Fred wandered into the kitchen as Dean was reading the label of a Campbell's soup can in hopes of creating an exotic sauce for his broiling fish.
Thunder cracked overhead. Rhyn had ignored the rain, accustomed to being miserable. Hell was either broiling or freezing, and the Alps were just as cold. The underworld's chilled rain didn't compare.
As Darkyn had said, the underworld tempered his Immortal magic, but Rhyn felt the demon power broiling behind the constraints, seeking a way out of him. He was sticking to his plan, though he no longer had time to find Death.
They are entirely insectivorous, bask on the broiling hot sand and then can run fast enough; otherwise they are sluggish, dig themselves into the sand by a peculiar shuffling motion of the fringed edges of their flattened bodies, and when surprised they feign death.