Loki had never had a vision of what he had imagined Death to look like, no. What Loki had imagined was what death would feel like; if it felt like a cold embrace, if it felt like falling. Would it wrap around him and made him feel blind? Would the pieces of his soul shake and shatter and fly apart becoming stardust and forgotten in the current of time? The frost giant knew not of what truly happened after death but held the belief that at least his mother could have found her place in Valhalla, forever as beautiful and smiling and golden as she was meant to be.
The eons that swirled in Death's eyes surely trumped the millennia that filled his own and they were mesmerising but propriety kept Loki from attempting to drown himself in what he could see in them. If Death had ever come to him, her eyes could have won him over but where Thanos was concerned, Loki believed him to have been obsessed over her form and her promise. Though inseparable from death, Loki did not love it, did not seek it or flourish under its weight, felt no pleasure in killing. What would have drawn him to her was the sheer knowledge she must possess for Loki relished in the intellectual.
"I would not have turned down such an invitation," he replied, waiting for her to take her seat before settling into his own. Loki had no questions of his own death to ask her, no panicked concerns of knowing when or how. When Death finally came to him, Loki would not run from her for he had grown tired of living. He could only hope that he would life long enough to see Thanos be defeated before his time came.
Leaning forward slightly, his voice quiet enough that no one around them could hear but more than loud enough between them, he asked the only question that danced through his mind. "How is it that you have not grown tired of this world?"