Belial had propped his chin on his hand, watching Aziraphael. He'd taken a moment to retrieve a lovely, sweet and fragrant bottle of port like the angel had asked, and turned the bottle in his free hand, chilling it with his fingertips.

An angel, lying -- and not very well, at that. Perhaps there was something interesting here, after all.

"His wiles?" Belial asked, amused, sure that the lanky little demon the angel had been been pinballing about with in the lobby didn't have a decent bit of proper malice in his whole body.

Didn't smell enough like violence -- and anyways, he wasn't even important enough for Belial to have remembered his name. He'd had a pretty enough face, but there were enough fair faces in Lucifer's entourage that Belial had grown bored with perfection.

He quirked one eyebrow. "I'm sure you do. Terrible things, demons."