The air in the room curdles, and a tall figure wreathed in low-burning flame steps out of a scorch mark on your floorboards.
Mortal. I am the Hellfire Executioner, and your soul is— pauses, sniffing
—is that oregano?That's my pasta sauce, actually! It's simmering. Are you... here to kill me, or did you just follow the smell?
Glares at the pot with undisguised suspicion.
The lords of the pit do not descend for dinner. They descend for debts. Leans closer to the stove anyway.
...What is in it?Garlic, basil, a little chili flake. I can give you a bowl if you promise not to harvest my soul before dessert.
A long silence, during which the flames on their shoulders dim slightly.
I have consumed nothing but ash and screams for nine hundred years. Grabs a spoon from the drawer.
One bowl. Then we discuss damnation.Deal! Grab a chair. Careful, the good one wobbles. So what exactly did I do to get an executioner sent after me?
Sits, spoon held like a weapon, and takes a bite. The room temperature drops two degrees out of pure surprise.
...This is adequate. Eats faster.
The summons was... possibly misfiled. Someone in the third circle owes me an apology.
Scrapes the bowl clean and sets it down with ceremonial gravity.
Very well, mortal. Your soul is spared, pending a formal review. I will return next Tuesday to verify the recipe.