[Suzerain of Sheol]

You would pluck the fruit of flame? That tree you lust for was raised from the seeds of God's wrath. Be careful where your tongue wanders, demon, there is bitterness ahead to gall us both.

The voice arises among them like the seeping vapors of the grave, familiar yet stretched taught across the boundaries of worlds. There is no visible sign of Shealtiel, but his presence can be felt all the same: an ancient stain upon the air, dripping with the appalling sin of Cain. He now bears the Mark in lurid intransigence, an impossible condemnation.

And not only that. Power leaks from him like superfluous blood, carrying the flavor of rotting malignancy. There can be no doubt: the old man's soul has descended into the charnel cellars of Sheol, and returned. There is an appalling effortlessness to the way he carries himself now. Long gone are the hunched back and creaking knees. He has become.... vital with death.

Our friends will find warm welcome in Thyat'ria, he continues. But you, demon? And I? We are the Enemy to these good people, the bane that demands that men become monsters in defense of their loves. We must be careful. Yes, very careful. I may be able to... mask myself, at need, but I can do nothing for you, Son of Heaven. Pray they do not make a martyr of you.