The Azer slave who is majordomo there bows, and there is brought for them course after course after course of food finer than Pilar has ever tasted, in small dishes meant to be eaten with even tinier bites and savored. Bards sing for them, performer-magicians show them miracles while their Detect Magic shows them no spellwork. Oiled men wrestle wearing only loincloths that are sometimes shoved aside in the heat of their contest. There's an enchantment about the place, by which mortals may consume thrice as much food as the most they can consume and not pain their bellies, and dish follows dish in endless succession: this is the hospitality of the Efreet, if you can afford it.
There are wines, in small cup after small cup, to go with the small dishes. Ione sips it sparingly as though only to appreciate the taste.
Pilar after some many sips of her own does feel, then, as though something wound very tight inside her is relaxing; it is pleasant. She does ask Ione, then, Pilar does not know from where the impulse takes her to ask, if Ione happens to know of foreknowledge whether it will turn out well and not harm Asmodeus if Pilar drinks a little more.
Ione says yes, it is safe for Pilar to drink a little more.
And Pilar does.