There was no peace in captivity for Milo. Life, if you could call it that, in his unnaturally illuminated cell had unmoored him. He lacked for windows, but even had he been able to see the outside world, Milo wasn't sure he could make sense of what he would see. For all he knew, time flowed differently inside the planar sphere that housed him. Combined with the change in perspective that came with undeath, this made for a fragile existence.
In an effort to forestall insanity, Milo had given up trying to mark hours or days, but instead tried to make sense of time's arrow by counting the number of times his body had been destroyed and reformed in the course of Verona's experiments. He kept tally by composing an epitaph for each death and resurrection, in commemoration of each life lived in-between. Thus far, he had written twenty-seven.
Once, in one of the earlier cycles, Milo had offered Verona more insolence than had been wise. With a casual wave of her hand, she had set Milo on fire. While he was within the anti-magic field. As a final indignity, she'd been bored of his panicked flailing about and had left before he burned to ashes. In time, the sheer impossibility of what Verona had done had tormented Milo more than the flames. Milo had strived to be more circumspect in his impudence since then.
He occupied himself with former pastimes and passions, crafts and research. He studied theology, arcane theory, planar cosmology; he fashioned complex contraptions, locks and clocks made from bone, mechanical maps of the celestial spheres and planes; and he concocted a great variety of tinctures, ointments, potions, elixirs and spagyrics.
"What are you making?" Morul had asked him once, on one of the occasions he came to visit.
Verona's apprentice was a boy desperate to grow into a man. He was tall, but he carried his height with the characteristic awkwardness of the adolescent, and he was so thin that when he wore his robes, he looked more like a coat-hanger than anything else. A few wisps on lips, cheeks and chin bore witness to a failing struggle to grow a beard, and his manner conveyed in all aspects eagerness and nervousness, no matter his show of patience and calm.
"This and that," Milo had finally replied.
An interval of time passed, spanning a number of heartbeats, blinks of the eye, breaths held in anxiety or released in relief—Milo had difficulty telling which, such metaphors having lost their force with him grown beyond mortal trappings—and then Milo spoke again,
"What are you smiling about?"
To which Morul offered in reply, "Play coy with me all you want, Mister Tosscobble. Though I caution you: do not think to try such games with my master."
"I would think you are as tired of issuing such warnings as I am of hearing them. But then I remember, for such as you, who only wields power by the leave of others, there is no recourse but to use your master as a prop to threaten when you don't get what you want."
That wiped the smirk off Morul's face and the boy left in a huff.
Had Milo felt more charitable, he might have responded more truthfully. He did what he did for many different reasons: to answer questions, to while away the time, to give his existence some meaning, and to spite his captor by not giving up.
Four epitaphs later, Verona herself paid Milo a visit. This time, the master of the sphere was dressed in all her terrifying finery.
Garbed in ornate robes spun from yellow and scarlet, bedecked in full regalia—the rings on her fingers too severe in their designs to be purely ornamental, the staff in her hand shod in iron and marked with eldritch symbols, a halo of a dozen ioun stones whirling around her head, upon which the jewelled circlet rested, a golden crown on golden curls—she looked like nothing less than the avatar of the goddess of magic herself, smiling pleasantly at him, her eyes glowing with an unnaturally intense shade of blue. Strangest of all, she wore her new appearance as casually as she had the commoner's dress it had amused her to wear on their first meeting.
But Verona's attention was a fleeting thing. She soon grew bored with listening to Morul's summary of recent experiments, which he was reciting at tedious length, and she turned away from Milo to speak to her apprentice. Very soon, she was regaling him on what appeared to be her favourite topic—that would be the hows and whys of the killing of monsters—and just when she was getting worked up on how very much she wanted to kill something called an 'aboleth,' she suddenly decided to inflict an impromptu interrogation session upon the fool boy, for 'educational purposes', or so she avowed.
"And illithids, Morul?"
"Illithids, master?"
"You should know this already."
"Ah, well, ah…"
"Speak clearly so that I might understand you."
"Yes, master. Colloquially known as 'mind flayers'—or 'devourers' by the dark elves—illithids are humanoid aberrations possessing immense mental powers, living in the sunless depths of the Underdark…"
"True in general but not by necessity. There was a sizable cell here in Athkatla, in the sewers beneath the temple district. They were planning to infiltrate and subvert the nobility and seize control of the city."
"…and what…?"
"What happened? Well, let's reason it out. Suppose I was telling the truth. What does that entail?"
"'There was a sizable cell,' 'they were planning to infiltrate'; past tense. So… you defeated them?"
"Or they succeeded in their schemes, and we are all unwitting subjects of mind flayer masterminds."
"If so, not everyone, because you would know, given the conditional, which would imply you either let it happen, or…"
"Yes?"
"Or that you are in league with them."
"Have you exhausted all possibilities? Perhaps I set myself against the illithids' plots, but failed to stop them? Or that I myself am controlled by them?"
"Neither possibility ever occurred to me, master."
"For future reference, I prefer thoroughness to flattery."
"Yes, master."
"You may ponder the likelihoods at your own leisure, but assuming I did eradicate the illithids, how would I have gone about it?"
"Yes, ah, by remaining focused and clear-minded at all times, and by swiftly arraying summoned forces against them, preferably creatures impervious to their psionic attacks, most likely constructs and undead."
"And then?"
"And then you pressed forward."
"And why would that work?"
"Because illithids are abject cowards at heart; they will falter at the first sign of the tide turning against them."
"Very good. Solars."
"Umm, I beg your pardon?"
"Solars: foremost in the angelic choir, emissaries of the gods, champions of Elysium; haloed and feathery-bewinged, armoured in gold and virtue, wielding burning swords and golden bows firing slaying arrows; their every word is like a pronouncement from high above, delivered in great booming voices."
"Oh… ah, did you, ah, really fight one of those?"
"Whether or not I did is irrelevant to this exercise; you never know when you need to kill something, so you need to know how to kill anything. But in answer to your question: yes, one fallen far off its lofty perch. The same as the regular kind, just more vicious, and no less sanctimonious."
"I see…"
"Well?"
"I confess, master, that I do not know how to kill a Solar."
"They are annoyingly tough, I'll grant them that. I'd say if you're unprepared—"
"—an unprepared wizard is a dead wizard, master!"
"—yes, good that you remember. Anyway, as I was saying, if you happen to be unprepared, and if by dint of grace, luck or providence you're still alive to act and the Solar hasn't dimensionally locked you yet, I'd consider retreat. You know, live to plan to kill another day. Of course, if you're so fortunate, the problem is no longer interesting, as it admits trivial solutions. Yes, I'm expecting you to talk now."
"I still don't…"
"This isn't a trick question; no need for excessive cleverness here."
"Ah, um, ahem, yes: bind, call and summon a horde sufficient to overwhelm it?"
"Yes, precisely! And the moral?"
"Anything can be defeated if you bring enough company?"
"More general than that."
"Ah, I know! Give a wizard time to prepare, and all problems have trivial solutions!"
"Excellent! You're catching up. This, incidentally, is the reason why any wizard expecting to live past her nth fight makes damned sure she's never surprised, and if she's surprised, that she doesn't die, and if she does die, that she doesn't stay dead for long."
"Yes, master."
"So, one more go-around: how do you kill a Solar in an interesting way?"
"But, didn't we just…?"
"And here I thought you were keeping up."
"Well, umm, 'interesting' as in 'not going into the fight expecting a Solar'… so… besides taking every precaution and assaying whatever contingencies are available… not painting yourself into any particularly vexing corners with foolhardy spell selection and gear, in other words ensuring that you are ready to face diverse and varied challenges… of course being vigilant of surprise and ready to unleash spellfire should it come to battle… and… yes, that's it, I have absolutely no idea how to kill a Solar."
"Tut-tut, apprentice, I expected better from you."
"I'm sorry, master. Ah, please… how do you kill a Solar, if you don't expect to fight one?"
"Simple. Freeze time to make up for your lack of preparation. Layer your defences. Gate in whatever muscle you require. Block all avenues of escape. Resume the normal flow of time. Easy as pie."
"With respect… I can't do any of those things."
"Ah, well, then I guess you die."
"Huh."
"This gives me an idea for your next assignment. Think of a solution to the Solar-killing problem that's within your current capabilities to implement. Don't speak to me again until you have it, but don't tarry overlong; I'm not above bringing a Solar here and compelling it to battle you. Yes, I'm being serious. Don't look at me like some negligibly-witted wandless vermin! Go be a wizard. Ah, but now I'm reminded we have another wizard to ask for counsel."
Milo had remained silent throughout the exchange, in the hope of escaping Verona's scrutiny, and he had been so entertained by her grilling of her pathetic puppy of an apprentice that he was startled to notice that it was him that she had referred to, and that she had turned her chill gaze upon him.
Collecting himself, Milo said, "Would you like my thoughts on how to kill Solars?"
"That is Morul's assignment, not yours," said Verona. "And it wouldn't be fair to you; such manner of monsters are somewhat outside your area of expertise, isn't that so?"
There was something in Verona's tone of voice that worried Milo. He had found it practical in such situations to be cautious and honest.
"That's true," he said.
Verona's smile grew wider. "However, you happen to be qualified to answer questions about certain other creatures. Uniquely qualified, even."
Realizing it would be supremely unwise to be silent, Milo made a noise issue forth from himself, approximating the "Ah…"-sound a mortal might make involuntarily as conversational filler—a purely temporizing measure for Milo, as his body was no longer flesh and blood, but an undead construct stitched together by magic, animated solely by his will, and however much it might seem a lapse in concentration, it afforded a moment for Milo to think, to weigh and consider alternatives in an instant, faster and with more clarity than any mortal could—from which followed with no discernible pause what to external observers might sound like:
"You speak of my being a lich, of course. Against a lich, cold and electricity will avail you nothing; blades and arrows, even if they are magically sharp, work poorly against its dead flesh; and the holy scourge of a priest's power, though effective against lesser undead, finds little purchase. As with all undead, mind controlling and transfigurative magic is futile, as is poison and plague. Though liches aren't natively protected against acid and fire, it is wise to remember that all liches are powerful spellcasters, so they might have girded themselves against such weaknesses, and the same with hammers and maces, which otherwise might serve to crush the lich's bones. I would advise one studies the lich one hopes to kill before challenging it, so as to learn its particular strengths and weaknesses and prepare accordingly."
As he spoke, Milo took care to observe Verona's reactions. To his dismay, she seemed more amused than impressed, and she gave no indication that she was satisfied or that she wanted to respond, so Milo continued talking.
"But I wouldn't presume to any expertise on liches everywhere; you mentioned my unique qualifications, by which you meant me. So the question becomes, what advice would I give on how to defeat me. To that question, I say, with the usual caveats as to blind spots and lack of self-knowledge and so on, that I'm particularly skilled in the binding and summoning of monsters. Therefore, it would be prudent, if possible, to prepare banishing and dimensional-blocking magic, so as to deny me my main advantages. It goes without saying that one must keep in mind that I'm a wizard, and therefore I'm not bound to one strategy, but my options are as plentiful as the spells recorded in my spellbook."
Without any noticeable change in expression, Verona's smile had somehow contrived to change, from just before the beginning of Milo's oration up until the present moment, from predatory to amused to bored to impatient. Milo knew well the danger of being the cause of Verona's boredom; he didn't want to find out what came of being the subject of her impatience. With growing desperation, he launched further into self-incrimination.
"But you know all of this, of course, having observed me prior to my capture. So, what might be useful to know is my current plans and activities. What thought have I given to escape? What plots of revenge have I put into motion? As my magic is denied me, I have had to make do with the other tools at my disposal: the knowledge contained in my mind and the books available to me, and the materials provided for me for crafts and what I might make with them. I considered fashioning some implement hard and strong enough, with which to break the physical barrier containing me herein. At the moment, I lack the skill to create what I need, but even so, I'm uncertain as to the precise characteristics of the physical barrier and what safeguards might be in place. Looking at other options, I considered making an explosive powerful enough to blast me to my freedom, but many of the same drawbacks apply to this option as well: present lack of skill and knowledge of countermeasures. Furthermore, even provided I managed to make something sufficiently destructive, I do not know how I would avoid destroying this body, meaning I would rejuvenate in proximity to my phylactery, which you possess."
Verona now deigned to speak, and said, voice dripping with icy contempt, "While it is mildly diverting watching you squirm, the lack of novelty is beginning to wear to thin."
"So, let's see if I understand you," said Milo, finally giving in to the frustration and anguish he felt, "you are not only asking me to sabotage myself, you are asking me to impress you at the same time?"
For a very short moment, Verona's smile looked genuine, but it was gone just as quickly.
"Yes," she said simply. "Speak, now."
"To break through all my constraints, known and unknown," said Milo, slowly, giving himself as much time to think as he dared, "for that, only one thing suffices: magic. But inside this cell, magic is impossible… or…"—a sliver of memory, a flash of insight—"or is it? You set me on fire when I annoyed you some epitaphs ago. It was not regular fire, for it wouldn't be smothered and it didn't spread beyond my body, even with all the dry parchment lying around. So… magic is possible within this cell, I must only…"
Here Milo trailed off. He didn't know how to finish that sentence. To use magic within an anti-magic field… it beggared the imagination. He might as well prove that he didn't exist.
"Oh," said Verona, now decidedly delighted, "is that how you'll escape? Why didn't you say so earlier? I would only be so happy to oblige."
She snapped her fingers and a scroll furled itself into existence before Milo's eyes and fell into his lap.
"Learn that spell," said Verona, "and you can cast magic within an anti-magic field." She smiled so widely now, she seemed on the verge of breaking into giggles. "Ah, Mister Tosscobble, it might surprise you to learn that there are several solutions to this problem you chose for yourself, this spell being the least of them. This problem happens to be of particular interest to me, and perhaps some time in the future—how would you put it, many epitaphs hence—when and if you ever delve into the deeper mysteries, you might be able to help me solving it completely. Until then."
And with those words Verona departed, leaving Milo in his cell, with Morul still remaining in the viewing area.
"You are very good at slinking into the background, boy," said Milo.
Startled for a moment by being addressed, Morul went on to say, "I seem to remember you trying to be very inconspicuous a few minutes ago."
"Point."
Milo unfurled the scroll in his lap, curious about this miraculous spell that could do the impossible. He began to read, but it quickly dawned on him the challenge he faced. A spell, any spell, was an abstract concept that a wizard held in its entirety within his mind, all the while being fully cognizant of the features that make up the spell, along with the full nuances implied but unexpressed in the spell's definition. With a gesture and some spoken words—in the arcanist's parlance, verbal and somatic components—those implications would be realized: the spell would be cast. The description of this spell that the scroll contained, which would tell him how to hold the definition in his mind… Milo didn't even know if he was looking at a bunch of formulae or a diagram or something else entirely. On his first reading, there was not a single familiar concept alluded to, which Milo might leverage into understanding.
Once during his apprenticeship, his master Oriseus had showed Milo the scroll of a spell of the ninth circle, the highest tier of magic permitted mages by the goddess of magic Mystra since Karsus's Folly. This was the power of the spell in Milo's lap. As it was now, at his best, Milo might be capable of magic of the sixth circle.
With a shudder, Milo allowed the scroll to re-furl itself. He looked up at Morul.
"I wonder, boy," said Milo, "which of us is more truly fucked."
Morul had been white-faced ever since given his Solar-killing task by Verona, and now managed to look paler still. "I have no idea. All I have right now is, maybe I can throw some dust in its eyes and stab it in the face?"
