A portly devil dressed as a donnish vicar raises his cassock and runs. You chase him […] straight into a pack of hungry-looking fiends. One is holding a fork, of the toasting rather than the spirifer variety. This won't end well.
You lay about with a cudgel at every devil you see[…]You're wondering whether you're going to run out of breath or conscious devils when the Bishop appears from behind his iron door. He nods, approving, and then heads back to his business.
