The raging winds of Pandemonium sliced and bored through its substance into countless tunnels, forming a plane that resembled an enormous block of cheese. It was windy, noisy, and dark, with unnatural sources of light. The winds swiftly extinguished ordinary flames, and their final flickers attracted the attention of the maddened wights driven by the eternally howling storms.
Every word, every scream, and every shout was carried by the wind to every layer of this plane. Conversations were usually conducted by shouting, and each word was then carried a full ten feet by the wind.
The corrupt winds of Pandemonium were cold. These unending gale-force winds stole the body heat of unprotected travelers and transferred that warmth to every local inhabitant. The winds drove sand and stones into their eyes, extinguished the torches in their hands, and swept away unsecured belongings. In some places, savage storms hurled creatures into the air, tore them into shreds of flesh, and swept them down dark, bottomless precipices.
In the few more sheltered places, the storms were reduced to gentle breezes. Echoes from distant regions of the plane still lingered there, sometimes distorted into sounds resembling anguished cries.
This was Cyric's last refuge. Once, when he had stood at the pinnacle of greater deityhood, the entire Realms had been his enemies, yet no god had dared directly oppose the Dark Sun, who enjoyed the Overgod's favor.
Now Cyric was only an intermediate deity. Facing those powerful enemies of old, he could not defeat a single one.
This made it clear why billionaires worth tens or hundreds of billions could almost never retire at the height of their success, and why chancellors and cabinet ministers of the highest ranks rarely met peaceful ends. They had once possessed such immense power and wealth that, when a