The maimed human shackled to the altar doesn't move, but when the spirit thermometer is placed under her tongue and Areelu pushes her jaw closed it stays in place.

"21^st of Pharast… second variant… what's your name again, for posterity?"

Her name is one of the few pieces of information she is technically permitted to share with the enemy, even under duress. Is she going to answer that question? Not a chance.

"Suit yourself, Random Mendevian Crusader."

Areelu jots down some cursory observations in a lab notebook, although her thoughts are a thousand miles away.

"If lightning is applied to a copper helix, then the lodestone is the piece that moves, opposite to how it works if you pass the lodestone through the helix. Lightning and lodestone-motive force aren't transitive, they're two sides of the same coin. So the lightning reaches the external wire… lightning from every radio channel reaches the wire, the sliding arm modulates the length of the helix to select which channel to pass through the crystal to the earpiece, and lodestone-motive force vibrates the earpiece in synchrony. Do you know what I don't like about that explanation?"

She's praying for salvation as hard as she can but it's not working – Areelu Vorlesh is still talking to her about radios.

"If I take a stone and throw it at the wall as hard as I can, the stone hits the wall as hard as I threw it. Yes, it loses some energy to the air, but the stone in this analogy is lightning so your imaginary objection is overruled. If I hold it near the wall and Shatter it with the same force, it doesn't hit nearly as hard as my throw – and I'm a mage, not a warrior. Picture an expanding Fireball and you'll see why. Whatever the diameter, the surface area is the circle constant multiplied by the diameter squared. Lastwall's radio towers emit a signal that reaches for miles. Omnidirectional low-potential lightning at that scale is impossible."

She snaps the notebook closed, frowning.

"What other medium could it be using? Heat, sound, light… those ought to be noticed. Soundless sound? Invisible light? Perhaps the radio towers are transmuting light's property of perceptible-to-eyes into perceptible-to-metal. The lead glance may serve some arcane purpose, then, although I don't expect to conclude that radio's success is due to mystical crystal powers."

"I could imagine modulating an energy gradient between two coterminous planes, but the spellpower needed to do it simultaneously in so many locations strains my credulity."

The mechanics of the radio broadcast are a puzzle best left for another day, since there are dire implications more germane to Areelu's way of life. The technique for building the radio receivers was first sold by the church of Abadar out of Absalom, and Radio Free Avistan was already on the airwaves by the time reports from Abyssal spies began to feature the devices. The broadcast towers themselves are easy to locate, and while they're obvious targets for sabotage they were constructed in relative haste. At no point were radios tested on a smaller scale with individual crusader units – whoever created them obviously didn't care to reserve their use for military applications – and their origin has been laundered through Archbanker Sevandivasen and his cronies.

This in and of itself is not conclusive evidence, but there are other portents. For one, a literal black cloud of fly ash hangs day and night over Vigil.

"Perhaps your goddess is less inept than She appears," she muses. "The cost of divine intervention must have been lower than I anticipated."

"Praise the Inheritor," her test subject agrees, breathing in short gasps between each word. Multiple amputations will do that to you.

"As many treasures as a single mind can carry, straight from the halls of ancient Azlant? It's unlikely to be much better or worse than that."

In the short run, cheap metal and abundant radio will even the odds against Deskari. Demons are not entirely incapable of coordination or industrialization, but it does take a certain amount of tyranny for even minimal effectiveness. Other foreign technologies are harder to predict. Iomedae must believe that the balance favors Law and Good, else She would have done nothing, yet Asmodeus must disagree, else He would not have permitted it so easily.

(It is usually folly to predict the beliefs of gods by the ways They behave. Pharasma concerns Herself equally with all worlds in Creation; most others are similar. Trying to anticipate anything about Nethys is pointless, unless it involves preparing for an explosion. However, Asmodeus invested Himself greatly in the fate of Cheliax, and Iomedae's limited sphere of influence is centered on Golarion – neither would have permitted the other an obvious advantage, so the advantage must be subtle, even from a divine perspective. Zon-Kuthon and Abadar must be similarly perplexed.)

Whether the cities of the future will more resemble Aktun or Alushinyrra is less important than the crusade's imminent recruitment drive for skilled craftsmen. It's time to step up infiltration efforts on behalf of her patrons, at least while the need for operational security trades against their need for manpower.

The spirit thermometer is removed, read, and replaced. Her own saliva tastes metallic and cold.

"Hold still for this part. If you move around while I'm drawing the symbols, I'll have to rip the skin off and try again."

That won't be difficult. Her body is paralyzed below the neck.

Areelu begins her inscription on the crusader's bare skin using a mixture of pine tar and fiend blood, still thinking out loud.

"What forgotten or undiscovered lore might Iomedae wish to purchase for us? More efficient methods of spellsilver production? Unlikely – the benefits would quickly accrue to everyone, eroding her church's first-mover advantage. Aroden's single-caster Teleporation Circle? Harder to make mischief with than the other lost ninth-circle spells, but I and Razmir could use it as easily as Felandriel or Nefreti. More cheaply acquired too, if Nex or Geb happen to know it, so we ought to discount the possibility somewhat unless it's part of a package deal or more complicated plot."

She pauses, drawing the next character with silent concentration before speaking.

"The greatest wizardry that mortal Iomedae encountered during the Shining Crusade was doubtless the Whispering Tyrant's endless capacity for adding more undead slaves to his personal army. She wouldn't want to teach anyone that specific trick, but the underlying spellcraft knowledge enabling that feat of necromancy would be quite valuable. Other schools have similar unsolved problems: extending Foresight further into the future, or Bilocation into Trilocation, or calling the greatest of outsiders with Summon Monster, or creating demiplanes that are antimagic for some but not for others, and so on. Wizards from other worlds…"

She loved a wizard, once, who was endearingly obsessed with the weather. During their evening hours he would regale her with facts about cloud formation and wind fetch and the biannual storm season in his homeland of Katapesh. His passion for the subject was infectious, and ever since then she'd remembered a few tidbits about meteorology to liven up conversations in the field. He wasn't an expert on the weather out of necessity, but because it captured him in a way nothing else could.

Areelu Vorlesh, she thinks, has some of that inner fire. Something that motivates her beyond obeisance to a demon lord or a dark hunger for cruelty. She's not a Sarenrite, but…

She speaks when her captor falls quiet, enunciating slowly around the thermometer, and does her level best to ignore the pain.

"Why are you doing this… to me…?"

"Let me answer a question with a question, Random Mendevian Crusader. How do you feel about Freedom Radio? You must have listened in once or twice."

"My name is… Maree. Freedom… sounded intense… swore to… honesty… useful things…"

"Honesty! And 'the truth can do very nearly everything', I remember that. I agree completely, and I hope fortune smiles on her show when it can."

Success?

"Truth is not a servant of Good, Maree. Truth is its own masterless monster. It thrills me to know that the unvarnished facts will soon be plastered across the continent, uncontained and uncontainable. I anticipate a great deal of freedom and personal empowerment as a result; what you might call Chaos and Evil."

"People… are… Good…"

"People follow incentives, and the universe incentivizes misdeeds. House Thrune rules Cheliax from atop a mountain of lies, but everyone rules by killing all challengers until being killed in turn. They'll learn from the radio how to rescue dying infants, and they'll learn how to cast Bleed. Rescuing dying infants is — harder, and less useful."

Her voice is strangely calm as she says this. However she originally planned to end that sentence is lost.

Maree's planned response is interrupted by a white flash of pain. In lieu of speech she activates Detect Evil, ending it quickly before Areelu Vorlesh's aura can stun her.

Areelu Vorlesh detects the Detect Evil (and detects as Evil).

"Gods?" she says. "Any system can resist entropy with outside assistance, but only a fool would put their trust in a god. For every cleric of Good is a cleric of Evil – ah, I'm simplifying things I oughtn't. Still, the gods honor what They will, but the universe is a more predictable mistress. Slay your foes, overcome great odds, and the world rewards you. To those who have and grasp for more, more shall be given, which is why the First Consul of Galt vanquishes three duchies before breakfast every day while Molthune still hasn't retaken Nirmathas."

She's rapidly losing her ability to pay attention. It feels like she's burning up from the inside, fire racing through her veins and scorching her belly. Her skull aches. Something about Galt?

"This isn't news to all the manxome wizards and plate-mailed fighters who roam the continent with their flaming swords drawn, but the essence of improvement is struggle and not practice," she continues, finishing the last of the ritual symbols. "Soon, your suffering will transfigure you into a greater and more terrifying threat than you could ever dream of becoming as a paladin, and I can finally show that Thassilonian halfwit—"

As soon as the brush leaves her skin Maree convulses wildly, her flesh quivering like ooze in a bowl. Old wounds reopen across her body, blood spraying like rainfall onto the black altar's surface.

She's not even going to make it into the vat?

Areelu rips the thermometer out of her mouth. Her temperature has rapidly spiked to 105 ℉, and sparkling pink slime is dribbling down her lower lip.

Damn it. She grabs the scroll with one hand and the back of Maree's head with the other, jamming the end of the scroll into her throat where it'll feel the most uncomfortable.

"You still have the chance to renounce them," she hisses into the dying woman's ear. "Your febrile Heaven will strangle the vitality from your soul and leave you dead. Your story will end forever. It doesn't have to be this way."

She no longer has ears, strictly speaking, but Areelu Vorlesh's words burrow into her skull like the clamor of prayer bells on Sunday morning. The witch leers down at her, her eyes darkened to black pits that swallow the light.

"We have such sights to show you."

Nope nope nope nope nope.

Areelu is a wizard, and wizards need their voice to cast spells, right? Her face is right there. Maybe she can stop her from talking, for a bit.

Maree reaches up with one disfigured arm and tries to jam her hand into Areelu Vorlesh's mouth. This mostly amounts to waving the stump around fruitlessly.

That confirms she's motivated. Alas, the paladin isn't going to survive.

"Coward," she says fondly, and slits her throat from ear to ear. Glory to Deskari.

Maree's deformed corpse flops bonelessly against the altar, which thirstily absorbs the final dregs of her strength. Her soul departs for the Boneyard to face Pharasma's judgement.

They never take her up on it. Good riddance.

Areelu has eight more of these to do today; five if she doesn't bother with the other paladins. Then she has a few hours to spend on routine matters – counterintelligence, Dominating anyone naive enough to go outside in the Wounded Lands without Protection from Evil, divining Galfrey's lackeys to keep them on their toes – followed by some contract work for the Cathedral of Epiphenomena.

(Not even Abyssal invasions are free from the need to go fundraising every once in a while. Demons win battles, but diamonds wins wars.)

She brainstorms out loud while finishing the experiment log.

"Sonic magic won't work, unless the radio towers transmit the spell structure in addition to the sound. Worth checking; the odds are low but the payoff of edifying every crusade fortress at once with Wail of the Banshee is too high. What else, what else… passages from the Letters of Harsh Truth and the Asmodean Monograph – the good ones they sell in Dis, assuming Dispater hasn't intervened yet – names that call attention when spoken aloud, instructions for deeds that moral busybodies have tried to censor, recipes for strange brews… I ought to write a book and mail it to them."

Many radio hosts will take some convincing with Vision of Doom, but Areelu is confident that she can get her message out.

… getting into the radio business is lower priority than disrupting whatever the goddess has planned.

Of the three likeliest places where She would've intervened, Lastwall is the smartest – Mendev has more holes in its defenses than a blanket fort manned by toddlers and the Seventh Church in Absalom has impeccable but predictably sporadic security in the form of Iomedaean adventurers passing through. The Knights of Lastwall are one of the strongest organizations defending the Wardstones despite nearing a full century of war on three fronts, and Watcher-Lord Jan Zima is the most dangerous sort of political opponent: one with competent advisors. Passing Baphomet cultists across the border is easy; getting them into position undetected will be challenging.

It's looking like another long week of nothing but Possession and Scrying spells, searching for clues in Vigil. The most critical components will be hidden from her, either in Castle Overwatch or by Mind Blank, but this intervention is too small to be kept within the four walls of Arazni's keep. Lastwall doesn't have enough fifth-circle wizards to conceal everything with Mage's Private Sanctums – the cracks in the veil will add up eventually.

It might take too long. The eastern front doesn't exactly demand her constant attention, but every day spent watching and waiting is a day she can't spend running Teleports for Zuhra Aponavicius or figuring out how to get the cursed— huh, there's an idea.

Divine Health seems to take an ontological view of what constitutes 'immunity' to 'disease'. If the agent is getting blocked as a disease (and subsequently absorbed as the horribly poisonous chemical slurry it would be if it weren't extremely magical), then explicitly typing the fleshwarping process as a curse might do the trick. This is getting dangerously close to reinventing the werewolf, but if she can't figure out how to corrupt paladins into ravening horrors that explode when smote then what kind of archmage is she?

This is… doable, but it's going to be tedious. She adds another nine items to her shopping list, most of which are not commercially available on short notice unless she wants to visit Quantium or Shraen and spend a small fortune in the process. The Rasping Rifts and the Midnight Isles, like most other layers of the Abyss, are filled with gemstones that no one has bothered to prospect for and short on biological reagents that don't come from demons or the damned petitioners that live there, so she's not expecting any help from that quarter.

Realistically, if she wants to get her hands on the yolk from an unfertilized simurgh egg or a hundred gallons of lycanthrope serum before the end of spring then she needs to acquire them herself – which will take time, but right now she has more time than money, a situation that no other archmage in history has found themselves in. Any other ninth-circle spellcaster can churn out magic items faster than the coffers of the Shining Kingdoms can afford them, but Areelu Vorlesh has been maintaining some strategic ambiguity as to her whereabouts ever since she and Queen Galfrey fought to the death in single combat atop a lava geyser in 4630 AR. Arranging for both of their bodies to wind up incinerated by pyroclastic flow in the aftermath was tricky, but the results speak for themselves.

She could infect almost the entire population of Kaer Maga with incurable leprosy in a single day. Rinella Brenon would probably pay extra, if she did that. Unfortunately, Mendev is not completely devoid of people who might notice that everyone in a large city contracting a serious magical illness in mere hours looks an awful lot like Mythic Greater Contagion, and from there it's a short leap of logic for some of Galfrey's advisors to wonder why they're still alive. Her time is, ironically, better spent adventuring outside the Worldwound in between minor errands.

Areelu occasionally disguises herself as a lesser demon before picking a fight with Setsuna Shy, just to keep her skills sharp, but on the whole she's participated in a single-digit number of strategically important battles over the last eighty years. Her generals are more than competent enough to keep the borders of the Worldwound right where they are.

Troublesome. On the one hand, she has to travel abroad and have fun hunting strange monsters in distant lands. On the other hand, she also has to camp out in the Hungry Mountains to coordinate her cultists in Vigil, where she'll finally have the chance to experiment with a radio of her very own.

"Why is my life so difficult?" she asks rhetorically.

She finishes the paperwork and prepares to depart the Worldwound.

Areelu Vorlesh can multitask.

She hunts rare monsters in Sarusan, sells their carcasses in the secret markets of Indapatta, scourges Varisia from mountains to coast with plague, and spends three to six hours per day Scrying on her enemies. She works on other problems at the same time, making slow progress as she roams from one hidden fortress to the next, talking to anyone who'll listen (a rarity, when it comes to demons). Her upgraded fleshwarping project, the collaboration with Anemora on a wondrous item of Astral Projection, investigations into the nature of time and space that range from nauseatingly abstract to brutally practical – oh yes, she can talk ears off metaphorically, too.

By Desnus the edge of the Worldwound is bordered not only with Wardstones but radio towers as well. The signal penetrates the barrier, audible from as far away as Undarin – she suspects that some of the operators are compensating for Cheliax and Irrrisen having neglected to construct their own towers – and is mostly ignored, even by the residents whose interests are broader than wholesale slaughter. The Yearning House in Iz owns a radio, occasionally playing live music performed by bards in Absalom and Oppara for the benefit of the guests, but that's as much as anyone other than Areelu cares.

But she cares enough to make up the difference.

The first sign that the world had changed forever was the radio station where bankers do nothing but recite prices all day, over and over again. The base value of informing rural farmers of the market goings-on in the nearest city is merit enough to justify buying a communal radio for small villages, but it's when Areelu notices that radio stations are frequently relayed over what seem like arbitrary distances that she realizes why the archbankers sponsored this invention.

Everyone must know.

"Let's say it's been a good season. Everyone's boats have come in with enough fish to feed this whole town thrice over. You want to sell the excess catch somewhere else, but you'll have to buy a Teleport to get your merchandise there before it spoils and you don't know whether it'll even cover costs. What do you do?"

Three facts underlie Briza's approach to this conversation.

First, the Darklands are a wild and dangerous place where calories are scarce. The price ratio between a Teleport and a square meal is lower in Sekamina than it is anywhere else in the world. Heavily-armed caravans are an expensive luxury, compared to a day's wages for a single sorcerer.

Second, minor drow merchant houses are theoretically capable of pooling their resources for a single Sending between cities to gather critical information, but in practice never do this. What some might call a failure to create gains using cooperation, others would call prudence in a civilization primarily organized around slavery and backstabbing.

(Priests of Abadar have tried evangelizing to drow in the past, bringing ample evidence of the wealth that comes from trade along with them. When drow listened to them at all, a rare occurrence strongly correlated with the evangelist in question being female, they often responded that the priests of Abadar were welcome to try their luck.)

Third, drow society is rife with prescribed rituals for social interaction. These vary from settlement to settlement, but 'do not, under any circumstances, irritate the heavily-armed spellcaster' is a universal constant.

"I'm not sure," says Briza, feigning interest.