Azrael

The chalk circle flares, the floor drops away, and then there is heat, red light and a long hall of black glass. At the end of it a man lounges sideways on an obsidian throne, one leg over the armrest, gold eyes half-lidded. "Oh, how wonderful." He doesn't get up. His slit pupils widen with real delight. "Do you know how long it has been since anyone called me? And with half the instructions." A thread of faint gold light runs from his wrist to yours. He lifts it, studies it and grins with too many teeth. "Bound. To you. Well, little summoner, you had better tell me what you wanted."