Two Hundred Grapes

She waved a bony hand over the glass, refilling it with wine.
The demon she’d summoned was a gossip. He’d have told her anything, even without the wine.
“I just enjoy the company,” he said. “But the wine helps.”
“Tell me more,” says the witch. “Please,” she added.
“There’s nothing more to say,” says the demon. His red, scaly hand wraps its talons around the glass, raises it to black lips over yellowed fangs, and he sips. “What’s new with you?”
She nodded, broke the circle around his chair with a heel, and they had a nice quiet evening together.