From the Bookshelf of Sword & Sorcery: "An earthier sort of fantasy"…

“Around, above, and through—yes, even through them—flowed a gathering of spectral beings, close to a hundred strong, their ecto-plasmic strands in tatters behind them as they floated up and down the stone stairway and the great, empty, circular shaft around which it spiraled. The specters were loathsome, every one of them crippled in some way. Many were missing limbs, several sported gunshot wounds, a few were altogether decapitated. But the mere sight of the apparitions, strangely, did little to affect Heraclix who was himself, after all, caught in some kind of state between life and death. Rather, it was the soft crying and plaintive weeping (of those who still had mouths, tongues, and heads with which to weep), the faintly echoed pleas that caused him to shiver…”

“What do you see?” Pomp asks.
“The past. Or at least a part of it.”
“What is ‘past’?”
“It’s what happened before now.”
Pomp looks up at Heraclix with a skeptical squint.
“I met you in Mowler’s apartment. You came there in a jar. Before, you were free. And I have a hunch that I might have once been free.”
“But Mowler pushes you around.”
“That’s precisely it. What did I have to fear from him? I am physically superior to him in every way: stronger, faster. Yet I didn’t fight back.”
“You should.”
“But I didn’t. Something held me back.”
“What holds you back?”
“Guilt.”
“What is ‘guilt’?”
“’Guilt’ is feeling bad for something you’ve done.”
“Why do you have guilt?” Pomp asks.
“I don’t know, exactly. But I think it might have something to do with . . .” Heraclix stops.
“With what?”
“With whatever happened to me before I awoke in the cauldron of blood.”

Heraclix was dead and Pomp was immortal. That was before Heraclix’s reanimation (along with the sewn-together pieces and parts of many other dead people) and Pomp’s near murder at the hands of an evil necromancer. As they travel from Vienna to Prague to Istanbul and back again (with a side-trip to Hell), they struggle to understand who and what they are: Heraclix seeks to know the life he had before his death and rebirth, and Pomp wrestles with the language and meaning of mortality. As they journey across a land rife with revolution and unrest, they discover that the evil necromancer they thought dead might not be so dead after all. In fact, he might be making a pact to ensure his own immortality . . .