises, that sort of thing,' said Granny.

'I was referring to religion.'

'I know a few gods in these parts, if that's what you mean.'

Oats sighed. 'Many people find faith a great solace,' he said. He wished he was one of them.

'Good.'

'Really? Somehow I thought you'd argue.'

'It's not my place to tell 'em what to believe, if they act decent.'

'But it's not something that you feel drawn to, perhaps, in the darker hours?'

'No. I've already got a hot water bottle.'

The wowhawk fluttered its wings. Oats stared into the damp, dark mist. Suddenly he was angry.

'And that's what you think religion is, is it?' he said, trying to keep his temper.

'I gen'rally don't think about it at all,' said the voice behind him.

It sounded fainter. He felt Granny clutch his arm to steady herself...

'Are you all right?' he said.

'I wish this creature would go faster... I ain't entirely myself.'

'We could stop for a rest.'

'No! Not far now! Oh, I've been so stupid...'

The thunder grumbled. He felt her grip lessen, and heard her hit the ground.

Oats leapt down. Granny Weatherwax was lying awkwardly on the moss, her eyes closed. He took her wrist. There was a pulse there, but it was horribly weak. She felt icy cold.

When he patted her face she opened her eyes.

'If you raise the subject of religion at this point,' she wheezed, 'I'll give you such a hidin'...' Her eyes shut again.

Oats sat down to get his breath back. Icy cold... yes, there was something cold about all of her, as though she always pushed heat away. Any kind of warmth.

He heard the sound of the horse again, and the faint jingle of a harness. It stopped a little way away.

'Hello?' said Oats, standing up. He strained to see the rider in the darkness, but there was just a dim shape further along the track.

'Are you following us? Hello?'

He took a few steps and made out the horse, head bowed against the rain. The rider was just a darker shadow in the night.

Suddenly awash with dread, Oats ran and slithered back to Granny's silent form. He struggled out of his drenched coat and put it over her, for whatever good that would do, and looked around desperately for anything that could make a fire. Fire, that was the thing. It brought life and drove away the darkness.

But the trees were tall firs, dripping wet with dank bracken underneath among the black trunks. There was nothing that would burn here.

He fished hurriedly in his pocket and found a waxed box with his last few matches in it. Even a few dry twigs or a tuft of grass would do, anything that'd dry out another handful of twigs...

Rain oozed through his shirt. The air was full of water.

Oats hunched over so that his hat kept the drips off, and pulled out the Book of Om for the comfort that it brought. In times of trouble, Om would surely show the way

... I've already got a hot water bottle...

'Damn you,' he said, under his breath.

He opened the book at random, struck a match and read:

'... and in that time, in the land of the Cyrinites, there was a multiplication of camels...'

The match hissed out.

No help there, no clue. He tried again.

'... and looked upon Gul-Arah, and the lamentation of the desert, and rode then to...'

Oats remembered the vampire's mocking smile. What words could you trust? He struck the third match with shaking hands and flicked the book open again and read, in the weak dancing light: