The Mage Aznageel

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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
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.