The creature scoffed, raising one arched eyebrow. “You should know you can’t kill me, you stupid mortal.”

“No,” agreed Stafford. “No, I can’t. But you can.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can take your own life,” repeated the writer. “And that is what I demand you do, should you fail to win this game.”

Another silence, this time either of disbelief or, possibly even … fear? It was some time before the vampire spoke.

“Do you, indeed? And how do you suggest I accomplish that?” But there was definitely a sense of unease written beneath the disdainful exterior he presented to the mortal.

“It’s quite simple,” Stafford informed him. “It’s now -” he glanced at the clock; his own watch was not a reliable barometer of the time, he knew - “four in the morning. The sun will be up around seven. If you win, you kill me, you make your escape before the sun rises, or if it takes longer, then I’m sure you have your secret ways of coming and going that allow you to avoid the burning rays of the sun. However, if you fail to win, you, Caesar Alexander Tiberius Maximus, will face the sun, will not flinch from it, and will die under its cleansing power.”

White rage swept across the vampire’s features, but a slow smile replaced the scowl. After all, he had no fear that he would lose the contest. Lose? To a mere mortal? The very idea! He nodded.

“Very well, Stafford,” he agreed. “It shall be as you say. If,” he raised his eyes and speared the mortal with their icy glare, “you prevail. But you will not, and mark me, mortal,” he warned, in a voice of the branches of trees snapping under winter winds, “you will pay for this insolence. Your death will not be quick, nor painless. Believe me,” he leaned in close, his smile like that of a shark, “I have had a very long time to perfect the art of keeping someone alive for as long as I wish, and for every moment you live, Stafford,” he promised him, “you will be in more pain than your puny mortal mind can even begin to imagine.”

Stafford swallowed: he could show no fear now, no hesitation. “Big words, vampire,” he snapped. “You going to play, or do you intend to bore me to death with your speeches and threats?”

He knew he was going to lose. He had known it from the moment he had made the rash wager. He was good, but the vampire was better, in the same way that a Maserati was better than a VW Beetle. He had no chance. He took his time over his moves, carefully weighed up his strategy, and set traps that the finest chess player would have been proud of. The problem was that, boastful as the vampire’s claim may have been, it did seem as if he was playing the very best who had ever played the game, and every move he made, the vampire countered. Not only that, but where Stafford took long minutes, sometimes half an hour over his move before deciding, the vampire moved instantly, barely even taking the time to think; it was as if he was ten, twenty moves ahead, and he probably was.

Eventually, the inevitable came to pass. With a flat smile that registered no warmth or enjoyment, his opponent moved a bishop to within three squares of Stafford’s king. The piece was surrounded, cut off, alone, with nowhere to go. Sitting back, the vampire said “I believe that is check, mortal. I will admit, you provided me the best diversion I have had in many centuries, and you can indeed be proud of your skill. The game, however, is mine.”

Stafford did not lift his eyes from the board as the vampire gloated. He watched the small ivory pieces, as if by staring at them long and hard enough he could see a way out of the trap he had walked into. Inwardly, he cursed himself. The vampire went on, his voice almost kind.

“As I warned you when we began this match, I had you exactly where I wanted you. And now, there is nowhere for you to go. You have gambled, and fought well, mortal, but the day is mine. As it was always destined to be. The outcome was never in doubt, as I already explained to you.” He flicked his eyes towards the clock. “And still an hour short of sunrise.”

He stood up. All trace of any camaraderie, regret or understanding, if it had ever been there and not just a figment of Stafford’s overactive imagination, was gone now. The vampire was tall and terrible to behold. Like a living shadow, he seemed to reach out and seep into everything, swallowing light, drowning hope as he advanced on the author.

“Now you shall pay the price for trying to humiliate a Prince of the Blood,” he announced darkly. “Do not think you will die easily. I promise you, by the same vow which you made me swear, you will not.”

Stafford looked up, locking eyes with the horrible creature. He tried not to shudder.

“You might want to check that move again,” he advised. The vampire transferred his gaze to the chessboard, the battlefield on which he had triumphed, on which he had left his opponent battered, bloody and beaten. He frowned.

“I don’t -” he began, but Stafford, fighting to keep his elation from showing on his face, pointed out a forgotten rook on the side of the board. In not taking enough time - any time at all - to survey the board properly, the vampire had allowed this lowly piece to threaten his own king. In his haste to take the prize, he had failed to realise he was leaving his own most important piece open to attack. Slowly, he raised his eyes from the board to meet those of the mortal.

Stafford explained it for him, taking great pleasure in doing so. “Your move exposes your king,” he told him, “and places it in check. You can’t do that. It’s an illegal move. Your bishop has to retreat.”

Feverishly scanning the board, the vampire saw that he was right. He could not knowingly, under the rules of chess, leave his king open to attack, even if, by making that move, he could secure victory. It simply was not allowed: if your move exposed your king to attack then you could not make that move.

And therein was the problem, for him, and salvation for Stafford. That move was the last one the vampire could make. And it exposed his king. So while Stafford could not threaten the vampire’s king while the bishop blocked it, he could not move the bishop to attack Stafford’s king.

The game was in stalemate.

For a long time, the vampire examined the remaining pieces on the board, calculating every possible move, and finally banged his fist down beside the board in the first real display of outright fury Stafford had seen him exhibit.

“Stalemate!” he growled.

“Stalemate,” agreed Stafford, grinning. The vampire turned cold, cold eyes on him.

“This trickery will not save you, mortal,” he warned him. “You have not won.”

Stafford heaved a deep breath, one it seemed he had been holding in for hours. “I don’t need to,” he told the vampire. “The Oath you swore was contingent on your not winning. You have not won.”

For a long moment the vampire did not speak. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his fangs protruded from the corners of his lips. The skin seemed stretched even tighter over his face, like a badly-fitting mask which was about to tear.

“I have not lost,” he countered, but Stafford shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. The precise wording of the Oath was if you do not win. You haven’t. You haven’t lost. I haven’t beaten you, you haven’t beaten me. Neither of us can achieve that. But I didn’t need to win. I just needed to ensure that you didn’t. And you haven’t.”

The truth of the mortal’s words finally dawned on the vampire and his face creased in black anger. He took a step forward, murder in his eyes, but Stafford took a step back, frowning. “You’re surely not going to break your sacred Blood Oath, are you, Caesar Alexander Tiberius Maximus, Prince of the Blood? Whatever agency monitors such things, I think you know they will be watching you.”

It was true. He saw it in the vampire’s face, the only time he had seen real fear there. The creature of the night knew he had been tricked, outmanoeuvred, played at his own game. He had no choice. The Blood Oath had been uttered, sworn to, and he must now keep it, even if it meant his own death.

In the end, Stafford had to admit the vampire met his death with more dignity and - yes, say it - honour than he had expected. With no real fear for his life now, the author waited with his beaten opponent as the sun slowly struggled into the early morning sky. The fog had cleared away; it was going to be a bright, sunny day.

As the vampire turned to exit the door, Stafford found within himself an overwhelming, and perhaps inconceivable desire to offer his hand. The vampire looked at it disdainfully, haughtily, as if someone had asked him to shake hands with a beggar running with lice and stinking of urine, or perhaps more as if he had been offered the paw of a dog. He pushed past Stafford, striding out into the morning sunshine, his head held high, his shoulders square and erect even as tiny wisps of smoke began to rise from his clothing.

Stafford felt it was only right he should stay by the creature’s side as it fulfilled the Blood Oath; no matter how evil he was, what he had done, nobody deserved to die alone.

It didn’t take long, and Stafford was vaguely surprised to find that the expected smell of roasting flesh did not assail his nostrils. Right to the end, the vampire uttered not a single sound, merely stood with his arms crossed, staring at the sun, as if daring his ancient enemy to do its worst. It did. Stafford felt a calm exultation, but also a vague sense of loss when the vampire had been turned to ashes, and for just a moment he felt as if he had lost a friend.

Then he went inside the house, fetched a broom and dustpan, and for good measure tossed the ashes on the fire, where the flames unaccountably flared up for a moment, giving him something of a fright. On shaking legs, he sat down and contemplated the fire for a long time before he finally drifted off to sleep. He was so tired. And as his eyes closed, some trick of the light no doubt made it seem as if the vampire’s face was floating before him, hungrily staring at him.