There was something in the air. Of course it was hot and dry and not much prospered in the air except for insects and light polution, but there was something there, nonetheless. The demon had noticed it more than a week ago, and it seemed to be getting stronger.
One call to Aziraphale had them both at the Angel Golf Course*. One flash bastard wore sunglasses in the fading sunlight, the black becoming more comfortable to wear. For all that he was an agent of Below, he'd gotten rather used to the weather in London. This desert climate was something else entirely.
He tossed chunks of some disturbingly healthy oat-nut-twig-chaff bread, which the fowl seemed to enjoy, and he waited.
* For the irony and the ducks. There were no ponds in this city save for the hazards dotting the golf courses.