“That explains a lot.” Harold pushed away his tray of rice and snagged the last spring roll with his chopsticks, moments ahead of Jasfoup. “Why don't we have take-away meals more often?”
“More often than three or four times a week?” Jasfoup ate Harold's discarded rice. Dry was relative when you came from somewhere with an average humidity of zero. “Even your metabolism wouldn't cope with it. Your thyroid would pack a little suitcase and leave for good. You'd never be able to perform magic again.”
“Is that where your magical ability resides? The thyroid gland?” Harold felt his neck but there was nothing unusual there except a lump of spring roll he'd swallowed too quickly.
“No, but thyroxin helps keep the metabolism level.” The demon balanced a pea on the tip of a chopstick. “Without magic to burn off your excess fat you'd work it until it packed up or died. Then where would you be?”
“I see your point.”
“Do you? You could always talk to old Hastur. He's... thinly challenged. All that adoration in the thirties went to his head and then his stomach. I said 'a diet of pate and caviare is not good for the figure of a discerning demon-about-town.” Jasfoup ate the pea. “Not to his face, of course. He'd have killed me.”
They all turned as the outside light flicked on in the stable yard. A figure approached the door. Gillian scowled. “If that's Felicia back again...”
“No.” Harold stood. “It's the zombie fellow. What does he want?”