The nuns loved Azazel. They couldn't get enough of him.

He could appear in front of one of them while she was far from her sisters, and she might scream or even swoon when she first saw him, red as sin and devil-tailed, but she'd come around quick. He wouldn't even have to make the first move; within the first five minutes she'd be demanding to be ravished.

The younger ones were especially aggressive, the ones that had come to the Convent inexperienced in the ways of men, and who were facing an entire lifetime of frigid dedication to their God. Those girls he couldn't have beaten off with a stick.

They had expectations, after all. They looked at him and they figured that they knew who he was and what he was about. Azazel never lied to them outright, he never said, "Look at me, I'm Satan himself, and I've come here to tempt you and to corrupt your innocence." He just let them reach their own conclusions. They didn't need much coaxing.

He supposed he must have gotten quite a number of girls in trouble over the course of the centuries, but he'd never really looked back.