[Anguirel]

Poised in the very midst of the smog of Doom, high, high above the resort of Lost Angles, Tom suddenly felt slightly queasy. Were he to slacken on his broom seat for an instant he would be very dead indeed. It was time to get stone beneath his feet again. Even with the negotiations looming. Especially with the negotiations looming, he corrected himself tersely.

Looking towards the impressive line of the Castle's fortifications, Tom scanned them for a window of suitable size for an elegant Quidditch dive to gain entry to it. There seemed, on reflection, only one suitable option. It had a vast, wide ledge and was of great height. The room within seemed to be ill-lit, and he could only see the dim radiance of flames amid its shadows. Shadow and flame. In retrospect, he really should have been a tad more cautious.

Dracomir leant forward in intense preparation and swooped with leisurely elan into the tower room.

It was then that he became aware of two things. One, some vast, vulgarly golden letters proclaiming the words AUDIENCE CHAMBER. The other, a large throne on which a Balrog, looking simultaneously very weary and very angry, was positioned.

The Lord Malfoidacil's most prudent first action was obvious enough. He fell on his knees and bowed his head before the King of Mordor.

"Melifluous greetings to Your Most Admirable, Balrogic, Courageous, Dashing, Energetic, Famous, Gracious, Honourable, Intelligent, Jocular, Kingly, Liberal, Magnificent, Notable, Omniscient, Powerful, Questioning, Righteous, Serene, Terrific, Universal, Valiant, Wise, Xenial, Ying-Yang-balanced and Zygological Majesty," he said, all in one breath. He dearly hoped the Balrog would hesitate before atomising him, trying to figure out what all the epithets meant...