It's an old catechism he relies on now -- one whose truth has been borne out by experience at Kinloch, in Kirkwall, in those horrible days right after the explosion at the Conclave.

"Demons are clever." He rests his cheek against Alistair's head; his voice is a soft murmur. "But demons aren't subtle. They can't be. It's not in their nature. They respond to strong feeling. They feed on it. They embody it themselves. Their tactics are blunt, and obvious, because they can't do anything else."

The liquor sits warm in his belly; his armor, scattered, catches the light from the torches, gleams faintly gold.

"I might tell you that it's all right. But only a fool or a demon would say everything's fine like he believed it." Warm. A little amused, a little dry. "It's most certainly not fine."