The air in the throne room of Pandemonium was thick with the scent of ash and ambition. The seven thrones, carved from the petrified remains of archangels, formed a broken circle around a pit that glowed with the faint, screaming light of damned souls. Six of them were occupied.
Mephisto materialized in the center of the circle, the perfect cut of his robes now seeming slightly less immaculate. A faint smudge of dust was on one shoulder, and a lock of his hair refused to stay in place. He did not sit.
The other Kings observed his return with varying degrees of detached interest.
Belial, a being whose form constantly shifted between a beautiful youth and a rotting corpse, chuckled softly. "You look... ruffled, Mephisto. The mortal world not to your liking?"