Karnak.

Demon of Wounds.

A Lord of Hell.

Master of some of the most fearsome daemon-mages in the world.

And the unlikely hero of Kieth, currently trapped in a raging inferno with a shard of timber large enough to fell a rhino pinning him to the ground. The Demon of Wounds smiled whimsically, his memory on the time he became a Demon Lord, in a very similar setting. He waved the memory away, looking around at the circle which had called forth his Unholy presence. It was crude, hastily made, and, most importantly, made of a large amount of the blood of a dying man. Essentially, it was the perfect example of the original purpose of the science of Summoning.

Except for the slight issue that it was not a last ditch effort to cause mayhem in the enemy's ranks by a felled sorcerer, but apparently a last ditch effort at rescue of said felled sorcerer. Karnak narrowed his purple eyes; he knew full well that he would most likely end up regretting this act of...he dared not use the term "kindness", as daemons knew not of that most Holy of ideas...he again waved aside the thought and took a step out of the summoning circle, making sure that the binding spell in the runes was not meant to bind him completely to the circle unless ordered out by the summoner (which he'd seen the misfortune of happening to an enemy once: the poor fool had ended up gored by his spear while the summoned daemon had stood there and laughed hysterically), and released an unknowingly held breath of satisfaction at his summoner's foresight.

He flicked his wrist and placed a pair of red-tinted glasses on the bridge of his nose, his eyes focused on the wood pinning his current "master" (how he hated the term "master"; it implied a level of ownership over the one summoned. In truth, any daemon worth his salt could refuse a summons rather easily. It was just usually the case that the daemon was..."between jobs" popped into his head as the proper term here...and so usually answered the summons) and the almost alarming (for a human, anyway) amount of blood pooled beneath it. A second, and apparently equally alarming, pool of blood had formed from the rather painful looking gash on the poor lad's arm.

Karnak's lips twisted upward and his nose crinkled in distaste. He never understood the need for such massive wounds to get the proper amount of blood for the summoning circles; often the same circle could be scribed with the blood lost by a smaller, and safer, slit across the wrist. He supposed it could just be chalked up to something stupid like "tradition" (another term he found he loathed), and licked two fingers. With a sadistic grin, he ran his fingers over the large and now clotted wound. The flesh closed with a hiss of red steam, a shiny red scar now in the place of the open scarlet wound. With another smile he licked his fingers again, this time to taste the wonderful, dying blood, the hint of soul upon it like the wonderful flavors of a well aged wine.

He savored the taste for a moment and then looked once more at the much bigger problem of the wood stuck through his summoner's leg. He supposed that the man would want that gone as well, and shook his head, his eyes closed at the man's stupidity.

I mean really, how stupid can you be, waiting in a building that was clearly going to collapse with a fire of this magnitude, Karnak thought to himself as he walked around Kieth's crumpled form. He searched for the proper place to split the timber and remove it before he disinfected and sealed the sizable hole that would be left behind.