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Summary
“...Unless the temples have come up with a particularly inventive form of Spiritual Weapon, I rather think clerical spells have little use in the bedchambers.” Gale offers with a grin. “And I, for one, can’t imagine a lover that would take particularly kindly to a Guidance spell in the heat of the moment–”
“Not one for orders? A pity.” Shadowheart slides a copper to the centre of the table, her nail never leaving the griffon’s head upon it, and she doesn’t let him get a word in. “I suppose it’s novel, keeping the company of an archmage so terribly unimaginative.”
Or: Zone of Truth, cast by one lovesick cleric upon one terribly lovesick wizard.