"Oh, is it up to me? In that case I'll keep you until you become boring," he says. "Assuming you don't have urgent business at home to which you desperately want to return."

"Nah, no languishing relationships or urgent appointments, no stuff I can't duplicate here just as easily. What constitutes being boring?"

"I'll know it when I see it. It's like pornography that way."

"Maybe I won't tell you how to send me back till I feel like going."

"If you feel like going some time after you have begun to bore me, you may find yourself staying here a very long time indeed."

"Why's that?"

"I'm not in the habit of doing favours for boring people. Assuming you're not magically obligated to follow me around like an eternal duckling, it's all the same to me whether you stay here or go home if and when you enter that category, but afterward I won't be disposed to go particularly far out of my way to ferry you between dimensions."

"No duckling-ing, no. And it's not hard to send me back, but I guess the upper bound on how long I'd be here if you didn't care to put yourself out even that far is just the end of your lifespan."

"Potentially infinite," he says. "Not practically infinite, mind you; even if I somehow found a way to keep myself comfortable and entertained until the sun exploded, I'm unlikely to safely join an expedition to another solar system before then."

"You look like a human, what'm I missing?"

"Well, isn't that cosmetically unfortunate? Anyway, you aren't dead enough to send me home to Hell. Aaaand I think you have managed to pull me to an alternate universe, rather than strictly back in time."

"Was that not obvious to begin with?"

"It seemed likely, but it just got a lot likelier."

"I suppose you don't have vampires where you're from?"

"Nope."

"Curious. What sorts of demon do you have, then?"

"Just the one," says Cam, waving a hand. "And one kind of angel and one kind of fairy."

"Well," he says, "fascinating as this conversation is, this is not the place to continue it. How would you like to come back to my crypt?"

"You have your very own crypt, huh? Snazzy. Sure, why not. Had I better hide the wings under a coat?"

"It's Sunnydale. Don't bother. Anyone who knows about magic and so forth will deduce that they probably oughtn't fuck with you and anyone who doesn't will assume it's a trick of the light or an extremely lifelike costume piece."

"Should 'Sunnydale' hold some meaning for me?" inquires Cam.

"Sunnydale, California. Home of one Hellmouth, the highest number of graveyards per capita in the country, and an absolutely astonishing mortality rate that somehow continues to be blamed on gang activity and misuse of barbecue forks." He turns to exit the room, idly taking a swig from the jug of blood as he goes.

"Stole it from the butcher's. Much simpler that way. And at least I've rescued it from the fate of being made into shitty cocktails at the exquisitely named Willy's Bar."