"At sunset, high over the city, on the stone terrace of one of the most beautiful houses in Moscow, a house built about a hundred and fifty years ago, there were two: Woland and Azazello. They could not be seen from the street below, because they were hidden from unwanted eyes by a balustrade with plaster vases and plaster flowers. But they could see the city almost to its very edges.
Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black soutane. His long and broad sword was stuck vertically into a crack between two flags of the terrace so as to make a sundial. The shadow of the sword lengthened slowly and steadily, creeping towards the black shoes on Satan's feet. Resting his sharp chin on his fist, hunched on the stool with one leg drawn under him, Woland stared fixedly at the endless collection of palaces, gigantic buildings and little hovels destined to be pulled down.
Azazello, having parted with his modern attire -- that is, jacket, bowler hat and patent-leather shoes -- and dressed, like Woland, in black, stood motionless not far from his sovereign, like him with his eyes fixed on the city.
Woland began to speak:
'Such an interesting city, is it not?'
Azazello stirred and replied respectfully:
'I like Rome better, Messire.'
'Yes, it's a matter of taste,' replied Woland."
(MASTER AND MARGARITA, Mikhail Bulgakov, ch. 29., tr. Pevear and Volokhonsky.)
