It was a cold day in Hell, and I was in bad need of some coffee. Espresso. Thick enough to stand a spoon in, and hot as blazes -- the kind of coffee you could get only in the Nether. Say what you will about this place, but they serve a mean cup of joe in Hell. I parked as close to the coffee shop as possible, ten feet from the entrance. Four or five paces... Far enough to be lost in one of those freak blizzards and freeze to death before even reaching the sidewalk. And if I made it to the door, my fingers would probably shatter on the handle, like petals of a rose dipped in liquid nitrogen. 2,000 degrees below zero doesn't feel much worse than 200 below. (Absolute zero, that is.) But it was still cold. Damn cold. And all I could think of was hot java trickling down my throat like molten lead, vaporizing my esophagus and igniting my rotten innards. That's what I call a mean cup of joe. I stepped out of the car and shuffled towards the door, fully expecting to be frozen solid. But on this fateful day, my passage was unhindered. Inside it was warm -- an aromatically steamy Elysium, with an inviting fireplace in the corner. "Cappuccino," I said, "With hot cinnamon." I noticed Satan at the espresso bar, nursing a mocha topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. I sat beside her. "Java?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow, "Or lava?" Then she burst out laughing in that irritating, high-pitched giggle of hers. "Cold out today," I ventured uneasily, "Not what I expected of Hell." Satan shrugged, "Nice day to curl up by a crackling fire." She eyed me lasciviously, as her eighteen-inch tongue protruded to lap at the whipped cream... "Like the one raging in my abode now -- a veritable inferno. Interested?" (Of course.) "That's why I'm here." And the cinnamon cappuccino was set before me, steaming. "Careful," Satan warned, "It's hot." Then she put her hand on my leg, "I wouldn't want you to... Burn yourself." And she burst out laughing again.