Satanachia looked long and hard at her, clearly seeking something. He didnâ€™t know if he found it, and only said, â€œYes, well, you should treat me with a little more respect. One day Iâ€™ll be your king.â€ The demon might have been taunting her or he might have been somewhat serious. As a demon he certainly had to be ambitious, and what did humans know about the politics of Hell?<br/><br/>While she led him through the halls, he ran his hands along walls and doors, touching knobs and even at times drawers. Any little warning shock or burn he could ignore. He was a Prince, a special breed, a little bit stronger than your typical physical realm dweller, and while the mild discomfort was enough to keep him from touching again without reason, it wasnâ€™t really painful. Not even the book heâ€™d wanted to look at and the surface of her door. There were things that hurt a whole lot more than that.<br/><br/>When Syra stood him in front of Damoenâ€™s door thoughâ€¦ He laid his forehead against it, the essence of it was far more comforting than any other part of the House. â€œDonâ€™t get in my way in there. I wouldnâ€™t want to accidentally hurt you instead.â€