"Indeed, it has," Oraxael acknowledged, "One of those things your side does manage to get right.  Hell is dreadfully uncreative, weatherly speaking."<br/><br/>The waiter returned, and Oraxael ordered scones, buttered, with a bit of brown sugar.  He waited for Azriel to place his own order, then returned to the conversation.  He furrowed his brow for a moment, trying to think of how to phrase what was going through his mind.  There was one subject, a particularly heavy one, and he needed to feel the angel out before he could reveal it.<br/><br/>"Azriel, would you call us friends?  I mean, we've been meeting for tea and chatting now for what, two millenia? Three?  I remember there was that time in Rome..."<br/><br/>Oraxael smiled at the memory of it - Rome had been his favorite assignment.  Rare were the empires as lusty as she; his job there had almost been too easy.