"Oh, Skywalker," the voice of the shadow-wind-death-spectre-assassin said, mockingly, "I would so delight in taking you tonight, as well," interpret that however you will, "but there are other plans for you."

Glinting. Glinting. Dramatic glinting.

And then that blade, flying toward its target, a single black feather tied carefully to the hilt.

The shadow was gone, now, and the night itself seemed to be laughing. The Angel of Death had done his job and had slipped away into the darkness.