The seraphim had been almost too polite. They had nodded, they had tsked, they had poured tea, they had moved their huge, iridescent dragonfly wings (each of them had six) as if in rhythm to his breathing. But they were obviously bored with his excuses, and would have been only too happy to get up from the table, say goodbye, and return to their fiery games. The one sitting next to him, whose face resembled his own, down to the minutest detail, though bliss made it appear in-or hyper-human, looked at him with a mixture of amusement, deep compassion, and disgust. It seemed to be exerting all its considerable spiritual force to suppress a laugh. Finally it rose, picked up something from the altar, and stood beside him looking in the direction of his lips. An unspoken question filled the air with dry heat, like a sauna.
Already he could smell his flesh burning.