Aznageel the Mage

Woven deep beneath the caves of melted steel

Stalks a Mage, a necromancer heel

Tortured runic clasps of Aztecetian skill

The condor flies scared skies in search of Aznageel

Below the sun his withered weasel scurries deep

The streams of doom contrive to kiss his sculptured feet

His raven legs all churned and ruined through towers of pride

Above the sun the princely guardian condor flies

A beauty ruby fain it's worth twelve lives or more

He stammers as he slugs over the staggered floor

A chilled moment his dolphin eyes maul jewels of war

O joy the sunlit condor unearths Aznageel's door