Rex

“I know you think I’m a joke,” he said. “No one ever took me seriously—not in the band, not at Vector Print, not at Quiznos. But I’ve been preparing for this for ten years. You need me to get you to Terry. I’m the only one who can do it. I really can do magic, Kris.”
― Grady Hendrix, We Sold Our Souls

“Kris,” he said. “Let us go into a battle from which we may never return. But I have sworn Odin’s Oath to keep you safe, and I believe in our victory. For our hearts are pure, Troglodyte is with us, and I just gave the van its annual emissions inspection.” With that, he dropped the minivan into drive. “Until Valhalla!” he shouted. And they took off on their final ride.”
― Grady Hendrix, We Sold Our Souls

“The demon’s name was Lucifuge Rofocale. He stood a little taller than Cabal’s six feet, but the bizarre fool’s cap he wore—three flopping horns, or perhaps tentacles, ending with arrowheads—made his height vary from moment to moment. In one hand he held a bag containing, at least symbolically, the riches of the world. In the other, a golden hoop. He wore a segmented, studded leather skirt rather like a Roman soldier’s. Beneath it, fur-covered legs ended in hooves. He had a fat anteater’s tail, and a silly little Hercule Poirot moustache. As is often the case with demons, Lucifuge looked like an anatomical game of Consequences.”
― Jonathan L. Howard, The Necromancer

“Lo!” cried the demon. “I am here! What dost thou seek of me? Why dost thou disturb my repose? Smite me no more with that dread rod!” He looked at Cabal. “Where’s your dread rod?” “I left it at home,” replied Cabal. “Didn’t think I really needed it.” “You can’t summon me without a dread rod!” said Lucifuge, appalled. “You’re here, aren’t you?” “Well, yes, but under false pretences. You haven’t got a goatskin or two vervain crowns or two candles of virgin wax made by a virgin girl and duly blessed. Have you got the stone called Ematille?” “I don’t even know what Ematille is.” Neither did the demon. He dropped the subject and moved on. “Four nails from the coffin of a dead child?” “Don’t be fatuous.” “Half a bottle of brandy?” “I don’t drink brandy.” “It’s not for you.” “I have a hip flask,” said Cabal, and threw it to him. The demon caught it and took a dram. “Cheers,” said Lucifuge, and threw it back. They regarded each other for a long moment. “This really is a shambles,” the demon added finally. “What did you summon me for, anyway?”
― Jonathan L. Howard, The Necromancer