Roger Texidor prayed daily for Asmodeus to catch Elie Cotonnet and reduce him to the most pitiful possible position in His Realm for over three months. After one, it had grown monotonous, and he occasionally followed it with a prayer to Mammon or Achaekek or Norgorber wishing further harm upon the man.

Eventually he lost the burning knot of rage in his heart for this presumptuous fool of an archmage who had ruined a thousand merchants with that damn spell of his, but he never failed to pray for it on Sundays after church services for the next full year.

And then as soon as they'd heard there was war, the damned godless heathen Rahadi were at their gates sacking Corentyn. Everything he had stored to replace the properly-profitable cloth and leather either looted or requisitioned to feed the attackers. His hidden basement safe of the gems, gold, and wands that he shipped on teleport routes, thankfully, was spared, so he was able to pay to have his buildings repaired, his son healed, and his wife and daughter given alter self to avoid further shame.

And that was around when he learned that that damned wizard was the one behind the army, and had conquered Roger's country. Oh, de Litran was a fine figurehead, he was sure, a claim to royalty and even a weak one to the right royalty. But the archmages - plural! an act of some foul god if ever he's seen one - were the real rulers, and anyone with eyes to read could tell.

He stewed, and in secret he silently renewed his daily prayers. Asmodeus may be beaten but he was not powerless, and even archmages must fear the greatest of gods.