Aznageel.... 

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 is 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 its worth twelve lives or more. 

he stammers as he slugs ever the staggered floor 

A chilled moment his dolphin eyes maul jewels of war. 

O joy! The sunlit condor unearths Aznageel's door.