In a fit of demonic rage, Zagan roared at the demonic courier, his breath spreading pestilence in a flurry of infernal zymosis.
“Please inform my Lord Lucifer I am the President of Hell and NOT the proprietor of Zagan’s Demonic Party Shop! If he wants wine for his infernal soiree he can bloody well summon it up himself. Oh, and tell him if he gives me that old line about people in Hell wanting more than just ice water one more time, I WILL make him sorry.”
The courier, scarcely zoic at this point, scuttled off to deliver the news.