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You arrive in the valley well in advance of the army, giving you a full week to scour the mountain housing the fortress top to bottom in search of a secret entrance that you're reasonably certain has to exist. What you find are dead trees, ground the consistency of wet ash and a brackish, foul-smelling river devoid of life.
And it is along the steep, stony banks of that polluted river that you find an underground cove hidden behind an illusory wall of rough rock - a decent enough enchantment but one reliant on bewitching the mind to make the illusion seem solid. Which, incidentally, is what tips the two of you off to the illusion - when you trigger and immediately resist the bewitchment attempt.
The coalition army ponderously streams into the valley a few days later and wastes no time in preparing a direct assault on the walls. Which is what you'd do in its commander's place as well: the barren, polluted environment does not support a protracted siege and coalition patrols have been regularly skirmishing with low-ranked demons that the cultists have been calling up, introducing manpower drain and putting supply caravans at significant risk of attack.
Though the amount and quality of intelligence and counterintelligence magic being used by both sides is rather pitiful, it's still enough for your wife's simple and well hidden observation spells to go completely unnoticed, their entire purpose to let you time your infiltration with the beginning of the assault.
With the troops assembled in ranks, the two of you push past the illusion and enter a narrow path running alongside a channel of brackish water - where your wife immediately holds out her hand for you to stop.
"Dear wife, there are traps ahead," she says in a low voice. "Give me a moment and I'll show you where it is safe to step."
"Dearer wife," you interrupt her. "Just let me know where these traps end."
And when she does, you sweep her up into your arms and make a single, long, flat leap, landing right on the magic marker she placed for you. Where you let her back down on the ground, but immediately push her against a wall for a quick, but thorough snog. Simply because you feel like she needs one.
"Dearest wife," she giggles in protest, though making no attempt to push you off. "We have an audience."
There is a ship and a dock, and on the dock stand three crimson-clothed cultist guards with stupefied expressions.
"Most dearest wife," you murmur, planting kisses along the side of her neck. "Have we ever cared about such things?"
"No," she admits, her breath hot on your ear. "But they don't seem the type to respect the Golden Rule."
She is right, unfortunately. Respecting personal boundaries simply isn't something that demon cultists do.
(1/3)
